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writinginatree · 28 days ago

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All the Blood that You Still Owe

Relationship(s): Xaden Riorson & sibling!reader

Summary: An unpleasant surprise awaits on Hedotis, and you react with far less composure than your brother.

Warnings: Spoilers for Onyx Storm (set during chapters 33/34), canon divergence, mommy issues, implied daddy issues, anger issues, self-worth issues, we got all the issues baby!, unresolved childhood trauma, meltdowns, self-harm tendencies if you squint, graphic description of blood and violence, violence against children, murder, dissociation, self-hatred, vaguely suicidal thoughts

Title from MCR's song "I Don't Love You", go listen for some extra angst!

Landing on the rocky shore near the capital of Hedotis, you immediately dislike the place. You can't pinpoint why — on the surface, it seems like a beautiful, peaceful place. Nonetheless there's something about it that makes you uneasy in a way none of the other isles did. It's not just the lack of magic, either; uncomfortable as that is, you're starting to get used to it.

Observing the city — Vidirys, Violet had said it's called — it seems wrong somehow, with all those identical houses. It feels like looking at the background of a painting someone didn't want to put much effort into, just copying the same view over and over to create the illusion of a real place. Creepy, somehow, despite the superficial serenity.

The rest of the squad are all gathered a little farther up the beach, but you hang back, reluctant to part from your dragon.

The contrast of Dioghal's blood-red scales against the pale landscape only amplifies the lack of color around her, and you can't help but think what easy targets you make like this. Not that it should matter — according to Vi's handy guidebook, the people of Hedotis are supposedly peaceful. That doesn't make them trustworthy in your eyes, though. You're naturally suspicious of people who remain neutral in any and all conflicts happening around them, and you'd be willing to bet they do have weapons, possibly aimed at you this very moment from some hidden spot.

With these things in mind, you tense when you notice the group of locals stepping onto the wooden walkway that connects this piece of beach with what looks to be a market just outside the city.

Though you can't see any weapons on them, and they're all dressed in light tunics and gowns entirely unfit for combat, you double-check that all of your own weapons are where they belong before you give Dioghal's leg another pat and hurry after your squad, who are already going toward the locals.

Xaden raises a brow at you when you fall into step beside him, a wordless scolding for falling behind. Guess he doesn't quite trust the purported peace, either.

You're glad you aren't the only one who finds the place a little unsettling, because it really shouldn't be. But try as you might, you cannot shake the unease. Even the welcoming committee — if that's what it is — doesn't sit right with you. They should be wary of armed strangers on dragons showing up on their shore, but the way they're strolling toward you looks perfectly relaxed and casual. Almost like your visit doesn't surprise them.

No, you definitely do not like this. But these people could have the answers you're looking for, so if this is a trap, you're just going to have to deal with it. To calm your nerves, you remind yourself that Dioghal will be watching over you from afar. She won't let anything happen to you.

As you draw near, you notice a tall woman in the group of Hedotians — or is it Hedotics? — You should ask Violet later, she'll know what they're called — who seems strangely familiar.

Your discomfort intensifies, but you force yourself to keep walking, staring at the pale wooden boards beneath your feet as your group reaches theirs and greetings are exchanged. When the man from the triumvirate — he introduced himself, but you were only half listening — beckons his wife forward you glance up, and your heart stops, only to double it's speed.

It's the familiar-looking woman, and up close, you know why she's so familiar.

"Xaden," she says. Then her gaze jumps to you, frozen in place half a step behind your brother and a little to the side.

You barely hear her saying your name over the rushing in your ears, only vaguely register Xaden acknowledging her as he pulls Violet closer to his side. On the inside you're seven again, abandoned, confused, and fucking furious.

But unlike back then, you're armed now.

The metallic sound of your sword coming out of its sheath draws everyone's attention, and Garrick grabs you around the waist before you can take more than a single step toward your so-called mother.

"Let me go," you demand in a low growl barely loud enough for those nearest to hear. You can't seem to get enough air to speak any louder.

Instead of letting you go, Garrick forces your sword-arm down and pins it to your side. Despite the endless hours of training you've put in, you're no match for his strength — you might as well still be that seven-year-old you were when your mother left, so effortlessly does he restrain you.

"Calm down," he has the audacity to whisper into your ear. "We have a mission, remember? Don't fuck this up because of her."

He's right, you know that. It's just hard to care when so suddenly being faced with the woman you've missed and hated for the last thirteen — no, almost fourteen — years. Years you've spent imagining seeing her again — at first, it had been a happy, tearful reunion you'd pictured, back when you couldn't fully believe she had left for good. You'd thought you would apologize for whatever you had done to drive her away and all would be well. Then, as you'd grown older and understood she really had abandoned you, you imagined her looking at you full of regret and apologies, begging for forgiveness you would deny her. Later still, after your father had died and you were left alone under the care of some Navarrian loyalist, soaking up the world's cruelty like a fine handkerchief dropped into a pool of blood, you started dreaming of revenge. Your mother, Navarrian leadership, everyone. In your dreams you made them all pay for the hurt they'd inflicted on you and your brother, knowing you'd never be able to do so in reality.

But now you're here, and so is Talia. It would be so easy. So gratifying to make her see what pain she caused you and give it back to her tenfold.

Garrick's words echo in your ears as you notice the rest of the squad watching you with varying degrees of confusion and disapproval. Don't fuck this up. No, you can't afford to ruin this mission the way you do everything else. You've got to keep your shit together. For Xaden's sake, if not for that of everyone else on the Continent.

With that thought, you force your muscles to relax, and let Garrick guide your sword back into its sheath. His hold on you eases, but he hovers right behind you, ready to grab you again should you make it necessary.

You won't. Won't disappoint your brother and friends, won't ruin the mission, won't make things more difficult for them. You just have to hold in this burning rage. You can do that, have been doing it all your life. Calm. You have to be calm. If Xaden manages not to throw a fit at the sight of your mother, surely you'll manage not to do so either. Be calm.

Forcing yourself to take slow, measured breaths (nice and calm, nice and calm, nice and calm) you look anywhere except at Talia.

Someone starts making excuses for you, claiming that in your exhausted state you had merely gotten startled by Talia's suddenly stepping forward and overreacted. You meant no harm, they say. You're perfectly safe to be around, they say. It won't happen again, they say. Lies, all of it.

But no. It mustn't happen again. You can't ruin the mission. Keep it together. You have to keep it together somehow.

The man from the triumvirate — your mother's new husband — who observed your outburst with cold disapproval looks like he doesn't believe a word, but doesn't withdraw his invitation, either.

You really, really don't want to go to his house, though.

"Garrick," you mumble, since he's still standing closest to you, "I want to leave."

This is how it always went when you got overwhelmed while stuck at some stupid event as kids; you'd tug on the sleeve of whichever of the boys was closest to you and he'd sneak you out while the other two distracted the adults that wanted to keep you there before eventually joining you. But this is not a boring ball or dinner party, and you are no longer a child. You are here on a mission, and there's too much at stake to just blow it off, you know that even as you ask to leave.

"We can't, not before we find out if they have some answers for us," Garrick whispers back. He rubs his hand up and down your arm, trying to soothe you. "I know it's hard, but just remember that we're doing this for Xaden."

He's right. Gods, you know he's right, but every second in your mother's presence feeds the hatred burning inside you. Soon it will consume you whole. You don't know how you're supposed to keep it in much longer, if you can keep it in.

But you have to try. For Xaden. For your brother's sake, you might manage. If he can look at Talia without bursting into tears or punching something, then so can you. But of course Xaden has always had much better self control than you, a different kind of anger. Where your own anger burns like a raging fire, demanding to be let out, Xaden's turns his veins to ice, freezing his voice and eyes, a mask of deadly quiet.

You're not even sure if he is angry at your mother, or just disappointed, sad, whatever. Your rage is more than enough for both of you, anyway.

Talia's husband clears his throat. "Shall we?"

"Of course," Aaric says, stepping forward to take control of the situation, since neither Xaden nor Violet make any move to reply. The sideways glance he gives you in doing so says to get your godsdamned shit together. "Thank you for the invitation."

"You don't have to come," Xaden mutters to you, hanging back while the group slowly starts toward the city. You can tell he's upset too, but unlike you, he keeps it all on the inside. If only you were capable of the same. "Stay with the dragons if you want."

As much as you want to do so, it feels wrong, like you're failing both Xaden and the whole squad. What's the point of being part of this quest if all you do is lag behind?

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. You can always still join us later, if you feel up to it."

Us. That means Xaden intends to go with them. Of course. He's more important to the mission, and if both of you stayed behind, the man from the triumvirate might take offense. You should care about that. He's important here, and that means his opinion could decide whether or not these people will help you. But all you can think about is that all this time, your mother has been here, with that man. Had she left specifically to be with him, or did they meet later? Does it even make a difference? No, you decide. You hate both of them either way. And no matter how much you tell yourself you should, you just can't go with them to their house, where you'd probably have to sit in a stiff reception room and make pleasant conversation while the anger continues to eat you alive. You can't.

"Go. It's fine," Xaden encourages again. Nothing is fine. Not to you, and certainly not to him, either, but he's good at pretending things are fine when they're not. "You can do a sweep of the area if Dioghal isn't too tired, see if you spot the irids."

"I doubt they're here."

They aren't; you feel that in your bones. Hedotis is not a place dragons would like. Or are you just biased because you don't like the place?

"Yeah, me too. But we have to make sure, and it'll give you something else to focus on."

"Okay. I'll see you later then."

Xaden nods and follows the others, catching up with Violet, who walkes at the back, waiting for him, in a few long strides.

For a moment you look after them, feeling like a failure. They're almost out of earshot already, so you could break down now, scream and cry like the turmoil inside you demands.

You don't. Instead you turn, walking back down the beach to where Dioghal waits.

