#processing trauma instructions

[furiousgoldfish]

How to process trauma as a multiple (a person with dissociative identity disorder, OSDD or DID), taken from the book "Becoming Yourself: Overcoming Mind Control and Ritual Abuse" by Alison Miller.

First part of processing trauma as a multiple is that you need all of the parts that are holding some memory of that event; you need the pain holders, the sensation holders, anyone who was present or saw what happened, anyone who holds even a tiny bit of memory or pain or sight or sound, needs to cooperate in order for the trauma to be processed correctly. Unprocessed trauma can be used to trigger you, to trigger your parts, in case of mind control even to control their actions, it can cause emotional flashbacks, make you feel like you're re-living it or are stuck in it, often some parts will be stuck in the moment and unable to get out. In order to process it, the trauma needs to be put back together from all of the parts, and then processed only cognitively – meaning, without any emotion or sensation involved, just seeing and realizing what had happened to you, and with what results for your life. Then, you can introduce emotion and sensation to it, and your brain can make correct connections to what kind of feeling and pain was caused by what event, and store that information properly. Once you have all of the event completely understood and all of the emotions linked to the events they were caused by, the memory should be complete and able to get stored in the long-term memory side of the brain, where it will finally start fading, like normal memories do. Once it's there, it's unable to cause any more emotional flashbacks, panic attacks, or trauma symptoms, it would become a regular memory.

Now, how to do this when you're a multiple and you have many different insiders holding parts of that trauma, a lot of them unwilling to uncover what their part of it is, some of them holding just some of the sensation and some of the pain and unaware of the rest? What needs to be done is explaining to each of them what you're planning to do, and persuading them to give their part of the memory or feeling that they're holding, because it's going to make the burden of it lighter, and they will not be judged or punished for it. For some people, this will mean working around with other parts, that are assigned to punish certain parts for showing emotion or revealing information – they also need to be persuaded to not punish or sabotage the process. The book claims you don't even need to know all of the alters, just ask who has any part of the memory and persuade them, with explanations and benefits to what you're doing, to participate.

Once you have them all in, you need to get a big box, or a treasure chest, or a big bucket, or it can be a storage box, and you tell them to put all of the emotions, sensations, pain, fear, panic, anxiety, grief, anger, sexual feelings, bonds, love, shock, terror, anything they might be holding from that event, to put that feeling into the box. I was surprised to find out I could do this, because I've never done anything like it, but I could easily feel relief when every single sensation got sealed in the box, it was almost unbelievable. Then, you all sit together in front of a projector, or a television, or in my case, I physically transported us all in front of the event, so that we could watch it all happen. This way, all parts get a complete memory of the event, and awareness of what actually transpired, instead of the small part they were holding onto. First time you watch the memory, you watch it without any feelings or bodily sensations, all of that is in the box, and if you start feeling something, you pause, and put that feeling into the box, to continue watching the event using only the cognitive side of your brain. That is the only way you can get a good idea of what happened, without getting completely overwhelmed with sensations and pain. For the memory I was processing, I even cut the sound out and put it in the box, because it was less painful to see it without hearing it.

After seeing it once, you introduce feelings, little by little, and you don't need to feel it all in full extent. It's enough to add a little bit of feeling only to help your brain to connect it to the event. Just to link whatever discomfort, pain, sensation, grief and shock is related to the event at hand, it doesn't need to be felt in full all over again. You watch the memory again and again, until you're able to connect every sensation and emotion to it's cause. If there's any part of the memory missing, any sensation or information or feeling that you can't recall, you ask what part has got it, and ask them to put it in, to find out just what is hiding in that trauma.

When you're sure as you can be that every memory is back in it's place, you talk to all the parts to hear their version of how it felt and what they're feeling and thinking about it. You see what information they've gained from it, and how it changes their view of their function, or their life experience. If some are in grief, shock or terror, you make sure to offer them comfort and bring them back from the despair of it, and show them that other, different things happen in the future, that protect you from anything like that happening again.

After you've managed to do this, you can put the entire memory into the box (or treasure chest, or bucket, or whatever you feel is most appropriate), with a little opening for the chance that some other part of it will come up and need to join the memory, and the box can be stored as a processed memory. This should help your brain to store it as a long-term memory and for it to stop causing trauma symptoms.

I unfortunately have not been able to complete processing a single memory this way yet, because I keep missing parts and pieces, and parts holding them will not come up or cooperate with me, but I am hopeful that figuring out more about my parts and system will eventually enable me to process trauma properly. The information on how to do it gave me options to do things I couldn't do before. For instance, I could approach my child insiders who are stuck in the past, and show them the events of me running away from the abusers, having another place I can live in, show them that different future is possible and that freedom is possible. For those who've been brainwashed, I've been able to show them the events where the person who brainwashed them later abandoned them, ceased their function, and later distanced themselves to the point where they no longer recognize my voice or my face. (This sadly, only put my child insider into deep grief because they depended on that abuser for having a purpose and they're now just upset full time.)

I'm sharing this for the chance that someone else needs this and can use this information. I've never seen it laid out like this before. The examples shown in the book told the story of people taking a few years to intensively work on processing trauma, and then overcoming the symptoms of ptsd, which I find incredible and hard to even believe, having the ptsd symptoms for over 10 years now.

If anyone needs this book and is currently unable to buy it, I'm willing to share the pdf privately.

[crispycreambacon]

Image Description:

Page 1. Panel 1: A close-up shot of a woman's face while she cries. The narrator says, "My mother told me, through tears," Panel 2: A close-up shot of a child with short hair and conflicted eyes. The mother says, "This is just a test. A trial from God." Panel 3: The mother hands over a cup dripping with liquid to the child as she orders, "You have to forgive."

Page 2. Panel 1: The child leans forward, sweat dripping down their face as they hold the cup and their mother continues, "You are a child of God. Your anger is unholy." Panel 2: A close-up shot of a goat's eyes. Panel 3: A pair of hands hold a knife inward like they're about to stab their own chest. They say, "Lord, forgive me. Your cup is bitter." Panel 4: The child drinks the cup, and the liquid drips down from their chin to their shoulders.

/End ID

i have so much rage in me one day i think i will explode. i dont think i know how to forgive as much as i know how to forget

[copperbadge]

Recently I ran across an article about an art center that was doing creative expression classes for people with disabilities. Not that unusual, I've encountered that and trauma-oriented art therapy before, but it was the first time I'd come across the idea since getting diagnosed with ADHD. While the class was aimed more at high-needs disabilities, it occurred to me that I could -- if I wanted -- make non-prose art about being disabled.

Outside of my work in scene design I've never been much of a visual artist because I've never felt I had the combination of "something to say" and "a meaningful way to say it", but I started to question how meaningful and complex I really had to be to just make some statements about having ADHD. I can do it in prose, after all.

So I started thinking about how you would talk, in visual language, about things like time blindness, shame stemming from undiagnosed disability, the shift in behavior that medication can induce. Ways to express my condition to people who don't experience it. I still didn't really know how to build the pieces but whenever I went to an art museum I'd think about how I might do a gallery installation. The centerpiece of my mental gallery was a pair of barcodes, one marked "Neurotypical" and one marked "Neurodivergent".

[ID: An interior view of a small booklet, with pages marked 1 and 2, showing barcodes -- on the left, labeled Neurotypical, and on the right, in slightly weirder configuration, labeled Neurodivergent.]

And then I thought, why not make a zine? Nothing you're thinking of couldn't be put in zine form instead of on a gallery wall.

[ID: The booklet continues to pages 3 and 4; on page 3 is a postage-style label reading AUTISM with up arrows on either side, and on page 4 is a QR code labeled ADHD. The QR code technically should work but it just dumps a block of text I wrote about having ADHD into a browser.]

I grew up with zine culture in the 90s and I always wanted to make one but much like with visual art, I never felt like I had the right kind of thing to say; either I had too much to say or too little, and anyway I wasn't confident that what I wanted to do wouldn't just come off as trite and obvious. But you can make a six-page zine out of a single sheet of paper, so I did: I made Helpful Labels For Strange Brains by idab zines, a division of Extribulum Press. (i--dab is a term for a cuneiform tablet that contains a royal communication.)

[ID: The last two pages feature the same image -- a cereal bowl with a spoon in it, the spoon containing a single Adderall pill. One image, however, is captioned "Wake up. Pour yourself a cup of iced coffee. Fix a bowl of cereal. It's going to be a good day." while the other is covered in a detailed ADHD-style step-by-step process for the same actions, culminating in "It's going to be a day like that."]

I'm pretty pleased with how it came out -- the art all looks intentional and it still has that "taped this together after school" aesthetic I remember fondly from the 90s. And the confines of six pages, each only a few inches square, offers a good structure to keep things clear, simple, and meaningful.

[ID: The cover of the zine, labeled "Helpful Labels For Strange Brains" in a kind of esoteric stampy font.]

Especially nice is that if you wanted to you could just hand out the flat sheet, and let folks fold it into a booklet or not -- there's instructions for folding it on the back of the zine. Additionally I have some sticker backed printer paper so I could print it such that you could literally turn the labels into real labels.

Anyway if you want it, here ya go. You can print it on a single sheet of paper and follow the instructions on the back to fold it. I thought about selling it but I do not have the spoons to do a bunch of printing and folding and shipping.

[pyrepostings]

Whumpee who needs a surgery but they have Trauma about being knocked out and things Done to them.

Do they get the surgery while paralyzed and numb, but awake? Is caretaker there to still walk them through what's happening to them?

Do they agree to go under full anesthesia but only if caretaker is there both when they go under and wake up, and very specific instructions about how they want to be treated during the process?

"Fine, just, can you be there when I'm waking up? And please don't judge me if I react poorly to you, I- I don't always know where I am when I'm coming out of it."

"Let me hold the gas to my own face. Don't touch me until I'm out. Make sure I'm dressed the same by the time I'm coming up. Do what you have to do while I'm out, I don't want to hear details about it unless I ask, just get it done."

[harridansibyl]

Personal associations/interpretations of the dark/mystical houses (4th, 6th, 8th, 12th)

4th house

twisted tree roots, cultural practices, heirlooms, photo albums, inherited features, traditions, the mother, past lives, generational trauma, picture books, garden beds, childhood homes, ancestor altars, hand written recipe books, hearth, squeaky wooden floorboards, genealogy archives, caves, oak trees, baby wrap carriers, emotional security, cultural heritage, building foundations, photo albums, genetics, laundry lines, swing sets, property, mines, crops, sanctuaries, the chest and heart, home steads, fields, farms, root cellars, harvests, pots on stoves, brooms, backyards, agriculture, vines on trellises, handmade blankets, grandparents house, laundry baskets, attachment styles, singing lullabies, history, deep emotions, instincts, the unconscious, summer, waxing moon, vase of flowers, bath time, picking berries, celebrating holidays, chicken coops, older sisters, family gatherings, stone paths, forest walks, ancient structures/buildings, ancestral languages, cupboards, staying in

6th house

vitamins and supplements, morning routines, pharmacies, tasks and lists, doctors offices, health food stores, stomach medicine, hygiene practices, journals and planners, schedules, herbal teas, personal rituals, emergency kits, dog walks, lymphatic drainage, caregiving, donating blood, examinations and checkups, meditation, colour coordination, sticky notes, gastrointestinal problems, folded laundry, labels on everything, retirement homes, hand washing, braided hair, herb gardens, filing cabinets, face masks, kombucha, detailed diagrams, volunteer work, medicine cabinets, cleaning supplies, shelves, acts of service, skin care, organic linen, gauze and stitches, stress-induced illnesses, essential oil/herb baths, house plants, instructions, repetition, holistic medicine, giving advice, yoga studios, "gut feeling," bone broth

