#( depersonalization with a side of derealization ) and man.

[yesfxckyxu]

“ you’ve been so quiet. what’s on your mind? ”  

promps.

Jack’s mind had wandered far into the crevices of many thoughts. Things that may or may not happen, having caused the young man to become quiet despite being in company with Francis. 

A sound of a deep bass inside his ears, or maybe that is just tinnitus. He doesn’t know. Jack kept on his feet, staring at his drink in hand, staring at how the liquid shimmers in the light - how the wrinkles of the surface move. The ice clicking together, almost rhythmic. If not... entrancing. 

The sound of Francis’ words causing Jack to blink slowly, eyes moving upward in a slow but fluid movement. Catching interest, but Jack doesn’t see Francis. He just sees the image. An image that could be false, right? Or is it really Francis? Jack adjusts his tongue in his mouth, wondering now if his mouth has run dry. 

He can’t tell. 

“Sorry... got lost in thought.” Words said slowly, thoughtfully... 

“... Do you ever wonder about what is and isn’t real, some days? Or that we’re all just toys to an unseen force?” 

After all, he’s not the main character. But he knows he’s being watched. Watched but not seen, heard but not. 

When will Jack become real to those that play with him? 

#ic; #answered #let the show begin; #smokes-and-bullets #tw; derealization #tw; depersonalization #tw; dissociation #(( aaa man )) #(( Francis getting to deal with this side of Jack now- ))

[teethrotter]

mental prattling

#i have known forever that i heavily dissociate 24 / 7 but i think that i finally found the right word for it #( depersonalization with a side of derealization ) and man. #i really have no idea when the last time i felt wholly in control of / connected to my body huh #i am happy there is a name for it but the more i read the more i realize that everybody else around me just. does not understand. #anyway every time i am subjected to anything even vaguely traumatizing ( often ) i fail to react #and my panic / anxiety attacks look very different than most other people's #and i never knew why. but now i think i do

[xiaomainlmao]

Summary- Akashi Seijuro, the man with a split personality, meets a person who has no personality. Basically, Dissociative Identity Disorder vs Depersonalization-derealization disorder.

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Trauma.

No matter how big or small, it's the one main thing that can lead to personality disorders.

And no matter how dull your eyes looked when he forced you to look up, he knew that there was something behind your irises that resembled what he sees in his own reflection in the mirror.

Akashi Seijuro, the first year student council president, captain of the Rakuzan basketball team, the man feared by everyone in the school including his seniors. It was near impossible to surprise him, he seemed unfazed by everything.

And yet, his heterochromatic eyes were dilated. He stared into your own eyes, which showed no signs of any emotion whatsoever- no fear, no respect, not even surprise when he suddenly shoved your shoulder and forced you to look towards him.

He was tired of how you only responded to his words with a simple "mhm" as you did whatever reasonable job was asked of you. He was annoyed that you didn't show him the same level of respect as everyone else did in your class. And he was frustrated with how you just seemed to not care about his presence.

He needed answers.

And he did get answers, without you having to say anything.

"Tch," he walked away.

He had an urge to talk to you, be around you and find out exactly what lead you to be like this, just so he could feel like there's at least someone out there who would understand him. But he suppressed his urges.

He'd hear Oreshi's voice every once in a while, suggesting Bokushi to open up a bit, but as long as it was Bokushi in control, Akashi Seijurou would never let his pride fall.

"Maybe if I lose, if that ever happens." he'd scoff in reply, as he looked at himself when he washed his face before heading to bed. "If that ever happens..."

The Winter Cup was just around the corner. And as expected, Rakuzan made it to the finals without breaking a sweat. People from their school were there in the stadium, cheering them on throughout the matches, but Akashi noticed that there were also some who stopped showing up after a couple matches.

And he wouldn't have been bothered by it if you weren't one of them. All he wants was acknowledgement from someone like him, and yet here he is, facing off against his former teammates, knowing they wouldn't understand everything that runs through his mind.

Bokushi and Oreshi truly were like two sides of a coin, opposite but cannot live without each other. They were half of a whole of what made Akashi. But that also caused him to be confused about his own feelings. While both seeked attention, Oreshi wanted it to be out of understanding, while Bokushi wanted respect. Prideful was Bokushi but with a considerate Oreshi in the way, Akashi couldn't help but get swayed away often.

In the end, Rakuzan lost to Seirin in the Winter Cup. Bokushi accepted his loss as Oreshi was free to be in control again.

"What happened to your hair?"

Akashi found himself in front of you. He hadn't given it much thought, letting his instincts, his need, drive him this once.

He seemed to have changed a lot. But you on the other hand, seemed the same as ever as you sat there, alone, in the school courtyard, your lunch on your lap. That same, expressionless expression...

"Listen, I just want to talk."

"Oh, is this you letting go of your pride?" you took a bite of your food. "Wow, what happened?"

"Just thought of changing some things up. I hardly doubt that's abnormal."

You just hummed in response and continued staring into the distance. Akashi was feeling nervous. This is the one time he's willing to let go of his pride, so he better utilize it to the fullest. "Do you mind if I join you?"

"Sure, this spots empty anyway."

"What about your friends?"

"They're probably eating together, somewhere. I don't know, and I don't really care. All I want is to look at that bird nest over there."

Akashi followed your finger to the bird nest, where two baby birds sat, cuddling up to a much bigger bird. Then he looked back at you and the way your eyes were glimmering at the sight.

Huh, maybe you do show some emotions. And, if he were being completely honest, then even his eyes were probably glimmering at the sight. It was pretty peaceful after all.

"Say, Akashi-san, do you have an interest in the concept of 'still life'? It may seem boring to some, but it can bring a lot of peace to some others."

"I haven't heard too much about it, but would love to know more. Please do continue, yn."

Most of Akashi's conversations included work. To be able to talk about something so casual was a bit foreign to him, but he certainly didn't mind it. He hadn't realized how easy it was for him to get along with you. Was it because he'd grown used to your unfazed nature towards him and and his position? Was it because he realized that being seen as just another person isn't so bad after all? That he doesn't always need to assert his superiority as he was told to by Bokushi and his father?