You wish your brother could have remained behind with you. Or better yet, that you could all leave this whole fucking place already. Selfish reasons aside, you also don't like the thought of leaving Xaden to deal with your mother alone. Her absence was just as hard for him as for you. Harder, maybe. But he won't really be alone, he has Violet and Garrick to take care of him, so you suppose it's alright. It makes no matter, anyway. Wishes won't get you anywhere; that's a lesson you learned the hard way. Xaden will bury his feelings and fulfill his duty the way he always does, while you will fight the urge to cry and scream for as long as you can and eventually break down, the way you always do.

Dioghal lowers her head when you reach her, chuffing in a way that sounds vaguely worried.

You curse the lack of magic in this place, desperately missing the mental connection to your dragon. She watched the interaction, but you don't know if she was close enough to hear, to understand what exactly made you so upset.

"That— That woman," you explain out loud, almost choking on the words, "that was my mother."

Dioghal croons, a blast of steam parting your hair. Her head swivels around to look after the group with narrowed eyes, like she's contemplating to follow them and show Talia exactly what happens to people who upset Dioghal's rider — death, usually.

"Can we just fly, please? Xay asked that we look around for the irids while the others talk to the triumvirate."

Dioghal lets out a low growl, and for a moment, you think she'll ignore you and go after your mother. Unlike you, she doesn't have anyone to grab her and talk some sense into her. You almost want her to do it. That way, you'd get the revenge you've dreamed of for so long without being directly responsible for ruining the mission. But then Dioghal straightens, averting her piercing gaze, and you know she's decided to let Talia live for now.

That should be a good thing, but it doesn't feel like one.

As you scale Dioghal's leg and get seated, you picture her claws sinking into your mother's flesh, her strong jaws closing around her, the resulting spray of blood as red as her scales. There's so many ways she could go about killing her. Biting her head clean off or slowly ripping her limb from limb, snapping her in half or clawing her guts out. Burning her, like the traitor she is. She could stab her with the poisonous bulb of her tail, make it slow and painful.

Gods, what the fuck is wrong with you? It can't be normal to wish these things upon your own mother, no matter what she did to deserve it. She may have abandoned you, but the fact remains that she's your mother. You're pretty sure that's supposed to mean something to you, even now, so why doesn't it?

If Dioghal could talk to you here, she would tell you it doesn't matter, that this hatred doesn't mean you're broken somehow. She understands your overwhelming anger better than anyone else ever has. You're one and the same in that way, quick to lash out for the smallest reasons, unable to let go of the big reasons, no matter how much time passes. Sometimes you wonder if that's why she chose you, because you're as unforgiving as she is, with a temper to match her own. And other times, you wonder if this similarity might be a bad thing, if maybe you would have been better off with a more reasonable dragon — say, a green, like your cousin's — that would teach you control over your emotions, instead of encouraging you to act on your rage like Dioghal tends to do. She forgets that you're human, that unlike dragons, you're supposed to have morals, a conscience.

If Dioghal ever caught those thoughts, she would probably eat you alive for doubting her.

She leaps into the air, and you wish you could leave the feelings plaguing you behind just like the ground, quickly shrinking with distance, but it's never that simple.

You can blame the stinging in your eyes on the wind, having foregone your goggles in your hurry to get off the beach, but there's no denying the sob that works it's way up your throat. Another follows, and another, and now your cheeks are stained wet, and with your eyes closed, you can pretend you've flown into a cloud and that's where the wetness comes from, but you know that if you open them, you won't be in the clouds. It would make no sense to fly that high, not when you're supposed to survey the isle for signs of the irids.

Bending at the waist, you press your face against Dioghal's warm scales and try to pretend your distress away. When that doesn't work, you allow yourself another sob, two. You have to stop. Dioghal may understand your anger, but she doesn't have much patience for tears. You squeeze your eyes shut, gnawing at your lip until blood floods your mouth. It's a reassuring taste. The pain in your lip isn't enough to distract you from your emotional hurt, but it gives you the strength to push past it and straighten in the seat.

Far below you, Hedotis's capital sprawles into the distance in it's orderly rows of identical pale houses. You can't deny there's a sort of beauty to it, but the city does not look alive the way Aretia or even Basgiath's small village of Chantara do. This kind of orderliness isn't natural.

It's hard to wrap your head around the fact that this is where your mother must have come from, that your ancestors lived here — maybe not in this very city, but in one like it somewhere on this isle. These are your roots. Talia's home, that she abandoned you to return to.

You hate it.

For hours, you fly along the coast, steering clear of any human dwellings and searching for signs of dragons in the less populated spots. As expected, you find nothing.

Despite how hungry Dioghal must be, she shows no intention to land and find something to eat. You know it's your obvious distress that keeps her in the air; she's protective of you to a fault, like— You flinch at the thought. Like a doting mother. Your eyes burn. Your mother abandoned you, but at least you now have a dragon to play the role she didn't want. Not that you'd ever say that to Dioghal's face. She has a habit of waving that poison-dripping scorpiontail of hers in your face when you call her out on her overprotective behavior, and she would take even more offense to being called a mother hen, no matter how true it is.

Guilt nags at you for keeping her from her well-deserved meal. She has to be tired, too. The flight to Hedotis had taken all night, and thanks to your meltdown, Dioghal has been circling overhead for another four hours or so while the others rested and fed themselves. Without magic to give them strength, the dragons tire faster than they're used to.

"Maybe we should land," you yell over the wind. It's not just lonely being unable to talk through your mental link, but also terribly inconvenient. "I've calmed down now. Honest."

Her head swings around, golden eyes scrutinizing you in that way that makes you feel like she can see through you, straight to your soul. Apparently Dioghal is satisfied with what she sees, because she makes a turn for the northeastern shore, where you can make out Tairn and Sgaeyl's looming forms once you get closer, and slowly descends to land on a colorless beach near a colorless house.

Talia's colorless house, you realize, spotting Xaden and Violet on it's veranda. The distance is too big for you to hear them, but from the look of it, your brother is arguing with Sgaeyl. Amazing how he manages that even without being able to talk to her.

She roars something in his face, maybe Don't tell me what to do or Behave until I'm back, and turns, making a slightly friendlier sounding noise at Dioghal before flying off, Tairn and Andarna close behind her. Dioghal nudges you toward the house and turns to follow the small riot. You assume the sound must have been an invitation to eat together. Dragon relations are a mystery to you, but as far as you can tell, Dioghal is something like Sgaeyl's cool aunt.

Not wanting to go into or even near the house, you're contemplating whether you should just make yourself comfortable in the sand or maybe go for a swim, when you notice two dark-haired boys watching you. They hadn't been there when you'd scanned the area from the air, which means they must have come from inside the house, probably attracted by Sgaeyl's roar. That in turn raises the question of whose children these are. You don't want to think about it, but... It's your mother's house. Of course it's possible someone else lives there with her and her husband, maybe a widowed sister or something. Or maybe the kids belong to someone who works for them; you just have to look at the place to know they have a whole army of staff. And yet the most painful conclusion also is the most obvious, the most likely — if Talia has a new life with a new husband, why shouldn't she have new children, too?

The thought makes you feel like crying again, so you turn to stare out over the water and do your best to ignore the boys. You don't want to know who they are.

And yet, when you hear voices a moment later, you turn to look again. You blame it on the self-preservation instincts Basgiath has instilled in you, edging on paranoia. Even before that, you never liked having something happening behind your back, but now it positively makes your skin crawl to be facing away from potential danger. What you see doesn't seem very dangerous, though. The boys are still there, and a woman fusses over the pair of them — some kind of maid, judging from the look of her.

Maybe that is their mother. Or maybe it's her job to look after them. What do you care?

But you do. You trail them with your eyes as they start back toward the house. Just as you're about to lose interest and turn away, Talia rushes from the house, straight toward the boys.

Your throat constricts. No. You don't want them to be hers.

But as you watch on, it's obvious they are. You don't understand what they're saying, since it's all in Hedotic and you're almost out of earshot, anyway, but you don't have to. It's all over Talia's face, in her tone, in every gesture and touch she makes. So loving, so tender.

Your heart aches as you watch her run her hands over their hair like she'd done yours when you were little. When she'd still loved you. Or pretended like she did, anyway. You're not sure which it was, and it doesn't really make a difference. Those times are long gone.

Your shaking hands curl into fists as the hatred inside you grows, demanding an outlet.

Not enough that she abandoned you. No, she fucking replaced you. With these boys, who no doubt are nicer, better behaved, less prone to meltdowns. You'd always known you weren't good enough, too difficult to be considered worthy of her love.

Xaden spent years trying to convince you it hadn't been your fault she left. He and Dad loved you despite your faults, wasn't that proof enough that you weren't unlovable like you thought? Sometimes, you almost believed him. After all, your mother had abandoned not only you, but Xaden, too — flawless Xaden, who you'd always been aware was your parents' favorite, who always had to serve as your good example when you acted out. Not even he had been enough to make her stay, so you'd let him convince you that maybe the problem really wasn't you. Maybe there was something wrong with her. It was easy enough to pretend so; she was gone, and memories blurred with time.

But now here she is, playing the loving mother for these boys, so it must have been your fault after all.

You stalk closer, unsure what you'll do when you reach them. It won't be pretty, that's all you know. You feel like a predator advancing on its unsuspecting prey.

Just a handful of steps and you'll be right behind them, and they still haven't noticed you.

Mom. The word is on the tip of your tongue, but you can't get it out. It feels too wrong. She will always be your mother, there's nothing you can do about that, but she stopped being your mom the moment she disappeared into the night without so much as a goodbye.

You still remember how you'd woken up that morning, happy and unsuspecting. You remember Xaden, who'd been awake earlier than you, sitting over his untouched breakfast — chocolate cake, left over from his birthday the day before. You knew something was wrong then, and that it had to be serious. There wasn't much that could kill Xaden's appetite, especially when it came to cake. You remember how you hesitated, slowly walking to the table and sitting down, not sure you wanted to know. Finally, you gathered your courage and asked what had happened.

"Mom is gone," Xaden had responded glumly, shoving his untouched plate of cake to you and rising from the table.

"Gone?" you'd asked, briefly wondering if he meant gone as in dead. Adults sometimes talked that way, but you didn't think Xaden would. "Gone where?"

"Away."