8th house

altars, divination, near death experiences, candle wax, feeling crushed by a heavy weight, grave dirt, red/dim lighting, funerals, double income, control, the underworld, cheques, insurance, heirlooms, ghost sightings, power imbalances, crime documentaries, ouroboros, bank accounts, grief and loss, shadow work, the womb, manipulation, scrying mirrors, Russian nesting dolls, keys, mortuaries, tests from the universe, pendulums, crime scene tape, the phoenix, projections, credit scores, animal bones on a forest floor, blood stained sheets, metaphysical shops, spiritual attacks, deep emotions, snakes, dead flowers, late autumn, wedding veils, envelopes, full moon, muddy boots, shadows at the corners of your vision, scarab beetles, inner processing, experiencing crisis, inherited possessions, natural disasters, sexual trauma, psychological studies, ancestral connections, cracked dolls, veil between realms, mental illnesses, deep connections, intimacy, reincarnation, torture devices, keys, whirlpools, the sound of sirens, unconscious fears, intense first impressions, pushing limits, feeling bound, scratches on walls, ten of swords

12th house

abandoned places, liminal spaces, long winters, shadowy figures, reoccurring dreams, repeated patterns, fog-filled forests, self analysation, inner worlds, cave systems, unfinished basements, hallucinations, solitary confinement, empty parking garages, spiral staircases, substance abuse, trapped in purgatory, hidden beneath the surface, maladaptive daydreaming, hospital hallways, confines of society, waning moon, moths, wandering aimlessly, disconnection from the world, psych wards, healing others, tired eyes or dark circles, chronic mental illness, suppression, addictions, hiding places, overnight shifts, unexplainable experiences, past life karma, exhaustion, cobwebs, others projections, catacombs, bird cages, premonitions in dreams, prescription bottles, self destructive patterns, late night walks, misty lakes, the feeling of walking out of the movie theater at night, identity crises, blurred faces, empty public transport, astral projection, comas, diary entries, dissociative episodes, shape shifting, generational trauma, observing people, mirrors, padded rooms, the afterlife, chain link fences, paradoxes, feeling misunderstood, repression or memory loss, hikikomori, the freeze response, disappearance, waiting rooms

[q8qwertyuiop8p]

Does Silco Know?

I'm surprised by the number of people I've talked who believe Silco is unaware of what Singed is doing to Vander, that it is all happening behind his back. Here I wanted to go over the reasons why Silco almost certainly played a roll in Warwick's creation, and perhaps even ordered it.

Weapon of War

Silco needs terrifying, never-before-seen weapons if an overwhelmingly underarmed Zaun is to scare Piltover into submission- it's why he has shimmer created and why he instructs Jinx to create Fishbones. It is likely that Warwick is intended to be another one of these wildcards.

Money and Strength

Singed's funding comes from Silco, so it would be difficult for him to hide such an audacious project. Singed also doesn't have the strength to carry shimmer-Vander's corpse away to his lab, but Silco's thugs do.

Holding On

Silco's biggest flaw is his inability to let the past and his loved ones go, and the way he, like Jinx, destroys what he loves. Silco romanticizes the betrayal and reminisces of the time he and Vander fought together. He refuses to give up on Vander, even forgiving him for the drowning and trying to reconcile. Vander has moved on, he refers to Silco as "brother" only in the past tense, but Silco continues to call Vander brother, even after the failed reconciliation and his "death." When Silco finds Jinx on the bridge, he tells Singed to keep her alive, even insists that "she can't die," despite being warned that the process will be torturous and it would be more merciful to let her go. He can't bring himself to do this because he loves her too much, too selfishly, to give her up to death or topside. Would it be that much of a stretch to suggest he did the same with Vander?

Hallucinations

After the explosion, Jinx hallucinates Vi, Mylo, and Claggor because she knows she killed them or indirectly caused their deaths. Jinx's bomb also helped to bring about Vander's demise, and she saw Vander's corpse. Despite this, she doesn't hallucinate him- not until e9, when she is already in a severe psychotic episode and Vi yells his name. Plus, in the concept for her minigun, she has scrawled "THREE LIVES" into one of the barrels. Mylo, Claggor, and Vi, but what about the fourth? It seems that Jinx may be aware that Vander is still alive, but how could she know unless Silco also knows?

When she finally does hallucinate Vander, she hallucinates scribbles of Warwick on or representing him.

So, if Silco knows, why would he talk to Vander's statue and not Warwick?

A- Privacy

Talking to Warwick means talking in the presence of Singed, who we see in e8 Silco doesn't trust. It's bad enough before you remember that not only does Silco say that Vander, who the undercity turned against, was right all along; he reveals that he is in the same spot Vander was in and is going to make the same decision; he is going to choose Jinx over Zaun, the same choice that lead to Vander's downfall. Silco is not going to risk Singed knowing that.

B- Pain

Throughout the show, Silco disassociates from pain, both his own and the pain he causes others. You can see this from the way he romanticizes his trauma, flinches and looks away at the cat being ripped apart, and reacts to the death of Renni's child. You can also see this when he kidnaps Vander- the blank, distant expression on arrival, the way he looks down and away when Benzo dies and Vander is punched, and how his good eye shines on the verge of tears. But he doesn't cry and he never does, because in his situation, to feel pain and empathy is a death sentence- the perfect way to prove your weakness and turn your allies against you. After all, it was his empathy towards Jinx that caused him to love her, and it was his love for her that turned Sevika and the chembarons against him. If killing Vander's friend and knocking him out was that painful for Silco, imagine how much worse it would be for him to see Vander disfigured, barely alive and in a constant state of mind-shattering agony, being sliced open and pumped full of chemicals. Singed had to drug Silco to keep him from going crazy over Jinx's similar transformation. Silco simply cannot bear to face the pain that he puts Vander through.

Edit: Thank you everyone who brought it up, I completely forgot about him telling Vander "I'll show you what you really are" in e3. It's framed to suggest Silco plans to make Vander take shimmer, but that makes no sense when you think about it, especially considered how shimmer gives users increased aggression but they still have control. Given shimmer, Vander would simply break free and kill Silco, or at the very least escape. Silco knows what shimmer does, he is not stupid enough to give Vander shimmer.

Furthermore he makes it clear that his plan is to "disappear" Vander ("have you heard the rumor? Vander the coward fled town with his children, and they were never heard from again...") If Silco was really just going to kill Vander and that's it, why would he say "I'll show you what you really are?" He didn't want to kill Vander, he wanted to change him into something unrecognizable to all but him.

[litnerdwrites]

Rhys being the 'most powerful hl' ultimately hinders the story. If SJM wanted the nc to be underdogs, it should've been the smallest, most unstable court.

Historically, objectively bad or unmoral people can sometimes be the best rulers while objectively good or moral people can be terrible rulers. Take advantage of this.

Make Rhysand need to wear the mask of the cruel, ruthless high lord in order to prevent the CON and Illyria from rebelling. Make both of those places have a certain amount of political and militaristic power over him that would explain why he can't just force them to do as he pleases.

Have the NC be the court with the highest crime rates, and poverty rates and Rhysand be considered a ruthless ruler. One who 'lets' amren out on the prowl to steal wealth (preferably from greedy rich nobles) but they don't know that it's redistributed into running the NC, and looking after the people.

Have Mor actually help woman but drinking and visiting the con or other cities under the guise going there to flex her power and act tyranicle, but secretly leave money, medical supplies, tickets to boats/carriages, etc. Or even instructions to their library where sa survivors heal (maybe not in the how, but somewhere else, hidden or warded).

Have Azriel and Cassian push the limits of the Illyrians, not enough to incite war, but to keep them in line. If men clip wings, have Azriel either assassinate them or Cassian publicly punish or beat them but not reveal the reason why, so it comes off as tyranny.

Make them act like villains for a damn reason, and actually accomplish things in the process, even if it's small. Perhaps even have the land itself be dying (like the dusk court centuries ago), making food harder to come by too.

Maybe even have the concept of Velaris be a legend, of the Night Court's former glory, but in the current story, be a shell of itself. This would give the so-called court of dreams something to dream about and work towards.

Have the previous rulers of the nc be objectively moral people, that were bad at ruling and created the unstable political climate Rhysand needs to navigate, while Feyre gives him new perspective. Have Elain and Nesta come in later, and help teach Feyre about politics based on what they knew from their mortal lives. Give them dreams and aspirations of their own.

Give each of the Archeron Sisters something in the NC that would cement it as their home, if that's what you want to do. Have Feyre speak with the Illyrian women, teach them to hunt, learn of their issues, etc. Have her repair her relationship with Nesta over helping them, with Nesta using the training of her childhood to help the Illyrian women overthrow the corrupt lords that insist on treating them as lesser than.

Give Feyre and Nesta a chance to learn about each other, their childhood, how neglected Feyre felt and how abused Nesta was, before coming together to reach a common goal. Then, Nesta could become a diplomat that helped the nc repair their foreign relations, giving her the chance to travel that she always wanted.

Make the humans have innovative methods of agriculture, given they don't have magic. Have Elain want to help the people of downtrodden villages and towns, teaching them about those innovative methods, to help rejuvenate the land. Still let her have trauma, but let them have their own reasons to want to stay in the nc or not stay in the nc.

Making Rhysand 'the most powerful hl' doesn't make him unique or interesting. It makes it too easy to wonder why he won't do something when he sits in a seat of power and privilege, to do it. So, take away that power. Give him something to earn. Give the entire IC a dream/vision for what the NC could be and work to it, throughout the books, instead of handing it to them on a silver platter. Make them work for it.

[wynn-43]

the moments in between

series masterlist

part 4 !!!!! bang chan x gn! reader wc: 3574 warnings: panic attack, in depth (ish) description of a trauma related panic attack, anxiety, physical touch, chris is a sweetheart as usual, lovely and fluffy, reader gets a miagrane, sleep issues, platonic (...?) affection, slight angst, complex emotions, they have abath together (with bathers on), adorable soft fluff :) a/n: sorry this took so long, lifes been hectic and i'm starting uni soon ive been busy lol

“Ooh that feels nice.” Chris mumbles as you gently stroke your fingers through his freshly washed hair.

“You like it?” You chuckle as you look down at where he’s situated on the floor in front of you.

“We need to do this more often.” Chris murmurs as he leans into your hands.

“Hold your horses. We haven’t even started.” You say, giggling as he whines when you move your hands.

“Okay so, once you're out, gently dry your hair with a towel.” You start, opening the tub next to you. “Microfibre, or anything generally soft is preferred.”

“Then, once it’s somewhat dry, you put in a leave-in conditioner.” You continue as you spread some leave-in-conditioner on your hands.

“You then apply it to your hair, you have to like, comb it through.” You murmur as you gently comb the product through his hair.

“Then…” You mumble as you pick up the bottle of gel, squeezing some onto your hands. “You put the gel on. And then you have to scrunch it.”

“Like this.” You say as you gently scrunch his hair, careful not to accidentally pull it. “Until your curls are more defined.”

“Then you scrunch it again with a t-shirt, or soft towel.” You hum, repeating the process with an old t-shirt.

“You can then let it air dry, or if you want more defined curls you can use a diffuser.” You finish, patting his shoulder to signal that you’re done.

He turns around, still on the floor but now facing you.

“As much as I appreciate you showing me, I will absolutely never be doing that.” He says sincerely and you groan.

“Chrissss! You have to take care of your hair!” You whine as he giggles.

“Can’t you just do it for me?” He gently rests his chin on your knee and you inhale sharply. 

“I won’t be here everyday.” You sigh, trying to ignore how your stomach somersaulted at the touch.

“Then move in with me or something!” He playfully whines, his words carrying a sense of unspoken sincerity as he presses his chin into your knee slightly.

