#tw internment

[uncanny-tranny]

The leftism/anticapitalism leaving people's bodies the zeptosecond you imply that disabled people who aren't "productive" still matter in society and need to be treated like intrinsic equals who have a place in this world:

[monkeyfishgirl]

Excited to report asexuality's finally made it big enough to draw the ire of rat king JK Rowling 🖤🩶🤍💜

[safe-from-sharp-teeth]

[elivanto]

WOMEN OF STAR WARS: REBELS (2014-2018) for International Women's Day 2025

[beeftendergroin]

i love sports (anime)!

[morverenmaybewrites]

Domestic Arkham!Jason Todd Headcanons

Y’all ever think about the inherent tragedy of Arkham!Jason craving something as simple as domesticity? 

How he craves the comfort of home-cooked meals, but can’t actually eat anything he hasn’t prepared himself. Because during his time in Joker’s captivity, almost everything he was served was either poisoned or rotten, and now every time he eats, it’s like he’s expecting the burn of poison or the flavor of something sour and rotten flooding his mouth.

Can you imagine the frustration he must feel at his inability to share a simple meal with you? 

The sudden clench in his gut when he realizes that he wasn’t there to watch you prepare the food, and despite the fact that he trusts you, he can’t help that familiar dread rising in the back of his throat. 

Jason tries, for you, he tries. 

But there are times, more often than not, when he feels the phantom burn of poison or the flavor of something sour and rotten flooding his mouth–and his body reacts before his mind does. 

And suddenly he’s hunched over the sink or the toilet, vomiting out half-digested food, and it’s almost like he never left Arkham Asylum.

Can you imagine the absolute burning jealousy he feels whenever his family interacts with you with an ease he can only dream of? 

Maybe it’s a movie night, during one of those rare times when Gotham City didn’t need saving, and there’s Tim and Dick and Barbara piled on the couch. And you fit so well with them–a tangle of limbs and careless laughter at a dumb joke Dick made–that it’s Jason who feels like an outsider. 

Jason sits apart from all of you, the only person to pick an armchair instead of the couch, because every time he tries to sit close to someone, all he can think is whether they’re close enough to see his scars.

The table is piled high with snacks, more than the five of you can realistically eat in an evening. There’s popcorn and pizza, mozzarella sticks and pretzels, several bars of chocolate that can only be found in Bludhaven, the air is thick with the smell of grease and cheese dust. 

And it’s almost like being a teenager again. Before that night and the Joker and everything else that followed. 

It’s almost like being a teenager again, dizzy with the good fortune of being adopted by Bruce fucking Wayne, watching some dumb flick with his siblings when he was supposed to be training. Ordering takeout food and laughing along with Dick at Alfred’s visible disappointment as they stuff their faces. 

It’s almost like being a teenager again, but not quite. 

Jason watches the four of you pass around a bowl of popcorn, arguing about which genre of movie to start with. But when Barbara tries to hand it to him, he feels a sudden clot of heat in his chest, and he’s already shaking his head before he even knows why. 

And he realizes, he’s afraid. 

He doesn’t know who made the food or what restaurant it was ordered from, and he is sure if he asks, no one would be able to give him all of the names of people who handled it. 

The burn of poison and the taste of something sour and rotten flooding his mouth.

Poisoned cake and rotting rats. The writhing of pale white maggots against bone and glistening meat and gristle.

He doesn’t touch anything for the rest of the evening.

Can you imagine how scared he is? 

Jason is so acutely, painfully aware of how exhausting it is to be with him. To be with someone you can’t even share a simple meal with. 

And he wonders how long it will be before you get tired of him.

Bruce, after all, had left after he had seen the twisted thing Jason had become. 

And if his own father couldn’t even stomach his presence–

And suddenly he’s hunched over again, over the sink or against the toilet, vomiting out half-digested food. 

And it really is like he never left Arkham Asylum after all.

This is what he thinks, when he finally collapses on the tiles of your bathroom floor, cold sweat pouring down his face. Your presence hovering over him like a ghost, a thousand apologies pouring from your throat. 