Healing is conditional. It takes time and the right people. And maybe, choosing to be here with you might be his first step.

He's not sure whether this is Oreshi's consideration or Bokushi's pride, but he doesn't even want think about it, because right now, he's sure of one thing.

He wants to help you both get through whatever together.

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#akashi seijuro #akashi seijuro x reader #knb fluff #knb x reader #kuroko no basket #akashi x reader #akashi seijuurou x reader #knb fanfic #the basketball which kuroko plays #akashi seijūrō #akashi seijuurou #kuroko's basketball #akashi #knb #kuroko no basuke #knb headcanons #kuroko no basquet

[canny-analyst]

Am I going to, once again, write a fanfic because I don't see anyone doing it and I need to?

Yes, especially since most people forget this character has an acute disociative disorder, a bit of depersonalization through changing pronouns when referring to himself doesn't cut it my dude

Like, it's fine, but I'd like for him to show more symptoms you know, the disociative amnesia, derealization, etc, actual disociative episodes that, while normally for him I imagine are violent because they happen during work, don't always need to be like that, loosing time, weight because you forget to eat, sleep because of insomnia, being not the best at higiene because of that too, all that

Like, it's fine not to have that on every fic, but most of it is: huge Russian scary man with a disorder that sometimes reffers to himself as we and it's incredibly horny (I've seen mostly nsfw fics, which is fine, not really complaining for that side)

It's like my issue with König, stereotypes being applied to characters that are complex and deserve better

Write however you want, I'm not gonna stop you, I just wish the disorder was more than just a we/us change of pronouns from time to time

Maybe I've been searching incorrectly and there are fics like the ones I want out there, who knows? I don't, so I'm going to do one myself, not sure yet what of but still

Atte.: someone with an acute disociative disorder 💖

#I'm not talking out of my ass I just want to see that part of him explored better #specially by folks who have the disorder #cod nikto #nikto x reader #call of duty nikto #mwii nikto #cod fanfic #did system #cdd system #complex dissociative disorder #disociative identity disorder #ik he doesn't have that necessarily but i do #ca speaks #minors dni

[our-transmasculine-experience]

I’m 18 and I’ve known something was wrong ever since I was 12. Like clothes just didn’t fit right anymore and the idea of wearing a bra was just abhorrent. Like “what do you mean I have to wear something over my chest?” Then as I turned 13, I found out about the trans community.

Then I got into the wrong side of it. Basically, I didn’t think I was trans because I didn’t adhere to the “trans rules.” I repressed myself and then at 14, I got really girly. Then I was grossed out and secluded myself.

Then during Quarantine, I really got deeper in the trans community and learned all tunes of things. There’s no specific way to be trans. Then I cut my hair and there was never a better euphoric moment then looking in the mirror and being like “hey, that’s me.”

(Side Note: i suffer terrible derealization and depersonalization and that haircut made me feel alive for once)

Nowadays, I still think I’m not trans enough and I’m trying to work through it. But I’ve accepted that I’m not entirely a girl and I lean towards transman. And every-time I do something like wear boxers, use transtape, or get my hair cut, I’m like “oh, there I am.”

“Hey that’s me in the mirror.”

you’re telling me the bra thing is a transmasc thing?? that makes so much sense, actually.

honestly, learning that there’s many different ways to be trans and that i didn’t need to get surgery or hormones to be trans made me a whole lot more comfortable in my identity. now i do want to go on testosterone and have top and bottom surgery, but being allowed to choice made me more comfortable. i’m glad that it helped someone else, too.

being trans for me, and for you it seems (and for a lot of other people) isn’t exactly about wanting to be a man. it’s about wanting to be ourselves, and being able to best express ourselves with masculine names, clothing, pronouns, procedures, etc.

#ftm #lgbt #lgbtq #transgender #transmasc #queer #trans guy #trans

[frosty-the-killer-doll]

i read the Elsewords chapter and i have to say damn that kiss, that Olivibe, let me tilt you like we're dancing while we're passionately making out, kiss, it was perfect and everything and perfect <3<3<3<3<3 also also i have a question, would you have any hcs for Olivarrisco, these three specifically together?

thank you girl i love making blorbos desire each other carnally

i think barrisco are annoying little shits on their own, but they both individually love fucking with oliver so much already that it's amplified when it's the three of them. together their one goal in life is to make ollie so mad he fucking killts them

unfortunately this can also have the opposite effect; if oliver has a good enough comeback for one of them, the other immediately defects to his side. there is no loyalty in war

i've always thought about ways barrisco could fight with their superpowers at the same time, like cisco riding on barry's back while he's speeding and cisco's out here throwing portals and vibe blasts, and now i am thinking about ways to add oliver to that mix. oliver delivering barry arrows to throw like lightning through cisco's portals? barry tightly holding onto oliver as he fucken jumps off a building into a vibe portal? much possibilities, much to think about...

barry is shit at secret keeping whereas cisco loves to make bad jokes so their oliver-related sexcapades are well known, oliver will destroy both his boyfriends if it's the last thing he does

sadly barrisco knows all of his kinks so they can simply blackmail him. (all jokingly, ofc)

to me barrisco are t4t. they are binary trans men and sometimes gnc. i see oliver as amab- not necessarily cis tho. i think he's somewhere on the non-binary side of things, but doesn't really know it himself, bc, yknow, the fuck is being a man supposed to feel like? he doesn't know the feeling of what he's 'supposed' to be feeling. now, oliver has quite a lot of trans/non-binary women lovers (iris, felicity, sara, kara), but he starts to understand that he doesn't quite feel as manly as one would think he does by being with trans men like barry and cisco. they are so happy to be men, so happy to play with gender roles, giddy at their top surgery scars and laughing in skirts. is that what manhood is? is that what manhood can be? does oliver wish he was trans? is oliver trans?

