#but which flare up in response to triggers

[itspileofgoodthings]

💕💚

[thevioletcaptain]

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[yet-another-heathen]

On the topic of realistic conditioning/deconditioning,

If the trigger is something whumpee wouldn't hear often when they're with caretaker but whumpee still wants to break it because they might hear it elsewhere (like kneel being taken as a command)

Would whumpee ask caretaker to casually trigger them so they have the opportunity to challenge it in their own head and in a safe place? Would this be a good idea for recovery?

And of course being there with the praise everytime whumpee makes just a little bit of progress, or comfort when they don't.

Heads up, anon: your ask was an EXCEPTIONALLY good one, and I ended up writing another mini TED talk (~3-4 min read) in response. Thank you so much for sending it in!

...on Conditioned Whumpees - Part 3

[ Part 1 - Part 2 ]

That is a very, very good idea! You're spot on with all of it, particularly operating in a safe environment where whumpee is ultimately calling the shots. Having that comfort/support readily available will make a huge difference in how well whumpee can tackle the matter. And while the process isn't fun, approaching desensitization with this much intent is much, much more likely to result in success.

I can offer a few pointers that can add another few layers of realism, as well as some other things to think about while tailoring it to your story:

if whumpee is actively working through their conditioning in this way, memories of their trauma will become closer to the surface. As a result, all of their other PTSD symptoms will be elevated during the course of their practice sessions, as well as for at least a few weeks after.

flashbacks are a very common experience during times like this. engaging with triggers like this is going to cause their flashbacks to become more frequent and intense.

during such flashbacks, it is almost a given that whumpee's mind and body will enter a similar state to the one it was in during the time when the flashback was taking place. By that I mean that the fear they felt in that moment, where it was physically located in their body, will echo into their body in the present moment. Same goes for other all other emotions, and sometimes even phantom aches surrounding any injuries they received at the time...

while the emotions tend to be identical to the ones felt during the trauma, in my experience, the pain comes out distorted in a similar way to the way it does in dreams: less intense, and more "blurry" and imprecise in location. When we say that someone having a flashback is "reliving the moment", we mean that their body literally feels as though they're in the same immediate danger that it was in back then.

this is true even though they'll be aware to at least some degree that they're presently with caretaker and safe.

the flashbacks don't always happen immediately after the conditioning trigger is used. Often they flare up hours or days later, sometimes without warning, sometimes as a result of encountering a different flashback trigger. The whumpee's thresholds for what counts as a trigger will drop, which is part of what causes the flashbacks to happen more often. Something they could normally ignore is going to affect them much more while they're like this.

your whumpee is more likely to experience severe mood swings while in this heightened state. Especially feelings like irritability, frustration, anger, loneliness, and grief. This stuff ain't pretty, folks. Even your sweet cinnamon bun is most likely going to lash out at someone as a result.

PTSD episodes are also exhausting. your whumpee is going to feel mentally, physically, and emotionally drained. And, to add insult to injury, being tired amplifies the emotions listed above.

Now all of this said, your whumpee may or may not know that this is to be expected. If they've worked on processing their trauma before this, they'll have figured out that one often leads to the other. They'll go into the deconditioning practice knowing this is coming, and will approach it carefully, but with a fairly level head. Knowing that it'll suck, but they'll come out the other side okay.

If not, they're in for a rather nasty surprise.

For the latter, they will feel at first that the deconditioning practice is making everything worse. They're suddenly struggling the way they did when the trauma was fresher, and it can be tempting to stop and refuse to touch it again because the mental/emotional pain gets so intense.

If they do give up at this stage, it will make trying again far more daunting in the future.

But the trauma being stirred up is actually a sign that it's helping. It means that the whumpee is starting to process what happened to them, which is a fundamental step in being able to heal.

Note: All throughout the process, crying is a very good thing. It lets them physically get rid of a lot of the brain chemicals associated with these surges of emotion. Letting themselves cry over things they couldn't cry about back then can actually help them let go of those feelings in a similar way to if they'd been able to process them in the moment. [Which is the basis for much of EMDR, a specialized tool used in trauma therapy.]

Okay. So now we know what other effects can cascade from the actual deconditioning practice, now we have some things to consider.

First off, what time parameters are whumpee and caretaker working within while deconditioning? There are three basic options:

they sit down together and practice repeatedly using the trigger for [X amount of time; usually <45m at once] back to back. Once that time is up, caretaker will no longer use the trigger at all, the excercise will end, and they'll get up to do something else.

whumpee sets a specific window of time [X number of hours] within which caretaker will use the trigger word at random points. Once that time has elapsed, the exercise is over.

over the course of days, caretaker uses the trigger word at random points without giving warning. the excercise only stops after being ended by whumpee.

Now why is that important? Because of something called hypervigilance. It is another symptom of PTSD which, to put it into the simplest words, is whumpee waiting for the other shoe to drop. It's a heightened state of tension and wariness in which whumpee is expecting that something bad is going to happen, and is constantly searching for any sign to indicate when it's coming.

It is beyond exhausting.

Imagine knowing that someone is about to slap you as hard as they can, and you have to sit there with your eyes closed, waiting for it. The breath-holding, the flinchiness, the rigid tension in your body as you strain to listen for when they're coming.

Only now, stretch that moment out into hours. Days. Weeks. That is hypervigilance.

A hypervigilant whumpee is not going to be able to relax. Or rest. Or decompress. Or readily trust much of anything around them. They're MUCH more likely to flinch at sudden movements/sounds. They might start biting their nails or showing other signs of nervousness and distress.

These methods above have a gradually increasing chance of setting off whumpee's hypervigilance. If they know exactly when the next trigger is coming, as in example 1, then their 'waiting for it' tension will be low. But the more uncertain they become of exactly when it's going to happen, as in examples 2 & 3, the worse the hypervigilance is going to get.

The trade off is that the later examples are more effective in desensitizing them toward the trigger. The more their practice mimics encountering an unexpected trigger in day-to-day life, the easier it will be to fall back on that desensitization when the time comes.

Therefore, it would be a very good idea for a whumpee who's new to this to start with number 1, then gradually progress to 2 & 3 as time goes on. They should be the one to decide when the next step is made, and if/when they need to dial it back.

Other questions to ask yourself while plotting:

how mentally prepared is whumpee for worsening symptoms? what about caretaker? did either of them know it was coming?

how much of this heightened PTSD stress can your whumpee take before it becomes too much? how do they react when they do hit that tipping point?

if caretaker feels that whumpee is getting too distressed during practice even though they're not tapping out, would they call it off themself? Or would they ultimately leave that decision to whumpee?

based on the answer, how would whumpee feel about caretaker's decision? Relieved? Belittled? Betrayed?

does whumpee have any grounding tools they can use while practicing?

how does caretaker handle the mood swings and instability that come with whumpee's heightened PTSD? You should consider both their internal and external reactions on the matter.

how does whumpee prefer to decompress after a practice session? what things would help them calm down and recover?

how long do they need (hours or days) before the next attempt?

Even with all I've just written, there's far more to the resulting hightened state of PTSD than flashbacks and hypervigilance. PTSD symptoms that they're most likely to encounter in the background while doing deconditioning practice include:

Flinchiness, anxiety, panic attacks, nightmares, exhaustion, emotional mood swings, outbursts, crying spells, depression, executive dysfunction, dissociation, numbness, racing thoughts, freeze responses, tremors, inappetence, muscle tension, and heart palpitations.

Yes, usually many of them at once, even those that contradict. Your whumpee is going to have a LOT going on at once, and it is not going to be a fun time. I recommend looking up any of the above symptoms you don't recognize, and looking for whump inspiration in what you learn.

(Because everyone experiences PTSD episodes differently, there's a lot of wiggle room in which ones whumpee will encounter. Don't feel pressured to use all of them, find what you want to write and have fun with it!)

Thanks again for the incredible ask, anon. And again, I want to congratulate you on how spot-on your original ask was. You nailed it. I know this was a lot more than you asked for, but I hope this provides helpful context for your whump! My inbox will always be open if you think of anything more <3

[shippingmyworld]

Youtuber!Danny AU

Don't think I have the creative energy to expand this brainworm into an actual fic so ya'll just have to read a wall of text instead.

After a few close encounters where Danny's halfa identity almost gets revealed, Sam suggests the trio start a Youtube channel where they go about investigating all the so called "Ghostly Encounters" around Amity Park. Their goal would be to debunk as many ghost sightings as possible and establish themselves as well-known ghost deniers. After a bit of debate they eventually settle on naming the channel Chasing Phantoms.

Tucker really gets into it and eventually becomes the face of the channel. With Sam's coaching he learns how to play devil's advocate extremely well and figures out exactly how to craft his questions to manipulate people's responses. This way they can make these supposed "witnesses" discredit themselves within just a few minutes; Tucker will make them get worked up, angry, and confused about what they saw and trick the witnesses into making contradicting statements. This way they can throw out the witness statements as shoddy evidence because they're nothing more than a stress-induced hallucinations brought about by a gas leak. (They accidentally lean into the gas leak story a little too much in their early days - Danny uses his ghost powers to safely break piping in the places they're investigate to create evidence to back up their claims - thus triggering a mild panic in the citizens of Amity Park because one town should really not be suffering from this many gas line breaks.)

Sam is the director and editor, and has them film everything like it's in the style of found footage (she got the idea after watching The Blair Witch Project). They’re constantly making the "Looks directly into the camera like they're on The Office" joke whenever they interview someone who claims to have been attacked by a ghost.

Danny is the cameraman for the channel, but never shows his face because every time they tried to filmed him, his eyes would flash green in the lens flare and cause them to have to scrap the footage. He's still pretty chatty and viewers latch onto his sassy and sarcastic nature. They love his one-liners and the top comments of each video are usually just a repost of something witty he said (Sam leans into it and start naming the videos after lines that Danny drops while filming). Fans of the channel are constantly asking him for a face-reveal in the comments section. In fact, there's a whole subset of viewers that are dedicated to figuring out what he looks like. They have a poor quality jpeg file that's passed around and updated whenever a glimpse of Danny's appearance is reflected in a puddle of water or broken glass (which means Sam has to comb over the videos about ten times before they post them to make sure she didn't miss anything while editing).

Any time Danny ends up fighting a ghost and there's a witness, the trio will break into the site of the fight the next day (using Danny's ghost powers off-camera of course) so they can do an overnight stakeout. It always just amounts to the three of them goofing off and finding no evidence whatsoever. They do all the standard ghost hunting stuff but have to fib the data because Danny’s presence alone triggers the EMF reader and if they try and take the room temp anywhere near Danny it’s always like 10 degrees colder.

As time goes on, the channel starts to really kick off as people latch onto their goofy energy and start to get invested. However, they've also made themselves a lot of enemies within the student body at school, as most of their classmates have become discredited witnesses on their channel (with a few unfortunately souls even becoming trending memes for a few days). This also means Jazz learns about it and keeps volunteering to tag along or help out. She even gets Mr. Lancer to recognize the four of them as an official school club (she took initiative and made herself a part of the club AND club president without asking them), which he gladly approves since he doesn't believe in any of this ghost nonsense either.

Jazz is just really happy that there’s finally someone else in the family that is willing to stand up to their crazy parents' belief about ghosts, so she wants to be the supportive older sibling. However, she literally will not give the trio any space to deal with the ACTUAL ghost stuff. There are several pieces of unedited footage that lives on Sam's computer of Jazz showing up unannounced to an overnight stakeout asking Tucker and Sam “Where’s Danny?” and the camera would catch a glimpse of local menace Inviso-Bill getting his butt kicked by Skulker in the distance.

To get her off their back, Danny ends up publishing an hour long video essay about how ghosts ARE real, but that everything happening in Amity Park is just people making up bullshit for attention. He has to really commit to the act at home, but Jazz will eventually drop it and leave the trio to their own devices. This backfires however, as Danny's parents now believe he’s interested in ghost hunting and try to join him as well. Thankfully Danny is able to deter them by suggesting that they should all do their own research and compare notes later. You know, the more data the better, right? However, this means that in addition to his chores, homework, ghost fighting as Danny Phantom, and ghost hunting as Chasing Phantoms, he also now has to peer review his parents work so he's constantly exhausted. Tucker and Sam will usually let him copy their homework when the time crunch becomes really bad, and they will let Danny conk out for a much needed nap whenever the group gets together to brainstorm channel content or edit footage.

Following one of his encounters with Plasmius, Danny decided they should follow up the "Ghosts ARE real" video with a clickbait video titled “Top 10 places in Wisconsin that are ACTUALLY haunted!!!” They make Vlad’s Castle is #1 on the list and offer a reward to anyone that can bring them proof of a ghost haunting. They include a photo of Plasmius (that's been edited to look like bigfoot photos) so that people know what to look for. This means Vlad now has to hire extra security because the video triggers a mass influx of people that are constantly trying to break into his house and find evidence of this ghost for the reward.

Eventually Valerie and her dad end up on Chasing Phantoms as well, but as some of the discredited witnesses. It pisses her off so much that she starts up her own ghost hunting channel, Ghost Hunter Grey. She's constantly discrediting Chasing Phantoms in her videos and is very vocal on social media about how they give actual ghost hunters a bad name. Every time Chasing Phantoms uploads a new video, she stakes out the same place they did and uploads a video of her own a week later that includes all the evidence they clearly missed and a genuine, uncut interview with witnesses. She doesn't reveal her face (because of the reputation Chasing Phantoms has within the school) and uses a voice modifier when she edits her content.

Grey's videos aren’t nearly as popular as Chasing Phantoms content because Valarie tries to keep her videos more grounded in facts and backs everything up with proven science (unlike the trio’s videos which are just a constant barrage of ghost-themed brain-rotting jokes and funny reactions). It only frustrates her more and so she leans into the Popular Kids clique in order to low-key bully them as an act of revenge. 