Xaden had stomped off to his room — to cry, presumably — and you dug into the cake he'd spurned, vaguely angry with Talia for making your big brother so sad, but still thinking that surely she would come back after a few days at most.

Her absence hadn't sunken in for you right away the way it did for Xaden. You missed her, sure, and you were upset, yes, but that was mostly because Xaden was upset.

Your mother had always been there, so it made no sense to you that she shouldn't be anymore. That she should have abandoned you seemed as absurd as the idea of water not being wet, or fire being cold. Children and their parents belonged together, that had always been a simple fact to you. Therefore, it wasn't until a few weeks had gone by that you were able to believe that she wasn't coming back.

Then you started to wonder why, and it didn't take long to come to the conclusion that it must have been your fault somehow. It always was. When she was unhappy, or tired, or had a headache, when something broke or there were chocolate smudges on the window; it was always because you had thrown a tantrum or refused to go to bed, because you had been too loud, too clumsy and careless. In your parents' eyes, you could never do anything right. Talia especially had always seen right through all your attempts of being good, of being like Xaden, straight to your rotten core. For as long as you remember, you always felt that something was fundamentally wrong with you, and your mother knew it, too. She never said so, tried not to show it, but she must have felt it, or she wouldn't have left.

And it's true, there has to be something wrong with you. Otherwise, you wouldn't be slinking toward the wholesome little group like a wolf amongst sheep, mind racing with bloody scenarios. You should be happy to see her, not want to throttle her.

You're close now, a step or two more and you'd be close enough to reach out and touch your mother's back, should you want to. You still have no idea what you want to say or do when she notices you, if you'll even be able to get any words out or if the rage will take over like it did this morning.

You hesitate. It might be better to turn away now, before it's too late.

That's when one of the boys notices you, tapping his mother's — your mother's — arm and saying something in Hedotic, wide eyes on you.

You can only imagine what you must look like to these people, who have only ever known peace. The raised scar running along your collar bone that Dioghal gave you at Threshing is on full display with your flight jacket unbuttoned, the array of weapons strapped to your body glinting in the sunlight. You wonder if the boys have ever seen a blade before, kitchen knives aside. You don't think so. Not with the way Talia and the maid were fussing over them, like they're precious little treasures that need to be wrapped in silk and kept safe. So unlike you and Xaden, discarded to be forged into deadly weapons in the fire of war.

Talia turns, gasping in surprise to see it's you standing there, you, who she'd certainly noticed separating from the group that morning.

A tentative smile touches her lips. She takes a step toward you, hand raised as if to cup your cheek, but falters at your hard expression. Still smiling, but less so. She's nervous, probably struggling to see the pathetic child you were in the soldier before her.

"How nice that you could join us after all. Xaden's girlfriend said you wouldn't, that you had to monitor the area. I'm so glad—"

"I didn't," you cut her rambling short. It's only half a lie. Xaden sent you patrolling mainly to distract you, so it wasn't like you'd had to do it. "I just didn't want to see you."

You thank Dunne that the words come out just as coldly as you intended them to, despite the tears wanting break free again.

Your mother flinches, and the smile falls.

Good. How dare she talk like that, after being gone for almost two thirds of your life? Is she really that ignorant of what pain she caused you, or does she simply believe she's entitled to your forgiveness? Whichever it is, she'll know better soon.

"You abandoned me," you say before she can recover from the shock of your words, which should not have shocked her at all — wouldn't have, if she'd ever cared enough to truly know you. You've always held onto your grudges, clung to them, really. "Abandoned us. Does that mean nothing to you?"

You assume the whelps don't understand the common language — it's only common to the Continent, after all. A shame, really. You want them to know their mommy isn't as perfect and loving as they probably think, to know she's already left a pair of her children behind without looking back once and there's nothing stopping her from doing the same to them.

"Of course it does," Talia exclaims, "but you have to understand—"

"I don't have to understand shit!"

Dragons don't listen to sheep, that's what Dioghal would say.

"I didn't want to leave you behind, but I couldn't take you with me," Talia continues to defend herself. "Xaden was the heir, and you..."

You're the spare, that's what she's too cowardly to say. She should have thought about that sooner. Of course she couldn't take either of you from Tyrrendor, that would have defeated the point of your very existence. She knew her children would have to grow up in Aretia when she married your father. Was she planning to abandon you even then, years before you were born?

"I couldn't bring you!" she repeats.

The tear that runs down her cheek only make you angrier. What right does she have to cry?! It's your and Xaden's lives she ruined, while she was here playing house with her oh so lovely new family. It makes you want to turn the whole place to rubble. To climb onto Dioghal and torch it all, force Talia to watch her neat little house burn the way you'd had to watch Aretia burn. To take away the happiness she'd found while you were suffering.

"You could have stayed!" You meet Talia's eyes for the first and last time and repeat yourself more quietly, "You could have stayed."

Then, faster than Talia could ever hope to comprehend, you grab the younger boy by the shoulder, ripping him away from her and setting a dagger at his throat in the span of a second.

"No! Gaius!" she shrieks, color draining from her face. "Don't hurt him!"

Her fear is both gratifying and infuriating. If someone had done the same to you, would she have cared as much? You almost laugh at the thought. No, if it had been you in that boy's stead, she wouldn't have given a damn.

Talia pushes the other boy behind herself, hand clasped so tightly around his arm he winces in pain. She doesn't notice, gaze fixed on her youngest. At least you think he's her youngest. For all you know she could have more children hidden inside the house.

The maid shuffles backwards with tiny steps, as if you won't notice what she's doing that way. She's still well within knife-throwing range when she turns and makes a run for the house, but you let her go. It's not her you care about, and any help she might return with will come too late. The blade is already nicking the boy's skin; one wrong move from anyone and he'll be dead.

"Please," your mother cries, "let him go! We'll do anything you want. My husband is part of the triumvirate, he can give you whatever information you want, just don't hurt our boy!"

She thinks you're doing this for information? Things must've not gone well for the others so far, then, a realization that only adds fuel to the burning rage inside you. Doesn't she care at all what happens to you and Xaden, not even enough to put in a good word with her husband?

You shake your head, lips curling in disgust. Does she have no spine or dignity at all?

"The only thing I want is for you to suffer. And since you seem so attached to these boys, killing them will be a good start. You think I'm just taking this one hostage?" You laugh, the resulting sound harsh and ugly in a way that sounds foreign to your ears, not like you at all. "No. I'll make you watch me slit both their throats just for fun."

"They're children!"

"So were we!" you scream, voice breaking as you finally lose control of the tears you've been wrestling with for hours. "We were just children too when you decided you didn't want us anymore and fucked off without a word! You think that doesn't do anything to a child, being abandoned like that?!"

"You had your father!"

"Until we didn't," you bite out. "But that's not even the point! The point is that you pretended to love us while you had to put up with us, and then as soon as you could, you ran away behind our backs like the coward you are. Would it have killed you to tell us you were leaving, to give us a chance to say goodbye?!"

As you speak, you give the boy in your hands a shake, your dagger scraping his skin ever so slightly. He cries out for your mother, who is staring at the blade against his neck with such intense concentration you doubt she heard a single word you said. You don't know why you even bothered.

She says something to the boy in Hedotic — hopefully to calm him. She would have to be an even bigger fool than you thought to believe he could escape you.

"Please don't hurt him," she sobs again. "Do what you want to me, but let Gaius go!"

As if. Killing your mother is still on the table, but for now, watching her fear for her son's life is much more satisfying than the brief pleasure of putting a knife into her would be.

If only you could stop crying. Talia is not worth your tears, and you hate letting her see you cry, hate giving her that power over you. Crying in front of people has always felt humiliating, like a display of your lacking self-control. And crying in front of your mother now, after all the time that's gone by since she left, really ruins the picture of the cold-blooded soldier you want her to see. You want the thought of what the innocent child she left behind has become to haunt her — a futile hope, probably. If she cared, you wouldn't be in this situation.

Shouts from the direction of the house alert you that others have become aware of what's happening, but your eyes never stray from your mother's panicked form. For better or worse, she has your undivided attention.

You should do it now. Drag it out much longer, and whoever is coming from the house might manage to stop you. Peaceful place or not, they would be fools not to have some sort of security personnel. You could probably take them on, but that would mean letting the boys go, and that is not happening. They're the ticket to Talia's personal hell.

From the corner of your eye, you see Xaden approach. He moves carefully, the way you would around a corned animal, and stops a dragon's length away.

He calls your name, so softly you almost miss it, and cautions, "Don't do something you'll regret, baby."

"What difference does it make? She's always looked at me like I'm some sort of monster, so I might as well prove her right."

It's stupid to be acting like this, you know. It's Xaden who will turn into an actual monster if you don't find a way to cure him. You're not going to get any closer to doing that by throwing pointless tantrums about things no one can change. But you've never been good at regulating your emotions. Even when you were little, your anger always consumed you. You thought you'd gotten better — you'd had to. All the power that comes with being a rider is dangerous in the hands of someone with the emotional stability of a toddler, so you'd worked hard on learning better self-control. Using sparring sessions to work through your feelings, you now usually manage to avoid the violent outbursts you were prone to as a child. But there is no coping mechanism strong enough to save you from the sheer hatred for your mother that has festered inside you for almost fourteen years, the embers of the despaired rage from when she'd left reignited into the burning flames they'd been when the pain of her departure was still fresh. The moment you saw her, the rage overwhelmed you the way it always had.

"It's not about her," Xaden reasons. Can't he see you're beyond reasoning? "It's about how you will feel once you've calmed down."

"Better, that's how I'll feel!"

But even in your frenzy, the tiny part of you still capable of rational thought knows that's not true. Never once have you actually felt better after one of your outbursts. You always think you'll feel better after you let it out, but every time you're left drained and ashamed instead, picking up the pieces.

One time — you must have been about eleven — you'd broken Xaden's snow globe, which had been a gift from your mother, in a rage. You'd felt horrible afterwards, and not just because he refused to speak to you for more than a week. After that, you'd promised yourself you wouldn't lose control of yourself like that ever again. Keeping that promise had been impossible, but the memory almost makes you halt. It's never too late to change, right?

