#that children dissociated onto

[sleepy-shutin]

welcome back to that dumbass pseudo-intellectual redditor ass tulpa doesn't know what the hell they're talking about.

this episode: self states and childhood imaginary friends in DID.

[thaltro]

ADDRESSING THE DEADBEAT DAD ACCUSATIONS 💔💔💔💔

(Interesting assumption I’ve been seeing about ink)

I haven’t posted his night watch character sheet yet but in the brief descriptions I’ve had about him it does point to him not being a present parent. While that’s partially true as he doesn’t consider himself a father, he is active in each child’s life and supports them. I keep him pretty close to cannon in personality, and I don’t think ink would be a neglectful father.

I haven’t revealed too much but keep in mind in nightwatch all ship children are not made out of love or compassion, instead are punishments from creators onto characters. They are a tool to create conformity as it adds a risk to the characters behaviours, and less time can be spent exploring themselves so they can’t stray away from their pre determined path. Not to mention the creation of them is incredibly painful.

Gradient, pj, and pallette where not inks faults- ink just was involved in some way and was punished with dream and error. Error took PJ and Gradient and wanted them for himself, Dream felt horrible and swore to take responsibility for Pal. Ink is in all the kids lives as an art teacher, mentor, and financial supporter - just not as a recognized parent.

It seems like ink being a evil neglectful dad is a trope in the fandom and that’s ok, but in nightwatch he does try his best. He cares for creations and anything from the creators, he would not hurt them or hate them. He does see them as a punishment more then children, but he sees most people as tools of the creators. his dissociation from reality makes him not mentally healthy enough to be a dad. (I mean so is dream but he does it anyway gahahh)

It’s odd how black and white the fandom tends to see characters - this is not me targeting it at anyone I’m not mad just, most characters are nuanced people and categorizing complex guys like ink into “bad dad” or “good dad” makes him kinda boring.

In conclusion ink brings the bread home and the paint. He is present just complex

[trashogram]

He Chose You (P. 7)

Lucifer/Reader: You’ve been chosen to be the Mother of the Antichrist. Rated E.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 13.5 | Part 14 | End

Your sleep had become fitful with dreams that, while not full of violence, left you waking in a cold sweat most mornings. You couldn’t remember most of what happened aside from a parade of images and feelings of discomfort. Sometimes, downright fear. 

The blonde woman was still the star, but you couldn’t remember a word she’d say. The sight of her frowning at two men replayed in your head between sleeping and waking. She frowned at you with dewy wide eyes. 

The woman held her arms out to you: beseeching, sheltering, hurriedly hiding but you were able to escape the gaze of one of the men. 

Fear had spirited you away from unconsciousness when the man’s brown eyes sparked into an unnatural gold. They heated with anger at the mere sight of you. 

—

The only equivalent you could come up with for how you awoke was being jump-started like a car. It took a solid moment of gulping in air and eyeing your surroundings before you could calm the beat of your heart.

“Lucifer?”

It took too much energy to turn and look for him, but you saw that the sheets beside you were disturbed, but duck-less. 

You were overly warm, hopelessly reaching out to run your hand down the opposite side of the bed despite what your eyes told you. 

For a while there was nothing to do but lay in the silence of your darkened room. Eventually your hand drifted into your belly. 

It had become a reflex to pet your own tummy, to feel the bump that had formed there, as small as it was. 

—

You faced forward, looking directly at the screen of your TV without really seeing it. Beside you, Lucifer giggled at whatever was happening between Kermit and Gonzo onscreen. 

His bare hand was latched onto yours, fingers entwined, claws digging into your skin just enough to hurt. Not a lot, just a little bit. Strangely, the discomfort kept you grounded and away from the outlandish yet very real fear that you’d float away without it. 

‘Is it dissociating or disassociation?’

You’d gone long enough with it happening multiple times now but you couldn’t even remember what it was called.

You were pregnant. 

Well, you’d been pregnant for about a month and a half. And your partner in crime had been excited. So excited he’d literally exclaimed ‘oh my golly’ at the news. 

Then he’d had a panic attack, complete with big yet shallow gasps for air and arm flailing, hands flapping, short legs in knee-high boots pacing a hole into your carpet.

You were somewhat grateful for his outburst, if only because taking the steps to placate him was placating unto itself. 

— 

The memory made you smile weakly. A memory that seemed so long ago, even if it had technically happened only a few months prior. 

Everything that had happened afterward had made it seem rosier than it should’ve been. Before things soured so thoroughly that you could barely get out of bed. 

Now, you were exhausted day and night, plagued by not-quite-nightmares during your hibernation-like snoozes, and — when awake — eaten at by fears and doubts. 

You’d never thought seriously about having children. 

There was this permanent barrier to the very idea that lingered in the back of your mind. You don’t know when it formed, or if it was merely a protective mechanism of some kind (God knew you had plenty of those already). Nonetheless, you’d stuck to it, never straying… until now. 

You weren’t the motherly type. And technically you weren’t going to be. As much as Lucifer mooned over you, whether for his own entertainment or because he was genuinely fond of your stupid sarcastic comments and bouts of literary trivia, you would not allow yourself to trust him completely. You had no compunctions about raising the Antichrist once you had fulfilled your end of the deal. 

So you told yourself. Especially when you cycled through detachment and guilt about the creature growing in your womb. Especially when Lucifer was curled up with you, basking in your warmth and bringing you little trinkets and laughing with you at whatever was on TV. Especially when he dropped everything to lay down with you in your sickness, and did anything he could to make you smile, be it with magic tricks or stories from lifetimes ago.

Last night he’d held your hair as you threw up, courtesy of the raw beef you’d craved (thank you, you freaky little fetus). Then he entertained you by shape-shifting into cute animals until you’d cuddled up with his duck self and fallen asleep.

The little slope of your stomach quivered with the rest of your body. You felt the sudden urge to cry. 

—

“Lucifer?”

You braced yourself against the wall to get out of your bedroom. Standing was enough to make you dizzy, skin growing clammy and perspiring while you struggled to move. You were winded after five steps through your rather small apartment. 

Your curiosity was the only thing keeping you going after hearing a series of beeps from outside your door. 

“Aw, shit. Shit, shit, shit! Hold on!”  Lucifer called from a few feet away. 

He was here, in your apartment, more often than not. As a matter of fact, you had the feeling that if you didn’t push him to return to his duties, Lucifer would’ve been with you 24/7. 

Speaking of, he appeared from around the corner just as you buckled and slid against the wall. 

The Devil sprang forward, arms out and ready to catch you. Had you been more yourself, you’d have laughed at the absurdity as most of your weight sagged against its surface and he’d more or less landed on top of you from the side. 

“I’m so so sorry!” He cried, jerking away when you winced. 

“Sorry.” He whispered loudly. “I got your tea and I was trying to make it without waking you but the darn thing wouldn’t stop beeping.” 

“Cassie was here?” You let yourself sway to Lucifer’s side instead of the walls. He was practically carrying you into the living room. 

Unnames illness aside, you found an additional slight against your existence that you still had to keep in contact with your weirdo neighbors. They were both their own flavors of bizarre, but Cassie in particular was extroverted and nosy. 

She brought you tea from her kitchen garden — 

“Just bits and bobs from my little spice garden, things I’ve been growing ‘round the house. Pretty basic stuff: you got your chamomile, mint, there’s rosemary in there too, some cinnamon, ya know.” 

— and wanted to brew it for you while having chats at your kitchen table almost every day. 

Even Lucifer was annoyed by her persistence. 

“Here as in ‘at the door’ but not inside. She actually got it through that thick skull that I didn’t want you to be disturbed.” Lucifer said, equal parts irritated and triumphant. 

You leaned your head on his shoulder. “Thanks.” 

Your eyes closed to avoid the sudden onslaught of more tears when your companion tensed. He stopped short of the couch to relish in the contact. His wistful sigh made your heart throb painfully as you wondered for the umpteenth time how the fucking King of Hell could be so effortlessly sweet. 

‘Just to make pulling out the rug from under you later a bigger betrayal.’

The intrusive thought brought more tears, from eyes screwed up as you wished it away. 

“… can’t make tea as a duck.” Lucifer had carried on while gently lowering you on the cushions. “I did try though, to be fair.” 

He had yet to notice your tears, but your laugh was wet. “I’m sorry I missed that.”

It was sudden when cold hands cupped your face and turned your gaze up. You were met with deeply worried crimson eyes. 

The cold was so nice that you had to snuggle into that touch. “It’s ok.” 

Lucifer’s maw opened and closed a few times, helplessly. 

“Do—uh… do you want me to do that? I can try it again!” He jumped back, getting ready to shift in a puff of fireworks. 

“No, come sit with me.” You held up a shaking hand, trying to ignore your own ashen skin. 

The blond hesitated. 

“Please, Lou.” 

—

Lucifer melted at your request. He came to you immediately and took great care as he rearranged your frail body against his own. 

He was grateful that he’d thrown on his velvet robe that morning twicefold now — once to avoid his elderly worshipper seeing his dick, and twice to be able to pull it to the side so that you could lay your forehead against his cold chest.

The King’s skin would warm up with time and human contact, but he knew that his natural icy exterior did wonders to help your over-warm skin. 

Lucifer fought to not chuckle at the ticklish feeling of your hair against his neck. You laid there against him for a long time, breathing lightly and letting him hold you close. The silence was easy for once, not awkward or uncomfortable. Just one person relying on another for quiet solace.

When you finally spoke, it nearly scared him. “What’s it like? In Hell?” 

“Wh-why’re you asking?” Lucifer tried to play it cool. “That’s not really a fun o-oo-r relaxing…!… topic.” 

“Mmm,” Your head slowly lifted until he count easily count your individual eyelashes. 

“I don’t know if you know this, but there’s a little guy in here.” You pointed between yourself and him, to the little slope of your stomach. “And they're gonna call Hell their home soon. It might be good to know what that’s like before I ship them off.” 

“Oh!” Well, that was easier. “It’s uh, it’s red… and warm.” Lucifer wracked his brain. “Well, my Ring is. See, there are 7 Rings total, and technically I rule them all, but my brothers each kinda made their own homes out of them.” 

“Mine though — mine is full of Sinners, which is what we call the humans that died and were condemned to it. They’re all kinda packed in there, heh. Like, uh, tiny fish. That reek.” 

Your lips pursed. “But no one is burning in molten lava at all times or anything, right?”

“No-oo! Well, I mean it’s not impossible. But it’s not the norm. Nah, people go about their way like they do up here, but even more selfishly and violently.” 

Lucifer smiled at your frowning face. 

“It’s like on Earth? So people work, sleep, eat?”

“Yep!”

“They pay bills? Go to parties? Fuck?” Your brows were nearly to your hairline.

“Mmmm-hm!” 

“And they do it for all of eternity? Forever?”

“Pretty much! In a nutshell…” Was his jolly reply. He squeezed you to him for extra measure.

It was your turn to look flummoxed by the picture he painted, the words he spoke that sounded both improbable and spot on for what Hell would be if it was real. 

Well, not if. 

At last, you sighed. 

“I guess it couldn’t have been all that bad if… if you’ve been there for so long and you’re still so sweet.” Your words were barely audible, muttered into Lucifer’s chest when you gave up on making sense of anything.

But the Ruler of Hell had to stop the last-minute ejection of his own wings at your words.

***

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[rainba]

Here it is... The fic where Luka kidnaps both his darling and Kairos.

TWs/tags: human furniture, dubcon, kidnapping, slight depiction of violence, pet play, NSFW, mind break, cucking (?), dark content, use of shock collars

Reader is GN, however, there is one paragraph where the reader is gendered. The asterisk* will mark the paragraph with afab reader, and the one in parenthesis is amab. :3c)

MDNI! 18+

In one previous post, I mentioned that Kairos and Luka do live in the same universe and city– and in a few other posts, I mentioned that they’d never share their darling. If one of them tries to kidnap darling, they’ll just report the other to the police. 

Then another idea came up, a way that Luka could circumvent that predicament: Luka figures that Kairos would instantly report him if he kidnapped his darling. So… In order to stop that from happening…

Luka would kidnap both you and Kairos.

Luka’s house is definitely big enough to keep both of you. In the beginning stages, he’ll keep Kairos locked up in the attic while he keeps you in the basement. The basement is much cozier– meanwhile the attic is all dusty, hot, and muggy.

Between you and Kairos, Luka will be much, much nicer to you. He’s (quite literally) obsessed with you, so of course you get the better treatment. He cooks your favorite meals and feeds them to you by hand. He gives you plenty of water and always showers you in attention– sometimes he’ll even place a TV down in the basement and let you watch random stuff. You know, just so you don’t get too bored. He wants you to feel at home–! When you learn to accept your new life, he’ll spoil you rotten.

But for Kairos..? Luka is absolutely brutal.

Luka will rub in the fact that he beat Kairos in “winning you.” He’s simply just the superior man– the superior partner. Luka loves you too much to ever let you go. After all, you're the only person that has ever made him feel anything at all. And he really drives in the fact that you belong to him, and that Kairos will never have the chance to even touch you.

Luka will walk circles around Kairos as he mocks him relentlessly.

“Nobody is looking for you.”

“You’re pathetic. Disgusting freak.”

“They’re all mine, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Kairos will scream, squirm, and cry as much as he possibly can– but nobody can hear him. Luka is right: nobody is looking for him. Kairos doesn’t have any family. He doesn’t have any friends. He’s stuck in this hell forever.

To keep Kairos alive, Luka gives him his leftovers. He dumps it onto the dirty ground and drags Kairos next to it, commanding him to “eat up.” Kairos is forced to pathetically writhe on the floor and eat without his hands– all because Luka refuses to untie him. As for water, Luka forces Kairos to drink out of a dog bowl.

Most of the time, Kairos can’t hear anything. Luka’s house is eerily quiet at night. And during the day, Kairos can sometimes hear the sounds of children laughing and playing outside, or he’ll just hear Luka casually going about his day as if there aren't two people locked up in his house.

It’s torturous.

Over time, Luka will get you to warm up to him– call it stockholm syndrome kicking in, if you will. Or maybe you already loved him and he just needed to build trust with you. Either way– you eventually upgrade from the basement to his bedroom. And that’s when things get infinitely worse for Kairos.

He’s not just listening to Luka going about his daily routine now– no, now he has to also listen to the two of you fucking multiple times a day. The way you’re moaning out another man's name… The sound of the bed creaking and banging against the wall… Kairos finds himself choking and sobbing as he’s stuck tied to the chair. Sometimes he starts to dissociate and pretends that he’s somewhere else.

Most of the time he pretends that the two of you just got married, and he’s playing out different scenarios of honeymoons in his head.

After a few more weeks or months go by, Luka will grow bored of keeping Kairos tied up in the attic. If he’s gonna keep a hostage, he might as well put them to good use. So what does he do with Kairos?

He uses him as human furniture. Forces him to also be a pet.

You’re horrified as you watch Kairos crawling around the house with a gag in his mouth and a leash attached to his throat. If Luka feels bold enough, he might even have the words “Luka’s Bitch” decorated on the collar. Oh– and it’s not just a regular collar, either. It’s a shock collar.

Any time Kairos acts out and disobeys Luka, he earns himself a shock so powerful that it causes him to seize and collapse onto the floor.

…This entire time, you thought it was just you in the house. You didn’t know there was another person. You’re not alone.

It makes your stomach churn.

And Luka encourages you to use Kairos as furniture as well. Use him as a footrest, use him as a table or a chair– do whatever.

Over time, deep down, incomprehensible and guilty thoughts begin to appear in Kairos’ mind. Things that made him once want to throw up now make him feel… Funny. He’s so happy that he gets to see your face again–!! He’s finally reunited with the love of his life, it’s just a shame it’s under such horrible circumstances.

Kairos doesn’t mind if you use him like furniture. It’s okay if you do it. But he loathes it when it’s Luka who’s using him.

The difference between you and Luka is like night and day. While Luka berates and degrades him, sometimes even depriving him of basic necessities, you always sneak around and give Kairos lots of love and extra food. 

Kairos always breaks down and cries in your arms when you show him kindness– he’s so very thankful for it. But be sure that Luka doesn’t catch you. If he sees you being sweet towards Kairos, he’ll harshly punish Kairos and then fuck you right in front of him. Every time.

Kairos always feels so pathetic as he's forced to watch you getting ravaged by Luka. The way you're moaning under his touch... The hot, sticky sound of Luka's cock sliding in and out of you... All of this happening while Kairos is tied down and unable to do a thing. He's so fucking hard, and there's nothing there to relieve him. Luka punishes Kairos if he dares to look away.

In order to gain more privileges, both you and Kairos need to work to gain Luka’s favor. If the both of you prove that you’re capable of being trusted, he might give you more freedom. He’ll let you look out the windows every now and then– might even let you use the kitchen. He's much more open to giving you privileges than he is to giving Kairos any.

Except, of course, he always hides all of the sharp objects in the house. He doesn’t want you two to have access to weapons. And if you try to poison him even once, he’ll immediately make the kitchen permanently off limits when he's not around to watch you.

Also, over time, another funny thing happens. Luka doesn’t really like punishing you outside of sex- he'd much rather shower you in rewards. He’d rather save the roughness and punishments for more intimate settings. After all, he’s trying to earn your love– not make you hate him. So, what does he do instead?

Every time you act up, he’ll drag Kairos by his leash and punish him in your stead. After all, he knows that you care about Kairos and his wellbeing, so he uses that against you.

Oh, you just tried to break out of the house? You tried to poison Luka? Well, that deserves a proper punishment. Luka will tie you to a chair and force you to watch as he brutalizes Kairos. Whips him with a belt, kicks him in the stomach, takes away his food privileges for the next 48 hours... It’s horrible.

And in a way… This would cause Kairos to start policing you, too. Which is exactly what Luka wants. Kairos really, really doesn’t want to get punished. I mean, deep down, he’s absolutely happy that he gets to take the beating instead of you– it’s like he’s your hero!! …In some weird and twisted sense. But also, he really doesn’t want to get punished, so… Please don’t act out.

However, when the months keep rolling in, Luka will slowly warm up to Kairos. All of the punishments will grow less severe– and sometimes, Luka just lets you all off with a warning. It’s obvious that a big change has happened when instead of Luka just fucking you in front of Kairos, he lets him join in on the fun.

Except Luka doesn’t really want to touch him– so, he’ll let you touch Kairos instead. It’s what Kairos always wanted– Right?

Kairos should thank him. 

Luka will tie his arms behind his back and keep him firmly locked to a chair, completely naked. Kairos feels so ashamed that he’s hard– but god, he can’t help it. He’s so excited to finally be able to touch you, his darling, the person that should’ve always been his–!

And Luka will make sure it’s enjoyable for everyone. Luka will strip you of your clothes, but he might put you in a cute pair of thigh highs, just for the fun of it. Luka will grab you by your hair and push your face into Kairos’ lap as he utters one phrase, “suck it.”

You’ll do as you’re told– you don’t have much of a choice. Kairos’ eyes instantly light up as you wrap your lips around his sensitive cock.

Finally– his dreams are coming true…! 

Sort of.

As you suck him off, Luka will lift your ass into the air and he’ll fuck your tight hole. He’ll keep his right hand on your hip while his left hand grabs the back of your head, lacing his fingers into your hair. He doesn’t care if you can barely breathe– he’ll shove your head all the way down on Kairos’ dick as he bottoms out inside of you. Occasionally, he’ll lift your head up and lean in to kiss you on the lips.

It’s all so hot– but ultimately, it’s all for you and himself. Luka will always make sure you cum, that’s his top priority. His second priority is to make sure he gets to fill you up. As for Kairos? Well… Luka doesn’t care all that much.