When the trio catches wind about Ghost Hunter Grey's channel, they will film a fake video and wait the next day to see if someone shows up. Sure enough, Valerie makes an appearance shocking all of them. Sam holds the braincell and say that since they know, they can just be careful and the group shouldn't try and provoke her anymore. Tucker agrees, but Danny has other ideas and starts greifing her as Phantom. At first he will purposefully reveal himself to her when he knows she doesn't have a camera on her, but once he starts getting a little more bold he will start to photo bomb her with the dumbest expressions and just being an overall annoyance. It basically boils down to him doing shit like saying "Nobody will ever believe you." or "It's been five years, you have to let me go." before slowly turning invisible and flying away.

[thebibliosphere]

Hello (good morning?)

I have a question about your chronic illness. We are suspecting that my kid have a form of eds, and we're dealing with recurring presence of mold in our bathroom. Since you live in an Old House™️, I was wondering if you can tell something about wether mold can cause sudden (inexplicable) flare up's? My teen's doctor shrugged it off.

We're calling professionals about the mold regularly, it's not going to completely go away and moving is not an option, so i would need to know if i need to fight this fight more consistently.

Thank you and i hope your migraine is ending soon!

It's 12:30 am and I have post-migraine insomnia, so yea, good morning!

So, here’s where mold could be triggering an EDS flare up. Mast cell instability (there are several types, the type I have is Mast Cell Activation Syndrome or MCAS) has a high rate of comorbidity in EDS due to weird connective tissue issues and mast cells being present in every part of the body.

Mold is a huge mast cell destabalizer and can lead to degranulation, and when mast cells degranulate they dump an inflammatory cocktail into the surrounding tissue.

Closer to the skin this looks like hives or other typical allergic responses, but as previously stated, mast cells are in every part of the body including deep connective tissue and that's when mast cells flaring up can exacerbate the symptoms of EDS.

I know for me when I’m around mold, my joints become excruciating. Like it just feels like I’m grinding glass into the sockets and I’m either stiff as a board or like a puppet with my strings cut. I also become listless and more disposed to idiopathic anaphylaxis, but that's due to my mast cell dysfunction which, when we unknowingly had mold in our house, went from moderate to severe.

So your kid might not have a full-blown mast cell disorder, but if they’re having EDS flare-ups around mold that’s a red flag you need to be watchful for and fighting pretty regularly.

We ended up having to rip out our entire basement after we found black mold in the walls. (I could smell it. The mold remedial company said we had “a bit of damp, nothing to worry about” but my partner believed me and started cutting into the walls and what we found was a nightmare that spanned the entire finished basement 😱. There’s pics somewhere in my blog.) and a few weeks after we did my health began to stabilize.

So yeah, get on top of that as best you can. Mold is a bitch at the best of times, but it’s even worse when there’s weird health stuff already going on. Good luck, you’ve got my sympathy.

[flowercrowngods]

something so monstrous pt.2

(in which kas feeds from steve and triggers a bad migraine pt.2)

🤍🌷 read part 1 here this part gets really intense on the migraine. descriptions of immense pain, fever dreams, and vomiting, some body horror imagery bc pain can be fun like that

Time and space lose all meaning as Steve remains on the precipice of something that is too violent to be called sleep, but not harsh enough yet to be unconsciousness. Real sensations evade him as everything turns into pain immediately. Even the twitch of his finger becomes a thundering blaze of blinding pain shooting through his body and settling behind his eye until he is sure he will wake up blind. 

The fear of that is everpresent, the blind spots too real to ignore every time it goes like this, and he imagines how they will grow. He imagines how they get worse every time until one day the pain inside his skull will be so immense it will take his eyesight in exchange for alleviation.

And even though it is unbearable, he opens his eyes whenever he can, just to make sure he can see still. It’s an added veil of terror that covers him whole and consumes him slowly but continually. 

At some point he notices something cold and wet being placed over his eyes, adding another layer of darkness that is welcome, even if it leaves an imprint of pressure and sensation on his forehead that makes his skin tear around it, his skull cracking and caving in beneath the touch. 

And still it helps a little, pulling him further toward consciousness but not further toward the pain itself. But Steve can only whimper weakly in response, six feet under a thick cloud of cotton-filled smog that even turns breathing into a chore, polluting his lungs with fear and horror and agony without compare.

He does fall into a fitful sleep at some point, grateful for the short reprieve, but it does nothing to alleviate his exhaustion. 

It feels like his eyeballs are being pushed into his skull for what must be hours upon hours, and the pain is so unbearable, so horrible, that he's not at all surprised when nausea rises in his chest, his body responding to its current state with confusion and a hard-reset. 

Steve keens, trying to roll onto his side, groaning at the flares of pain shooting up into his skull and down into his limbs. They only worsen the nausea and it's pure instinct that gives him the strength to sit up. 

"Kas?” he whispers, swallowing thickly against another wave. "Bathroom?” 

Instead of giving him directions or pulling him up to drag him there, Kas wastes no time. He gets up off the floor, approaching him with shuffling steps once more, and gently but quickly lifts Steve off the bed in a hold — firm, yet gentle — that brings another sting of tears to Steve's eyes. Pain and vulnerability and the need for everything to be over. That’s what makes him cry.

Still he manages to hold on, his head rolling onto Kas's shoulder, the skin of his neck blissfully cool against Steve’s overheated forehead pressing into him. 

Make it stop, he thinks. Longs. Aches. It’s supposed to be over. It’s all supposed to be over now. 

He whimpers again, and imagines that Kas is the one to softly shush him this time.

The coolness of Kas's neck is gone all too soon as the vampire sets Steve on the hard, uncomfortable bathroom floor. He doesn't go far, though, crouching down beside him and holding him up over the toilet. Steve can't see anything, but still he’s grateful that Kas left the lights off, the bathroom tinged in the same darkness as his bedroom. 

Pathetically, Steve rests his forehead on the toilet seat, chasing the coldness of it as pain and nausea reach their peak. It’s disgusting, but be’s not strong enough to care. A whine breaks from him, and he wishes Kas would leave. Even though the cold hand on his neck feels good, and even though he knows he wouldn't be able to hold himself up right now. 

I'm not weak, he wants to say. And maybe he does. But he can't recognise his own voice right now. 

"Not weak, maybe, but pathetic." 

No. 

"You know you are." 

Shut up. Go away. 

It doesn't make sense for Mr Munson to suddenly be here with them, to stand in the doorway and watch his nephew, who is more monster than human these days, holding up the pathetic form of Steve, who is more pain than human. More smoke than human. More vulnerable weakness than remotely human.

Go away. Eddie? I want him to go away. Tell— Go ‘way. 

The hand wanders, pulling Steve against cool skin again so his forehead rests against the toilet no longer, basking in the cold touch and the warmth of a body to hold him. 

"Safe," Kas says, and Steve wants to badly to believe him. Wants Wayne to leave, wants everyone to leave and just let him suffer in silence and solitude like always. 

Wayne starts talking again, but Steve can't hear him this time as he suddenly heaves and retches, throwing up what little he had to eat today. Over and over and over.

It goes like this for a long time. He has no idea how long. Has no idea where he even is anymore. 

The world tilts a few times when he loses his grip, his arms buckling, his hands spasming and giving out, and still he never falls. Only ever feels the cold, damp skin of Kas’s neck. 

Kas has to carry him to bed when he's done and on the brink of passing out again, and Steve doesn’t mind this time. Kas also hands him a glass of water or two before pushing him back to lie down again. That’s nice. 

The wet cloth returns, and Steve isn't aware of his surroundings for much more after that.

—— 

The next time Steve comes to, he feels like he was freshly dragged through Lover’s Lake until his lungs gave out. His head is pulsing violently, his senses are sluggish and everything feels foggy. He has no idea where he is, the room pitch black around him as he lifts a lukewarm damp cloth from his eyes. 

A soft groan falls from his lips as he stretches his aching, cramped limbs, rubbing his hands over his face and regaining the feeling in his body. Little pinpricks of phantom pain shoot through him, his mouth tastes like ash and his head protests rather violently against his pathetic attempt at sitting up. 

He is disoriented and something about his vision is still messed up, something in the depths of the room not quite right and leaving him with a dizziness he can’t quite shake, followed by a wave of anxiety that something’s wrong with his eyes. 

He blinks. Blinks again, finding more things in the strange room as he does, his sluggish brain slowly catching up and filling in the blanks.

It all comes back to him like a tidal wave when he suddenly finds himself blinking at a pair of red eyes, softly glowing and wide open. 

“Kas,” he croaks, his throat absolutely parched. 

One second he’s wincing at that, the next he finds a cool glass of water pressed into his hands before the eyes and the shadowy form they belong to retreat to the foot of the bed again. 

 “Thanks,” he murmurs, stalling as he takes a sip. Embarrassment rises in him, but he doesn’t want to apologise. The thought of that somehow makes the vulnerability that much worse, so he tries to ignore it. It’ll all be fine if they simply not acknowledge it. 

He wants to ask for the time instead, wants to know how much the migraine took from him this time, but he knows Kas doesn’t really understand the concept of it all, let alone know the numbers. 

A silence settles between them and it’s somewhere between welcome and uncomfortable. Just like everything that happens in Hawkins. It makes Steve feel like a ghost again, but this time he’s a ghost in the room, not just in his own head. He’s the one who’s out of place.

With a little sigh, he places the glass on the makeshift nightstand again and falls over onto his side. His head is mad at him for it, still feeling too fragile for sudden movements, but lying down feels better than sitting.

There’s a huff from Kas that sounds more amused than derisive, so Steve looks at him. Looks at the shimmer in those eyes before closing his own again, not wanting to be looked at right now. Not wanting to face it.

“You,” Kas says then, his voice quiet and without the edge of that animalistic growl. The sound of someone who’s not meant to speak at all. The souvenir of someone who was human once before Evil grabbed him and modified him to His liking. 

“Me,” Steve says, an automatic response, just as quiet. He’s listening. 

“How… How are…” Kas struggles, huffing in frustration at the words that refuse to come, but still it’s the most coherent Steve has ever heard him. It makes him sit up half way again; leaning his weight on one arm to focus all his foggy and cloudy attention on the vampire trying to ask him how he is feeling. 

No more words come, though, the question half finished in the air between them. But somehow it makes Steve smile. Just a little bit. This feels important. And huge.

“My head hurts,” he answers truthfully, amused when Kas’s eyes snap back to his. To search them. To communicate something.

“Hurts?” 

“Yeah. It will, for a while. Always does. Nothing to do about it, really.” He wishes he felt as indifferent to it as he sounds, but that’s just the tiredness clouding his tone. It’s fast approaching now that he knows he’s relatively safe. Now that he knows he can rest. His arm gives out and he slides, slowly this time, back to lie on the pillow. “But it’s not as bad. And the other pain is gone, so…” 

So. He could go home now. He should, probably. Ignoring the weakness in his bones and the exhaustion in his every fiber. If he closed his eyes again right now, he could fall asleep. Still, maybe he should—

“Stay,” Kas says again, and Steve really should have figured. He’s not quite well enough to really fight him on that, though, so he shrugs. 

“Fine,” he mumbles into the pillow, halfway back to slumberland already. 

There’s movement on the foot of the bed, and before he knows it Kas has tucked him in again, draped across the pillows as he is. It’s still unreal, that, but Steve won’t complain. What’s even more unreal, though, is the image Steve gets of Kas curling up by the foot of the bed in a similar position. As if he still means to keep watch. 

It’s ridiculous. A little weird. And sort of endearing.

——

The next time Steve wakes, everything around him is a little brighter, daylight fighting weakly to fill the room, but it stands no chance against the large wooden planks and thick curtains meant to block it out permanently. 

He blinks away the heaviness, taking stock of his body. There is a crick in his neck and burgeoning cramps in his side and hip from the position he’s still in, and this head still is a pulsing, aching mess — but no more than usual. 

He taps the pads of his fingers to his thumb before flexing his hands. Only then does he stretch the rest of his body and announce his wakefulness. 

Opposite him, at the foot of the bed, Kas is already awake and still in the same position that Steve saw him last. Did he even sleep? Does he need that? Or has he just been staring at Steve, watching him, ready to carry him to the bathroom again for round two. 

The thought of that makes his skin crawl.

“Hi,” he says to fill the silence that is all too inviting for his spiralling mind.

Kas grunts, but it sounds more like a hum. Sort of gentle around the edges. He doesn’t move, doesn’t seem at all fazed that they’re just kind of staring at each other. Steve swallows, not really sure how to go from here.

He fists the blanket and rubs the linen bedding between his fingers, feels the rough fabric catching on the callouses along his hands as uncomfortable seconds tick by. Still Kas doesn’t move. 

“Listen, man,” Steve says at last, thinking back to yesterday’s events and the vampire’s sudden care. “Thanks, alright? What you did, that was, uh. That was nice. You didn’t have to do any of that.” 

Another hum, and it occurs to Steve that Kas is back in his normal state, retreated back into his mind, hiding from the world himself now that it no longer needs him. It’s a strange thought, that Steve being hurt would be what brings him back. If at all. Maybe he’s reading it all wrong. Maybe it as just a coincidence, or maybe Kas tasted something in his blood that made him want to improve Steve’s physical state for selfish purposes. That’s probably more likely.

But it makes him feel even more wrong-footed than before, and it leaves him hyper-aware of the situation. Of their dynamic. Indifference and annoyance and… He doesn’t want it to change, doesn’t want some kind of debt between himself and Kas — especially not when Kas has no means to really settle it. But he also can’t feign some kind of gratitude when what he feels the most is mortification and embarrassment; and he sure as hell doesn’t want Kas to know that either. 

So he throws back the blanket and gets out of the bed, a little dizzy at first, but he doesn’t care as he slips into his shoes and hurries out of the room. 

He just wants to leave. Get out of here and go home, go back to bed and get over the mortification of having been seen like this. Of having been taken care of. By someone who doesn’t even like him. By someone who hissed and snapped at him one moment and then carried him to the bathroom the next. 