But it’s not you that’s the problem, it’s him. 

It’s this awful thing in the back of his head, always expecting the next threat, the next injury, the next sick game the Joker has come up with. 

It’s the fact that his days with the Joker had left him so twisted and strange that he can no longer fit into a normal life, even when he wants to. 

And this is what he thinks, when you catch the way he is not watching the movie at all. But instead he is looking at his family’s faces, his chest pulsing with a jealousy so fierce it might as well have been his heartbeat.

Jason wishes–oh, how he wishes–it was that easy, that simple for him. 

You disentangle yourself from his siblings–Dick had already fallen asleep, head lolling heavily on your shoulder, to pad your way to him. You sink down onto the armchair to share it with him, practically on top of him, and he marvels at the way your heat dispels the chill that has crept over him. 

Your hands are small compared to his, but they are just big enough that when you lay them atop of his, he does not have to think about whether you can see the scars. 

This is what he thinks, on days like these. It is something he always thinks, a small voice in the back of his head that is never silenced.  

He doesn't deserve you. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thanks to @red--pirate for the idea!

[asexual-juliet]

band of brothers 1.06: “bastogne” / international small arms traffic blues by the mountain goats

[acynicalsweetheart]

daisuke nonconing reader omg >.<

HERIKUTSU BOY !

pairing: daisuke x fem!reader

word count: 2.5k

dead dove do not eat: 18+, smut, non-con/rape, drug use, weed, virginity loss accompanied by blood, teeny mention of non-sexual vomit at the end

author's note: hai sorry it took so long. first time ever writing for daisuke.. don’t quite think i nailed his characterisation but whatever. hope it’s not too ass. title from jun togawa hopefully got it right this time LOL. any interaction/feedback appreciated as always!!

“What about…” Daisuke scratches his chin thoughtfully, trying to come up with something that’ll impress you enough to let him get into your pants. “Is your dad a terrorist?”

You blink. Once. Twice. High as a kite. 

“‘Cause that ass is the bomb!” 

“That’s cringe.” You say totally unimpressed, rolling your bloodshot and half-lidded eyes at him, reaching over to take another hit of the bong. 

His dick is literally hard from how much effort he put into that pick-up line. And your boobs. And your really short shorts. And your pink panties that are peeking out of your really short shorts. 

Daisuke is just tryna get some, man. You’re so stubborn. Not even a crumb of pity sex. Not even a blowjob! The only thing he’s gonna walk away with is a tummy ache and a mouth drier than the Sahara desert, isn’t it? 

“Hey, you’re cringe! That was actually good. You… thought it was good, right?” Jeez, he hates how fucking high his voice goes when he raises it. Sounds so boyish. No wonder you don’t want him. 

You keep lighting the bong to take hit after hit, it’s like you think he’s annoying or something. You totally think he’s annoying. 

Daisuke would take more hits of the bong himself if he had the balls to. But he fears he’d cum in his pants placing his lips where you just had yours. Like, that would basically be equal to kissing. 

“Okay, fine.” Daisuke wipes his clammy palms on his jeans, heart falling out of his ass at the thought of you noticing the dark hand-shaped marks so he hides them with his hibiscus shirt. “How about this, it’s a new one this time.” Something less controversial, more… straightforward. Girls like that.

Blowing the smoke right in his face—when you should be blowing him—you speak slowly and flatly. “I really don’t care.” 

“Shut up, shut up—just listen…” he waves it off, clearing his throat and taking a sip of the piss-flavored Monster Energy as liquid courage. “Are you a light switch?”

Speaking before you can say no, Daisuke drops the bombshell. “Because you really turn me on.”

Oh my God. You definitely think he’s fruity. Should he take off his shirt? Okay, no, might make you think he’s trying to seduce you. Which he is. But subtlety is the best way to go, according to that one podcast. 

“Haha! Ha… Get it?” Daisuke scratches his neck nervously, petting the spiky ends of his hair in a failed attempt to comfort himself. 

