#over functioning is a trauma response

[furiousgoldfish]

You know how abusers tend to accuse people of being overly sensitive? Now. I am a survivor, and I am realizing that I am, in fact, overly sensitive.

Because of the abuse.

I am noticing that if any arguing is happening around me, if anyone is tense, if someone is having an issue and being angry about it, I very easily fall into... fear mode? imma call it that. For me, that means i want to escape reality while still being nervous. It freezes me. I sit in one place for hours on end, doing something to keep myself busy, even though i should be doing something else -- but the thought itself makes me too nervous to do the thing, which means the thing is still not done, which makes me more nervous.

This got to some absolutely idiotic level when I was nervous about missing a train. I should have gotten up to get ready, after i had a minor argument. I kept thinking about how i was missing the train, and that scared me so much I could not stand up to start getting ready, which made me miss the goddamn train.

Do you have any advice on what to do with this kind of thing? The closest that came to working was telling mself that I have all the time in the world.

Yeah I feel the same about all of those things, but we feel it for good reasons. We spent a good chunk of our formative years in the environment where people arguing, people being angry, people yelling or being frustrated or stressed, meant that they would be likely to take that anger and use us as a target for it. And this was a major danger for us, sometimes these people traumatized us so badly we wouldn't be able to recover for months, or ever. Sometimes they did it periodically so we could basically expect to be subjected to abuse every time someone was angry or frustrated for any reason whatsoever.

So our brain mapped that as a major source of danger, developed specialized senses to figure out how people feel before they even show it, to sense it in the atmosphere, to even feel their feelings sometimes, just so we could have a little heads-up to when the torrent of abuse would be incoming, so we could dissociate, or even just get ready and get our defenses up (even being a tiny bit prepared could mean a lot for us).

The only way to feel safe again would be to only be around people who do not yell, do not express their anger in a loud and violent way, or to be around people who even when angry, have absolutely no way to take it out on us, even by bad behaviour. I found I won't be particularly threatened by angry children, while any angry adult will still feel absolutely terrifying.

But I wouldn't call this over-sensitive, it's a trauma response, and a very logical one. I described it few asks ago, we as a society completely understand that someone is terrified of dogs if they got bitten once, and almost died as a child from it. We also understand the same way that if someone got hurt by a specific natural disaster, that they're now very sensitive and scared of it, because it damaged their life in a very terrifying way. This is the same. We got damaged and traumatized by people who were angry and yelling, in such a terrifying way that when our brain senses even the beginning of that pattern, it starts sending the signals of fear, telling us to get away, to keep safe, to expect abuse, to escape, to protect ourselves.

And that's exactly what I do in those situations; I get away. As an adult, there's very few situations you cannot walk away from, and people arguing and being noisy and distressing close to you, you generally can walk away from, or even tell them to stop doing this where you can hear it. I've reprimanded any of my roommates for any kind of yelling, and told them I can't stand it (it didn't stop them, but they will apologize for yelling sometimes, and I won't stick around while they're doing it.)

Your response isn't idiotic at all, it sounds like you immediately go into deep dissociation in order to protect yourself - unfortunately, this also means losing control over what your body is capable of doing, and I've had a lot of experiences with that, it's both scary, frustrating, and feels very stupid not to be able to do a basic thing just because you're suffering a trauma response. If you're getting so scared you paralyze, then it's okay to assume you can't just walk away either, it seems like in the situations where you were hurt like this, you couldn't leave, and had to stay put and endure whatever they were doing to you, that's why your body is now not capable of doing much while distressed and triggered.

I'm sorry you missed your train. The level of distress you were going thru is actually a reason enough to miss a train. I had this extreme paralysis response slowly resolved over time, after being away and safe from abusers for long enough to no longer paralyze, but jump into action if I feel threatened (even if that action is just to escape).

I know it's both scary and frustrating to lost control over your limbs and actions because of your trauma response, and it affects your function in real life severely, and it sucks. Sadly I've found nothing else to it but to wait it out, and try to process the original trauma that caused it, if possible. I got better over time, but just by keeping myself away from anything that would trigger me, and developing a space where I was feeling more safe, able to relax a bit and not feel like I'm about to be hurt. I hope you're easy on yourself and give yourself infinite time and space whenever you're triggered like this, know that what you're going thru is traumatic and that you cannot be expected to do tasks or catch trains in moments like that. You need comfort, safety, gentleness, reassurance, grounding, time, rest, and something safe and pleasant to engage in, so you could slowly come back from the dissociation, and use your body again.

[shanie]

You know what's fucking brilliant?

[llatimeria]

processed some trauma i think

[girl-bateman]

it sounds so obvious now, but im pretty sure my physical problems rn can all be traced back to the fact that my brain and body has been in a constant hypervigilance and cortisol overload for 3 months straight. the dizziness, the blackouts, the acne, the constant nausea, the giant eyebags and sudden crows feet ?? Like yeah, no shit thats what happens when ur every waking hour is the equivalent of that camille preaker crying gif

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Word List: Psychology

more psychological concepts as reference for your poem/story

Absent grief - a form of complicated grief in which a person shows no, or only a few, signs of distress about the death of a loved one. This pattern of grief is thought to be an impaired response resulting from denial or avoidance of the emotional realities of the loss.

Being love - (or B-love) in Abraham Maslow’s humanistic psychology, a form of love characterized by mutuality, genuine concern for another’s welfare and pleasure, and reduced dependency, selfishness, and jealousy. B-love is one of the qualities Maslow ascribes to self-actualizers.

Cyclopean eye - a theoretical eye, located on the midline between the real eyes, that has access to the functions of both eyes and is used in descriptions of space perception and eye movements.

Dream ego - in the analytic psychology of Carl Jung, a fragment of the conscious ego that is active during the dream state.

Epiphany - a sudden perception of the essential nature of oneself, others, or reality.

Family mythology - the shared stories, norms, and beliefs within a family system. The mythology can be used to deny trauma or pathology within the family or to ascribe meaning to events in ways that suggest their inevitability or importance.

Guilt culture - a trend or organizing principle in a society characterized by the use of guilt to promote socially acceptable behavior. Guilt cultures emphasize both self-control in the face of temptation and self-initiated responsibility for one’s actions if transgressions should occur.

Hedonic treadmill - a metaphor for a hypothesis proposing that people’s happiness tends to return to a preexisting baseline level after positive or negative life events have occurred. According to this concept, positive and negative events may produce short-term shifts in mood, but these shifts tend to erode in a relatively brief period of time. This process of adaptation is thought to be responsible for the persistence of mood states over time, often in the face of considerable efforts to change them. Although there is good evidence for this hypothesis, research has demonstrated that people do not always return to baseline after the occurrence of mood-changing events.

Jactitation - (or jactation) extreme restlessness marked by frequent movements and tossing about.

Leaving the field - the act of removing oneself from a situation when confronted with seemingly insurmountable obstacles, insoluble conflicts, or intensely frustrating problems. It may involve physical withdrawal, escape into psychogenic illness, or some other behavior, such as distraction or changing the subject during a conversation.

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Part 1 2 3 ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[stephobrien]

Is your pro-Palestine activism hurting innocent people? Here's how to avoid that.

Note: If you prefer plain text, you can read the plain text version here.

Over the last few days, I’ve had conversations with several Jewish people who told me how hurt and scared they are right now.

To my great regret, some of that pain came from a poorly-thought-out post of mine, which – while not ill-intentioned – WAS hurtful.

And a lot of it came from cruelty they’d experienced at the hands of people who claim to be advocating for Palestine, but are using the very real plight of innocent Palestinians to harm equally innocent Jewish people.

Y’all, we need to do better. (Yes, “we” definitely includes me; this is in no small part a “learn from my fail” post, and also a “making amends” post. Some of these are mistakes I’ve made in the past.)

So if you’re an advocate for Palestine who wants to make sure that your defense of one group of vulnerable people doesn’t harm another, here are some important things to do or keep in mind:

Ask yourself if you’re applying a standard to one group that you aren’t applying to another.

Would you want all white Americans or Canadians to be expelled from America or Canada?

Do you want all Jewish people to be expelled from Israel, as opposed to finding a way to live alongside Palestinian Arabs in peace?

If the answer to those two questions is different, ask yourself WHY.

Do you want to be held responsible for the actions of your nation’s army or government? No? Then don’t hold innocent Jewish people, or Israelis in general (whether Jewish or otherwise), responsible for the actions of the Israeli army and government.

On that subject, be wary of condemning all Israeli people for the actions of the IDF. Large-scale tactical decisions are made by the top brass. Service is compulsory, and very few can reasonably get out of service.

Blaming all Israelis for the military’s actions is like blaming all Vietnam vets for the horrors in Vietnam. They’re not calling the shots. They aren’t Nazis running concentration camps. They are carrying out military operations that SHOULD be criticized.

And do not compare them or ANY JEWISH PERSON to Nazis in general. It is Jewish cultural trauma and not outsiders’ to use against them.

Don’t infuse legitimate criticism with antisemitism.

By all means, spread the word about the crimes committed by the Israeli army and government, and the complicity of their allies. Criticize the people responsible for committing and enabling atrocities.

But if you imply that they’re committing those crimes because they’re Jewish, or because Jewish people have special privileges, then you’re straying into antisemitic territory.

Criticize the crime, not the group. If you believe that collective punishment is wrong, don’t do it yourself.

And do your best to use words that apply directly to the situation, rather than the historical terms for situations with similar features. For example, use “segregation,” “oppression,” or “subjugation,” not “Holocaust” or “Jim Crow.” These other historical events are not the cultural property of Jews OR Palestinians, but also have their own nuances and struggles and historical contexts.

Also, blaming other world events on Jewish people or making Jewish people associated with them (for instance, some people falsely blame Jewish people for the African slave trade) is a key feature of how antisemitism functions.

Please, by all means, be specific and detailed in your critiques. But keep them focused on the current political actors – not other peoples’ or nations’ political or cultural histories and traumas.

Be prepared to accept criticism.

You probably already know that society is infused with a wide array of bigotries, and that people growing up in that environment tend to absorb those beliefs without even realizing it. Antisemitism is no exception.

What that means is, there’s a very real chance that you will screw up, and get called out on it, as I so recently did.

If that happens, please be willing to learn and adapt. If you can educate yourself about the suffering and needs of Palestinians, you can do the same for Jewish people.

Understand that the people you hurt aren’t obligated to baby you. Give them room to be angry.

After I made a post that inadvertently hurt people, some were nice about it, and others weren’t. Some outright insulted my morals and intelligence.

And I had to accept that I’d earned that from them.

I’d hurt them, and they weren’t obligated to be more careful with my feelings than I had been with theirs.

They weren’t obligated to forgive me, trust me, or stop being mad at me right away.

I’ll admit, there were moments when I got defensive. I shouldn’t have. And I encourage you to try not to, if you screw up and hurt people.

I know that’s hard, but it’s important. Getting defensive only tells people you care more about doubling down on your mistake than you do about healing the hurt it caused.

Instead, acknowledge that they have a right to be angry, apologize for the way you hurt them, and try to make amends, while understanding that they don’t owe you trust or forgiveness.

Be aware that some antisemites are using legitimate complaints to “Trojan horse” antisemitism into leftist spaces.

This is a really easy stumbling block to trip over, because most people probably don’t look at every post a creator makes before sharing the one they’re looking at right now.

I recently shared a video that called out some of the Likud and IDF’s atrocities and hypocrisy, and that also noted that many Jewish people are wonderful members of their communities.

I was later informed that, while that video in particular seemed reasonable, the creator behind it is frequently antisemitic.

I deleted the post, and blocked the creator. I encourage you to do the same if it’s brought to your attention that you’ve been ‘Trojan horse’d.

EDIT: Important note about antisemitism in leftist spaces:

While it's true that some blatant antisemites are using seemingly reasonable posts to get their foot in the door of leftist spaces, it's also true that a lot of antisemitism already exists inside those spaces.

This antisemitism is often dressed up in progressive-sounding language, but nonetheless singles Jewish people and places out in ways that aren't applied equally to other groups, or that label Jewish people in ways that portray them as acceptable targets.

If you want to see some specific examples, so you can have a better idea of what to keep an eye out for, I suggest reading this excellent reblog of this post.

Fact-check your doubts about antisemitism.

Depending on which parts of the internet you look at, you’ve probably seen people accused of antisemitism because they complained about the Likud and/or IDF’s actions. So you might be primed to be wary, or feel unsure of how to tell what counts as real antisemitism.

But that doesn’t mean antisemitism isn’t a very real, widespread, and harmful problem. And it doesn’t mean many or even most Jewish people are lying to you or being overly sensitive.

So if someone says something is antisemitic, and you aren’t sure, I encourage you to:

A. Look up the action or thing in question, including its history. Is there an antisemitic history or connotation you aren’t aware of? For best results, include “antisemitic” in your search query, in quotes.

B. Understand that some things, while not inherently antisemitic, have been used by antisemites often enough that Jewish people are understandably wary of them. Schrodinger’s antisemitism, if you will.

C. Ask Jewish people WHO HAVE OFFERED TO HELP EDUCATE YOU. Emphasis on WHO HAVE OFFERED. Random Jewish people aren’t obligated to give you their time and emotional energy, or to educate you – especially on subjects that are scary or painful for them.

@edenfenixblogs has kindly offered her inbox to those who are genuinely trying to learn and do better, and I’ve found her to be very kind, patient, reasonable, and fair-minded.

Understand that this is URGENTLY NEEDED.

In one of my conversations with a Jewish person who’d called me out, they said this was the most productive conversation they’d had with a person with a Palestinian flag in their profile.

THIS IS NOT OKAY.

I didn’t do anything special. All I did was listen, apologize for my mistakes, and learn.

Yes, it feels good to be acknowledged. But I feel like I’ve been praised for peeing IN the toilet, instead of beside it.

Apologizing, learning, and making amends after you hurt people shouldn’t be “the most reasonable thing I’ve heard from a person with a Palestinian flag pfp.”

It should be BASIC DECENCY.

And the fact that it’s apparently so uncommon should tell you how much unnecessary stress and fear Jewish people have been living with because of people who consider themselves defenders of human rights.

By all means, be angry at the Likud, the IDF, and the politicians, reporters, and specific media outlets who choose to enable and cover up for them.

But direct that anger toward the people who deserve it and are in a position to do something about it, not random people who simply happen to be Jewish, or who don’t want millions of people to be turned into refugees when less violent methods of achieving freedom and rights for Palestinians are available.

Stop peeing beside the toilet, people.

[secularprolifeconspectus]

Quick Pro-Life Responses

Keep in mind: the fundamental disagreement between pro-life and pro-choice is on whether a fetus is being formed into a person, or if the fetus is already a person and is simply developing.

Confidently assert, “you say that because you think a fetus is not a person yet.”

They may concede fetuses are people in word, but still not conceptualize them as full people worthy of equal consideration.

“I have the right to bodily autonomy.”

Abortion is literally suffocation, poisoning, or dismemberment of a living human organism.

Abortion induces fetal demise by depriving a human of oxygen, blood, or vital function.

Bodily autonomy does not justify abuse of power and excessive force over a helpless person.

Abortion, a disproportionately brutal response to a passive threat, is aggressive violence.

“No one has the right to use my body.”

Correct. But, a prenatal person does not use a pregnant person’s body. They have no agency.

A pregnant person’s body takes care of the prenate. This care is ordinary and healthy.

Abortion is not like refusing care to a dying person, it is like murdering a healthy captive.

No one has the right to murder someone who they caused to be dependent on them.

“I have the right to revoke my consent.”

When you give consent, you agree to accept the foreseeable outcomes and risks of an action.

The creation of a bodily dependent is a foreseeable outcome of consensual intercourse.

You cannot revoke consent to outcomes. You can revoke consent to actions.

You may not violently sacrifice a helpless person to “mitigate” a risk of a consensual action.

“Anything dependent on my body is a parasite.”

If you make parasites, then you’re a parasite; it’s misogynist to suggest women are parasites.

The female body would not actively try to make pregnancy happen if it were parasitic.

Prenates never directly cause pregnant people harm; they are not aggressors or parasites.

Using developmental dependency to justify murder is simultaneously ageist and ableist.

“An embryo is just a clump of cells.”

Human embryos meet NASA’s criteria for the characteristics of distinct living organisms.

Human embryos are self-directed and their development follows a body plan.

Human embryos are organized and individual. They already have inherited capacities.

Tumors and gametes do not follow an organized body plan.

“Early humans have no cognitive capacities.”

By week 3, the embryo has a spine and is developing a nervous system.

By week 5, the embryo has a rudimentary brain that controls their pulse.

By week 8, the embryo has pain reflexes and can move their limbs.

It’s incredibly ableist to use the cognitive inabilities of a human being to justify their murder.

“If a fetus is a person, so is a brain-dead human.”

A brain-dead human is, obviously, dead. It’s an oxygenated corpse, the remains of a person.