all that to say, t4t4t ot3 and all of ollie's tranny partners come together to help him figure himself out further after he first accepts that he may not be most definitions of man, thanks to barrisco

once they walked passed a bunch of bees and it triggered cisco's phobia, freezing him in place until the bees had flied flied away. barry and oliver stayed with him the whole time, running their hands through his hair to ground and comfort him silently. after all, since you've read the olivibe fic, you KNOW i think cisco loses speech sometimes if his anxiety and surprise response have enough sex. i i don't know another way to explain what i mean. they're having sex i guess

on the barry side of trigger responses he gets weird during thunder storms. not completely silent or dissociated, just... slow, confused, derealized. if the derealization escalates to complete depersonalization- depends on how long and loud the thunder storm is- he goes into little space. yup, i hc barry as an age regressor! iris is usually his caretaker when he gets like that, live-in partner and all, but that doesn't mean cisco and ollie do nothing. cisco has as many comic books and art supplies as agere!barry could want, and barry adores oliver's cooking no matter his mental age.

meanwhile- oliver does dissociate from time to time. his flavor of ptsd includes flashbacks, intrusive thoughts, depression etc etc. one way his intrusive thoughts love fucking with him is forcing him to imagine what it would be like to snap barry's neck like a twig, stab an arrow into cisco's thigh, dig into felicity back until he cracks the spinal chip that lets her walk. the thoughts scare him a lot, and he's almost more afraid of what his loved ones would think if they saw the things his mind makes him see. he worries they wouldn't feel safe around him- he wonders if they should feel safe around him at all. even tho barrisco can't see into his mind's eye, they can tell when he's having the bad thoughts again, and get extra touchy and all up in his personal space to show him just how much they trust him, just how much they know the thoughts don't actually mean anything. they're not scared of him; he doesn't need to be scared of himself.

i hope u like dez i plan to do something with olivarrisco during multiamory march 2024 so PREPARE!!! 🫡

#frosty answers #arrowverse asks #arrowverse polycule au #arrowverse #cisco ramon #barry allen #oliver queen #olivarrisco #olivarry #olivibe #barrisco #the flash #the flash cw #cw the flash #arrow #arrow cw #cw arrow

[ruvviks]

HIIIIIIIIIII for nathan obviously <3 what a guy <3 🩹🔶🐉❤️🤍💔💛

nathan asks!

🩹 ADHESIVE BANDAGE — does your oc have any physical and/or mental disabilities?

when nathan was young, he was sent to some sort of a jdc after being accused of killing his younger sister rosie (he did not do this). here he was treated by an unreliable specialist who ended up diagnosing him with a bunch of things he didn't have, after which he was given medication which fucked him up pretty bad. in secret, all of this was just mobius experiments since the jdc in question was a secret mobius location, which meant they've been keeping an eye on nathan since he was around ten years old

if nathan were to get some proper diagnoses later in his life, he would be diagnosed with a variety of things (correctly this time); paranoid personality disorder, which mainly stems from his paranoia in combination with how he's been treated all his life; depersonalization-derealization disorder, which is mostly the result of both his horrible youth as well as the continuous jumping between real life and the STEM environment (which is essentially a dream environment made out of minds linked together); ocd, always been with him; and then later on also ptsd and even psychosis, both direct results of the STEM environment's influence on his psyche. he does get proper treatment eventually and manages to manage it all pretty well given the circumstances

as for physical disabilities, nathan injured his leg in a fight with the harbinger during the events of tew2. it has left some permanent damage (though he's not sure if it's in his leg or between his ears) causing him to get very annoying pain in it if he runs / walks for too long

🔶 LARGE ORANGE DIAMOND — does your oc know cpr? do they have any other medical expertise?

nathan's medical expertise does not go much further than what he was taught at mobius, which would mostly be basic wound tending etc. he would've had cpr classes with that as well, but he's never had to use his skills in a real situation before so if they're actually useful skills is up for debate

he can patch up most of his own wounds but not very neatly, so most of them leave pretty big and visible scars. he's not bothered by it though but because of this generally doesn't feel confident patching up others since he doesn't want to fuck something up for them

🐉 DRAGON — what is your oc's favorite mythical creature?

one thing about nathan is that he's a sceptic through and through so his interest in mythical creatures would be below the ground LMAO he would think werewolves are pretty cool but if anything he would think that in a horny way. and that's it

❤️ RED HEART — what are three of your oc's positive traits?

nathan is very efficient and practical. he has a varied skillset and is very thorough and focused on the task at hand, which makes him a very professional man to work with. he values quality and is always looking to learn and become better at things, which would've basically made him employee of the month at mobius every month

it's interesting that a lot of his positive traits are work-related, but for the longest time nathan's life entirely revolved around work and who he was within mobius. more of his positive traits for his personal life would be that he's witty, a lot more intelligent than he makes himself out to be, and overall a surprisingly nice person to talk to. he does have weird and off-putting vibes which make him a bit less approachable but if you get past that he is very pleasant in conversation

🤍 WHITE HEART — what are three of your oc's neutral/questionable traits?

nathan can be very objective which sometimes results in him being clear-headed and direct, but sometimes it translates to him being cold and distant. he is also extremely loyal; a good trait to have, as long as it's loyalty with the right kind of people, and he has definitely not always been on the right side of history considering he was part of mobius (albeit against his will; he did end up doing a lot of things for them that he did have control over)

on top of all that, nathan can be very selfless, giving his all to keep something or someone who means a lot to him safe. this makes him protective, but also very self-destructive, as he cares little about what happens to himself in the process

💔 BROKEN HEART — what are three of your oc's negative traits?

nathan is a very vengeful man and he holds serious grudges which he generally takes to his grave. he easily feels wronged by situations or other people and when someone hurts him it's very difficult for him to trust them again. he's also impulsive and stubborn, both of which can be observed in the way he can devote himself entirely to a cause or another person if he cares about them enough, and the self-destructive behavior that comes with it

💛 YELLOW HEART — how many languages does your oc speak? what language(s) are they learning, if any?

nathan is fluent in english and spanish, and he knows bits and pieces of japanese as well as sign language because of his history with mobius. he is actively teaching himself more sign language currently, and would love to know more languages than he does but it's very difficult for him to do so he would probably not be able to fully become fluent in a fourth language (counting asl as his (eventual) third)

#asks #hibernationsuit #ask:nathan #oc asks #THANK YOU <3 he is very special to me #basically his entire brain is just fried on account of all the horrors which is understandable #it would eventually be very hard for him to tell whether he's in the real world or in a STEM environment or if he's dreaming #which would make. like. every part of his brain even worse. which is not ideal in the slightest

[pageofheartdj]

That sounds kind of like my experience with dissociation (depersonalization plus derealization at the same time, so a more total dissociation). Where things dont feel real and everything is fuzzy and it kind of feels like theres a distance between you and like,the reality of being alive and being a part of the world itself (if that makes sense?)