…

“You turn me on?” He shrugs, palms upward like he’s trying to lift off the awkwardness weighing his shoulders down. 

“Daisuke, I’m not gonna sleep with you.” You tell him honestly, lighting the bong for the millionth time. 

At least give him credit for trying. 

“Why? You’re not a virgin.” He thinks? You’re like really freaking hot, no way you’ve never let anyone hit. “Or are you?” Daisuke wiggles his brows at you. Jokingly. He might have to die if you think he’d do that seriously. 

(He was doing it seriously.)

“No—“ you sputter, failing to exhale the smoke ‘cause you’re nearly choking on it. 

“I see what this is,” he grins, thinks he feels his balls grow ‘cause of the testosterone boost he just got. Actually might’ve been adrenaline. Uh, the sex hormone? Confidence? Whatever. “You’re scared because you’re a virgin.” Says Daisuke, who has gotten exactly zero bitches in his entire life. 

“I’m not! You are!” You’re so high you can’t even snap at him properly. Replying with a half-assed, “fuck you.”

“Yeah?” 

“No.” You groan, face palming. 

“Aw.” Daisuke pouts, about to take another swig of his energy drink that he’s pretending is beer when you absolutely keel over. Like a vase off a counter. “Woah!”

Can’t tell what, but you’re mumbling something. He hopes it’s related to banging him. A guy can dream. 

“Are you… okay?” Hands gripping your shoulders to hold you up, Daisuke tries to get a look at your face to tell what’s going on. You kind of look dead, like really fucking high and dead. 

“Mmm…” 

And sleepy. And… sexy. The straps of your tank top are falling down. Thank God for gravity. And boobs. Daisuke lays you down on the floor carefully. Props up a pillow behind your head for comfort. From where he’s sitting he can see everything. 

He’s totally staring at your crotch. 

“Sorry, I…” it’s like your pussy is made out of steel and Daisuke is a magnet. Like a fucking pervert, a trickle of drool forms at the corner of his mouth. Goodbye weed mouth, at least? “You’re… hot. I think you’re hot.” 

Did he just say that out loud? What the fuck, man? Is he on drugs? Shut up, Daisuke. 

“You don’t say.” He thinks you’re being sarcastic. 

“Well, uh,” he swallows the horny lump in his throat, “you’re gonna be alright, aren’t you? I mean, you’re not gonna… die or anything?” Please don’t die before he gets to tap that ass. 

“Nooo,” you glare at the ceiling. 

“Cool! So, then… you wouldn’t mind if I… you know.” Daisuke rolls his fingers, gesturing like a fucking clown and you can’t even see him. “Yeah, that’s, um…”

Your eyes flutter shut, cuddling the side of your face into his pillow. 

The very same pillow he sleeps on every night. Daisuke is so turned on he thinks he might spontaneously combust into pieces. Well, not entirely spontaneously, more so out of plain arousal. “Just… go to sleep. I’ll take care of you, don’t worry.”

…

“Okay, alright, sure,” he says to no one in particular, pumping his fists like it’ll give him the confidence to see this through. “Let’s… let’s do this.”

Shrugging off his button-up, he takes a few deep breaths. With shaky hands, he pulls off his shirt and unbuttons his baggy jeans that are only growing tighter ‘cause Daisuke is only growing harder by the minute. 

“I wanted to do this on my bed but… ya know.” He pulls the zipper down, sneaking glances at you and your nipples and your lips peeking out of your panties under your shorts. “I don’t really lift, heh.”

He thinks he hears you groan again. Like, a please-shut-the-fuck-up groan, not a sexy one.

“Not—not that you’re heavy or anything! God, no, I just… forget it.” See, this is why you should’ve just said yes. Could’ve spared Daisuke the embarrassment if you were kissing him right now. “It’s me, okay? I’m the one who doesn’t lift, totally my bad, uh—but you know, I play baseball so—“

“Sorry.” Daisuke looks down at the bulge and the huge dark spot on his red boxers. “I’ll shut up.”