Death occurs when human organisms stop resisting entropy and lose organic integration.

Preborn people actively resist entropy (decay) and have organic integration (unity).

An early human organism isn’t dependent on a mature brain to organize her vital functioning.

“Later abortions only happen for medical reasons.”

According to two studies by pro-abortion researcher at UCSF Katrina Kimport, this is untrue.

Kimport’s studies found that the reasons for later abortions are similar to early abortions.

Later abortions aren’t euthanasia; infants are stabbed with lethal injections and dismembered.

Perinatal hospice and palliative care relieve suffering. Dying babies deserve love, not murder.

“What about rape and incest?”

Abortion is not evidence-based treatment for sexual trauma. Abortion is traumatic as well.

A preborn child should not be condemned to the death penalty for their father’s crime.

It is safe for most menstruating children to carry pregnancies to viability with sufficient prenatal care.

Children conceived in incest are likely to have disabilities; that’s not reason to murder them.

“What about health of the mother?”

Every abortion ban in the US has exceptions for if the mother’s life or body is in grave danger.

We are not against tragic cases of triage. We are against elective induced abortion.

Some procedures coded medically as abortions aren’t legally or ethically defined as abortions.

Pro-life doctors report that the bans have not impeded their ability to treat their patients.

Your Core Arguments

There is no sound evidence or consistent logic that proves the preborn are the only class of human beings exceptional to the rule that humans are people with equal rights.

If a being is in the dynamic process of bonding with us as kin, then that being is a whole actual person by the manner of actively and inherently relating to our collective humanity.

Embryonic humans are full and equal people like us because they latently embody our same capacities and are manifesting them as we are, on account of sharing our nature.

[godihatethiswebsite]

Tethered Bonds

✽ Poly 141 x f!reader (Omegaverse AU)

A lucky stroke of fate led you right into the arms of your alpha soulmates. But is it everything you dreamed it would be or just the continuation of a nightmare?

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

✽ Part Two - The aftermath

So many of you came out of the woodwork for this story and I couldn't be more grateful for all the kind words of encouragement! I'm truly flattered by the amount of love this received for being something that randomly popped in my head on a whim ❤️

I'm glad I was able to get this part out so quickly. It might be a tick before part three, but I've already got some of it worked out. I'll still try to keep chipping away at it while I work on my other series~

Trigger warnings: swearing, angst, depression

“I saw them the other day.”

“...saw who?”

“My scent matches.”

There’s a pregnant pause as your therapist of four years takes the information in, caught off guard by the abruptness of the statement but also the further implications behind the words.

Dr. Miranda has been your life raft and confidant ever since you’d first gone to your family with the appalling reality of your newfound situation. An omega like yourself; she specializes in the treatment and rehabilitation of women who've endured abuse at the hands of their packmates and the dredges of society. Highly recommended by the United Designation Resource Center for psychological trauma.

It had taken you over a week following the incident to gather the strength to confront your fathers on the thorny subject - too ashamed of admittance and too anxious of their response. And even then it was done over the phone in the most uncomfortable video call of your life, the dour atmosphere so at odds with that blessedly clear mid-afternoon sky, its temperate climate and soft summer breeze carrying along an enchanting melody of carefree innocence.

Inside, it was raining.

The wretched bond was a gravity well, sucking you down into a chasmic abyss and siphoning your once bountiful vibrancy. Responsibilities fell by the wayside, locked away in your self-imposed prison as if the globe would simply stop moving if you only ignored its rotations. Not until both your fathers made the three hour flight up north did you muster the courage to finally remove the makeshift barricade guarding your front door, talking through the deceptively difficult act with them on the other end of the phone as the two alphas supported you during the twenty five minutes it took to overcome the all-consuming panic and usher them inside.

They stayed with you for the better part of the month, taking over where depression had failed you in your efforts to function alone. Your parents allowed you space to look after yourself, clearing away the physical filth of your living quarters and, in doing so, sweeping away the cobwebs of your teetering sanity. They scrubbed at putrid greasy plates while you scoured tainted flesh under a scalding hot stream, the dead skin cells contaminated by his poisonous touch spiraling down the drain along with your tears.

The harsh truth of the matter is that there is no escape from your own body. You come screaming into this world given one to do with as you will, to mold and shape based on lived experiences with no regard for the decisions and circumstances made outside your control. There is no space to slip between the weaved threads of time, no hands to turn counter clockwise when you make a mistake. Just a grim acceptance that the life you once aspired to was forevermore out of reach.

There was only so much to be done given your situation. As much aid as your family offered, they were as helpless of bystanders as the soul in your meat suit. Chores were completed, accumulated bills paid, a hearty meal piled high on your plate combating the recent gauntness of your face. You were cherished and fussed over like the wee babe found scattered amongst family photos in your childhood home, cradled in their arms when the horrid presence came calling, dragging a hot poker through your insides and causing mental anguish at all hours of the night. 

The more time they spent around you, the more apparent it was that you could no longer stay there. The closer the proximity to your bonded alpha the more power he held to disrupt your life. 

That's how you landed in Dr. Miranda’s lap. Before you'd even set foot on the tarmac arrangements had been made for a new life in a new city on the other side of the country - spiriting you away on a mission to regain your independence, the distance easing the damage he could do even as the strained bond churned.

Initially dreading having to confess the horrors you’d endured to some random unknown, she’d worked diligently to soothe your broken nerves in both demeanor and environment. A kind omega in her early forties, the subtle crows feet and laugh lines only accentuated her cheerful personality, disarming in her ability to draw out your insecurities and work with you through the trauma in a way that didn’t feel intruding. 

Dr. Miranda was a veritable well of understanding, always encouraging of whatever pace you set, careful of the fragile boundaries constructed to guard your heart from further damage. 

She operated as part of a larger business that provided therapeutic services and catered to all designations alike. You’d been thrilled to find there was a separate entrance away from the cacophony of the common room, bypassing the headache of having to wait amongst strangers and leading directly to her office in the back right corner of the building. 

The space itself was considerably cozy, low lit warmth all plush and homely. The spacious couch against the back wall invited you to stretch out comfortably, decorative pillows available in a colorful assortment of textures - catering to a discerning omega’s personal preferences. A small diffuser wafting light refreshing mists operated as both a handy descenting spray and an emotional pick me up. Every accommodation purposeful, given special care for your emotional easement and wellbeing.

You appreciated the effort she put into making her office feel more like a living room than a sterile setting. It was easier for you to converse when it felt like you were speaking with a friend.

Bit by bit, Dr. Miranda coaxed you from the sheltered recesses in which you’d burrowed; not just a guiding hand through the concrete dust and collapsed rubble, but a mentor recovering your confidence, reminding you of the path you once walked independently and peeling back the suffocating layers that kept you from standing on your own two feet.

In hindsight, you probably could’ve broken the news of your scent match a bit less abrasively - probably should’ve led with it too. 

The pair of you had been engrossed in a topic that was moreso a follow up from your last session rather than anything of actual import. Your brain had been functioning on autopilot the past twenty odd minutes, making sounds vaguely human enough to get by without requiring proper attention. Honestly, most of her words had been drowned out by the incessant buzzing in your ear that had been slowly growing in volume, throat clenching and knuckles flexing, more aware of the sweat dripping down the back of your nape than anything she had to proffer.

Eventually the dam just broke. The words slipped out like grease, lubricated in a film of oil too slick to be contained and begging to be addressed.

There’s a struggle on her face to try and maintain some level of professionalism after the sudden revelation. Knitted eyebrows spiked before smoothing back down, jaw almost dropping until she remembered herself and switched it from an ‘o’ to a relaxed flat line. She mirrored your own position on the couch from her velvet wingback chair, sitting cross legged with an air of casualness. Her only remaining tell was her hands fidgeting in her lap as if her fingers itched to shake you down like a coconut tree or pry your brain open like a valuable specimen. 

Knowing the scarcity of scent bonding, this may have very well been the first time she’s come across this scenario - whether in her personal life or from her spot opposite you in her seat.

“How are you feeling about the encounter?” A loaded question if ever there was one, giving you plenty of breathing room to start the conversation however you needed and giving her a chance to compartmentalize. 

You tried to focus on the initial emotions, remembering that first brush of sweet alpha pheromones on your olfactory senses. The rush of endorphins as your inner omega staked her claim with that first gulp of built up citrus infused drool.

“I didn’t know I could feel like that...” There was a breathy quality to your tone as you visibly brightened, gazing at the plush rug in the center of the room without actually viewing it, a glow to your smile that was soft in your reminiscence. “They don’t prepare you for that first whiff at the Academy. It’s almost like…”

How could you explain in the span of a few sentences what the most ardent poets struggled with over the course of a lifetime? 

“It’s like when someone grows up not being able to breathe properly and they don’t even realize it’s a problem. To them it’s normal to be in a constant state of dyspnea because that’s all they’ve ever known. No one else might be complaining about it, but no one’s asked them about it either. They just assume that's how your lungs are supposed to function and carry on none the wiser.”

Dr. Miranda nodded along, ever patient as you attempted to spew out your thoughts in an at least semi-coherent structure.

“But then, one day, they’re walking behind a guy who’s fumbling with his attempt to shove a small object back in his pocket and watches as it falls to the sidewalk. They pick it up off the ground like a good citizen; strike up a conversation. Ask him about the strange contraption the guy calls an inhaler - learns there's another way to breathe. And so they go home and tell their mom what’s been going on with them and she takes them to see the doctor who gets them one of their own. And when that first dose of medicated mist gets sucked into their lungs…”

The image of a wide eyed innocent gasping in a world full of untold possibilities as if reborn from the ashes of their previous life, no longer chained down by the invisible restrictions tethering them to the globe, eyes glistening full of wonderment at how something so small can be something so cosmically life altering.

With each new breath, they soar.

You’re pulled out of your musings and back to reality as your own lungs expand, something weightless shimmering in your gaze, glassy eyed and perfectly at ease. “Now I know why they call it living.”

The words are floated around the space with a sort of reverence akin to hearing a favored childhood fairy tale read aloud at their mother’s knee. Something wistful and longing and filled with effervescent hope.

“Sounds heavenly...” Her own voice was just as breathy, living vicariously through the moment she herself hasn't experienced. Curling her legs up under herself, Dr. Miranda encouraged, “tell me more.”

“There were two of them,” you went on, smile turning playful and newly invigorated. “The first one was just this big bulk of an alpha. I mean, seriously, he was properly huge!” Animated arms opened wide for emphasis, your grin reaching almost the same diameter. “Built like a fucking linebacker or something. I can only imagine what he must do for a living. Kinda gives off scary vibes, but like… in a non sketchy way? He dresses a bit like a drug dealer, but feels more like a gym teacher. Maybe that’s just me being biased ‘cause he smells like a cupcake, I dunno.”

The energy you gave off was infectious. Dr. Miranda couldn’t help but join in with amused laughter, endeared to the way you were lighting up the room. It wasn’t often she got to see you like this, glimpsing the lighthearted woman you were before the accident. It was a welcome sight after so much negativity. “And the other?”

“Fuuuuck me, Doc.” You groaned good naturedly, head falling back to rest against the spine of the couch as your limbs went limp. “Swear to god he was the prettiest guy I’ve ever seen in my goddamn life. Gorgeous smile. Like, I’ve always been a casual fan of coconut, but after that encounter…” You shuddered. “I just wanna roll around in an entire box of fucking samoas.”

“And do these tasty specimens have names?”

Just like that, you wilted.

The temperature shifted rapidly, a violent change that dragged out of your whimsy and back into a world where life didn’t discriminate between those deserving of heaven and those who broke their way in to taint the ghosts at peace. 

She picked up on it immediately, back straightening as if you weren’t the only one in the room with a chill suddenly dripping down their spine. 

Your admission came from a voice far more fragile than she’d heard in a very long time. “...I never got to ask.”

Recounting the excruciating memory was like shoving needles underneath your nailbeds, bringing up the other person in the room keeping you from wanton bliss, describing the torture you’d endured witnessing them existing with their own omega unaware of the damage she’d inadvertently done. You relayed their moment of recognition and sympathy. The confusion on the poor omega’s face.

How you turned tail and fled like a coward from the scene.

“I panicked,” came the strained confession, stumbled out in a frantic rush that spoke volumes of your frazzled mental state. “I-I didn’t know what else to do! I couldn’t just waltz up to them all willy nilly and throw a wrench in whatever the hell kinda life they’d already built. I mean, she was right there! How was I supposed to fawn over the men who should’ve been mine to keep when they were never mine to begin with?!”

You flinched away from the unwanted flashback of silvery bite marks, the pale white indents plastered on her skin displayed proudly beneath the collar of her coat like an olympic medal. So at odds with the ones mirrored on your own flesh, hidden now under a thick cotton turtleneck that you fought the urge to scratch.

Dr. Miranda listened closely, keen eyes analyzing the familiar body language and monitoring your growing levels of distress. She watched as you picked apart a loose hanging thread with jittery deftness until inevitably too much unwound and fluffy white stuffing poked out between the seams of the pillow clutched like a life jacket to your chest.

“I can only imagine the hurt you must’ve felt in that moment…”

Where once your voice had been full of life, now there was only a grave emptiness. Color had been sucked from your aura the same way it had been from the room. There was no hiding from your devastation in the tiny office, the frayed threads of the cashmere pillow a reflection revealing the true turmoil roiling beneath the skin. It rotted from the inside out, exposing the vulnerable squishy interior and keeping you reliving the same brutal lacerations again and again and again.

“...I hadn’t even considered it a possibility, you know…?” 

Hadn’t allowed yourself the concept of hope. 

“And suddenly it was right there - the answer to all my problems. For a brief moment, I was shown a glimpse of a better life. A future… one where I didn't wake up with earth shattering headaches and relentless nausea and I’d actually have energy to do more than just be a useless fucking couch potato and there could be laughter and healing and–” 

You weren’t sure at which point in your stream of consciousness you’d started crying, nor when you fitfully clawed into the padded fabric, shredding the delicate material as it twisted and stretched in your trembling hands.

“I wish I never ran into them at the store... I wish I could’ve kept living in stupid fucking ignorance. At least then they could’ve just stayed made up characters in my head. Anything would’ve been better than this–” you spat angrily, chucking the mangled remains of the pillow on the ground and gritting your teeth through the onslaught of tears. “Having them ripped away from me like some sick fucking joke! Like the universe hasn’t already crushed my hopes and dreams and laughed in my face for wanting a normal fucking life!? Well guess what, gods? You win! Okay?! You fucking win! Take my heart! I don't want it anymore!”

Consoling arms encapsulated your quivering form, the comforting florals of Dr. Miranda’s airy omega scent projecting like a protective blanket and overpowering the tart bitterness of your once sweetened pear turned ashen in your mouth. 

The floodgates opened. They couldn't be stopped.

“I’m just so fucking sick of this!” Your screams of devastation become muffled against the softness of her pink knitted sweater, harsh blubbering sobs broken up by heaving gasps as you mourn the life you’ll never have. “I hate him... I hate him! I don’t wanna do this anymore! I just want my fucking life back!”

There are no words that can fix the lesions of the heart. There’s no comfort of a better tomorrow that she can wax poetic whilst drying your tears. Sometimes grief cannot be mended - only managed. And sometimes that means accepting the bad days with the learned knowledge that not all anger is made of evil. 

Holding you close, lulling you into a guarded safety with a placating purr, she grants you reprieve from the mask that you wear.

Not much more was discussed in the aftermath. The remaining time was dedicated to helping you stabilize from the emotional trauma, bringing you down carefully to avoid dropping into a catatonic state. She’d witnessed it with you before - at the start of your visits. When the grief was still too near and your triggers splayed out like a million mouse traps all primed to go off. Avoiding them was all but impossible in those early days. Three hours of your life were forever lost to time, the only proof of its occurrence the foggy aftermath filled memory of cold dampened skin and sweat soaked weighted blankets clutched tight in a dark room, uncontrollable trembles wracking your form and a bone deep exhaustion as if you’d just ran ten miles.

Dr. Miranda never once left your side.

Trudging your way back to your vehicle, the air inside the car was only mildly warmer than its outer counterpart, sinking into the rigid cloth seats and listening to the laboured clicks of the old engine grappling to turn over in the bitter cold. Snowflakes gathered on your coat began to melt as it finally gave way, puttering to life and filling the space with dense heated air.

You huffed out a loaded sigh, absentmindedly scratching at the already abused skin as you felt his presence poking experimentally across the bond. As if you didn’t have enough on your plate without him adding his delightful input, sniffing around your emotions like a trained bloodhound attuned to your melancholic brooding.

He was a spiteful thing; had been since he first opened his eyes the next morning from his drug induced stupor and found the pretty thing he’d coveted had just up and vanished. You never knew when he’d invade the sanctity of your mind. The flicker of amusement from his end was the telltale proof this was all just a sick game. 

The bonds didn’t allow any actual communication. There were no words passed back and forth, no sudden powers of telepathy. Just intense sensations - emotions conveyed as though tangible and speaking ideas down an invisible phone line. 