I'm unsure about the being swept away part,but it could be partially influenced by your brain or body being all "hey hey hey we shouldn't be so separated from ourself" maybe? An internal recognition that staying in that state would be unhealthy but falling into it anyways? I'm no psychologist!

Sometimes experiences with dissociation and mental health changes as people get older. Whether it's like brain chemicals settling more or just experience building the framework of "we have alternative methods of dealing with this now, we dont need to rely on just the one". Like how personalities can evolve from what it was when you're a kid!

When I'm dissociate now vs when I was a kid jts more soft now? As a kid it was a more "thrown into that state and everything else is just completely gone". Now it's more of a functional dissociation where I can still do some things but not all. Theres a delay between me and the world and I struggle to care about reacting because nothing about it is real, but I know that itll help future me if I at least do the bare minimum and push through.

I dont know if I explained it well or if that helps at all,but you arent alone!

Yes this is EXACTLY how it felt like. You know how kids play games and get very immersive in them but then stop playing and the world they pretended stop existing? Yeah that but with real life. When a 'toy'(me) falls out of the pretend game and fuck nothing is real?? My whole life was just a game?? And I am some kind of self insert for Bigger me??xD Like I said, a big doll house, the world outside of my home(doll house) isn't real and my house is 'real' only because I am in it right now and someone(Bigger me?) sits outside and just watches the Little me 'living' from the side. Man this got confusing xD

Hmm possibly. I was scared of not being real and I was 'outside' and it could have associated with death and I didn't want that xD

It is interesting that every time happened with my consent? Like that feeling teased me like a door, but it was on me to get close and open it. I could have shoo that feeling away but I indulged.

Hm interesting idea with coping mechanism and it was just my mind dealing with stuff by allowing me to walk away sort of? I don't remember how old I was(I barely remember anything from my past) but I had my grandma and grandpa dying so it could have been what my brain was dealing with. Also I was generally a depressed kid/teen, so I often played with spite-death fantasies xD

I wonder if now me just spacing out counts as a soft version?xD

Anyway thanks for explaining!! It helped in figuring it out!:)

[sweetlikehoneystingslikeabee]

Two-Face Background

Like with Killer Croc, I got an ask and realized clarifications on my personal take on Mr. Harvey Dent would be a good idea. With comic books, there are lots of ways to interpret a character, particularly those with mental illness like many of the Rogues Gallery. That being said, I discuss DID (dissociative identity disorder, previously called multiple personality disorder) because it comes up often with Harvey Dent. I do not have DID, so I'm absolutely open to criticism and learning from mistakes if I make them.

TW: Mentions of domestic violence and child abuse

- From the time he was young, Harvey Dent knew what violence looked like. His father made sure of that when he abused the boy and his mother. Too many times cops came to their home to give his father a warning or a quick rough up.

- That changed when he was around 11. His father was arrested for almost blinding a man and when he was, the arresting officers saw how bad the bruises and wounds really were.

- He got to see his father's trial and that's when it really hit: bad people can be put away so the innocent can be protected. His father was put away and served divorce papers in prison. A hyperfixation was born.

- It was rough at first, but he and his mother flourished. He got addicted to any law shows, movies, books he could get his hands on. Even the bad ones he would watch just to critique them.

- This man has seen "My Cousin Vinny" so many times, he can quote it back and forth. It is one of his favorites even now.

- through a lot of hard work and dedication, he got scholarships for school and became a prosecutor. Then, the DA for Gotham.

- After investigating the local mafia and hitting them hard, mob boss Sal Maroni threw acid over the left side of his face and body during his trial. That was the start of Two-Face.

- Duality. Good and evil. A coin flip. Anger and revenge and a life as someone upholding the law to someone twisting it to hurt those who hurt him. A criminal life. Lots of fights with Batman and lockups in Arkham.

- A diagnosis of DID has been evaluated, crossed out, re-evaluated, crossed out, so on and so forth many times for poor Harvey. While it's determined there is "Harvey" and "Harv" as well as other signs (switching, depersonalization, childhood trauma), other symptoms typical for criteria just aren't there. He doesn't experience amnesia, derealization, or identity confusion. From his own description, both personalities are aware at all times. A truly unique condition.

- Harv hates the narrative of Harvey being "the good one" and him being "the bad one." Harvey is an active participant in their criminal career, the only difference is Harvey feels all the guilt about it. Harvey agrees to some degree.

- There are even times the two are switching and only those with a keen eye can recognize it. They are mostly harmonized besides the occasional fight and Harvey Wanting to be good.

- When Harv is talking, his shoulders curl in slightly, body tense. He favors the burnt side of their body, down to the way he uses their face. Staccato, growling way of speaking, a strong lateral lisp from the whistling in his exposed teeth. When Harvey is talking, his back is straight and he favors the unburned side of his body. The lisp is still there, but less prevalent. His voice tends to be much softer.

- Harvey is logic, impulse control, guilt and compassion. Harv is rage, spontaneity, passion and doing what needs to be done, even if it's difficult.

- what all the professionals at Arkham CAN agree on is that the man has components of OCD- concerning his coin especially. He and Edward Nygma glare at each other when they're forced into group activities at Arkham focused on the OCD patients/inmates.

- On a different note, Harvey Dent has always been a bisexual man. Before the incident he harbored a little crush on his friend and companion Bruce Wayne. Still does to some degree. Post-incident he's even been in polyamorous relationships with both men and women.

- Over time has started liking he/they pronouns. Either is fine, actually.

- He still sends his mother flowers for her birthday. Her favorite- the morning glory.