“It looks like there’s nothing human left in him, but we do have data that suggest otherwise.” Owens’s words echo through his mind as he crosses the living room. “It seems to be in hiding, the Munson part of him; that’s our hope at least. That you can get him back out one day, make him win over the vampire part. It could be like a self defence mechanism, I guess. We hope he can still be coaxed back into the land of the living. How, though, we don’t know.”

Was this what happened? Has Steve’s weakness triggered the human part of Kas’s tortured brain to take over? No, that can’t be. 

It seems unreal. Unlikely. Wayne telling him stories or Dustin talking about their campaign, that should have helped. Even Mike playing the guitar, or Robin rambling about something or other; all of that was much more close to who Munson was. Or used to be. Eddie Munson never struck Steve as someone who took care of people naturally. Someone who stepped in. He stepped up, sure, but only ever for the wrong reasons. 

It makes no sense. So it must be wrong; just Steve’s exhausted brain grasping at straws. It usually does that, anyway. Nobody knows if Eddie is even still in there. Part of Steve hopes he’s not. 

Just as he reaches for the front door, ready to just get out of here and pretend like nothing happened, he feels a presence behind him. Kas followed him out of the bedroom, standing in the doorway now with an unreadable expression. It's the blank one he usually takes on, but where before it was normal, it throws Steve off now. Maybe because he saw how Kas can look at him. How expressive his eyes can get.

He holds them, the red shimmer a little dimmer out here in the brighter living room. 

And maybe it's the blankness in those eyes, or the lack of judgment in Kas's every action, but whatever it is, it makes Steve let go of the door and turn to face Kas properly. 

"Why'd you do it?"

The vampire inclines his head. Listening. Always listening. Steve doesn't know how he never noticed that. It seemed so primitive before. Like how a dog will react to its owner speaking, but never process the words. Kas processes, though. So Steve keeps going.

"Why'd you... You kept saying that word. Safe. Do you, uh. Do you know what it means?" 

Slowly, his eyes growing a little less blank, Kas nods. 

Steve looks around the cabin, swallowing thickly, still feeling so out of place in here, still feeling the need to run and leave it far behind. But something makes him stay. Makes him want to understand. 

"You wanted me to feel safe?" Again, Kas nods. "Why?" 

There is hesitation there, and Steve wonders if it's because he doesn't want to tell him, if he doesn't know the answer, or if he doesn't know how to answer. It's a loaded question, maybe. 

"Pain," he says at last, his voice barely discernible from a growl, but somehow Steve seems attuned to it now. Maybe because he listens now. Because he wants to know. To understand. 

He waits, watching as Kas struggles for more words once more. Just like last night. 

"Know... Know... pain. Know.” He taps his temple with a clawed hand, and Steve's heart falls, his chest aching with realisation. 

Right. He would. He would know pain like that. If what the doc says is right, if what Vecna taunted them with is right, if every working theory the kids have is right, then… yeah. Kas would know. He’s know something about pain. More than any of them. Pain so intense it splits you apart from yourself. 

"Shit," Steve whispers more to himself than to the room, crossing his arms in front of his chest to hug himself and keep from digging deeper, keep his heart from falling further, and keep the horror at bay. 

He doesn't want to imagine the kind of torture Kas went through. Is still going through, if what the doctors say has even more truth to it. If Munson is still in there, still suffering because human minds have a way of holding on to pain — Steve knows soemthing about that, too. 

"I'm sorry," he offers. It's all he can offer. In the end, it’s all that’s left.

And still it's so lame. It's not enough. 

But Kas just nods again, a pained shadow of a smile appearing on his face. Something transpires between them in that moment, Steve can feel it, but he can't really define it. Maybe some kind of understanding. Some kind of safety. 

"I gotta..." he starts, motioning to the door behind him. "I gotta go. Will you be fine? Did you have enough, y'know, to drink?" 

Another nod, and the smile widens a little. Looks a little less pained this time. 

"Good," Steve says, stuffing his hands into his pockets, lifting his shoulders to his ears, trying and failing to seem casual in the face of those glowing eyes. "I’ll– I'll see you around, yeah?" 

And then he's out the door, his head spinning and aching, his steps heavy with the weight of whatever has changed between him and Kas in the past twenty-four hours. 

... sooo. part 3 anyone?

🤍 permanent tag list gang: @skiddit @inklessletter @aringofsalt @hellion-child @stobin-cryptid @hotluncheddie @gutterflower77 @auroraplume @steddieonbigboy @n0-1-important @stevesjockstrap @brainvines @puppy-steve @izzy2210 @itsall-taken @mangoinacan13 @madigoround @pukner @i-amthepizzaman @swimmingbirdrunningrock @hammity-hammer @stevesbipanic @bitchysunflower @estrellami-1 @finntheehumaneater @goodolefashionedloverboi (lmk if you want on or off, for this story or permanently) 🤍 tagging for this work only: @forestnymph-666 @little-trash-ghost @jupitersgonemissing

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Three for One 5

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, cheating, customer service abuse, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: As a customer service associate, you’re used to work with a wide variety of characters. Your efforts to go above and beyond draw the attention of a certain set of customers who want more than what’s on the shelf.

Character: Andy Barber, Lloyd Hansen, Ransom Drysdale

Note: How are these getting longer lol

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me 💞

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

If you thought the darkness was torturous, the light proves to be worse. You look at your surroundings. It’s eerie. A room curated for one. For you.

The white fluffy stool in front of a matching vanity. A picture of a woman in white sitting in a meadow, flowers all around and a stream flowing through the lush field. A vanity painted with flowers, the night tables matching; the bedspread under you similar woven with pansies. The trim at the top of the wall is pink petals on white and a soft rug under the foot of the bed.

It’s all very cute but deranged. You’d love to have all this and more but you’d rather your apartment. If the price is those three men then you’d rather a gutter. Most importantly, you want your dog.

You can’t even make your demands. The walls can’t give you what you want. You doubt your captors will either but you can try. You can wear them down. You can be nice sure, you prefer that, but it doesn’t mean you can’t be your own brand of evil.

Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep. The noise needles in your ears and you hear the mechanism click. You raise your head to watch the door open and the one with the beard enters. Alan, Arnold? Ugh, you don’t care.

He doesn’t break the threshold. He crosses his arms and stares at you. A ripple in his forehead underlines his thoughts.

“I’m going to bring you out but you have to be good,” he says.

You close your eyes and drop your head. You fill your chest and let out a blasting wail. He grunts and stomps to the bed. He grabs your shoulders, shaking you until you nearly swallow your tongue. You bite the tip as he sits you up and you’re forced to face him.

“No, no more of that. Or you don’t get your first present.”

“I don’t want any of your presents,” you sneer.

“This one, I think you do,” he intones, “I’m asking you to give me a chance. Let me show you that this isn’t just for us. This is about you, honey.”

“I didn’t ask for this,” you hiss, “why can’t you just let me go?”

He shakes his head, “it’s too late for that.”

“I won’t behave. I swear, I’m going to scream–” you inhale and he quickly covers your mouth, his other hand coming around the back of your skull. 

He hushes you as his blue eyes darken, “honey, I’m being nice right now, so you need to go along with this. If you don’t…” he pauses and looks over his shoulder, “I don’t know what they’ll do.”

You furrow your brow. Getting out of this room is one step closer to escape. You can be good. For now.

You let the tension leave your body and soften your expression. He senses it and slowly slides his hand away from your mouth. You flick your lashes, putting on your best pout.

“Okay, Alan, I’ll be good,” you avow.

His brow tweaks and his cheek ticks. His nostrils flare as his chest rise and falls, “it’s Andy.”

“Right, I’m sorry, I’m really freaked out,” you show your teeth sheepishly, “that other guy… he hurt me.”

“Which one?” He asks.

“Er… stache guy.”

“I’ll talk to him,” he huffs, “can I untie you?”

“Yeah.”

“No, honey, I’m asking,” he looks you straight in the face, “you’re not going to try anything, right?”

“I can be good,” you squirm, “my wrists hurt.”

“Alright.”

He lays you back and rolls you over. He pulls the tape away from your arms, then your ankles. You think of the trick from the van. You know his weak spot but it’s too soon for that. Timing, it all comes down to the right opportunity.

“Let’s go,” he takes your hand and helps you up.

You get to your feet and let him lead you out. His large hand clings to yours as he pulls you after him like a child. As you go into the hall, you examine every inch of the place. He takes you into the front room, a low din that in any other circumstance would be cozy.

It looks like any other living room. A sectional and an armchair, an artificial fireplace set into the wall, a mantel trimmed in tinsel, a rich carpet spread over the dark hardwood, and shelves of books along with a television mounted to the wall. The tree in the corner stands bare over a red velvet skirt.

“We can decorate the tree tonight and see if Santa leaves anything for tomorrow.”

You hold back a scoff, “um, I know Santa isn’t real.”

He chuckles, “it’s a joke.”

“Is this the surprise?” You deflate. Sounds like work to you. Of course, your apartment is too small for a proper tree but you’re less than excited for a pastime you always longed for.

“No, not the only one,” he lets you go as you tug on your hand. “Honey, we did this all for you.”

You turn on him, “I didn’t ask you too.”

“Hey, hey, why are you acting like this? You’re such a sweet girl.”

You swallow tightly and hear beeping again. Then a clamour that includes a scramble, some scraping and the thump of a door against something else. You try to see past Andy as you feel cold air rush in from outside. You want to race past him but he’d be on you in a moment.

You hear a familiar growl before another voice wafts in from the entryway.

“Ah, he bit me. Again!” One man says.

“You think I’m having fun at the ass end?” The other retorts.

“Woah, oh, shit–”

There’s a duller thump and you hear claws and paws on the floor. Your heart leaps and you look around Alan– Andy as you hear the heavy breaths bounding towards you. 

“Ernie!” You squeal as the Saint Bernard lumbers in, furtively searching before he spots you. “Ernie, my boy. Oh, baby boy.”

He nearly knocks over Andy as he barrels into your arms. You hug him around the neck and inhale the scent of his fur. His collar tinkles and let his warmth ease your fear. You were so worried about him, more than even yourself.

“You said it was a puppy,” the bare-faced man snarls as he shakes his hand.

“I didn’t know…” Andy says.

“He is a puppy,” you insist.

“Who let the pussycat out?” The mustachioed creep asks.

Your eyes shoot darts in his direction and his hand shields his pants, almost instinctively. Ernie drags his large rough tongue up your cheek. He was scared too but now you have each other.

“Surprise,” Andy says, “so now, honey, you’re going to be good, right?”

You look at him and chew your lip. His eyes fall to Ernie and you put your arm in front of the dog. He doesn’t need to put his threat into words.

“Shit, I’m bleeding. That thing got shots?” Scarf asks.

“What about the girl? She got me good,” Mustache snickers.

“No, but maybe I should get checked now,” you snip.

“Woa-ho!” Mr. Caterpillar exclaims, “she’s got a mouth.”

“Honey,” Andy warns, “we’re being good, right?”

You huff and nod.

“So, apologise.”

“What?” You burst out, “he–” You stop and look between all three men. You have Ernie but you’re more worried about him getting hurt than knowing he’d hurt them in an instant. Even then, he has his head low, a steady rumble brewing in him.

“That thing needs to calm down,” the naked faced one whines, still cradling his hand.

“He’s confused,” you defend your son, “okay? And I’m sorry, er, dude, I’m sure you don’t have any communicable diseases.”

“The fuck? Disease– Alright,” the man steps forward, “that’s it. First she bites me, then she kicks me in the dick and now–”

“Lloyd,” Andy puts his hand up, “no. We’re all just getting used to each other. You’re not exactly easy to be around yourself.”

“Fuck that, I’m funny,” the fuzzy lipped man, Lloyd, argues.

“Everyone just quit,” Andy demands, “alright? Did you get the food?”

“Food?” The bare-faced man shrugs out of his jacket, “what food?”

“For the dog? I told you–” Andy begins.

“Ah, shit, knew we forgot something,” Lloyd chuckles, “he’ll be fine. He can eat chicken, can’t he?”

“He has a sensitive tummy,” you say.

“Jesus,” the third man grumbles as he hangs his scarf over his coat. “I’m not going back. It’s late.”

“Can he have rice? Carrots?” Andy suggests.

“I guess, I don’t know if he’ll eat 'em,” you look at Ernie as his deep brown eyes meet yours. You pet his head to keep him calm. He doesn’t like these men any more than you do.

“Fine,” Andy huffs, “go get the decorations,” he orders the others.

“Why don’t you get the decorations?” Lloyd sneers.

“She needs to change,” Andy explains.

“Like we can’t help her,” the other man challenges.

“I don’t often agree with him, but he’s right. We’ll get her changed.”

You grimace as your eyes ping pong at the back and forth of their conversation. This isn’t good. You don’t enjoy being talked about like you’re not there.

“How about I get myself changed?” You offer.

The men turn to you. None of them seem impressed. A sudden peel of thunder fills the room and you look at Ernie. His bark echoes in your ears.

“Shut that thing up,” Lloyd snaps.

“He’s quiet,” you say, “he was just saying the same about you.”

“Really?” He goes to take another step forward and the other man stops him, “Ransom, let me go.”

“I’ll take her, you two go get the decorations,” he says.

Andy frames his hips and sighs, “fine. We all know the plan. Let’s stick to it.”

You want to raise your hand and clarify that you do not, in fact, know the plan but you suspect you’re not a part of the collective. You keep your hand on Ernie and gulp. He nuzzles your hip.

You bend and pet behind his ear, “it’s okay.” It’s not. You move to face him, “sit,” you raise your voice, “stay. I’ll be right back.”

As you stand, the dog obeys. He’s a gentle giant, at least with you. You pat his head and turn away. The men watch you.

“That thing listens?” The one they called Ransom asks.

“He can.”

“Come on,” he beckons you with two fingers, a smirk ghosting on his lips.

“This is bullshit,” Lloyd mutters as Andy approaches him.