But then your gaze falls back onto your mother — the same mother who'd thrown you away like an old toy she no longer wanted, never looking back, never caring what became of you in the rebellion or the impending war, now so keen on protecting these boys — and the hatred wins out.

"What makes them worthy of the love she denied us?" you demand of Xaden, not really wanting an answer. If she ever loved you at all, she has long stopped doing so. If there is a reason for it, it doesn't matter. "Why does she get to be happy with a new family while we had to suffer and fight for our lives every day for years?"

Without waiting for a response, you turn your dagger so that instead of the edge of the blade being lined up with the boy's throat, it's the tip that presses against his fragile skin.

For a moment you stare at your mother and wonder how it has come to this. Her desperate pleas mix with the boys' crying and the frantic voices of your squad, fading into the background until all you can hear is the racing of your own heart.

Then the dagger pierces skin. You sink it in to the hilt and yank sideways, slitting his throat wide open in a move you've practiced hundreds of times on the mats of Basgiath's gym. Never would you have thought that this would be how you'd come to use it for real.

Talia wails, lurching forward, and you shove the body into her outstretched arms. A fountain of blood sprays over your hands and your mother.

She cradles the boy to her chest, crying and blubbering words you're too far gone too understand. Maybe it's Hedotic. She's focused entirely on the life you already took, and that's her mistake. She doesn't notice you sidestepping her to get to the other boy, who stands frozen in terror, until it's too late.

He screams in fear as you advance on him, lifting his arms in an attempt to fight you off, but of course he doesn't stand a chance. If he'd ran while you were killing his brother he might have made it into the house. As it is, they're about to be reunited.

Talia screams again, even louder than before. "Simeon!"

She gets to her feet just as you stab the boy straight into the heart. Through the haze of your own tears, you watch as she catches his falling body and sinks to the ground with him, wailing all the while.

There's a blur of movement, and then someone's arms are around you, pulling you back against a strong chest. He holds you tightly, like he expects you to resist, squeezing your arms against your ribcage in a way that would be painful if you weren't so detached from your own body. Someone else takes your bloodstained hand into their own, prying your fingers apart to take away your blade.

You let it all happen, numb to the world.

People are shouting, hectically buzzing around. None of it registers. Your vision blurs, not with tears this time, but simply going unfocused. You barely feel the hands turning you to face away from it all. Now that your anger has run it's course and is wearing off, there's nothing left in you but the deep underlying despair you've long gotten used to.

You vaguely realize it was Xaden holding you as he lets go, stepping to your side and wordlessly leading you toward the ocean, where the dragons are waiting. You hadn't even noticed them returning.

As you walk, your head starts to clear, and you slowly become aware of yourself and your surroundings again. The way the sand shifts under your boots with every step. Warm blood dripping from your fingers, the heavy smell of it mixing with that of the sea. Your brother's hand, strong and steady against your back.

You're glad he doesn't take it away, even when you reach the dragons. If he did, you might just crumble under the weight of what you have done.

You keep your eyes trained on the sand beneath your feet, not wanting to see the horrified looks on everyone's faces. There can be no doubt they are horrified, after what they just witnessed. Even you are disturbed by your own actions. The uncontrollable anger might have been an almost constant companion for most of your life, but never before had it driven you to kill someone.

In the heat of the moment, you'd only seen the boys as tools to hurt your mother, but now it sinks in that they'd been people of their own. Children. Innocent. It hadn't been their fault that Talia replaced you with them. Now they're gone, and you can't take it back. You're not sure you want to, and that scares you most of all.

You look back only once. When you do, Talia still kneels in the blood-soaked sand where you left her, sobbing over the bodies of her youngest sons. Part of you thinks you should have finished the job and killed her too, but another, crueler part buried deep inside you whispers it's just right this way. This way, she'll suffer far more, for far longer. Then, viciously, you wonder if that's true. It was so easy for her to replace you and Xaden with these boys, who's to say she won't replace them just as easily? She probably is not yet too old to get pregnant again. Well, let her. No matter what she does, she'll have to live with the memory of their deaths, of her own helplessness in the face of your righteous fury. You hope it haunts her till the end of her days.

When Xaden stops walking, you do, too. Some of the others are rushing back into the house to get their things, but Xaden doesn't leave your side. Taking your rucksack from you, he digs through it until he finds a towel, and leads you to the edge of the water to clean the worst of the blood off you. Neither of you speaks a word while he does so.

You just stand there, staring into space while the past hours replay in your mind over and over again. The bloodshed could have been avoided, you think numbly, if only you had stayed in the air a few minutes longer. If you hadn't landed just when Sgaeyl roared, the boys would have been safely inside the house, and you would've never even known about them.

Finally you drag your gaze up from the ground to look at your brother. You're not sure what you expect to see on his face — disappointment, anger, horror... some sort of negative reaction to the atrocity you just committed, certainly. But you find neither. Instead, he's gazing at you with affection and worry you do not deserve. The look he gives you is almost like he understands, like he might have done the same. But that's absurd. Xaden would never throw a fit like that, would never let his anger out on innocents. He's the sane one of you two, the responsible one. He never would have risked the mission— Oh gods, the mission!

"I'm sorry," you whimper. "I ruined everything."

He shrugs, like it's not a big deal. As though you broke a tea cup or maybe a window, not ruined international relations forever by murdering innocent children. "They weren't going to be much help anyway."

"What if they know something that could help us and now we'll never know? It'll be my fault if— if—"

...if Xaden fully succumbs to the dark, is what you mean, but can't say so when you're not sure who might hear. As the isle of wisdom, Hedotis is the most likely to know a cure, isn't it? But thanks to you, there's no way any of you will be welcome here again, no way of being given access to their collected knowledge.

Your brother shakes his head, brushing a tear off your cheek. "They don't have magic here, so it's unlikely they know anything that would help us. Even if they did, they didn't give the impression of wanting to share their knowledge, regardless of your behavior. And they don't have an army they could aid us with, either."

He's just saying that to make you feel better.

They don't need to have magic to have information about magic. And information is something the people of Hedotis surely hoard. Aaric, Violet and Xaden are good at this whole diplomacy thing. They would have managed to make some kind of bargain and learn something useful if you hadn't fucked everything up.

They should have left you at home, never let you near anything or anyone important. Your mother was right, you're nothing but trouble. It would've been better for everyone around you if you'd never been born.

"I didn't want to hurt anyone," you whisper. At least you don't think you did. You certainly hadn't wanted to want to hurt anyone, which basically comes down to the same thing... doesn't it? "I just— I was so mad at her, and— They were right there and all defenselessness and—"

"I know," Xaden soothes, running a hand over your hair. "I know, baby. You don't have to explain yourself. I'm not judging you."

"You should, though! I— I'm—"

By now you're crying too hard to continue speaking.

"Shh, it's alright. You're not a monster," he says, somehow guessing what it is you'd meant to say. "You're just upset."

You certainly are, but that doesn't excuse what you've done.

Despite what he might think, Xaden's lack of concern about the matter is far from reassuring. Not that you want him to be mad at you, but his complete disregard for the lives you took makes you wonder if maybe he's already lost more of his humanity than you knew. But no. Surely he's just pretending not to care to your benefit. How could he be a soulless venin when he's looking at you so gently, soothing you just like he had so often when you were children and your parents didn't have the patience to deal with you? Venin or not, he's still a better person than you have ever been.

"Mom was right," you say, and immediately cry harder. Now you've done it, now you've called her that after all. "She always knew something was wrong with me."

"Nonsense," Xaden starts, but you don't let him speak. Now that you've started talking, the words just keep pouring out.

"I shouldn't be like this. I shouldn't be so mad at her, because it was my own fault she left. She never would have left if it wasn't for me. You were perfect even as a child. All I ever did was throw tantrums and cry." You manage a self-depreciating laugh between sobs. "Still do, apparently. I can't even blame her for wanting to get away from me, I'm just sorry you had to suffer for it, too."

Xaden takes your face between both hands, forcing you to look at him, though it's hard to make out his expression through the tears blurring your vision.

Shaking you for emphasis, he says, "It was not your fault. We've been through that a thousand times after she left, baby. There is nothing wrong with you for being emotional."

Calling you emotional is a severe understatement. For as long as you can remember, you've always been too much. Too clingy, too loud, too easily overwhelmed, too quick to cry and rage. Needy and out of control, a disgrace to your family line. Xaden can say it's not true all he wants; you know it is. And now you're a murderer too, on top of all that.

"And for k-killing those kids? Is there nothing wrong with me for that, either?" you ask angrily.

Xaden sighs. "You made a mistake. It happens. If you didn't feel bad about it I'd worry something's wrong with you, but you clearly do. It's okay. We're all capable of bad things."

You don't know what to say to that, so you don't respond.

For a few minutes, Xaden simply lets you cry. He doesn't try to calm you, doesn't scold you for breaking down. He just holds you, providing an anchor in reality and making the occasional soothing sound.

Then, someone says something. You can't make out the words over the sound of your own sobs, but the voice sounds like Violet's, and there's a note of urgency to it that gets your attention. You feel Xaden nod, and then he takes your hands, gently removing them from the death grip you're clutching the back of his shirt with, and holds you at arms length so he can look you in the face.

"I'm sorry, baby, but I need you to calm down, now. At least enough to get on Diogahl and fly. I know you're upset, and you can cry all you want later, but we really need to go. Okay? Think you can do that for me?"

You nod, even though you're not at all sure you'll be able to mount your dragon, let alone keep your seat once you're in the air. You can barely breathe.

Maybe that's okay. Maybe it would be better for everyone if you lose your seat and plummet into the sea. At least then you wouldn't hurt anyone anymore, wouldn't destroy everything you touch, wouldn't constantly disappoint those you love. Maybe they'd be better off without you. Your mother definitely was — or would have been, if you hadn't come back into her life.

"Hey," your brother's gentle voice pierces through the mess of your thoughts. "Breathe, baby. It's okay. If you can't fly—"

"I can," you croak, wiping your face with your sleeve. More tears are still falling, but you manage to trap the sobs inside, at least.