Running his hand through his hair like it’ll alleviate his humiliation, Daisuke very carefully pulls down your tank top. Till your breasts show anyway. Man… he needs to suck those things like a fucking baby. What?

Your face is still relatively peaceful, he concludes from the frantic glances he shoots it every couple seconds. 

Next up are your shorts, takes a good struggle to get them off from how tight they’re clinging to your body. If Daisuke didn’t know any better he would have said you got them a size too small on purpose just to tease him. But he is pretty sure you hate his guts. 

Pink. Pink panties. So soft. He thinks he’s going to cum just from feeling the fucking fabric. 

Nevermind that, ‘cause Christ Almighty is your pussy perfect. 

“Wow!” He exclaims much too loud for somebody who just promised to stay quiet. Clearing his throat, Daisuke settles for a calmer, manlier: “I mean, wow.”

“Can I…” that puss has to be frickin’ magical. It’s got him under a spell for sure, “you don’t think I could have a taste, do you?”

…

“Right. Sorry.” Forgot you’re fucking asleep. Or passed out. Unconscious? Whatever’s going on. 

You’re not very wet. Damn. You really aren’t into Daisuke after all. He was hoping they were just those like, anxiety ridden thoughts that everybody gets sometimes. Wait. Everybody gets those, right? 

Right?

He wets his fucking chopstick fingers with his spit, very carefully rubbing at your pussy ‘cause he’s scared to hurt her. You whimper when he circles the bud peeking out, some of your own slickness starting to drool out of your slit. 

Daisuke’s dick twitches like it’s having a seizure, like it will physically power off forever unless he sticks it inside of you right now. 

“Oh my God.” Collecting your… pussy drool and staring at it in awe of its shininess—the fact that Daisuke is the one that induced this—he’s gotta hurry. “Sorry, I have to—I don’t wanna…” 

He has to fuck you because he doesn’t wanna cum in his underwear. It’s a miracle and a mystery how it hasn’t happened yet. 

“Okay,” Daisuke tastes your slick on his fingertips, unable to not moan at the flavor. Thankfully you’re still… you know. Not really there. So he pulls down his boxers, letting his harder-than-a-diamond dick spring free. 

It’s like, fucking leaking at the tip. 

Spreading your legs and wrapping them around his hips (which doesn’t exactly work ‘cause of how slack they are), half-failing to wrap your limp arms around his neck, Daisuke positions himself above you—bracing himself with his arm next to your head. 

You’re breathing out slow puffs of air onto his cheek as he jerks himself a handful of times before lining up with your hole. Daisuke can’t tell if it’s him or you that’s dripping fucking wet. Probably him. His cherry is so long overdue to be popped that it’s actually embarrassing. Virginity does in fact, not rock. 

After a few thrusts, Daisuke sinks inside and your walls grip his dick tighter than his fist at night, sucking him in eagerly like a vacuum cleaner. So… were you just playing hard to get all along? Your pussy is so warm he might be getting second degree burns. “Oh, yeah.”

He’s going to fucking bust.

Kind of hard to feel bad for you when you’re this pretty, when your cunt is this wet, and when Daisuke is this horny. He humps you like a dog, gasps and pants spilling out of his mouth before he can stop them. Burying his face in your neck, Daisuke gets a whiff of your perfume. 

You let out these mumbles that are kind of sounding like moans. Daisuke chuckles a little, biting and sucking on your neck till it bruises. ‘Cause it’s… hot. Also ‘cause he doesn’t want you to hear how loud he’s moaning himself. “This—this shit is fucking awesome. You’re awesome.”

And he’s close. 

Daisuke’s forearms are stinging with pins and needles ‘cause he’s essentially holding a plank above you, moving his hips and fuck all. Shit’s like a work-out. But his body moves like it’s on autopilot. Gives him this sort of understanding for dad now, for how Daisuke himself was made. A sexy damn mistake. 