“We can keep talking all night,” Andy pats his shoulder, “or get things moving.”

“Whatever,” the man smooths his mustache.

You reluctantly move towards the third man, the one with no personality grown out on his lip or jaw. A baby face if you ever saw one. The way he leers makes you uncomfortable. He smells like Armani.

“Not smiling now, are you?” He says under his breath as he ushers you down the hall.

He points you into that same bedroom. You stop just inside and he shoulders past you with a grumble. You watch him go to the wardrobe and open it. You look between him and the door. You could make it.

You wait a few seconds as he pushes hangers over the bar. You take a step. He doesn’t notice. Another and he’s bitching about colours. You didn’t think men were that picky. You get right in the frame of the door and back out. He looks around the open wardrobe.

“Bye,” you wave and pull the door shut.

You know he’s probably swearing at you but you can’t hear him. You hold onto the handle and hit the little lock icon in the corner of the keypad. The deadbolt rolls into place.

This is it. You edge out to the living room. You don’t see anybody. Ernie sits where you left him, sniffing the air. He sees you and perks up. You wave him over and he lifts his rump, taking careful steps across the room.

You grab his collar and take him with you to the front door. You twist the handle, it doesn’t budge. You flip the lock over it, still nothing. You don’t know what to do. What the hell?

You search around you. The windows are barred, you can’t get out that way. There’s a small box right beside the door. You flip it open to reveal another keypad. Fuck.

“And where are we going, pussy cat?” The question nips your ears as a plastic ornament pings off the wall beside you. You spin and face the mustachioed menace. 

“You know, I just need some fresh air.”

Ernie growls and puts himself between you and the man, keeping the distance with his body. He prowls around, snout low as he paces back and forth. Lloyd steps closer and the dog mirrors him.

“Call that thing off,” he demands.

“Why would I do that?” You challenge.

“Well I’m sure you wouldn’t like it if I made him stop,” he opens and closes his fist.

“You wouldn’t hurt a puppy–”

“I’ll do what needs to be done,” he tilts his head.

“Ernie,” you call the dog, “quiet. Sit.”

The dog lets out a wispy boof but listens. He flops his butt down and glares at the man. You put your hands up and step forward.

“You’re mean. How can you threaten an innocent dog?”

“He drooled on my Jimmy Choo’s,” he says, “come on,” he grabs you by the back of the neck, “let’s go get the dumbass out.”

Ernie barks as you whimper. You flutter your hand at him as Lloyd’s fingertips pinch into your tendons, “Ern, it’s okay, I’m okay. Stay.”

He must hear the panic. He remains, restlessly shifting his front paws. You march beside the man back to the hallway. You reach to touch his arm and he only squeezes harder.

“Shouldn’t blame you for trying,” he says, “but I will.”

[rin-and-jade]

Accidentally Setting Off Bombs?.. : A Post on (system) Triggers

What if you're on a fine day, nothing's going wrong, only to be met with a specific phrase or experience that throws off your balance for the next few days?

Well, it seems like you got some landmines in your mental territory with it's uninviting presence--but triggers are more than just a trauma mechanism. As basically, we all (singlet and systems) operate with many, many, different types of triggers that makes us act the way we are.

This post will cover different kinds of triggers, educate the nuance of its purpose, as well as how they operate--or respond like, and how to handle the typical destructive and bad triggers! There's even bonus info. CLICK ME!!

TLDR section: gotchu covered! Scroll to most bottom.

Trigger? What trigger?

Uhhm.. Hold for a sec guys-- *googles awkwardly infront of you* Alright, found it: "to cause something to start" -Cambridge Dictionary

To cause something, you say? Okay, i see now, try bringing yourself back to past experiences for a while and observe how some responses/conversations had made you feel: sad? happy? confused? angry?

That's a general example of triggers, as they spark an emotion to you within a brief moment after you've finished registering and processing an information.

When it comes to system topics, the word "triggers" are often used to describe any informational/sensory input that caused/starts a switch between two parts. This usually takes more than sparking a fuse that will cause emotions to do that though.. here, let the chief explain some types for you:

Types of triggers.. (and as bomb names)

Internal - Dynamite Caused by: Thoughts, memories, experiences Combustion power: High

Details: Due to high sensitivity, any internal pressure can cause it to detonate and land a strong impact, giving way for strong emotional reactions to hit fast and strong, or a sudden switch to happen.

External - Landmine Caused by: Stimuli from external environments (scents, people, places) Combustion power: High

Details: Due to its ability to detect pressure on a proximity, rearing too close to one would cause a detonation, no matter how unexpected or aloof.

Physiological - Grenade Caused by: Heart rate, pain, hunger, fatigue, etc Combustion power: Moderate high

Details: Being exposed to a stimulus causes the safety pin to be pulled, which gradually causes a build up of chemicals before reaching to the shell's threshold, causing a defined space of explosion.

Psychological - Time bomb Caused by: Stress, anxiety, overwhelm, etc Combustion power: Moderate

Details: Set with a special timer, after being triggered, it has a defined length of time before it detonates, this can be from a couple of seconds to hours. Failure to diffuse, would mean the prolonged exposure and effects will inevitably, turn into an explosive mess.

Behavioral - Smoke bomb Caused by: Routine, certain repetition, engaging an activity Combustion power: Moderate

Details: They're not apparently harmful, but when deployed, it causes a fog of confusion, causing dissociation and detachment from a certain part to notice or be fully aware of the situation. Unlike other previous bombs, they may cause a more silent/subtle or temporary switch or shift.

Emotional - Firecrackers Caused by: Negative, or positive emotions Combustion power: Low to moderate

Details: Although small, they're very loud and explosive. They do not have any destructive capabilities within them, yet capable of causing a temporary reaction of emotions or myriad of things. Possibly close to a partial switch/influence. Unless strong, it could cause a switch.

Symptom - Flare gun Caused by: Presence of specific symptoms from illnesses/health Combustion power: Low

Details: They don't have any explosive or destructive qualities, rather, it's akin to an SOS signal, alerting possible parts to come by as an aid to the situation, responding and taking the wheel from the distress call, tanking discomfort/symptoms.

Meaning of terms: "Caused by" - To convey what it detects that started the trigger "Combustion power" - To convey how strong it facilitates a switch, and/or how destructive the reaction would be if it sets the fuse off

Okay, but how do they work??

Explosives devices such as dynamites, landmines, or grenades pack a lot of charged emotions or reactions that is strong enough as a signal to your brain to perform several brain modes and complete a switch that is necessary to the heat of the situation.

While less destructive ones like crackers and flares do not hold enough pressure or combustion, which explains partial alter influences, or just enough to call them into the co-conscious proximity.

--

The idea of how triggers facilitate switches is from how these inputs are taken account into brain modes as cues, and depending on the cues and learnt patterns, it will bring forth an associated alter that fits for the situation.

In short, parts have their own memory banks of experiences and triggers, which is why dangerous or stressful situations bring forth protectors or why seeing cute videos or toys bring forth littles.

Are we ever free from triggers?

No, not really--but that doesn't mean its bad!

Generally, triggers are just the mediator to initiate certain steps, actions, emotions, or learnt behaviors to navigate our life. It's what puts us into work mode, or when to joke--when to not. We're made of different sets of modes, and these triggers made sure we act and think correctly within specific situations.

The issue here is when traumatic triggers are ruining other benign types of triggers, which i will address next.

When bombs are planted with trickery:

The complexity starts here. Why? Because triggers also works in stacks and combos. Especially the traumatic ones. A trigger only can shift/affect a mood or state, but combo'd ones does a rollercoaster of reactions, where most damage is done.

They're capable of stacking or performed in combos due to how each activates another trigger, one after other, i'll give an example:

You got insulted by someone (external trigger) -> Caused you to feel sad (emotional trigger) -> Makes you remember all the other times you've disappointed people (internal trigger) -> These past experiences slowly overwhelm you and cloud your judgement (psychological trigger) -> Which causes a breakdown and perform unhealthy coping mechanisms, like isolating or substances (behavioral trigger)

Oof.... yeah no one would like that. Right? Right??..

Alright, and that's how easy it is to get caught up to a reactive state. And you'd love to know ANY. FRICKING. WAYS. to diffuse that annoying pattern.. which i do know--if not this post won't even be released if it doesn't have the advice section.

Chief, spill your CIA files on this!

I am, i am!!..

Oftentimes, these triggers hit you big and hard,, because once ya lose your cool? Thats game over. Now, here's a lil cheat sheet:

Identify the device Which is why understanding and identifying the name of the bombs is the first important step to counter the detonation. Did you snap a trigger for defensive behavior? Or the one that makes you feel lots of things?

Do not run, attempt to diffuse instead I mean, we all want to escape from potential dangers, but that doesn't stop the explosion, which may or may not hurt you or other people within the process. Once you start feeling finicky or a little panicky--immediately assert yourself to recognize your build up pressure, that'll muffle it good and helps you and control from the reactive bursts from affecting you emotionally and mentally.

Cut the wires off (get out of the negative thought loop) Take proactive steps to solve or manage your emotions. We often assume the worst would happen, and thats when.. you leave the bomb as it is. Get going and prevent the worst possible scenario. Craft a plan on how you can manage,, are there pliers? Do you have enough time to cover with a shield to avoid its impact? I don't know, smash it!

Understand consequences (additional info) When you realize that there are various ways to react after a trigger is activated, you might see which can make the situation worse, or can make the situation lighter. This buys you a little more time to reflect and choose the outcome you truly want to achieve.

For first-timers, it is hard to fight off the bombs because you never had a plan or experience to handle them, if so, this is your call to create a plan or strategy whenever triggers will topple your balance. Most importantly, self confidence and trust in managing a difficult, bomby situation would do you wonders.

If you failed to deactivate the bomb:

Salvage the situation If the damage was inevitable, then you can attempt to ground yourself back, and empathetically apologize to the people who got hurt in the process. Explain to them what just happened, and etc.

Log them in What pattern did you see? What can you implement next time to manage the situation better? This is a good moment for reflection/evaluation and planning.

Give yourself some grace (most important) You're just learning, punishing or shaming yourself won't get you anywhere far. It's okay, you can still practice to deflect another future trigger if you do failed a bunch.

Bonus Information

Triggers are also connected to the polyvagal theory, i'll share you a bit on it!

When brain modes has the job to pull out the right alters for the right situation then... who opens the gate for a switch to happen? Thats right, its your big brother: Mr. PV .

Hyper-aroused vagus:

Switches happen within the sympathetic state--which is all about action and fight/flight. Being in a sympathetic state makes certain alters with active roles be more alert, and also signals an urgency to be flexible or adapt to the situation. The threshold for triggers to feel 'moderate' emotions also lowers (means more sensitive), which also make sense why you are easier to be irritated or emotional in a heightened state.

Often times, if too many alters are co-conscious, and variated stimulus are presented, this causes multiple switches at short successions in attempt to upkeep the demand of which alter is needed within the ever-changing moment. Like when you're trying to juggle some balls with your hands, it's akin to multitasking.. but juggling alters around.

Oh right, sounds familiar huh? That's what rapid switch is.

Hypo-aroused vagus:

But, when you're too overwhelmed or had exerted alot of strain/energy, you might crash into a mental exhaustion.

This exhaustion is the dorsal vagal state, where your body attempts to conserve and hide away when active fighting doesn't work. triggers are harder to facilitate switches as it puts the threshold bar up high.. rendering normal triggers obsolete.

Felt like you've been there? Well, that's the process which made you front-stuck, which you might recognize.

-- clarification -- Rapid switch and front-stuck also involve other factors such as stress tolerance and emotional resilience, take this as a piece of pov to learn how these two mechanisms works.

Takeaway

Alright fellas.. that's all you get from the hands on education on my bomb camp. What kind of bomb do you often experience? Which one is the most annoying to you so far? Let me know!

Also.. it would be awesome if you start mentioning triggers as bomb names as they almost perfectly depict what they feel like.

AND REMEMBER. Do not attempt to intentionally trigger a bomb without a professional or a trusty friend. Doing so alone would cause unwanted effects. If you want to un-learn your triggers, contact me,, the master of bombs,,, i'll be able to curate a personalized step by step on how to tackle them!

(and... uh... i write my posts differently after final fusing, i hope you guys are okay with this forever now)

-- TLDR --

Triggers in DID they are cues (internal, external, emotional, etc.) that cause a specific reaction or switch between alters, depending on the situation.

Triggers vary in impact: some are like dynamite (internal triggers from memories), others like landmines (external stimuli), grenades (physiological states), time bombs (psychological stress), smoke bombs (behavioral patterns), firecrackers (emotional responses), or flare guns (symptom-related).

Polyvagal Theory explains rapid switching between hyperarousal (fight-or-flight state) and hypoarousal (shutdown state), contributing to feeling "stuck" or experiencing frequent switches.

Not all triggers are negative; they can play an adaptive role, bringing forward the most appropriate alter for a situation. Learn to manage and "diffuse" these triggers by identifying them, using grounding techniques, and developing strategies to mitigate their effects.

Key takeaway: Triggers are a natural part of life for everyone, but managing traumatic triggers is essential for those with DID. Understanding and handling them effectively can help maintain balance and well-being.

- chrono

[autistichalsin]

For everyone curious about why anons keep bringing up essential oils:

In November, a new dialogue was unearthed where Minthara says she poisons a romanced player's food as they won't agree to be poisoned consensually, in order to build up their immunity for the Underdark. This was greatly upsetting for me.

Around the same time, someone said that everyone who hates Minthara is clearly a misogynist who would love her if she was a man.

On my own Twitter, not replying to anyone, I made a post sharing a painful story about how my mom, knowing I'm asthmatic, used to sneak essential oil diffusers in my room with me, "for my own good," and when I protested they triggered attacks, she said, "it's just lavender, it can't hurt you! It doesn't hurt, it HELPS asthma!" and insisted I faked it to spite her/refuse her help. Which is why I was upset by Minthara, because it was triggering memories of being made sick "for my own good".