#harvey dent #hcs #foxwriting #dc comics Two-Face #two face #Two-Face #he just starts quoting the deer scene both parts with accents from my cousin vinny wyd

[mygwenchan]

MY META AND OTHER THINGS

Playboyy the Series - Meta

All thoughts on EP1

EP1: A great start!

EP1: An interesting casting choice

EP1: In defense of the Playboyys

EP1: A small gesture can tell you a lot

EP1: Famous artworks in Playboyy the Series - Part 1

All thoughts on EP2

EP2: Possible explanations for First's kidnapping

EP2: Famous artworks in Playboyy the Series - Part 2

EP1 & EP2: Translation of Japanese Parts

All thoughts on EP3

EP3: Why older adults are strangely absent in the series

All thoughts on EP4

All thoughts on EP5

EP5: Parallels between FirstSoong & NuthPhop

EP5: Why is Jump so interested in the name of Porche's dad?

All thoughts on EP6

EP7: Famous artworks in Playboyy the Series - Part 3

All thoughts on EP7

All thoughts on EP8

All thoughts on EP9

All thoughts on EP10

All thoughts on EP11

All thoughts on EP12

EP12: Is Nuth the author of Playboyy?

All thoughts on EP13

All thoughts in EP14

Kinktest results & compatibility of the Playboyy characters

Dream versus reality - The depiction of sex in Playboyy the Series

Characters relationship chart

Playboyy - A collage of queer life experiences

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Pit Babe the Series - Meta

EP1: Typical Omegaverse tropes that were shown in ep1 for those unfamiliar with the genre

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My Dear Gangster Oppa - Meta

EP4: Why I don't hate Wal

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Only Friends - Meta

EP8: Some thoughts about Ray and his mother

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Kinnporsche the Series - Meta

EP2: The painting in Pete's apartment - Pieces of a broken man

EP4, EP10-14: Vegas and his mirrors

EP10: Vegas' has turned his office into a temple

EP11: Vegas always had the intention to let Pete go

EP11-13: The things Vegas should've said to Pete

EP13: Pete's perspective: "I don't like it. Then why didn't I say no?"

EP13: Vegas overestimates Pete's ability to take pain, because he idolizes him

EP14: Why the last scene with Vegas, Pete and Macau was filmed through a mirror

Some nerdy stats about KP and how they tell us a lot about Pete

Reasons for Vegas to hate the main family and his father

Did Vegas suffer from more abuse than what we already know?

Pete is the master manipulator of the show, not Vegas

Why Vegas is one of the most intelligent characters, but his plans still fail

Pete is most likely suffering from Depersonalization Derealization Disorder (DPDR)

KinnPorsche and the Feng Shui theory of five elements and colors

Episode Timestamps for KinnPorsche side couples (La Forte version):

Vegas & Pete

Time, Tem & Tay

Kim & Porchay

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Works by author Yeonim (Unforgotten Night & Love Syndrome Universe)

Novels in chronological order

Character relationship charts (in progress)

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My current watchlist

Spotify

#masterpost

[benjithecosmo]

A Blooded Vase

TW: blood, stitching, derealization, depersonalization, mentions of murder, mentions of death, touch

This work is owned by me and created by me. If any of the trigger warnings make you feel uncomfortable, please do not read. I hope you enjoy!

-

There was red stuff in my hair. I gently reached up to wipe it off my brow, as it was dribbling down the side of my face. It was warm. It smelled like pennies. It was blood. I closed my eyes before opening them again, thinking, waiting, wondering. The rest was still.

I felt hands grab my arms and hoist me up. I let them do as they pleased.

My mind was in my body, but my body was not my own.

“Oh, darling, you’re all right,” someone spoke softly. I felt a cloth press against my temple. It was the man next to me. My lips parted slightly, but nothing came out. I let them do as they pleased.

They laid me down gently upon a bed. A woman in a white coat came rushing in. Voices bustled around the room, but everything felt silent. My mind was very still. I couldn’t think of anything except for a blank canvas.

The woman grabbed a needle and thread, and I didn’t flinch as it repeatedly pierced my skin. The man was still there, dabbing at the blood. When he pulled it back it was saturated in red. Once more, my lips parted, yet I couldn’t think of anything to say.

I wanted to close my eyes, but they were as wide as the sky. I realized I hadn’t blinked in a long while.

“Can you hear me, dear? You’re ok,” the man whispered. I feared that if I reached out for him, my hands would merely faze through his flesh, like a ghost. So I stared into his eyes, and I spoke without recognition.

“I bled.” I blinked once, then twice. My mouth had moved on its own. Of course I had bled. But it was all a phase, everything I do and say only exists in this pocket of time. One that isn’t real. Right now, my actions have no consequences.

“Well of course you did, dear. Now you’re all better.” He reached for a new handkerchief to continue blotting my wound. The woman had finished stitching, and was putting away her materials.

For some odd reason, I grabbed his wrist. His eyes blew wide, but not as wide as mine.

“Darling, I’m just trying to help,” he spoke softly. I didn’t let go of his wrist.

“Don’t call me that.” With my other hand, I snatched the handkerchief from his hand and threw it with all my might. It seemed so childish. The piece of cloth merely fluttered in the air before landing on the edge of the bed. I was surprised that it had felt like smooth cotton in my hand.

“I don’t believe in any of this.” Once more, my mouth spoke on its own. I threw my legs over the bed and abruptly stood up. A sense of dizziness overtook me, making me reach for my head. So it was just a dream.

“Dear, please sit back down,” the man spoke. He put his hands on my shoulders, but they felt like an irritant. I wanted them off. He shouldn’t have been able to touch me.

“Get off!” I shrieked, yanking myself away. There didn’t seem to be very much emotion behind my words. Afterall, they weren’t my words at all. They were already lost within this dream. No one would remember.

I quickly headed towards the door, body as stiff as a board. “Darling, wait!” The man called out. He scurred up to his feet in an attempt to catch me. I slammed the door in his face before bolting down the hallway. “Please!”

-

For some odd reason, there wasn’t a single emotion resonating within my heart. My mind and soul felt like a white sheet. A ghost, a robot, something that wasn’t quite there. Something that wasn’t really alive. I knew I was here, present in these old halls, but everything around me stretched into the abyss. My body was not my own. It surprised me that I could touch the textured wooden walls.