A glance toward your mother's house shows what brought on the hurry to leave: guards are coming. You knew they had to have some, but there's no triumph in being right. Forcing a deep breath, you swing your rucksack onto your back and tighten the straps with shaking hands. Meltdown or no meltdown, you can fly. You have to. You refuse to be responsible for even more bloodshed.

"That's the spirit," Xaden praises, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. "Try not to think too much about what happened. Just remember there's more to you than that anger, and that I love you, even if Mom doesn't. You're not evil."

"Okay. I'll try." The guards are getting close; you really have to hurry now if you want to avoid them. "Love you too."

Xaden waits until you've made it up Dioghal's leg; only then does he run to Sgaeyl, taking his seat as the others climb into the air. You get away just in time, and with your brother's words in mind, you hold on tight and don't look back.

#xaden riorson x sister!reader #xaden riorson #xaden riorson x reader #xaden riorson imagine #fourth wing imagine #fourth wing x reader #platonic #platonic reader insert #sibling!reader #riorson!reader #marked!reader

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thaltro · 4 months ago

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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

#nightwatch au #utmv #sans au #ink sans #undertale au #utmv au #it’s complicated #im not mad at anyone #I just don’t want people to make assumptions based on pre-existing fandom tropes #nightwatch is diffrent #that sounds egotistical #but yeah

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lukolathoughts · 1 month ago

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A pound of flesh

An English Teacher’s guide

Shakespeare is staple of any good English teacher. My favourite is of course Romeo and Juliet not only because it is easy to teach and the themes of love, violence, death, destiny etc. are as just as relevant today as they have always been. My fourteen year old self still emerges when setting eyes on a young Leonardo Dicaprio. He was truly something to behold as a young Romeo, excuse me as I dissociate for a moment. Ok, I’m back. There are other Shakespearean texts as a teacher that I teach including Macbeth, The Taming of the Shrew and my least favourite is The Merchant of Venice. I do not find this play terribly exciting and honestly, neither do my students until we get to one specific part. The character of Shylock demands his ‘pound of flesh’. Shylock's insistence on his legal right to the pound of flesh being in opposition to his seemingly universal plea for the rights of all people suffering discrimination. Shylock feels he is entitled to his pound of flesh and does not shut up about it in fact. But what happens to Antonio if Shylock extracts the pound of flesh? It isn’t a good outcome I’ll say that.

ZG, where are you going with this? Well, today I want to touch on some similarities between literature and astrology in relation to our lovely main characters and adjacents. Yes, we are all fed up and tired of these incessant people and their crazed sub-fandoms. I am firmly still sat on the lido deck with my margarita partying like it’s 1999. The Sag awards was a glorious evening and one which us Lukola’s are holding onto with a death grip. We know what we saw, and we have receipts, and no one is taking that away from us or Luke and Nicola. Even a bit of sneaky half-hearted PR misdirection in the days after will not sway us. Nicola, you can call him your ‘buddy’ as much as you want, but in my opinion buddies don’t look at buddies that way. Luke had literal heart eyes when gushing over ‘Nic and I’ and Nicola looks at Luke like the sun rises and sets with him. So no, to put it bluntly, I ain’t leaving.

Tarot Talk

In tarot there is a card called the six of coins. ‘The Six of Coins is a tarot card that represents giving and receiving, generosity, and compensation. It can indicate a time when you are either receiving help or providing assistance to others’. (https://colibritarot.com/cards/six-of-coins-tarot-card-meanings/0). In the rider-Waite deck, the card depicts a man handing out gifts to two small children, one on either side. He is holding a scale of balance. This card has often appeared in my readings of the relationship between Nicola and Jake especially. I will touch on Luke and Antonia later, as I feel they have darker themes, but in essence in my opinion Luke offers the same things to Antonia as Nicola does to Jake. Money, success, fame, connections, materialism. I find it fascinating that these two younger adjacents are represented often in my readings as the two children in the six of coins card and they are receiving ‘payment’ from an older person in some obvious authority and higher status. Do not misinterpret my words for implications of prostitution or such things of that nature. What I simply see is an exchange of contract to balance the scales.

But at what cost does this come to Nicola and Luke? What happens to them when this ‘pound of flesh’ that is demanded from the adjacent is fully extracted? It has already taken some toll as we can infer from Luke’s demeanour and behaviour at the Boss event in January. I have mentioned previously Antonia’s energy is like that of a succubus and anyone with a working set of eyes can see the stark difference in photos of him at Boss with Antonia in comparison to his photos and video evidence with Nicola at the Sag awards. It is like night and day, and I mean that literally. When he is with Nicola, Luke is like a ball of light. He cannot help it. She cannot help it. Nicola shines out her light and Luke reflects it back and out the world. I feel sad for those who genuinely can’t see this. But I do think a lot of people saw it at the Sags and it made a lot of people very bloody nervous. Including Luke and Nicola themselves.

As I was writing this blog last night, I noticed the notifications pinging on my discord and yes my friends, that only means one thing. New pap photos from People magazine. With a weary sigh, I opened the chat to see new People Magazine photos of lo and behold - a miserable looking Luke with a scruffy looking Antonia. Major eye roll again. I’m not sure what narrative they are going for at the moment, but this once again proves my point in this blog that Luke looks like he’s had the soul sucked right out of him or like he’s seen a ghost and Antonia is nonchalantly skipping along like she just rolled out of bed. The comments under the People Magazine Instagram post are brutal and I cannot imagine why Luke is allowing repeated hits to his image, brand and credibility for some girl who he appears to not even like. There must be a good reason. It is not love. We know what Luke looks like when he’s in love and this isn’t it. What ultimately does Antonia want from Luke and is he able to give it?

Jakey boy

Let us touch on Jake’s play A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennesse Williams. As most of you know I teach drama as well and I as part of my own studies of Drama and teaching, I know Tennessee Williams very well. I was shocked to hear that Jake had landed the leading role of Stanley. I furrowed my brows and thought hmm. Jake is quite young to play Stanley. You need a lot of ferocity and brute physical prowess, as well as being intimidating. But I thought, we’ll give him a chance. He obviously did well in his audition to land the part, right? Well, in an interview Jake did with Exposed Magazine on 5th March 2025, not only Jake seemed shocked he had an audition for the part, but he also seemed even more shocked he actually go it. What flummoxed me was Jake’s ignorance of who Tennesse William’s was and the fact he had never heard of the play. I’ll just give you a bit of context. In the UK you can’t just rock up to drama school age eighteen and hope for the best. At age fourteen you must start GCSE Drama in year 10. It must be one of your options to sit exams in year 11. I know for a fact at 16 I was taught A Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller and The Crucible. You study Naturalistic Theatre by Stanislavski. Miller and Williams are good playwrights for this both being American and writing plays that are naturalistic in performance. This ultimately means that the audience is watching a real performance. Actors do not break the fourth wall. After you pass your GCSE Drama, you can either go on to A Level Drama that is further study of playwrights – definitely Tennessee Williams or you can do BTEC Acting or Performance Studies at Post – 16 college. These are less focused on the study of plays, but they are still definitely studies of practitioners such as Brecht, Stanislavski and Artaud etc. My point is, Jake would have had to have do these qualifications to get into drama school where again you study practitioners and playwrights. It is what I had to do to even get an audition at my university. Some Jakehole on X accused me of being ridiculous for implying that Jake would have read every script and playwright going. That is not what I am saying. What I am saying is, he should have heard of Tennesse Williams. He should have known who Marlon Brando as the original Stanley was. Why did he bring artist Jackson Pollock into it? Who advised him on that? Stanley is a Polish immigrant, wife beater and alcoholic. I get that Pollock had some of these traits, but he was flipping rich and highly educated in art schools.

If Jake was so ignorant of the play and his character, then how in the holy moses did he get the part? This is the most half – assed answer to an interview I have ever come across. I hope Nicola was seen disappearing into a hedge somewhere like Homer Simpson. “I don’t know, if I’m honest. I was surprised when I got to audition for the part, and even more surprised when I got the part. I hadn’t seen Streetcar before, so I didn’t have a relationship with it prior to rehearsing at the Crucible.” Jake Dunn. As his mentor, and that is what I firmly believe Nicola is, I bet she was silently livid. It’s no wonder she’s barely said anything about the play. But wait a minute, maybe Jake got the part because he’s such a good actor? Right? Right. Well, not according to most of the reviews that came out last week absolutely slating the kid. “Jake Dunn has the honed torso, surface swagger and below-the-surface anger required of Stanley, but not the sheer brutish charisma. More neighbourhood yob than full-blown Brando, he lashes out at Stella, hurls plates around in explosive bursts of fury and, in the climactic rape scene, is almost comically reptilian as he crawls onto the bed in his strange satiny pyjamas.” On Magazine. Cut to me snorting my coffee everywhere. And this is just one review my friends. What are the reviewers implying?

Did Jake land the role by sheer dumb luck? I find this next point quite hard to write as I want to be clear that I am not accusing Nicola of anything, especially not nepotism. But it has been alleged that Nicola has some connections to the Crucible Theatre and a friendship with the director. That is all I am saying. What cost do these reviews and Jake’s general attitude have towards Nicola’s overall reputation? What cost is that Jakola narrative having on Nicola? Every time I google Nicola; several articles insist that Jake is her boyfriend. I have a few theories about why Nicola has not set that record straight, one being she does not feel she has to, and she will not publicly out her friend without his agreement. In my opinion, Jake is open about his sexuality, and it is clear if you look through his Instagram account.