I then got continuously mocked for months, with a certain group of people making "essential oils" a punchline. When they were called on mocking my abuse because they don't like me, they emphatically said they weren't mocking my abuse, they were mocking my "trauma dumping" about my abuse (by... mocking the abuse itself. That isn't a distinction without a difference, that is NO difference.) And because I "disrespected my own trauma" by comparing it to a fictional character. With another person very "helpfully" chiming in that they found it funny because sometimes abuse is just absurd, and everyone has to learn not to take themselves so seriously and learn to laugh at these things rather than being depressed about it. (A valid response when talking about one's OWN abuse; abuse apologism when talking about ANOTHER'S abuse.)

Anyway, that's why almost every other message of anon hate you see me get here references "essential oils." Because it is very funny to mock purposefully triggering flare-ups of a condition that kills thousands of people a year. (Curious: if I had said that I was allergic to peanuts, and in response, my mom snuck peanuts into every food I ate to prove I was faking, and for that reason I was upset at a character who did similar behavior, would this group of people do the same? I want to think not, but truthfully, they almost certainly would. The ableism runs deep, I'm sad to say.)

[gigabyte-flare]

🎄 I'll Be Home 🎄

[A Gigabyte Flare One Shot]

Summary: Christmas is just around the corner and your boyfriend, Leon Kennedy is away on a mission. You begin to accept the fact that you'll probably be spending the holiday alone, but Leon has other plans.

Word Count: 1.6k

Pairing: RE4!Leon Kennedy x fem!reader (afab)

Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. You are responsible for your own content consumption. If any of the following warnings trigger you, please read at your own risk. Minors do not interact, this story is 18+ only.

Warnings: unprotected p in v, oral (m receiving), pet names, just really sexy fluff honestly

A/N: Merry Christmas and happy holidays to all those who celebrate! Divider by firefly-graphics

“You have no idea how terrible this makes me feel, sweetheart.”

Your boyfriend’s voice is coming through your landline handset, nestled in your v-neck shirt, supported by your cleavage as you put up ornaments on your Christmas tree you just picked out at the tree farm.

“Leon, I promise you, it’s fine. I know what I signed up for. It was only a matter of time before something like this happened,” you reassure him, putting up a vintage glass Santa ornament onto the tree, “we can celebrate when you get back; no matter how long it takes.”

You hear Leon let out a deep sigh, “It’s Christmas Eve, babe. I should be there with you. It might not be until a few weeks after the new year when I finally get home. Are you sure that’s ok with you?”

“Leon. What did I just say?”

Leon goes silent, yet you can almost hear the gears turning in that mind of his. You then hear him clear his throat after a few minutes.

“You are too good to me, I don’t deserve you.”

You scoff as you struggle to put the star on the tree, “on the contrary, I don’t deserve you.”

You hear Leon clear his throat and chuckle nervously, you can picture him smirking at you, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand.

“Hey… I gotta get going, just got to the hotel room. I’ll call you later, ok?”

“Alright, love you, Leon.”

“Love you, too.”

You pull the phone out from your cleavage and press the end call button, walking into your small kitchen to put the phone back on the receiver. You walk back into the living room, humming the tune of a classic Christmas song as you finish decorating the tree. Afterwards, you bring out your gifts for Leon, setting them under the tree to await his return.

Later that night…

You slowly wake up in the middle of the night, your bladder painfully full and your mouth drier than the Sahara Desert. You lazily toss your comforter off, swinging your legs over the side of the bed before standing up and going into the bathroom to relieve yourself. After you finish up in the bathroom, you go out to the kitchen to get yourself a glass of water to bring relief to your dry mouth.

Wearing only a thin white tank top and your underwear, you walk out into the kitchen, opening one of the cabinets to grab a glass before turning on the sink, putting the glass under the stream to fill it. Once you’re satisfied, you shut the sink off, bringing the glass to your lips and taking several gulps of the water. You let out a heavy sigh, turning the sink back on to top the glass back off, shutting it back off and bringing the glass back to your lips.

Before you can take another gulp of water, you hear something, a thud sound, come from the living room, causing you to freeze in place. Your heart begins to race and you grab the closest thing you can find to a weapon: a spatula. You grip it tightly in your right hand as you set the glass down onto the counter, turning to walk slowly into the living room. You peek around the corner to the living room, your eyes scanning the dimly lit room, your only source of light being the lights on the Christmas tree, the bottom which is obscured by the couch. You don’t see anything off at first, prompting you to step further into the living room. 

Your eyes continue to scan the room, the spatula gripped firmly in your hands as your eyes settle to the bottom of the tree where you are greeted by the sight of a naked man laying on his side, his arm propped up to support his head. You scream, stumbling backwards as your eyes roam up and down the naked man’s body, his nether region covered by a large red bow and donning a Santa hat on his head. You realize quickly that you know this man, and let out a loud sigh of relief, bending forward and resting your hands on your thighs, taking deep breaths.

The naked man is Leon.

“Jesus Christ, Leon!” you breathe out, laughing in between breaths, “how long have you been laying there waiting?”

Leon bursts out laughing, standing up from the floor to approach you. His hands instinctively place themselves onto your waist, pulling you gently to him before he reaches up, tucking a few stray strands of hair behind one of your ears, his azure eyes looking down longingly at you.

“Like 20 minutes I think? I didn’t mean to scare the shit out of you, babe.”

“I almost threw the spatula at you,” you say, unable to contain your laughter as you set the spatula onto the coffee table.

“Oooohh scary!”

You playfully punch his shoulder, still giggling, “shut up!”

Leon smiles down at you, and you feel yourself practically turn into putty in his presence. He leans down, his lips sealing themselves over yours; it doesn’t take long for the kiss to deepen, for the two of you to begin devouring each other’s lips. 

“So,” Leon says, breaking off the kiss, “aren’t you going to unwrap your present?”

Your eyes trail down his muscular form, settling on the large red bow that he somehow haphazardly attached to himself.

“Of course, go make yourself comfortable on the couch, love,” you tell him, motioning to the couch. 

Smirking at you, Leon makes his way to the couch, sitting gently onto it. You step towards him, promptly getting onto your knees to position yourself between his legs. Gently grasping the end of the bow, you pull on it, watching it unravel. His hardened dick springs up once the bow is removed, the tip an angry red and drooling with pre-cum. You gently grasp his length in one hand, pumping gingerly while you bat your eyelashes at him. Your thumb presses into his slit, gathering his pre-cum and spreading it down the thick hard shaft.

Leon groans, shifting his hips and leaning back to get himself more comfortable. You stick out your tongue, pressing it against the base of his cock and licking upwards, flicking the tip with your tongue before wrapping your lips around it.

“Oh fuck…” Leon whispers, his hand grabbing the hair on the back of your head and gently guiding you to move your mouth up and down on his cock, his hips bucking upwards to fuck your mouth.

Your fingers dig into his powerful thighs for support as he continues to thrust into your mouth, his movements becoming more irregular as his release looms closer and closer. His hand that is buried in your hair on the back of your head abruptly yanks you off his throbbing member; he watches as your drool runs down your chin, a tired smile crossing your lips as you catch your breath.

“Wanna cum in that pretty pussy of yours,” Leon growls, his sapphire gaze full of lust.

You stand up, hooking your thumbs into the hem of your underwear, pulling them off and tossing them aside before climbing onto his lap. As soon as you’re on his lap, he takes hold of your tank top, pulling it off over your head and placing it onto the couch next to him. His large hands grasp both of your breasts, kneading them in his hands. You shift your hips, feeling the tip of his cock press against your entrance, your juices coating the tip. You settle your hips down onto his lap, his dick sinking into you, the feeling of him stretching you out euphoric. 

You let out a soft moan upon feeling the tip kiss your throbbing cervix and you waste no time moving your hips in a grinding motion as you place your hands onto his shoulders for support.

“That’s it… you’re doing so good, babe. Taking me so fucking well,” Leon coos in your hear before placing gentle kisses along the side of your jawline; both of his hands resting on your hips to relish the motions of you grinding on him.

The feeling of him pressing against your cervix as you move is almost too much for you, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as you let out a loud moan. In that moment, you feel Leon’s fingers dig into your hips; his hips once again bucking up into you, bouncing you on his lap. Each time, his dick presses into your g-spot, pushing you over the edge. Your juices flow from you, coating him and leaving a white ring at the base of his cock, the sounds of your soaked pussy along with both of your animalistic moans filling the living room.

“I’m… I’m gonna-- oh fuck I’m gonna fill this fucking cunt… shit!”

With a few more ragged thrusts, he pushes his hips upwards, pressing into you as deep as he can go as he paints your insides white with his cum. You relish in the warmth of him, crying out as his name as your nails dig into his shoulders, your pussy walls squeezing around him to milk every last drop of his cum. His softened dick slips out of you and you practically collapse onto him, your hips still straddling his lap. His strong arms wrap around you, his fingers running up and down your spine to comfort you.

He gives you another deep kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth for a moment. After a few minutes he breaks off the kiss, his blue eyes gazing into yours lovingly as he smiles at you.

“Merry Christmas, babe.”

[oneshotnewbie]

Fight Falls - Part II

Trigger Warning⚠️ This one-shot includes the topic of a car accident and the plot is presented. If this triggers you too easily or you just can´t handle the subject, I urge you NOT to read this work. I am NOT embellishing this topic under any circumstance. Read at your own risk.

You groaned in agony, dizziness unfolding as your eyes fluttered open troubled, surveying your surroundings. To all appearances, you were in a hospital room, at least that was what the strong smell of disinfectant told you from the bed you were laying in.

Your attention extended to the woman who had nodded off in the chair next to you. The blonde had her feet on the edge of the bed while her head gently rested on her closed fist. Your breath caught at the sight of the devastated face. Dry, pale lines of tears outlined the dark circles under closed and tired eyes. The sight made the heart monitor you were hooked to go horribly crazy.

"Y/n?" she was slightly dazed and confused when her eyes opened and focused on you. It was only when she squeezed your hand that you realized she was holding onto you like you were about to disappear.

"M-maya" your voice trailed off as you tried to raise your body into a sitting position. You warmly accepted your wife´s help as she slipped her arms softly under your armpits and carefully pulled you up. Maya quickly stroked your matt and dry hair before taking a glass of water from your side table.

The firefighter held it up to your lips, patiently waiting as you took your first sip, enjoying the cool water sliding down your dry and burning throat. Nodding to her, she took the glass away from you before sitting down and fidgeting with her fingers nervously. Her head was lowered, only soft whimpers and sobs escaped her.

"Four days," she began to speak softly, her voice shaking with tension. "You were unconscious for four days. Apparently, you hit your head very hard"

"That would explain the killer headache," you mumbled and the blonde smiled slightly as you grimaced while running your palm down the back of your neck. "What happened?"

"Someone figured it would be a good idea to hit the gas pedal quickly to get through a red light," she shrugged, biting the insides of her cheek hard. Her clear blue eyes darkened and pure anger flared up in them. "Was not smart of him to mess with you. You have two women by your side, one of whom has free access to every room in this hospital and might be on lookout for a minute or two while he gets to feel my fists"

You had realized that Maya seemed to be barely breathing out of sheer nervousness and just talked until she ran out of breath. You slowly reached out a hand and grabbed her thigh, which you began to squeeze gently to bring her back to reality. "It is neither Carina´s nor your fault"

"You have a nasty cut on your forehead and a severe concussion" she replied in a serious tone, frowning while a fixed and intense gaze brooked no contradiction. "Our thoughtless and completely pointless argument got you in the car in the first place"

You applied renewed but significantly more pressure to the blondes thigh, causing her to grunt out as your fingernails dug into her skin.

"Okay, I give in. Not my fault!"

Satisfied with her answer, you smiled and leaned back against your pillow, covering your upper body with the thick blanket from the cold. "Please bring me Carina. Or Amelia. Or anyone responsible for me and get me out of here!"

Squinting and eye and pursing her lips, you could see that she was not happy with your wish. But she could not refuse you anything so she nodded and jumped up from her seat. Placing a gentle kiss on your forehead, Maya headed for the door and briefly disappeared.

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you let your eyes close for a soft moment as you rode out a wave of pain that took control of your body, making you shiver. You would like to ask for painkiller immediately if your treating doctor comes in. But then Maya and also Carina would worry and insist that you would stay here for observation.

Something, you did not want at all.

"Hey Y/n," you had not even heard the door creak open through your trance as your eyes snapped open and followed the voice.

Acknowledging the well-known neurologist in front of you, you smiled at her. "Nice to see you awake again. You gave the two toughest women I know a real scare"

Amelia tapped the tablet in her hands, calling up your file before joining your bed and shining her little lamp in your eyes. The light burned like hell in them, but you tried not to let it show so as not to minimize your chances of being able to go home soon.

"They are always worried, no matter what I do"

You were impatient as she gently pulled down the thick plaster on your forehead to examine the cut for any inflammation. You hated hospitals, everything about them but most of all the atmosphere that came with them. Even though you knew everyone here and were taken care of as if you were one of them, you just could not bear to be here.

"Not always, but often enough. Because we love you" the blonde folded her arms tightly under her chest and pouted. Amelia could not help but laugh at your bickering while you rolled your eyes and immediately regretted it.

"It looks like everything is okay so far. No bleeding or other damage to your brain, though you have received a mild concussion due to the impact. I will bring you the discharge papers in a few hours. Please try to walk a few steps to get your circulation going, see if you get dizzy while standing up"

"I am fine. I can go home now," you quickly leaned forward and threw your legs over the edge of your bed. There was no way you would stay here just a minute longer. Sensing your stubbornness as she knew it from you, Maya crept back to your side. "Honey, you really should listen to Dr. Shepherd"

You slapped away your wife´s outstretched hand, and a momentary, horrible pain shot through your spine but you tried to ignore it. It was not her fault that you were here, nor that the neurologist wanted to let you walk a few steps, but she was the only one you could take your frustration out on.