Someone was after me, but I could care less.

If I was murdered tonight, I wouldn’t feel it.

Time faltered in these stages, as did your surroundings. I couldn’t cry, couldn’t register pain, couldn’t laugh or smile and make it feel meaningful. A sliver of time that would soon fade into the background, like a dwindling dream. But when would it end? Who knows.

I passed a mirror.

I touched my face, my stitches, a single drop of blood was still making its way down my temple. I had never seen my eyes so wide. I don’t think I could’ve closed them even if I wanted to.

Then there were footsteps. Quick, nimble footsteps. A person rounded the corner. It was her. Her dress was long and silky, and her hair was done in neat pin curls. Her golden fingernails gripped a blooded vase. She smiled at me, perfectly red lips against perfectly white teeth.

She stepped towards me. My hands weren’t even sweating.

“Hello, darling.” I knew I wouldn’t feel it, and I knew I couldn’t die. But perhaps that was just a distant dream.

#writing #short story #story #horror #psychological horror #mystery #thriller #writerscommunity #write #trigger warning #emotional triggers

[randomwriteronline]

(I Missed You)

(WARNING for a long paragraph featuring depersonalization, derealization and mentions of medication. Begins a little after Ingo was home again. Medication mentions continue until the end.)

The desk across from him was dusty.

Emmet blinked slowly, grabbing the covers idly between his fingers. His eyes wandered about: Excadrill was curled up on her side, Chandelure sat on the pillow with her beady eyes closed; Crustle had discarded his own house on the floor in an unexpected display of vulnerability in favor of hiding under Durant’s steel exoskeleton as if she were a weighted blanket. Galvantula cradled Archeops in her front legs, mandibles nibbling ever so slightly at his feathers, while Eelektross had his tail wrapped around Klingklang’s core, pulling it down to hover closer to the bed; too big to lay on it without either taking up all of its space or breaking its frame, Haxorus and Garbodor sat at its ends, heads leaning on it no matter how awkward the angle might have been, their own vast bodies acting as mattresses for Gurdurr and Boldore respectively.

Well.

This was a brand new low.

Sleeping in Ingo’s bed.

He had managed to avoid doing something that pathetic until now. Even made it through the first year - arguably the worst one - without ending up like this.

The vivid dreams, the ones where he hugged a living man and the ones where he hugged a body bag, where he sank to the bottom of a bog with it and where a Zoroark lured him in its den through his own blind despair - those had happened. He could not control that.

(This had been such a long and pleasant one.)

What had brought him to scrape so hard at the bottom of the barrel, anyways? Emmet struggled to remember the date, but still he was certain it was not around the time of the anniversary of his brother’s disappearance. He drew a blank on whatever he might have seen or listened to that could have reminded him of his twin being there - a song, a movie, a piece of art of sorts… Maybe his coat. Yes, it had to be his coat, he could feel it under his fingertips, under his arm.

God, even worse than he thought.

Taking his brother’s coat and curling up in his bed, like a distraught Lillipup desperately trying to sorround itself with the scent of its trainer.

He raised himself to sit up; a handful of Joltiks clinged harder to his shirt.

He hadn’t even changed himself.

What a fucking joke.

Emmet removed the ‘tiks slowly, gently, one by one, sitting them next to their much larger, evolved sister.

(They had had two Joltiks, both little ladies; in Opelucid, another kid had traded a Spinarak for Emmet’s, and Ingo had gifted his brother his own electric bug. Haxorus had belonged to both of them when he was still an Axew, and so had Garbodor when she was still a Trubbish, but Ingo was the one more involved in their training, so without Joltik Emmet would have remained one Pokémon short - which was unacceptable. When they evolved into Ariados and Galvantula they began a courting of sorts; Emmet followed their relationship as intently as an old lady follows a soap opera, and kept every batch of eggs. His brother had noted they were lucky Emmet had only evolved one of those that hatched, or they might have been drowning in Galvantulas instead.)

(Which would have been much less manageable.)

Now he stared at the dusty pavement where a square block of rock laid, its inhabitant busy sleeping on clean covers.

Both their teams were there. The poor things must have confused him for Ingo. Not that he blamed them, far from it - they were more than allowed to grieve, to have their judgement clouded enough to believe such a poor illusion. He hoped they were having good dreams. Hopefully that would have sweetened the disappointment and heartbreak when they woke up.

His legs shook a little when he stood (at least he’d had the decency of taking his shoes off) and began wobbling his way to his own room.

He vaguely remembered crying so much he had no tears left. His body must have been trying to find an alternative outlet that wasn’t screaming by making him near incapable of moving his feet.

It was 3 in the morning, the alarm let him know with its dull glowing digits.

He thanked it by staring at it for a little longer.

Two hours and a half.

What was he to do for two hours and a half before opening time?

Going back to sleep would have been impossible. He had tried before and it did not work.

He could have just gotten properly dressed and sneaked into the station to do some early work, which on the other hand always worked, at the expense of his breakfast and lunch being forgotten and the blinds remaining closed for the whole day. See if the coffee machine was full, if maintenance had been properly scheduled. Check the lights, the trains, the routes, the timetable and shifts.

Make sure depot agent Jackie had not managed to once again get locked inside on purpose to sleep in the main room for the sake of validating the weird shit they liked to tell challengers about having never been out of the station even just once in his entire life - although that had stopped happening now that the substitute had made it clear through horrendous promises and examples of grievous bodily harm that she was very willing to physically remove him from the premises with a literal kick up his ass.

Emmet pawed at the nightstand to find his Xtransceiver; then, remembering he had not changed into his pijamas, he checked his wrist. The smooth plastic and glass had his fingers sliding over it.

He didn’t even need to look. He found the contact and called.

One ring.

One whistle.

Two rings.

Two whistles.

Three rings.

Three whistles.

Emmet covered the device, brows furrowed, to muffle the sound.

Four whistles.

Pause.

Five whistles.

Pause.

Six whistles.

Like a very insistent steam locomotive.

He turned around, quickly, walked like a fury back in the empty dusty room.