Astrology

Last Saturday, the fandom went up in arms after Becky from Jake’s friend group posted a Tik Tok video to her public Instagram of the air bnb details for a stay in Sheffield. I was again confused by this act, because who in their right mind makes a TT video of air bnb details and posts it publicly? I was completely baffled. It was deleted almost immediately, but not quick enough. It had the address details on it and the WIFI details. Uh oh, Becky’s in trouble. Also, the video featured a picture of Jake wearing “I love my Irish girlfriend” t shirt with Nicola’s face on it. Lukola FBI were quick and we learned it was an old t-shirt of Camilia’s and the ‘Jecky’ gang was going to be in Sheffield for St Patrick’s day. But the real question was, where was Nicola? Had her safety been compromised by these idiot twenty-somethings? As of this moment there is no evidence that Nicola was there. Nicola has had to suffer through Jake’s performance at least twice, I am hopeful she did not have to endure a third. Why did this anger me so much on Saturday? I felt like Nicola’s image was being used a joke. The ‘Jecky’ friend group are trolling the fandom at this point, and they all think it’s hilarious that their gay friend that has more boyfriends than I’ve had cooked dinners in 2025, is dating Nicola Coughlan. Also, if she was with them, Nicola’s safety was possibly compromised just like Luke’s safety had been in Sorrento. Us Brits do like to ‘take the piss’ as I have stated previously, but who are the ‘Jecky’ group taking the piss out of at this point? Us, Jake or Nicola? Is it even funny anymore?

What I find most interesting from the weekend was Dylan Brady’s post on Instagram on Monday morning. A very good reader friend of mine pointed this out to me after I had discussed with her the image that Dylan took and posted of Jake stood in front of the Crucible Theatre. What stood out to me initially was the bright full moon being revealed behind a rolling cloud. The moon is bright and clearly visible. The Moon card in tarot often comes up in relation to Nicola and Luke and the adjacents. “The Moon is fundamentally a card about misunderstanding. Something remains unclear, making it hard to discern fantasy from reality.” To me the card signifies illusion, and I find it fascinating that Jake is pictured standing in front of such a visible full moon. The full moon last weekend was also a blood moon. There are two other Blood Moons following on September 7th 2025 and March 3, 2026. A total lunar eclipse is often called a Blood Moon as the Full Moon turns a reddish colour during totality. “These three Blood Moon Eclipses will tell a story, a story that usually involves some sort of shedding and release. Blood Moons tend to strip away all that is unnecessary, forcing us to peel back the layers to a greater truth.” (Forever Conscious.com). How interesting that Jake is stood in front of a blood moon on Saturday 15th March. So, could it be Jake’s full eventual truth will be revealed by 3rd March 2026? Did I just hear a collective groan from the Lukola’s? Don’t tell us we have to wait another year! Well, this is Jake’s truth, it has nothing to do with Nicola. She is not pictured here; she is not in Sheffield. Dylan (Jake’s rumoured boyfriend) took the photo.

Another interesting point to note is the statue of Mercury that is pictured above Jake’s head. “Sheffield Theatres today announce the reinstallation of the Lyceum theatre’s famous statue. On Monday 22 July, the figure of the Roman messenger god Mercury – affectionately nicknamed by theatre staff as ‘Freddie’ – was reinstalled atop the dome of the Lyceum Theatre.” (Sheffield Theatres.co.uk.) Mercury is the Roman God of financial gain, commerce, eloquence, messages, communication (including divination), travellers, boundaries, luck, trickery, and thieves; he also serves as the guide of souls to the underworld and the "messenger of the gods". (Wikipedia). The words that are standing out to me are ‘messages’, ‘financial gain’, ‘trickery’. It is in my opinion that the real story of Jake Dunn is this photograph, it is who he is and the person taking it. Mercury is the messenger, and this photograph is sending a clear message. I’m not sure if Dylan is aware of astrology or the moon, but he was definitely intentional in posting this picture with a red love heart no less. He is basically screaming the truth, but certain people still aren’t listening.

It is interesting to note that Mercury was known for his promiscuous nature and for having many lovers and wives. He was not tied down to any one person. I often get this from my readings of Jake and that is why it hard for us as a fandom to pinpoint a definite lover for Jake. He is 25 (too old for my beloved Leonardo Dicaprio), but still young enough to sow his wild oats and live! I was doing the same at his age. If the Jakeholes honestly expect this young actor, with very little life experience to be an eligible match for our Nicola, you are sorely mistaken. Jake is no Lord Debling. It is in my opinion a relationship of transactions. Nicola helps Jake with his career and in exchange he gives her a plausible way of hiding her actual relationship. It is very clever, but no doubt extremely draining by this point for all parties involved.

So how will this saga end? Will Jake and Antonia take all they can from Nicola and Luke until there is nothing left? Will they successfully extract their pound of flesh? What will become of our Eros and Psyche? I wish I knew my friends. I wish I had all the answers. I am unfortunately not psychic, and I cannot predict what Nicola and Luke will do. What I absolutely do know is that we must not blame them in any way. They are human beings, and they are navigating things as best they can. All we can do is be patient, watch and listen and not try to extract our own ‘pound of flesh’ from them as a fandom. Let us be hopeful for our happy ending.

For never was a story of more woe Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

#lukola #nicola coughlan #luke newton #nicluke

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trashogram · 1 year ago

Text

He Chose You (P. 7)

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

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.

***

Tag List: @crescent-z, @for-hearthand-home, @undertale-is-sansational, @loslox, @navierkalani, @yaimlight, @ivoryviness, @crystalplays28, @flowerempress, @wally-darling-hyperfixation, @altruisticradiodemon, @moonlight-readings, @halparkebitch, @charliecharlie65, @sockgoblin, @cocomollo, @caniseethefourthsword, @squeegeeclean, @crow-twink, @an-emovision, @marydragneell, @lafy-taffy, @fandom-imagines1, @loquacious-libra, @glowymxxn, @avadakadabra93, @froggybich, @hamthepan,

Please let me know I missed tagging you!

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel lucifer #lucifer morningstar #lucifer x reader #hazbin hotel x reader

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rainba · 1 year ago

Text

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? ❤️

#yandere oc #yandere #yandere male #yandere x reader #yancore #yandere fic #luka being a little silly #yandere x darling #yandere x you #inconsistent art style strikes again lmao #wait lol this is my 100th post yippe #luka art

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transmutationisms · 3 months ago

Note

i admittedly don't know much about lynch or his work; would love to hear more of your thoughts irt your last post

i've written more on lynch (mostly twin peaks) in my twin peaks tag but to be very general, i think that many people who talk about his work, and i'm very much including a lot of professional writers and critics here, fundamentally misunderstand the way he uses symbolic visual language and write him off as basically making beautiful nonsense when in truth, his work generally does have very overt and deliberate meanings and arguments to it, only you do have to actually parse the role that his signs & symbols play structurally in the formation of a narrative. again being reductive and simplistic, but: most people would have a great deal more confidence interpreting lynch if they thought of him as working in a german expressionist tradition, rather than what i usually hear described as 'surrealism'—by which they really mean to denote a kind of vulgar nihilist / absurdist stance that reduces all symbols to nonsense and thus obviates the need to actually read them.

to take an example that really annoys me, i don't know if you've seen inland empire (would recommend!) but i can't tell you how many times i've seen people dismiss the giant rabbit-headed sitcom bits as "surreal", "absurdist", or just "lynchian" (this means nothing in this context). if the visual symbols of the film are supposed to tell us what environment laura dern's character is in, and are supposed to correspond 1:1 to that environment, then the sitcom bits make no sense. on the other hand, what i would propose is that lynch typically projects his characters' psychological needs, wants, and anguishes outward onto the environments they occupy, rather than configuring the environment as a thing-in-itself that impresses upon the characters. inland empire is a film about the creative (including but not limited to artistic) process. what, then, can we surmise about laura dern (im sorry i saw this film thrice & don't remember the characters' names) from the intrusion of a sitcom into her increasingly dizzying, borderline dissociative work as an apparently precariously respectable actor? analogously to the way lynch brings the formal elements of a soap opera to his idyllic PNW small town in twin peaks, the sitcom format in inland empire introduces an altered logic into a story form that we might otherwise expect to read and follow in very different ways. the rabbits that laura dern sees are not random imagery denoting generic insanity; they are deliberately chosen pieces that tell us what she fears in taking on this artistic project, and how her vision of herself and her work must articulate along the sort of formal demarcation that differentiates a hollywood production from a children's television show from a verite documentary and so forth. the rabbit sitcom is supposed to be destabilising, but not because it's random or nonsensical.

i of course wouldn't reduce lynch's entire artistic outlook to only one mode of engagement or symbology, but broadly i do think that failing to parse his expressionistic use of symbolism is at the root of a lot of responses to his work (both positive & negative) that fail to actually say anything or derive any meaning. this is how people miss the extremely glaring reaganisms of twin peaks or blue velvet, for example. these symbols are not hidden, nor are they random. the association of the demon bob with the us bombing of hiroshima and nagasaki is a visually asserted statement about evil as lynch understands it. the factory landscapes in eraserhead (here the german-expressionist influence is quite overt) don't just represent the encroachment of a modernist (derogatory) environment into the dad's family life; they are also framed & shot & dressed to be a reflection of how he perceives his work, his social reproduction via his son, and the broader social context in which he lives. again i don't mean to reduce lynch's filmmaking ethos to one single aesthetic method lol—but, this is certainly a huge constitutive element of a lot of what he did, and it matters to me both because (again there is more on this in the link above) his work is profoundly, obviously conservative in ways that a shocking number of people miss or deny—and because, despite that, i get a lot of enjoyment from his technical skill and craft as a filmmaker, specifically including the way that he uses visual language & symbols as richly articulated projections of his characters and their various trials & tribulations.

#twin peaks #<- thats just the david lynch tag now idc

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rottenpumpkin13 · 6 months ago

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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.

#ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #sephiroth #genesis rhapsodos #angeal hewley #zack fair #cloud strife #final fantasy vii #crisis core #ff7 crisis core

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qingxin-dream · 2 years ago

Text

“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.

#wrote something much darker for a change #been listening to ‘heather’ by ruby haunt💔#[opulent dreams].✿#[dreams of delusion].✿#genshin impact #genshin #genshin impact imagines #genshin imagines #genshin x reader #genshin angst #genshin wanderer #wanderer #wanderer x reader #wanderer angst #genshin scaramouche #scaramouche #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche angst

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atsadi-shenanigans · 9 days ago

Text

FSBE 24 - How to Make Friends

You report for duty.