“And give Mia more to gossip about?” You laugh as he groans.

“Let them gossip! We know we’re just friends! That's what's important.” He says as he looks up at you with pleading eyes and you try your best to ignore the sting of his words, choosing to unpack that later.

“I-” You start, looking down at his puppy-dog eyes. “I’ll think about it.”

He giggles cheerfully, sitting up on his knees to hug you and gently nuzzle his face into your stomach, making you giggle.

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊✮‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

The next few weeks flew by in a blur of persuasions and packing, and before you even processed that you agreed, you were sitting on the floor of your new room trying to construct a bookcase.

“I’m so glad you agreed to move in!” Chris chirped, his excitement infectious as he carried the final box inside.

“Still not sure how you convinced me.” You tease before scowling at the still-disassembled bookcase before you.

“Do you need help?” He asked, giggling at your growing frustration.

You turn to give him a petty glare, huffing as you turn back to the nonsensical instructions.

“Yes.” You concede, making him burst into laughter at your exasperation.

You roll your eyes at him and throw the instruction sheet in his general direction as he sits behind you.

He quickly looks over the sheet, immediately looking confused.

“Okay yeah, this doesn’t make sense.” He murmurs, looking between the sheet and the shelf.

“I KNOW RIGHT!” You exclaim as he tries to hold back a laugh.

“I vote, we use common sense and guess.” You say, on the verge of giving up.

He looks at you, humour and mirth evident in his eyes. “Okay, sure. You lead the way. But if it breaks, it’s not my fault.” 

You huff again as you stand up. “Let’s do this.”

“I can’t believe that worked.” Chris said an hour later.

“I know right!” You respond, proud of your handiwork.

“Do you want my help putting stuff away?” He asks, admiring the bookcase.

“Uhh… Can you help me put books away?” You ask, looking towards the 4 stacked boxes full of books.

“Yeah! Any particular order?” He asks, already turning to the boxes.

“Just by series or author.” You reply, turning to start to put away your clothes. 

“Let me know if you need help reaching the top.” You giggle as he gasps.

“Hey! I’m helping you here.” He scolds lightheartedly.

“Right, right, sorry.” You pause. 

“I’ll just get you a stepstool.” You say before erupting in a fit of giggles at his exasperated expression.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have let you move in…” He grumbles as he puts the books away.

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊✮‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

It had been a few months since you’d moved in with Chris and all was going well.

You sat on the couch reading a book when you heard the front door unlock. 

“Hey.” You murmur, looking up at Chris from your spot cuddled up on the couch.

“Hi.” He whispers tiredly as he puts his bag down and takes his shoes off.

“Long day?” You ask quietly as you put your book to the side.

“Yeah.” He mutters as he rubs his face.

“Anything I can do to help?” You ask softly as he walks over to you.

“Yeah, but I’m worried it’s weird.” He whispers as he sits on the other end of the couch.

“Hey, I won’t judge you. I promise.” You murmur as you offer him a soft smile.

“Can you just like…” He hesitates. 

“Hold me?” He whispers as he looks away.

“Of course.” You reply, holding your arms out for him to fall into.

You feel your heart flutter at the look of relief on his face as he snuggles against you, his face pressed against your stomach as you gently run your fingers through his hair.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” You murmur after holding him for sometime.

“I don’t think so.” He whispers in reply.

“If you ever want to, I’m here.” You mumble, continuing your gentle ministrations on his fluffy hair.

“Even if I cry?” He murmurs, his voice thick with emotion.

“Especially if you cry.” You respond and you swear you feel him breathe a sigh of relief.

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊✮‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

A few weeks later

You felt absolutely shattered, your eyes burned from the lack of sleep and your limbs were heavy with an ever-present ache. Once again, you struggled to sleep last night, the insomnia and nightmares winning out despite your many attempts to avoid them. Choosing to do something productive rather than wallow in your complicated emotions, you decided to make pancakes for you and Chris.

You were onto the final few pancakes when you heard someone softly padding into the kitchen.

“What’cha cooking?” Chris asks, his voice heavy with sleep as he came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, careful to avoid the hot pan.

“Pancakes.” You hum simply in response, focusing on the task at hand.

He nuzzles his nose into your shoulder as he slowly wakes up.

“This okay?” He mumbles against your shoulder.

You hum affirmatively, trying to maintain your focus.

“How’d you sleep?” He asks as he holds you close.

“Yeah, okay.” You murmur, the lie feeling thick in your throat. “How’d you sleep?”

“Fine, I actually fell asleep early for once.” He mutters as you flip the pancake.

“So like… what. 11:30?” You tease, allowing your attention to shift from the pancakes slightly.

“Heyy! You should be happy for me, you’re the one always telling me to sleep earlier.” He whines, trying to hide his giggles.

“Fine, fine. I’m glad you slept well.” You hum, moving one hand to squeeze his hand where it wrapped around your waist.

He nestles his face in the crook of your neck and you freeze, your stomach turning uncomfortably and nausea rising in your throat.

He pulls back immediately upon noticing your discomfort.

“Not okay?” He gently asks, removing his hands from around your waist and despite the chaos in your mind you mourn the loss of his body against yours.

You can hear your heart race as you lean to turn the stove off, each echoing beat spiking your anxiety as your thoughts spiral.

“Uh. No sorry.” You mutter, trying to ignore the familiar sensation of your breath catching in your throat.

“Hey, hey. It’s okay, don’t apologise.” Chris whispers as he notices the tears in your eyes. “Can I touch you?”

You nod hesitantly and as soon as he pulls you close, tears begin spilling down your face as you see memories of them flickering in your mind.

“You don’t need to apologise, it's okay.” He murmurs, gently tracing invisible circles along your back.

“You’re allowed to have boundaries, and I’m sorry for crossing them.” He affirms as the invisible circles he’s tracing turn into little stars and hearts.

“Thank you for telling me, I’m really proud of you.” He affirms, gently pulling you back to wipe the tears from your eyes.

“You are so strong. And incredible. You deserve the world.” He pulls you back into his chest, holding you close as you bawl into his shoulder.

“Do you want to go sit on the couch?” He gently asks after some time, when your sobs had eventually turned into hiccups.

You shake your head, sniffling as you pull back and wipe your eyes.

“Thank you.” You murmur before turning towards the stove where the half-finished pancake lays. “But there’s still one more pancake.”

He pulls you back into his chest, resting his face in your hair as he holds you close.

“We have enough pancakes. Do you want to go set the table? I’ll clean this for you.” Chris murmurs softly before gently guiding you away by the waist.

You simply hum in response, too emotionally exhausted to say more, before going to set the table.

Chris appears at the table minutes later, bearing two plates of pancakes, one lovingly decorated with your favourite toppings.

“You okay?” He asks softly as he places the plate down in front of you.

You nod, scared that speaking will release the floodgates of your emotional turmoil.

“I’m really sorry. I should’ve remembered that you don’t like neck stuff.” He mumbles as he sits beside you.

“No, it’s not your fault.” You start, hoping that your voice sounded stable. “I overreacted. I'm sorry.”

“You didn’t overreact. You’re allowed to have emotions.” Chris states as you busy yourself with your pancakes in an effort to distract yourself from your overwhelming emotions.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He asks softly a few minutes later, and the concern in his voice sends a pang to your stomach.

“Yeah, just tired. I haven’t been sleeping well.” You mutter, trying to ignore the nausea in your stomach.

“Oh, I get that. Do you want to talk about it?” He gently enquires as he starts to eat his pancakes.

“Um. I don’t know.” You reply, unsure.

“No pressure. But I’m here if you want to talk.” He murmurs, gently nudging his knee against yours, making you giggle.

“Uh.” You start after the two of you sit in silence for a while. “I just keep getting nightmares, and it takes me ages to get to sleep.”

“Wanna cuddle?” He asks, somewhat jokingly and you almost choke on your pancakes.

“Oh my god. Please don’t die.” He says, patting your back as you recover.

“We don’t have to. But if you think it might help, it could be worth a shot.” He murmurs as you consider his proposition.

“Okay.” You reply, desperate to try anything.

“Really?” Chris exclaims excitedly and you laugh before collecting your plate and putting it at the sink.

“Now?” He asks, immediately standing behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist.

“Sure.” You hum, and you're caught off guard when he picks you up, carrying you to his bedroom.

“Chris!” You scream before the two of you erupt into giggles.

“Cuddle time!” He exclaims before dropping you on the bed, immediately shuffling in behind you.

He immediately pulls you to his chest, wrapping his around your stomach and pressing his face into your hair.

“This okay?” He asks gently as he holds you close.

“Uh, yes but-” You begin as you turn around, shifting so that you’re facing him.

“Hi.” You whisper, caught off guard by how close your faces are.

“Hi.” He whispers in response, and you swear you see his eyes flick to your lips for a second.

“Can I uh- lay on your chest? Heartbeats make me uh, calmer.” You mumble, struggling to avoid making eye contact with how close your faces are.

“Of course.” He murmurs back, smiling as he shuffles to lay on his back, allowing you to shift yourself into a more comfortable position.

“Thank you.” You mumble, immediately feeling sleepy once you rested your head on his chest.

“Always.” He murmurs, softly brushing the hair off your face before pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “This okay?”

You hum and nod, trying to ignore the swirl of emotions in your stomach as your heart rate quickens- grateful that you were listening to his heart and not the reverse.

The two of you lie there for a while, you listening to the gentle thump of his heartbeat as he softly runs his fingers through your hair.

“I still can’t sleep.” You mumble sometime later. “Like I’m sleepy, but I can’t sleep.”

“Do you want me to sing to you?” He whispers. “Didn’t you say that gentle touches on your arm makes you sleepy? I can do that.”

You hum in consideration, too exhausted to be flustered by his sweetness. “Yeah, like gently tracing on my arm.”

“Like this?” He mumbles before gently running the tips of his fingers down your arm.

You nod, already feeling sleepier.

“Want me to sing too?” He asks gently and you hum in response.

He starts softly singing one of your favourite songs as he continues his gentle tracing on your arm. You feel yourself slowly drift to sleep, encased in a soft blanket of his affection, as well as the comfort and safety he brings you.

Later, a while after your breathing evens out and he hears your soft snores, Chris stops his soft singing and gentle tracing, instead pressing a soft kiss to your hair and looking down at your sleeping face.

“Love you bug.” He murmurs before closing his eyes as your soft snores lull him to sleep.

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊✮‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

You could vaguely hear Chris’s soft footsteps as he tiptoed into the room.

“Hey love. You okay?” He asked softly, sitting down next to where you laid on the bed.

“Yeah.” You mumble out, voice hoarse from your medicine-induced nap. “My head hurts less.”

“I’m glad.” He hums, brushing your hair out of your face and looking down at you sweetly.

“I need to shower.” You murmur, trying to sit up before you're interrupted by a sharp pain in your head.

“Woah, woah. Take it easy.” Chris mumbles as he helps you sit up. “Is that a good idea?”

“Probably not. But I didn’t yesterday, and I need to wash my hair.” You whisper, blinking to try and wake up fully..

“Do you want me to help?” He gently asks and you hum noncommittally. 

“Whilst I appreciate the thought, I don’t think I feel comfortable with you seeing me naked, let alone touching me naked.” You whisper, the mixture of pain and exhaustion making you too honest for your own good.

“We can wear bathers.” He murmurs and you look up to see that beautiful, genuine smile on his face.

“I- yeah. That would work.” You mumble, glad that the room was still dark and that he therefore couldn’t see you blushing.

“Shower or bath?” He asks, gently rubbing a soft circle on your hand with his thumb.

“Bath… Please.” You murmur as he smiles at you, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

“Do you want me to leave you to get changed whilst I run the bath?” You nod in response, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes and standing as he runs off.