Ingo laid curled on his side under clean blankets, snoring softly, arms reaching out ever so slightly. He looked so tired, with his tattered coat strewn on top of him to keep him warmer somehow, with his Pokémon curling around him so protectively. Close to his legs the sheets were ruffled and pressed where the younger twin had been just a few moments before.

Emmet gazed at his older brother sleeping for what felt like an eternity.

Then the Xtransceiver gave a twelfth ring, and he hurried to close the call before it would wake up any of the resting bodies.

Was he still asleep? Dreaming? His eyes fell back onto the man in his twin’s bed. His hand shook a little as he approached him, fingers bent, arm completely paralysed halfway to the other’s shoulder.

Was this really his brother? So all of that - Elesa telling him the news, Burgh filling him in, learning about the amnesia from Cheren, making all those calls, the nerve-wracking wait, seeing him again, holding him, crying, crying, crying - all of that had been real, and not just an elaborate fantasy? His palm hovered above the body without even grazing it, a horrid thought sliding in his ears to clog his throat and tie it in a knot: would he have woken up, if he touched his brother? Would he have been thrown back into reality if Ingo stirred awake in this dream and found himself on the floor of his twin’s bedroom, alone?

His entire body trembled hard enough to give him spasms. He bit down at his finger to calm himself, almost shoving it whole in his mouth: his teeth gnawed at the bone and left craters on the pulled skin.

Should he risk it? He wanted to. So bad. So bad. The memory - or dream - of holding Ingo lingered at the back of his head. He needed to know he was real. He needed to know this wasn’t fake. And if it was? No. It had to be real. He had to be real. He had to try. He had to. Even if he was scared.

Fingertips grazed the sleeping limb. Then they pressed upon it some more.

Ingo kept groaning intermittently like a train, unbothered.

Emmet laid his palm on the shoulder, cupped it in his hand whilst making sure not to shake it. It was stiff, hard and bony, but its muscles were relaxed.

It was real.

He finally let go of a raspy breath that had lodged itself in his throat and let himself drop to sit back on the mattress.

He caressed his brother’s shoulder mechanically, slowly, softly, trapped in a sort of trance. It wasn’t quite like being drunk, the lightheaded feeling that had him almost ooze out of his own body, or losing his grip on reality – overwhelmed, that was the word: he was overwhelmed, with relief and with such a heavy kind of love falling in chunks out of his chest. Ingo was there. Ingo was alright.

Ingo was back with him.

His hair was longer. At least, it sort of looked like that in the poor lighting. Emmet reached out slowly and caught a white lock in his fingers, twisting and curling it around them. It was clean. A little soft. So unlike Ingo, to have hair like this.

He could have had a mullet now, like he wanted when they were kids. He was too afraid to commit to it fully back then. Maybe this was the right time.

Emmet blinked.

What kind of thought was that, he asked himself in what would have been a laugh if he had been present enough in his own head to muster one. His brother is back after years of being missing, and the first thing he notices is his haircut. If he weren’t aromantic he’d make for a good boyfriend, he assumed - wasn’t it a cliché, that of a girl cutting her hair to make a boy notice and failing. Not that he’d know if that really happened to real people.

He registered all that slowly, distractedly. His own words were white noise against the deafening silence of his senses as he took in his twin’s concrete existence piece by piece, as if composing a puzzle.

He was… Mostly well kept, unlike his clothes. Which was a relief, even if his cheeks seemed a bit too shallow, and his palms and fingertips were cut all over, and his eyes were circled by a faint purple shadow. Emmet cupped the side of his face in his palm, carding through Ingo’s sideburns in the process. His thumb stroked the pale skin softly, carefully; his brother let him coddle him as he pleased, continuing to sleep without a single worry to crease his brow.

The notable loss of mass and the beard made him seem much older. Not frail, somehow - but he still appeared so, to his younger twin; maybe it was how his knuckles peeked through the skin, or how he slept on his side half curled up on himself, as they had stopped doing a little after moving in with their uncle…

Emmet shook his head slightly. Maybe he was just projecting.

He wanted to lay down and fall asleep again, wrapped in a hug around Ingo, but for that he would have had to move Excadrill and he could not fathom doing such an awful thing to her.

She had missed him so much.

(That must have been the real reason she had taken care of him.)

(In her grief she must have convinced herself he was Ingo.)

(Poor sweet thing.)

(Emmet didn’t know that if Excadrill had heard him she would have jabbed him in the stomach with her claw and yelled at him to never think such a thing again.)

The lights from streetlamps outside casted bright shadows through the blinds, distorting colors into colder hues. It made their skin gain a cyanotic undertone, similar to the blue of veins snaking towards knuckles; but Ingo telegraphed each of his breaths by expanding his ribcage with every inhale and snoring softly at every exhale, and Emmet juxtaposed his own breathing cycle with his brother’s, and so he knew they were both alive, there, together.

Then Ingo groaned, whined, stirred; his eye opened and lit the room with how white it was.

Emmet felt his chest implode.

His brother’s scarred hand rose in the air in a clumsy manner: “Emmet,” he called, blindly, grasping at nothing until he was caught by another set of much smoother fingers. His elbow punted itself against the mattress as he tried to stand up: “Emmet – sorry, I’m late - no delays on, on the schedule, I’ll–”

He found himself getting pushed back down gently, with a long slew of hushed monotone no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no‘s almost lulling him back to sleep instantly.

“It’s early,” he heard his little twin say in that voice he had completely forgotten yet missed so much, “Verrry early.”

“Verrry early,” he repeated absentmindedly. It was so immediately familiar.

Emmet nodded, feverish, panicked: “Verrry early. I could not sleep. I woke you up. I’m sorry. Go back to sleep.”

“It’s fine,” Ingo reassured him, “It’s fine…”

“Go back to sleep. I woke you up, I’m sorry. Go back to sleep. It’s early. It’s…”

He quieted down as his palm was squeezed intermittently. The fear of waking up from a dream now that Ingo was awake began to wobble, to shrink and wane like an image on distorted water.

“It’s fine,” his older brother repeated.

For a little bit, all they did was hold each other’s hand in the dark.