Oh, boy, he’s fucking cumming. 

“Fuck,“ he hugs you closer, plowing into you harder—hitting some spongy spot inside of you. Turning him dizzy from the sound of skin slapping echoing throughout the room. So loud Daisuke can’t even hear himself moaning like a fucking female pornstar taking the biggest dick of her life, “oh, babe.”

(He wishes you were his babe.)

Balls tightening, Daisuke tenses up and cums with a groan, shooting thick spurts deep inside you. Painting your walls white for days. Your pussy’s gripping onto him for dear life. You may not want him back but your pussy sure does. Fuck, man. 

Bestest fucking release he’s ever had. Cleansed his soul by jizzing that hard. Like, opened his chakras and all that jazz. Jizz and jazz? Daisuke should totally be a comedian. 

You have to let him do this more often. Daisuke and you could go at it like, every day! Several times, too. Man, imagine the sheer abs he would get. Baseball don’t do that. He just gets these small lumps on his arms that are supposed to resemble muscles, but don’t show enough ‘cause he’s got a big-ass nasty sweet tooth. Not you this time, but actual sweets. So they’re sort of… soft. In a very not-manly way. 

Daisuke pulls out, freezing up like time’s paused. 

“Holy shit!” He looks down at the blood caked on his dick. Coating it like the condom he probably should’ve worn. Reddish-pink thick cream dripping out of your slit. “Are you on your period?” Idiot. “Or did I… did I hurt you? I mean, I don’t think I’m that big.”

…

“Sorry,” Daisuke grabs at his head, runs his hand through his hair, runs his hand over his face damp with sweat, “sorry, I just… holy shit.” He covers his mouth. Can’t take his eyes off his softening, bloody dick. 

“You really…” he feels fucking sick, forcing the bile building up in his throat back down with a dry swallow. “You really were a virgin, huh?” Thought Daisuke was the only one a virgin at his age. It’s somehow not comforting at all. 

Unless… 

“Or waitwaitwait—uh, cough once for yes and twice for no.” A beat. A sniffle? Was that him or you? “To the virgin question.”

Fucking idiot. Why would you cough? You can’t even speak! Like, can you even breathe? Oh, man, what if he killed you!? Okay, you’re still breathing. Still got a pulse. Thank God. Shit. Thought he was boutta land his ass in jail for a second. 

“I’m sorry.” Daisuke regrets not taking more hits of the bong when he had the opportunity to, ‘cause his mouth is overflowing with spit. He knows what’s coming. And it’s not a hangover one. “I didn’t—I didn’t—mean to—I didn’t know.” Heaving like he’s being strangled. Hiccups cutting off his every word. 

You whine like an old, creaky door. Tossing and turning with the subtlety of a professional assassin. What if you were awake all along? What if you were just… pretending to be asleep? ‘Cause you didn’t want to acknowledge the fact that he—that Daisuke… he can’t do this. 

“Did it hurt?” Daisuke’s blood is so cold he could very well get diagnosed with hypothermia if he went to the doctor. Stomach clenching and churning but he’s not hungry. He’s fucking sick. “Sorry… I’m really sorry.” 

Tucking his dick back into his boxers ‘cause he can’t stand the sight of it anymore, he throws himself off of you. Stumbling as he stands up on his feet, knocking over the bong in the process. You’re just laying there like a fucking ragdoll. A used and abused ragdoll. With Daisuke’s cum and your own blood pouring out of you. 

“Listen, I’ll get some painkillers and—“ shit’s fucking forcing itself up his esophagus as he speaks. It burns like lava straight from the devil’s ass. He has to fucking bail. “And… I’ll stay here till you wake up, okay?” Now. 

He doesn’t even make it to the bathroom, doesn’t reach the toilet before he fucking pukes. Bucketloads of acidy, watery yet somehow chunky shit just… falling out. All over himself. On the floor. On the toilet seat. On the carpet. 

It’s probably whatever blend of colors of his recent meal, but all Daisuke can see is your blood. Your blood and his cum coming out of his mouth. Laying there. Shit fucking moves, painting itself into your sleeping face. 