10 minutes later, you walk into the bathroom, immediately surprised by the ambiance in the room.

“I put candles up so that the lighting wasn’t too bright.” Chris whispers from behind you, startling you.

You turn around, shocked to find him shirtless in swim trunks.

“Do you want me to wear a top?” He asks, stepping back.

“No, it’s fine. I just forget how buff you are.” You murmur, admiring his physique as he blushes.

“Oh hush, get in the bath.” He shushes as you giggle at his fluster.

You sit down in the bath, sighing at the warmth.

“Is the temperature good?” Chris asks from beside you.

You nod, humming contently as you feel your headache relax again.

“Okay, how are we going to do this?” He asks gently, as you sit there with your eyes closed.

“Can you just help me wash my hair?” You murmur, squinting your eyes open slightly.

“Yeah, of course. Where are your products?” He asks, looking around.

“Just there, would it be easier if you got in with me?” You ask gently, grateful for his decision with the lighting as you open your eyes.

He freezes, inwardly glad he chose warm lighting so his blush was less obvious.

“Are you okay with that?” He asks, distracting himself with gathering the products.

“Yeah.” You hum, trying to remain nonchalant about the intimacy of the situation.

“Okay.” He says as he places the items on the shelf next to the bath.

He then gently slides in behind you, and you situate yourself so you're sitting in between his legs.

“This okay?” He asks once the two of you are comfortable.

You nod, untrusting of your voice's ability to mask your fluster.

“Okay, so what do I have to do?” He asks, picking up the bottles from the floor.

You slowly guide him through each of the steps, explaining each part of the process.

“Then I do stuff after but I can do that myself.” You finish as he hums.

“You sure?” He asks, whispering so as to not aggravate your aching head. “I’m happy to help.”

“Uh, sure. If it’s not too much trouble.” You murmur, trying to ignore the odd fluttering of your heart.

“You’re never too much trouble.” He hums as he starts to lather the shampoo on your hair.

“Thank you.” You mutter, glad he was behind you and unable to see your flushed face.

“That better?” He murmurs after he washed the conditioner out of your hair.

You hum sleepily, the ambiance of the soft light of the candles and the gentle trickling of water combining with Chris’ gentle washing of your hair lulling you into a blissful state. 

“Don’t fall asleep just yet.” He whispers gently as he cradles you against his chest. “Almost done, then you can go to sleep.”

The gentleness in his tone makes your heart ache ever-so-slightly and the shift in positions rouses you from your trance.

“Okay.” You hum before moving to get out of the water.

“Wait, let me get out first.” Chris says, steadying you before he stands.

He wraps his towel around his waist before he carefully helps you exit the bath.

He gently wraps your towel around you before sitting you down on the stool next to the vanity.

“Now, how do I do this?” He asks once you're situated.

“Just a leave-in-conditioner. It’s in the bottom drawer.” You say, trying to ignore the chill biting at your legs as he leans down and grabs the container.

“This is how you always smell so nice!” He murmurs upon opening it, making you giggle.

“Do you remember how to do this?” You ask, looking up at him.

“Yep.” He responds before gently brushing the product through your hair.

“Okay done! Did I do it right?” He asks as he puts it away.

“Yes, you did.” You reply, giggling slightly.

“Great! Okay let’s get you back to your room.” He murmurs as helps you stand up.

Later, once the two of you have changed out of your pyjamas and you’re snuggled up in your bed, Chris comes to check on you.

“Need anything?” He asks, standing beside your bed.

“Uhh… I think I’m good, thanks.” You murmur as you slowly feel yourself getting sleepier.

“Okay, feel free to call me if you need anything.” He whispers as he presses a soft kiss to your forehead. As his lips gently brushed your forehead you feel your face warm with a deep flush, grateful to the shadows of the room for concealing it.

He began to walk towards the door, careful not to make too much noise.

“Wait.” You whisper as you hesitate, your heart pounding at the thought of asking for more from him.

He turns, looking concerned.

“You okay?” He asks warmly.

“Yeah, just uh…” You mumble, flustered.

“Can you hold me?” You ask in a whisper.

He simply smiles, moving towards the bed and slipping under the covers, gently wrapping his muscular arm around your waist, holding you tight.

“Always.” He whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your hair.

This is a work of fiction, based entirely on my personal perception of him, and does not reflect his actual character or actions.

ʚ✩ɞ taglist ʚ✩ɞ

@jennibahng @jchasseblog @itzkingbo @velvetmoonlght

[phantoms-world-and-more]

Fentons and the joker

So the fentons are in gothem for whatever reason, yada yada yada...BUT rather than danny its JACK that went phyco on the joker???:)

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Its just after danny revealed himself as phantom, it took some time to cope with it but the fenton parents support danny (as long as hes relatively safe) being phantom, in amity.

But right now Their in gothem, and jack and maddie are in protective mode, jazz and danny and a little annoyed since after danny revealed himself as phantom their protectiveness trippeled, usualy that wasent a problem, amity was their home, none of the ghosts really wanted to hurt danny, and they have access to resources and support when needed

But their not in amity, so if they get hurt they have limited options, and apparently jack and maddie take thay as :their children could be in danger, stay aware

Danny actually dosent mind it, he's outside of his haunt but he still feels as safe as can be

Jazz is trying to lecture them on the unhealthy coping mechanisms they've developed but that aside she dosent really mind

That was until they got a news report that their was a prison breakout

Danny and jazz are trying to keep their parents from pulling out the fenton bazookas

And jack and maddie are making sure the trackers on their children are working

Well suddenly the street is filled with smoke, there was screaming, laughing and the sounds of people getting knocked over

When the smoke clears danny and jazz are gone...

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Danny amd jazz were being held hostage by some loon called the joker

Now its bad because jazz needs to focus all her attention on keeping danny calm, he's outside in haunt without any protection, his parents are gone, he cant use his powers without outing himself again and theres a FUCKING CLOWN 3 FEET FROM HIM MONOLOGING TO A FURRIE

He's this close to loosing it and (probably) turning this clown into sidewalk chalk

The clown kept talking to the furrie but they weren't paying attention, after a certain point the clown aimed his gun at danny head...

And thats when the fenton-family-car ran through the wall, maddie took one look at the situation and started beating the everliving shit out of anyone who got in the way of her and her babys... after 5 minues all the goons were making a path for her and the other hostages are scared of this woman

Jack on the other hand saw the position danny was in, had flashbacks to danny amd freakshow, and promptly went insane

He shoved batman, tackeled the joker, breaking the arm holding the gun in the processes, and proceded to(with his bare hands) remove all of the jokers teeth, he them puller out a fenton-net, strung him up like a fish and handed the netted-joker to batman with the instruction "watch him"

Half an hour later nightwing and batman are talking to the fentons, jack and maddie each cheaking for injuries on jazz and danny

Nightwing is the one to ask

:why did you do so much to the joker? Why didnt you just disarm him?

:huh, OH, y'see my youngest danny-O over there, had some...bad experiences with clowns that left some lasting trauma...and well, no one scares my children

Nightwing gave a pointed look at batman, and prepared to show the recordings to jason

[angelsfuzzyslippers]

Stolas, kink, and violence

This is something I've been thinking about while both having an appreciation for the nature of Stolitz's past kinky relationship and anticipating/hoping for a trend of Stolas getting more hands-on with defending himself and working alongside IMP in future seasons: I really really like that Blitz became something of a safe space for Stolas to experience pain and violence.

Like, this is a guy who's been a victim of physical abuse for a long portion of his life and who is very much feeling the impacts of that abuse on his pysche and his ability to handle conflict. Stolas clearly demonstrates on multiple occasions that he is generally uncomfortable with violent confrontation/conflict (disliking the human sacrifice/refusing to stab the cake in Apology Tour, being horrified by M&M's behavior in Sinsmas, and even the fact that he chose to intimidate the agents in Truth Seekers rather than kill them outright is a sign of this, I think). Of course, push him far enough and he will turn to violence (Andy is very punchable), but in general he has a distaste for it, particularly with respect to interpersonal relationships, that very likely stems from his trauma. So the fact that he's not only willing but excited to indulge in extreme levels of pain play with Blitz (I'll never get over fucking bear traps, my god) is very telling. Obviously, there's a whole book you could write about people processing and coping with abuse via kink that plays to elements of the abuse and I am not the person to write that book. I just wanted to take a second to really marvel at how wonderfully trusting it is of Stolas to allow that with Blitz and how amazingly Blitz must have handled it for Stolas to continually find it enjoyable. Like, as far as we know, Blitz doesn't even know about Stella's abuse - and abuse like that is a landmine-and-a-half to navigate in kink even when both partners are aware of it. So for Stolitz's kink relationship to proceed so well, when only one of them isn't in the dark about potentially triggering information - (btw Stolas, I don't blame you because I know it would've required a million different interpersonal skills that you don't have to navigate it, but it was really unsafe to not tell him at some point) -isn't just a miracle, it's a testament to how attentive of a Dom Blitz must have been (especially since Stolas absolutely gives me the vibes of the kind of sub who wants to please beyond his limits). As for what this has to do with the future, I'm very very hopeful Stolas will have a bit of a training arc, so to speak. He no longer has magic, but still very much has reasons he'll need to defend himself and as much as he enjoys the fantasy of being a damsel, I think actually being one will get old for him quickly (especially as he cares more than ever about the people who'd actually have to risk themselves to save him). Violent confrontation is something he's going to have to get relatively comfortable dealing with and participating in (and without the aid of an un-medicated mental breakdown fueling him), especially as he continues to work and associate with assassins. And who better to help him settle into that, than Blitz? The man who supported and guided him through pain and violence intimately. I could easily see a scenario where Millie is trying to teach him weapons or Moxxie is trying to instruct him on sniping and he's just viscerally uncomfortable the whole time, but the moment Blitz steps in, it eases because of that trust they've cultivated. Violence doesn't need to be flinched away from if he's facing it with Blitz. And this could easily extend to the rest of IMP as he faces more challenges with them and gains trust in them as well; likely never as much as he has with Blitz, but enough that the thought of a sparring match for fun wouldn't have him grimacing. And that's something I'd love to see. .....now as for how Blitz's own past with physical abuse and the violent nature of his life as an imp and assassin impacted his role as Stolas' Dom and shared test for extremity in the bedroom... I have no clue where to start with that one, but I know Blitz loved using those bear traps as much as Stolas did 😂😏

[renee-writer]

An ER nurse says this is the best description of a woman having a heart attack that she has ever heard. Please read, pay attention, and SHARE..........

FEMALE HEART ATTACKS

I was aware that female heart attacks are different, but this is the best description I've ever read.

Women rarely have the same dramatic symptoms that men have ... you know, the sudden stabbing pain in the chest, the cold sweat, grabbing the chest & dropping to the floor that we see in movies. Here is the story of one woman's experience with a heart attack.

I had a heart attack at about 10:30 PM with NO prior exertion, NO prior emotional trauma that one would suspect might have brought it on. I was sitting all snugly & warm on a cold evening, with my purring cat in my lap, reading an interesting story my friend had sent me, and actually thinking, 'A-A-h, this is the life, all cozy and warm in my soft, cushy Lazy Boy with my feet propped up.

A moment later, I felt that awful sensation of indigestion, when you've been in a hurry and grabbed a bite of sandwich and washed it down with a dash of water, and that hurried bite seems to feel like you've swallowed a golf ball going down the esophagus in slow motion and it is most uncomfortable. You realize you shouldn't have gulped it down so fast and needed to chew it more thoroughly and this time drink a glass of water to hasten its progress down to the stomach. This was my initial sensation--the only trouble was that I hadn't taken a bite of anything since about 5:00 p.m.