"Y/n!" you stared up at the blonde, who had crowded your personal space. Along with the warm breath you could feel on your cheek, the awkward beeping pierced your ears once again. "Take it easy before you hurt yourself even more and have to stay here longer"

You were about to argue but the look on her face brushed you off. You did not have the energy for another argument so you fell back onto the bed, mimicking the blonde with your arms crossed under your chest while an annoyed frown laid across your forehead.

Your head hurt from the strain she had put on your ears, trying to understand the voices of Amelia and Maya clearer than the constant ringing while your ribs started to ache. You squinted your eyes as the soreness in your body took your whole attention before slipping close, gritting your teeth to force down a whimper that threatened to leave your lips.

Your headache worsened.

[justcallmecj]

Ice Dragons DON'T Belong In The Desert

"I would like to suggest a story with Jamil and the reader. Where Jamil finds our dragon passed out at the Scarabia dorm from overheating and takes care of her/them (i will leave the gender decision up to you). I could see this being romantic (like Jamil and our dragon are already dating). But i am open to platonic friendship too." Courtesy of- Foxtrot_Heart77 (On AO3)

Potential Trigger Warning: Passing out, extreme exposure to heat

Y/N's POV

        Damn this sun. Why is Scarabia so freaking hot?! Why couldn't it have been some winter wonderland instead!!

        Now, I've never been to Scarbia. Sure, Kalim has invited me over for parties and all that fun stuff all the time, but I've never gone through with it. If there is any lesson in life that I hope I never forget, it is that heat and Ice Dragons DON'T mix. Not whatsoever. Not even with hundreds of years of evolution.

        However, here I am. If it felt like I had much of a choice, I wouldn't be here. But there were problems and I needed to find my boyfriend quickly. It's not like Jamil to not answer his phone. And even in the times where he's too busy to answer a call or text, he's sure to get back to me eventually, which is why I left the texts as was for a couple hours. But even three hours later there was no response.

        I asked some classmates if they had seen him, but no one has. It's the weekend so no classes, meaning no reason for anyone to have seen him recently unless they went to Scarabia. The problem was that I'm not friends with many Scarabia kids due to the fact I've never been there.

        Why is there such a walk between the dorm building and where the Mirror Hall sends you!? Wouldn't it make more sense to put them right next to each other, or even inside the damn building???

        My wings flared out in an attempt to let whatever wind there potentially was brush against my skin and scales, however the desert air was stagnant and burning hot. Since that plan failed, I tried wrapping my wings around myself and producing whatever cold air I could, even letting out a small puff of Freeze Breath. Unfortunately, even that proved to be rather unfruitful.

        The sweltering heat of the sun beat down in me, my wings getting droopy and my tail dragging through the scorching sand. Thankfully my tail is covered in protective scales so it didn't hurt much. I could feel myself sweat, my clothes sticking to my skin and making me feel uncomfortable.

        A dull, throbbing pain settled in my head, making my stomach curl and knot. I could feel the beginning stages of light headed-ness set in and the desert sands started waving in the non-existent wind.

        I knew this was a bad idea. My only saving grace was the fact that I could see the Scarabia building getting closer and I know Jamil told me the building was purposely built to be much cooler on the inside.

        Is Scarbia moving? Why are the walls waving around? I swear this better not be some heat-induced hallucination! I don't think I can take that!

        The entire desert started spinning and right as I was at the doors of this potential hallucination, the world went black. The last thing I heard before blacking out was the yells of people.

        Ugh, what the hell?

        It is not fun to wake up with a headache, especially not a throbbing one. I attempted the smallest opening of my eyes but the light was far to strong. Opting to keep my eyes closed for the sake of my own head, I instead tried stretching out my limbs to make a quick assessment of my current state.

        Starting with my fingers, which moved without a hitch or soreness, I slowly worked my way up. Arms: working. Legs: sore but also working. Wings: extremely sore in the muscles but otherwise functioning. With a quick feel I can confirm my horns are still attached and my ears are still pointy.

        Well, at least I didn't lose anything important.

        "Y/N.." I heard a voice whisper. My mind may still be slow right now but that is a voice I could never forget. Jamil. My boyfriend. The man I came out here to Scarabia's blazing hot and annoying desert to see.

        "Mh." It was all a could manage. I still couldn't open my eyes, not with how heavy they felt. I quickly realize that my throat was sore, dry as the sands outside.

        Wait. Outside? I'm inside! How?!

        "How much do you remember?" Jamil asked. I felt his hand rest on my forehead and swipe something cold against my skin, a bit of fabric getting caught on a few scales. A cold washcloth. He's trying to cool me down.

        "U-um-" My voice cut out due to soreness and lack of use. It scratched and scrapped against my vocal cords and burned with the effort of responding. A weird object met my lips and it took me a moment to realize that it was a metal straw. I took an experimental sip, trusting my boyfriend not to try and poison me.

        I immediately gulped down as much as I could upon recognizing the refreshing taste of water. I only slightly registered the sound of Jamil's shocked yelp as he scrambled to hold the cup more firmly so there wouldn't be a mess to clean. The cup was soon empty. (I would later realize that it was a rather large cup that I had voraciously swallowed down.)

        "Well, I'm glad a grabbed multiple water bottles while I was getting that cup. You're gonna need them from the looks of it." he said, a slightly strained laugh in his voice.

        I finally worked up the courage to open my eyes again. The sun was bright as all hell but it did feel better to be more aware of my surroundings. My eyes opened one after the other, first the right one and when that one was adjusted to the light, the left followed suit. After a moment of forcing my eyes to stay open, I blinked a couple dozen times to orientate myself.

        Eventually Jamil came into focus. It didn't take long for me to see the worried crease of his brows and the slightly panicked look in his eyes. There was also a distinct tightness to his face that showed his strained facade of calm. There's the Jamil I know, always such a worry wart, but always keeping a clam face.

        Jamil lifted up another water bottle and opened the lid, holding it up for me to grab. My limps felt like they were filled with sand and my muscles strained to move, but I managed to lift my arm enough to take the bottle from him and hold it up to my mouth, gulping all of the water down in only a few swallows. I took a few moments after that to let my head stop spinning, feeling Jamil take the bottle from me.

        "Feeling a little better? You must have been really dehydrated." Silence followed while Jamil placed his hand on my back, rubbing small circles into the skin and scales and putting pressure to make sure I don't topple over if dizziness decided to poke its head. It was a couple of minutes before I could manage a response.

        "Better. No longer burning in the sun, so that's a plus." My voice was still rough and coarse, but it no longer scratched when I tried to speak. The water had helped.

        "Good to hear. However..." he trailed off for a split second before pulling me closer to his chest and maneuvering around my horns, trying not to poke out his eye. "What were you doing out in the sands? You know you can't handle the heat, so why risk it?" Jamil's voice was gentle, but also firm and scolding. Silence followed again.

        "I was worried about you.." I managed. The scratchiness in my throat was all but gone, little bits of Ice Breath cooling my throat now that it had water to create mist, but there was a tight feeling, like emotions squeezing my vocal cords.

        "I tried to text you, call you even, but I got nothing. And I know you're a busy man, with your duties and all that, so I let it be for a couple hours! You usually get back to me when you get the chance. But it had been hours and I still didn't get anything, so I started to worry. I tried a few more times and after that, I made a dumb ass decision to come and track you down.." I was rambling, and I knew that, but I needed to speak and Jamil made no effort to stop me, so why should I? Plus, I know it's best to be honest with my boyfriend, he appreciates it.

        "Shit..." he whispered under his breath. His arms hugged me tighter and I got the feeling it was less to comfort me than it was to comfort himself. One wing unfolded and wrapped around Jamil in a type of pseudo hug and the other splayed itself across my body in an effort to use whatever cold my body produced to keep me cool. I may be in the building now, but there is still a reason the Scarabia uniforms are sleeveless.

        "Sorry about that, babe. My phone died sometime around noon so I put it on the charger in my room, but with duties and all that, I haven't been back to my room since. I was actually beginning to prepare dinner when one of the Scarabia students found me, yelling about a student having passed out in the front courtyard. That's when I ran out to find you there, so I brought you back here, to my room, and did what I could to cool you down." he explained. Now, in Jamil's own weird way, he was rambling. It's a habit he may or may not have picked up from either me or Kalim. But he let me ramble, so I won't stop him.

        I hummed, acknowledging him while still giving him a moment to decide if he wanted to keep talking. He didn't speak again, so I took that as a 'no'. I moved just enough to be further up, so our faces were more level and I was less in his chest. I looked at him and he looked back.

        "You did great at that, by the way. You must have known what you were doing, because I feel better already. I bit hotter than I would normally like, but I no longer feel like I'm about to pass out and if you ask me, that's an improvement." I laughed, feeling the moment needed a bit of humor. Despite the fact he was still clearly worried, he laughed as well. It was a sweet moment.

        Jamil leaned closer and pecked me on the lips with a kiss. Sweet, gentle and meant to express every word that he couldn't properly speak right now. In turn, I kissed him back, this time longer and more passionate, and he returned the sentiment. And for an hour, that's all we were. Two lovers caught in each others embrace, sweetly kissing each other when the time felt right. Sometimes we spoke about our day, about the events that occurred when we were not at each others sides. Other times we sat in comfortable silence, speaking nothing because there was nothing that needed to be said.

        That was all we were until all the water bottles were empty and the sun had lowered some, cooling the air if only a little. We stayed like that until Kalim tracked us down and started to fuss over me. Jamil was a little frazzled, but let it be for the sake of peace. Realizing Kalim found Jamil for dinner, all three of us left Jamil's room and headed towards the kitchen, Kalim talking on an on in a quieter voice than normal and Jamil walking with my hand in his in silence, enjoying the peacefulness of the walk.

        My legs were still shaky, this being the first time I've walked since collapsing, but I managed with minimal help and was back to my normal self by the time we three reached the kitchen. But dread washed over me when the kitchen got infinitely hotter when Jamil turned on the stove, adding to the already hot air of Scarabia. But this time, I had my boyfriend at my side, and I knew I would be fine.

I feel really happy about this because there is something about this man that gets me so he is a delight to have content for

[nshtn]

tw for menstruation stuff

psst. I don't know if you take requests or things like this but after the t shot fic for wesker/reader I trust you w/ my soul

how would wesker take care of his trans bf who suffers from painful periods? currently suffering the curse and I need our knight in shining sunglasses to assist 😭

Having ensnared Wesker into a romantic situation means being cared for with a very obsessive precision; when he finds you curled up in pain, it triggers his need to take full control to remediate the situation.

Losing you to something as human as pain shock is not an option and Wesker is not ignorant to your body's sweaty palms and the bags under your eyes.

He will suffocate you in his presence for the meantime. A laptop will suffice for work. Your trust is tantamount.

...

Extremely schmoopy Wesker below, but, dare I say it, Wesker would schmoop over you if he loved you and he'd only date someone he would die for. You being his boyfriend is just his brain's code-word for 'charge' in which he is 'the unshakeable guardian' - very much the horde of one the dragon sleeps on. He's work-driven, so when you're work... Also, if lack of autonomy over your own medical decisions bothers you, run and don't hit Read More.

1.1k, tw: medical (malpractice), very inappropriately attached Wesker.

When he finds you alone in your shared space, curled on the bed in retching agony, he's ordering an abdominal CT, CBC w/ differentials, full colonoscopy with biopsy, investigative laparoscopy, and illegally prescribing you GnRH agonist tablets.

He will, of course, be the one to administer all of these things. No one else's hands can ever be trusted... not fully, not with you. This is the tax of his love.

He says he's sitting on your bed with you because he cannot afford the feeling that overtakes him when you're sick like this. You could see it in his expression, the way his lips twitched down and eyebrows knitted every time he had leaned against the doorway and crossed his arms, having asked if you'd have liked another Advil before his paranoia and (reasonable) concern at the state of your body had him resigned to being within the same room.

His words are sharp and clinical as he gently chides you on taking too much Advil in a six hour span, but there's something else beneath it - it's not just control he's after; your safety is tantamount. He presses Advil to your curling fingers even after the fourth and his gloves linger just a moment too long, true feeling leaking around how gentle his hands are and bubbling through the cadence of his expressions, softer than you've ever heard them. He talks as though you are a wounded animal.

He swears he got a shipment of Elagolix tablets around here - he can dig them out... they're a little out of date - "Damn things expire too quickly, honestly," - but they shouldn't cause issues if you take two. He calculated it.

His insistence is troubling, and yet it is borne out of a care for you that no other human alive could ever possibly reach, his glittering depths unseen by other men.

He has no issue prying open your mouth to force it down. "Yes, really. Open your mouth before I open it for you." He understands that you do not understand, but your lack of understanding cannot delay your care.

"Since you have no idea what's best for you, I'll take over the responsibility." That line really shouldn't make your cheeks burn, but it does. There is power in the streak of dominance, sure, but he could just as easily choose to walk, and he's doing quite the opposite.

Such unabashed, raw attention, all focused on you... if you weren't moaning and bleeding and making his nostrils flare and scrunch at the odd, stray inhuman urge, you'd cover your face.

You know he's overthinking it - he doesn't need to do any of this at all or keep a dozen emergency solutions at his person, but this is Wesker. Asking him to forego contingency plans that go from most likely to least likely gets you nowhere.

If anything, your nonchalance bothers him deeply. Why do you care so little about yourself? You're one of the few he'd spare. He simply will not stand by, and neither should you. In a way, his hatred for a world in which you've been beaten into submission about something so medically critical to your quality of life strongarms you into self-care.

It's punctuated with a pat on the head and a sweep of his thumb to your cheek when you do accept his care without fussing... Maybe a kiss on the forehead if you look in need or are particularly receptive.

When you close your eyes and lean against him, at first he pretends he's not aware, but when he thinks you're finally beginning to nod off, he nestles your head under his chin as he taps away at his laptop with one hand, the other stroking your chin and the fat of your neck. When he sees the way your hair slicks with sweat from your hellish ride, his frown lines deepen. That must be quelled.