If Kairos doesn’t cum? That’s too bad. It’s Kairos’ own fault that he didn’t come undone. But if he does cum? That’s alright too. 

However, don’t expect Luka to make you stop sucking. Kairos will be squirming in his chair whining like crazy as you overstimulate him, his body trembling from the sensation, but you can’t stop until Luka says you can stop.

The second scenario is much more likely to happen than the first. The moment Kairos looks down and sees your fucked-out face choking on his length… He’ll cum right on the spot– every single time, without fail.

After the first instance of Luka letting Kairos join in the sex, he earns a lot more privileges. He can finally sleep in the same room as you two–!! But he’s not really allowed to rest on the bed. He’ll be forced to curl up and sleep on the floor– but hey, it beats the attic any day, right?

Luka also takes off Kairos' shock collar. Since Kairos has proved himself to be a good boy, he's now allowed to roam around freely. Hell, sometimes Luka will pet Kairos and give him some praise. It... Makes Kairos feel strange, but in a good way.

Kairos is also now allowed to cuddle you sometimes. When you’re simply sitting on the couch and trying to relax, Kairos will immediately hurry over to your side and rest his head in your lap– desperate to feel even an ounce of affection from you. He might ask you to stroke his hair and kiss the bruises Luka left on his skin.

* If Luka is at work and Kairos knows there’s no cameras around, he might beg to suck on your tits– you know, for comfort reasons! It would really make him happy to have them in his mouth– it would be therapeutic, even.

((And if you’re a guy, Kairos will instead beg to frot you. While it’s a lot more dangerous and the punishment for getting caught is heavy, Kairos is willing to risk it all. Don’t worry–! You can just sit there and relax; Kairos will be the one doing all the work with his hand.))

You know how stressful and traumatizing this whole situation has been for him… He needs to be comforted so badly… So.. Pretty please?

In some sick and twisted way, over time, Kairos grows to like the way things are– perhaps his mind does this as a way to cope. He tries his hardest to find all the positives in living this kind of life:

> He gets to spend every minute of every day with you!

> He doesn’t have to worry about talking to strangers.

> He doesn’t have to work and maintain a job.

> He doesn’t have to cook and clean for himself.

The list goes on. Kairos gains all of these benefits, and all he has to do is give up most of his basic human rights and submit to another man…!

Okay, Kairos still admits that is pretty bad. But… At least he has you…! That’s all Kairos really cares about in the end!

For Luka? He’s satisfied with the way things are. Not only does he not have to worry about Kairos ratting him out to the police, but now he has both the love of his life right by his side and a fun little pet to take his stress out on. 

So… Everyone… Wins? In the end? ❤️

[qingxin-dream]

“Just One Good Thing”

summary | it’s hard to love someone who is broken, and even harder when two broken people love so deeply it hurts. (art credits: @/pastahands on twitter).

warnings | not proofread/vent writing, scaramouche lore spoilers, brief graphic depiction of death, illness, loss, profanity, TW heavy mental health topics, self-hatred, dissociation, depression, suicidal thoughts/ideation, graphic description of self-harm wounds, fear of abandonment, guilt, reader is hospitalized

genre | angst, hurt, comfort

word count | 2.5k

pairing | wanderer x reader

✧⋄⋆���⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

This was not the first time the puppet experienced betrayal.

How could you have known? It was long before you came into existence, hundreds of years of anguish buried in layers upon layers beneath his artificial constitution. He had once been but an innocent, naive babe with the world sparkling in the reflection of his violet eyes, meant for something greater. He had once fulfilled a purpose.

To be brought into the world against your will, crafted from the divine hand of a grieving Archon, only to have every semblance of your being ripped from you and cast aside in the name of so-called mercy—is a fate akin to death itself.

You never knew his past.

How he was once an eccentric named Kabukimono who wandered from Shakkei Pavilion and made friends with the blade smiths of Tatarasuna. His first taste of human life was amid a blazing furnace and the clamoring of a hammer onto hot metal, learning what it meant to labor and create. He had grown to love the little village as his own, playing with the children and sipping on the bitter taste of tea leaves with his comrades.

The puppet who had called himself Kabukimono was painfully ignorant to the cruelty of fate.

He could have never fathomed the day he would hold the future of his village in his trembling, pale hands as the toxic Tatarigami fumes envelope him in chemicals. There he climbed deep inside the Mikage Furnace, the unique resilience of his artificial body left unharmed by the inhospitable temperatures glowing hot against his divine skin. Any normal human would’ve perished a thousand times over.

Inside the foreign device that promised to save his home lay the bloody, withering heart cut fresh from his closest companion’s chest.

“You are a human, Kabukimono,” Niwa had insisted with a soft smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, a comforting hand resting on the eccentric’s shoulder. “You just don’t have a heart.”

Yet there the puppet stood, his voice robbed from his aching throat, cradling the very essence of his friend’s humanity in his palm.

It was his fault. What a foolish creature he was to ever involve himself with humans, whom he could only bring suffering. His tears were evaporated instantly as the grotesque realization dawned on the distraught young Kabukimono. He would later discover that he had been betrayed by a man who introduced himself as Escher but was known among the Fatui as The Doctor.

The dirty pads of his bare feet had thumped through the rocky village path and down the dirt roads leading to the outskirts of the rural Inazuman wilderness. Crows rustled in the trees and flapped their feathers into the sky, jeering at the desolate and abandoned settlement.

The village should have been evacuated. All who could have been saved were rushed as far away as possible from the poisonous Tatarigami. Rows upon rows of homes and businesses were eerily vacant. Kabukimono, in his watery hysterics, had not paid any mind to his surroundings, leaving behind the only home he ever had for good.

That is, until he stumbled across a young boy who lived under an old sakura tree. Kabukimono immediately felt the void in his chest wrench with visceral guilt upon learning that the child’s parents were crafts-people. The house was utterly empty except for the lonely little boy.

For as much as the puppet wanted nothing more than to rid himself of human companionship, he felt responsible for the loss of the boy’s parents. He had an obligation to see that he was taken care of and safe from the Tatarigami. If he could not have saved his friends, perhaps he could atone for his sins in raising the orphaned child—who reminded him too much of himself.

“Promise me,” Kabukimono spoke up with a bit of a hoarse tone, his voice cracking with emotion, extending a shaky hand to the young boy. “That we can be family. I will watch over you.”

“Like a big brother?” asked the innocent boy with a hopeful smile. He wouldn’t have to be alone anymore, taking the eccentric’s hand in his own. “I’ve always wanted one… I promise, we will be family.”

For a short while, the puppet had learned to push the turmoil plaguing his conscience to the back of his mind. His focus had shifted entirely to ensuring the boy’s safety and happiness, trying to scavenge food for him and exchanging stories under the moonlight. Although, Kabukimono flinched with each cough from the boy that shattered the silence between them as they went to sleep.

He hated that he recognized the symptoms. The residue of the Tatarigami had somehow infected the child, no doubt. A dreadful thought occurred to him—perhaps he had given the sickness to the orphaned child after what happened at the Mikage Furnace. The idea was enough to eat him alive with worry. Kabukimono had secretly prayed that the boy would endure the illness.

The puppet had worked tirelessly to give him the best he possibly could. If his coughs were dry, he would fetch him water. If his stomach rumbled, he would prepare some Lavender Melons. If he needed a friend, Kabukimono would be there to hold his hand as he slept like a guardian angel.

The day the elderly sakura tree shed its pretty pink blossoms was the day the boy was found unresponsive.

Kabukimono, too, found himself hollow and devoid. What did it mean to be family? What did it mean to love? What was the point of having such worthless emotions?

A blazing inferno consumed the darkness of the night sky. Crackling embers swirled and smoke bellowed in the rural countryside as a rickety house succumbed to a hellish fate. No one was there to witness the flaming spectacle. No one to help, or save the vacant violet eyes of a nameless puppet who clutched a small doll in his lap.

It was laughable, truly, how sick and twisted the world could be. The puppet couldn’t fulfill his creator’s wishes, nor could he befriend humanity, or have a heart of his own. Oh, to perish in a fiery death would be far too simple for Celestia’s liking, wouldn’t it?

For five hundred years, Kabukimono, Kunikuzushi, Scaramouche—no matter who he became—the feeling of inadequacy remained.

His divinely-created body was an immortal prison, shackling him to his sins. As a Fatui Harbinger, no needle, blade, or poison of the Doctor could kill him. No enemy or magic of the Abyss could ultimately break him. The puppet was built to withstand the likes of the Cataclysm that had taken his creator’s sister, yet the scars of these experiments litter his fair skin are a reminder that he is indeed alive.

Wanderer vividly remembers his dark fascination with testing his limits in the depths of his dissociation. Anything to serve as penance for the irreversible destruction he had inflicted upon his friends, his family, and his home. If he was lucky, perhaps the Doctor would find a way to end his misery or the maddening darkness of the Abyss would swallow him whole once and for all.

Even forsaking his autonomy and identity as Scaramouche to ascend to godhood would be a fitting death for the puppet. After all, the Everlasting Lord of Arcane Wisdom would never bow to his emotions like a weakling. Losing himself to infinite knowledge and truth would be a good ending, despite the insanity that would befall him.

All that mattered is he would cease to exist.

But it was you who defeated him, in all his might and glory as a fake Archon pumped full of divine wisdom and the sludgy remains of dead gods. It was you who found him after he tried to erase every part of his worthless being from Irminsul, and helped him pick up the pieces of himself in the aftermath.

The reality that lies within Irminsul had given him a new perspective as the Wanderer. Though he retained the poignant memories of his sins, Wanderer made sure to carve a special space in the void of his artificial body just for you. His savior.

Not a single one of those instances—absolutely fucking none of them—could ever compare to the morbid and desperate pit of despair that ravages Wanderer at the sight of your fragile body curled up in a white hospital gown. You are hooked up to a myriad of monitors and machines, wires and tubes tangling your frame like chains. The distant beep of the electrocardiogram is burned into Wanderer’s mind.

It’s your heartbeat, and the very reason for his continued existence. You had been reduced to small blip on a computer screen.

The hospital room was otherwise silent. The windows had the blinds slightly drawn, a cool ray of moonlight washing over Wanderer’s disheveled indigo hair from behind. Even if you were unconscious, Wanderer had wanted to tuck you in for the night, but he was terrified of hurting you. The fluorescent white light above your bed was off, bathing you both in warm darkness.

In the late hours, all Wanderer could do was stare at you with eyes reddened from crying, his crimson eyeliner smudged at the edge of lashes. He would occasionally lick his dry lips, which were chapped and peeling. The sting of the dead skin on his lips being tugged between his teeth was a momentary release from the overwhelming anxiety dwelling within.

His thin fingers are intertwined with yours on the hospital bed, one of the few ways the puppet can keep himself grounded in this moment. Every once in awhile, he’ll give your hand a gentle squeeze followed by a few broken wishes for you to open your eyes again. To see the life in you and hear your sweet voice again.

Sometimes it would get to be too much. Wanderer would raise your hand and kiss your knuckles with hot, salty tears pricking at his eyes. The stinging sensation would force his eyelids closed, sorrow streaming down his stained cheeks. He was sure that this was a result of his own shortcomings.

Your arms are wrapped in bandages with a few stitches here and there lying underneath. A deathly pale color flushed your beautiful face. And oh, Archons, those eyes of yours he had always adored endlessly were sunken darkly into your face, hidden in your slumber. His gaze drifted to your lips, still full and pink, perhaps his last vestige of hope as they parted for your sacred breaths.

To imagine you’re suffering as much as he had in his past is utterly unthinkable to Wanderer.

The only difference is your fragile mortality. He knows your pain now, he can see it carved onto your wrists in what must have been a frenzied meltdown.

Some cuts are lighter and faded, meaning this certainly isn’t the first time you hurt yourself. Other gashes in your arm are deeper and swollen, each one weighs on the puppet’s heart greater than the last. He couldn’t count how many times you must have taken that razor to your wrist. Wanderer silently curses himself for letting this happen to you.

“How stupid could I be? Letting her away from me,” he quietly lamented with his head in hands, fingers curling around his indigo locks tightly. “I had just one good thing.”

Rocking himself gently in the chair next to you, Wanderer continuously tugs at his hair to an almost extreme degree, unable to handle the anger, betrayal, and sadness overcoming him. He was practically attached to you at the hip, he should’ve noticed when your voice faltered or when your eyes betrayed your words. He should’ve seen the signs of you slipping through his fingers.

Even if every day wasn’t perfect, even if sometimes you both said hurtful things to each other, neither of you never truly meant it. Wanderer couldn’t bear to imagine not waking up next to you, the morning sunlight kissing your silhouette like an angel. He never thought that he’d find his purpose in you, in the most mundane moments that he cherished so deeply.

He knew you had a history of mental health struggles. So did he. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to give you his everything—fingers entwined and sweat glistening on your bodies as he made you his for the umpteenth time.

The echo of the puppet’s soft sobs dissipates into the emptiness of the hospital room. His whole body is shaking with emotional agony. It’s the first time in centuries that he has allowed himself to feel vulnerable like this. How could he not when the love of his life—the meaning of his existence—had tried to take themselves out of it?

Wanderer finally releases his hair, taking your left hand again and passionately pressing his lips to your bare ring finger as an unspoken promise. You both had worked so hard to love better and be better. He wasn’t about to give you up.

There would never be another you in eternity.

He couldn’t bear the heavy burden on his heart anymore. Carefully, he pulled the thin blanket back and climbed into the hospital bed next to you. His fingers trembled at the contact, feeling your faint warmth. Wanderer gently pulled you close so that your head was safely tucked into his chest and he could rest his chin on your soft hair. He sighed, covering you both in the blanket once more.

Sobs tugged at his chest and his grip on you momentarily tightened. Though tears glistened at the corner of his broken violet eyes, Wanderer blinked them back with a shaky breath. You were in his arms and his world was made whole again.

“I love you, (Y/N),” his voice is gravely and barely audible. “I love you so fucking much… don’t you dare think otherwise.”

The puppet nuzzles his nose into your scalp, breathing in your familiarity like it’s home. He begins to play with your hair gently, combing and caressing your soft strands with his fingertips painted in black.

“You scared the shit out of me, you know…” Wanderer kisses your hair, closing his eyelids for a long moment to memorialize the feeling of your skin on his lips. “But I’m gonna get you out of here, baby. I’m gonna get you help, okay?”

His toned arms keep your body pressed to his, wanting to feel every part of your being entangled with him as it should be. The tickling sensation of your little breaths on his neck brought a small smile to his face because it meant you were sleeping comfortably and most importantly, alive. You were the missing piece in his puzzle, fitting perfectly into place with him.

“It’ll be okay. Everything will be okay,” the puppet whispers to you, hoping you could hear and feel his love in every way, shape, and form possible. His words also served as an assurance to himself because in this moment he felt so helpless, seeing the wounds on your precious skin.

“I won’t let anything hurt you anymore,” Wanderer solemnly vows, his voice slowly but surely trailing off as he succumbs to his exhaustion with you held close to his heart.

“Goodnight, my love.”

thanks for reading! reblogs are appreciated! my masterlist.

[rottenpumpkin13]

AGSCZ going to a concert! Who got the tickets/chose what kind of concert they were going to and the ensuing shenanigans?

(Brought to you by I saw two concerts this weekend)

Genesis: He's the one who persuades everyone to go because one of his favorite bands is playing in Midgar. He buys all the tickets, dictates everyone's outfits, and will later be the reason they get plastered at a bar outside the venue.

Sephiroth: Dislikes the noise, crowds, and anticipates a migraine because of the flashing lights. Comes prepared with sunglasses and headphones, listening to a science documentary to block out the concert while dissociating through most of it.

Angeal: Ends up organizing the outing, reminding everyone constantly though emails, brings water, snacks, extra sweaters, and keeps a headcount to make sure no one gets lost, herding them like ducks in a line.

Zack: Gets way too hyped, loads up on glowsticks and band merch, and keeps talking about how cool it would be to jump on stage and dance with the band. Angeal has to threaten him with a toddler leash backpack if he even tries it.

Cloud: Just grateful to be invited and hopes to have a good time, except he's snapping a thousand pictures to remember the night. He takes shots of:

• Angeal lecturing Zack after he jaywalked in street, Zack is doing this >:( face while Angeal makes him apologize to the children who witnessed him "commit a crime" • Sephiroth dissociating with his headphones on, wearing his sunglasses indoors, while the concert and flashing lights rage on around him. • Angeal digging through his backpack for a banana while Genesis pretends not to know him. • Zack, barely a blur of motion zooming onto the stage while Angeal chases after him. • Genesis in the mosh pit. • Cloud himself in a bathroom mirror selfie with Sephiroth in the background, barely visible, half-turned away, looking like he's questioning every life choice that led him here.

[bamboozledbird]

IGNITE: A Teen Wolf S1 AU (Reader's Version) // Prev. / Chapter 6

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, fem!reader, ofc, omc Pairing: Eventual Stiles x Reader, but man are we talking slow burn Word Count: 6k Warnings: Canon typical gore/violence, parental death (rip to your fake mom), depictions of depression (apathy, dissociation, 'numb little bug' vibes) Tags: Canon has been lovingly scrapped for parts, author is a chaotic bi and it shows, prolific overuse of the em dash, the slowest of burns i fear

Summary: You can always smell ash long after the fire is gone. Perhaps, that’s why you still can’t breathe without choking on the past. It’s been four years since your mom died. Four years since she burned alive. Four years since you didn’t. You survived, but they must have buried your heart with her because most days you feel like a shadow, some horrifically sad creature caught halfway between a ghost and a lamb for slaughter. 

You can’t scrub the bitter smell of hospital from your memories, not even with denial. Maybe, that’s why death and disease follows Stiles wherever he goes now. It’s been eight years since his mom died. Eight years since he didn’t. Eight years since he decided that he wouldn’t let anyone he loved die ever again. He survived, but Beacon Hills’ bloody underbelly is making it pretty damn hard for him to keep his promise.

Time never stops turning. The grief never dissipates. Children soldier on—but in a town where all the monsters under the bed are real, and old family secrets rattle in every closet, how long can two fragile, breakable humans survive?

Maybe, the real question is: How long will they want to?

Chapter Summary: You go full Charlie Kelly and start to put all the pieces together. Stiles knows more than he lets on, but for some reason you trust him anyway. 

A/N: check me out on ao3 (dork_knight) for the full lore version!

Taglist: @eaterof-concrete, @m30wk1ttycat

You played and replayed the video at least a hundred times, over and over again, examining every poorly shot, grainy frame until your eyes burned. You were frantic—a rabbit, picking her den apart, ripping her fur out, searching for all the minute flaws and misplaced straw; a girl, chewing her cheek bloody, tearing at her tights, desperately looking for some kind of explanation that wouldn’t completely shatter her fragile grasp on reality. 

It would be one thing if it was just the video. You could easily rationalize the video away; you’d seen enough fan-made edits of Buffy and Twilight to know that amateur editors were hardly amateurs anymore—but it wasn’t just the video. It was the video, and the gutted video clerk, and the mangled bus driver, and the severed woman with wolf fibers found her butchered corpse—all interconnected by one very furry, clawed, fanged… thing. 

Rolling onto your back, you scrubbed at your eyes, fingers cruel and violent in their attempt to scour away images of blood, and death, and monsters. There had to be an explanation. A rational explanation. Your gaze reflexively drifted towards the charm bundle on your windowsill, propped up against a few of your favorite novels.