The whole point of a mating bite in the first place was to bring a further cohesion to the packs. As an omega, you were the fixed point in space around which all other members orbited. A mediator of sorts; it was your job to smooth the serrated edges of an alpha’s instincts, regulating their emotional needs and nurturing them to achieve a sense of balance - and vice versa. 

An omega’s naturally empathetic nature meant you were frequently prone to becoming easily overstimulated. It was an alpha’s duty to soothe your frazzled nerves. 

He liked to abuse his privileges. 

Sometimes he went days without pestering, others his tiresome machinations seemed unending. The longest reprieve had been just shy of three weeks, lured into a false sense of optimism that just maybe he’d overdosed and freed you from his haunting clutches. His return was a hot knife stabbing into your skull, grinding and drilling like a makeshift lobotomy for the clinically insane.

You were grateful for the miles between now softening the blows. Once he’d begun to feel the strain on the flight to your current city whittling away at the strength of your bond, he’d lashed out in unbridled fury. You’d spent the first leg of the trip huddled on your knees in the airplane stall, his mental punishment sawing into your ribs and expelling the simple breakfast you’d eaten an hour prior. 

Sobs of anguish turned to tears of relief as time went on and his reach stretched thin across the continent. 

The bond withdrawals came afterwards. His presence still lurked in the tether that binds you, but no more than a casual thought in the back of your mind, the quiet voice that whispers on the edge of a canyon daring you to ‘jump’.

The bond withdrawals were now the worst of your worries. It was hard to function on a day to day basis when the same distance granting you a second chance caused you to become physically - sometimes violently - ill. Instances like that, Zofran was your best friend.

Buckling your seatbelt, you waged an internal battle over whether or not to do the responsible thing of making a second attempt at grocery shopping (despite your best efforts over the past two days, you hadn’t yet figured out how to miraculously will food to materialize in your barren pantry). Statistically speaking you were most likely safe from another encounter… unless they’d pulled a you and hadn’t left with their wares either. 

But if you didn’t have the luxury before to keep putting it off then you certainly hadn’t acquired it now.

Math was on your side as you emerged with a full cart of goods and a lack of new therapy material. You’d still been the most skittish paranoid thing ever, scurrying quickly through the aisles like the CIA was out to get you, scanning your periphery and emerging quickly from the self checkout lanes to hurry towards your car. But just because you’d been successful in your venture doesn’t mean you weren’t followed along by fuzzy raised brows and curious - if not judgemental - looks. 

It was an odd notion - being terrified of the one thing that should’ve made you feel secure. It was all you could do to distract yourself from the frustrating realization that this was a game you’d be playing for the foreseeable future unless you shelled out the extra cash to bypass doing the chore yourself.

That would have to be a worry for another time. Right now, all you desired was to curl up in your tiny studio apartment with a home cooked microwaved meal and lose yourself in the diversion that was the food network channel.

But first: caffeine.

You ignored the nagging ghost of responsibility tugging at your ear as you pulled into a parking spot alongside the main road, stepping out of the warm confines of your car and hurrying inside the nestled hole in the wall you frequented a few times a week for a caffeinated boost. 

Large crowds still bothered you even with the reassurance he wasn't there, as if he could somehow physically slink out of the bond formed between you and hide amongst the chittering rabble waiting for an opportune moment of weakness to strike. Thankfully you’d arrived after the mid afternoon rush - although there were still a few stragglers with the same mindset as you eager to escape the frosty air with something warm on an otherwise picturesque snowy winter’s day.

The chiming bell above the door hailed your arrival, festive drink flavors assaulting your nose and instantly watering your mouth. Smoky chestnut praline, rich peppermint mocha, enticing caramel brulee. Cranberry laden pastries, chewy gingerbread cookies; all folded together in a Christmasy mix laced with the pleasant aroma of freshly ground coffee beans. 

Your mind zeroed in on exactly what it wanted, pinpointing the most succulent fragrance amongst the bountiful bouquet, cutting through the sea of heavy pheromones belonging to the other patrons and hitting something raw inside your weary soul. 

The veritable nectar of the gods. 

A rich shot of bold espresso. Sweetly caramelized with smooth, creamy, chocolatey undertones. It zapped your spine with a jolt of adrenaline, awakening your senses while simultaneously soothing them. The first relaxing sip of a perfectly hot beverage. The golden liquid flowed down the back of your throat and alleviated the tangled knots still keeping you on edge, settling like a sturdy hand on your shoulder and allowing you the chance to breathe easy.

Something about the blend had your inner omega preening, ears perked up and startling a small purr from your chest that had you blinking down at your torso in surprised confusion. You’d barely stepped foot inside the cafe and suddenly the craving had expanded tenfold, something ravenous and feral urging your steps towards the counter that you had to fight to withstand.

Shrugging off the intense hunger as a simple lack of shoving something slightly more substantial in your mouth before leaving this morning, you adjusted the strap of your purse more securely on your shoulder and raised your eyes level to the awaiting interior.

Right into the most alluring shade of brilliant azure - sparkling like sapphires and already fixated on you.

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[wandamaximoffsbadgirl]

Teacher's Pet Baby

First Time

Cg!Professor!Wanda Maximoff x little!student!reader

Summary: You slip during class for the first time and it doesn't go unnoticed

Word count: 1.4K

Warnings: Age regression, mild anxiety, emotional vulnerability, fluff and comfort

Authors notes: After writing the first part this had started to come to mind so it was nice to get it all written out~

Also, to all the littles, seeing this, please tred lightly on this blog! This is my big 18+ blog, but I do have some little!reader fics. Everything is marked accordingly!

The first few weeks of class were nothing out of the ordinary—except for the way you found yourself drawn to Professor Maximoff. There was something about the way she spoke, how her voice carried both authority and warmth, that made you want to listen more intently. You were eager to impress her, to ask every question that popped into your head, just to see that soft smile she reserved for students who showed genuine curiosity.

You didn’t know what it was that made you crave her attention so badly, but you knew that every time she praised you, something deep inside you warmed, a feeling of safety and validation that you couldn’t quite explain.

Then, one day, as you flipped the page in your textbook, your eyes landed on the title printed in bold letters at the top:

Coping Mechanisms: Age Regression

Your stomach twisted immediately.

Two whole pages on the subject, defining it, explaining how it functioned as a response to stress or trauma. You barely heard Wanda begin her lecture, your mind spiraling as you felt yourself slipping, your fingers tightening around the edge of the book.

It wasn’t until you heard the soft laughter—quiet, but unmistakable—that the dread fully set in.

"People actually do this?" one student muttered under their breath.

"That’s so weird." Another scoffed, shaking their head.

Your breath hitched, and you had to blink rapidly to stop the tears from forming. They didn’t know. They had no idea that right here, in the same room, was someone who did—who couldn’t help it, whose mind sometimes reverted without warning. You wanted to shrink, to disappear, but before the panic could settle in further, Wanda’s voice cut through the murmurs, firm and unwavering.

"That’s enough," she said sharply, silencing the room in an instant.

All eyes snapped toward her, and you dared to look up. Her expression was serious, her usual soft demeanor replaced by something strict and protective.

"I expect professionalism in my class," she continued, her gaze sweeping over the students. "We are here to learn, not to ridicule others for coping mechanisms that are valid and often necessary for mental health." She let her words settle before adding, "If anyone here finds it difficult to show respect for psychological concepts that people actually experience, then perhaps this is not the right field for you."

Silence.

Your hands trembled slightly in your lap, but for an entirely different reason now. No one had ever defended you like that before. No one had ever made you feel like what you did—what you were—was okay.

Wanda’s gaze flickered to you for just a moment, softer now, like she knew. Like she had already pieced something together but wouldn’t call attention to it. Instead, she resumed her lecture, effortlessly guiding the class back on track, leaving you sitting there with a heart racing for a whole new reason.

From that moment on, you weren’t just drawn to Wanda Maximoff. You needed her.

As the lecture came to an end and you were trying to pack up Wanda called you over, "Have a good night everyone and remember to do the reading and get your assignment done for Monday's class! Oh and y/n please stay a moment. I'd like to discuss something with you." 

Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure Wanda could hear it. You weren’t in trouble—at least, she didn’t sound upset—but you still couldn’t shake the nerves twisting inside you.

She had never asked you to stay after class before.

You stayed frozen, hands gripping the edge of your desk as you watched her move. But instead of standing over you like a professor scolding a student, she did something entirely unexpected—she walked to the door, locked it with a soft click, and then made her way over to you.

Wanda crouched down in front of your desk, leaning against it with an easy, open posture. Her smile was gentle, and when her warm eyes met yours, something inside you softened, though your body still trembled slightly.

"Hi, sweetheart," she murmured, her voice filled with nothing but kindness. "You're feeling pretty small right now, aren’t you?"

You swallowed thickly. It was impossible to hide, not when she knew, when she could see right through you. Words felt too hard, too big, so you just nodded, blinking rapidly as emotion threatened to well up in your chest.

"That’s okay, sweetie," she assured, her tone soothing as she reached out, resting a hand over yours for just a moment. "This was your last class, right?"

You nodded again.

"I have papers to grade," she continued. "You and I can stay right here, okay?"

Another nod. This time, accompanied by a tiny, shy smile.

Wanda’s expression softened even further. She stood up, her fingers reaching out to gently comb through your hair, the touch grounding in a way you didn’t even know you needed.

"You’re safe with me, Malyshka," she whispered.

✎✐ ✎ ✐ ✎ ✐

While Wanda graded her papers you decided to draw, pulling out your crayons and drawing pad. Wanda let her eyes flick up every so often to watch you. Her expression softened as she saw you so concentrated, your tongue just poking out past your lips. 

She wanted to giggle, but worried it might upset you so she held back, turning her attention back to her papers until she heard you get up, feet padding over to her. She looked up past her glasses. 

"Yes sweetheart?" She asked softly, "Do you have something to show me?" You nodded eagerly and turned the page around.

Wanda let a warm smile tug at her lips as she examined the drawing, her heart melting at the sight of it. You had drawn yourself much smaller, hand held securely in hers, your features simple but unmistakably you. Wanda’s own figure was a little more detailed—her hair a mess of crayon strokes, her glasses perched delicately on her nose—but the most touching detail was the way your hands were clasped together.

Wanda ran her fingers over the crayon lines, her chest tightening in the best way as she admired your drawing. It was simple, childlike, but so full of love that it made her heart ache.

"You did such a good job, sweetheart," she murmured, looking up at you with a soft smile. "I love it, Malyshka."

Your lips curled up, eyes sparkling at her praise. You rocked on your heels, waiting, hopeful, and Wanda knew exactly what you needed. She set her papers aside, focusing entirely on you.

"Come here, baby," she said gently, opening her arms. "Come sit with Mama."

The second the word left her lips, she felt it—the way you froze. Your happy sway stopped, your hands clenched slightly at your sides. You blinked at her, uncertainty flickering in your expression as you searched her face.

"Mama?" you echoed, your voice barely above a whisper.

Wanda stayed perfectly still, giving you space to process. She hadn’t called herself that before, at least not out loud, though she had thought about it more times than she could count.

"Only if you want me to be, sweetheart," she assured softly, her voice steady, warm. "I would never make you do something you’re not comfortable with."

You shifted on your feet, fingers curling against the fabric of your sleeves. "But... do you want to be?"

Wanda’s breath caught for just a moment before she exhaled, nodding. "I do," she admitted, her hand resting gently on her knee, not reaching for you, just waiting. "I’d love to take care of you in whatever way you need."

You stared at her, the hesitation clear in your expression. But beneath it, Wanda could see something else—longing, hope, the deep desire for safety and care.

She kept her voice soft. "You don’t have to decide right now, Malyshka."

You bit your lip, shifting your weight from foot to foot before, slowly, you stepped closer. Wanda didn’t move, letting you take the lead, and after a brief pause, you finally climbed onto her lap, settling hesitantly against her.

Wanda wrapped her arms around you carefully, rubbing soothing circles along your back.

You stayed stiff for a moment before you melted into her, resting your head against her shoulder. A soft sigh left you as your fingers grasped at her sweater, holding onto her like you were afraid she might disappear.

Wanda pressed a gentle kiss to your temple, her lips brushing against your warm skin. "I've got you, sweetheart. Always."

And this time, you didn’t hesitate to believe her.

[identitty-dickruption]

Is there anything that you see when someone writes addiction/alcohol addiction specifically that really annoys you? As someone trying to write something related rn, having someone who actually knows about it's perspective is really useful :]. Obviously no pressure to answer! Have a nice day <3

oh absolutely yes. I've seen some truly shocking things of late. and also in general very happy to bitch about it for a bit

it may sound obvious but don't. like. blame the entirety of a person's addiction on a single factor or act like "if only they had access to x piece of information, they wouldn't be an addict!". in candy house by Jennifer Egan, one of the characters became an addict because of her dyslexia and her inability to find fictional characters who Truly Understood Her. don't do that.

try not to smooth them out into a singular dimensional person. or even a two dimensional person (where the two dimensions are addiction and trauma or whatever). an addict is a human being. weirdly difficult for people to conceptualise this

NOBODY gets withdrawal right. withdrawal is Not a couple shakes and then you're good. withdrawal can last weeks, if not months, depending on how dependent the person was on the substance and depending on what the substance is

similar to the above, if someone relapses while they're experiencing withdrawal, the withdrawal symptoms do not immediately disappear. if you're throwing your guts up you won't be magically fine the moment you get your substance in you. you will still feel incredibly shit for a good couple hours Minimum

implying that addiction is inherently irrational, or selfish, or stupid. addiction is a response to a set of circumstances that make sense to a person at the time. nobody becomes an addict for shits and giggles. there is always something else going on

likewise, the "high functioning alcoholic" trope has. problems. like I spent an entire year being tipsy non-stop while I was also doing alright in university and whatever. very definition of high-functioning alcoholism I guess. but I think those characters are done Poorly a lot of the time in that the nature of the interpersonal issues they have never feels Quite Right

"I got sober for love" shut the fuck up. "you saved me from myself" go away. "one real human relationship fixed my dependency on substances" no it did not. if love cured all ills, I would be the healthiest guy on the planet. it simply does not work that way <- falling in love makes it easier to love myself and have hope for the future but at the end of the day I'm still a traumatised bitch who struggles with shit

the entire concept of an intervention. addiction does not end with One Grand Event that will make everything better. forcing someone to go to rehab barely ever works. interventions are not one-off events, they are a series of kind and compassionate conversations that occur over a long period of time

sorry this ended up being a lot more than I thought it would. I think if you asked me again tomorrow I would have five to ten more things to bitch about. idk. people get the complexities of addiction wrong A Lot and I've read/seen more bad rep than good rep. but oh well. it's important to me that people are out there trying their best to do better! so thanks for asking

[alilobsessive]

Dreaming of Teeth

2

When experiencing great trauma the human brain will do anything to keep itself functioning, even to the detriment of the other body parts. The harm to your body doesn’t matter, just that the brain feels safe. For every human this can function in many ways, over eating, under eating, over sleeping, daydreaming and in your case alcoholism. You aren’t unaware that your coping mechanisms are dangerous, especially in a city like Gotham. But you can’t bring yourself to care, you’ll take anything then the anger and sadness that courses through your brain when you have time to think. So you indulge in your vices, even if they will lead you to an early grave.

You have done a great job at it too, of course that is until coming home from a party you run into one of the many people you prayed you would never see again. One of your many, many siblings.

Or

I just wanted to see a Batfam and Neglected! Reader fic we’re Reader had AWFUL coping mechanisms when dealing with their trauma.

Tw: Prominent OC usage, unreliable narrator but it’s not super obvious, Under aged drinking, Canon Typical Child Death (Jason), Canon Typical Child Undeath (Jason), Not Canon Typical Child Death (Unnamed Child OC), slight sexual content with unnamed character at the beginning, implied criminal activity, mention of organ harvesting, referenced underaged smoking, unspecified criminal activity, implied homelessness, references to drugs and sex but no actual drugs and sex, okay there is weed smoking, child abandonment, spousal abandonment, child neglect, spousal neglect, cheating, references to Red Hood typical murderers and the people who are usually his victims(rapist, traffickers you know the drill). Probably more things I haven’t realized count as tw or forgot to add. Idk I went into a fugue state at 10pm and when I came to it was 4am and I wrote a good chunk of this. Then spent like two weeks editing this, there might be some spelling and grammar errors, I am very dyslexic.

——————

Lights flashes around the room colorful and bright, your lips tangle with a strangers, back pressed against a wall. Arms wrapped around the neck of someone you have not met before today and someone who you will never see again after. Sitting next to you glancing over every few seconds is your roommate and while you would not call Phoebe your best she is your closest. The young woman isn’t as big of a fan of clubs and parties such as this one, but every night she dutifully comes. Just to make sure you’re safe in the dark Gotham streets. A sentiment you truly appreciate, a type of care and love you have never experienced before her.