Daisuke is going to hell. 

[the-orange-solace]

When I was a child, I watched an episode of Criminal Minds where a man had a split personality. A woman who killed other women who threatened the man she formed to protect. I remember her sitting in the dark on a couch, a cigarette in hand beside a lamp, as she spoke to an Agent about why she had to kill them, that it was to protect him. It was her entire purpose for existing.

As a child, I used to pace empty halls in the middle of the night and lay in bed, repeating in my mind that I would be the only being in my body. I will not break into multiple people. I will be in control. I have to be because, at the time, I believed I could break into those monstrous plurals you see on TV. The ones that killed their family after years of neglect, abuse, and wrongdoing. The ones you should be afraid of ever becoming, no matter who you are or your situation.

So I became terrified.

And yet, nearly every night, I'd look up at the sky or the ceiling and beg for something to change—to not be alone. I was stuck pretending I was a different character, a type of escapism that sometimes got out of hand, lost in an identity that wasn't my own. Looking up and imagining being taken away, every character I adored was by my side, caring for me in return. I had to keep going, be them, and exist in a world with them.

I'd made up stories, different realities, and places in my mind to escape to, as well as explanations for things my underdeveloped brain couldn't comprehend in the place I found myself within. I clung to concepts, characters, and situations that reflected my own, and soon, I no longer felt alone—not with all the escapism I conjured up, not with the different identities to help me face what was happening.

But I was in control. I was one being. No matter what. I had to be a single being because that was good. I had to be good.

I would never hurt anyone, and being many meant being bad. I couldn't be bad.

When I was a teenager, I started researching and getting involved in minority and disabled spaces. I loved being informed, the stories, the many perspectives, and the complexity of humanity. So it was no surprise when I shared a plural headcanon with a friend, and they felt safe coming out to me. They were many. They took my hand and guided me through a community I was fascinated with and wanted to aid and represent like so many others.

I spent years learning, staying silent as others spoke, just listening to everything I could. But then, one day, like so many others, I spoke through a different facet, a different identity I had created as a child. The many faces of me represented things I could not be, I could not hold, nor could I handle. I was struggling; some of me wanted to lash out. So she did. She lashed out.

As always, I was faced with kindness, listening ears, and aid that then pushed me more to the surface from drowning. But I never left; just another part of me was lost, right? Of course. People are complex. I deal with my emotions in a complex way. Of course.

My plurally disabled friend watched as I became more comfortable speaking through the identities I had, whether they were facets of myself or characters that helped me. Soon enough, the continuous "role-play" and "emotional processing" developed into normal conversation, a comfort, a relief.

They kindly approached me and asked if I was a system, too. They had never met anyone who spoke to themselves like I do, definitely not any singlets. None of our other friends did, in person or not, not even people in our families. It was just us.

The fear from my childhood arose. I couldn't be multiple; I couldn't be more than one. It was bad. But hadn't I learned about Plurality? All its ups and downs? Its complexities and nuances? I accepted it wholeheartedly; I learned and evolved from the demonized perception I was given as a child. So, why was it still bad?

Because I must be lying; I must be a fake, a poser. It was the only reason, wasn't it? I had seen so many conversations and arguments about fakes, those who wished to be special. Had I somehow become the harm they spoke of? How could I do this to a community I swore to listen to and fight for?

I obsessed over it, forcing the panic, dissociation, habit, and ease of speaking in multiple identities and beings of myself away. I buried it as deep as I could for the betterment of everyone else. The community didn't deserve such harm, and I wouldn't bring it to their doorstep if I claimed it to be something I'm not.

The loathing became so present it formed into tics that caused aches and disruptions in my life. Multiple stressors--along with an identity crisis--will do that to someone. So my shoulder and neck muscles ached from shrugging, flexing, and all the repetitive movements I couldn't stop without crying from the suppression. So I didn't. I let it disrupt and hurt.