The books were old, spines creased and splitting at the corners from little fingers and a lot of love. They were your mom’s before they were yours; you read them together under the covers whenever it rained. For a long time, you kept them hidden away under your bed with all the other things that might crumble your brittle will, but the yellowing pages steeped in memories didn’t seem so haunting anymore. You were already halfway through the stack, consuming the faded ink like a fiend in the night. It was odd; there wasn’t much that had changed since now and then. Really, only one thing. It made sense, you supposed after some thought. Your childhood favorites: Nancy Drew, Sherlock Holmes, the Hercule Poirot novels, they were exactly the kind of thing a sheriff’s son would appreciate.

The largest book in the pile was your complete collection of Sherlock Holmes. You chewed on your lip, eyes tracing the elegant swoops and swirls illuminated on the spine. Words curled along your brainstem in time with the loops, breaking through the buzzing in your mind with quiet British flourish: When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

Your nose scrunched, bottom lip trapped between your teeth. Surely, you hadn’t eliminated all logical explanations yet. Surely. 

The metallic embellishments glinted at you, taunting you with their unmistakable presence and insistent reminder of your evening’s unavoidable ending. There was only one place to go for the improbable, after all; you just had to get past your pride and everything you believed to be true. 

Before you could finish putting on your shoes, your dad found his way into your room. He lingered on the border of the black cherry floor. His stance was awkward, unsure of his footing, and you froze with your shoelace in hand. After a moment of stilted silence, he cleared his throat and loosened his tie from its chafing Windsor knot, “I just wanted to let you know I’ll be out later than usual.”

Nodding, you tied your laces into neat bows and pulled the wrinkles in your tights straight, “Parent Teacher Conferences, right?”

“Mhm,” he paused and attempted a smile. The edges were stiff, as if his mouth had forgotten the movement, at least when directed at you, “Should I be worried?”

It was his attempt at a joke; you knew that. You still felt a flutter of anxiety. Despite Stiles’s reassurances, you weren't so cavalier about breaking the rules. “All A’s,” you finally said, quietly to your feet. 

Your dad gave you a real smile; smaller than his previous attempt at playfulness, but this one was your favorite. He was proud. It’d been a long time since he’d looked at you with anything other than grief and unease. “That’s my girl.” He rapped his knuckles against your door frame and said, “There’s takeout money on the table. Don’t stay out too long; there’s a—”

“Curfew, I know.” You slung your bag over your shoulder and fiddled with the strap, “I’ll be back soon.”

He didn’t ask you where you were going. He never did. You weren't sure what that said about your relationship, but you didn’t want to think about it any longer than you had to. There were far more pressing things to dwell on.

Maggie was in her kitchen when you opened the door to her house. It was cozy, small; she'd inherited it from her mother when she passed years ago. There were still signs of her 70s nostalgia all over every room. The shag carpet was horrendous, but you kind of liked the color. The muted green almost looked like a bed of moss, like something out of a fairytale.  You had your own key; you’d had one since you were old enough to be a latchkey kid—even though you were never really on your own for long. There was always someone around to help you with your homework, bake you brownies without getting shell in the batter, read you stories about far away places and imaginary worlds. You’d had a wonderful childhood until it ended; some people weren’t that lucky. You knew that you were fortunate to have twelve years of Rockwellian bliss; it was more than a lot of people got. Knowing, however, still didn’t make the after any easier. 

“Want a scone?” Maggie’s head was buried in the oven, steam curling around her shoulders. She emerged with a tray of browned lumps in pink oven-mitted hands, “They're slightly burnt, but it’s not my fault. My timer betrayed me.”

You didn’t reply. You chewed on your lip and studied the plants hanging from the ceiling. The Angelica was in full bloom, little clusters of white fuzzy fireworks. The roots were supposed to ward off evil. You would’ve scoffed at the thought a week ago. Now, there was a lingering ‘what if’ you couldn’t shake. 

You sighed quietly, the exhaustion rattling through your chest, and trailed your gaze to the next plant. Skullcaps were your favorite, not because they were supposed to induce visions, obviously; you liked the blossoms. The fluted periwinkle petals certainly looked magical. You picked a flower from the lowest stem and rolled it between your fingers, “You really believe in this shit, right?” You looked up from your hands and studied Maggie’s face carefully, “It’s not all a scam?”

The anticipated gasp carried through the kitchen, followed by the clang of a plonked baking sheet, “I resent the very implication.”

“I’m serious.” You stared at Maggie’s back, watching for any tell-tale signs of tension or rigidity, “Do you really believe that witches are real and wolfsbane can kill werewolves?”

“I will not be abused in my own home,” there was a lilt in Maggie’s voice, a flippancy that usually made your lips twitch into a smile, but Maggie's hand trembled and sent the scone on the edge of her spatula to the floor. Maggie dropped to her knees and scooped the crumbling pieces into a pile with desperate hands, oddly frantic for something as silly as a dropped pastry. 

You squatted next to her and rested your hands over Maggie’s until they stilled. “Mags,” you were quiet, gentle in your sweeping, but Maggie didn’t seem soothed by the clean floor. 

Maggie’s chin lifted, but her eyes zeroed in on the tip of your nose instead of your eyes. “Babe.”

You gripped your knees, clinging to the caps with ragged nails and flexed knuckles, like your bones were the only solid thing left in the room. “Can you be serious for once in your life, please.” Your tongue went heavy, adhering to the floor of your mouth, effectively sealing everything else you couldn’t bring yourself to say: Please, I think I’m losing my mind, and I don’t know how much longer I can white-knuckle it.  

Maggie turned towards the counter carelessly, and her pinky brushed against the cookie sheet. She let out a sharp hiss through her teeth and shook her hand in the air. “Why does it matter?” Her words were muffled through the blistering finger in her mouth, “People buy what they want to buy.”

Your empathy was thinning and so was your patience. Your teeth gnashed, and you winced when your tongue got in the way. “I don’t give a shit about your delusional customers. You know what I mean.”

“See, ‘delusional,’” Maggie stuffed a scone into her mouth even though it was still steaming. Her eyes watered as she struggled to swallow the wad of blueberry and oatmeal lodged against the roof of her mouth. “Why are we even talking about this?” she said thickly, throat clogged with congealed crumbs and something skittish in her eyes. She bent over the sink and turned the water to cold; you weren't entirely sure if she was soothing the burns on her tongue or simply avoiding eye contact.

“There’s something happening here,” your voice trembled, much to your disdain, and you were further horrified by the stinging in your tear ducts, “and I don’t know what to do.”

Maggie’s head whipped towards you, wetting her hair and splattering her lenses with water droplets that dripped onto her nose, “You don’t have to do anything. That’s not your job.” She clutched your shoulders with desperate fingers, digging into your scapulae until it hurt, “Your job is to go to school, get good grades, and live happily ever after.”

You shook off her hands and wiped your nose against your shoulder, “Why won’t you just give me a straight answer?” 

“Well, I am bi–”

“Maggie,” you struggled for words until there was only one left on your tongue, “please.”

A blank expression fell over her face, and then Maggie seemed to sink through the floor even though she was still standing. “Did you read the book?”

You could barely hear her. Your nose shriveled towards your brows, “What book?”

Her eyes shined with something; you couldn’t quite define it. There was a glimmer of remorse, but you couldn’t make out the rest. “‘Beacon Hills’ Bloodlines’.”

For a moment, you were too confused to be frustrated, “Not really.”

Confusion became bewilderment when Maggie left the kitchen without a word. She returned with a thick book; though, book wasn’t quite accurate. It was really a stack of pulp parchment barely held together with a piece of threaded twine. It looked older than the Bloodline’s journal; you could see a few pages sticking out from the others, and the spine was in desperate need of re-stitching. You reluctantly took the pages from Maggie’s hands after she shook it in your face a couple times. 

Maggie was quiet when she finally spoke, “Read the journal.” She nodded towards the new book, “That too.”

You frowned at the cover and held it out in front of you like it was contaminated. “Why are you being so weird about this? Just tell me.”

Maggie looked at you, and the most peculiar sensation rolled down your spine. Maggie's eyes were so present, like a shotgun blast, like a meteor shower. Her voice wasn’t even close to loud, but it was just as piercing as her stare, “I made a promise; I have to keep at least part of it.”

Your forehead creased, “Wha...that’s even weirder. Are you fuckin’ Gandalf? Just say it.” 

“Trust me,” Maggie’s gaze shifted to the floor, and you almost melted with relief, “there are some things that you’re better off not knowing.”

“Great. Thanks, Obi-Wan,” you rolled your eyes and crammed the bound parchment into your bag, “I’ll figure it out myself.”

A cool hand cupped your cheek before you could leave. You grudgingly met Maggie’s gaze, adjusting your grip on the strap of your bag.  

Maggie held onto your shoulders, a breath away from shaking you. “Promise me, you won’t do anything stupid.”

You grimaced, “I–” A flash in Maggie’s eyes dried all the words on your tongue.

“Promise.”

“Promise,” you mumbled.

Maggie finally let you leave, and your feet felt heavier than they did when you walked into Maggie’s apartment. Your bag was heavier, so perhaps it wasn’t all an illusion. The guilt, however, was certainly playing a part in your sagging shoulders. You chewed on a thumbnail and slipped into the comfort of denial. It didn’t count as a broken promise if you didn’t really know what you were promising.

Your dad was still gone when you got home, and you were relieved. Solitude was your only comfort with all this dread chilling your blood. You weren't good with the unpredictable, not anymore. You tried to study it, the way you did with dead languages and theoretical physics, but the methodology wasn't clear. You just wished, for once, you were as scary as people believed. 

There was one thing you could do—or rather two. One was on your desk, and the other was at the bottom of your bag. 

You started with the journal, and your hair quickly became a nuisance. Every time you bowed your head to get a better look at the messy scrawl, wispy strands obscured your vision. You tied your hair back and nibbled on your lip, struggling to determine if a smudged loop was an ‘a’ or an ‘o.’ They didn’t have computers in the 1800s, you knew that, but it wouldn’t have killed Maggie’s great-great-great-grandmother to quill with a little less ink. Neat cursive was hardly as taxing as cholera. 

The pain at the base of your skull was unbearable by the time you made it through half of the entries. Your impatience was rapidly fraying, with yourself and with the lack of insight. Maybe, this was all an elaborate stall—or maybe Maggie really didn’t know anything. 

You flopped back against your pillows and starfished your limbs across your bed until all your joints and muscles unkinked. “Fuck me.” Your eyes flicked down your legs, and you glowered at the journal. It was goading you, opened to the middle and sprawled across your thighs, staring at you and all your incompetence. 

Your thumbs dug a trench in your skull as you tried to rub the throbbing out of your temples.

One more page. You could read one more page. 

You flipped the page, careful with the crumbling corner. The parchment was cluttered with names and arrows; there were a few illustrations too, sketched portraits of the people memorialized on paper. It was inked chaos, but only one word stood out to you. In a large curling script, Hale was spread all over the complicated family tree. You gnawed on your lip and bent your head closer to the small description at the top of the page: The Hale pack founded Beacon Hills in 1856, saving the town from desolation with their wealth. The pack has several branches, extending across the state. They continue to be a prevalent force in their world. 

The bloodlines were difficult to follow with all the different branches and untimely deaths. As far as you could tell, the line was documented all the way to 2002. There were a few different sets of handwriting; the style changed every few decades or so, and you flipped to the end of the family line just to check for Maggie’s chicken scratch. You didn’t find her handwriting, but you did notice something familiar on the last line. Derek Hale. 

You knew, of course, that Derek would likely be included, but your breath hitched when your finger traced over the notation inscribed next to almost every single one of his family members’ names: Deceased: Arson. Laura Hale was still alive on the tree, and the thought of documenting her death—of giving her an end date —it stole all the air from your lungs. 

Your eyes burned, and you quickly flipped back to the start of the Hale bloodline. A few dozen county death records later, the burning in your corneas was due to the strain of one too many computer searches. Still painful, but you much preferred blue light sting to the threat of tears. You focused on it, on the ache; it was so much quieter than all the thoughts fighting you for their turn. They were so loud, a million ravenous locusts buzzing, feasting on your ear canal. You couldn’t make out what they were saying, what they were trying to tell you—what they wanted you to believe. 

Derek Hale couldn’t be a werewolf because that would mean werewolves were real, and if werewolves were real, how many other monsters were lurking in the dark? How many creatures from Maggie’s stories were waiting for someone to separate from the herd, biding their time until they could sink their teeth into human flesh?

There was only so much you could find online and in Maggie’s books. Certain secrets had yet to be written. 

It was disturbingly easy to find out where Stiles lived. The receptionist at the Sheriff’s station was all too happy to give you his address when you gave her your name. You finally stumbled upon the one perk of being an infamous, pathetic half-orphan: blind faith. 

His house was smaller than yours, and you were jealous. All the empty space just made the silence worse, you found. You could see a few spots where the paint was peeling when you got closer, and you smiled at the shoddy patch work. You wondered who tried to fix it. You hoped it was Stiles; you could see the paint in his hair, maybe smeared across his cheek from an ill-advised attempt to scratch his nose. It was adorable. 

You knocked on the door and clutched Maggie’s books tighter to your chest. You’d expected Stiles to answer the door, but he didn’t. You didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to you that someone else would be home until Sheriff Stilinski opened the door, but you felt stupid for not thinking of it sooner. The Sheriff looked just as surprised to see you; at least, he had an actual reason. 

“Oh.” You blinked and devolved into a monosyllabic moron, “Hi.” 

Obviously, you knew Stiles was Sheriff Stilinski’s son, but for some reason the idea of them occupying the same place at the same time was dumbfounding. YOur mind couldn’t make sense of it. There was the Sheriff in one box, with all your grief, all your pain, and then there was Stiles. You didn’t fully know what was in his box, but you knew it was good. 

“Hey, kid,” Sheriff Stilinski smiled through his confusion, “you okay? Did something—”

“I’mheretoseeStiles,” all your words were smooshed together in one big exhale. 

The Sheriff looked even more confused for a moment, and then he gave you a little conspiratorial grin. “He’s up in his room. Go ahead.” 

You nodded absently and followed him inside. You stopped thinking about the hefty pile of books in your arms when you noticed the slight limp in Sheriff Stilinski’s step. “Are you okay?” 

The Sheriff followed your gaze and waved his hand, “It’s nothing. Barely a scratch.” 

You hesitated at the foot of the stairs, looking for blood or something equally horrific. He had no reason to lie to you, but you’d gotten used to the worst case scenario. “You sure?”

The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened with his smile, “You sound like my son.”

You mouth ticked up slightly, “That’s not an answer.”

Sheriff Stilinski had a nice laugh, you thought. You grinned as his head shook with another rumbling chuckle. “Now you really sound like my son. I hope he hasn’t driven crazy too.”

“Eh,” you shrugged a little and smiled, “he’s alright.” Your voice dropped a little, like you were telling a secret, “More than, actually. He’s…good.”

The Sheriff looked surprised briefly, a spasm of disbelief, and then all the muscles in his face seemed to melt with fondness. “He is,” his voice was a bit gravelly when he spoke, like it got lodged halfway up his throat. He loved his son; it was obvious. You wondered if your dad ever looked like that when talked about you. You wondered if he even talked about you at all. 

“Not a lot of people are,” you said quietly, looking down at your sneakers. The white wasn’t even white anymore. They were graying from years of stepping on your own feet, kicking car doors closed, tripping over asphalt. You weren't the kind of girl who could keep shoes clean; that was one thing about you that hadn’t changed. Sometimes, it felt like everything else had, and none of it was for the better. 

Sheriff Stilinski waited until you looked up, and then he smiled at you, almost as fondly as before. “You are.”

You were overwhelmed with feeling, so close to an emotion you couldn’t name, but you knew you’d felt it before. Once upon a time, when parents were parents, and children were children. 

The Sheriff rested his hand on your shoulder and squeezed. You were tipping into tearful, and you’d never been so grateful to hear Stiles’s voice. 

“Dad, who’s—” Stiles stopped at the top of the stairs and stared at the two of you. His jaw dangled, and it didn’t snap shut until his dad snorted. Stiles’s eye twitched, and you could see the reboot loading behind his eyes. You wholly understood the sentiment.

His brain regained function, and apparently all he could come up with was, “Hey.”

You grinned to yourself, a small secret smile at his predicament, and your hand cocked in a little wave, “Hey.”

Sheriff Stilinski cleared his throat, “I’ll—I’m going to get something to eat.” Neither of you looked at him; you were too busy playing a strange staring contest with equally stupid looks on your faces.  

Stiles recovered from his stupor once you were alone. His face settled into something bitter, stony at all the edges, irritation tucked into the creases. It was hardly the face you expected to see when you finally paid him a surprise visit. 

Your brow curved, and you tried not to shrink in on yourself. “You look pissed.”

Stiles snorted and drummed his fingers against the railing, “Yeah, well, you’re in a perpetual state of pissiness, so we’ve all got problems.” You must have crumpled this time, at least a little bit, because his scowl thawed and his hands fell limply by his sides. “Sorry. That’s not—displaced aggression, it’s my sweet spot.”

You shrugged and smiled slightly, a little stiff, a lot amused, “You’re not exactly wrong.”

“Still.” 

You played another game of eye-contact chicken, and Stiles scratched the back of his rapidly flushing neck. Your hair, still damp from the light drizzle, fell in front of your face as you tilted your head towards the stairs, “So, you gonna invite me up, or…”

He nodded a little too quickly and definitely too fervently, “Yeah, sorry. I’m just—”

“Pissed?” you smirked and adjusted your grip on your books, trekking up the stairs. Stiles narrowed his eyes at you, but he was smiling. He had a nice smile; it was big, loose—unrestrained in a way a lot of people were afraid to be. It was the kind of smile you couldn’t help but return.

Stiles let out a profound sigh and shook his head, “It’s all Scott’s fault.” You shot him a dubious look as he pushed his bedroom door open for you. He shrugged, “If I only tell it with carefully selected parts of the story, it’s all his fault.”

Your mouth twitched. Your smile was small, but it peeled back a good deal of the person you thought you should be. So much so, there was a little you peeking underneath. “We can pretend it is. Just for today.”

Stiles’s throat bobbed with his swallow, and when he smiled back at you, slowly, fleetingly, but ever-so sweetly, you finally realized you were awkwardly standing in the middle of his room. Like an idiot. 

His room was exactly what you expected, and that was…you didn’t realize that you knew him well enough to expect plaid bedding and posters of cringey emo bands that were heavily featured on most of your playlists. 

His desk was cluttered with various books and papers, stacked with no apparent rhyme or reason. You recognized the bestiary he bought from Curio Killed the Cat; the burgundy and gold binding was striking against all his monochrome textbooks. There were a few papers poking out from the aged pages, printouts of something furry and familiar. Before you could get a better look, Stiles bustled past you, doing a quick but rather poor job of hiding his dirty laundry under his bed and behind his closet door. 

Stiles was slightly out of breath when he finished, dropping onto the foot of his bed, “So…you stalkin’ me now?” 

You rested your hip against his desk and hummed, “Seemed only fair.” 

“Well,” his face split into a bright, infuriating grin, “I am flattered.”

“Shut up.” His grin widened, and you rolled your eyes, glaring at your bowed reflection in a chrome lamp on the edge of his desk. It was in grave need of a good dusting, along with most of the room. “You’re literally my only option.”

“So, you’re sayin’ I’m the one.” Stiles’s smirk was audible, and you sputtered. 

Your ears were unnaturally hot, and so was the back of your neck. You meant to groan, wanted him to know just how unamusing you found him, but your throat failed you. Your complaint came out airy, huffy, and it trembled against your soft palate. Truthfully, it sounded awfully similar to a whine; you scowled at the sound and squeezed your books tighter to your chest, “I’m leaving. Right now. I’ve reached my maximum capacity for bullshit.” 