You lightly moan as the stranger grinds against you, both your breaths smelling of alcohol. You’re brain muddled, only thinking about how good you feel. Dumb and giggling, not a worry to be had, just like you like it. But sadly before anything could go further, your phone's alarm went off, the most dreaded part of the night. A reminder that all this must be over, and responsibilities must come. With a wet pop as you separated from tonight’s partner and a whine of sorrow you reach into your jacket pocket for your phone, the drunken stranger takes this as an invitation to go for your neck. Leaving feather light kisses across it, with a small giggle you lightly push them back. They oblige with a whispered “aww come on baby” you feel nothing as they say this, but you desperately want to.

Turning off the alarm that normally is a loud blare, but with the mind numbing beat of the music, so loud you can feel it against the wall. With a pout and you whine out “I know” while looking up at them clearly disappointed. “I would love to stay with you longer” you would, you don’t want the buzz to go away. “But I have to go” reaching over next to yourself quietly, your roommate hands your glass over. It’s slightly warm from being lovingly guarded in her hands. You chug the rest of it down, the bitter sting as it goes down your throat a soothing balm to all your troubles, including leaving. “Aaw, at least call me later” they pout, with a drunken giggle and sweet voice “of course!” You say happily and once again press your lips against there’s. It’s a desperate thing, a reluctance to leave their grasp. But you pull away anyway, knowing that the second they put a hand back on your hips you’ll have to be pried off.

The alarm is a clear indication that that's not what sober you wanted. They wanted you out by 10, so you will be out by 10. Stumbling away and then turning back around to blow them another kiss, they wave back almost dreamily before being dragged away themselves by their own drunken friend. Neither of you have the other's phone number, let alone know each other’s name. Neither of you seem to notice or care. Phoebe is already at your side, quietly dragging you out of the club. Once you’re onto the sidewalk you slump onto her. “I wanted to spend more time there” you slur out with a pout, but she only rolls her eyes. The woman was definitely not dressed for clubbing of any kind. Clothing more like pajamas, not a speck of makeup on her face. Glasses perched against a crooked nose that never quite set right after something broke it. Despite Phoebe’s quiet and calm demeanor you can tell she’s anxious, just like you she has her own vices. Issues that she blocks away, but unlike you who drains your sorrows in booze, clubs and one night stands. The far more introverted women drains them in weed, blankets and porn.

“I know” she says softly ending it with your name and a sigh, “but we both have to be up by 6” responsibility, the thing you both hate. The two of you would rather be indulging, hiding from and blocking out the world. Doing nothing but having fun and pretending your issues don’t exist. But you can’t live without suffering, and suffer you must to keep a roof over your head’s, stomach’s full and wine flowing. She leads you to her car, a red mom van Phoebe’s had since before you became roommates two years ago.

But before you're even close enough to open it, you hear a voice, one you haven’t heard in years. He calls out the name of a dead man, almost surprised to see you. You turn to look at him, fear in your eyes at the name. The sight of him alone almost shocks you sober, if that’s even possible. Although it’s been several years since you saw him, you can instantly tell who you’re looking at. Phoebe looks at you confused, but says nothing, not recognizing the name, but understanding what your reaction means. Fear and dread curl up in your stomach, you want to cry, you want to scream. Why, why is one of them here, all you can do is stare at the man in front of you.

Your mother is a wealthy woman, married to an equally wealthy man. The Wayne family owned the biggest tech company in all of Gotham, making anything from cars to grappling hooks. Of course that’s not all they do, even before you were born they practically owned this city. Not just with there wealth, but with how many different types of pie’s they have there thumb in. Your mother loved your Father with all her heart, but Bruce Wayne didn’t love her back. It was well known he was a serial cheater, sleeping with and going out with as many other women as possible. He only married your mother because he needed to, it was to get the board of directors off his back. A wife was perfect to clean up his image, but that wasn’t what he desired. Instead of cleaning up his act and at least hiding his affairs he made them public. Your mother was left behind, neglected and humiliated every day. You were born a year into their marriage, how that even happened you don’t know, nor do you want to.

Neither of your parents loved you, even your mother, the person you were closest to, wanted as little to do with you as possible. The small sympathetic part of you thinks she might have had postpartum depression, but the rest of you doesn’t care why she treated you that way. What she did to you was inexcusable. In your eyes at least. One day when you were three, something inside her snapped. You don’t know exactly what happened, maybe she found out about his secret. She loved Bruce after all, not Batman, finding out that the man you love is nothing but a parsons. The real personality, completely different, both more willing to live in a cave than with you would break anyone. Why she would love Bruce at all given his treatment of her you will never know, never truly understand.

So, that cold winter day you watched as your mother put on her favorite fur coat. How she packed her leather suitcases and anything else she had that could be used as a storage container. She handed you a photo kept safe inside a frame, one that would lead you on a wild goose chase for the next 13 years. It was when you were a baby, just born and sitting inside an incubator, born 3 weeks too early and far too small. You’re Father, staring at you with eyes you have never seen on him before and never will, at least not directed at you. Eyes full of love and affection, a look you will chase for far too long. Then she gave you a pat on the head with her gloved hand, you would follow close behind as she carried her bags and suitcases outside, your small body sat right next to the door as it was too cold and you weren’t dressed for the weather. You watched as she got into a car

and dropped off the face of the fucking earth.

It was like she was retconned out of existence, no traces of where she might have gone was found. You bet Batman could have found her, if he tried. A part of you hates that he didn’t, that he let her pack up her things, take her money and vanish without a trace, took a week before she was declared missing. She’s still a hot topic in true crime podcasts even 20 years later. That woman left you all alone, with a Father you only saw in pictures and a butler that pitted you. There was never love in Alfreds eyes, only pity that you must exist. He looked at your mother with those same eyes, it’s a miracle she hadn’t left sooner. She left you to sit alone with a desperate desire for their affection, something they never gave to you, but so happily gave to others.

Why didn’t she take you? Why didn’t she bring you with her? WHY-

You were 5 when Dick was adopted and not long later became Robin. He didn’t know what to do with you, he spent the first 13 years of his life an only child. He didn’t know how to handle a random 5 year old coming up to him and asking him to play. Tie that in and all his grief and anger at losing his parents, he wasn’t able to be a big brother, he didn’t want to be a big brother. But Dick isn’t cruel, he was polite and kind, but as distant as they come. In a way that was even more cruel.

Bruce loves Dick, maybe not in the way of a Father, closer to that of a much younger brother that suddenly became your ward after the untimely death of your parents. But it is love nonetheless, he took him to gala’s that you would never catch a glimpse of. To patrols, and crime scenes and fights, teaching him the best he could. But Bruce could barely look at you at dinner, if he did it was through you, not at you. How his loving eyes in that photo turned so cold in just a few short months, maybe even days or hours, you don’t know.

That’s exactly the reason you hated Jason, the two of you are much closer in age. He was 14 and you were 11 when he was adopted. It was at a tumultuous time, Dick just left being Robin after a falling out with Bruce, and you had just learned that your Father and brother were Batman and Robin. At first you didn’t get why Dick hated Jason, Jason was the kindest boy you had ever met. No he was the kindest person you had ever met, dispute living an awful life and having to go through nicotine withdrawals when he first moved in he always had a smile on his face. He never let his trauma get him down, or at the very least he never showed it to you. In your eyes he was one of the strongest people you had ever met, you never looked up to Dick quite like how you looked up to Jason the first month he was there. He talked to you, he went along with your games and silly stories, even came to your figure skating competition, he was the closest thing to an older brother you ever had.

That all came crashing down, the day you finally got it, understood Dick’s hatred. For the first time all three of you were in the same room and Bruce gave Jason that look, the look you’ve been striving for your whole life. In hindsight it made sense, who wouldn’t love Jason? All smiles and playful banter and an unending desire to help. But in your little 11 year old brain it felt like the greatest betrayal. You wanted nothing to do with him from that point on, ignoring him no matter how desperately he tried to talk to you. It got so bad that one day, you yelled at him and threw the closet thing next to you at him. You couldn’t remember what you threw but it didn’t really matter, Jason caught it with ease, although he clearly wasn’t expecting it, and you ran. The two of you very rarely interact after that. From what you overheard Bruce talking to Alfred, Jason was getting more violent. Although you couldn’t see it yourself, Jason was just the same as usual, and that love never left Bruce's eyes. He should be happy, he got everything you ever wanted, he was happy, or so you thought.

Then one day he ran away, on some stupid quest to find his birth mother. Why would he even want that when he had people that loved him right here? So what if they weren’t his blood, they were still his family. What did that get him? Both him and his bio mom getting murdered that’s what. You were so angry at him, he wasn’t even there for a full year and he was already gone forever? Just like that? You didn’t even get to say goodbye! You hated Jason, and you miss him so much. To this day your greatest regret is that you couldn’t reconcile, not that you have the balls too. Not once in your several chances have you done so.

Tim was next, you never cared for Tim and he never cared for you. The boy showed up out of nowhere, he’s the same age as you. First going to Dick and begging him to be Robin again, Batman needs a Robin after all. Instead of asking you, he went straight to becoming Robin. Not that Bruce would let you become Robin, and not like you had the desire to become what killed your brother. Tim was technically not a part of the family, but he stayed around so often he practically was. It took a long time for Bruce to love Tim, but he grew on Bruce like a fungus. You didn’t care about Tim, you weren’t desperate for his approval. All you wanted was your Father’s love, that he so freely gave out to everyone else. The man who so freely hurt both you and your mother in the most humiliating of ways, not even acknowledging your relationship with him.

You met Cassandra after Gotham was safe to come back to, thankfully before No Man’s Land

your whole grade was on a week long field trip out of the city. Unthankfully the executive order to activate No Man’s Land came on the first day of the trip. No one could go back home after that, for months a whole high school class was stranded. Many of the school students were members of the elite so they were quickly brought back to their families when they fled. But yours didn’t, you struggled as one of the many Gotham refugees. But dispute this, for the first time in years you felt alive. Admittedly your 16 year old self didn’t make the best choices. You didn’t have a credit card, any identification outside of the school ID, no access to Wayne money. So you did whatever you could to get by. You made friends with people you shouldn’t have been friends with, very quickly falling into the mindset of doing anything to get a quick buck. But being completely cut off from your family for the first time. It made you realize how little you needed them. No, how little you needed him.

So coming back to Gotham after several months was strange.16 years old and suddenly seeing everything so differently, how much of a fool you were for wanting your father's approval and several bad habits you still haven’t beaten to this day. The fact that while you were gone, they had replaced you with Cassandra, pissed you the fuck off. Of course it did, who wouldn’t be angry! But not at her, not anymore, you were mad at Bruce. You hated everything about him, about being reminded of him. But you still loved him, still wanted him to look at you, tell you to your face that he didn’t want you instead of avoiding you and pretending you didn’t exist. Maybe then you could finally move on, or maybe not, you’ll never know. Cassandra was here, just like Dick she was polite but could care less about you. Just like everyone’s favorite hero Nightwing, puller of the Hero community! Who could do no wrong even when he did, all of this pissed you the fuck off

and made you so, so sad.

So you drank and went to parties full of people you barely knew, and drank some more. Getting a fake id in Gotham isn’t that hard, nore was finding clubs that wouldn’t look at it with more than a glance. The hard part was finding ones that also wouldn’t sell your organs. Buy that point you were barely at the manor, barely at school, only just passing most of your classes, sleeping in as many as possible for a variety of different reasons. No one at home cared, not Bruce, not Dick, not Alfred and his stupid pitying face. Every day he gave you that same fucking look, like he was sad for you. If he truly cared he would have tried to help ages ago before you were even born. You wanted to punch that old man in the face, but you didn’t because everyone loved Alfred. He was like a grandfather to everyone else in the maner, even a slightly threatening glare would set them off.

School was a different story altogether. People card there, but most only cared to look down on you or make fun of you. Thanks to your Father's past treatment of your mother and the fact that you're rarely seen in public with them. It’s clear to a lot of people you're not favored, that does mean you’re not kidnapped for ransom every other week like most of your classmates. But it also means all the high society types don’t like you that much, they ignore you at best, openly mock and belittle you at worst. But at this point, you didn’t give a shit, you had entered the dreaded, edgy 16 years old ‘I’m a lone wolf’ faze. Which you would be stuck in for an even more embarrassing amount of time.

Of course as the child of a ‘superhero’ the world's greatest detective, yada, yada, yada, life can never stay peaceful. Or as close to a form of peace Mr. Edgy Too-Cool-For-School 17 year old self could grasp onto. No, in fact there superherodum infected your everyday life, of course it did, there were villains left and right. Honestly your superseded Gotham isn’t a ghost town with how much shit goes down here. But an underrated part of being a superhero is how many times someone can be killed and then raised from the dead. To the point that every time a superhero dies you aren’t surprised when they come back from the dead anywhere from a few months to years later.

For the first time in a long time though, you were surprised. There was man you don’t recognize in the manor’s living room, sitting on the couch, gaze glued to the floor looking deep in thought. Tall, muscular, and covered in scars. He looked like someone you would have worked under during No Man’s Land. Right before you can turn heel and leave, he looks at you, you look back. Face morphing in a mix of shock and fear, his own going from neutrality to his signature sunny smile that’s burned into your brain. Jason calls out the name of a soon to be dead man, with the same glee he did all those years ago. His voice having changed so much over the years. Instead of going to the brother you so deeply missed, who you never stopped mourning, regretting, guilting over. You do what you always do, what you’ve been doing for years in fun different ways

You run

Just like your mother before you, on a cold winter’s day you put on a jacket. Pack as many bags as you can carry, take all the money you saved up and leave. Just like your mother before you, Batman, Bruce Wayne, the man you both desperately craved the love and affection of for so many years. Never comes looking for you, none of them do not even Jason. You’re a coward, same as your mother. You will always be a coward, you have come to accept that fact. That you will never be strong enough to confront them.

Yet you can’t leave this city, you don’t have the heart to.

In a place like Gotham, no one glances twice at a teenager carrying lots of bags in the cold. You don’t look twice at them either. As quickly as you can, you change your name. Not just your last name, your whole name, first, middle and last. With no remnants of your Father and mother left, the Wayne you once were is dead. You are now a new person entirely, at least in a legal sense. Now your name is just yours not there’s, if only you could change more on a deeper, visceral level.

Life was tough, but it wasn’t anything you couldn’t handle, got help, made friends. Eventually finding your way into the shabby apartment you live in with your roommate, your closest friend. Now you’re living comfortably, compared to before at least. Of course someone had to fuck it up. We’re-we’re he- Jason, he stands right in front of you, okay not right, he’s a good 5 or so feet away, but it wouldn’t be hard for him to just walk closer. Fuck you haven’t seen anyone in that good forsaken family in person in 6 years! Now that you finally have everything together, finally have a decent life of your own. You’re biggest regret and shame stands right before you.

Phoebe takes a step in front of you trying to protect you from Jason. Like she can protect you from a muscular man twice her size, a former Robin no less, even if it was a short stint, even the most basic of training is fucking brutal. Jason looks amused at her reaction, clearly having the exact same thought. He calls that god damn name again, if you were sober, you would have probably pretended to not know who that is and say he got the wrong person. But you’re not, you’re drunk and scared, and that’s a recipe for disaster. “That’s not my name” you say quickly, but not steadily. “Wa-“ he looks at you confused, then he really looks at you, with the eyes not of an older brother running into their estranged sibling on the street. But as a trained detective, “are you drunk?” Jason asks in a mix of shock and concern. “That’s not-that’s none of your fucknn bugisiness” you slur out, definitely drunk but also panicking. Walking closer Jason continues to speak “I’m your older brother! You getting drunk and running around the dark streets of Gotham is definitely my business!” Instead of responding like a sane and rational person. You grab Phoebe by the arm and yell “GET IN THE CAR!” Then booking it to the car with your best efforts, Jason just stands there watching you, baffled.

Opening the door and shoving Phoebe in the front seat, she awkwardly crawls over to the driver’s side. You then slide in and slam the door closed, already aggressively shaking her saying “drive! drive! drive!” Increasingly panicked, before she can even properly get seated. She lightly shoo’s your hands away as she gets seated and pulls out her keys. Turning the car on and speeding away, both of you unaware that as she pulls away from the sidewalk Jason takes out his phone and takes a picture of her license plate. He put it back in his pocket with a sigh, now Jason was planning on letting you come back home on your own terms. He completely understands the desire to brood away from your family for several years because you’re mad at them. But after seeing that? Well it’s clear to Jason that if he doesn’t force you to come back you never will

and we can’t have that now can we?

Your appointment is small, two bedrooms both just big enough for a twin and a dresser. An open living room and kitchen, with a single cramped bathroom that can’t even hold a tub. The few windows all open to an alleyway with a fire escape that is barely up to code. One of the windows is boarded up, having been broken recently during a Batman chase sequence. The guys your landlord hired to fix it won’t be able to come for another week. Your couch looks like a possum had given birth in it, which might be true seeing as Phoebe stole it off the street with her old roommate before you came into the picture. The tv is so old it’s still a box and doesn’t get Netflix, not like either of you are subscribed to a streaming service. Pirating all the way! Compared to Wayne manor this place is a dump.