After it seemed to subside, the next sensation was like little squeezing motions that seemed to be racing up my SPINE (hind-sight, it was probably my aorta spasms), gaining speed as they continued racing up and under my sternum (breast bone, where one presses rhythmically when administering CPR).

This fascinating process continued on into my throat and branched out into both jaws. 'AHA!! NOW I stopped puzzling about what was happening -- we all have read and/or heard about pain in the jaws being one of the signals of an MI happening, haven't we? I said aloud to myself and the cat, Dear God, I think I'm having a heart attack!

I lowered the foot rest dumping the cat from my lap, started to take a step and fell on the floor instead. I thought to myself, If this is a heart attack, I shouldn't be walking into the next room where the phone is or anywhere else... but, on the other hand, if I don't, nobody will know that I need help, and if I wait any longer I may not be able to get up in a moment.

I pulled myself up with the arms of the chair, walked slowly into the next room and dialed the Paramedics... I told her I thought I was having a heart attack due to the pressure building under the sternum and radiating into my jaws. I didn't feel hysterical or afraid, just stating the facts. She said she was sending the Paramedics over immediately, asked if the front door was near to me, and if so, to un-bolt the door and then lie down on the floor where they could see me when they came in.

I unlocked the door and then laid down on the floor as instructed and lost consciousness, as I don't remember the medics coming in, their examination, lifting me onto a gurney or getting me into their ambulance, or hearing the call they made to St. Jude ER on the way, but I did briefly awaken when we arrived and saw that the radiologist was already there in his surgical blues and cap, helping the medics pull my stretcher out of the ambulance. He was bending over me asking questions (probably something like 'Have you taken any medications?') but I couldn't make my mind interpret what he was saying, or form an answer, and nodded off again, not waking up until the Cardiologist and partner had already threaded the teeny angiogram balloon up my femoral artery into the aorta and into my heart where they installed 2 side by side stints to hold open my right coronary artery.

I know it sounds like all my thinking and actions at home must have taken at least 20-30 minutes before calling the paramedics, but actually it took perhaps 4-5 minutes before the call, and both the fire station and St Jude are only minutes away from my home, and my Cardiologist was already to go to the OR in his scrubs and get going on restarting my heart (which had stopped somewhere between my arrival and the procedure) and installing the stents.

Why have I written all of this to you with so much detail? Because I want all of you who are so important in my life to know what I learned first hand.

1. Be aware that something very different is happening in your body, not the usual men's symptoms but inexplicable things happening (until my sternum and jaws got into the act). It is said that many more women than men die of their first (and last) MI because they didn't know they were having one and commonly mistake it as indigestion, take some Maalox or other anti-heartburn preparation and go to bed, hoping they'll feel better in the morning when they wake up... which doesn't happen. My female friends, your symptoms might not be exactly like mine, so I advise you to call the Paramedics if ANYTHING is unpleasantly happening that you've not felt before. It is better to have a 'false alarm' visitation than to risk your life guessing what it might be!

2. Note that I said 'Call the Paramedics.' And if you can take an aspirin. Ladies, TIME IS OF THE ESSENCE!

Do NOT try to drive yourself to the ER - you are a hazard to others on the road.

Do NOT have your panicked husband who will be speeding and looking anxiously at what's happening with you instead of the road.

Do NOT call your doctor -- he doesn't know where you live and if it's at night you won't reach him anyway, and if it's daytime, his assistants (or answering service) will tell you to call the Paramedics. He doesn't carry the equipment in his car that you need to be saved! The Paramedics do, principally OXYGEN that you need ASAP. Your Dr. will be notified later.

3. Don't assume it couldn't be a heart attack because you have a normal cholesterol count. Research has discovered that a cholesterol elevated reading is rarely the cause of an MI (unless it's unbelievably high and/or accompanied by high blood pressure). MIs are usually caused by long-term stress and inflammation in the body, which dumps all sorts of deadly hormones into your system to sludge things up in there. Pain in the jaw can wake you from a sound sleep. Let's be careful and be aware. The more we know the better chance we could survive.

A cardiologist says if everyone who sees this post would Share or re-post, you can be sure that we'll save at least one life.

*Please be a true friend and SHARE this article to all your friends, women & men too. Most men have female loved ones and could greatly benefit from know this information too! Credit goes to respective owner.

(¯`•.•´¯)¸•´¯`☆ follow us🫴 Inspirations kindness viral `•.¸¸.•´••

[howtofightwrite]

Was reading through your torture tag and noticed a lot of stuff that was being said seemed to contradict things that were said on the scripttorture blog... do you have any suggestions on how to clear things up? Im not sure which things to trust

And you're asking us, because they've posted once in the last two years?

I'll admit, I have a fairly low opinion of them, and that's not directly their fault. For years, one of their fans, would regularly send some pretty incendiary asks our way. In fact, some of the less hostile ones were answered, and may be the posts you were looking at. Understandably, the ones simply accusing us of being torture apologists, demanding we redirect all our asks to their blog, or insisted that we should sit down and shut up, did not make the cut. With that in mind, please understand, I'm not going to go digging through their blog to refresh my memory, so some of this might be slightly skewed by the aforementioned deranged fan.

Look for the blog that does not constantly contradict or misrepresent their authoritative sources. Which is to say, if you actually pay attention to Shane O'Mara's work, it's basically what we've been saying all along.

If you're unfamiliar, O'Mara is a Neurologist who was (last I time I checked) working at Trinity College Dublin. He published a, frankly fascinating piece, called, Why Torture Doesn't Work, in which, he set about trying to answer why torture is an ineffective tool for intelligence gathering. O'Mara also had the misfortune of being the only expert who said anything close to the perspective Scripttorture wanted on torture.

An open secret about torture is that it is completely worthless for getting accurate information. This has been widely understood for centuries, if not millennia. O'Mara's question was, “why?”

It turns out, that the neurochemical trauma associated with torture, seriously interferes with your ability to accurately access information. For example: If you're being tortured, you can't tell your torturer where you planted the ticking bomb, because your brain literally can't access those memories.

Torture is evil. Yeah. No shit.

And, this is where ScriptTorture stops. “Torture is bad,” and Jack Bauer is an incredibly unrealistic fantasy, end of story.

Except, this is not the end of this.

Now, generally speaking, I don't blame anyone who wants to get off the ride here. Torture is an unpleasant subject, and wanting to stop at, “oh, it's evil,” is entirely reasonable... unless you want to write on the subject, or if you do political analysis and need to understand why people break out the torture implements.

More than that, this is where my academic background in political science actually comes into play. I'm not saying this as an Eagle Scout who had a couple overly enthusiastic hand to hand instructors when I was a kid. This is (part of) what I studied in college, and I have kept an eye on it since then.

If torture didn't work, you wouldn't see state-sponsored torture pop up repeatedly throughout history. It would not be one of the favorite tools of dictators and despots. However, because it does, and it is, simply saying, “it doesn't work,” isn't instructive or meaningful because it's clearly untrue. Someone is finding value in this, so it becomes important to understand what they are doing, and why they are doing it.

When you torture someone, the information they provide is basically madlibs of whatever leaked through their brain. They want the pain and stress to stop, and they'll say anything they can to make that happen. That often takes the form of what they think their torturer wants to hear. O'Mara's research does explain why they don't simply cough up the truth.

So, why do it?

Torture is a very labor intensive process. You (as an individual) can't, realistically, torture multiple victims at a time, and it is a very drawn out process. Some elements can be automated, your torturer doesn't need to be present at every moment, but they're going to spend hours, if not days, working on one victim. Worse, this is actually a technical profession. It's not like you can just pull in anyone off the street and get the results you want. (Though, technically, this doesn't seem to be as true, however, amateurs do have a shocking capacity to screw up torture. So, the point remains valid.)

The value of torture has almost nothing to do with the victim. It's about the message it sends to everyone else.

Torture is about mass coercion of the population. When you are the state (meaning, the government), and you torture someone, you are telling your citizens that you are willing to do the same to them, if they oppose you.

State-sponsored torture is specifically a tool to suppress political engagement. It is, quite literally, state-sponsored, domestic terrorism.

This even holds true in cases where the state employs torture to extract confessions from criminal suspects. The message sent into the general population is that dissent of any kind will not be tolerated, and that the state has the willingness and power to turn these tools on you if you draw their ire.

I get that this is outside of ScriptTorture's area of expertise, and in fairness, I probably would not have studied this with any intensity, if I hadn't taken multiple classes on revolutionary theory.

Torture from private organizations (which is to say, organized crime, and religious institutions, though cults and some other groups might fit this description as well), follows roughly similar patterns. These tend to do the same things, discouraging dissent, and establishing the organization as having power over the population (or community.) (The technical term would be to “establish capacity.” Which is to say, the organization's capacity to enforce its will. The same term applies to states, though in those cases, the state's capacity is often overestimated by its population. It's only when it starts to falter, for example through military defeats or serious civil unrest, that they really need the capacity boosting part of this equation.)

Zealotry or stupidity can create situations where you have a torturer (or, more likely, someone in a position of power ordering the torture) who believes that it is effectively compelling the truth from the victim. This (or amateurs) can easily lead into a distinct problem, which is that all of this has diminishing returns. Torture one person, and you send a loud, clear message. Torture ten, and all you've added to it is that you're willing to keep going. However, as you start stacking up the victims, you do start sending a new message to your enemies, that being, you're going to get to them sooner or later so it's in their best interest to respond now, mobilize and retaliate proactively, before you get to them. This means that a state which leans heavily on torture can easily instigate the civil unrest that exposes their limited capacity leading to a political death spiral. Alternately, if the state does have the capacity to put down the resulting unrest, it further reinforces their position (which does happen with depressing frequency in the real world.)

You're also going to create new enemies in the friends, family, and loved ones, of the people you tortured. This means that any organization that relies on extensive use of torture will, eventually, start tying a noose around its own neck. (Granted, there are a lot of social dynamics that I'm skimming over here, so it's not exactly as simple as “if the state tortures lots of people, it will result in increasing unrest.”)

If you want a partial citation for the above, you can (ironically) find it in a podcast interview with Shane O'Mara, when he explained why torture has been employed repeatedly through history. (Specifically I think it was episode 15 of Your Welcome, by Michael Malice. Though, I'm not 100% sure off hand.) Though that doesn't cover some of the more in depth elements I just discussed. Some of this is coming from a textbook on revolutionary theory I can't locate (it disappeared in a move a few years back.) Though that was more interested in the general structure of a state destabilizing into internecine conflict. Ironically, my preferred citation on torture, Fear up Harsh by Tony Lagouranis is mostly uninformative in this case, because his experiences were on the ground, rather than from a structural understanding of what his job was really doing. However, he does illustrate my comment about amateurs making even more of a mess, both through personal experiences with a few, and also through the eventual trajectory of the invasion and occupation of Iraq.

But of course, torture is evil... again, no shit. Was that really a question? And, I'm apparently a torture apologist for having a structural understanding of why evil people do evil things. Cool. Evil people don't do evil things because they're evil, they do them because they gain some tangible benefit from those acts, and they do not care about the consequences to anyone else. If you ask someone, “why do people do this?” and their answer is, “it's simple; they're evil,” that person is lying. They may be lying to themselves, but they are lying to you.

Why do people use torture? It's a lot more complicated, and unpleasant, than you'd expect at a simple overview.

-Starke

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[copperbadge]

It is wild to me, not in the "I don't believe it" sense but in the "what must that be like" sense, that one of the biggest issues facing neurodivergent people (and people with trauma) in emotional regulation is naming your emotions and feeling them.

Like, this is a genuine issue, this isn't a metaphor or some kind of weird fakery, to the point where almost every psychological practice everywhere is like "Well the first step in managing your emotions is knowing what they are" and they give you like, "feel wheels" and emotions lists and stuff. We spent an hour solid on this idea in DBT class and I was genuinely baffled. I thought I must be missing a step, because I am always extremely aware of what I'm feeling for every excruciating second that I'm feeling it.