Long fingers circled around your wrist before you could go too far. They were blistering against your cool skin, but a shiver shuddered through your arm all the way to your skull. 

“Don’t go,” Stiles hummed softly, close enough to warm the shell of your ear. “I owe you one, remember?” 

You braved a look at him through your lashes, and he was smiling at you again; this one was nervous. He had forgotten, it seemed, to let go of your wrist until now. Stiles sat back down on his bed, and you absently brushed your fingers over the lingering sensation of his fingertips. 

“Right,” you looked around the room and chewed on your bottom lip, “so…what was that whole thing with Derek Hale?”

Stiles paused. You could feel him watching you, studying you like one of his puzzles. “He needed a ride.”

You set your books on his desk, and Stiles nodded towards the chair in front of him. You hesitated before sitting down, feeling a bit like you were giving up the battlefield high ground, “You’re like…friends, then?”

“Absolutely not.” If the emphatic denial wasn’t enough to convince you, the violent shake of his head was telling enough. “Kind of wish he was dead, actually. It would solve so many problems.”

“So you don’t actually know him that well,” you murmured, sinking into the chair with all your hopes and plans. 

Stiles’s neck craned as he studied your face, “Why?” You just looked at him, keeping your face impassive, and his eyes went a little buggy. “I know he looks dreamy, but that would be nothing but a nightmare for everyone involved. Trust me.”

Your face twisted, lips curling around the unsavory taste in your mouth. “I don’t—what was wrong with him yesterday?”

Stiles didn’t look entirely convinced, but skepticism did look a lot like concern. “Stomach bug.”

You rolled your eyes. It would’ve made you laugh under any other circumstance, but you didn’t feel much like laughing now. You’d been a tick away from the edge ever since you realized that Lydia had been this close to being butchered by that thing. 

Your fingers curled into tight fists, knuckles straining, “I’m not an idiot, okay. I know there’s something weird going on.” You looked up from your lap with sharp eyes, but if he looked a little closer, he’d see the desperation underneath, “And I know you know something about it.”

Stiles swallowed hard and twisted his fingers together, “I’m actually known for knowing nothing about anything. Ever.” 

He flinched when you stood up abruptly. The chair rolled back into his desk and sent a few pencils to the floor. You glared at them, like they did it on purpose just to spite you, and your glower drifted towards the glint of citrine and garnet on the corner of his desk. “This.” You picked up the bestiary and tried to shake it in front of his face, but it was too heavy to do your frustration justice, “Why did you buy this?”

His eyes, miraculously, grew rounder, “I told you. D—”

“N’ D, I know, but I looked into it. This is real; it’s transcribed from a real Ancient Greek text.”

“...I like authenticity.” Stiles shrugged towards his fidgeting hands, “I take my craft seriously.”

Scoffing, you dropped the book on top of his bed, “So you’re saying you believe the whole mountain lion theory?” 

“Well, obviously no—”

“Then what do you believe?” Your chest seethed with quick shallow breaths as you paced from one side of his room to the other, “Because I was looking through this genealogy line, and the Hales have been here before Beacon Hills was even Beacon Hills, and there’s a pattern of—hold on.” 

You snatched Maggie’s journal off of his desk and flipped it open to the Hale family tree, bookmarked with the thick stack of county death reports you’d printed out. “Look, there’s a series of premature, violent deaths in their line directly after a series of animal attacks on the town, and then all of it just stopped a few generations before Derek’s mom became the head of the pa—”

You didn’t know when Stiles stood up, but he was in front of you now, stopping you in your tracks. He brushed his fingers through his short crop of hair and shook his head, “Hold on, okay. Take a breath—”

You didn’t hear him, not really. Truthfully, you didn’t even notice that he’d started talking. You shoved the pages closer to his face, and all your words rushed past your lips in one carved out breath, “And then it all started again after Laura Hale was killed, and she was found with wolf fibers on her body—”

Stiles’s brows flew towards his hairline, “How do you kno—”

“She became the head of the family after Talia died, right?” Your hair was as wild as your eyes after a series of urgent tugging, and you prayed to all the mythical gods in every game you’d ever played that you sounded saner than you looked. They might actually exist, after all. Who's to say that Selûne didn't exist in a world where werewolves did? “‘Cause she’s the oldest living, fully conscious relative, and then immediately after she's killed, the animal attacks start up again, like she was keeping something in-check.”

“Slow down.” Stiles gripped your shoulders. You were closer than either of you realized until you looked up and your noses were almost touching. He swallowed thickly and let go of you after a moment, taking a step back, “A couple of days ago you thought this was all bullshit.”

You chewed on your lip and your indecision, looking for something in his face. You didn’t know what, but you were pretty sure you found it when his mouth furrowed into a concerned frown. It was for you, you realized, not because of you. That was…a rarity in your life as of late. You didn’t hate it. 

Sighing, you pulled your phone out of your jacket pocket and opened the video from Lydia’s phone. “A couple of days ago I hadn't seen this,” you mumbled, shoving the phone into his hand.

Stiles looked at you for a moment longer and then pressed play. His face was unreadable, save for the small flinch when the beast shattered the store window, and you hated it. “Where did you get this?” Stiles finally said quietly. His voice was low and infected with something dire. 

You rifled through your papers, something to keep your hands busy and your eyes off of the dark look on Stiles’s face, “Someone sent it to Lydia—it was a blocked number, so don’t ask who.”

“Did she—”

“I deleted it before she could.” 

Neither of you needed to say it; you both knew Lydia was clinging to sanity by the skin of her perfect teeth. She couldn’t see the proof that the monster under her bed was real. Not yet. Maybe not ever. 

“Good.” Stiles rubbed a hand over his face, looking so much older than sixteen, and he flickered his gaze to your face, “You can’t show this to anyone. You know that, right?”

“Besides Scott,” you retorted dryly.

Stiles almost smiled. There was a ghost of one hiding in the corners of his mouth, but it faded before it could materialize. “Believe me, he really doesn’t need any more proof. Delete it.” 

He sighed at your scowl and tried again, “Please delete it.”

You shook your head and grabbed your phone from his hands, “Not until you tell me what you know.”

“I don’t know anything.” Stiles held up his hands and took a careful step towards you, “Really. I know as much as you do.”

You stared at him. You weren't sure if you were a good judge of character. You’d like to think you were, but it wasn’t like you spent a lot of time around other people. Even before you got trapped in your head, you really only had one friend, and you used to think you’d be friends with her for the rest of your lives. Maybe longer. 

You’d been wrong before. You didn’t want to be wrong again.

Stiles reached for your hand, and you let him lace your fingers together. “I know how you feel. It sucks, and it’s kind of exciting, but mostly freakin’ terrifying—and all you need to know is that it’s going to be okay. Okay?”

Your chin jerked in a rigid little nod. You softened slightly when he squeezed your hand. He wasn’t telling you everything; you were almost 100% certain of that, but you were also pretty sure he wasn’t lying. That was enough for you. For now. 

“The file room,” you said quietly.

Stiles’s lips drew together into a little pucker, “What?”

“The evidence room with all the files,” you looked up at him, and the ember of hope was stoked in your eyes, “there’s probably more there.”

He bit down on his cheek, “I don’t know—”

You folded her arms over her chest, chin lifting in defiance, “You promised.”

Stiles sighed and ran his hand over his head. His smile was a little affectionate thing. He sighed and shook his head, “I promised.”

“Well, alright then.” Your shoulders relaxed, and you sat back down in his desk chair, “Middle of the night break-in, it’s a date.”

[marisol-holme]

The retired good girls guide for writing

I haven’t always been able to understand myself. 

I never felt like I was able to clock pure basic needs. Couldn’t tell if I was hungry or thirsty. I finished my meals early, preferring to always feel full, in a silent critic of my mother and father’s controlling rule over my life. A few bites of fuck you always left on the plate. I liked to see how far I could push it. How little I could drink, sleep, or eat, and still function. A true desert island scenario would see me lasting years; I had inadvertently trained myself for it. Except my desert island was more devoid of emotional fulfilment and attention. 

I had to get creative. I developed some interesting tendencies, sure. But mostly I just wanted to escape. Now my parents never went out, and my internal world was already tumultuous at best, so I did what anyone would do and read. I read voraciously. The ability to turn off my hunger had seeped into all areas of my life. A fugue state dissociation through most of my early years through to adolescence. But I was able to come alive when I was reading. When I read, it was like my first breath. Hungry. I could imagine these worlds and built them up easily, colourfully within my mind’s eye. I'd picture the strong female characters that I admired. I’d taste food, hear music. It was the only time I was ever able to really live, before I had to go downstairs and pretend to eat.

Unwittingly, my upbringing fostered just the correct environment for me to develop a writer’s hunger. Because a writer is always a reader before they grow mad to write. I grew mad fast. I had to. I had to create worlds for me to escape into, away from all the shouting and fighting. Alchemise what I’d read into something new and original. It helped that I was an avid daydreamer, although a psychiatrist might call me a maladaptive daydreamer, but it only ever occurred to me when I was bored. Parallel to this, I grew into shame, so what I wrote I would throw away. I sadly have none of my early works. They are long decomposed into sub-atomic and absorbable waste, probably seeped into a water system somewhere and live inside all of you. Yuck. Not even my best work. 

Then I grew up and I had no dreams because I was not hungry. I hadn’t picked up a book in a long time. I dabbled with things that made me feel warm. Partying and shallow conversations. Grotty pubs and sticky clubs. Good friends made me feel a good kind of warm. But it took me a long time to find my way back to literature. Through a work stint as a Nursery Practitioner, I found my way back into writing. You see, at the nursery we had to send updates to parents all about what their children were getting up to. I enjoyed this task and wrote the children’s days like stories. Descriptive and alive. I’d got the bug and the bug had bit me. I didn’t last long once I had started writing again and I quickly found myself working at the Ideas Foundation. 

Through my new employer, I was encouraged to trial as much as possible to find out what I enjoyed doing. I was also very privileged to have access to several creative professionals who genuinely wanted to help and mentor those younger than them. Mentors can see all your ducks and help you to get them in a row. My ducks were all over the place and needed very graceful guidance. You push my ducks too much and, well, they explode. Poof!

Speaking to seasoned professional copywriters, I was able to glean their persistent journey into the profession. The confusion I once had around my goals has seemed to have dissipated. The ability to feel hungry for life and understand myself has only grown. My spark is back. 

The excitement and giddiness I feel when I think about myself as a writer is immense. The energy can fuel me for days. I look to the bottom left of my documents and the number of words that can pour out onto a page grows and grows with each project I set myself. The possibilities as a writer seem endless from this perspective. 

I understand that there is a lot more to these dreams that simple want. I must be focused. Persistent. Take up the offers of guidance from those around me. Accepting critic and moving towards goals. But the potential is there. I understand myself a little better. I value my work a little more. Hopefully, one day in the not-so-distant future a book of mine might get thrown away and end up decomposing in the damp soil into tiny fragments that find their way into us. At least that work will be better and born of something other than the child’s will to survive and create. That would make me feel okay. 

[furiousgoldfish]

I had a conversation the other day, with a person who seemed to have some respect for me, but couldn't understand why I'm still having trauma symptoms, and can't be normal already. I took it as a chance to try and explain my symptoms, but it seemed to fall on deaf ears;  I was told I just needed to tell myself that 'I am a new person now', and forget about the past. The person then explained to me how they weren't always the same person either, and they would sometimes cringe at their behaviour in the past, but then they would be proud of themselves for being smarter and more reasonable today. I couldn't quite explain to them that my situation was not the same.

They gave me various suggestions like 'just don't think about these things anymore', and 'these people are not going to hurt you anymore', which I strongly doubted was true. I tried to explain that I am not purposefully thinking about it; in fact, I was doing everything to avoid it. But with intrusive thoughts, flashbacks, nightmares, and the symptoms of the dissociative disorder, I had no control over it, the past was at my throat, holding me and unwilling to let go. I could tell that they still believed I was doing it on purpose, holding on and refusing to stop living in the past.

I very rarely get a chance to talk to someone about anything trauma related, so I was originally grateful that anyone was even showing an interest at 'attempting to help me', but later when I thought about the entire thing, I got pissed off.

Firstly it doesn't make any sense for me to be 'normal', in any timeline, regardless of how much time has passed. You can't have a person living first few decades of their life in belief that their life is worthless, in environment where they're getting locked up, beaten, humiliated, tortured, threatened with death, brainwashed to believe they're not human, severely neglected, and without any kind of genuine caretaker or a parent. And then leave it to this person to 'deal with it alone', never getting any help, never even getting reassured that what happened to them was wrong. That is complete abandonment by human society, and I find it sick and twisted that this person should be expected to adhere and integrate into society afterwards, for what? This person will logically feel betrayed, untrusting, bitter, feral and unnacepting the society's standards, especially their standards for victim blaming and ignoring abuse. Society continually fails these people expects them to 'fix themselves' so nobody would feel uncomfortable about it.

Secondly why is it up to me to change as a person? I am not like this because 'I was not a good enough person', I am not the one who needs changing. I am good as I am. It's worse that after being failed in every aspect, I am now being seen as the one in 'the need of change', for not acting normal and being haunted by my past. I am not hurting anybody! I am the only one suffering from this. God forbid my reality leaves someone uncomfortable, I better try to hide it better. Which I actually do unless sometimes is actively asking me about it.

And the last bit of my anger is about making it seem like the actual problem is 'me holding onto the past', and not my life being severely different and harmful in a way that isolates me from other people. I don't have the same formative experiences other people had. I don't remember being cooed at and hugged, I don't have endless experiences of being taught that I'm important, that someone will care and intervene when I'm in pain, that the figures of mother and father are safe, warm, comforting and reliable. That childhoods are a positive and fun part of life. That families work as an environment for children to be raised on. I don't have the experiences that formed all other beliefs that this culture holds, I hold nothing sacred that is sacred to everyone else, I don't believe in the authorities, I don't believe in family, I don't rejoice with holidays, I don't want children, I don't trust religion, I feel contempt towards capitalism, I don't relate or connect to people who are receptive to any of it.

And it turns out I'm right to feel as I do. Because people in this society will actively come to me asking me to 'stop being like that', while never asking any abuser to 'stop being like that'. Victims who make them uncomfortable can be spoken down to, should be told to stop being traumatized, even in private, while the abusers just need to be 'ignored' and 'hopefully they stop doing it'. What a great plan. Surely it will fix everything.

Humane thing to do would be to approach me with awareness that I've been treated like a worthless creature and address it and allow me to act genuine about it. If I'm still feeling betrayed, abandoned and outcast from society, I should be able to express that. I deserve to react with genuine responses rather than this insane preformance art I have to do every single day to make sure nobody else is aware or uncomfortable by my peril.

[sophieinwonderland]

A More Nuanced Discussing on Structural Dissociation and Alternatives

The structural dissociation model originated from the book The Haunted Self in 2005. (Though the authors began using the term a bit before that in the early 2000s, it's The Haunted Self that formalized what structural dissociation is.)

This model was built on some older theories for how dissociation worked but it is also distinct from those earlier theories. The structural dissociation model incorporates many of Janet's theories from a hundred years before as well as those of WWI psychologist Charles Samuel Myers.

Something that I really need to clarify right from the start is that the structural dissociation model is NOT the trauma model. It's a trauma model. One of many that have existed. The "trauma model" should be seen as an umbrella which the structural dissociation model falls under.

I want to state this here because disputing the structural dissociation model is not disputing DID being primarily traumagenic.

What causes structural dissociation?

Here is the very short version:

When someone experiences trauma, they cannot integrate the traumatic experience into their sense of self. This causes it to form an "Emotional Part" or EP which holds the traumatic experience. In basic PTSD, this part is not elaborated or significantly emancipated. (Meaning that it's not very separate.)

The part that operates the body during daily life is called an "Apparently Normal Part" or ANP. (These terms are borrowed from what Myers observed in PTSD in WWI soldiers but weren't applied to DID until the structural dissociation model.)

Children naturally have a less integrated personality since the personality solidifies later in life. For this reason, DID only arises from childhood trauma. Later life trauma cannot cause dissociative identity disorder but will result in other forms of structural dissociation.

Alters are essentially the trauma parts caused by PTSD that have become more elaborate and separated with time.

That's the basics for how structural dissociation forms under this model. On its surface, it's certainly not bad by any means.

But it's also not the only trauma model.

The Imaginary Companion Model

As an example of an alternative, at one point, many believed the pathway for the formation of alters started with them as "imaginary companions."

In The evolution of alter personality states in dissociative identity disorder (DOI: 10.1037/h0087838), it's proposed that alters originate from ICs. When the child experiences trauma, they would dissociate from that trauma and instead attribute it to the imagined companion.

I am not pointing to this model to say "this is true and the structural dissociation model isn't."

I am just using this to illustrate an alternative trauma model. And to be clear, this IS a trauma model. Despite the involvement of fantasizing in this proposal, it's not a fantasy model. The fantasy model is one that proposes memories of trauma are created through fantasy, and never actually happened. (Also, "fantasy" in a psychological context simply means imagining. It does not necessarily mean that it's something that was wanted.)

Structural Dissociation Model vs Imaginary Companion Model of Development

Here's the basic pathway for each for comparison.

Structural Dissociation Model: A child suffers trauma and creates an EP -> The child continues to suffer trauma causing the EP to be activated more often -> Over time, this EP becomes elaborated and develops into a full alter.

Imaginary Companion Model: A child creates an imaginary companion and defers aspects of the trauma onto the imaginary companion -> The imaginary companion begins taking over to deal with stressful situations -> The imaginary companion becomes a full alter.

The differences between the two models are actually pretty subtle. But the biggest difference is that an imaginary companion is going to start out with a greater degree of elaboration, likely with their own names, genders and histories, while the EP under structural dissociation would develop those things later in life.

Which developmental model is true?

Honestly, maybe both. 🤷‍♀️

I've listened to enough DID systems who have described experiences that could work for both models. Perhaps both have truth to them. In which case, neither is wrong. They're both just incomplete.

Some DID systems may develop according to the structural dissociation model. Some may develop according to the imaginary companion model. And some may develop due to a combination of both, with different alters developing from different mechanisms.

The DSM-5 discusses how alters in childhood can present as either independent imaginary companions or personified "mood states."

Perhaps the personified mood states are cases that followed the structural dissociation path, and the imaginary companions are generally ones that follow the other path.

The problem is that any claims for what causes early development of alters are extremely hard if not impossible to truly test.

What are the Implications of Structural Dissociation on Non-Disordered Systems?

There are none.

Whatever your opinion on it, the structural dissociation model pertains only to dissociation caused by trauma and is useless outside of that very specific context. The creators of the model have acknowledged that it's possible for self-conscious dissociated parts of the personality to develop without trauma.

The intention of the structural dissociation model isn't to somehow claim that no other type of plurality exists. Any attempt at using the model this way is taking it wildly out of the context it was written in.

The structural dissociation model is not against the existence of endogenic systems.

Primary, Secondary and Tertiary Dissociation... What Are They and Are They Useful?

These are the three levels of dissociation presented in the Haunted Self.

These levels of dissociation are where you really start to see the holes in the model.

A lot of the claims that are being made here are unproven, and difficult to test.

Basic PTSD is placed in the primary dissociation category because it only has one emotional part. But can this be proven? If parts aren't elaborated then are we able to really show that only one part is present?

What if a soldier in a war has PTSD from different traumas? Would they have the same emotional part for being forced to kill an enemy combatant that they would for being sexually assaulted by people that they serve with? I would think probably not.

These are two separate traumas that would most likely invoke different trauma responses. So if they had multiple emotional parts due to multiple traumas, would this be primary or secondary dissociation?