You really can't get out of treatment or squirm out of his prying eyes. He'll pressure you into it because he wants you to get better. That is not to say, however, that you are forced through painful trial after trial to discover answers.

He's got 10mg/5ml Oxycodone, do you need any?

Would you like Nocitate? Just a little to get you through? He won't tell anyone. He can order anything your heart desires, dearheart; he owns TRICELL. Seeing you in pain makes him feel uncomfortable and awakens an urge to fix, fix, fix. And, though he won't admit it, seeing you so weak and shaky makes his stomach lurch in an unfamiliar, foreign way.

Empathy. Sympathy...

Such piteous things, and yet... he cannot nix them when it's you. How insufferably weak of him... but there is a unity and obedience in it, no? He is at odds with his doctrine's finer print, but he doesn't let it creep along his care. It should be beneath him, really, but you are an exception he takes great joy in maintaining.

Your insistence that he doesn't have to is an insult to his intellect he does not tolerate when you try to push him and what he perceives as his affections away. "No one else on the planet holds my competence. Don't argue with me." It's... it's a bit scary, but it's well-meaning.

One thing is certain, Wesker will be there. His hand will linger at the small of your back, just enough pressure to remind you he's there. No words are necessary if you do not decree it, just his steady presence, other hand scrolling along ResearchGate and Elsevier between business. He will lighten his workload to be there until your pain is gone.

Rest assured, he will find a permanent solution to it. It is not normal to have such pain, and Wesker would never allow his significant other to suffer something they don't have to.

(He's already tested you for predisposition to endometriosis by skimming a hacked genetics database and plans to use a biopsy from the laparoscopy he's scheduled to grow cloned uterine tissue and study your condition more closely.)

(Also, surprise surprise, he's your anesthesiologist, too.)

(Did you plan to transition? He can expedite that instead of searching for answers to an organ you may not even care much about.)

[idyllic-affections]

dad!pantalone brainrot (ft. il dottore & baizhu) iv.

summary. when their health issues flare up, there are very few doctors that their father will permit to treat them.

trigger & content warnings. implied canon-typical dottore violence, (empty) threats, chronic illness, blood, mentions of death, etc.

tropes, pairings, fic length, & other notes. hurt/comfort. dad!pantalone & reader, il dottore & reader, baizhu & reader. 0.7k words. they/them pronouns for reader. prev | next

author's thoughts. this series is never ending... in my defense, it was going to be a full-length fanfic but i never ended up pursuing that idea. anyway baizhu and pantalone are brothers here! idc if it ends up being non canon, its canon in my heart 💖 this got... slightly angstier than i intended. whoops!

when it comes to his child's health, pantalone only trusts two doctors in all of teyvat.

(he objectively trusts one far more than the other, though.)

il dottore is an... unfortunately large part of their life. the regrator did eventually accept that it was inevitable, given how "close" he and the doctor tend to be. dottore is one of their many tutors, though admittedly, his teaching methods are probably a little concerning... at least [name] is proficient in anatomy and physiology! perhaps pantalone should reconsider whether or not his child should be left alone with him. he'd somewhat gotten over his initial concerns about leaving them with him and his segments after seeing zeta nearly tear someone's head clean off in their defense, but perhaps it's time to reconsider! the second may not be hurting them, per se, but he is creating a desensitized little thing.

(though... it may very well be for the best, given their harbinger lineage. they cannot afford to be soft or squeamish. pantalone knows this very well.)

the second fatui harbinger is also largely responsible for making sure they're in good health. semiannual check-ups are a standard practice as opposed to annual ones; they did happen to inherit their father's poor immune system. dottore once offhandedly commented that it probably came more from the regrator's brother, as even pantalone isn't as prone to illness as his child is. the doctor has never met baizhu personally, but pantalone knows he's right. they tire so easily... sometimes it makes him sick with worry. regardless, it runs in the family, and some get it worse than others, so check-ups are more common.

(check-ups are always an amusing sight when zeta is around, wordlessly fiddling with a needle suspiciously close to their neck.

"put that needle in my throat and i will tear out yours."

he only smiles at them.

their smug aura does not mock him; contrary to popular belief, he finds it quite funny and endearing! they are the only person that can get away with talking shit like that. not even the other dottore clones can talk to him like that without getting a violent response. he lets it slide with omega because he has to, but beyond that...

he's fond of them. he's just too emotionally constipated to admit it.)

however, sometimes pantalone doesn't completely trust dottore not to harm them when they're seriously ill and vulnerable. he knows dottore would gain nothing by bringing them harm, and yet...

archons, becoming a father has made him awfully protective, hasn't it? surely he wasn't like this before he took them back from arlecchino?

times like those, times in which their illness would act up to the point of leaving them bedridden, making them shiver and tremble and spit up blood... times like those are when he calls upon baizhu.

he'd understand their illness better than dottore ever could, anyway. pantalone was right to make such an assumption.

"has your father taught you nothing of energy management?"

"energy management?" they scoffed sarcastically, the warmth from the cup of herbal tea in their hands soothing the chill in their trembling fingers, "from the man who hardly takes care of himself? please. he acts as if he isn't also chronically ill. he'll literally work himself to death if he isn't more careful. it's... worrying, actually." they tapped their nails against the cup mindlessly, chewing on the corner of their lip.

anxiety was not good for their health, especially not when they were already this ill.

"oh?" baizhu's interest was very much piqued at that, and their lips twitched upwards slightly at the way his hand stroked over their head calmingly. "in that case, i'll have to teach you my methods, but... he's been taking poor care of himself, has he?"

"the poorest."

"i see. do tell me everything, for... future reference."

they knew very well that 'future reference' meant a firm chiding. oh well! it's not like they purposely exposed their father's poor habits, no no. they were a loyal child. they'd never do something so terrible and unforgivable...

unless it was baizhu who asked, of couse. it would be awfully rude to withhold secrets about his own relatives from him, after all!

pantalone may get sick with worry over their health, but the sentiment is very much mutual.

please consider reblogging, it helps me out quite a lot!

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

Trimax Thoughts Vol. 5 Pt. 3

Here we go again. (Gah I'm so behind sorry guys) More thoughts on Vash's no good, very bad mental health, this time focused on trauma symptoms and his uncharacteristic lack of foresight and planning when it comes to confronting Knives.

[ID: A panel from Trigun Maximum Volume 5. Vash is hunched over among the rubble. He is not drawn in extensive detail, being merely eyes, an open mouth, spiky hair and a mass of feather-like projections covering his whole body and culminating in a single large wing protruding from his back. End ID.]

Again, this is going to get a little heavy, and became quite long. You have been warned.

(Sorry, the image of fluffy Vash has very little to do with anything... other than the fact that he is actively having a breakdown in that scene I guess. I just really wanted to include that panel. Lol.)

To start with, at the very beginning of my read of the manga, I commented on how Vash clearly demonstrates some pretty textbook avoidant behaviours. Then I took note later on of Vash's concerning lack of self-regard, resulting in little thought being given to a future for himself after confronting Knives.

Well. It gets worse I'm afraid. 👍

Vash displays enough clear signs of trauma in the manga that I am convinced he actually meets criteria for a PTSD diagnosis (specifically surrounding July). I'm a student in this field, not a professional, but I'm going to loosely run over the trauma symptoms he displays. <-This is important for the point I am trying to make.

Category 1: Intrusive Memories

Flashbacks - Yeah, all throughout Volume 5 as the memories of what happened all come rushing back at once (with Hoppered and Meryl unfortunately caught up in his trauma-induced breakdown. rip you two I am so sorry)

Nightmares - A bit harder to say. There aren't nightmares about July it seems, on account of his having forgotten the event. He dreams about Rem frequently though, it can be assumed, only for her to be wrenched away from him shortly before waking. This was in Volume 1 of Trigun.

Severe Emotional and Physical Reactions to Reminders - Volume 2 of Trigun, shortly before Fifth Moon. Vash freezes in place when he spots the doctor, which clearly triggers some kind of faint recognition and sense of horror. He doesn't notice Knives approaching until he is right in front of him.

Category 2: Avoidance

Of Thinking/Talking About It - Vash notably doesn't actually question anything to do with July, which you would think he would, if he can't remember anything. He just knows that the city was destroyed and Knives was there - up until Fifth Moon, I don't think there was any doubt in his mind that it was Knives who was responsible. After this, he spends two years in hiding, out of fear of himself and a lack of desire to engage with reminders of his past.

Category 3: Negative Changes

Hopelessness - For a guy who wants people to have hope... he doesn't allot much to himself... :(

Memory Problems - The core issue before Vol. 5. Vash had no idea what happened in July. He even blocked out part of Fifth Moon.

Negative Self-Opinion - "I should never have been born." "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry" :(

Difficulty Maintaining Close Relationships - Always leaving people without saying goodbye. Still rarely calls Meryl and Milly by their names. People have to chase after him if they want him around.

Detachment - His go-to when everything gets too much. See the Leonof fight for a good example.

Difficulty Experiencing Positive Emotions - "Ya always smiled all cheerfully, but it was so empty it hurts just lookin' at ya."

Category 4: Physical/Emotional Reactions

Always on Guard - He can't use his real name most of the time. He trains all the time; has to respond quickly to ever-present danger.

Self-Destructive Behaviour - ...it's Vash. :/

Irritability/Angry Outbursts/Aggression - Very much so. Anger is a driving motive and we see this flare up whenever Knives is so much as mentioned. He even gets uncharacteristically short with Meryl when she tries to stop him from confronting him, and Vash does not tend to be very rational or composed in situations where he is genuinely angry. <- I will be coming back to this point.

Overwhelming Guilt or Shame - ...again. It's Vash. :/

Other Complications that can Arise:

Depression (this should go without saying. he's fighting so hard to feel every scrap of fleeting joy he can)

Suicidal Thoughts and Actions (I went over this before. These have cropped up in almost every volume so far and I expect this to get much worse)

Eating Issues (This appears to be Stampede specific, but I thought I'd mention it anyways)

So, uh. I hope this is enough proof. He clearly does have severe trauma, and well, that's not really a surprise, considering what actually happened. Vash inadvertently killed an entire city's worth of people. Absorbed them, even. Deeply traumatic for someone who doesn't want to hurt anyone at all - but this is not the only part of July that was traumatic.

Let's go back to the aggression part of the response - the "fight" aspect that sometimes arises when put in stressful situations that reminds one of their trauma. See, Vash's anger is something we as readers see a lot in the story but that's because we primarily see major scenes where he is pushed to his limits. In all actuality, for those parts in between, he's a chill and friendly guy. Does he get irritated? Quite easily. Does he always have a bit of simmering resentment in him? Sure. But this is not the explosive kind of rage we see when he is confronted with Knives. Usually, Vash is more prone to introspective melancholy or bitterness than violent rage - for as much as we see it, the latter is actually rather uncommon.

So, too, is the way he "confronts" Knives. Vash is typically very in control of himself; he's confident with his skills, clever and adaptable, and generally speaking, very good at planning out his next moves. In a gunfight, for as much as he would prefer not to be wrapped up in it, he is in his element. Even when there is uncertainty, he still eventually takes decisive action. ...except where Knives is concerned.

[ID: Two screenshots from the Trigun manga. The first is from Volume 5 of Maximum. Vash aims his gun with a serious expression and says "I've finally caught up with you... Knives." Knives looks at him, taken aback. The second image is from Volume 2 of Trigun. Vash shouts as he raises his gun rapidly to aim at Knives, blurred with quick vertical lines to make the speed of the motion obvious. His expression is furious. Knives looks at him, part of his face shadowed, again, looking taken aback. End ID.]

...hello? Sir? Why are you just pointing your gun and like. Not doing anything? Like he keeps aiming his gun and then just... holding it there. Even Vash in Stampede fired on Knives' weapons. This guy, for all his rage, hasn't unleashed a single shot unless the situation forced him to. In fact, Vash's entire wording surrounding Knives and how he is going to stop him is also extremely vague. He says things like "settle the score" and "send him to hell", which, to me, initially implied killing him... but Vash has no issue using the word "kill", and he never actually says that about Knives. He says he's going to stop him, but fails to actually specify how. I cannot stress enough that this lack of foresight is actually deeply uncharacteristic of him.

But here's the thing.

[ID: Part of a panel from Trigun Volume 2. Vash's thoughts are set on a white background. They read "We... I... should never have been born." End ID.]

He switches his wording here. The subject of the sentence changes from "we" to "I". Even in his mind, he can't muster that kind of sentiment about his brother. He's angry with Knives, even hates him... but I strongly disbelieve he actually wants him dead. Knives is his brother, man. That still means something to him.

You might be wanting to pause me here and ask why I framed the confronting of Knives as an aggressive response due to trauma, as opposed to just vengeance/retribution for Rem and for July. Yeah, well, there's an interesting contrast to be made here. Look up at the two confrontation images again.

Before July, Vash is level-headed when confronting him; angry, but in control. After July, he is yelling and openly bitter and wrathful. There's even a difference in him looking for information on Knives and his associates. In July, he's just asking around. There's none of the darkness we see in the series proper. By contrast, his mood does a sharp turn after July whenever Knives is so much as mentioned. More than that, there's this, too.

[ID: Knives stands facing Vash so only the back of his head can be seen. His head is next to Vash's gun. Vash looks startled. A speech bubble shows two exclamation points. End ID.]

...Vash is... actually scared here. Knives is approaching him and he's frozen due to the feeling that something sickening happened, even though he's the one holding the gun. July was stressful and terrifying for Vash even before the angel arm went off, and dare I say, already traumatic.

Vash knew two things in that scene, and pretty much only two things:

His arm was transforming uncontrollably, something he had no clue prior to this it could even do.

Knives wanted him to "release" his power, which would "swallow" everything in the place they're in. Clearly Knives intended harm to others with whatever power lay dormant in Vash.