It’s perfect

Really most places would be considered a dump by Wayne manor standards. This has been the second nicest apartment you lived in since you moved out. And you don’t even feel like you’re mooching off the kindness of a sweet single mother and her 8 year old brat with this one! Currently your face is shoved into a pillow as you lay on the stolen possum nest. Phoebe stands by one of the windows, having opened it and leaning on the sill. You can hear a lighter being flipped on and off from we’re she’s standing. Then the smell of weed smoke fills your nose.

“So..” she begins “what the actual fuck was that” “I don’t want to talk about it” came your muffled reply. “No seriously what the fuck?” She said, you could hear her footsteps walking towards you. “Out the window!” You point behind your back to the general direction of the window. “Listen I’m all for ignoring your problems and keeping your dark past to yourself” she ignores your previous statement, her voice much closer than before. “But as your roommate I need to know the basics of what I’m working with here. That guy who looks like he works for The Penguin or some shit-“ “Penguin?!” You almost laugh out. “Ya! Like gang shit!” “I know but why The Penguin?” She sputters at that “I don’t fuckin know! He’s like on the top of my Gotham gang leader’s tier list!” “You have a tear list?? The Penguin is on the top of it??” You’re voice filled with a mix of amusement and confusion “We live in Gotham!” Is her defense “Of course I have a tier list!” Phoebe huffs.

You squirm onto your back, face still covered by the pillow. “Hold on, what level is Red Hood?” “He’s not on it, he’s a superhero.” She says it like it’s a fact, “he’s literally not though? He kills people” “please the only people he kills are rapists, abusers and human traffickers. Hero in my book- the point is I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt that he’s not with the Joker-“ that sentence alone made you laugh for a minute straight. Phoebe stood there quietly smoking her cigarette as you cackled violently. Once calmed down you finally say “Jason would rather hunt him for sport then work for him. I can’t imagine any timeline where Jason works for the Joker. That would be so out of character for him.” She hums in acknowledgment. “So this guy- Jason- you’re brother- shows the fuck up out of nowhere, both of you shocked to see each other dead names you-“ “in his defense I changed my name after we cut contact” “right good on you Y/N” that statement made you lower the pillow from your face and onto yours chest. Staring at her from the other side of the couch like she’s crazy.

“Y/N?” You ask “ya, you know like, your name? Y/N” “no I get what you’re talking about” you cut her off. “But why the fuck did you just call me the name placement for an X Reader fic?” She shrugs and takes a drag of her cigarette. “Helped with calming you down, didn't it?” “What? Ugg” you put a hand up to your face, “your distracting me!” “And probing for answers!” She cheers out. “So what about him got you so freaked out, hmm girly pop?” You groan again, properly sitting up, feet on the floor, pillow in your lap. She slides into the now free spot next to you.

“It’s just- we have a super complicated relationship, and he’s the sibling I have the best relationship with, but with him still being in contact with the family… I don’t know, we… we got into a bad argument and before we could make up he… went missing for 5 years. Then he was suddenly found after being declared dead for so long- I… I panicked, ran… ended up here.” You look in the opposite direction of her almost shamefully. The both of you sit in silence for a bit, it’s quiet for a long time before with an almost defeated sigh she finally speaks. “When I graduated high school my grandparents went on a road trip to go to a family reunion in a different state.” She starts, and you turn to look at her “I stayed behind, my relationship with the family wasn’t the best to begin with and I didn’t want to spend several days in a cramped car with people I barely liked. My younger sister on the other hand went, the two of us had a pretty significant age gap, about 9 years. Just a day into the trip they got into a nasty car accident” She takes a stutery breath, and puts her cigarette back in her mouth, blowing on it. “Everyone else, my grandparents, aunts and cousins. They all lived, not her though, she was the only person in the car that wasn’t an adult, the others got serious injuries that needed surgery’s for. But her body was decimated, died instantly, and brutally mangled.” You just stare at her, horror clear on your face. Hers is almost completely blank, not even hear at the moment, mind far off and somewhere else.

“Why are you telling me this?” You ask her, she glances over to you before looking away. “You were telling me things you didn’t want to talk about, to remember. So I’m doing the same.” “but yours is way more detailed. I was being so vague! Now I feel bad” “don’t be, I was debating on if i should tell you this anyways. No pressure with going into more detail about your mysterious past.” with a sigh you look down at your feet. Not knowing what to say next, if you should even say something next. Finally after a bit of internal debate you say the first thing that comes to mind “this is not how I wanted the day to go”, Phoebe laughs “me neither”. “He probably won’t be an issue.” You continue fiddling with your hands, “the rest of my family never really cared about me, I was basically just a ghost in their house. Hell I don’t even know if my sister knows my name!” “Yeesh” “ya… he was the only one that really cared, so outside of him probably having already found where we live-“ “what” “we shouldn’t have to deal with the rest of my family” she opens her mouth to speak again. “Or worry about gangs” she closes it “most of my siblings work for are Dad’s tech company anyways. They have no reason to join a gang.” “A family business? In Gotham?” she chuckles “If it doesn’t have ties to some gang or isn’t like 3 generations old or both, I don’t see that place still standing.” now you laugh, if only she knew.

If only she knew.

——————

A/N time!

I have some more ideas for this AU but I admittedly don’t know much more of what to do with it. Like I have a lot of ideas for character relationships but not a lot of plot. I know at some point Reader is dragged back to the Wayne’s but I haven’t fully decided if it’s willing or not.

I do have a few ideas for what Reader’s name was before they became a Y/N L/N. But I didn’t want it to come off too much like the reader is an OC. I also don’t want to pick a name that someone reading this might have. Which is a slim but very there possibility, would be pretty fucking immersion, breaking if the character who canonically change their name to be yours/whatever OC you make already had yours/whatever OC you make is first name. So I’ll probably keep those ideas to myself.

Also if it isn’t clear, I have never once smoked in my life. I'm more of an edible girly myself, more powerful and you're not inhaling smoke! It’s a win win! Also I have no experience writing someone who is drunk or high, so there probably also written poorly. In fact I’ve never once gotten as drunk as the reader does in this. Admittedly I couldn’t figure out how to write the ending with them drunk.

Thinking about making the floor plan of the apartment in the sims, but idk it’s not going to be that important? If I do end up continuing this like I have planned. I’m already working on chapter two! Which expands on things mentioned here and hopefully shows even more how much of an unreliable narrator reader is. Idk I’ve only started the first few paragraphs.

I know not many X reader fics go into detail about the Reader is non from fandom relationships. Which makes sense, it’s called Batfam X Neglected Reader after all, not Reader and the OC gang. I honestly just felt like filling out the world with more non DC or other franchise characters. Don’t worry if I do continue this it won’t be a common trend, Phoebe will be the only commonly reoccurring named OC. If/when I add more they won’t be as prominent or fleshed out as her. She’s very important to the plot I’ve got cookin in my brain :).

Fun fact! Phoebe didn’t originally have a name! She was referred to solely as roommate up till the last minute!

[storiumemporium]

Astarion As a Father

Fem!Tav/Reader

I FINALLY GOT A NEW KEYBOARD WITH FULLY FUNCTIONING KEYS LETS GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

I elected to write about something that's been giving me brainworms for ages, because I'd been talking about it with someone on here awhile ago and it just infested me. Astarion finding out you're pregnant and how he handles fatherhood. (Or, in this case, doesn't at first.) This isn't my best work but I blame it on the fact that I didn't intend for it to be THIS FUCKING LONG okay 😭

But without further ado, daddy Astarion:

Finding out:

When it comes to children, I think Astarion hasn't put much thought into it beyond 'me!? ABSOLUTELY NOT—'

He has no illusions about his state of mind and his faculties, you see. Astarion knows that he's fucked up, he knows that he's a problem, and he's only entirely too confident that any child unfortunately put under his care would likely end up just as damaged as he is, were they to miraculously make it to adulthood. He's just not equipped for it.

And, frankly, Astarion isn't even aware he can have children... That's just, not something he ever thought to question. He's undead, is he not? That should take care of the...fertility question.

Shouldn't it?

Truth be told, Cazador never told him of the possibilities because it was never meant to be a possibility. Astarion was too malnourished, his victims too short lived for anything to ever have come of it. He was supposed to die a sacrifice, not live to carry his own bloodline (hah) onward.

Were you to ever ask him about it, even jokingly over dinner one eve, he'd be very firm in the fact that it's a terrible idea and he'd be entirely unequipped. He would even go so far as to say he's the worst choice out of all of your past companions.

"Me? No. Absolutely not. I'm sure whatever little devil you managed to cook up would be the most charming child Baldur's Gate has ever seen... But even that magical explosive that fancied himself a God would be better suited to fatherhood, darling. I am built for luxury and adventure, nothing else." All bookended by typical Astarion preening.

So when the day comes and you inform him of the little life growing in your womb?

Nope. Not happening, not even a chance of happening.

The denial is strong with this one.

And when I say denial, I mean that Astarion well and truly blots out what you've said from his mind, as if it simply didn't happen at all. You never had the conversation, you never dropped the revelation, there is no child, he is not becoming a father.

It's not a lack of want— though he doesn't realize that yet— it's true, blinding terror. Before it was just a joke, just something for him to brush off with commentary about how terribly he'd do as a parent, better the uncle than anything else. But now it's a reality and to accept what you've said is to accept that he might well and truly destroy a child. But not just any, yours.

The traumas Astarion possesses heap onto his shoulders and slough off plentiful enough to make new oceans of it. Now, not only is he just beginning to regain his own autonomy, he's supposedly being given responsibility over a brand new life?

(It would only make sense for Astarion in retrospect, that the life you willingly sacrificed to nourish and nurture him would in turn allow him to grow a new life within you. The fool had just been too blind to consider it: The way, fresh off your blood, he could pull back from the delicate column of your throat and you would find his cheeks and ears and chest flushed with the loveliest shade of pink, eyes wide and soft and alive. The way his entire body would warm, going from corpse frigid to something just beneath normal. The way his once-still heart would slowly beat again.

He'd even asked you once- curled together on a familiar silken bed, foreheads touching and your hands clasped together between your chests- if you knew what it felt like to be so, so hungry that all you could even think about was about badly you wanted to eat? How food sounded so good that the desire became crossed and instead felt even more painful and nauseating? How it consumed your ability to make rational decisions, denied you the capacity to control your emotions?

He'd told you then, voice tender and timid and weak, that he'd felt like that every single day for two whole centuries, until the night you'd willingly laid down on that cot and put your life in his hands.

It was so simple really, of course you granted him the strength to create life. It was you.)

And of course it comes to a head before there is any chance at recovery. Your body begins to show the changes, you begin to swell, and Astarion only grows more avoidant and flighty. Because now he can't simply wipe the idea from his mind and continue on as if the child doesn't exist, the proof is there every single time he looks at you. He makes it very clear to you that he will not be returning to your side without a confrontation, a very potentially ugly one at that.

And ugly it is, explosive. Astarion hasn't truly had the time to recover from his life under Cazador, and all of those protective traits he grew remain sharp as ever, returning to the surface as if they'd never truly gone away to begin with. He sneers and hisses, tries his best to dig in and hurt you enough to stop poking his tender wounds. Enough to push you away so he can lick his wounds back open. He'll go so far as to accuse you of infidelity, though he regrets the words the moment they leave his lips, it's easier for him to imagine that you simply grew tired of him, that you were weary and longed for the daylight. That you wanted someone who could hold you beneath the sun, unlike him.

How you respond to this is entirely up to you, but just shy of throwing something truly despicable back into his face, such as Cazador, Astarion will apologize... eventually. If you remain stalwart and patient, if you have it in you to recognize that he doesn't mean his words, that he's barbing you with intent, Astarion will break down in that very same argument, his angry and accusatory rant will dissolve into an admission of deep insecurity and deeper terror.

But if you respond with anger? Justifiable, and Astarion knows that even in the moment as it's happening, but emotions rule him far more than he'd ever care to admit, and he will dig in and relish the reaction he's managed to draw from you. He will bristle and bite back until suspicion and bitterness fully claims his heart, and he aborts the conversation to hide in the shadows.

Astarion will wait until nightfall, until his freedom calls for him. The one thing that always manages to clear his head, even when you prove to be the cause of his muddying. It's a reminder, every time he steps into the cool and dark of Baldur's Gate, that Cazador is dead and he is a free man. That he can go where he chooses and when he chooses to, and not only that no one can stop him, but that you wouldn't even want to stop him.

And that truth is always what brings Astarion home.

Under the distant lonely stars and that cold moon, he has to remember that time and again you have let him. You have accepted him, you have not fought him on anything shy of a horrible mistake he wanted to make in a moment of weakness and hysteria. You have accepted all his deepest and ugliest wounds and kissed them like they were freckles to pour affection on. You fought Cazador for him, you defended him from your own friends. You even- at times- tested your own morals for him.

You wouldn't betray him, and Astarion knows he can't betray you.

Astarion would return to you late, curling into bed at your side, his eyes would not meet you, and his apology would come in the form of a simple confession. "I am... afraid. I am afraid."

Astarion wouldn't blame you if you don't forgive him immediately for his transgressions, he was cruel and you were vulnerable. But even then you'll find that your love doesn't abandon you again. He accepts- however frightened- that what you've said is true and is coming, and he must accept it. Mind you, it won't be perfect and it won't be romantic. Astarion doesn't know the intricacies of handling a pregnant woman, he's hardly tactful beyond his well honed and flirtatious lines. He genuinely loves you, but he's going to come pre-equipped as father material.

You need something? He'll get it with minimal complaint (but never none, you'd sooner get him to dye his hair black than cease complaining for the sake of it), he won't begrudge you your mood swings though he might be inclined to poke fun at you ever so often. And he will panic when you burst into tears for seemingly no reason, and no- time doesn't make him adjust, he will panic just as much the thousandth time as the first.

However, if it's any consolation. The moment your child enters the world, Astarion is a changed man.

When You Go Into Labor:

Astarion did the honors of informing all of your friends about your pregnancy, once he came to terms with it. And believe me when I say it is extravagant. The stationery and grandiose script that Astarion wields when informing everyone that you were expecting better fits a wedding invitation than it does... well. Very elegantly explaining that Astarion had accidentally knocked you up.

You can tell from the splotchy stains addressed to you from Wyll and Karlach that one of them had been crying when penning the message, Astarion has coin on Wyll, and you on Karlach. Lae'zel never responds to begin with and you know for a fact the Githyanki's response will likely come in the form of her simply showing up one of these days, unprompted. Jaheira personally and rather frequently visits as well, she becomes a sort of bastion as nerves take you over, confident and calm as she is. Halsin's "letter" arrives late, rather because alongside his letter is several little carved animals for the child's room, and mentions of a quilt he intends to bring along when next he visits. Shadowheart's letter, while congratulatory, contains an air of interrogation strung all about it, all aimed with pinpoint precision at the man responsible for your pregnancy and dripping with sarcasm.

Gale's letter is seven pages long, comes with a violet hued wax stamp, and multiple different inks in the most lavish hand he can manage. You daresay he's competing with Astarion. However, surprisingly, Gale's seems to be the most... helpful of them all? It wasn't your intent, you simply wanted your dear friend to join you in celebration, and yet Gale goes on to inform you that upon reading the letter he'd become a madman in pursuit of knowledge on pregnancy and giving birth. He admits that this wasn't a particularly fruitful endeavor, as he's rather confident that you're not a gnoll, troll, cambion, succubus, or any other variety of strange creature with strange metrics of procreation. Still, Gale directs the latter portion of his letter to Astarion quite pointedly, informing him of bookshops around Baldur's Gate where he might have more success.

Astarion scoffs, but you don't miss the way his fingers twitch and flex.

After the hilarity of this is resolved and you just begin to believe that peace might return to your soft little home in the city, the first of your companions begin to arrive.

This continues on for the next week or so, without you ever knowing that this had been planned- and without knowing that Astarion had been the one to plan it. It's a furthering of his apology, of his guilt over the way he'd treated you. Again, Astarion has no illusions of the kind of man he is, and the fact he's not nurturing in the sort of ways that you need- but he's not completely stupid and he knows you're scared. So... bring the cavalry, darling.

Eventually your entire home has become a crash pad for all of your dearest friends, your family, and you only grow suspicious of Astarion's hand in this chaos because he's surprisingly amicable to having his peace so thoroughly disturbed by 'everyone and their mother'. Truly, he manages to bite his tongue some of the time about them trampling his fine rugs and scratching the plates. He even seems... wistful about it. As nostalgic as you openly are at seeing all of these beloved people under one roof again.