On AO3.

More guards eyeball y’all as you trek up them stairs. You try not to read too much into it.

Swell’s meeting with another prayer group outside another set of double doors. The brainworms is all reaching out for each other here, and you’re more aware of your group than you ever been: the nerves; the cool, grim determination; the “everything smells like blood, gods, is it in the walls?”

You do your best to sink down, down into yourself. Into that quiet pool of nothing you always used to reach for. You used to think it was the lord’s mercy, his grace. His love.

You later learned it was probably a form of dissociation.

Oh, the miracles of modern medicine.

“True Soul,” Swell says when she clocks y’all. She waves a hand to dismiss the prayer group—one of them’s an ogress and an image of that fuck barn flashes in your memory and you feel Shadowheart and Gale wince. Oops.

“You dealt with the goblins quickly,” Swell says. “Not too quickly, I hope.”

Cause she’s a crazy bi—

The love of the lord. His guiding hand. All you need to do is trust it and obey.

“Show me,” Swell says.

Her brainworm grabs yours. Like the throne room, it tries to whammy you. Not a tree trunk in a storm, this time, but a storm surge. A wave of her rolling you, sinking into every crack and crevasse of your mind.

The others instinctively shield themselves, and you do your best. But she’s in there. Finding cracked riverbeds of long-abandoned tributaries. Surging through the dried-out canals of devotion, of fear and longing.

“Don’t spare me the details,” Swell says. “Let me taste how they suffered.”

Her eagerness is your own. Excitement at the prospect of pain.

Judith Engel on the stump. Mother praising you. Others, over the years when they didn’t get you on that stump first. More in your younger days before they was able to label you a (virgin) harlot. A dirty indian with primitive blood given to earthly lust.

But them times—Judith, Sarah, Rebecca, the once. When you stood victorious and glowing with righteousness.

You gasp the exact moment she hears your memory, Release them.

“You…let them go,” Swell says, something low in her voice. “Why.”

She’s harsher, this time. Claws her way through your memory. She’s searching for…for faith. For worship. And though it sickens you—literally; your stomach clenches and you swallow down a gag—you do your best to turn back time. Force yourself into childhood. Teenhood. When the lord worked through you. When you was his hands and breath and beating heart. One of his chosen, his emissary. Had only to obey and serve the lord through the Pastor , and you would be seated at his right hand while the rest of the sin-addled world burned. How you ached for that.

Can’t think about what your group is picking up on, there. Gale’s trickle of surprise and Shadowheart’s curiosity and Astarion…

“Living hands can serve,” you say. “If only as front-line fodder.”

Even you, imperfect sinner that you are, could be a vessel for the lord (or a husband) to fill. To bear children he might add to his holy army.

(you hate it hate it hate it).

Swell releases you. You do stagger, this time. Like one of them state fair rides that spin you around and around, the centrifugal force presses you so firm to the side that the panels slide up and you can barely lift an arm against it. Only for the ride to just stop and drop you onto alien feet.

“Hmm,” Swell says. “I suppose that’s practical. If far less satisfying.”

Fucking psycho.

But then two of your party fucking agree with her and these fucking people. This fucking world.

Steady, Gale thinks at you as offense roils and slops through all of you.

“The general has a task for you,” Swell says. Hoo boy, is she looking at you with scorn. Not even concealed. That shit’s right out there in the open. “There is a relic the General requires. He sent his most trusted adviser, Disciple Balthazar, to retrieve it. You should locate him underneath the Thorm mausoleum.”

Faint excitement stirs through your psychic group chat. A lead. A possibility. Oh, another crypt, how dull.

“We’ve lost contact with Balthazar, however. You are to find him and render any aid he may need. Return the relic, at all costs.”

She natters off some vague directions, something about the General’s will and a reward and faith in the Absolute. Seems bored. You can damn near taste it. Utterly disappointed with you.

“We’ll get to it,” you say.

She nods. You start to pass her, but then she says, “Did you know the Absolute grants gifts to her faithful?”

You turn. Debate lying, but that’s probably a stupid risk just now. “Oh, huh?”

“Mmm. Once you are brought into her presence, and filled with her love. She granted me the power to bring another to ecstasy.”

A sensation like a warm waterfall fills you: fluttering. Arousing. You can’t help but think of Astarion, just for a moment before crunching that down (but not before the bastard catches a slice of it and he deliberately sends a warm curl of his own into your mind).

“That’s, uh,” you say. Clear your throat. Try to ignore how hot your cheeks are. “That’s a real doozy.”

“It is,” Swell says. Looks to Astarion. Smiles.

There’s something very wrong with that smile.

“I can also use it to cut the string of life,” she says. “For those who fail our cause.”

It rushes you. Rushes past you like a freight train, passing so close the wind of it knocks you back.

Not aimed at you. Aimed behind you. Fixed at—

Astarion makes a single, strangled noise. Then pressure slams into all y’all. Horrible. Throbbing. It squeezes your brain, your lungs, your fucking blood vessels.

You make an aborted scream before your teeth clamp down—biting through the top of your tongue—and you fall to your knees—

Hold! Gale in your head. A sparkling presence, like spiced tea on a cold night. He sorta grabs you, reels you back. And you realize it’s not your pain choking you, but…but…

Astarion on the ground. Hands clawing at his head as his legs thrash. Gale and Shadowheart have to leap back to avoid the kicking. His eyes bug out. No sense in them, no thought, just animal pain, desperation, please no please master not again I’ll be good—

Steady. Gale fills your mind. Seems to reach through you to lock your knees and keep you upright.

The pressure grows. Crushing, but from the inside. God, he’s bleeding. He’s bleeding from everywhere. Eyes, ears, nose, mouth. Under his fingernails. Under his skin.

Steady. Don’t let her see you falter.

No. Please, please no. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

Another cool presence joins Gale. Throws itself over you, a heavy blanket. The world around you dims.

Astarion writhes. Flails. Leaks blood.

His master likes him to scream. He’d thought that as the fish people hurt him, when he thought it was…

He’s dying. Oh god, he’s dying.

The dark lady of loss can take away all pain and sorrow you must accept her nothingness, her merciful darkness.

Steady. That’s it. Keep breathing. Gale all but mentally holds you up.

Swell grins. Her eyes are bright. Manic. Her glee throbs through the connection as Astarion’s terror finally breaks loose. He’s dying. He knows it. Can’t stop it. Not again, please not again.

A final squeeze. Swell makes a fist with one hand. Everything in Astarion breaks all at once. The presence of him in your mind winks out. All of him just…gone. Leaving nothing.

We can revive him. Keep yourself calm.

Swell inhales like she just fucking came. Looks to you with a twinkle in her eye. “You seemed to be getting distracted, True Soul. Best focus on your duty, done properly, wouldn’t you say?”

Astarion isn’t here. His mind isn’t here. His body is a mess of tangled limbs and blood on the floor. Not moving. Not breathing. No quips, no snark, no teasing. Just…gone. You reach out, and no one answers. Because he’s not going to answer. Because he’s gone.

“Good hunting, True Soul,” Swell says. Gives you a jaunty fucking salute. And leaves.

You stand there. You do nothing. Say nothing. Everything in you locks tight. You don’t even feel. You can’t.

Astarion lies dead on the floor. Really dead. You felt him die.

And you stand there, locked down inside yourself.

#fsbe #these two shitheads #act 2 is a horror show #astarion #tavstarion #when i said act 2 was gonna get bad...#this one's rough #the next few are rough #hang in there #bg3 #bg3 fanfic

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bamboozledbird · 7 months ago

Text

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.”

#stiles stilinski x reader #stiles stilinski imagine #stiles stilinski #dylan o'brien x reader #dylan o'brien imagine #teen wolf #stiles stilinski x you #stiles stilinski fanfiction #stiles stilinksi x reader #teen wolf imagine #teen wolf fanfiction #stiles stilinski imagines

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starlitvases · 3 months ago

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Unfortunately you do have to make a post explaining what introjection is and why its bad if you don’t support it /nm /gen

Hello, let's a get a few things straight.

1) I never claimed that introjection is bad, and I never said I don't support it. The initial post this anon is referring to involves me stating that holding onto the belief that you are a literal fictional character is anti-recovery rhetoric. Either the anon misunderstood my post, or they're twisting my words, the second of which I don't appreciate.

2) I am a nursing student and am currently employed at a disability office. I know what recovery should ideally look like and what it doesn't look like. Aside from that, people more qualified than me have studied this element of psychology, and there are plenty of resources out there explaining what I'm talking about.

But since you and the original post author asked, and since I'm running on 26 hours of no sleep and don't care to wait for the morning to make this post, you'll get my explanation now. Apologies in advance if my tone sounds rude or aggressive. I don't mean to be, and again, lack of sleep may affect my tone. I'll maybe edit this after I sleep to sound nicer. Who knows.

Let's get started.

Introjection, as defined by the APA (American Psychological Association), is "a process in which an individual unconsciously incorporates aspects of external reality into the self, particularly the attitudes, values, and qualities of another person or a part of another person's personality."

Introjection is something every single human on this planet will do, even outside of dissociation. Cultural values are a good example. If you primarily grow up in a Latin American household, you may introject traditional family values, the same values your parents may display. The same goes for any culture and their own values. This occurs with fictional characters as well. Ever watch a TV show and you suddenly start using your favorite character's vocabulary? That's also introjection.

In dissociative patients, particularly those with a complex dissociative disorder, introjection is commonly found with abuser introjects. These introjects often take the form of persecutors. Here's a screen grab from The Haunted Self:

"Without the ability to mentalize perpetrators, to create symbolic representations, children may "take in," introject, the "bad" object of the perpetrators. Thus, as EPs they claim they are the abuser, and not the abused, and have the affects and behaviors of a perpetrator to varying degrees."