This is already a terrifying situation - body horror on top of the certainty that something horrible is about to happen if he loses control - and it shows. He is visibly panting and struggling with the exertion of trying to suppress it, and Knives is not helping in the slightest by asking him piercing questions like he is, taking advantage of Vash's vulnerability here to make him tip over the edge and somehow admit that it was all a lie and deep down he feels the same as Knives. Now, notably Vash doesn't deny occasionally feeling hatred for humanity - he just tells Knives to "stop it". But Knives, instead, doubles down with his questioning.

This is not the only time in this scene Vash has tried to get Knives to stop. Knives does not stop at Vash's distress. Vash tells him to stop, he doesn't. Vash points his gun at him (again, he doesn't fire), and Knives still does not stop. In a last ditch attempt to reason, Vash somehow psychically transmits the faces and feelings he has towards all the people who were kind to him - you can see some of the residents of July, Ship 3's Luida, Doc, Brad and Jessica, and probably others he's met on his travels. Knives loses it and shoves him on to the ground.

I think Vash was well within his right to take self-defensive action here - and indeed, I really think that's what happened when he fired the angel arm at Knives.

Look, I really like it when intentional mistakes are made and characters have to deal with the consequences, and I think there are scenes in which this can apply to Vash (namely, I can think of more than a few drawbacks to his passivity in early Trimax, and his conflict with Wolfwood holds a lot of complexity on both sides)... but I have to be real honest with you, I don't think this is one of those times. I disbelieve this was a fully conscious choice on Vash's part.

For one, we've established Vash does not actually want Knives dead. Second... I may just be reading into this too much, but again, there's something in the way the eyes are drawn.

[ID: A set of panels from Trigun Maximum Volume 5. Knives is drawn with an intense expression; he looks confident, but there is a "thump" sound. Knives looks down, brows furrowed and sweating, to see the barrel of Vash's angel arm pointed at his chest. In the last panel, a gap between Knives' fingers reveals one of Vash's eyes, blank and devoid of iris or pupil. End ID.]

I'd initially thought the blank eye thing had to do with the release of Vash's power from the angel arm, but that appears to not be the case. It doesn't coincide with the charging of the arm - the arm is active and charged past the point of no return here with Vash's iris and pupil still visible during Fifth Moon, and we see Vash's eyes blank well before the angel arm forms in Volume 5, when he is undergoing intense flashbacks to the destruction of July. Vash's eyes even go blank when his powers are not active at all - again, during the start of his flashbacks.

[ID: A set of screenshots from the Trigun manga. The first is from Trigun Volume 2. Vash's eye, with iris and pupil and a welling tear, can be seen between Knives' fingers, as Knives screams "Destroy them all! Vaaash!". The second is from Trigun Maximum Volume 5, where Vash is hunched over on the ground as his body sprouts feathers and lines appear on his face. He is in clear distress and his eyes are blank. The third is from Maximum Volume 4. Vash screams and throws his head back. A close up of his eye shows it is blank, welling with tears. End ID.]

I am about 80% confident, give or take, that the blank eye thing pertains to Vash's mental state - as in, how mentally present he is versus him being out of control and checked out of reality. He needs to be snapped out of it - thoughts of Meryl and how she needed help, Elendira's intervention... but there was nothing to snap Vash out of his panic and that flood of raw emotion during July. It was a spur of the moment automatic response - the angel arm is a gun, Vash is very confident with a gun to the point its basically instinct, he's being pinned and trapped and something he doesn't understand and can't control is happening to his own body, people might be about to get hurt - he wanted it to stop.

Unfortunately, the worst possible consequences were a direct result of his desperation. Vash's automatic attempt at self-defense took out an entire city and swallowed all the people within it.

I do think that if it was self-defense over an active choice, the outcome would be pretty much the same and doesn't weaken the scene. For one, this would mark pretty much the only time we see Vash act in close to pure self-defense. He has such a disregard for his own safety, it's incredibly heartbreaking to think that the one time he actually did try to defend himself, it resulted in such a horrible tragedy. It might explain why, after remembering bits and pieces from Fifth Moon onwards, he becomes even less compassionate with himself and even more prone to just... taking the pain. Second, the effect is the same as if Vash chose to fire the arm consciously, because due to Vash's terrible sense of self-worth, self-defense is not a reasonable excuse to him - even though it was a traumatic experience for him, even though he would likely understand someone else in his position, he is going to treat himself as though the blame lies solely on him, regardless of the automaticity of the action itself. Vash blames himself and whether or not the reader determines his actions to have been automatic or conscious, he is going to treat himself the same either way. He is going to forever carry that guilt with him no matter what the intent behind the arm's firing initially was.

With the context of July now, I don't think I can believe that his lack of willingness to kill is purely Rem's influence anymore. I think Vash truly, honestly, does not want to harm or kill anyone; his abhorring of (in his eyes) unnecessary violence is genuine. (This does not mean he never gets angry or hates people - we know he can and does!) But it's like there's a middle step between Vash's anger and Vash getting close to lethally pulling the trigger, and that middle step is "stop it".

Stop doing this. Stop hurting people.

Stop. Stop. Stop.

When faced with someone who wants to hurt others, who actively causes harm and won't listen to reason, Vash becomes dangerously hyper-focused. The closer that person is associated to Knives, the less control he has over his own anger, and the more he goes on the warpath. The problem is though, that Vash has made a promise to Rem, sure, but also he really doesn't want to hurt people, but then he also wants it to stop, and when your options are limited, sometimes the fastest and most effective way to make it stop is... to just kill the person. And I strongly believe this is why, in the heat of the moment, his usual calculated actions become less well thought out and almost vague, because... well... he's fighting with conflicting pieces of himself. His morality and his bleeding heart make him want to spare people, but that explosive aggression that is primarily a trauma symptom (!!!) is demanding he take immediate action to just make it stop.

That's really what it boils down to. All that aggression and emotion comes bubbling out of him, because he's just so tired... and because that's... well. Trauma.

(Yes, I will comment later on how Knives' anger is just as much a trauma response, but I'd like to have a little more info on him before I analyze too much on that front. Kind of fascinating how their go-to reaction is anger for the both of them, but put towards wildly different goals. These twins can fit so much mental illness in them.)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Unexpected 1

Sequel to Unsolicited

Warnings: non/dubcon, pregnancy, Lloyd being the worst, and other dark elements.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

The devastation of your marriage forms a malaise around you. One in which you wade through unseen waters. Your reality is rippled and unclear. One moment you feel fine, neither gloomy or bright. The next, you’re restless and lost in emotion.

Even Lloyd’s peculiar way of riling you cannot part the murk of your moods. Besides, it’s all his fault. He’s done this to you.

Mr. and Mrs. Hansen. You stare at the program, gold on ivory. Ridiculous and unnecessary for a Vegas drive-by. 

You cross your arms and face the rack of gowns sheathed in garment bags. Another elaborate expense for a second marriage. Wearing white isn’t very appropriate given the circumstance. Black would be more fitting.

You turn and shield your eyes. They water at the winter sunlight streaming in through the window. You go to tug shut the curtain. Your head vibrates from insomnia that’s haunted you since that fateful day. 

Thirty-six days. You’ve counted every sleepless nights. Trapped beside him. On top of everything you could despise about him, he snores like thunder.

You rub your stomach as another stir of nausea swirls. You haven’t been eating much, you’ve forgotten several times despite the greedy knotting in your stomach. You could devour everything but want for nothing at all.

Another trip to the bathroom has you yawning and rubbing your cheeks, another urgent stream spills into the bowl. You haven’t been drinking more than usual but it’s like every other minute you have to go. You wipe and pause before you can drop the tissue in the toilet. Light red specks.

You dispose of the toilet paper and pull down your skirt. You wash your hands and scowl at the mirror. Great, now you get to beg Lloyd for a doctor’s appointment. Another fun conversation you don’t want to have. 

You finish up and resign yourself to a meal of toast and butter. If you don’t eat something soon, you’re going to dry heave. You slip two slices in the toaster and push the plunger down. 

Fucking implant. You’ll have to get it check and figure out what’s going on with that. When you took the pill, it was the same fucking thing. You don’t need a period adding to your already towering stack of problems.

The bread pops up and you smear the melting butter across it with a knife, the scent of it making your mouth water. You bite into it, nearly half the slice as you chew without restraint. You gulp it down and go to the fridge, pulling out the orange juice with your free hand. 

As you pour a glass, you hear his descent. Great. You wish he would fuck off to wherever it is he goes. Pack his gun and get lost. 

You put the carton down and take a large gulp as he enters, crossing to pick up the juice and drink straight from the spout. You roll your eyes and reach for your other slice of toast. He takes that too.

You face him and he watches you with a smirk as he bites into the crisp toast. You hold back a sneer. You’re getting good at that. Pretending you don’t care. You like the way your vacant stare makes him deflate. Today is not different as his lips straighten and he drops the toast back on the plate.

“Try on the dresses yet?” He asks.

“You pick one.”

He takes a breath, nostrils flaring as you reach for the unfinished slice. Finishing it, unbothered by the missing portion. He watches you cap the orange juice and put it back. You face him again as you gobble up the last of the crust.

“I needa see a doctor,” you choke out as you swallow your mouthful, “I can give you the number. I know you still don’t trust me with a phone.”

“You haven’t signed the papers,” he ignores your request. “It’s been over a month.”

“I am reading them.”

“You promised you would. Don’t make me drag that twerp here at the end of a glock–”

“Calm down,” you dust off your fingers, “if I sign, can I see a doctor? Or go to a clinic?”

He tilts his chin, jaw twitching as he thinks, “why?”

“Why? Because.”

“Are you sick?”

“Wouldn’t you be so worried,” you roll your eyes and his eyebrow tweaks. You’re losing yourself. He’s getting the best of you and that’s only fun for him, “if you must know, I’m bleeding.”

“Bleeding?” He squints.

“Spotting. Downstairs.”

“I haven’t noticed,” he sticks his tongue out, “a little blood on my balls never bothered me.”

“I don’t get a period. Not supposed to anyway. So, grab a pen. I’d rather get this sorted sooner than later.”

He nears, dragging his hand along the counter as he does, “you feel okay? Headache? Maybe an upset tummy?”

“Tummy? Lloyd, I’m not a child.”

He grins, “you’re comin’ around, sweetheart.”

“You’re driving me crazy.”

He nods and brings his fingers up to smooth his mustache, the thick line of hair finally back in full effect. You watch the habitual gesture with barely concealed irritation. He really is a trip.

“Spotting… check. You’re eating toast and butter, probably an bit of a grumbly tummy,” he says the last word emphatically, “and you scowl everytime you see the sun. Light sensitivity.”

“So what. I didn’t know you had a PhD.”

“Pretty huge dick. Pretty sure even you would admit that,” he snickers, “but no.”

He spins and pulls open the cupboard. He points his index fingers along the large canister of protein powder and the many bottles of vitamins. He swipes one out of the row and plops it on the marble. He turns the label to face you.

“St. John’s wort,” he announces, “I read it’s supposed to help with depression or some shit. I’m all about the natural remedies. It can also cause light sensitivity and some nausea. Headache too, and some insomnia. Oh, sexual dysfunction as well but you don’t seem to be struggling there.”

“I don’t… I don’t take that shit.”

His mouth slants and his eyes drift away for a moment, “I added a little to the medium roast.”

“Lloyd,” you hit his chest without thinking, “what the fuck?”

“I don’t know. I thought it would help brighten you up for the wedding. Excuse fucking me for trying to be a good fiance.”

“What the fuck! You’ve been drugging me.”

“It’s just a plant actually,” he corrects you, “I’ve been helping you. You’re like a little puppy, I just gotta hide your medicine in a piece of cheese.”

“Wow, you really are sick in the fucking head.”

“Look, if I knew you were going to be a bitch about this, I would’ve told you sooner,” he brings his hand up to chin and frames it, “I missed you yelling at me.”

“Fuck off of me!” You shove him again. “I can’t believe you.”

You open the next cupboard and take out the bag of medium roast. You take it to the bin and stomp on the pedal, flipping up the lid. You drop it inside and let it close. He is oddly calm as he watches you. You catch him staring at your ass as you turn to him again. Typical.

You resist the urge to storm out as his eyes focus on your stomach. You jut your chin out and cover your middle, “what are you doing?”

“Hmm,” his eyes meet your angry ones.

“What are you staring at?”

“You?” He seems confused by the answer.

“My stomach?”

“Ah, you didn’t let me get to that little tidbit, honey,” he leans back and grips his hips, “St. John’s wort can interact with some forms of birth control. Um, oral contraceptives,” he brings one hand up and counts as he starts his list, “some IUDs, implants–”

“Implants?” You growl, nearly knocked back by the word, “implant? Lloyd! I have an implant.”

“I didn’t know that,” he can’t hide his amusement.

“You think it’s fucking funny? If I’d known, I’d–”

“What? You wouldn’t be taking loads like a fucking champ?” 

“Ew,” you snap, “Lloyd, Lloyd!” You barrel towards him and grab the front of his tacky polo, “I can’t be pregnant. I can’t. What the fuck would I do? What would you do?”

“Ah, yes, what would we do, Mrs. Hansen? That would be a tragedy,” he bites his lip as he splendours in your fury, “I suppose you’re right, we should call the doctor.”

“I–” you scoff at him, “you did this on purpose, didn’t you?”

His eyes roll up and his forehead wrinkles as he pretends to think, lips pouting in his act. You let go of him and take a step back. You throw your hands up, speechless, then stretch them out, dropping them back to your sides. You don’t know what to do. You could strangle him but he likes that too much.

You wave him off sharply and bluster away. You enter the front room and stomp towards the rack of dresses. You grunt as you tip it over, the crash of metal softened by the layers of fabric. You swipe up the program from the table and crumple it up.

As Lloyd appears in the doorway, watching you with an air of amusement, you sweep back towards him and toss the paper in his face.

“Fucker.”

“I think you mean, ‘mother fucker’,” he quotes with his fingers smugly.