Like, surely there must be more than just saying "I feel [name of emotion]", I must be interpreting that instruction wrong. But nope, lots of people just have problems naming what they're feeling. And I get it! Lots of my friends have this issue, it is real!

But not one of mine. Which I guess makes me an outlier (again).

It's starting to become an issue in that there's no branch around it. Every guidebook to emotional regulation eventually cycles back around to "Name your emotion, allow yourself to feel it, connect with it in your body, and if none of that works, your therapist can help" but that last bit is like an offsides rule, everyone knows it exists but nobody knows how it works. And there's just...nothing else out there, when those don't work so you sidestep around them you're just in a field of static. There is only one real recipe for processing your emotions and if your souffle comes out flat you're just kinda fucked, I guess.

Disheartening. I can see why so many people self-medicate.

[littlejuicebox]

Camping for beginners.

Written to sort of kill two birds with one stone. @coyote-mint this isn't Astarion soothing a baby, but it is Astarion giving Tav a break as she goes on a little, well-deserved vacation! @davenswitcher I also worked your storybook prompt in! Hope you two both like it; thanks for prompts! Special thanks to @chickywickers for helping me name the twins. :)

Summary: Tav/You are out of town and Astarion is full-time daddy duty without the nanny. In an effort to keep three children entertained, he decides upon camping in the backyard.

Tags/Warnings: all fluff, parenthood, children, dadstarion, the mildest reference to sexual encounters, mildest reference to bg3 events and trauma

Word Count: 2.5K

*

Astarion is pitching a tent in the ground, cursing to himself every few moments as he goes about the task. Once upon a time, he’d had Tav or Karlach… or perhaps even an unenthusiastic Lae’zel or an overenthusiastic Wyll to assist him.

But now, it’s him and three little boys in the midsummer heat. Tav won’t be back until tomorrow morning, after a week away visiting Shadowheart and Lae’zel in the Dalelands. It’s a sunny Sunday, and Winifred, the nanny, has weekends off.

So it’s all up to papa for a day longer. He’s sweaty, tired, and pulling from deeply hidden reserves of patience he didn’t know he had until now.

Astarion thinks he has never missed his wife more in all their time together. One more day. He can do it, right?

“Gale, hold this for me,” The frustrated father directs, guiding his ever-obedient and sometimes now shockingly stoic six year old to one of the tent poles.

Gale nods and follows his father’s instructions as his little brothers scream and run around the orchard with toy swords, wreaking havoc as usual. The younger Ancunins are a tornado of scraped knees and sticky fingers at any given time. Their parents consider it a win if the twins make it an entire day without breaking something.

Evander and Finnick are naturally more wild and unruly than their older brother ever was. Astarion is painfully aware that the streak of disobedience in the duo comes entirely from him. The twins test his patience far more than Gale ever had, and in the absence of their mother, the two have become almost completely unhinged.

Tav is the twin wrangler; they are softer with her – but then, she’s always had a way with the more surly, roguish types. Her unique charm somehow soothes them into compliance. Astarion lacks the same skills and is, unfortunately, paying for it this weekend.

The younger boys are straying too far away for Astarion’s liking, and as he hammers a stake into the orchard’s fertile earth, he shouts at the twins, “Evan and Finn, you two had better get your little behinds back—“

He stops and sighs; the twins are too interested in their make-believe and paying absolutely no mind to their father and his chastisement. Astarion resumes his task and without even looking back up at his eldest asks, “Gale, will you please contain them for a moment until we finish this?”

A lazy wave of Gale’s hand, reminiscent of Astarion’s own flippant movements when he speaks, and vines spring from the earth. The tendrils wrap around Evander and Finnick, holding each of them by the torso. A second tendril springs to life from the soil and wraps around the brothers, pulling them into its embrace just as the first tendril recedes. This process continues in a domino effect until the twins are but a few feet from their father, struggling against the vines and expressing their displeasure with grunts and screams.

Astarion lifts his head from the stake and watches the scene in a mixture of amusement and amazement, and when the boys are sufficiently contained he turns to smile at his eldest, “You really are exceptionally talented, you know that, don’t you?”

Gale smiles and nods before he looks down at the ground, unable to meet his father’s proud gaze as he says, “I know, Papa.”

The eldest Ancunin boy struggled in school all last year. His fragile confidence took a huge tumble, which his parents were working to restore to the best of their ability. Gale always required softer hands in comparison to his brothers; Astarion was still learning how to navigate this difference.

“Let go!” The twins shout in unison, short limbs flailing against the vines gently containing their three year old bodies.

They look like mirror images of one another, down to the dark wavy hair parted in opposite directions and vitiligo patches splattered across opposing green eyes. Evander’s is on his left eye, Finnick’s is on his right. Together, they look like a Rorschach Test.

Astarion’s patience is gone; part of him considers leaving the duo trapped in the vines until Tav returns. He narrows his eyes at the youngest Ancunins, pointing accusingly at them with the hammer, “You two asked to camp outside, and after very insistent pleas, I agreed. So if you don’t want daddy to pack up this entire thing and take you both back into the house, you are to stand there. Quietly.”

Finnick, the younger of the twins by a few minutes, wrinkles his nose in displeasure at his father, “Mean, daddy.”

A slow, long exhale escapes Astarion as he stares at the surly three year old with furrowed brows.

“My child, you have no idea how mean I can be, now hush so that your brother and I can finish this,” Astarion instructs, and then returns to work pitching the tent, ignoring the frustrated whines and protests from the twins all the while.

*

Around the small campfire, the Ancunin boys roast marshmallows on sticks as Astarion reads a tale from one of their story books. Apple is, as almost always, curled up next to Gale. The eldest Ancunin boy sneaks the dog marshmallows and his father pretends not to notice.

If that’s the most rebellious Gale ever is, so be it. The twins are a different challenge, entirely.

The story is all about slaying dragons, knights in shining armor, damsels in distress… the usual. The topic is exceptionally boring to the father of three, given all he’s experienced, but he’s gotten used to pretending this ridiculous droll is highly entertaining and throwing his voice for his kids amusement. 

And, plus, if the twins are entertained, they aren’t causing mayhem, which is all Astarion can ask for tonight. Tav will be back in less than twelve hours, he reminds himself.

All hail his wife, Lady Ancunin, the Hero of Baldur’s Gate, and the hero of this household. 

This weekend has Astarion regretting any moment he might have taken her for granted or not shown enough appreciation for her.

While the father of three continues to read, a sudden rustling at the edge of the orchard catches everyone’s attention. The three-year-old twins instantly cling to one another in fear and Apple’s head snaps up to peer towards the possible threat.

“Werewolf!” Evander shouts.

“Vampire!” Finnick continues.

Gale giggles and shakes his head, “No… it’s a raccoon. I can hear her. She smells the food.” 

Astarion’s nose wrinkles in distaste as his silver-haired son takes his plate of leftovers and meanders toward the edge of the property, but he chooses to remain silent and let his son feed the vile creature. With Gale around, it’s a wonder they aren’t overrun with vermin and rodents galore. Though, the feral cat colony the little boy single-handedly created is likely keeping the other animal population at bay.

Gale places the plate down, whispers something to the raccoon, and returns back to the campfire, nestling his head into Apple’s side as he settles back into the dirt.

“Papa… there aren’t really vampires and werewolves out in the woods… right?” Gale questions, his eyebrows shooting up into his forehead in concern as he thinks.

“Perhaps not in the woods right here…” Astarion responds, trying to figure out how to be honest with his children without frightening them entirely, “But they do exist… I’ve killed a vampire before.” 

At this the two younger Ancunins gasp and Gale shoots back up to sitting, his green eyes widened in shock as he asks, “You’ve killed a vampire before?” 

Astarion chuckles. Sometimes he forgets how little his children truly know of his past. He shuts the storybook in his lap closed and nods, a small smile crossing his face, “I have. Your mother helped me. Would you three like to hear about it?”

“Yes!” The boys all shout in unison, all coming as close to their father as they possibly can.

“Very well,” Astarion agrees with a grin, and then he launches into the tale of fighting Cazador, mindful to keep everything as child-friendly as a gorey battle can possibly be and leaving his enslavement entirely out of the picture. The children will learn about that later, he thinks, but now is not the time.

The boys are wholly captivated by their father’s tale until the twins begin to drift off, slumped against one another. Gale is the only one still awake when his father finishes the story. There is a moment of quiet at the end as his eldest reflects upon all that was revealed to him.

“Were you scared, Papa?” He finally asks, his fingers threading into the curled fur on Apple’s back.

Astarion nods in response, “Of course, Gale. But… I think you cannot be brave if you don’t feel a bit scared, first.”

The eldest Ancunin boy sighs. He has feelings about this that he has not yet been able to put into words. Gale’s general kindness and gentleness is such a stark contrast to many of the kids at school; he’d gotten himself into more than one scuffle. He was perceived as an easy target, because he knew better than to use his powers on the other children. As a result, Gale often simply let the other children attack him, not ever wanting to hurt anyone, even if it was in his defense.

Astarion had, more than once this year, gone to the school and threatened to retract their donations if the issue was not resolved. One of the child’s parents had been hit with a lawsuit after Gale returned home with a black eye. But come the start of next term, there was a strong chance this behavior would continue.

He and Tav had both lost countless hours of sleep over this very topic.

“How do you know…” Gale starts, and then stops with another sigh, staring up at the stars as he tries to find his words, “How do you know when it’s time to fight back?”

There is a moment of silence as the older elf considers this question. How do you know?

“If someone doesn’t listen when you ask them to stop, that is how you know, Gale,” Astarion responds, finally, his hand coming to ruffle the curls upon his eldest’s head, “And if someone is hurting you or someone you care about, and they refuse to stop when you ask them the first time, that is all the permission you need. Your mother and I will always agree with you if you are protecting yourself or your brothers in defense, little prince.” 

The silver-haired six year old nods with a yawn, his fingers still curled in Apple’s fur.

“Now come on, let’s get you and your brothers inside the tent for the night,” Astarion directs, picking up one of the twins and holding the flap open for Gale. He gets the two boys settled before returning to retrieve the remaining one and calling for Apple to join all four Ancunins. 

The fire is left glowing its final embers as the men all drift off to sleep.

*

You find the tent in the orchard after returning to a house filled with only your regular employees. Winifred, the nanny, and Pascal, the steward, are both clueless as to where your children and husband are this morning. When you enter the backyard, a snuffed fire and Apple keeping guard outside the tent not more than ten feet from the manor signal you’ve found your family.

You crouch and open the tent flap, only to be greeted by an adorable image. Astarion is on his back, one twin clinging to each leg and Gale nestled into the crook of his arm. All four of the Ancunins are still sleeping, seemingly exhausted from the night before. 

“Good morning, my little loves,” You greet in a soft murmur.

Astarion is the first to open his eyes and smile at you as he sits up, expertly maneuvering himself around three sets of other limbs.

“Welcome back home, Tav. We missed you. I think that perhaps I missed you the most.” Astarion greets, leaning forward to press an affectionate kiss upon your cheek and grabbing your hand to give it a squeeze.

“No, me!” Evander protests through a yawn as he scrambles to wrap his arm around your arm.

“No, me!” Finnick echos, sitting up and pushing a cluster of curls from his face to grin at you.

“I think it was me, mama.” Gale calls softly, his head still resting upon the pillow, eyes still shut.

You chuckle in response to this ridiculous argument before standing and lifting the tent flap entirely, “I missed you all, too. Alright everyone, let’s get inside for breakfast. I’m making pancakes.” 