Nights are filled with raucous laughter, clattering utensils, a table so thoroughly overcrowded that people are playfully shouldering each other out of the way for a chance to get at their own food. And Astarion stays faithful at your side, his hand perpetually clasped gently around yours, thumb rubbing over your knuckles. Days are never spent alone, no matter what it is you need to do, someone (if not everyone) is following you along. And though Astarion feels his heart ache that he can't join you, he'll be glad to know you're safe.

Besides, your companions are likely all taking turns tormenting, testing, and relentlessly teasing him about what is to come. He has his own hands full. He's starting to regret being such a generous lover.

And then your water breaks in the dead of night.

Remember how I said Astarion was far from perfect? This would be one of those moments that it really shines.

Not that he's particularly terrible, no. He's not actively cruel toward you, and certainly not dismissive, it's somewhat the opposite. Halsin and Jaheira end up the ones helping you, the only two with some iota of understanding on what was happening and what to do with and for you. The others, less experienced in "mundane" medical situations will take up the second most important role.

Prevent Astarion from catastrophizing any more than he already has been.

Karlach has been the sole force capable of keeping Astarion away from the wine, typically bear hugging him away from your cellar while Wyll tries his best to talk your lover down from a total nervous breakdown. Of which he nearly has, several times. It's not even the sight of you, specifically. He's okay with being at your side and holding your hand, in trying his best to provide comforting words that aren't laced with sarcasm for once. But the sounds you make, that's what breaks him. Astarion isn't good at hearing you scream from the pain, he isn't good at the choked sobs or your heavy breaths. The way you sound like you're struggling against death. It makes him want to crawl out of his own skin, fight assailants that aren't there.

And for a few hours there, in the midst of your labors and your exhausted, pained little cries, Astarion isn't sure how he can love the child causing you this much suffering. It's not as if Astarion was an altruistic man on his best days, as if he were particularly reasonable when it came to you. You've both come to a mutual understanding that were something to happen to you, no morals would be involved in the things Astarion would do to rectify it.

And now, here you are, suffering. Astarion isn't supposed to do a thing about it? He's supposed to be- what, overjoyed by it? It infuriates him, he's truly prepared to have a grudge match with an infant.

Until, as the sun is starting to creep up on a brand new day, it's no longer your screams that meet the air, but another's entirely. Tiny but powerful, high pitched little squeals of fury and distress. And your laughter, disbelieving, soft, adoring already.

Astarion has a daughter.

I go with the HC that Astarion had eyes like honey once, and that his daughter takes after that, along with the delicate points of his ears mirrored in her own. She's small, so small, but healthy and already feisty, wiggling as best as her tiny body can whilst still too heavy for her to lift and move.

You're the first to hold her of course, and Astarion will be at his knees beside the two of you. The expression he wears is something you've seen maybe two or three other times in the entire time you've known him- moments when you know he expected everything to fall apart, moments where he couldn't believe that the world was so good.

It's then that you can breathe for the first time, and know that both of your darlings will be just fine.

Once he does hold her, he's not inclined to let her go. Even once you ask to have her back, he'll simply move you into his lap, so that he can hold you both. It's better that way anyhow, having both of his girls in his arms. And Astarion will repeat again and again how stunned he is, he just can't believe it. Cannot fathom any of it. I think he's the type to say that he's speechless and then spend the next five minutes doing nothing but talking. It's nervous rambling, but still, speechless is not the term I would use to describe him here.

Astarion With Your Baby:

Once your little darling is actually in your lives, you get to see how hilariously unorthodox Astarion is with children. Especially his own. Astarion doesn't baby-talk like you or the rest of your companions, he speaks in the same exact tones as he would a grown woman. In fact, for the first few days you're adjusting to a child in your life, you sometimes mistake Astarion as speaking with an unexpected guest, only to round the corner and find him lightheartedly chastising his own daughter for her poor nappy conduct as he wrinkles his nose and changes her diaper.

He's disgusted by that, by the way. Absolutely hates it, complains loudly about having to do it. But if you so much as try to stand to help he'll force you back down onto your chair or the couch, something something not useless something something already up, darling. It's as if Astarion is simply allergic to admitting that while it makes him nauseous, he wants to care for his daughter. He wants you to rest.

And yes, Astarion is the type of father that thinks all other children are hideous little fecal beasts and his daughter is the only gorgeous little angel in the entire world. Perfect, can do no wrong. He tells her as such too, in the same deadpan voice he always uses, wiggling and stretching her legs.

"You know, darling. You should count your blessings, you're the only child I've ever seen that doesn't look like some sort of hideous, deformed bean. I can't be surprised though, with as gorgeous as your parents are." And though he rolls his eyes, he's unable to contain the grin that shows his teeth when she coos and squeaks at the sound of his voice.

And yes. Astarion dresses up with his child.

The older she gets the more he does it, little matching outfits and ribbons. Nothing that she would choke on, were she to get her mitts on it. (You had to be the one to tell him no, at first. He did throw a little fit about it, just a small one).

But it's not all lighthearted, good or bad.

There are times where Astarion won't touch your daughter, won't be alone with her in the same room. He fears it, he'll eventually tell you. His... affliction came with it's dangers, always. But he's always trusted that you could defend yourself, and you're big enough that he can't just kill you between one blink and the next. The same can't be said of your darling girl. She's so small and so fragile that, were he to lose even the slightest grip of himself around her, it could cost her her life. No doubt it would traumatize her for life, regardless.

You watch it, too. The way it pinches his brows and makes him wipe his palms against his pants as if he were sweating. Nervous habits creeping up his throat and causing him to pace about like a caged animal. It's during these times that you have to bring your daughter to him. Gently place her in his arms and remind him that he's loved her from the moment he saw her. And where once he held trepidation and queasiness at the prospect of fatherhood, you can see him care so much about this little bundle that he looks sick from it. A vulnerability he can't mask.

And of course, there are times he nearly weeps for other reasons.

Like when she takes her first steps, and immediately tries to run for him.

And Astarion knows he should let her tumble, that it's good to let her fall and get back up again, but the moment her unsteady feet cause her to careen she's safe in his arms. Little kisses peppered against her giggly face. And he'll tuck away against her to try and get his bearings back, but she'll pat his cheeks and tug his ears- and you'll have to distract her with a toy while he hiccups and sniffles down his need to cry. He wasn't ready for her to grow so fast, gone is the tiny bundle that could fit perfectly in one arm, now she's walking. How long before she's dating? Gods, should he be preparing for betrothal requests!?

"I want to be mortal." He whispers to you, one night. She's tucked between your bodies, sound asleep and wiggling from time to time. This is one of the rare moments you and your love can speak to each other uninterrupted, in the tranquility of the dark hugging around you.

It's strange that he brings this up now, you'd spoken about it several times since the Elder Brain had been taken down... But in the past few years since your daughter had been born, all of that had fallen to the wayside. "What brings this to mind, Starling?"

Your hand comes to cup his throat, as you watch and feel him work as if he were swallowing a stone. "I don't want to outlive this."

It's hard to blink the tears from your eyes, understanding the implications.

Were he actually two hundred years old, Astarion wouldn't survive well past the existence of his sweet little family.

He'd been more melancholy the past few weeks, after realizing that your daughter was beginning to function on her own. She was walking, grabbing things, talking in rudimentary sentences. She was even beginning to call him pa.

He'd cried, at that.

"I'll forget," his voice draws you out from that brief reverie. The distress is palpable, but runs low like the tide before a storm. "I'll forget all of this. I don't want to know what I'll become, then."

And when you run your hands up into his hair, to scratch lovingly along his scalp, he doesn't hide the shiver or the way his face presses against your palm, cold and smooth on your skin.

"We'll find a way, Astarion. I haven't given up yet... We just- she's too young."

It's both a strain and a relief, to know that. To be reminded that your daughter is still so small, that he won't be losing her- or you- any time soon. There's still time.

Astarion With Your Teen:

Arguably this is the best time between your daughter and him. It's simultaneously a surprise and yet- not at all? He's more like her confidante and best friend than strictly a father. He isn't one for harsh curfews and strict ways of dress- rather, he's the one she comes to when she's made some sort of mistake. Or when she's angry about something.

In general, Astarion withholds judgement of her, for better or worse. The unintended consequence is that you might become more of her enemy than Astarion, because he's less inclined to punish for questionable behaviors.

It's not that he's afraid of angering her or dealing with push back- rather that Astarion's frame of reference for what constitutes a mistake is ah... rather broken. Even in the beginnings of your relationship with Astarion, the mistakes that would anger him constituted dropping an entire building on his head or... risking being turned into a Mindflayer to help some old lady find her cat.

Not feeling up cute boys in alleyways.

As a result you'll likely need to have a few conversations with him about not being so lenient on her, because she needs to have structure in how to behave. Stealing things is in fact, not okay! And Astarion will listen, but he's always going to be a bit more of a friend than anything else.

A total gossip with her, too. You'll catch them huddled around the dinner table at night, both with a glass of wine (this was an argument that Astarion ended up winning, she's allowed one glass a week, but that's all!) in hand shittalking a storm together. Astarion has become the Baldur's Gate equivalent of a PTA mom, he shows up as stylishly as he can and beefs with the parents of whichever children have upset his daughter the most. And then when they get home they just toss it back and forth together.

But I want to stress, just because he doesn't punish her doesn't mean he isn't protective of her. Astarion is more protective than you are.

Once she begins dating you'll find yourself home alone semi-frequently, because Astarion will play the supportive, loving father part when she leaves- and immediately follow her out into the dark. He's had centuries to know what dangers lurk around every corner, and foggy memories of simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time before his nightmare began. He won't allow that to happen with his girl.

And it's funny, because Astarion will talk mad shit to himself while he does it. Logically he knows that she's with some teenage boy or girl, but it doesn't stop the petty, emotional side of him from rolling his eyes and sneering at the cheap one-liners and the dumb tactics that this would-be charmer utilizes. Really, taking her into dark alleys to get her to tuck into you? Going to a totally secret spot that Astarion has known about for at least a hundred and sixty years? Get real, kid.

And you have to try valiantly not to laugh when he comes home, huffing and puffing about it. Because you will hear every single petty thought he had the entire time, and you will know that he looks like a petulant child. It's very cute.

All in all, I think Astarion is a reckless, chaotic, petty father. And one that loves his child so, so much. To the point of ruin, to the point where suddenly staying in one place doesn't seem so bad, just so she can have friends. Helping people isn't the worst, just so she can know there are heroes in the world. Suddenly he's learning to bandage scrapes and kiss bruises, and having tears and snot on his clothes mean nothing compared to the grief of the one shedding them. He loves her in ways he didn't anticipate he ever could. Enough to know all of her ticks and secrets, to know when she's lying through her teeth and when she's being devastatingly obvious.

Learning to cook even when he can't eat, listening to her spin a story with a straight face and then- as she's stepping out the door- telling her to be careful with that boy and listening to her groan loudly as the door slams shut, a mischievous smile on his face.

Holding you and dancing you around, cradling you close with all the tenderness he has in the whole of his body and soul. Kissing you, calling you the mother of his child, thanking you for giving him something he didn't even know he'd wanted. A family.

Small and odd, but his.

[steddiehyperfixation]

don't you forget about me (part two)

(part one)

Steve doesn’t know how long they sit there in silence, waiting. It’s making him insane. The seconds pass too slow; the seconds pass too fast. His mind is a storm; his mind is empty. He’s feeling too much; he’s not feeling at all. He paces the room; he sits catatonically against a wall. He needs to get out of here; he needs to stay. 

He’s been here before, just barely over a week ago, tense and anxious and despairing and waiting for news. But waiting to hear if Eddie will ever remember him again really should not feel this much worse than waiting to hear if Eddie will ever fucking breathe again. Steve thinks there must be something wrong with him. He’s being selfish and stupid. His pathological fucking need to be loved is not what’s important right now. Eddie is alive and awake and okay and that’s the only thing that really matters. That’s the only thing he should really care about.

Steve’s pacing again now, yanking his hands through his hair as he does laps around the room until Eddie finally appears in the doorway. 

Eddie must’ve just cracked a joke or something because the nurse is laughing as she pushes his bed into the room and he’s got this adorable grin on his face. Steve’s heart twists in his chest and he nearly bursts into tears all over again because god does he want nothing more than to press a kiss to those dimpled cheeks. 

“Good news, boys,” Eddie announces. “My brain is fully intact.”

“There’s no physical permanent damage to his brain,” the nurse elaborates. “His amnesia is likely a result of psychological trauma and the temporary disruption of brain function from blood loss and lack of oxygen that occurred at the time of his injury. But there is no obvious reason why he shouldn’t regain his full memory, given time.” 

So there’s hope. Steve breathes a sigh of relief. 

“That is good news,” Wayne agrees. 

Steve asks, “How much time?” 

The nurse gives an unhelpful shrug. “Impossible to say. It could be anywhere from days to months, or even years. I’m sorry, there’s no way for us to know.” 

Years. “Okay.” Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. He can keep it together. He can. “Thanks,” he tells the nurse. “I, uh-” He makes the mistake of looking at Eddie who looks right through him, and Steve can’t keep it together anymore actually. “I gotta update the kids,” he mutters, backing his way towards the door. Wayne nods in acknowledgment; no protests this time at Steve’s excuse to leave.

“See ya, Harrington,” Eddie calls after him, casual, impersonal, like they're nothing more than acquaintances passing by each other in a high school hallway.  

Steve can’t get out of that hospital fast enough. 

He makes it to his car in record time, slamming the door shut and sinking heavily into the driver’s seat. A ragged sob tries to claw its way up his throat now that he’s finally alone, but he forces it back, staving off his breakdown for just a little bit longer. As much as it was an excuse, he really does have to update the kids. 

Steve fishes his walkie out of the glove box. “Code - whatever, I don’t know. Code Eddie,” he says. He doesn’t remember the kids’ system of codes, nor would he be sure which one this news falls under even if he did. 

“Is he okay? Is he awake?” comes an immediate, eager response from Dustin. “Over.” 

“Yeah, he’s awake, and he’s fine, except he’s got pretty bad amnesia. The doctors say it should be temporary, but right now he doesn’t remember anything since May of ‘85,” Steve explains, trying his best to keep his voice even.

“Steve, come pick me up and take me to see him,” Dustin demands, “right now. Over.” 

“Me too. Over,” Mike chimes in before Steve can respond. 

“And us,” Erica adds as well. 

Steve pauses for a second, both to steady his own breath and to make sure no one else wants to jump in on this too, before he reminds them, “He won’t know you, any of you.” 

“I don’t care,” Dustin says, bossy as ever. “Just come get me. Over.” 

“Jesus Christ, kid,” Steve mutters to himself. He sucks in another breath; it wobbles dangerously. He’s just about reached his limit on how long he can keep himself from falling apart. “I- I need a minute, alright?” he manages through the walkie. “Can you just give me, like, an hour? And then I’ll take you guys to visit Eddie.” 

Steve doesn’t wait for a response before he slams the antenna closed, tosses the walkie aside, and finally, finally lets himself shatter. That sob rips free from his throat, followed by another and another and another. Tears flood from his eyes; his nose runs. It’s an ugly, gross, visceral cry that leaves him exhausted and raw and aching to be held by the time the last sob shudders out of him. Drained and hollow, he craves the embrace of someone who knows him, someone who loves him. 

He sweeps up his broken pieces, wipes the mess of tears and snot off his face, and drives to Robin’s house.

“Steve, oh my god.” Robin pulls him into a hug the second she opens the door and sees the look on his face. Steve clings to her. “What happened?” 

“Eddie’s awake,” he mutters dismally. 

“Oh! Not the tone I’d expect you to deliver that news in, but okay.” Robin pulls back, looking at him with narrow-eyed concern and confusion as she analyzes his puffy eyes and red nose and swollen lips. “And you look like you’ve just been crying because…?”

“Because he doesn’t remember me, Rob,” Steve sighs. “He doesn’t remember anything from the past 11 months.” 

Robin’s eyes go wide now. “Shit,” she says, so plainly it startles a short laugh out of Steve. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Shit.” 

She asks him more questions as she walks down the hallway so they can talk in her room. Steve once again reiterates what was said at the hospital. 

“So you didn’t tell him you two were a thing?” Robin asks, closing her door behind them. 

“Of course I didn’t.” Steve flops back onto her bed. “I didn’t want to spook him.” 

She sits beside him. “You didn’t want to spook him,” she repeats, looking down at him with raised eyebrows, “but you told him about Vecna.” 

“Well, yeah. I just-” He lifts his arms to gesture vaguely into the air as he tries to explain himself. “I mean, imagine how you would feel if you woke up in a hospital and some random guy you’ve spoken to maybe twice was by your bedside telling you you’ve been in a relationship with him for the past 9 months.” 

“Uh, I don’t know, dingus, probably about the same as I’d feel if said guy told me I’d nearly died fighting some evil twisted creature from a hell dimension,” Robin retorts.