These introjects serve as coping mechanisms, as do all alters within a dissociative system. With these particular alters, the brain creates them to build a barrier between it and the abuse. An internal thought process may be, "if I commit violence against myself, then I'm not really being hurt because I'm doing it by choice." Various thought processes similar to the one I just outlined are used as justification for the internal abuse. Children direct blame towards themselves rather than the perpetrators because they're often told the fault of the abuse belongs to them by their abusers or even by others. To protect the child, persecutory abuser introjects may form to direct the abuse inwards as a way to make sure they're "actually at fault." Introjects are largely used to cover up an internal struggle or trauma within the self.

Fictional introjects are no exception. The thought process for introjecting a fictional character may be, "if I am [character], then the abuse never *actually* happened to *me.*" The brain may see a character that has gone through something similar to the body and grab onto said character as a defense mechanism for denial. This has been documented, however my hazy memory and 26 hours of no sleep is not a good way to hunt down the sources for this. This segment may be edited when I get some sleep.

Taking all of this into consideration, stating and believing that you are literally a fictional character feeds into the denial loop the traumatized brain has created. Denial is never a good ingredient for recovery. Recovery begins by facing what has happened to you and healing from it. Hiding behind denial prevents this process from happening. It prevents integration (the lowering of dissociative barriers), communication, and teamwork from occurring within the system, all of which are needed for healing. Hiding behind what is essentially a lie created by your brain does not help you, nor does it help your alters beside you.

I do understand that not everyone is ready to face the denial and challenege it, and thus saying/believing that you are literally a fictional character is what is keeping you alive at the moment, but the line has to be drawn when you start encouraging others to feed into the denial loop as well. Healing is done on one's own time, and spreading anti-recovery rhetoric removes that autonomy from others. I could visually see that spread in the reblogs.

That spread is the problem I had with the initial post. I never had a problem with the post being about introjection itself. My problem is that it is encouraging others to stunt their recovery when they may otherwise be ready.

Seeing posts similar to that initial post tends to prevent the process of looking inwards and figuring out what is needed in the individual. It encourages the process of looking outwards and only applying what is deemed "acceptable" within the community to oneself. I know that I personally only began to see myself and what I needed when I moved away from the community and stopped seeing anti-recovery posts. I'm sure I'm not alone in that regard.

@certified-silly-guy Here's that post! I don't have the energy to do back and forth reblog replies, so please DM if you have any questions.

#starlit speaks #dissociative identity disorder #did osdd #did #syscourse #did system #oea #ramcoa #misinformation in did spaces #misinformation #introjects #fictives #factives #fictive #factive #again no sleep so lets all be civil

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wavesoutbeingtossed · 2 months ago

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youtube

I just want to talk about how incredible the funeral skit is in the middle of the video, not just for being such a funny piece of satire but also for how it speaks to the commentary about Taylor's life AND maybe even her own rejection of it.

(jump ahead to 2:16 if you want... Sorry I couldn't get the timestamp to work in the embed.)

I know people have talked about the video as a whole and how it’s laying Taylor’s demons and struggles and insecurities bare in such a brutally honest way. And the “daughter-in-law kills me for the money” bit was so interesting, like a nod to thinking that she has this grand, over the top life and in the end she’s reduced to another body disposed of at the hands of greed.

But the daughter-in-law in the video makes me pause because when you think about it, "Kimber" kind of embodies all the things Taylor is satirizing in the video (and song), and all the things she’s been accused of and/or feels insecure about. The fake emotion and tears in front of the phone camera (your pain is manipulative). The unfathomable wealth and hoarding it for access and notoriety rather than philanthropy (greedy capitalist exploiting fans and ruining *insert thing here*). The image-obsessed princess belying a conniving schemer who will take anyone down (the ice queen crushing her competition). A woman being accused of taking down another woman (not a girl’s girl). Perpetually planting Easter eggs to convey REAL meaning (her life is a game devoid of true experience). Which, of course, I'm sure was by design.

It also feels like an example of what she later writes about in Clara Bow. Video-Taylor, particularly in the skit, is reduced to an idea, an avatar of everything people project onto her. Her imaginary daughter-in-law perpetuates this, using Taylor’s death as clout for whatever her scheme is. (Apparently, the beach house is lit.) She doesn't care about Taylor the Person, she cares about Taylor the Celebrity, Taylor the Billionaire, Taylor the Idea, Taylor the Billboard. Dead!Taylor's final wish is to turn the house into a cat sanctuary, and Kimber loses her shit because it doesn't benefit her. It's a joke, obviously, but it's also an example of her very own imaginary family seeing her as a caricature. She's there to bankroll their lifestyles and vanity projects, but they seem to have little regard for her own wishes. She's cast aside and forgotten as soon as she is no longer useful to them. (To the point where her own family member may have even offed her in the ultimate act of taking advantage of her. They've got edge, she never did.)

It’s fascinating how Video-Taylor is an interloper in all this, peeking through the casket, an audience member in her own life. She’s watching the way others see her, even if these others are supposed to be family and of all people should recognize her humanity and not her celebrity. One of her own children is even recording this private moment to mine for content in the media and building a (flop?) empire of his own off her back. It's striking to me, particularly after the bts clip where she explains Anti-Hero where she says that she struggles with not feeling like a person sometimes and I think there's an easy connection to make between that kind of dissociation and her audience-member view of her life in the skit. She watches on in horror as her own family devolves into total anarchy, fighting over money and fame and selfishness, wreaking havoc and causing pandemonium in their wake, as though she were the root of all this chaos. To quote another Midnights song, that's a real fucking legacy to leave-- but is it actually the one she's leaving?

It’s also interesting to me that the skit cuts immediately to Taylor then sitting dejectedly on the roof of the house, lonely and frustrated and depressed at once again being on the periphery of life, when all of a sudden Party!Taylor (Evil!Taylor? PopStar!Taylor?) pops up. It’s like watching someone struggle with different sides of herself in real time: the “normal” girl who’s unhappy and alone, and the “fun” girl who wants to sparkle in her hot pants and party the night away. Is it that Sad!Taylor is sitting there, fathoming what her life is going to be like if she continues to follow the path she’s on, when Party!Taylor shows up to throw a wrench in those plans and pull her out in spite of herself? And then of course Giant!Taylor rocks up at the end, the monster on the hill who isn’t all that scary after all even if she takes up so much space. Ultimately, she just wants a friend, too.

(ETA: I realize in the context of the video, Party!Taylor may also be IntrusiveThoughts!Taylor, given the previous scenes with “everyone will betray you” and the scale and the binge drinking etc. Anyway I know it’s layered.)

It ends on an, if not happy or hopeful, then at least content note? Because Sad!Taylor and Party!Taylor aren't scared of Giant!Taylor. They're happy to see her! They invite her over for their rooftop hang! They all get each other and share their vices! It's like she's saying: these are all of me and I am them, and they're all what makes me me.

There's a lot to be said about the symbolism of the video at large and specifically the skit, and though this maybe isn't even all that fair, with the benefit of hindsight, it's such a fascinating look into where her mind might have been at the time. Why does she imagine her kids as vapid and shallow and money- and image-obsessed who don't particularly seem to care for her? Why does she imagine her actions being the ones to tear her family apart, as awful as its members are? Why does she imagine she's going to be viewed as spiteful? (And finally: it is curious to me that there's no husband/father in this skit. I know why-- it was a song about her and her career and she probably didn't want to wade into that discourse or invite discussion about her partner, real or imagined-- but it is interesting how everything in the video is Mom Mom Mom. Even if Dad is already dearly or long-since departed, he doesn't seem to be much of a factor in any of this.)

The answer to much of this I suppose is that in the end, this is all fictional, in that it's her imagination (whether from an actual nightmare or a scenario she creates in her writing), and as she says in the BTS clip, she feels that as a person she needs to come to terms with all the things she doesn't like about herself to be able to exist in the world, and these were the things she might have feared about herself. It's incredibly sad that these are even passing thoughts, though on the flip side it's very brave of her to not only voice them, but turn them into art that is supremely entertaining. And in the end, at least for Video-Taylor, she's able to reconcile all of this a little bit as part of, but not all of her. Because she's not condoning the vipers in her own family; the fact that she leaves them out of the will can be seen in a way as a rebuke of their selfishness (and the perception of her own). She leaves the scene when they cause a riot because she's sick of this shit. In the end, she just wants to be a person.

#mining the drafts #writing letters addressed to the fire #anti-hero #midnights #anti-hero mv #i mean the real question is: who was feeding all this bs to her but that answer is likely more complex #whether it's the media or her detractors or her-- never mind #also i wrote most of this like six months ago #and it just sat here for nothing #i feel like there's more i want to say but i can't quite articulate it #and instead of waiting for it i'm just posting it and saying be gone lol

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marisol-holme · 10 months ago

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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.

#female writers #creative writing #writerscommunity #writers on tumblr #writer community #personal blog #professional blog #The retired good girls guide for writing

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legendofmorons · 23 days ago

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Written in the stars au incorrect quotes but I'm the only one with context for now 9

Chain: What you got there?

Reader, surrounded by two sword spirits, three feral children, alt! Ganon, Dink, and their own dark self: A smoothie!

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Chain After the Puppet! Reader debacle: I miss my wife guys, I miss them so much

Reader: Guys should I wear this inti battle?

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Wind: Legend is a little bitch and that's why you're leaving?

Reader: No

Wind: I'm going to blame him anyway :)

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Four: Finally, my turn to breakdown on someone!

Four: *has to split for the full breakdown*

Blue: Put your hand in my enclosure I don't bite. Please please please please please-

Vio: If I dissociate hard enough I don't have to remember that I'm in grief

Green: writing feelings down helps! *cries onto paper*

Red: My Love used to breathe too...

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Twilight as soon as he gets over Spooky being a predator: Kitty!!

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Wild: Thank goodness, some space to think-

Hyrule: Hello :(

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Dink: Come get your lover they have separation anxiety

Time: What did you do?!

Dink: I fed them. Come get them they're upset.

#lu written in the stars au memes

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sophieinwonderland · 5 months ago

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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.

#syscourse #psychology #psychiatry #systempunk #syspunk #pro endogenic #pro endo #science #systems #dissociation #structural dissociation #plural #plurality #multiplicity #system #actually plural #actually a system #sysblr #system things

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