A clamor of excitement from the Ancunin boys fills the orchard as your children exit the tent and begin the short journey back toward the house. Apple is running after them, her tail wagging excitedly because she knows she will get whatever leftovers the boys cannot finish.

As the children disappear into the house, Astarion grabs your hand with a mischievous grin, insistently pulling you into the tent with him.

“My love, the boys–” You begin to protest, but your husband cuts you off with a kiss pressed against your lips as his nimble fingers quickly shut the tent behind you.

“It’s Monday, surely Winifred is already in, hm?” Astarion questions, his mouth already trailing kisses along your neck, “She can handle the trio for… oh, twenty minutes?”

You gasp as the elf’s fingers slowly trail under your dress and up your thighs to grip at the flesh around your hips. And then you turn to meet your husband’s face as he pulls you into a kiss. Being in the tent reminds you of old times out on the road, all those years ago, and you quickly fall under the Astarion’s spell, just as you had back then.

Your husband breaks away from the kiss and begins to pull your dress over your head. He grins and roams his eyes over your body when you’re left in nothing but your underclothes, “And… not that it’s a competition, little love. But I maintain I missed you the most.” 

He doesn’t leave room for response as he pounces upon you, eager to show you just how much he missed you this past week. 

Less than twenty minutes later, the twins are back outside the tent, screaming impatiently for pancakes as an apologetic Winifred calls after them from the porch. Astarion groans and is forced to throw his trousers back on with a whispered, “We’ll finish this later tonight, hm?”

And then he’s climbing out of the tent, corralling the two younger Ancunin’s back into the house and buying you a moment to throw your dress back on before exiting yourself. 

When you enter the kitchen, Astarion has thrown his crumpled shirt back on and is already starting the pancake batter among a chatter of excited storytelling from the boys. Winifred is forcing the twins to wash their hands as they speak about the raccoon they thought was a monster and Gale asks you to confirm the two of you really killed a vampire.

At this last part you shoot Astarion a questioning look and he shrugs while flashing you an apologetic smile. He looks like the twins when they’ve been caught breaking something. You know you’ll have to follow up later, but for now, all you want to do is focus on your little loves.

They all missed you, and you missed them just as much. Perhaps more.

But it’s not a competition.

[romanoffsbish]

Affirmations

Natasha Romanoff x R (Gender Neutral)

Warnings: Trauma (Red Room) | Sources say you might cry.

Healing—well that’s a family affair, 🥹💕 | WC: 2,618

Heavy at times, but super hurt / comfort — fluffy vibes. Probably the sweetest fic I have ever written tbh

"I am smart," your daughter repeated with a grin, eyes hopeful for some reassurance. "You are so smart and."

"I am kind," she remembered, and you beamed, not even needing to speak the next one either. All you could do was place a comforting hand on her shoulder.

———

"I a-am b-b-beautiful," she stuttered, then she took a calming breath before going on, voice a lot more steady this time as she softly said, "and deserving of love." Her gaze was however focused on your face, you smiled then gently twisted her head until she was solely staring at her reflection, she flashed you a nervous smile. "Again baby, but this time try to mean it."

Arabella nodded, "I am beautiful," her voice held a soft veil of conviction, "and I deserve forever love."

"Now all at once," you gently commanded, a proud smile on your face for encouragement. Arabella matched your confidence as she did as you instructed, then she turned and jumped into your unfolding arms.

"Always remember your worth love, people in this world will try to tell you otherwise but if you hold onto your heart you'll never perceive their lies as truth."

Natasha had watched the entire sequence from the moment you entered the house with the crying child. Her best friend Darla had dropped her for a popular girl who just transferred to their school, and in the process of doing so she called your daughter ugly.

When she heard the words leave Arabella's trembling lips she nearly left on another mission, but she chose instead to do what she does best, spy from doorways.

It amazed her just how quickly you were able to bring your daughter back to herself. To instill in her a sense of confidence and love that many kids only dreamed of. Natasha felt a brief flash of envy trying to consume her when she saw herself amongst the crowd of unloved. Then she really looked at you both and rebuked the notion, that was then, she needed to focus on the now.

"Oh look," you gasped to alert your daughter to the guest you'd locked eyes with through the mirror. Your wife flashed you a smile that spoke of guilt and hope. "Mama has been watching us this whole time."

Natasha saw the traces of sorrow in your eyes but she moved passed the need to talk it out as she stumbled forward and settled into the both of your open arms.

"How long did you know you'd be home today?" The redhead shrugged and mumbled, "Only a few hours."

It wasn't a lie, you'd walked in only minutes after her, unaware that she had made it home days before she was expected to. The redhead never knew exactly when a mission would end as the bulk of them came with sliding timeframes based on multiple factors.

It wasn't her fault that a standard two week mission only takes her one, but you hated it regardless of how true her reasoning was. The impromptu nature of the arrival always made it impossible for you to tend to her. Which wouldn't bother you as much if she wasn't going out of her way to stop you from doing it.

As she pulled away from the embrace she saw you were about to offer her assistance but she was saved by the tiny girl in your arms who yawned. On days like today, when your daughter was emotionally drained, she was ready to go to sleep before you could prepare dinner.

"I'll be okay detka," she pressed a kiss to your lips then pulled Arabella from your arms for a proper embrace.

"I missed you," she yawned while melting into her mama's chest. "I missed you too sweetheart."

"Night mama," she pressed a sweet kiss to Natasha's nose then rotated back into your arms. "Sweet dreams princess, I'll see you in the morning for cartoons."

Once your daughter's smiling face was out of sight Natasha's smile fell along with her shoulders. The mission she went on was only over so soon because of the total catastrophe it became. Tiny miscalculations on the bases end led to her team evacuating the wrong building, then by the time she knew it was too late.

You knew it was best to give her time to herself, so after you prepared a snack for your daughter and got her settled into bed you began to clean the house. Ears perked up to the sounds above, and after three long hours you finally sighed in relief as the water shut off.

Natasha had zoned out after the conditioner washed out of her hair, she stood there beneath the freezing cold water in a daze until she felt her tired body sway. Once she got out she tended to her wounds, some of which were already healing and that infuriated her.

Why should she be able to walk away with her life?

When her hollowed eyes met their reflection she sighed, and she tried to remember her therapists words, "survivors guilt is natural, but don't listen to the temptation, you have a family who needs you too..."

Natasha could feel the darkness creeping in though, so she decided she would try her hand at your method.

"You are smart," she tried to mimic your earlier words, but it left a bitter taste on her tongue. If she were, then the intel she received would've never mattered, if she truly had the power to be a hero she would've known.

The next phrases were followed by the same self deprecating thoughts. What good were kindness and beauty when you were meant to be a ruthless soldier? It was in her DNA to be efficient, yet she failed. It was like her mind split in two as she muttered, "you are a monster," with clear disgust and overwhelming anger.

Then she stumbled back and shook her head, "n-no." Her mind ran wild with memories of her youth, "I-I didn't have a choice," she whimpered, and that was when you knew it was time for you to step in for her.

"Stand up Natalia," you firmly commanded and the redhead fell in line in seconds. It broke your heart but you knew you needed to be strong; firm in tone and command so she'd mean what she was about to say.

"Repeat after me," you steadily spoke, "I am not bad."

Natasha repeated it but her gaze was far away.

"I am not a bad person," you rephrased, and just like before she struggled to say it with any feelings. You sighed, "I'm not a monster." Her body stiffened, which was odd as she'd already been stood straight as a board. This time, she refused to repeat the words.

Natasha never lied, and that broke your heart, but you didn't falter in pushing her towards owed forgiveness.

"I am human," you paused, "not marble." You felt the way her spine slightly slumped as she repeated your words with a hardly noticeable, but never for you, shaky voice. You noticed everything and that was how you knew your beloved wife was about to have a real breakthrough on the never ending road to healing.

You smiled softly as her eyes finally met yours, the both of yours glistened beneath the blinding bathroom lights. Hers were merely glazed, but yours were pooling in the corners as you spoke, hopefully speaking directly to her soul. "So I'm allowed to break."

"Oh god," she cried, hands clutching the marbled sink as she had to keep herself from collapsing. You were prepared for her to fall so you had wrapped your arm around her waist, spun her then pulled her into an abrupt hug. Trying to calm her nervous system and to shield her sobs for the sake of your sleeping daughter.

"It's okay my love," you tried to reassure her but she shook her head and only sobbed harder. You took the queue then to focus on physical reassurances instead. Holding her even tighter and kissing her face, usually atop of her cheekbone to catch the fresh tears, a silent way to tell her that you'd take her pain if you could.

Natasha felt even guiltier when she caught on. "I-I couldn't save them all," she confessed into the cotton of your shirt, body shuffling in vain because there was no way possible she could get any closer to you.

"You were alone?" She shook her head and you soon hummed, "then why do you shoulder all of the blame?"

"I'm an Avenger—I was the one in charge, and..."

"You are human."

"I am enhanced..."

"Enhanced metabolic rates doesn't mean you had the ability to save them all, and we both know you don't need me to tell you that Natasha. You are brilliant."

Before she could continue to bicker with you she was stopped by your lips pressing hers shut. Natasha melted into your sweet touch. No matter the case you were always gentle with her, even when she wasn't with you. If she was angry and shouting you'd quiet her with a kiss like this, you were patient and rarely yelled back.

It's what helps her to become better for the sake of your daughter. As she processed her feelings, some for the very first time, you only ever offered her patience. You were the light at the end of her tunnel, giving her everything that she could ever dream of and more.

"I-I," she really wanted to take you on but she was too tired to fight against the warmth of your love. Her body once again melted into yours and everything felt like it was settled, but the peace of mind was short lived.

"Mama, are you okay?" Arabella sniffled from your bed, and the both of you looked up to see her crying. "Baby, what are you doing here and out of your bed?"

You coaxed your wife to keep calm as you firmly held her hands so she could still feel you there while your attention was focused elsewhere. "I heard a scream and thought there was a monster next door. I was coming to get mama so that she could fight it off for me."

Natasha squeezed your hands and sat up to face her, uncaring that her face was a mess of irritated, red splotches. On the journey to wellness it is important that you don't hide the process from your loved ones.

They can only understand you if you show them...

"Come here honey," Natasha called out to her and she immediately shuffled over and into your lap, her eyes were stern as she stared into your wife's broken pair.

"Mama needs to remember her worth," she huffed to you directly and you refrained from chuckling in her face as she looked like she meant business. "Yeah, I suppose she does—are you up to lead her through it?"

Arabella nodded her head then stood, pulling Natasha off of the ground and right over to the mirror. You left them to their moment and slipped off to the kitchen.

When you got back to the room with the tray of snacks you nearly melted into a puddle. Your daughter was sat on the counter, her tiny hands cupped around her mother's face as she told her even more phrases, it was as if she knew exactly what Natasha needed to hear.

"You are brave," then she paused so her mom could say it back. It continued on, the two in their own world as you watched your wives heart mending in real time.

"You're an Avenger," she spoke with a soft smile that only grew as her mom teasingly groaned the words.

"You're my hero," she beamed, "my super mama."

"Oh wow," she huffed shakily, "I love you so much."

"I love you even more than the Barbie movie mama."

Natasha chuckled, "wow, I must be special." Your daughter innocently nodded and you watched as Nat pulled Arabella up and into a tight hug, one of her arms loosened as she approached you without even looking up, you didn't hesitate to slip into her hold. "My greatest loves, you fit perfectly in my arms..."

The three of you remained in a tight embrace for a total of five minutes before your intuition was proved right. Natasha's stomach roared, then Arabella's followed.

"On the bed, pick a movie while I clean up some."

Natasha handed your daughter the remote then went on her nightly patrol, her hand never too far from a hidden weapon—just in case. Once she knew the lot of you were safe she grabbed the drinks you had left on the counter and returned to join you both in bed.