Then, one day, someone, some random, unknown system to me out in the world, spoke about how it didn't matter what was real or not; it didn't hurt anyone. Plurality and the belief of it didn't hurt anyone. It hurt no one to discover themselves, to test the waters, to simply pry into yourself and learn. There was no shame in figuring yourself, or yourselves, out. There was no right or wrong, nothing to be ashamed of or fearful of. Just another part of living.

So I did. I poked and prodded. I gave my parts names, spoke to them in the middle of the night, asked questions, got to know them, and learned we couldn't talk through words at first but could emotions and sensations. I realized I couldn't find where my Plurality started or where it ended, that we—oh god, we—the idea was so surreal but...comforting—were so combined, living without specific individuality outside of me that there was no separation in sight. Not that I could figure out. For so long, I believed everything was just me. Only me.

But now it was someone else, too. These things that made no sense, these things that felt out of place or special, unique, and ever-changing could be someone else.

Someone else.

The more I reflected, learned, applied, and prodded, the more things made sense. Until one day, I looked at my friends, held my breath, and spoke. Stated that it like it was a sin for me of all people to say.

I was plural.

No one blinked an eye. No one questioned it outside of boundaries and clarification. It wasn't surprising that their childhood friend was many. How surprising could it be when they used so many different names for different parts of themselves to express hard things?

It was astonishing.

And here we are, years and years later, grown and still learning, living, fighting, but more in touch with ourselves than ever before with so many more sys friends and aquatints. More experiences, a better understanding.

It's not shameful to learn, apply, and reflect. You take nothing from anyone but your time and open-minded exploration of the world and yourself(ves). There is no evil in being human, living life, phase or not. There is nothing wrong with you, any of you, for existing or living. You just are. I embrace you, I embrace us, and I embrace everything that comes with a life of many.

So, if you're struggling, just know you're not alone outside the body. We know, and so do many others. It's going to be okay; you'll find yourself in time. Don't rush it. There will always be time.

[allelitewrestlings]

[incorrectbatfam]

By the way, if you don't know already, there are marches planned across the U.S. for International Women's Day on March 8th. Check out their website to find one close to you.

[safe-from-sharp-teeth]

a bit wet, a bit loud, but it's home.

[signanothername]

Can we have a more in depth look into how you think Dream and Nightmare experience autism and how it affects them?

YESSSSS LETS GOOOOO!!!!

Ok before we start this ramble, I’d like to emphasize how important the time period Dream and Nightmare grew up in, it was a time period in which anything mental health related was immediately connected with “demons” and “possession”

I like to say that the twins are masked Autistics a lot, but in truth, I like to think they both started off without masking their Autism at all, they never saw anything wrong with the way they behaved (cause there indeed wasn’t anything wrong), they were comfortable with who they were and how they behaved, it was their normal in a world that saw it as abnormal, but it was when the villagers started getting in the picture that problems started

Nightmare experiences his Autism through his special interest in learning new things and reading books, hyper empathy, isolation, avoiding eye contact, semi-repulsion to touch if he wasn’t the one to initiate it, understimulation, extreme difficulty in understanding his own emotions (and by extension, difficulty in expressing them), generally being blunt, brutally honest and direct, and selective mutism, Nightmare mostly stims by repeating certain sounds or phrases and humming

Dream experiences his Autism through his special interest in nature (especially flowers), precious stones as well as sewing, difficulty understanding social cues, selective mutism, extreme sensitivity to bright lights (he has a love/hate relationship with the sun) and loud noises, overstimulation, low empathy, and learning difficulties especially when it comes to language, Dream tends to stim by flapping his hands or stomping his feet

Both the twins perfer to follow a routine, however, Nightmare tends to plan his days carefully, and finds any change in his routine extremely distressing to the point it can cause him to experience a meltdown if he couldn’t think of a quick solution

Dream finds a change in his routine distressing too, but his reaction is a bit milder, he tends to get anxious and starts stimming to calm himself down all while he works on a way to get his routine back on track