And since the creators of the model have acknowledged that there may be self-conscious dissociative parts formed from other means, what happens if somebody who already had secondary dissociation intentionally used one of these practices to create a headmate? Then that headmate starts regularly fronting and sharing responsibilities in the daily life? By the definitions given, this would now rise to the level of tertiary dissociation. But the dissociation became more complex for reasons other than trauma. (Although trauma was already present before.) And a trauma disorder becoming more complex for non-trauma reasons feels wrong.

I could go on and on because there are so many issues with how this model presents these levels of dissociation.

Some headmates don't hold trauma but don't front like ANPs, making them neither ANPs nor EPs. Some ANPs also hold trauma making them both ANP and EP. Some headmates can evolve from EPs into ANPs.

On the other hand, the vast complexity of dissociation is something the authors acknowledged.

Before the text that I quoted, the authors actually say that these levels are only meant to be a prototype. They acknowledge that it's not perfect and expect people to build onto it.

So the biggest problem with the levels of dissociation might not be from the authors themselves. Rather, it would be from people who treat the levels of dissociation as gospel when this is not how they were originally intended to be treated. They were always a prototype that the authors knew were incomplete when they wrote the book.

So, are these levels Still Useful as a Prototype?

Personally, I'm still going to say that I don't really like them. I don't think that the levels of dissociation are really something that are workable. I don't think that you can judge how severe dissociation is based purely on the number of ANPs and EPs present in a system.

I dislike the levels of dissociation as a concept. The problem with prototypes is that sometimes you find that you just can't build them into anything that's actually useful in practice. This might be controversial, but I think that this is one of those cases.

I don't think that looking at the numbers of EPs and ANPs is something that would help clinicians know how to treat somebody's disorder.

Even if you put in the work to account for the cases that I mentioned earlier, I think that you would be overcomplicating things to force the levels of dissociation work instead of accepting that they are a flawed concept at their very core, whitling away at a round peg to try to fit it into a square hole.

Wrap-up: What do I like about the Structural Dissociation Model? What do I not like?

I think the basic premise, that many DID alters originate from the same traumatized parts that are typical in PTSD cases, is actually a pretty novel approach that ties a lot of these disorders together. This is the part of the theory I do like, even if I don't think it's applicable in every case.

I do think many of the claims are hard to prove though. To the point that people have provided evidence that this is the correct model, a lot of that evidence could apply to any variation of the trauma model. A brain scan can show a difference between an alter with trauma and one without, but it can't prove if the trauma holder began from a PTSD EP or if it began as an already-existing imagined companion who the trauma was later deferred to.

Additionally, as I said, I strongly dislike the levels of dissociation and don't find them useful.

Should the Imaginary Companion Model be Revisited?

As far as I can tell, interest in the imaginary companion model fizzled out after the structural dissociation model was established.

I strongly suspect part of the reason for this is the politics of the "memory wars." During the 90s, there was a strong backlash against the trauma model, driven by a group called the False Memory Syndrome Foundation which claimed that memories of abuse were all fake and formed by an unproven syndrome they invented, called false memory syndrome.

The structural dissociation model was developed right after this backlash in the early 2000s. It's hard to think that the rush to adopt it wasn't driven at least in part by a desire to cut any ties with theories that involved fantasy at all, even if those theories were still trauma-based models.

Perhaps in a world where the "memory wars" never happened, the imaginary companion model would be more prominent. The hard swing towards structural dissociation as the only explanation, I think, should be seen less as an example of following the science and more as a direct reaction to the politics of the memory wars.

And I think it's a shame that these links have been severed because some cool things have happened in the realm of psychological research into imaginary companions in the years since. In the early 2000s, around the same time that the structural dissociation model was being created, imaginary companions started getting more attention.

We've now seen numerous studies demonstrating autonomy in about a third to two thirds of imaginary companions. Studies into tulpas, which are seen as being created though similar mechanisms to these complex ICs, started in the last decade.

It's possible that many ICs in children may already have a degree of elaboration and emancipation without trauma being present at all. If so, this could completely turn the projected development of DID on its head completely in these cases. Instead of an alter beginning from a traumatizing experience and becoming elaborated and emancipated later, it could already be elaborated and emancipated and later adopt the traumatizing memories.

To be clear, I am am not suggesting this as an opposing or competing model to the development course seen under the structural dissociation, but a complimentary one. An addition to it that explains some experiences of DID systems that the structural dissociation model doesn't, to help build a more complete model of dissociation.

[alicentflorent]

After rewatching the scene I noticed that Alicent went into Aegon’s room intending to manipulate him (she earlier stated “Aegon is still malleable”) but when she got there she was finally faced not with the king, the heir but with her child alone and in pain and this is when I think think she was snapping out of her dissociation and cognitive dissonance and seeing her son for the first time in a long time. Not a political pawn that’s she groomed to play a role for the Hightower cause just like her father did to her. This is why we see her go through that range of emotions as she struggles with herself should she comfort him? When was the last time she did? She could pretend she’s there with no ulterior motives and give him what she needs but it’s still a lie, she knows she’s there under false pretences, to take otto’s place as his guidance before anyone else does. So the guilt consumes her and she leaves. This was not her failing her son, that ship already sailed and the cycle continued and her pain and loneliness that she bore for all those years has already been passed onto her children.

[thescreamcorner]

RAMCOA - Unpacking The History

Trigger Warning for this post, as it will include mentions of various types of trauma and abuse, religious ideology and dogma, medical malpractice, death, and bigotry. Many links provided may go in depth on these subjects, so please be wary of clicking them if you are in a sensitive state.

Forward: Please note that the following analysis is about the term/acronym "RAMCOA" itself. There is a wide array of experiences that are said to fit under the RAMCOA umbrella, and while talking about the toxic history and usage of RAMCOA, these points are not meant to directly apply to every individual experience and trauma that it applies to. Cult and religious abuse exists, institutional and ritualistic abuse exists, trafficking rings exist. I am not attempting to debunk the experiences of survivors of these abuses for using and attaching to the term RAMCOA. This is simply a post I'm putting together while I study, and an encouragement for those who use the acronym to consider other terms given what I've learned and shared.

This is a very long post, so please consider setting it to the side and taking it in in pieces if needed, to make sure you get an accurate understanding.

Where Did This All Start?

Our dive begins with the International Society for the Study of Trauma and Dissociation, which is commonly shorthanded to ISSTD and will be referred to this way for the entirety of the post going forward. The ISSTD is a nonprofit organization that began in the 1980s under the name "The International Society for the Study of Multiple Personality and Dissociation" (ISSMP&D). The organization featured clinicians and researchers that focused study onto Multiple Personality Disorder (MPD).

Over time, more was understood about the disorder, and MPD was renamed to Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) as doctors became aware that the experiences of the disorder were linked to trauma and dissociation, not purely the concept of "multiple personalities". As such, the organization went through two rebrands, settling on the ISSTD acronym in 2006 and remaining under that name to this day.

As far back as the 1980s, the ISSTD was the subject of controversy due to the actions of healthcare professionals that operated within the organization. Some providers were found to be using hypnosis and other forms of RMT (link), a highly controversial practice in medicine, in order to help patients recognize and recover traumatic memories. However, it was exemplified through this lawsuit (link) and its 10.6 million dollar settlement that the power of suggestion could easily lead to memories that were inaccurate, modified, or even entirely fabricated, whether or not directly encouraged by the provider.

The lawsuit from Patricia Burgus also exemplifies another piece of controversy regarding the ISSTD, being their contributions to the Satanic Panic (link) and claims of Satanic Ritual Abuse, or SRA, in the 1980s. Providers like Dr. Braun, who co-founded the ISSTD (link), were found to be implanting memories specifically tied to conspiracy theories of mass satanic cults, such as human sacrifices and forced cannibalism.

Further still is the antisemitic ties and roots of these conspiracies, believed to have stemmed from Blood Libel (link) -- A well-contested conspiracy that Jewish people would kidnap and murder innocent Christians (particularly children) in order to use their blood for religious rituals. A conspiracy that, somehow, has still lived on in fringe groups like QAnon (link) and further cemented its links to the Satanic Panic through them.

Another facet of controversy within the ISSTD came from the conspiracy beliefs that not only were held by members, but were often the subject of conferences. These of course featured more on SRA, but also extended to subjects like that of the 1989 annual conference, "Manchurian Candidates" -- a disproven conspiracy that stemmed from a work of political fiction (link) where the protagonist is brainwashed into becoming a sleeper agent for the Soviet Union. While brainwashing is still believed to be potentially real, given the correct circumstances, part of what helped contest the ISSTDs conference subject was the leak of the USA's attempt to replicate this, MKULTRA (link).

The biggest controversy to point to, of course, is the treatment of patients by providers who associated with the ISSTD. Many of the links I've provided already address the many cases of emotional, physical and sexual abuse that took place with clients being treated for dissociative and trauma disorders, so I will not dive further into it here, but know that the details are distressing and the list is much longer than it should be for an organization dedicated to helping traumatized people heal.

How Does All This Connect to RAMCOA?

The ISSTD was responsible for coining the term in 2008 when creating the Ritual Abuse, Mind Control and Organized Abuse Special Interest Group (or, RAMCOA SIG for short), which quickly became their largest and most active special interest group. Multiple members of its Executive have faced controversy, both individually and as representatives for RAMCOA SIG (link), for continuing to spread conspiracies of satanic ritual abuse (some even adding paganism to the list of targets), making presentations that featured debunked allegations of an "underground network of tunnels below a preschool used for a sex trafficking ring" in the 80s (link), and discouraging fellow practitioners from considering misdiagnosis of DID (link).

Because of all this, RAMCOA as a term is inextricably linked to SRA, the Satanic Panic, medical malpractice, and to a degree, antisemitic conspiracy theories. Its creation as an acronym stemmed from theories and conspiracies that are predominantly held by fringe extremist groups, instead of any legitimate medical documentation around trauma and institutional abuse. Many of those who created it have been noted actively and purposely triggering paranoia and delusion in both their clients and fellows of the SIG, still continuing to spread their personal beliefs in lieu of medical advice.

The term has steeped itself in so much controversy, in fact, that the RAMCOA SIG was rebranded (link) to the Organized and Extreme Abuse (OEA) SIG in order to maintain their stance as an educational special interest group.

But What About The Content Creators?

I will again state that in this post, I am not making any attempt to attack or debunk any particular person or survivor, or pick apart the legitimacy of their conditions, traumas, etcetera. However, it is important to the discussion of RAMCOA, the problems of its usage, and its toxic history, to address its current usage -- which is predominantly featured on social media.

There is a startling trend of excessive, even dangerous levels of trauma dumping that can be found when searching through tags and spaces for RAMCOA survivors. This is unfortunately not unique to RAMCOA, as oversharing and lack-of-privacy is something that often gets encouraged in some "mental health" online spaces, but often the RAMCOA tags are most notorious to having graphic abuse details - sometimes without appropriate content warning, oversharing of symptoms/alters, and participants in the "trauma olympics" - a phenomenon of individuals sharing visceral content of their lives for the sake of either attention, or a sense of validation for "having it worse" than other people.

These bouts of extensive oversharing can be harmful in a multitude of ways, the most obvious being the distress that reading it causes. There also exists a possibility of people internalizing the graphic details and developing false and/or altered memories of their own abuse. The consequences of this include interpersonal strains and inaccurate medical care, as doctors may come to a false negative diagnosis if exaggeration is present.

The further risks of this extend past those not affected by these traumas as well, as these extremely personal details can be used against the person sharing them. Depending on the extent of what is shared, the results can be incredibly dangerous and put the person back into a cycle of victimization, potentially with the same abuser(s). And without encouragement of proper anonymity or privacy to protect them, these posts then serve to push more victims to give out dangerous amounts of private information under the guise of "sharing their story." Victims should not feel pressured into silence, but encouraging them to speak on their experiences before they're in a safe environment to do so, and not addressing how much information is "too much" for a public platform, is dangerous.

These issues are something that some facets of the "RAMCOA community" refuse to acknowledge. Others will only address them as a strawman to argue that any criticism of the term RAMCOA (or the behaviors of some individuals that use it) is nothing more than an effort to "silence victims, fakeclaim systems and cover up for abusers." Some twist the argument to say that by noting RAMCOA's historical roots in antisemitism, you're accusing everyone who fits under the umbrella of also being antisemitic.

But these issues aren't something to just ignore or throw away. This isn't a case of "separate the art from the artist"; you can't just pretend the history, meaning and intentions behind the term don't matter, or never existed to begin with.

I think it's time for the "RAMCOA community" to reflect on these things, and for the survivors of extreme cases of abuse to create their own term to gather under, rather than continue to cling to the term coined by an organization that has repeatedly fostered the very same types of abuse they claim to educate about and treat.

[fortheloveofwonderland]

Rusty | Chapter 3 | S.R

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Chapter Summary - Spencer invites you to stay with the provision you help him out around the ranch before you get a taste for the locals. Spencer’s stubbornness leads to your first fight.

Paring - Spencer Reid / Fem! Reader

Category - strangers to friends to lovers | angst | smut minors DNI

Warnings - mildly flirty banter, mentions of past addiction and prison, stubborn Spencer, arguing, past violent behaviour, dissociation.

WC - 6.1k

Chapter 3 - I Walk the Line

There was an unfamiliarity between strangers which always set you on the defensive. Strangers were such for a reason and you didn’t often make a habit of them becoming anything more. 

Of course all friends started as strangers, most people in your life had at one point been unknown to you. But there was a fear that came with ageing, an wariness that was ingrained in us for our own self-preservation. 

As children it was no big deal to go and speak to a person you had no prior relation with, but as adults seeking the solace of strangers would be seen as exponentially dangerous. 

Spencer Reid posed little threat to you, that of which you were certain. He was enchantingly awkward, not necessarily shy but definitely uncomfortable talking to people. He was meek and soft spoken, he had a gentle aura for which you felt safe around. He was not intimidating or threatening in any way.

But you exercised your prudence, just in case. It was far better to be safe than sorry and so you kept him at arm's length, dismissed any personal questions or changed the subject onto him. 

In return he was almost as guarded with what information he readily shared. Conversation became a little stifled because you were both clearly trying to keep pieces of yourself under wraps. By the time you were half way between the hospital and his ranch, you were both silently staring out of the window. 

Perhaps hanging around here wasn’t a good idea. It may be a port in the storm but it was abundant that you and Spencer were both determined to keep your cards close to your chests and no matter how safe it might be here, the awkwardness was grating. 

The drive was long and slightly arduous and you were relieved when you pulled into the dirt road that led up to his ranch. You parked the car more or less where you had last night and killed the engine. 

You turned to Spencer and he to you, a look of what could only be described as embarrassment on his features. You inhaled sharply and shook your head.

“You need help inside, right?” Your tone was laced with irritation.

“It wasn’t that.” He puckered his lips. “I, uh, realised I have no particularly edible food in my fridge aside from some butter and some take out that I’m fairly certain would make me ill if I dared to eat it.” 

You closed your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose. 

“You really are relying on that kindness of strangers thing.” You baulked. 

“In case it wasn’t perfectly clear, I am all alone out here and I don’t own a car. I know I’m asking a lot of you, but it really would be a huge favour and I would owe you so many in return.” He looked pleading at you and there was something about that look that was nigh on impossible to say no to.

In the light of day he was somehow more handsome than you’d thought him last night. His face was sculpted of sharp lines and angles, there was a part of you that had an urge to reach out and touch his stubbly, carved jaw. His eyes were even more fervent now, looking at you with profound concentration. The little flecks of gold still shimmered like they had last night.

You hadn’t noticed in the dark the purple-black circles under his eyes making him look as though he hadn’t slept a day in his life. They had small crinkles in the corners, and more laugh lines around his mouth when he smiled.

You would assume him to be pushing forty but he still had a boyish look to his features. He was pretty in an understated kind of way, maybe not the kind of man to turn heads wherever he went but you were sure he got plenty of attention in his own right. 

You pulled a face, snapping yourself out of your thoughts and huffing once again.

“I told you, I really am in a hurry and this whole saga has set me back already.” You drummed your fingers on your thigh.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” His brow furrowed curiously.

“Here and there.” You shrugged. 

“Look I am happy for you to stay a little while longer because I get the impression you’re not actually in a rush at all. If you were you wouldn’t have stayed as long as you had. I have the space, I’m out here all alone and to be honest I could probably use some help around here while I’m healing.” He wet his lip with his tongue, your eyes were drawn to it like a magnet. 

“I, uh…” You looked back to his eyes, ignoring the way your stomach coiled. “You’re suggesting I help you around your ranch?” 

“Not for nothing of course. Like I say I can offer you a room and I can keep you fed.” He shrugged again, flexing the fingers poking out of his cast a little. 

“I’m from the city, I know nothing about being a rancher.” You sat back in your seat. 

“It’s all fairly simple stuff, just cleaning out the animals, taking the horses out and some-”

“Whoa no, see you lost me at taking the horses out.” You cut him off. “Taking them out as in…” 

“Riding them.” He chuckled. 

“Not gonna happen.” You reached into your pocket for your smokes whilst opening the window. You lit one without even asking if he minded. 

“I struggled at first but once you get the hang of it, it’s just like…riding a bike I guess.” He used his good hand to waft to smoke out of his face before turning and opening the passenger’s window. 

A breeze fluttered through the car, sending the smoke spiralling out of the window and thankfully out of Spencer’s face. 

“They aren’t the kind of stallions I usually like to have between my thighs, if you know what I mean.” You smirked around the cigarette and sent a wink his way. 

Spencer noticeably tensed. Your unexpected words and mildly flirtatious tone smacked him around the face and sent all the blood in his body rushing south like a waterfall. 

He clenched his jaw, shifting in his seat again and thankful his hat was still cradled in his lap. He could feel his cheeks pinken, his embarrassment and discomfort evident. 

A slight stirring in his groin, nothing ordinarily of note except for the fact it was the most excitement that appendage had shown since - 

“What’s wrong, Spence? What’s happening? Why aren’t you, uh…aren’t you enjoying this?” 

- Prison. 

Thoughts coalesced inside his brain, many thoughts which were particularly unwanted at the best of times let alone now. At least it still worked, he considered morbidly. 

“I, uh,” he croaked. “Duly noted.” 

You tried to hide the smile on your face by taking another drag on the cigarette. His reddening cheeks were utterly adorable. 

“I’ll take you to get some groceries but as for the ranch work…” you steered the conversation back on track. 

“What is it exactly you’re running away from?” His words surprised you and it was your turn to tense up. 

“E-excuse me?” You stuttered, cigarette wobbling precariously between your fingers. 

“It takes one to know one.” He shrugged. “How do you think I ended up out here?” 

You took another shaky drag and puffed the smoke out of your mouth while you contemplated this. In the distance with the radio shut off, you could hear the same shuffling from the stables you’d heard last night. 

“What were you running from?” You turned it back on him. 

“A series of poor life choices.” His lip turned up at the corner. “You?” 

“Much the same.” You agreed. 

“Look, Y/N, I’m not gonna sit here and beg you or anything because I still have at least a fragment of my dignity intact. But it would be a huge help for me if you stuck around a little while. I can teach you everything about horses and cattle and you’ll have a place to rest your head at night. It’s safe out here, whatever it is you’re running from won’t find you here.” He punctuated his sentence with a heavy sigh through his nose. 

You closed your eyes and puffed on the cigarette. You knew he was right, you’d felt that wave of safety wash over you last night and it was still blanketing you now. 

But if you stayed, even for a short time, were you putting this man in danger? What if it did find you and not only you suffered but this kind and handsome stranger? 