Arabella happily took the chilled capri sun from her hands then reached into the snack pile for a cookie.

"We are watching Encanto," she cheered and your wife fell into your unoccupied side with a hushed groan. "You and I both know she'll be out in twenty, then you can turn on Moonraker and I can finally sleep."

Natasha pinched your side but you only chuckled, and in about fifteen minutes time you had proved her right.

Your wife watched as your daughter, in the depths of her sleep climbed atop of your body and settled down. It warmed her heart to see the love that your daughter expressed even without the need for consciousness. She pressed a kiss to her cheek then moved to hover her face above your stilled one, waiting for you to bite.

Hook, line and sinker—it only took seven seconds for your eyes to crack open and your lips to perk up. The woman gently kissed your lips and if the both of you didn't desperately need to sleep she'd have continued.

Natasha's kisses lowered, pressing down your jaw until she could feel your racing pulse as she settled her face into the crook of your neck, where she slept the most.

With the tv playing on mute you found yourself drifting off as the flashes of light brought you a weird peace. You were settling into it just fine, "Y/N?" then you were being startled. Your entire body shivered as her rasp tickled the thin skin of your neck, once she kissed you in apology you found it in you to urge her on.

"You are the most beautiful partner I could have ever been blessed with—your love is the atlas of my hope."

"That was a really dramatic way to tell me you love me," you teased, voice grumbly as you fought sleep.

"Goodnight," she groaned and you giggled, "Your love is the atlas of my hope too Natty; I adore you, truly."

The redhead nipped your neck in retaliation but it was a ruse as her hand intertwined with yours atop of your daughter's back, nestled beneath the fluffy blanket.

Healing was a process that Natasha never expected to occur in her lifetime, with the blood in her ledger she always thought she was undeserving. Then there you were, at the ready to wash her hands clean in your personal oasis of understanding and righteousness.

Natalia Romanova was a victim of her circumstances, built only to lay waste to entire regimes, her story however was the greatest one to topple. All because she met a couple of people who saw her heart. Natasha Romanoff was a woman who was painfully reborn, whose entire purpose now lay beside her, at peace.

"I am not a monster," she finally repeated, just after you slipped off to sleep. "I am worthy of this love."

[sukunasun]

Thinking about Geto who would have never thought he likes to be called daddy. Outside of being a real parent ofc. It’s unexpected. As Reader tries to work with the recently adopted twins to ease their trauma and get them ready for school via play therapy, they attach themselves to her easily, hungry for a maternal figure in their life. Whenever Geto sits in the waiting area for the session to end, Mimiko and Nanako blast out the door and Reader somehow always refer to him as daddy in their presence. “Oh, look, daddy is ready to pick you up”, “Go, tell daddy how good you two were”, “Come on, show these drawings to daddy”. And it has him in a chokehold. The word just sounds so good from her mouth. So good he might try to rizz her up. And he couldn’t care less about that it’s unprofessional for reader to fuck a client’s parent. For him it’s a challenge. A challenge to hear that word again. Just for him and nobody else.

why it sounds so good has less to do with sex but necessity. the assurance that he—single father of two with no experience, no status, and not a dime to his name—is a protector, capable and conscious of his life. no longer the smart-talking teen or charismatic cult leader with plans for world domination.

he thinks it shouldn't feel this good to be relied upon when he's barely thirty and buckles under pressure to make ends meet. three part-time jobs and it's still not enough. the stress of juggling priorities and responsibilities is immense. his wants and needs set aside. which is probably why his self-esteem tanked and he constantly feels like a failure. making mistakes, trying again, learning and re-learning the basics. how to cook, how to clean is more important. ultimately, 'how to parent' isn't a step-by-step process.

despite that, you don't see him differently. in fact, you admire him for it. "it can't be easy but you're doing a great job, the girls love you so much," you say, with clear eyes and unwavering affirmation—then asking his daughters in a fond and friendly tone—"isn't daddy the best?"

there are so many meanings to a word and he's aware you're only referring to him as the father of his children because making that distinction is important. it helps the girls get accustomed to seeing him as a parent, not just the person who's saved them. he won't jump to conclusions. he respects you after all. sweet sing-song voice and a heart of gold are just a bonus, you've helped his girls, you've helped him.

still, the novelty doesn't fade, and neither does the sentiment. the pride that blooms when he hears it ringing in his ears, resounding in his chest. he's daddy. geto rarely seeks approval. only compliance, obedience, and maybe servitude on a rare occasion...but praise and recognition? it's too hard to pass up when it's from you.

although, the sexual connotation lingers. curse his dirty mind filled with filthy intentions. he'd only just gotten the hang of keeping his composure around you, carrying conversations with ease while pushing those obscene thoughts away. they beg for his attention as much as your instructions do, 'remember this and that...' gets lost while pulling himself together before you catch on. eye contact and all smiles as he memorizes your face.

he's going to need it later. or whenever he requires a little help. his imagination works wonders but he's also a stickler for accuracy. your lab coat hides modest sweaters and long skirts, maybe a loose-fitting t-shirt when you and the girls play outside. he can't picture your figure underneath when nothing is revealing. not the heft and weight of perky bosoms and a full ass, the dip and curve of a waistline, part of him—all of him—hopes he'd be the only one who gets to pry those layers off you, unveiling that secret side.

your glasses give it away, shielding the same lewd thoughts of your own. he notices your wandering eyes coveting his body, feels your rapid heartbeat on the side of his arm when you're pressed close. he's well aware of the effect he has on most women, but especially for someone like you who tries so hard to resist.

as weeks went by, his plans to tempt you were coming closer to reaching fruition. "daddy talks about you a lot," nanako whispers as she lets you in on a secret and mimiko nods in agreement, her voice lowered too, "mhm, daddy said you're very smart and pretty."

they wouldn't lie about him, so you smile and take their word for it. falling for giggling faces hidden behind tiny hands. you reply, "that's so nice of him, please do thank him for me," for confidentiality's sake, because you wouldn't want geto getting embarrassed.

besides, there are rules on keeping them at a distance, they aren't your only clients, growing attached would make things difficult and you're starting to see the effects of it as the days go by. for all that talk about 'being professional' you spend too much time thinking about their daddy outside of these walls.

"you shouldn't give him preferential treatment..." says the receptionist, not hiding her cheshire cat grin. she's been watching you like a hawk since he walked in and made an appointment—it wasn't his body, or his face that caught your eye, both beautiful and modelled after a dream but once the shock has set in and you observed him closely, the scene has stuck with you since. his daughters are twins, both dressed well for the weather and there are no signs of distress in their expressions. they look at him like he's their favourite person. wide, shining eyes and a giddy-ness in their steps. he keeps them close to him, "no wandering around, let's not get lost," he said, sounding assertive but gentle at the same time. they nod, holding onto his pant leg on each side. the way his posture straightened tall, his expression serious as he filled out forms, requiring no assistance should you add, with the details when often most don't even remember birth dates or blood types.

most do the bare minimum but he stood out then in a suit, "i thought it was important to make a good first impression," he said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. it's hardly a formal occasion but the thought is appreciated when he looks so stunningly handsome. the other single mothers who come by seem to think so too. some bring him leftover bentos and homemade curry. you always thought they'd charm him well enough given that he's single—a fact you're surprisingly way too relieved about—but he remains happy and perfectly content as a bachelor.

the receptionist continues, pointing out these tiny changes you make to your routine—fixing your hair, using a new perfume, your voice pitches higher around him, repeatedly checking your reflection in your compact before his arrival—it's just as evident to you, the woman who's always been unbothered with keeping up appearances. "aw...does someone have a crush on daddy?" she pouts childishly.

"i like all my clients equally," you correct her, "and i don't see him that way. if anything, i just think he's a great parent is all. he's always on time for sessions and applies what we've learned. he's shown exceptional effort."

she wiggles her brows suggestively, "i bet he's exceptional in other ways too...if you know what i mean." ugh. just when you think it couldn't get worse.

"that's none of our business and we shouldn't be discussing this, it's very inappropriate," you know better than to jeopardize your position. you've worked hard for this, spent weeks gaining the trust of two very sweet and adorable girls, it's not worth considering an illicit affair. yes, an affair, because that's all it'll ever be when he's got too much on his plate.

"tsk, you're no fun," she swats you and your hardened face away, deciding then to finally get back to work, but not before she gets the last word in, sighing longingly, "i wonder if he'll ever marry..."

you admittedly do too. fantasizing about being his wife has become a habit and you like to think he'd make room for you, raising the girls together. there wouldn't want for anything because he gets shit done. so responsible and decisive. it's all about taking the initiative, unlike all the other lacklustre men you've dated before. he'll make plans and treat you to nice things. no excuses, no need to soothe bruised egos. it would be nice to be taken care of for once. so much so that it would be easy to relinquish control. all you need is a taste of submission.

geto isn't afraid of a challenge. not even if you play hard to get. how you'd like to step on his toes, a dominating figure who puts you in your place, you wouldn't make it easy for him when he doesn't cower at the sight of a well-made woman.

that night, you barely make it pass your door before your clothes come off. biting your lip and holding back a moan, feeling a heat rise in your belly. tonight isn't about getting it over with but to last as long as possible. or at least until you get to the good part without coming all over your fingers—imagining his weight pressing down onto you. legs folded up and resting upon broad, sturdy shoulders. feet lifted with no purchase, you can't do anything but take it as he thrusts slow and steady, feeling your tight walls clamp down. milking him for everything he's got.

your fingers slip in and the stretch barely measures up to the real thing as you mimic every drag and pull of his cock. you don't worry about size or shape because it belongs to him. how often you've thought about the weight of it on your tongue, dripping precum down your fist. you'd strip him out of his lame harem pants, his pressed trousers, those god-forsaken gym shorts that drive you crazy. taking him down your throat when it's hot out and he's just finished one of his many night shifts. you heard he's working at a restaurant now. oh he'd smell like grease and noodles but you couldn't care less. your mouth begs to suck him off. after all, it's the least you could do when daddy works so hard.

"shh, you wouldn't want the girls waking up," he'd warn, but doing just the opposite to keep you quiet. it makes your legs shake, craving it all the more. i'm sorry daddy, lies on tip of your tongue, you whisper it out into an empty bedroom. save for the sounds of the squelching, slippery mess you make.

he's vocal but not dramatic, he doesn't rush into things, and takes his time to talk you through it. "i know it feels good, i've got you, i'll make my baby come," his baby, you love the sound of it. his voice wraps around you like a cocoon. so secure you could let go, give in to him, submit. he'd tend to your pleasure more than his own. let him take charge, let him make full use of your pussy like he owns it. maybe he'll punish you if you disobey.

glasses askew, hair frazzled, resolve in shambles. your tears spill, they burn your cheeks. i can't, i shouldn't, you chant. it doesn't matter that his cock stretches you out deliciously, or that he sneaks a hand to wrap around your neck, you can't let this man make you lose all your inhibitions and better judgement. your mind races, wet and sticky fingers pumping faster, there's a ringing in your ears and you hear your own breaths huffing out, your pussy clenches and for a second, it feels like your orgasm might slip from you the more you hold back.

how real he appears in your mind's eye, "daddy, daddy, daddy please," you whine, cry, scream. a familiar wave builds and wrings a knot in your stomach, your clit throbs and your fingers jam themselves against that spot deep inside, wishing it was him prodding you with vigor. you're so close you think of his broad back, his sweaty neck, his veiny arms around you so tight. holding you hostage as he gently coaxes you towards the edge. "that's it," he groans and you swear you hear it above you— "come for daddy," and you're crumbling and coming undone at the seams, not the least bit sated or sure of facing him again the next morning.