Steve drops his hands onto his chest with a huff, shaking his head. “No, trust me. He seemed far less surprised by that than he did to hear that we were even just friends,” he says, a bit bitterly. Tears are pricking at his eyes again as he looks up at his best friend. “You didn’t see the way he looked at me, Robin. All he saw was King Steve.”

Robin softens, snark replaced with sympathy. “That sucks, Steve. I’m so sorry.” 

Steve sighs in agreement that yes this really fucking sucks. He sits up and scoots back so that he’s slumped against the wall, hitting the back of his head against it. “I think I’m a horrible person,�� he admits, just venting now, “because of course I’m glad Eddie’s alive and all I really want is for him to be okay, and I know the nurse said he should remember eventually, but there’s still some sick part of me that thinks maybe it would’ve hurt less if he had just died.”

“I don’t think that makes you a horrible person,” Robin assures him as she settles next to him, shoulder to shoulder. “I think you’re just grieving, and grief is weird sometimes.”

“It was one of the worst things I’ve ever felt,” he mutters, “when he looked at me without recognition. To see it on his face, just the- the absence of everything that we’d built. I’ve never felt so- so- I don’t know, it was like I couldn’t breathe. He just- he doesn’t know that I love him. He…he doesn’t know that he loved me...” 

Because that’s what it is, isn’t it? It’s not that he’s lost someone that he loves, it’s that he’s lost someone who loves him. Because Eddie’s not gone, just his love for Steve is, and that’s what’s tearing him apart. It’s the fact that there’s one less person in the world who loves him. It’s the fact that Steve’s got this big gaping hole inside of him that’s always made him so desperate to be loved, liked, wanted, needed; and his biggest fucking fear is becoming obsolete. He could probably trace it back to his parents, the first to forget him, the first to stop loving him, but the fact remains that now Eddie has fulfilled that fear too. Now Eddie has carved that pit a little deeper, a little darker, validating the voice that whispers within it and tells Steve that he is forgettable, unlovable, so easy to abandon and erase. 

“Well, I love you,” Robin tells him, like she can read his mind (which, at this point, she probably can). She slides an arm around his shoulders, hugs him close. “And I’m not going anywhere.” 

Fragile as he is right now, Steve falls apart again in her arms, and she holds him together. Because she knows him, because she loves him.

It’s a quieter cry this time, soft and sniffly. Whereas the last one wracked through his body and left him fatigued, this one flows from him almost gently, and when his tears finally subside and he lifts his head from where it had been buried in his friend’s shoulder, Steve actually feels a little bit better, a little bit stronger. Which is good, because he’s gonna have to face Eddie again soon. 

“Thank you,” he says quietly as he pulls away from Robin, wiping at his eyes and glancing at the clock on her nightstand. It’s definitely been an hour by now, probably more. He stands. “I have to go, I promised the kids I’d take them to see Eddie.” 

“Then I’m coming too.” Robin stands with him. “For moral support.” 

Steve gives her a grateful smile. “I love you so fucking much, you know that?” 

“Yeah.” She grins at him. “I know.” 

~ 

The nurses have changed his bandages and upped his morphine, so Eddie’s considerably hazy now but at least he can raise his headrest and prop himself up a bit without nearly blacking out from pain. He’s boredly flicking through channels on the shitty TV in front of him, alone since Wayne had to leave for work, when Harrington returns followed by a very unexpected group consisting of Robin Buckley and four strange children. 

“Sorry,” Harrington announces their presence with an apologetic shrug, “I know you don’t know them anymore, but they insisted.” 

“Eddie!” a pudgy, curly-haired kid shouts before Eddie can even react, coming barrelling towards him and trying to hug him. 

“Ow!” Eddie yelps, pain flaring even through the extra morphine. “Fucking Christ, kid! Be careful!” 

The kid jumps back immediately, eyes wide. “Shit. Sorry.” 

“S’fine,” Eddie grumbles.

The kid looks at him expectantly for a moment before seeming to realize, “Oh, right, you don’t remember me. I’m Dustin.” 

“Ah, so you’re the guy I sacrificed myself for,” Eddie mutters, and Dustin looks a little sheepish. That means these must be ‘the kids’ Harrington had been talking about earlier. He surveys the group for a second. “Actually, I think we have met before,” he tells Dustin. “And you too.” He glances at a pale, dark-haired kid. The other two - a Black boy with a flat-top and a younger Black girl - look less familiar, though. “There was this, uh, open day thing at the high school for next year’s incoming freshmen; I talked to you about Hellfire.”

“Yeah!” Dustin’s whole face lights up, so bright and infectious it makes Eddie grin too. “Yeah, you did!” 

“So you guys joined the club, then?” 

This sparks a very animated conversation about D&D, the rest of the kids (Mike, Lucas, and Erica, as they soon reintroduce themselves) gathering around his bed now too to join in. It makes him feel a bit more like himself again, familiar, normal. Except, of course, for the fact that they’re not only talking about how they defeated Vecna in Eddie’s “totally epic” and “sadistic” campaign (adjectives courtesy of Dustin and Mike respectively), but also filling in more pieces of the story of how they defeated him in real life too. Still, it’s nice, fun. He totally understands how he could’ve gotten attached to these kids.

At some point, Eddie glances over to find Harrington hanging back and just watching them talk, fondly, wistfully. Robin whispers something to him and he sort of smiles, just a trace, and whispers something back. They seem close, intimate. Eddie wonders if they’re dating, and then he wonders why that thought makes him feel a bit sick. He waves them over. Harrington looks like he’s about to protest, but Robin gives him a Look and he allows her to grab his hand and drag him to join the crowd around Eddie’s bed. 

“So, what’s your deal, Buckley?” Eddie asks her. He doesn’t know her very well, they’ve only crossed paths a few times in the bandroom, but right now that makes her the most familiar person in the room to him. “Are you and Harrington a thing now? Is that how you’re involved in all this?” 

Robin wrinkles her nose and drops Harrington’s hand. “Ew, no. Definitely not.” 

“She’s my best friend,” Harrington says. 

Eddie snorts, doesn’t know why he finds that so comical. (He’s starting to get tired and it’s making him loopy. Or maybe it’s just the morphine.) “You've got a funny choice of friends nowadays, don’t you? Me and band geek Buckley and a bunch of nerdy freshmen.” He looks at Harrington with incredulous amusement. “Who would've thought, huh? Steve Harrington, collector of geeks and freaks.” 

Harrington doesn’t seem to find it as funny. He shrugs. “Yeah, well, it’s better than King Steve, collector of asshole bullies and shallow one-night stands.” 

“Yeah, ‘course it is,” Eddie agrees through another huff of laughter that breaks off into a yawn. “Didn’t mean it as a bad thing, Stevie. Was a compliment.” 

“Alright.” The barest hint of a smile flickers across Harrington’s face now, but then he’s looking away and corralling the kids and saying, “We should head out, let you get some rest.” 

And Eddie kind of wishes he’d stay.

(part three!)

taglist: @romanticdestruction @daydreamsandcrashingwaves @paintsplatteredandimperfect @hallucinatedjosten @mugloversonly @estrellami-1 @alongcomesaspider @thatonebadideapanda @tell-me-a-secret-a-nice-one @dragonmama76 @wxrmland @nuggies4life @sirsnacksalot @myguiltyartpleasure @marklee-blackmore @vinteraltus @sebastiansstanswhore @0happyeverafter0 @scarlet-malfoy (only tagged people who explicitly asked to be tagged; if you would like to be added or removed from this list please lmk!)

[coldwind-shiningstars]

Dungeon Meshi is obviously primarily about food, eating, and crucially survival through eating, but it's also focused on other aspects of survival. Sleep, rest, social ties and social exclusion. There's even extensive commentary on things like personal grooming (Marcille’s hair, Toshiro becoming depressed and no longer shaving), clean bathrooms, and other things. When it comes to disability these things are referred to as instrumental activities of daily life (IADLs), which are more complex things like shopping, housework, and cooking, which people need to do to survive, and activities of daily life (ADLs) which are the basic bare bones needs: eating, toileting, etc. Dungeon Meshi is concerned with the logistics of living and finding joy in those logistics.

This is super related to disability! Yes, Laios is autistic, this has been apparent from the beginning. But what does being autistic mean for him and the story? Mostly, it means his desires, goals, and the ways he goes about achieving them are strange, foreign, or baffling. He has different priorities than other people and the way he expresses those priorities are strange. They affect how he socializes, how he eats…

So, it absolutely makes sense that there would be a minor sideplot about activities of daily living and what it's like to be out of sync with everyone else when it comes to prioritizing things. It's Mithrun Time (he's gonna mith all over the place) and I'm so SO interested in the interplay of disability, caregiving and the logistics thereof, and intersectionality & privilege. Who needs care? How do other people feel about them needing care? How do they receive that care? And who do we think is worthy of receiving care and how does that interact with all these other factors?

Bunch of manga and extras spoilers past the cut:

“So, what's wrong with you?”

I see a lot of people talking about Mithrun's non-eye disability as a depression allegory, which I think is true, but I think it's also metaphorically/symbolically both a traumatic brain injury and a trauma response to sexual assault. The sexual assault aspect is pretty clear if you look at any of the symbolism of the actual disabling event: just look at it.

Mithrun is lying in bed and the goat comes to him, lifts him up and puts its mouth on his abdomen and lower pelvis. The eating is sexually charged, as is the particular way he struggles and protests. It's intensely violating, and things that were once desirable are lost. And the dungeon lord group therapy session involves a lot of people talking about the demons like an abusive lover; Mithrun, even though he wanted to kill the demon so badly, still says that they're gentle.

As for the brain injury, chronic TBIs can cause a wide variety of symptoms. Some immediately relevant ones are anhedonia (lack of enjoyment), executive function issues, poor interoception (trouble understanding what's going on in your body), cognitive impairment affecting ability to reason/multitask/plan/solve problems, changes in behavior and personality, depression, agitation, and restlessness. We see… basically all of these, in Mithrun, as downstream effects of the loss of desires. He can't tell when he's hungry, tired, or out of mana; he can't perform ADLs consistently even if he knows he'll die without doing them and dying without doing them will interfere with his long-term goal, he had drastic personality changes, he oscillates between impatient and totally withdrawn.

Brain injuries can also affect more complex tasks and ability to sustain lengthy periods of complex cognitive work. A common example is losing the ability to read and process longer passages; maybe you can read the words but you can't read a paragraph, or maybe you can read paragraphs but now you get a migraine after 15 minutes. Mithrun's skill loss is not related to reading but the effect is similar – he is and was extremely skilled in a particular area of magic, but also disabled in ways that specifically hinder his skill in this area – to teleport things properly you need depth perception and a sense of direction, and he lacks both of these! And while he's still an incredibly effective fighter it seems like he pretty frequently makes those sorts of mistakes.

This is treated often as a gag and it is genuinely funny but it’s also very real, to no longer be as good at the thing you were good at before you became disabled. Kui takes several throwaway gags seriously later on, not just this one. Another ~gag that's not really elaborated on is the bathroom thing, but I appreciate its inclusion anyway, since even if it's presented humorously it doesn't feel meanspirited in a way a lot of “diaper jokes” do. I think people need to talk a lot more about bathroom issues in a wide variety of disabilities, and I think it's nice that a guy I can already picture the “poor little meow meow” posts about also has this issue, you know?

Preferences vs Desire

Even referencing PTSD and TBIs it's hard to really grasp what having no desires means, and the characters don't generally ask, while Mithrun explains it in vague terms. “Desires” is a very broad term and indeed he has lost access to a wide but related variety of things. Unfortunately this lead to him often being treated as nonagentic.

Mithrun does still have preferences, even if he doesn't express them and has no desire which would drive him to seek out pleasant things and avoid unpleasant ones. He'll comment on the taste and texture of foods, for example – sure seems like he has an opinion!

People treat it like his preferences don't matter since he doesn't usually bring them up unprompted, and he's often in situations where there aren't other options.

Kabru seems best at not doing this (and, noncoincidentally, also seems to be the best at actually caring for him; the Canaries have a lot more Resources theoretically than Kabru And Mithrun Eating Monsters And Kabru's A Bad Cook, but although they are loudly distressed by the two of them disappearing it seems to have positively affected Mithrun's general health)

But, uh, acknowledgement that someone has preferences at all is a really low bar to clear and Kabru also doesn't seem to fully understand how Mithrun's brain works. Mithrun’s caregivers want him to eat when they want him to eat. They want him to rest and drink when they want him to.

He lacks the desire for a number of mundane things but also seems to lack the ability to tell when he needs them. He can't explain why he faints; is “I am out of mana” considered a desire for more mana, one that can be eaten? He can't sleep on his own; it's not only that he lacks “the desire to go to bed” but he can't do anything with his own exhaustion, even if he notices it. He comments on the unpleasant taste and texture of several meals; he may be unable to want to not eat it, but he definitely can tell when he dislikes something. But he also seems to be unable to tell when he's hungry.

Kabru will acknowledge these preferences but there's not really other food options, and Everyone Must Eat. Kabru doesn't know the details of Mithrun's condition yet but you can see the immediate frustration here and the way he offers food to him like Mithrun's a child.

Sure, he won't directly communicate preferences, so that makes it extra hard, but you can always just ask, and if he tells you he tells you.

The pathway between opinion and taking actions about it may be lost in Mithrun but the dungeon forces other people into a similar position – it forces them to eat food they don't want to eat so that they can survive or accomplish other goals. We've seen this with Marcille from the beginning. It's difficult with Mithrun because it seems like there is always going to have to be some sort of someone else overriding his autonomy – yeah, he's not hungry but he still needs to eat or he'll faint. Yeah, he's lying about whether or not he's clean but he still needs to wash or he'll die. Yeah, he needs to take a rest instead of keeping moving or he'll faint. But he's not unique in being in a situation where he has to do nonpreferred things. The difference is more that he lacks the ability to independently do anything when it comes to ADLs, preferred or not, which makes it into someone else’s choice and responsibility.

There's also a theme in Dungeon Meshi that comes up a bit of people being pushy about ADLs but from a slightly different perspective, and they're usually right. You see this in Senshi most commonly; he pushes the residents of the Golden City to actually eat even if they don't need to and can't taste it, and while he's correct in that Yaad does get enjoyment from the food even without taste he's still not quite listening to Yaad. Similarly, Kabru is correct in that he can get Mithrun to sleep without a sleeping spell, but he also ignores the way Mithrun says several times that he doesn't expect massage to work. There's a few aspects to this – wild but expected that the elves would choose the “just knock him out with a spell” route, the “easy way” Senshi always talks about when it comes to magic, instead of actually paying attention to other solutions. But also, generally, people know their bodies best, and sometimes even if you're really sure you have the trick to help them you have to listen to what they tell you.

tvtropes dot org frontslash DisabilityTropes

This is going to be a harder section just because it's so subjective; it's nearly impossible to think about the ways in which disabled people are viewed by the people around them/wider society with any degree of objectivity just because there are so many factors that go into it. But I do think Mithrun is consistently treated as relatively nonagentic and there are several ways this can manifest: being treated as a doll/pet/child, being treated as a weapon, and being a surface for people to project onto.

He's framed or treated as childlike intermittently through the manga; scattered about, just a little vibe in the way he's drawn, like the "say aah" above and Pattadol and Cithis through the teleportation scroll :

That's a middle aged man! And he's framed like a toddler getting picked up or misbehaving.

Which doesn't mean they care about him any less; his squad is really fond of him for someone who's technically like their parole officer. How dare you do this to our captain! They love him dearly; this is obvious and he comments on it! They respect him, too, as the leader and as a strong fighter. But loving someone and thinking they're a skilled fighter doesn't mean you respect their autonomy fully.

There's also an element of everyone projecting their own issues onto him; Kabru with their shared Dungeon Trauma. The canaries all suggesting wacky, midlife-crisis desires. He doesn't ever express that he minds any of this, except when they try to stop him from making particular decisions. They also don't often understand why he'd be motivated to do a particular thing, and in fact some of these projections may actually be correct! But while noodles and pottery may be good later-on goals for him, I think it's striking that a) Kabru was the closest to correctly guessing what desire Mithrun might acquire now and he was still guessing the exact opposite (suggesting a desire to not eat Falin but to help Laios, vs Mithrun's actual desire, which was to eat Falin with no thought given to the promise he made at all) and b) it's a desire that actually makes perfect sense with what we know about him, not something totally new.

And, finally, he's a weapon: people are willing to caretake him because he's good at killing things dead. If his only desire is to kill demons dead, it's easy to start seeing that as who he is. I don't think he'd argue that “trying to kill demons” takes up the majority of his life (it's his only goal and he's obsessed with it) but even if there's only one thing that matters to him he has autonomy (in the sense that he can make his own choices about what to prioritize and formulate his own plans) and personhood.

Politics and privilege – who gets to access care?

One of the things we're first presented with when it comes to Mithrun is that he is intensely capable at handling dungeons. Yeah, there's the immediately visible prosthetic eye and the navigation issues, but the Canaries are built up as being incredibly dangerous and skilled, and he's their captain; they all immediately defer to him. He's intense, he curbstomps an entire room of guards, he's efficient, he's brutal, he's strong physically and magically.