Mexico was just in your sights, so close yet just out of reach. There was nothing waiting for you there except a long and lonely existence. Here though, in this slice of seclusion on Spencer’s ranch, you could at the very least have basic companionship. 

And god knows he clearly needed that. 

Taking another long puff on the cigarette, maybe in an attempt to make him sweat a little, you opened your eyes as you exhaled the smoke. Spencer was watching you expectantly, drumming the fingers of his good hand against his thigh in anticipation. 

“Fine,” you rolled your eyes, puckering your lips. “I’ll stay. But just until you can do all this stuff for yourself again. Not a second longer.” 

Spencer breathed out in relief. He told himself it was because it would be almost impossible for him to look after this place by himself but he knew that wasn’t the full story. 

He knew that despite his instant attraction towards you, things couldn’t develop beyond simple friendship. He was acutely aware that even after all this time he wasn’t ready to venture into anything deeper than that, specifically things of a physical nature. 

Some things just can’t be undone and unfortunately for him he’d suffered one of those very things. It didn’t matter how many years had past, there would never be enough distance between himself and his trauma. 

But he still liked the idea of you staying for a simple comfort. A friend, or even just a companion might ease his troubled mind, might aid in quelling the demons he’d travelled halfway across the country to out run. 

But they never truly left, they were always there lurking in the shadows. Maybe you could shine a little light on them, banish them for even just a short while. 

“Thank you.” He replied much meeker than he’d meant to. 

You shrugged as if it was no big deal, turning in your seat and flicking the cigarette out of the window. You started the engine again with little notice. 

“Right then, point me in the direction of your hick town general store.” 

***

Bandera General Store was, for all intents and purposes, exactly as you imagined it to be.

Its wooden blue facade was wearing slightly, in need of a good lick of paint. Inside it sold everything from groceries to souvenirs to cowboy boots and books. 

Tucked away inside the front door was a sign meant to attract tourists. It informed you the store was built in the early nineteen hundreds and still had its original wood floors and tin ceilings. It had previously been a movie theatre, saddle shop and feed store. 

Supposedly during the prohibition era caskets were sold from the basement and cowboys would drink beer and play cards on the empty drums. 

It promoted a fully functional nineteen fifties ice cream fountain, only one of eleven in the state of Texas. And aside from their town library, Bandera General Store was the only place in town to get books. 

Honestly it was all a little too stereotypical for your liking. 

You stood out like a sore thumb, like a horse in a field of cattle. Patrons and workers offered you curious sideways expressions while Spencer simply waved amicably to them. 

He didn’t speak to anyone, just waved or occasionally nodded with the brim of his hat. He certainly knew these people in passing but not well enough to talk to them. 

You pushed the cart while Spencer limped by your side, cradling his arm against his chest. He filled the cart with essentials, but nothing that required a concerted effort to cook. You would soon come to learn that was because, despite the fact he’d lived alone since he was a teenager, he had no idea how to cook. 

He bypassed the liquor shelves but you did a one-eighty and circled back. You grabbed a bottle of scotch and dropped it into the cart, tucking it away between a carton of milk and a box of cereal. 

You hurried to catch up to Spencer who was perusing the collection of riding boots with a keen eye. He heard the cart cluttering closer and glanced at you briefly. 

“What size do you wear?” He asked, looking back at the array of boots. 

“In cowboy boots? Size absolutely never gonna happen.” You scoffed. 

“You can’t ride a horse in sneakers.” He scoffed, tipping his hat at you. 

The more he talked the more you could tell he wasn’t from the south. It hadn’t struck you as odd at first until you’d heard other voices in the store. 

Spencer’s accent you couldn’t quite place, but it didn’t certainly didn’t fit in in the Deep South. 

“I don’t want to ride a horse full stop.” You clipped back. 

“You said you’d help right?” He tilted his head in your direction. “Part of that helping is taking my horses out. And to do that you need the proper footwear.” 

“Goddamnit.” You grumbled with a shake of your head.

“Are there any you like the look of?” 

“No.” 

“I like these ones.” He plucked a fire engine red pair with blue stitching off of the shelf and mused over them. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me?” You shook your head again. 

“What size do you take?” He asked you again. 

With a sigh and a groan you told him nonetheless. It seemed easier than fighting with him and drawing attention to yourself. 

He rifled through the display for your size before finding a boxed pair near the back. Checking inside briefly to ensure it was the garish red pair, he closed the lid and with a smile deposited them in the cart. 

By the time you reached the checkout he was limping really fitfully, grimacing as he went. Each step seemed to cause his face to contort further, creasing and puckering until he had to lean against the cart to keep himself up right. 

You didn’t want to fuss over him, noticing the way his cheeks reddened slightly in his embarrassment so instead you started unloading the cart onto the small conveyor belt. 

“Hey Cosmo,” the elderly lady behind the counter glanced up over her crescent moon glasses. “You got a little hitch in your giddy up?” 

“Oh, no it’s nothing.” Spencer waved a dismissive hand, his one good hand. 

“You look awful worse for wear.” She pulled a face whilst she started ringing up the items and bagging them. 

She had a sweet southern lilt, kind eyes and she was clearly concerned for Spencer. 

You looked between the two of them in mild confusion at the strange nickname she’d bestowed upon him. He must have heard it before because he didn’t seem perturbed by it. 

“Shoulda seen the other guy.” He forced a laugh, pushing himself back up straight. “I’m fine, honestly. Thanks though.” 

He shuffled to the end of the belt in time to see the bottle of scotch make its way through. He shot you a look as it was being bagged and you offered him a shrug of response. 

“And who might your pretty lady friend be, Cosmo? Never seen ya with company before.” She tittered, smirking wildly between the two of you. 

“Uh,” Spencer furrowed his brow, looking to you for an answer. 

“Elizabeth. Elizabeth Parker. Cosmo here is my lover.” You teased and Spencer turned exactly twenty shades of red. 

“Friends, we’re friends.” He was quick to correct. “She has a particularly abhorrent sense of humour.” 

The woman blinked at Spencer several times, clearly not quite understanding but nonetheless shrugged and continued her work. 

“Ain’t one to judge honey-pie.” She sighed wistfully. “In my day I was a regular harlot.” 

You almost cackled at the mere thought but managed to cover it with a cough and turned your face away from the elderly woman. 

Spencer was now at least ten extra shades of red. 

“Uh, good to know.” He nodded with a tight lipped smile. 

Conversation gratefully waned and the old lady rang everything up and Spencer paid while you transferred the bags back to the cart. She sent him on his way with a take care of yourself and he returned the gesture with a tip of his hat. 

He started outside and you followed, watching the way he had to stop briefly after every few steps. You pushed the cart to the car and insisted he get inside and sit down, no matter how much he wanted to argue that he would help. 

Eventually he relented and got in the car while you deposited the bags in the trunk and returned the cart. 

He wouldn’t make eye contact when you got in the car, staring out the window instead. You started the engine and pulled away from the curb in silence. 

He was flexing the fingers poking out of his cast and his other hand was circled around his knee. Even out of the corner of your eye you could see his winces of pain. 

It was obvious to you he wasn’t used to asking for help and wasn’t comfortable having people see him in pain. He’d asked you to stay but you could tell his resolve in that decision was waning. 

He was trying to put on a brave front but his demeanour was a clear sign he was uncomfortable with this. 

His shoulders were tense and his brow was deeply creased. He was deep in thought, desperately trying to hide how much pain he was in and failing. 

You got about a mile or so down the road before you glanced at him again and huffed out a breath. 

“So, Cosmo?” 

His head practically whipped around to face you, his lips parting slightly as he exhaled. 

“Uh, yeah,” he wrinkled his nose. “Short for Cosmopolitan. City slickers stick out around here. When I first came to town I reeked of the city apparently.” 

“City boy, huh?” You nodded to yourself. 

“Originally Las Vegas but before I came here I was living in DC since my early twenties.” He gnawed on his bottom lip. That would explain The Washington Post on his coffee table. “How about you? You said you’re a city girl.” 

He noticed the way your hands tightened a little on the steering wheel. He had already sensed your reclusive nature, the way in which you weren’t comfortable sharing facets of yourself with just anyone. Information was privileged and you regarded who you shared that information with readily. 

Whatever demons you might be running from contributed to your closed off sensibility and he wondered if you might even begrudge him the simplest knowledge of knowing where you were from. 

You sat back against the chair, eyes no longer flickering over to him but remaining firm out of the window. Your chest heaved slightly with your breaths and the furrow of your brow told him you were weighing up your options. 

Eventually your grip loosened a little on the wheel but when you spoke, you spoke quietly.

“New York.” You muttered. 

Spencer watched the side of your face, even after all this time he was unable to stop himself falling into old patterns of reading behaviour. He didn’t think you were lying, he was sure of it in fact. 

“Why do you do that?” Your voice startled him a little.

“Do what?” He frowned. 

You hit your blinker and were soon taking the right turn off the road onto the dirt path that led to his ranch.

“Study me, like you’re trying to read me.” You remembered the behavioural books you’d seen on his bookshelves. 

“Force of habit.” He spoke without meaning to.

As the car jolted along the uneven track, you glanced at him briefly.

“What does that mean?” You chewed on the inside of your cheek. “What exactly did you do in DC?” 

Spencer swallowed around his dry tongue, ignoring a pang that spiralled through his knee at a particular dip in the road. Soon you were rolling the car to a stop near his lodge and cutting the engine. You turned to face him. 

There was no way he was telling you the truth. Spencer liked it out here where no one knew who he was or where he came from. Down here he wasn’t the son of a schizophrenic, his father hadn’t abandoned him. He wasn’t a former drug addict or convict. 

He wasn’t SSA Spencer Reid, or Doctor Spencer Reid. He was just Spencer Reid, Spencer Reid and his horses and his cattle living on his small slice of paradise. 

“I was a professor.” He answered, knowing he was still able to control his expression so as not to give away the lie. “Psychology.” 

Ah, that would explain those sweater vests, you thought to yourself.

“Big leap from professor to cowboy.” You smirked a little at him. 

“What about you?” He ignored your sentiment. “What do you do?” 

“This and that.” You shrugged, suddenly turning and swinging the car door open. “You need a hand getting out?” 

Spencer watched in mild confusion as you got out of the car and closed the door. He shook his head, not surprised you hadn’t willinging given any more information over. He opened his own door slowly and carefully.

“I’m fine,” he replied, internalising a groan that wanted to escape when he manoeuvred his legs out of the car and onto the ground. 

Using his one good hand he braced it against the bucket of the seat and used all of his strength to push himself to standing so he didn’t have to put an unnecessary weight on his knee. This time the groan erupted and from where you were standing at the trunk you came rushing to his side.

“Stop, stop,” you fussed. “Let me help you.”

You reached for him, hand brushing against his arm but no sooner had you come into contact, Spencer flinched and pulled his arm out of your reach as though you’d burned him.

“I said I’m fine.” He spat harshly, stubbornly pushing past you and starting to limp towards his lodge. 

Ignoring his grumbles and groans of pains and the fact he had to stop every few steps was hard even though he was a virtual stranger. You didn’t want to see him in pain but it was becoming evident he wasn’t willing to show weakness around you. 

You couldn’t help but replay in your mind the way he’d flinched when you touched him. The brief look he’d given you as he’d pulled his arm away was one of terror but had only lasted a fraction of a second. 

You recalled the medication in his bathroom cabinet. Paroxetine. Used for treating depression, OCD, panic attacks, anxiety and…

…PTSD. 

Post-traumatic stress disorder could explain his aversion to unprovoked physical touch. You’d had your suspicion when he’d told you he had been a professor that it wasn’t the truth. 

Perhaps he was a vet. Perhaps he’d been in the army in a former life and was dealing with the aftermath of serving for his country. 

It would explain his desire to isolate himself, his flinching at your touch. The medication. 

Whatever it was, Spencer Reid was an enigma. And you were sure if he had his way, he would remain as much. 

You watched him struggling with the steps up to his lodge, fighting back the urge to help as he leaned almost all of his weight against the bannister. 

Instead you focused yourself on gathering the bags from the trunk. You cradled them in your arms and by the time you caught up with him he’d only just managed to get the door unlocked. 

You followed him inside and placed the groceries on the breakfast bar next to the old coffee mug and even older phone. 

He removed his stetson and denim shirt, hanging the former up on a hook by the door and tossing the latter over the arm of the couch. 

His white t-shirt was stained with dirt and mud. He ran his fingers through his greasy hair before turning towards the bags on the counter. 

Before he could start unpacking them, the phone caught his eye. He picked it up and leaned back against the counter while tapping a few buttons. 

His throat dried out as he looked at the text message that was waiting for him. It was time stamped late last night. You watched the way the light in his eyes dimmed, the way he swiped his tongue over his bottom lip before rolling it between his teeth. His brows furrowed in a look of concern. 

He opened the message, despite his better judgement. 

📲 Luke Alvez: Hey man, haven’t heard from you in a while and wanted to check in. Penelope says she’s been trying to call you over the last week but you haven’t been answering. I just wanted to make sure everything was okay. I know I’m not exactly on the list of people you want to talk to, but can you at least let me know you’re okay? Let someone know you’re okay. 

His lips moved in tiny fractions as he read the words on his screen but you couldn’t ascertain what he was mouthing. His grip on the device was tight, his knuckles white. 

“What’s up?” Your voice snapped his attention away from the device and he looked at you in slight shock as though he’d forgotten you were there. 

He locked the phone and slid it into his pocket with a shake of his head. 

“Nothing just…a message from a, uh, friend.” He swallowed thickly, turning away from you and starting to empty one of the bags with one hand.

“Nuh uh, that’s not the face you pull when a ‘friend’ texts you.” You chuckled, sidling up to him. 

His back straightened, you noticed a brief flare of his nostrils. 

“It’s…complicated okay? I don’t wanna talk about it.” You shook you off. 

He fumbled with the milk carton, almost allowing it to slip through his hand. You managed to reach out and take it from him without touching him again. You set it on the counter.

“I can handle a few groceries, Spencer. Why don’t you go lay down or something?” 

“I’m not five years old.” He barked with an over exaggerated roll of his eyes. 

“I didn’t say you were. But unpacking groceries is not a two person job so why don’t you rest up for a bit?” You remained softened, not wanting to bite back.

“I need to feed the horses.” 

“Well we can do that together once I’m done here.” You exhaled. “If you don’t want to rest, how about taking a shower? You’re kinda filthy.”

He glanced down at his body now, seemingly forgetting that fact. You noticed something falter in his eyes and you had a pretty good guess what it was. You’d seen his shower, it was over the tub just like in his spare cabin. Getting into it wouldn’t be an easy feat with his injuries.

“You need me to help you?” 

Once again his eyes shot up to you and there was a flash of terror behind them again.

“What? No!” He shook his head, his tone incredulous. 

“You think I’ve never seen a naked man before, Spencer?” You cocked an eyebrow and put your hand on your hip. 

“You…I…I can shower just fine.” He spat. “The doctor gave me a sleeve thing to go over my cast. I’ll be fine.”

“Say it one more time and I might believe you.” You rolled your eyes.

“What?” 

“I’m fine, I’ll be fine.” You did a pretty poor imitation of him. 

His jaw tightened, clearly not impressed by it. 

“I can shower by myself. And I don’t appreciate your teasing. This is my home. I invited you into my home, the least you can do is show me some respect.” He growled at you. 

No, no way. This jagoff doesn’t get to talk to me like that when I’m doing him a favour! 

“You invited me into your home to help you, asshole! Which is what I’m trying to do but for some reason you won’t let me.” You crossed your arms over your chest. 

“I wanted your help with my animals. I don’t need you treating me like an invalid and trying to wrap me in cotton wool! I’m not a child, goddamnit.” 

“Well you’re certainly acting like one!” You bit back. “Are you always like this?”

“Like what?” He tried to fold his own arms to mirror you but it was cumbersome due to his cast. 

“A grouch?” It was the nicest of things you could have said. 

“Excuse me?” He scoffed. 

“I just want to know what to expect if I’m going to be staying here. Are you always like this? Will I constantly have to walk on eggshells around you? Or are you just being an asshole because you’re in pain?” 

His back straightened again at the same time as his jaw tightening. His eyes turned darker, it was slightly intimidating. He squared his shoulders and once again his nostrils flared. He wasn’t of a thick build but he was tall, much taller than you and he was using his height to unnerve you. 

“You can go now.” He spoke relatively calmly given how angry he felt. 

“I’m sorry?” Your face contorted in bewilderment. 

“You can go. I don’t need you here, I’m going to be just f-”

“If you say you’re fine one more goddamn time, I swear to god!” You cut him off, your voice raising a few decibels. 

“Get out.” He shook his head, sounding less angry and more fed up. 

“With pleasure.” You spat back, unfurling your arms from across your chest and turning on the heels of your sneakers. 

You didn’t turn back. You didn’t take one last look at him or anything of the sort. You stormed towards the door and flung it open with such force it swung against its hinges. Your footsteps on the stairs were heavy as you descended them. 

You still didn’t turn back, despite the fact you could feel his eyes piercing into the back of your head. You kept walking, slid into the driver’s seat of your car and within seconds he heard the engine scream to life. 

And you still didn’t look back when you reversed the car, turning in a quick and tight circle. Once facing the road you slammed your foot on the accelerator and sent a flurry of gravel and sand flying behind you as you peeled off down the dirt road. 

Spencer felt the anger rising in a bubble in his stomach. He’d never been an angry person, he was always so passive even in light of his countless traumas. 

But prison had brought out a side of him that he’d managed to keep contained his entire life. A part of him that had always hidden just beneath the surface but had never been facilitated. His inner Hulk, that’s what his therapist had named it. Spencer liked things to be named, it helped him make sense of them.

His inner Hulk had been dormant his entire life up until he was arrested in Mexico. What those men did to him on the inside unleashed that beast that he’d kept under lock and key up until then. 

The first time he let that Hulk out was when he held Cat Adams by the throat as he shoved her against the wall of the interrogation room. He’d hoped it was just a one time thing, he was on edge and his mother was missing. 

He stemmed it for months after, but eventually the Hulk appeared again. And this time that anger had been entirely misdirected. 

“What’s wrong, Spence? What’s happening? Why aren’t you, uh…aren’t you enjoying this?” The other man looked at him with a sadness in his eyes and Spencer felt his gut coiling into knots.

“I, uh, I just…I’m not ready.” He suddenly shot up from the couch. 

The other man stared at him through hooded eyes, his lips puffy from their intense make out session. 

“It’s okay,” the other man cooed. “We don’t have to do anything. I’m sorry if I rushed you.”

He stood up too and came closer to Spencer. He placed his hands gently on the younger man's shoulders but Spencer wouldn’t make eye contact with him. 

“Spence?” The man whispered. “Did something…did they do something to you in prison?” 

A flash of something indiscernible in Spencer’s eyes and then suddenly - 

“Don’t touch me!” Spencer spat, shoving the other man roughly by the chest. “And don’t talk to me about that place.” 

“Spencer?” The man sucked in a breath. “You know you can tell me anything. This is a safe space, baby.” 

When the hand came towards him, Spencer felt that bubble of anger in his stomach. It rapidly spread up his chest, down his extremities. Before the hand could touch him again, Spencer reacted without much thought behind it.

He was surprisingly swift when he wanted to be and he circled his hand around the wrist of the hand that was edging near him. He gripped it tightly and in one quick move he was able to spin the arm, and the man it was attached to, pinning the arm against his back.

The other man groaned in pain, at the twisting in his shoulder blade, at the nails digging into the skin of his wrist. 

“S-Spencer,” he stuttered. “What are you doing?” 

“I told you not to touch me.” He gave the arm another tug, the other man wincing. 

“I’m s-sorry,” the other man sniffed. “Please, I won’t do it again.” 