Speaking of meltdowns, whenever the twins are extremely distressed, Nightmare is more likely to experience a shutdown while Dream is more likely to experience a meltdown, that doesn’t mean the opposite can’t happen sometimes, but it really depends on the situation

Then the villagers came and abused Nightmare into masking his Autism, using his Autistic traits as an excuse to demonize him, made comments about how he must be “possessed”, meanwhile they abused Dream into masking by making sweet tainted mean spirited comments about any behavior he exhibited that felt “abnormal” to them, they’d say things like “honey, it’s rude not to look someone in the eyes when speaking to them” or how he should “use his words” when Dream felt like he couldn’t

Both Nightmare and Dream internalized such comments deeply, and started subconsciously masking their Autism, they were children at the time after all, and especially after the apple incident, Nightmare truly believed he might be a demon or at least possessed by one for centuries after, cause for so long Nightmare couldn’t find a logical explanation in his beloved books for why he behaves the way he does

The word “Autism” never even existed back then, Nightmare spent years of his life researching for any logical explanation only to hit a dead end each time, and now that he’s out in the multiverse seeing how many people don’t really exhibit the same behavior he and his twin do, he was trying desperately to reassure himself that he can’t truly be a “demon” considering Dream exhibits the same “abnormal” behaviors (it rarely made him feel better about himself), even as an adult, the thought of being a “demon” distresses Nightmare so much that he sometimes experiences a meltdown cause of it

Nightmare eventually gives up trying to understand himself and instead starts consciously masking his Autism, he starts forcing himself to look people in the eye when he speaks or spoken to, he stops himself from stimming, he forces himself to speak when he’s overwhelmed, he starts hiding his love for his special interest (he has an entire big library of books yet he’d force himself not to spend most of his time there), he stops isolating himself and forces himself not to avert from anyone touching him, all to appear “normal”, all while it’s physically painful and emotionally draining to him

Same thing with Dream, except Dream never consciously masks, it’s all subconsciously, he forces himself to make eye contact, he stops stimming when people are around, he forces himself to act “normal” when he’s overstimulated, he forces himself to speak even when he feels like he can’t, he hides his special interest and puts on a mask of empathy even when he can’t truly understand/ tune in with the pain or feelings others experience but rather only able to understand their pain in a logical manner (and it makes him feel so damn guilty, cause Dream loves to help people, he thinks that he should be able to feel sad when others do), he pretends to understand social cues when in reality he only mimics how others act in social situations, he blames his learning difficulties on “time constraints” and how he simply doesn’t have the time to sit down and learn

Sometimes both the twins’ masks slip away when they’re extremely overwhelmed, other times, they let their masks slip when they’re alone, and it only adds to their stress cause they feel a sort of fucked up guilt and shame over not acting in a “normal” way, other times it’s a guilty pleasure, they almost reached a point in which they think their Autistic traits are some sort of privilege, punishing themselves if they mess up by not giving themselves the relief of letting the mask slip when alone (like forcing themselves not to stim)

The fucked up truth is, their masks also really impairs them socially, cause sometimes they get anxious thinking about being normal, that it might distract them or cause them to lose track of things

And even when the centuries passed by and science developed and changed and the idea of demonic possession became outdated and mental health became more prominent, and the word “Autism” came to be, neither twins really know they have Autism, neither of them even know what Autism is, Dream doesn’t have the resources to understand what it is, and Nightmare gave up trying to understand himself a long time ago to realize he’s not demonic for it

Will they eventually know about it, understand themselves better and get the support they deserve? It’ll probably take as many years to undo the damage done but I like to believe they do

A kinda part 2

[weirdplutoprince]

Autistic? Me?

1- Normal [4]

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[the-one-with-spider-brainrot]

May have made Yngya a bit of a dick

Meanwhile, with the Witness Babysitter:

[nat111love]

Are you still partnered with him? Mm-hmm. Mm. That's pretty ballsy on your part. I mean, you do know that, uh, his partners usually end up dead.