In short: yeah, he's very disabled. He's also still very useful.

At the risk of oversimplification, even within his particular disability, he's much more disabled than Marcille is (she lost something relatively simple and easy to miss, she has no catatonia-moment) but less disabled than Thistle, who seems to still have at least one desire related to the king but is still primarily catatonic. It seems like Thistle is not unusual among ex-dungeon lords, even if there's enough noncatatonic dungeon lords to form a support group later. When Milsiril finds Mithrun, she immediately intends to mercy-kill him – this seems to be a condition the elves are familiar with but consider terminal, at least to the degree Mithrun is affected, and people seem unfamiliar what it means to keep living in this state because Mithrun is unusual in that he survives at all. And he's “allowed” to survive initially because he's not as disabled as he could have been (still has a desire) and that desire is useful. They aim him at the dungeons and off he goes. It takes twenty years for him to recover enough to do it, sure, but they're elves. They can wait. He can still be useful.

Relatedly, when he loses the ability to pursue his desire he's immediately much worse off than he was previously.

The no-desire catatonia is something that can recur and the elves continue to not know how to handle it. If Kabru wasn't there to problemsolve I think he'd have just… stayed there with his increasingly distressed squad.

Speaking of his squad, there's also a fascinating power dynamic going on with just the inherent structure of the Canaries; criminals are assigned as his caregivers. There's the inherent unfairness to the criminal Canaries about them being given extra duties, this strange rich noble guy who's now their Responsibility. There's so much possibility for resentment in normal caregiving relationships, much less being forced by your jailor into caregiving someone. But there's also an element of the power the prisoner Canaries now have over him and his most basic ADLs and needs. Assigning Cithis to his care is such a can of worms! The dynamics of the situation are frankly awful for both of them; of course she resents him initially. It would be strange for her not to. When Pattadol catches her making Mithrun do embarrassing things, she instantly reminds Cithis of her lower-status – she's forced to care for this nobleman and then forcibly reminded that she's beneath him.

She's responding to having menial, low-status tasks forced on her by trying to humiliate him, and although he doesn't have the ability to care enough to stop her it's still a deliberate removal of dignity. He's the instrument with which she is punished and she punishes him in return (until it's not fun anymore and she understands him a bit more.)

Mithrun is a long-lived race, who has structural power over the shorter lived races simply because of how long they live. The dwarves and elves try to actively keep certain knowledge from other races, restricting their access to technology, and other expressions of distance. Senshi spends nearly the whole first season not listening to Chilchuck trying to explain that he's an adult and treating him like a child, and Kabru repeatedly says that the elves do the same thing (and tbh we see them doing it). There's even the fact that it took him twenty years to recover enough to join the Canaries again; a shorter-lived race might have died from old age in this time, or become too old to work in this capacity, and then wasted away without the drive to return to the dungeons. But they're elves; the other elves can afford to wait, and he's not going to age out of dungeoneering any time soon. Being an elf probably contributes to his wealth in the same way skin color contributes to wealth inequality in the real world.

Dungeon Meshi doesn't really go into race in the sense of skin color much, and Kui is writing from a different cultural standpoint than I am. While tallmen are quite accurate when it comes to skin/hair color (yes, even Kabru and his blue eyes; it's rare but possible) and cultural references, the elves, uh, absolutely are not, both in the sense of “dark skin & pale hair and eyes trope” and sense of the royals having jet black skin.

Still, I feel like race is so connected to care and caregiving in the real-world west that I would be profoundly remiss not to mention it. Skin color might not matter to elves in the racism sense, but it matters to humans and humans are the ones writing and analyzing this story. (And I fully expect as the fandom grows with anime-onlies people will like Mithrun more because he's white (has white features) than they would if he had darker skin, because fandom is also baseline racist.)

I don't think we can just not mention that Mithrun is pale-skinned and both Cithis and Kabru, his primary caregivers over the story, both have dark skin.

Racism means white people are more likely to get good medical care, the type you need to get diagnosed and prescribed caregiving. Racism means wealth distribution is uneven, favoring white people. Race affects immigrants taking on undesirable jobs like caregiving for low pay. Racism is a profound stressor which means it contributes to who becomes disabled in the first place in that it can worsen health outcomes.

Similarly to race, gender may not be very obvious when it comes to this subplot within the story but the gendered dynamics of caregiving in the real world are something I do want to touch on. There's an oft-cited statistic about how men are much more likely than women to divorce their partners when their partners are diagnosed with a serious condition; I don't like relying too much on those sorts of statistics because they can be so misleading but it does gesture at something very real, culturally. Even if men aren't supposed to be caretaken, women are supposed to be the caretakers. Certainly, it's not Mithrun's fault that he can't cook and can't do laundry and probably can't do most housework, but I do also think about all the posts passed around about “my boyfriend who won't do housework.”

Again, none of these privileges make him less disabled and less in need of and deserving of care, they're just worth talking about when we talk about caregiving in general.

It's Rotten Work, Even If It's You

People expect disabled people receiving care to be grateful, to accept anything, and to try and make it easier for the caregiver if they're able. Requiring care is an incredibly disadvantaged position, even as actually receiving it can be so tangled up in privilege. Caregiving is tremendously difficult work, it's true, but there's a particular vibe people want from disabled people – all those movies about not wanting to be seen as a burden. Never complaining. Being grateful.

And, uh, well…

Mithrun basically accepts anything his caregivers do, but he's not grateful at all! I appreciate that in a disability portrayal. He'll also lie to and ignore his caregivers, which is Annoying but is definitely an expression of autonomy even if he's probably not doing it specifically to express his autonomy. He's not going to thank you. He's not going to make it easy. He'll accept a lot of things considered “undignified,” and he's not mean or unpleasant in the sense that he's taking advantage or anything, but he's certainly not a model patient.

He's running off back into the dungeons just when you think you've finally gotten him somewhere safe.

There's always a strange tension in caregiving, I've found. It is incredibly intimate but a lot of it is done by total strangers. A number of caregiving tasks are viewed by the wider world as entitled but placing those tasks in the hands of strangers is a remarkably tough place to be in. As a disabled person, I've had to accept my bowel movements being discussed with my parents’ friends, all sorts of being physically moved places not against my will but without my permission, even my pubic hair being shaved off by a stranger (nurse) while I was unable to speak or move. When people are feeding you, making sure you use the toilet, rubbing your feet to make you sleep, helping you with hygiene – people are working so hard to help you. Are you supposed to just accept them doing whatever they want to you?

There's also a dynamic where people will say they don't mind caring for you, they're happy to do it, and then as the years go by and you continue to need care the resentment just builds up. Caregiving is hard work. It's often thankless. The goodness of people’s hearts can run dry, when it's been twenty years and you still can't bathe yourself.

Aaand I need to continue in reblogs, because I'm out of space for images. Please hold. edit: you can find part 2 here

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Trauma Responses

Over-sharing

Over-explaining

Trauma dumping

Hyper-independence

Hypersexualization

People pleasing

Trauma is a mental injury, and our body may react to unconscious memories of significant negative events unknown even to us. Our body subconsciously protects us from future trauma.

How we respond to trauma has consequential implications on how we live our lives. Trauma responses ensure physical and emotional safety; however, these unintended reactions may interfere with our ability to flourish.

Trauma responses are innate; they occur without our consciousness.

A reaction to a perceived threat is called a trauma response. It is a survival instinct; it is reflexive and automatic.

Your body reacts to this perceived threat without your approval. Smells and sounds may remind your clients of the trauma they experienced and bring about memories that perhaps at one time were repressed. Despite the individual’s awareness, the unconscious self still remembers, and the body reacts.

A trauma response is how your nervous system has adapted following a significant situation and can manifest in various ways, whether there is an actual threat, or a threat is perceived.

Trauma responses cause a person to be hypervigilant, which may create an overwhelmed individual under normal circumstances. Contrarily, a person experiencing hypervigilance may also prove to be an effective person during crises. Trauma responses get a bad rap; however, if clients can recognize them, they can prevent them from controlling their lives.

Typical Trauma Response Types

Originally, fight and flight were thought to be the only responses to stress, which focused on the autonomic nervous system (McCarty, 2016; Katz et al., 2021).

Freeze, as a trauma response type, was later developed after observing lab rats in stressful situations (Katz et al., 2021).

Today, the 4 most commonly known trauma response types include fight, flight, freeze, and fawn. Each of these actions is an adaptive, functional short-term survival counteraction.

Fight

As we know, the fight response involves combativeness toward the perpetrator. Example demonstrations of fight may include kicking, punching, or threatening the attacker (Katz et al., 2021). It may also include being verbally argumentative and yelling.

If an individual is quick to anger, they may be demonstrating a fight trauma response. This symptom of arousal may indicate self-criticism when someone feels internally threatened (Germer & Neff, 2015).

This reaction may include any attempt to stand up against a threat. It is a form of assertiveness. At a healthy level, it delineates healthy boundaries.

At a primal level, if an animal feels it is being attacked, it may choose to fight back if the threat is manageable. If the animal feels that it cannot successfully fight the threat, it may resort to our next trauma response.

Flight

Flight involves literally or metaphorically running from an actual or perceived danger. It is an act of nonconfrontation and avoidance of a threat. More importantly, it is a biologically determined sequence of responses to stress (Bracha, 2004). Flight is a disengagement from the stress-inducing stimulus. Paired with fight, it is the cornerstone of stress response research by Walter B. Cannon (McCarty, 2016).

Flight may include the habit of leaving the room or fleeing from the home following an argument. It may also include drug and alcohol abuse to avoid emotions. Further, individuals demonstrating the flight response may be disconnected from their family, friends, or coworkers. Someone exhibiting the flight response may isolate themselves.

Over-sharing, over-explaining, and trauma dumping may indicate compartmentalization. If an individual shows compartmentalization, it may mean that they are unconsciously trying to distance themselves from the trauma, thus allowing them to speak of the event nonchalantly.

Further, this practice allows the individual to avoid direct confrontation or processing of the distressing experience. Considering the purpose of divulging the information, this response could also be intended to gain attention (Shabahang et al., 2022), including sympathy or validation.

Individuals may be unconsciously seeking external support or validation to cope with the trauma. Seeking refuge or solace in the empathy or validation of others is an illustration of the flight response.

Hyper-independence occurs when an individual internalizes that dependence on others is unsafe. They avoid asking for help and instead build a wall. This could be a trauma response of flight, as the individual is avoiding an interaction or relationship.

Hypersexualization may also suggest a flight response. Someone who is hypersexual may be fleeing from other emotions.

Likewise, this response may also represent the fawn response as an attempt to please others, which we will discuss later.

Freeze

This is an effective technique when fight or flight are not an option (d’Andrea et al., 2013). When the typical fight-or-flight responses are put on hold, this is considered the freeze response (Kozlowska et al., 2015).

This stress response involves the typical stop, look, and listen response and commands hypervigilance (Bracha, 2004). An individual may resort to this response when assessing a situation. Some suggest this response precedes the fight-or-flight, as the animal or victim is determining which response to employ.

Example: During a bear encounter, physically attacking the bear may be unwise; likewise, running from the bear may not be helpful either. Feigning death may be your way out of this critical situation. This immobility eliminates auditory and visual clues that would otherwise provoke aggression (Baldwin, 2013).

Binge eating could be considered a freeze response (Rodriguez-Quiroga et al., 2021). Instead of facing the situation, a person who engages in binge eating consumes an unusually large amount of food in a relatively short amount of time. This type of food consumption may serve as self-soothing behavior or self-medication.

Eating large quantities of food may induce a dissociative state, thus providing an escape and helping to cope with the overwhelming experience of trauma. This type of eating disorder can be just as dangerous as bulimia and anorexia.

This stress response helps the individual to hide, and it shows that you are not a threat. Further, the person experiencing the freeze response is provided the opportunity to process the threat.

Fawn

This lesser-known and least-understood trauma response may be confused with being a character trait. Arguably, this may be the only response where one engages with the potential threat and attempts to change the other person’s behavior. The trauma response stems from our innate need for social connection and co-regulation.

In this response, a person may mirror the other individual’s gestures, facial expressions, or speech. They are hypervigilant about everyone’s happiness and safety in the room.

Physically speaking, individuals who consistently show fawning as their trauma response may also experience temporomandibular joint disorder (TMJ), more commonly known as lockjaw, or pain in their jaw (Kim et al., 2009). They are overly agreeable and frequently sacrifice their boundaries.

For example, a man orders a well-done steak with a side salad from a notable restaurant. What he receives is a steak that is cooked medium rare with a side of French fries. That was not his order; however, he does not bring this oversight to the server’s attention for fear of disappointing someone, whether that be the wait staff or the chef.

People who frequently demonstrate the fawn response may be described as people pleasers, workaholics, over-explainers, and over-apologizers. During a traumatic event, a victim may experience Stockholm syndrome, which is when an individual attempts to appease one’s abuser or captor (Bailey et al., 2023).

Codependency can also be a fawn response (Walker, 2013). This is an unhealthy and dysfunctional relationship dynamic involving one person assuming the role of the “giver.” This response may also be referred to as the “friend” and “appease” response.

Lesser-Known Responses to Trauma

Besides the typical fight, flight, freeze, and fawn, there are a few more responses you may not be familiar with. Fright, flag, and faint are a few of the lesser-known trauma responses that are theorized by professionals of this field.

Fright

The fright response indicates tonic immobility. At first, the freeze response was theorized; however, it soon became apparent that this response could be differentiated from fright (Katz et al., 2021).

Similar to freeze and faint, the person experiencing fright will play dead, so to speak (Bracha, 2004). This is better understood when a predator has its prey in its grasp, and the prey goes limp and ceases its struggle to make itself less desirable for consumption. In this case, the fright response involves a heightened state of arousal and readiness to confront or flee from danger.

Flag

The flag response is characterized by numbness of emotion, cognitive failure, a drop in arousal, and surrender. Schauer and Elbert (2015) assert that the flag response is part of a sequence of six fear responses that progress as a function of defense during a life-threatening situation. The cascade consists of the following responses in sequential order: freeze – flight – fight – fright – flag – and faint.

The individual’s attention may be elsewhere, and they may feel like they are observing themself, which is an example of disassociation. This is a built-in defense mechanism that increases pain tolerance or numbs emotional response.

The person who experienced the trauma may exhibit memory lapses as their brain attempts to protect its emotional well-being.

Faint

Also a biologically determined response to acute stress defense, faint is a lesser-known response (Bracha, 2004).

This may also be referred to as the “flop” response, also indicative of tonic immobility and is a preferable option for the body when fight or flight is not possible. A common example of this phenomenon is when a person sees blood and literally faints from the sight of it. They are not “playing dead” as illustrated in the fright response; their body unconsciously suspends movement.

Instead of the arousal and readiness associated with the fright response, this type of response centers around immobility in response to overwhelming stress.

Clients who have been diagnosed with PTSD may benefit from the following techniques:

Sensory Grounding

To help them ground themself and bring awareness, encourage your client to try the following practice: Name 5 things you can see, 4 things you can hear, 3 things you can touch, 2 things you can smell, and 1 thing you can taste.

They could also carry a grounding smell, such as a scented lotion, perfume, or cologne, or carry a grounding sensory object, such as a fidget or soft item.

These grounding tools can be used discretely and have profound effects.

Cognitive Grounding

A process where clients must show themselves that they are safe.

They could verbally review the following thoughts: Remind yourself where the trauma occurred and how physically far you are from that location. Remind yourself when the trauma occurred and how long ago that was. Repeat inspiring quotes say coping statements such as:

I can handle this.

These feelings are temporary.

My present situation is different.

Source ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[halftametigers]

the light eyes don't spend enough time apologizing to bridge four for the bridges. like i respect dalinar and adolin and renarin and jasnah for the changes they make, but they should be on their knees repenting for those mistakes. instead they just point out to kaladin how fucked up he is while continually asking him to take on more responsibility. they treat him like a person when he is functioning and don't really deal with him when he is not, despite the fact that their fucked up system is why functioning is so difficult for so many of bridge four. idk, i know they are trying their best but it has real capitalist boss energy, like they are inconvenienced by the trauma inflicted by sadeas and when anyone asks for acknowledgement or reparations the best they come up with is that they can't go back and that there are more pressing matters at hand.

i want one of them to one time set aside their problems and try to meet any of the bridge crews where they are, to listen for one moment to the suffering that happened. even if they are not directly responsible, they need to start interrogating the system of privilege that let something so horrible happen. might help them in their debates over how to handle the parshendi if they acknowledged that their lifestyle has always been built upon the suffering of others

when someone is competent they are just expected to keep being competent, regardless of what has made them that way, and i think that there is cruelty in that. i want dalinar to take one second to not be the bondsmith, looking toward the future, and instead be a human, and sit with his men, and just listen