Somewhere in Spencer’s brain a light seemed to turn on and he snapped back around. He blinked several times in quick succession as his arm fell to his side, letting go of the other man.

He stumbled backwards, staring at his hand as if it were an alien appendage. His heart thrummed violently against his chest. What had just happened? One minute the hand had been reaching for him and the next Spencer was holding that hand hostage by the mans own back. 

The other man turned to him cautiously, a look of fear apparent in his eyes. He’d never looked at him in the same way again.

To this day Spencer couldn’t remember giving the command to act with such force towards the man who had only ever loved him. A combination of time and therapy had helped him understand what had happened and even though this was given a name, it was one time he’d rather it was unknown. 

He’d dissociated. For less than a minute in time his brain detached itself from reality and his trauma had acted on his behalf. 

He’d acted on compulsion, the way in which he’d wanted to be able to fend off the unwanted touches before but didn’t have the compunction to at the time. 

The rage bubble, the Hulk, the dissociation. The symptoms were treated by his medication but they were still a part of him. Pieces of what made him who he was. 

Part of the reason he’d moved out here was to keep others away. But it also served the purpose of keeping himself away from others. 

He no longer trusted his own actions. If he could become violent towards someone he loved, who was to say he couldn’t be that way with anyone? 

And he’d invited you into his home. He’d put you in danger by asking you to stay. For two years he hadn’t had a violent outburst but that was only because he’d isolated himself, kept himself locked away where he couldn’t hurt anyone else. 

He closed his eyes, clenching and unclenching his good hand at his side. When he felt the bubble of anger rising, he was to close his eyes and count to ten. 

He did as his therapist taught him, slowly but surely feeling the anger start to calm. He hadn’t taken his medication. He needed to. But the moment he opened his eyes again the rage came flooding back like a tsunami and before he could even take a single step, his mind divorced itself from reality and he spiralled into the abyss. 

@andiebeaword @muffin-cup @measure-in-pain @dreatine @matthew-gray-gubler-lover @justreadingficsdontmindme @spencer-reid-wonderland @thebloomingeagle @kalulakunundrum @small-and-violent @voledart @katrina0-0 @bakugouswh0r3

[s-4pphics]

let the rain sing. interlude (a.a)

wc;cw: 6k, dadsbestfriend!abby, lawstudent!oc, large age gap (oc is 25, abby is mid 40s), abby is bi<3, fluff, HEAVY ANGST ANGST ANGST!!, childbirth, vomiting, blood, brief mentions of abortion, descriptions of insomnia, alcoholism, familial death, heavy descriptions of grief (depression, dissociation, anger), suicidal ideation, funerals & hospitals

Abby was conflicted when she found out she was pregnant. 

She was ecstatic to start her term at Harvard Law due to some internship offers she received, but her excitement swiftly dissipated when waves of nausea started to overtake her. 

She wasn’t concerned with the feeling at first. The fall term was always the most unpredictable for weather, and she assumed it was just the flu that often went around. Humiliation rushed through her when another wave hit during her sociology course, rushing out into the hallway to bend over the nearest trash, vomiting up her favorite brown sugar oatmeal from that morning. 

She decided to see a doctor three days later when the sickness continued. She couldn’t get her test results the same day due to her hectic schedule and exhaustion from studying, so she opted to request them in the mail, despite her gynecologist’s urgency. 

When she received her results two days later, her heart sank. 

She paced around the small living room of her boyfriend’s apartment with anxiety in her gut and love in her heart. She’d been in complete disbelief, crumpling the urine test in her hands and throwing them onto the coffee table. 

Her mind was racing a million miles per minute: How was she going to explain to her boyfriend—her parents— that she would be keeping her child no matter what? Her parents promised to be supportive of her if she stayed in school, but she was almost positive that they would disapprove of her baby. She didn’t care if they supported her or not, but she didn’t want to raise her children in an unstable environment. She wanted to give them the best of everything, of herself, but she couldn’t do that then. Her boyfriend had already been working like a dog to keep this place afloat, and a baby would be a burden for both of them.

But she knew she wanted to be a mother when she was young. She had a large family, but she always gravitated towards her younger relatives due to their liveliness. They made her feel joy that she knew she missed out on growing up, so she lived through them. They revived her in a sense. The circumstances were different in her mind when she envisioned herself as a parent: she was older, successful, married to the love of her life, and not regretting any of her decisions. She would’ve been happy. Excited and thankful for the blessing she believed kids to be. 

Seeing the news terrified her and almost sent her spiraling into panic; She was only twenty-three! 

She loved children. They always flocked to her when she was growing up, whether it be her younger siblings, cousins, nieces and nephews, or random people’s toddlers in grocery stores garbling at her from their cart seat. She never felt annoyed towards her younger family members. She always held them tight so they knew how much she loved them, no matter how much they got on her fucking nerves sometimes. 

What teenager volunteers to babysit her big sister’s toddlers on the weekends? 

… Abigail. 

She was a nervous wreck while she waited for her boyfriend to come home from work. She’d been sobbing for hours, but she managed to calm herself down by staring at her frantic form in the bathroom mirror. 

She couldn’t think straight with the pounding in her head, nervously bouncing her leg as she sat on the couch as she bit her nails.

And then their front door unlocked. 

Abby… oh my god… I’m—

We’re pregnant? Oh my fucking god, we’re pregnant! 

We’re having a baby?! I’m gonna be a dad! 

Abby was not expecting her boyfriend to drop the wrinkly papers and lift her into the air in a heap of excitement, drowning her in tight grasps and kisses to her mouth and cheek. She cried harder; His joy was so comforting. 

She wasn’t going to be alone during her pregnancy, and she was grateful. 

Abby dropped out of Harvard three months into her pregnancy. 

Her and her newfound husband eloped at their town’s small lake at the end of his third year at law school, and they moved in together shortly after so she didn’t have to move around as much. She knew carrying was difficult, but her hair was falling out and she sobbed whenever her husband asked her what she wanted for dinner. 

You’re so sweet! I can’t help it, okay?! Leave me alone!

She and her husband were left to fend for themselves during her first trimester. 

Her parents did not take kindly to her pregnancy announcement. She was always super close with her parents growing up despite their overprotective nature, and she hardly ever fought with them. Whenever they expressed their disapproval of her decisions, she bowed her head and left without rebuttal. 

She expected the worst when she and her husband invited them over for dinner to announce it to them properly, and that’s exactly what she got. 

Abigail… Are you fucking kidding me!

What the hell is a child going to do for you right now?

Do you understand how much you’re giving up? You have so much to lose!

You’re cut off unless you… handle that!

Her husband took over the conversation with a sharp, defensive tongue since the pounding of her head made her shut down. She was so fucking nauseas at their suggestions. She did consider an abortion a couple of weeks into her pregnancy, but the way her parents talked down about her future baby broke her heart and pissed her off. 

Her husband's booming shouts at her parents would have triggered her defense for them under any other circumstances, but she only felt protected as he told them to fuck off! She knew she was loved by him to an infinite degree. Appreciation for her husband bloomed inside of her like roses.

Her parents left with a loud slam of their front door, and her husband held her as she sobbed at the table. 

The food he prepared for everyone ran cold. Neither of them could stomach anything for the next few days. 

Abby’s third trimester was the most difficult, for both her and her husband. 

She never experienced this much pain in her life. 

She was six months along, and it really took a toll on her body. Her ankles were swollen, her ligaments were aching, and her joints would not stop popping whenever she moved around the tiny one-bedroom apartment. Her hair loss made her too anxious to leave the house, and she hated how superficial she felt whenever she would weep because of it when her husband was at work. At least her nausea subsided. 

She hated looking at herself in the mirror: her under eyes were dark and droopy, small bald spots littered behind her hairline, dark patches littered her skin. She looked fifty years older, and she hated it. 

But her husband never failed to kiss away her insecurities. Appreciate them. Drown them in affection no matter how much she cried about hating herself. 

He worked so hard for them to stay afloat: two jobs while keeping up with his course and nearly drowning in his studies. He suffered some pushback due to the transition from a full to part-time student, but he was doing his best to finish as quickly as possible. 

Abby cried every night as his exhausted form slept next to her. 

She felt so… useless. She watched her husband bust his ass, get fired from previous jobs, get turned down from decent-paying jobs, and she couldn’t help but feel responsible for his weariness. He looked just as worn as she did, and she loathed herself for putting all of this responsibility on him. 

He never complained, though. He would come home with takeout, kiss her head, tell her how much he loved her and how all of this would be worth it. 

Was the decision to keep her baby selfish? 

She didn’t know at that time. 

Abby had a premature birth. 

She’d finally gathered the courage to go shopping with her husband for decorations for the nursery, but the trip was cut short when she began having contractions in the middle of the toy aisle. 

They awoke her earlier that day: the cramps always brought her discomfort, but she noticed that the intensity was different. They shot through her much more harshly than they should’ve, but they eventually stopped, so she paid them no mind. 

Until she was hunched over the stocked shelves as her husband tried to get her into the nearest empty seat. 

She breathed out harsh cries of the baby, my baby as her husband frantically dialed for an ambulance despite her protests. The pain she felt burned whenever it flashed through her lower body, a constant push downward, and she knew something was wrong.

Her mind was racing as anxiety rushed through her body; she thought back to her frequent hospital visit. She knew a premature birth would be a possibility due to some complications with her cervix, but it was still early. She’d just reached the seven-month period, for fucks sake!

She could barely make it outside when the ambulance arrived, her vision foggy and she couldn’t stop sobbing, the paramedics’ voices sounding like bleating alarms in her ears whenever they attempted to calm her. She couldn’t bring herself to care about anything as she came in and out of consciousness, the only thing on her mind being the image of her happily crying husband holding their newborn for the first time. 

Please let my baby be okay, please, please, please—

Abby couldn’t stop sobbing. She never thought that conceiving would cause a stabbing pain in her heart. 

She went hysterical when she overheard that her baby wasn’t breathing, her heart rate monitor going out of whack as her lungs burned from her ragged breaths. Her husband tried to calm her down with his soft touches and words, but it only made her cry harder. She needed to hold her baby!

Her labor had already been nerve-racking, full of uncertainty and left her and her husband panic stricken for hours despite the doctors’ instructions to keep calm. When her infant was rushed into another room, her husband, and other doctors had to pin her down to keep her from thrashing from panic in her hospital bed. 

She didn’t stop until another doctor returned and told her husband that their daughter would be closely monitored while on ventilation for the rest of the week.

Please, can I see my baby? Please, please?—

But her cries were gently denied due to their infant’s extremely fragile state. They tried to comfort her as much as they could, but none of their soft words, husband’s cuddles and meals, or warm, fuzzy socks soothed her. 

She and her husband were released days later with an empty car-seat filled with stuffed animals and a pacifier. 

Their hearts were vacant. 

Their home was soulless for two weeks. 

No baby crying, no diaper changing, no breastfeeding. They didn’t even have the heart to finish decorating for the nursery. 

Abby watched her husband move on autopilot, waking up, going to work, going to class, and struggling to sleep. His insomnia had increased drastically ever since she gave birth, heavy bags forming under his eyes as he launched himself into his notetaking in the middle of the night. His desk was swamped with hefty books and sloppily stacked paper, murmuring to himself so he could memorize the necessary vocabulary. 

She was overcome with failure and nearly drowned in self-loathing. Failure as a wife, as a parent. She couldn’t protect and care for her baby how she wanted, and guilt rested heavily with intent to crush her. 

They both couldn’t speak, only whispering soft I love you so much before she slipped off into dreamland, her subconscious terrorized with images of her smiling baby girl who she prayed to see soon. 

When Abby’s husband got the call from their daughter’s doctor, they both rushed to the hospital. 

Abby’s raging nausea was quickly soothed by the doctor’s delighted face upon their arrival before ushering them to his office. 

I’m excited to tell you two that your daughter’s stable! She’s quite small, but she’s healthy! We do have some extra caretaking rules—

They could barely understand the doctor’s rambling due to their excitement of seeing their newborn for the first time. The doctor handed her husband paperwork before leading them down the long hallway. They nearly toppled over each other as they followed the doctor, bursting into the room that held newborns and other premature infants. 

They followed the doctor to their child’s incubator, and immediately burst into tears at the sight of their little—very little—angel. 

She was wrapped in an oversized onesie and booties that nearly slipped off her tiny feet. That was the first time they both saw her eyes open, and they couldn’t control their emotions as they sobbed from pure joy. 

They were so eager to hear the news from the doctor that Abby’s husband left the car seat in the vehicle. He probably looked crazy as he sobbingly retreated to the car with a strong love in his heart. 

Abby was first to hold their baby. She took note of the pediatrician’s instructions when wrapping her in blankets whenever her feet felt cold. 

When she felt the light weight of her child in her arms, she felt the purest form of love explode in her chest. She didn’t know how long she’d been crying and cooing at the bundle of joy, inhaling her scent in the crook of her neck, but she never wanted that feeling to dissipate. 

When her husband returned with the car seat and small bag, he kissed his daughter’s head so lightly. She cooed at him, and he and Abby squealed as the doctors giggled. 

They finally had their baby Mya in their grasp, and they left with light searing in their hearts. 

Their first few months with a newborn were rough. 

Loud crying. Dirty diapers. Frantic schedules. No fucking rest for either of them. But they both knew they wouldn’t trade the chaos of their small home for anything. It was all worth it when Mya kicked her feet when she looked at the twinkly star stickers on the ceiling before bed and garbled at the two of them. 

Abby never thought breastfeeding would be as taxing as it was. She woke up to her breasts feeling like rocks, their child’s cries wracking through the nursery. At least her hair started to grow back. 

Her husband was always awake in the wee hours of the morning, dragging himself into Mya’s small nursery like a zombie to feed and nuzzle her. Abby loved walking in on the two of them sleeping whenever she finished pumping, Mya pulled close to her father’s chest. 

The sight of their synced breaths always calmed her; She fell asleep with ease knowing they were together.

Toddlers were… interesting. 

Abby, in all her years of being surrounded by children, never witnessed a toddler reenact fish… noises? Since when did fish make noise?

Abby’s husband mistakenly left Animal Plant playing on their television while he snored on the couch with books on his chest and lap, and Abby drowsily entered the living room to shut off the loud narrations about extinction. 

Only to catch their baby girl bouncing up and down on the cushion next to her slumped dad, puffing her cheeks together and making quiet blubblubblub noises, just like the intensified audio from the television. 

She tried to regret teaching her baby how to take her first steps and get out of her crib on her own, but the sight made her heart brighten as she smiled to herself. 

She eased towards the couch, taking a seat next to an excited Mya as she watched the aquatic life interact with each other. Her smile widened at the sight of her mom, her tiny, stubby finger coming up towards her lips while she pointed towards her dad. Abby grinned and nodded with her, filling her cheeks with air like she saw her child do before she interrupted. Mya laughed quietly and copied her mom. 

She promised to scold her for being up way past her bedtime later. 

Mya fell asleep on Abby’s chest as she listened to the sound of the ocean. 

Mya had just turned four when Abby received a call from her mother. 

She hadn’t heard from her parents in years, and frankly, she didn’t want to. She could tell that her husband was a bit hurt that they didn’t congratulate him for receiving his law degree, but he was able to let it go, especially since his baby girl gave him the fattest kiss on the cheek in a small celebration.  

… Hi, honey. I know it’s been a while since, uh… since we’ve talked but… I just wanted to say I love you… and tell my granddaughter I said happy birthday… We love you all very much. I hope we can all meet again soon. Bye.

The voicemail made her eyes burn with sadness. Then anger, then love. She missed her parents immensely, but she would never be able to forget how they reacted to her pregnancy. Mya quickly became her source of happiness the second she was born, and she couldn’t imagine what her life would be if she never had her baby. 

She knew she would have to reconnect with her family at some point, but Mya would always come first. If her parents were to ever make Mya feel like her future was ruined because of her, Abby would be fine with never speaking to them again, no matter how much it would hurt. 

Abby jumped when she felt two small hands grab the fat on her wet cheeks, pressing slobbery kisses to both. 

Don’t cry, mommy! S’gonna be okay! I love you!

Abby shouldn’t have cried harder, but she did, choking out a sob as she tried to smile for her daughter. 

I know, baby. I love you so much. Everything’s gonna be fine. 

She hoped—prayed her daughter was right.

Abby and her small family’s lives changed so much in just a few months. 

Her husband found a stable job as a document clerk at a law firm, and they were able to move out of his dingy apartment into a decent one story after some months. It wasn’t anything extravagant, but they were happy. 

The bags under her husband's eyes have lessened in shade ever since his graduation. He also gathered time to eat with her at their small dining table instead of eating at his computer desk alone. They were finally comfortable. 

They bought Mya anything she wanted to make up for her disappointing birthday parties. 

Abby took note of her daughter's love for water. 

She always used to play various audios of rainfall and ocean waves for a sleepy Mya until she was two, but she didn’t expect the soothing technique to explode into her four-year-old playing in puddles and obsessively watching the rain through the glass backdoor. 

She watched Mya sit and stare out the wet windows, quietly humming lullabies to herself until she slipped into rest, gently snoring against the couch cushions. Abby never took kindly to Spring due to her allergies, but she was happy her baby found comfort in it. 

She told her husband about their daughter’s new habit when he returned from work one day, and he thought it was the most precious thing in the world. He wished he could’ve been present to see it. 

Maybe she wants to be a fish! We should take her to the lake one day. 

Abby scheduled swimming lessons for Mya that very next week. 

It was confirmed. Mya was a mermaid in her past life. 

She was a bit intimidated by the large pool when they arrived for her first lesson, but after a few sessions with her swim teacher, she stubbornly protested wearing her purple and blue floaties. 

C’mon, honey! Put your arm through so we can go swimming! 

No, mommy, no! 

She felt a bit of jealousy build in her gut when her daughter’s swim teacher gently pulled her stubby arms and legs into the little floaties without fail. She could hear Mya’s joyous giggle as she slapped the water around, practicing her paddling with her instructor’s support. 

Abby begrudgingly ate her Cheetos with a pout on her face from the poolside chair. 

Mya was five when she met her extended family for the first time. 

Her birthday had just passed, and Abby’s mom rang her line, inviting her family over for a small dinner. C’mon, sweetie! I just wanna see my granddaughter! 

Abby was not surprised when the “small dinner” turned out to be a full-fledged surprise party for Mya: balloons everywhere, a large cake with a Barbie doll in the middle, all her cousins, aunts, and uncles jumping with party hats. 

Mya was more than giddy at the sight, squealing and running over to the only auntie she knew, but Abby and her husband were a bit skeptical. It’d been a long while since they’d been in this environment, and they were very uneasy. But their little angel was so happy, so they pushed their edginess to the side. For her. 

The party went smoothly for the most part, despite their initial feelings, but Abby and her parents did get into a small scuffle in the backyard. It took everything not to snatch the icing-littered fork from Mya’s hand and make their exit. 

You have to understand where I’m coming from! Imagine if someone you loved told you to get rid of your kids when you were pregnant! Would you not feel disappointed?

I wouldn’t! I would understand that they had my best interest in mind, regardless of the situation! 

… I can’t believe the both of you. You’re really gonna stand by that? On her fucking birthday?

Abby’s husband politely thanked everyone for the gifts and food, but he knew it was time to go by the tense expression on his wife’s face. She thanked him for his intuition every day; She was about to cause a wreckage on that patio. 

He picked up his tired baby girl from her resting spot on the couch, grabbed his keys, and ushered his wife out the door without another word. 

Abby silently cried the entire ride home, her husband's hand enclosed tightly around hers, resting in her lap. 

Abby and her husband decided to take Mya to the lake where they got married for her seventh birthday. 

She could finally swim without assistance, and they wanted her to live out her mermaid fantasy. 

They made an entire weekend out of it: kayaking, fishing, wakeboarding. Mya looked so happy the entire time, completely engulfed with her love for nature. They'd never seen her so explorative; She wanted to see everything the trip had to offer. Including the sunset at the highest point of the hiking trail. 

Honey, we’re getting old! We can’t run that fast anymore! 

Hurry up, lugs! We have to make it to the top before the sun sets! C’mon!

Before they left the campgrounds, Abby shoved her camera into her husband’s hands, tossing all her bags to the floor and pulling her daughter up onto her back, listening to her laugh as she yelled at her husband to take a picture of them in front of her favorite place. 

How the hell do you use this, Abby?!

Just take the damn picture before I fall!

The swear jar is gonna be filled before we leave! Stop cursing, old heads! 

Okay, 1, 2, 3! Say cheese!

Abby and her daughter squealed as the camera flashed in front of them, the grounds filled with the family’s joyous laughter. 

Abby noticed changes in her husband’s behavior. 

He came home from work smelling of liquor, and their cabinets were becoming stocked with tequila and aged bottles of wine. At first, she assumed he was just going out with his work friends after his shift, but when he jokingly expressed to her that he needed liquor to sleep one morning, she grew concerned. Her husband developed sleeping problems years ago, but he never went into detail about it. She felt so guilty. 

When Abby gently expressed her worries to him one night before bed, he blew up on her. It was the first time they ever fought. Ever. 

I’m fucking stressed, Abigail! I have so much to take care of and I’m not getting any fucking help from you! I can’t fucking sleep anymore! 

Do you know how many times I begged you to let me fucking work! You always said no because of Mya! And keep your fucking voice down, my daughter’s sleeping!

Oh, now she’s your daughter?! Really? 

Her husband went to sleep on the couch that night while Abby quietly sobbed as she checked on her daughter, relieved at her snoring, unmoving form. She didn’t need to hear any of that. 

She cried herself to sleep. 

She woke up to the smell of sweetness and coffee. She drowsily rubbed her eyes and entered the kitchen, her husband already sat and sipping his coffee, looking just as exhausted as she felt. 

They ate their breakfast in silence before her husband broke it, tearfully mumbling out his apologies. 

You and Mya are my life. I love you both so much. I’m gonna get help, I swear. I hate feeling like this. 

Abby trusted him; He had her full support. 

Mya loved riding her new, pink bike in the rain. 

The streets were empty and quiet when it poured heavily, and the vacant roads made for a great practice track. Her father gifted her a tricycle for her eighth birthday, and she couldn’t separate from it. She rode it up and down the street for hours, only to run inside with her clothes completely drenched, change into dry ones, and run back outside and hop onto her new ride. 

She begged her mom to buy her an actual bicycle because she felt like she was ready for one, and she gave in to her daughter’s pouty face. She couldn’t deny her; she was too cute! 

After many scraped knees and elbows, she was gliding through the streets on her two-wheeler with ease through the rain. She was happy, so Abby was too. 

Her husband returned to his normal behavior a year later. 

The cabinets and garbage cans were no longer stocked with bottles, and he didn’t smell of Tequila anymore. It was relieving, and she was so proud. 

When Abby’s husband asked her on a date, her heart pounded against her chest like she was about to have her first kiss again. 

She came home from shopping, dripping wet from the heavy rain, to a bouquet of flowers and a sloppily written note, dotted with hearts and little sparkles. 

Taking Mya to see Ross’s daughter. Picking you up at 7:30. I love you. 

Hubby. 

Abby rang her sister as she bolted up the stairs with a wide grin on her face. 

She finally had an excuse to wear her fancy, rosy-red dress!

Abby grew nervous when her husband hadn’t answered the phone. Four times in a fucking row. 

They were already a half hour late for their reservation, and Abby’s sister and youngest nephew were patiently waiting for her husband and Mya to walk through the front door. 

She bit and picked the rosy polish off her nails despite her sister’s protests. 

Girl, they’re fine! Probably just traffic, it’s pouring! Be patient for once before you sweat your make-up off. 

Abby knew her sister was right, but she couldn’t ignore the feeling of unease in her gut. Her husband was a lot of things, but he was never late, especially without warning. Something didn’t feel right. 

She never considered herself superstitious, but she felt the loud rumbles of thunder were confirmations of her suspicions.

An hour passed, and Abby couldn’t breathe. 

When her husband’s bone-shattering, slurry cries rang through her speaker, terror shook through her body like the lightning bolts that shone behind the clouds. She was instantly panic-stricken, trying to make out the words that vibrated her ears. 

She looked at her sister with fear and confusion before the words Mya… hit… car… bike tore through the line like a knife, piercing her in her chest with intent to kill. 

She couldn’t breathe or think, and her phone dropped from her hands before the world around her went dark. 

Abby looked down at her drunk husband as he crouched on the slippery, black pavement, grabbing at her ankles, and sounding like he would cough his lungs up as he cried her name, wailing out apologies. 

She doesn’t know how she got to her mutual friend’s neighborhood, or why her husband's cries were gut-wrenching, or why she was sitting in the back of an ambulance with the oxygen mask still strapped around her head. 

… Why wasn’t Mya sitting next to her, holding her hand, and telling her everything was going to be okay? 

Her sister and nephew were sobbing as a police officer explained the events of the scene, but Abby couldn’t hear anything. She refused to hear the poisonous words they spewed at her about their child. All she had to do was wait for her baby girl to run up and whine about how much she missed her. 

She would come. She thought. She would. She would. She would. 

… Hit and run… We’re so sorry… loss. 

Abby shook her head and her nails dug into her palms.

She would come. Her baby would come. She loved the rain too much; She would never miss a thunder show. She would come. 

The blaring rumbles that rang through the sky confirmed it. Her baby would come. The universe believed it, so she had to. 

Abby looked up from the broken man in front of her and caught a glimpse of the mangled, pink bicycle and stretcher that was draped in a white sheet, surrounded by people dressed in black coats and badges with their heads bowed. The outline of the body underneath the pale, red-speckled covering was small, unmoving… Looked too much like—

Her head dropped right back to her choking husband. 

No, no, no! She would come, she would come, she would come—

An hour passed, and the rain stopped. 

Mya never came. Abby couldn’t stop screaming. 

Abby hated hospitals. 

The paramedics were fearful of leaving her and her husband alone in their hysteria, suggesting to detectives that they should return to the hospital until they were stable. 

She never thought she would distance herself from her husband; She even shocked herself when she harshly shoved him away from her when he reached for a hug. His devastated expression tore her heart to shreds, but she couldn’t look at him, hold him, bear to smell the alcohol that masked the formerly comforting scent of his cologne. Not at that moment. 

They were placed in separate rooms for the night, and Abby wanted to die. 

She heard the broken hollers and whimpers of her parents and siblings out in the hallway as the doctors explained the situation. She felt like she would suffocate if she stayed trapped in this bed any longer. 

Everything’s fine. Everything’s fine, everything’s fine—

Her brain’s chants were paused by her screeching sobs as her eyes squeezed shut, bile creeping up her throat despite her attempts to swallow. Her throat was dry, and each choking gulp felt like shards of glass that sliced through her esophagus, all the way down to her stomach. She couldn’t fucking breathe. 

She heard the heart rate monitor increase in beeps beside her as she wailed, a few nurses urgently reentering the room to try and calm her down. She felt like her throat was bleeding with each shout of her daughter’s name. 

Mya was dead, and she desperately wanted to join her, souls entangled for eternity. 

Three days passed. Abby hated the world. 

Her and her husband sat in his parked car in front of their home, staring straight ahead as rain poured from the sky. 

They said nothing to each other; they hadn’t even looked in each other’s direction since they left the hospital. 

Abby felt tears jerk in her dry, lifeless eyes, allowing them to stream down her face, matching the pace of the heavy droplets that hit the window. She thought that she was hallucinating; She could almost hear her daughter’s cheerful laugh coming from outside.

She slowly turned her head towards their home, and bile rose her throat at the sight of her daughter’s discarded, pink tricycle that lay flat on the porch. She hadn’t touched it in a while, thanks to her new bike. 

She opened the passenger door and threw up on the side of the road as her husband sobbed next to her. 

She wanted to die and, deep in her empty gut, she knew he desired the same. 

Abby looked in the mirror of her parent’s guest room, completely still.

She was draped in all black from head to toe, wearing her daughter’s black bow at the end of her braid. She regretted putting on makeup; her mascara was already streaming down her face in wet, black lines. 

Her under eyes were dark and her vessels were busted from crying for a week and a half straight. She doesn’t remember the last time she slept or eaten, and she didn’t want to. Every dream she had was filled with her daughter’s laughter, and she couldn’t stomach anything thinking about the angelic sound. 

Her husband stood in the doorframe, just as visibly destroyed as she was. Just as lifeless. 

They exchanged looks, but neither said a word. They hadn’t spoken to each other in days. Abby had nothing to say to him. 

He was the reason they were burying their daughter, and she despised him for it. The mourning she felt for her child was stronger than her love for him, and she didn’t care how selfish it was. 

The rain was beating down on the black umbrella that draped over Abby’s sobbing, hunched form, her nails digging into the sopping dirt and tearing at the grass. Her mother’s dress was covered in wet stains. 

Her wails and pleas for her child back were painful and loud: she felt caressing hands on her back, and it took everything not to slap them away. 

She didn’t need fucking comfort! She needed her daughter! Her precious, innocent, darling daughter, Mya. She would’ve given anything—given her life up for her baby. She deserved to live, to see the ocean, to become the mermaid she always wanted to be. She hated her fucking husband. 

The sight of her daughter’s casket being lowered into the ground felt like a sharp blade in her chest. Her father and husband had to drag her from the ground and to her feet despite her desperate shouts to join Mya in the dirt. 

When she was placed in her parent’s backseat, she clutched the passenger headrest in front of her to center herself. Her nails tore through the leather as she hyperventilated, small whimpers of her daughter’s name leaving her mouth. She felt like she would vomit again. 

The car was filled with her family’s cries as the clouds poured their sorrow onto the car. 

Abby quietly prayed to herself as her distraught mother drove them all back home, hoping that her daughter’s spirit would grow to be as large as the sea. 

Just like she always wanted. 

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grief fucking sucks lol

this was heavy 4 me. i love yall

taggie waggies :3 @ohlawdthebirds @fibrogirlie @unangelic-thoughts @chrry1ovr @uraesthete @gravygranules @digit4lslut @machetegirl109 @letsreadsomesins-shallwe @macaroni676 @sillygooselit @nil-eena @elliesgirlll @hi2647 @fr0thycoffee @mai5mai @sweet-lover-girl

prologue. part one. part two. part three. part four.

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[the-alarm-system]

Anti Endos and Projection of Decisions and Hurt

I'd like to start this off with my story and how it relates to the experiences of many hurt anti-endos.

I don't remember a big chunk of my original trauma, most of it feels like a dream that has chunks guarded by Red our protector. I do have bits and pieces, and I know for a fact that I went through RAMCOA.

Growing up I got hurt by a lot of women, and one of those woman's personas got introjected into my system and would retraumatize me consistently for a few years. This was before I realized I was plural.

What Im trying to say is I have survived a lot of horrible shit, and I know it's why I'm plural, and I have had horribly abusive headmates before.

Anti Endos bring these forms of exo and internal abuse up whenever attacking the slogan "The future is plural". I saw an anti endo say

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And I got angry enough to make this. Maybe it was rage bait, but I'm convinced most of them genuinely believe this.

Using your own trauma and hurt to invalidate the existence of others is one of the most vile horrible things you can do. Not every traumagenic system is formed from programming, not every system existing is formed from programming. Trust me I know the pain of being hurt that way, but are you serious? Don't use your trauma to hurt others. No endo wants to fucking program a child and abuse them, this is just a false analogy used to bring fear to others and towards the movement. We are not the enemy.

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I have experienced strong negatives, I've felt strong dissociation, memory loss, and Scald has gotten lost before and we do struggle a lot in disordered experiences. But this is expecting that every system puts the negatives above the positives. This is expecting that your experience and perspective of your own system lines up with everyone elses. I don't care that I have so much to deal with, being a system makes me extremely happy and I would love to share that with others. Obvious negatives? Yes, but "few" positives? In my experience with DID, psychosis, and even BPD I do my best to see the lighter side of them because I wouldn't be me without them. I have so many more pros than cons that comes with being a system because I actively changed my perspective in order to accept ourselves. I had to see the joy of it because I was abusing Scald by not accepting him and giving him individuality. I understand a system seeing their DID as more negative than positive, but this is projection to others which is simply narrow minded.

Before going deeper, I want to affirm that I have no hatred towards those who go towards final fusion or uses parts language. This is an argument about those who project their end goals and hurt and suffering onto other systems in order to invalidate them.

While I may not experience this towards my own system, I can understand why others may despise being many and/or desire to end as a singlet. However in the argument against endos; being broken, wanting fusion, using parts language, and hating yourself as a system is bought up multiple times. Here are some examples:

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Their views on their systemhood, while valid, is narrowed to the expectation that every other system should see it that way and if they don't they are put into the pile of fakes and subject to harassment. Anti endos have called me disgusting simply for expressing how happy being a system makes me. It reminds me of when I was a transmedicalist(essay for later) to be honest.

If you don't want to fuse, if you don't see your systems existence as an abomination, and you desire better acceptance from the world

You are a fucked up groomer who is anti recovery, never wants to heal, and wants to abuse children.

I'm sorry I love my system

I'm sorry I found so much joy in my system that I would love for there to be more of us and better acceptance of us

I'm sorry that I'm not all pessimistic on my system

To be honest, I can't change the past I went through, I can't delete my system,

But maybe to me it's ok to see the good that came out of it even if its hard then and hard now

Projecting your perspective of your systemhood onto others though, projecting false analogies based on your own trauma, and expecting every experience to be the same as yours is vile and just self victimizing in order to hurt vulnerable systems looking for community.

Giving your sob story, ranting about how you hate your pieces/headmates, and then tying it up with "and thats why endos want to hurt children" is a different level of fucked up

small personal note: if I had to endure everything again just to be with Scald, I would Over and over and over Piss yourself mad about it antis, I love my system and we aren't faking because of it

[skullytotheark]

[design drawn by Peachy-cloudds]

My Personal headcanons for The Operator / Slenderman

[warning: a SHIT tone of writing almost sorry not actually]

The Main inspirtation is by the concept of a hivemind plantlike entity, Has this concept been done before for Slender. Yea, Am I still gonna use it? Yea 🤭 [i love eldritch plant beings they're so cool]

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In World Lore:

An extremely long time ago, A being of unknown origin manifested into the world, Simply appearing out of the blue. Being able to exist on all four layers of existence with no consequence for it's actions. Originally said to be an old folk tale elders would tell to children to scare them, The Operator, although known across the world as multiple names, Some extremely fitting while others were uncreative / unoriginal. The entity within the tale would maintain the same behavior in every culture that was made aware of it. Often stalking heavily wooded areas attempting to lure those who were unexpecting into the forest where it will stalk it's prey until they barely escape or become it's next meal. However even escape was never the last one would see the Operator. As it continued to stalk those who saw it relentlessly until it grows tired of the same torment. Or It claims another life. The operator was once said to be in many books recording folklore; however the pages and stories of encounters with it have simply been erased from existence. As if it tears the pages out itself. Wanting to remain within the darkness where it can watch and wait for those who are unaware.

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Headcanons:

Spiders tend to make small nests in the small holes that are on slender’s body, These spiders due to long exposure can give you the drowning if they bite you

The Spiral in the center of Slender’s face can hypnotize it’s victims. In my canon it’s how Slender gains most of it’s proxies

The reason Slender can disturb cameras and cause them to break is because of the electric frequency it admits. Similar to how fungi also admit Electric frequencies and is also source of the strange staticy hiss that tends to admit and follow Slender around

Slenderman is just a fae of sorts [which is just a fancy way of saying fairies], The type of fae that typically kidnap children and eat them. In my HC I kinda like to think that it is considered to be one of the first mythical forest spirits [also implying that Slender is old as balls]

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The Drowning / Slendersickness:

The drowning is a form of “Sickness” one can get when being exposed to the entity known as “The Operator” for a long period of time. It gets its name due to the feeling of choking on water and lack of air in your lungs

Normally you’d have to be in contact or near the Operator to contact the drowning however if one is sick with the drowning the drowning can be easily passed onto you with or without knowing it. Another way to get it is if you are marked by the Operator which can give you Stage 2 Of the drowning within the matter of seconds. The sickness originates from Spores that come from The Operator which are a lesser version of the Operator's final stage "The Tower ''. The following symptoms include Violent coughing [to the point of blood], Vomiting, Violent hallucinations, Trouble breathing, Seizures, Violent outbursts / episodes and dissociating. To summarize it, A Lot of the time Sickness slowly but surely eats away at your humanity until you are but a husk of your former self, Causing you to become aggressive and violent towards others. The Operator then feeds off of the conflict and uses it to make it stronger

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[Hoody / Brian in the Ark As seen in Entry# 83 At 6:30]

The Ark:

In Later years The Operator managed to make it’s own personal realm, Made to store the souls of those it has killed [or by proxy] and to drive those who enter it insane. Playing hallucinations that are personal to everyone who enters until they either die or find an exit [which is nearly impossible]. The realm as mentioned stores souls of it that have been killed that are being fed on by whatever lies in the pit that resides within the middle of the Ark, These dead victims are often in a paralyzed state where they are unable to move or speak as they slowly but surely melt into the surface of the Ark slowly becoming apart of it. However The Broken are basically souls that the "Ark" isn't able to feed off of since they are impure, Of course the broken are basically just victims of the Operator that have cracks on their body like fragile glass in a way. These souls and bodies are also often use as infinite battery packs for the Operator, Feeding off of the souls makes them more Powerful, The More souls there are the more of a threat it can become

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[Example image I drew to help explain it kinda]

The Hivemind

The Operator has more than one variant that all act as a single hive mind sharing the same exact thoughts. The following examples are The Tower, The Drones and Hallucination

The Tower: The Tower is the main source of the hivemind, These variants are basically the "Queen Bees" that pop out smaller versions of themselves to scout for food and return it to the Nest. Towers often borrow themselves deep underground where they cannot be touched, often growing extremely giant, For example they can grow to the size of the statue of liberty before stopping. Their tentacles can connect to the roots of trees which allows them to shift the forest at their command, It's also worth noting that the hivemind all share the same thoughts

Drones: The drones are basically mini clones of the hivemind that are produced so the tower doesn't have to expose itself to the outside world and get injured or killed, Their goal is to collect food until the Tower is ready to bloom. But a lot of the time these drones will hypnotize people into doing their biddings for them which is considered to be the norm nowadays. It's also less stress for the drones incase they do not wish to be discovered by the outside world. Drones can also eventually grow into Towers if they live long enough

Hallucinations: These are as you expect, They're the dones way of messing with your head by haunting you and breaking you mentality. They often appear in hallucinations and aren't the actual drones themselves, The main way to tell the difference between a drone and a hallucination is by the color of their tie. Red means that they are physically there attacking you while black means it's not real

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[lazy doodle by me]

The great blooming / The arrival:

this event is pretty straight forward. So the main reason these towers need to collect so much food and souls is so that they can bloom, Their heads unraveling to reveal a black rose that shoots out a giant cloud of spores that will infect those whoever breathes the spores in. These spores have the regular side effects such as the drowning, However those who are infected with the Tower's Spores are a ticking time bomb waiting to go off. If one is infected long enough their heads will implode into a flower and spread more spores around them

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