Then Ingo’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he looked up to Emmet from where he laid on his side, and held his hand a little tighter.

His twin felt a knot in his throat, a sudden shame coiling around him, and murmured sheepishly: “I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s alright, really,” the older brother replied, “Don’t worry about that.”

“You should sleep. You’re… You were tired. Verrry tired. You should sleep…”

“You should too. It won’t do you good to lose sleep like that...”

“I - I’m not…” he didn’t want to lie to him - he didn’t want to worry him, either. “I can’t sleep.”

The rough voice came to him kindly: “Can I stay awake with you, then?”

Emmet nodded with a bit of difficulty. Ingo’s fingertips were rough and calloused on the back of his hand. Suddenly it felt like he was a teen again, and Ingo was their uncle (must have been the beard...), half dozing back off and grumbling but still listening to the night together.

The thought made his heart clench in guilt, and he held his brother’s hand a little tighter to get rid of his musings.

The older twin held his gaze on him for a moment more, swinging their arms slightly. Then his clear eyes turned curiously to look around the room, to the glimpses of furniture the poor lighting showed off through silhouettes and angles reflecting vague sources of cold light in a sort of fuzzy way.

“I don’t… Think, I fell asleep here,” he noted absentmindedly

“You didn’t,” his brother explained: “You were on the couch. I made you wait. I had to change the sheets. They were dusty. I’m sorry.”

His piercing stare returned on the face mirroring his, words soft with puzzlement: “For what?”

“Making you wait. But the sheets were dusty. You couldn’t…” Emmet played with his lined nails for a second or two, tracing them with the thumbs of both his hands. “You couldn’t sleep on that.”

Just for that? Oh, but it was no reason to be sorry...

“You didn’t have to fuss about something that small for me,” Ingo reprimanded him without bite, kindly, though it sounded more like a reassurance than anything else: “It wouldn’t have been a problem…”

“But they were dusty.” his twin insisted. He made it sound like it was an awfully important thing, that they were dusty. That Ingo could have never slept on them because they were dusty, like that would have been an insult to him.

He blew a huff through barely parted lips, like a complaint; Emmet gave an unamused stubborn hum in return.

They were playing with one another’s hands now - tracing and caressing fingers, tickling lightly the skin folding and creasing between index and thumb, circling knuckles, running along the lines carved along their palms, along thin scars, along what remained of the mending left by medical stitches, along thin crusts of punctures pierced open by teeth.

Ingo looked around the dimly lit bedroom.

“This is… My room?” he asked.

His brother nodded.

“You carried me here?”

Now he shook his head. He lifted his gaze a little, to direct the older twin’s attention to the dragon slumbering with deep breaths on the bed’s headrest: “Haxorus did.”

The razor sharp mandibles at the side of the beast’s head felt like smooth bone when he ran a hand over them. Haxorus grumbled lightly, shifting in his sleep so that his scaly head would bump against the pale knuckles; Gurdurr held a little tighter onto him with his own strong fists.

Ingo looked at him with a sweet sort of melancholic awe: “He used to be an egg,” he muttered.

Emmet wheezed a chuckle: “He did,” he nodded. “We saw him hatch.”

“A great honor,” his brother whispered. His neck strained a little trying to get a better look at the Pokémon held by draconic limbs: “And who’s that…? Tim… Con… Gur…”

“Gurdurr.”

Ingo snorted a bit, a stunted, sleepy laugh escaping him: “Could you say that again, please?” he asked  while failing to contain his amusement.

Emmet repeated, rolling his Rs as much as he could: “Gurrr-durrr.”

His brother’s hiccuping giggles were music to his ears.

So he pointed behind himself, to the dark blue and reddish amalgamate of rocks laying on a pile of literal toxic garbage: “And over there,” he said, and he stressed the letter as far as he could again, “There’s Bol-dorrre.”

Ingo laughed softly, hiding his mouth behind tthe back of his hand, muffling his voice as if he was afraid he was being unpolite when his younger brother so clearly was putting every ounce of his phonetic ability to vibrate the trilling consonant just to amuse him as much as possible.

“That’s the little one,” he remembered, “That’s him… And the big- the large one there - she is… Ah, I know it, I know it…Bo, bo… Odor...?”

“Garrr-bo-dorrr,” Emmet nodded, making him chuckle a little more. His thumb stroked his brother’s metacarpal bones through his skin while his chest jumped and trembled with mirth, and a sense of elation like he though he had never felt it before seized him right before adding: “She eats trash.”

“Oh!” at that his twin shook his head against the pillow, still giggly yet now murmuring with slight worry: “Oh, that cannot be good for her…”

“No, it’s fine - it helps her poison,” he was reassured. “And she eats normal things, too.”

“That’s a relief…”

His free hand dug into short, dense fur; with a quiet whirr similar to a purr, the enormous mole at his side shifted a little, removing metal claws to showcase the soft unprotected belly, immediately seized by vicious sleepy scritches.

Ingo watched her kick a little in her sleep as he tried to recall her name: “Drill… Excadrill,” he attempted, turning to Emmet to check if he was right. When his brother nodded he shifted his attention onto the purplish flames barely crackling in the dark, their master in deep slumber: “Chandelure…” he murmured reverently, overwhelmed for just a moment by her beauty.

Something with an exoskeleton rustled a moment as if adjusting itself, making him turn again. He squinted at the indistinct mass, recognizing a pair of bulbous eyes: “That’s - Crust, I think… Crustle... Ah - oh dear,” and now he covered his own eyes, embarassed: “He’s naked.”

Emmet raised a palm to contain the laugh leaping out of his mouth like a playful Tympole, but he could not keep it from spilling all over the covers in a shower of irregular pearls.

“No!” he hiccuped out, trying to direct his focus to the metal sheen above the rock bug: “No, he’s covered, see!”

His brother peeked through his fingers: “Not much…” he lamented, though his tone was delighted as he listened to the stunted chuckles still falling off of equally pale lips. The iron carapace attracted his attention, and he tried his hand at remembering the name attached to the fearsome mandibles glinting dimly in the dark: “That’s… Something about heat, that’s the one who eats her, right?…”

“Yup,” his twin nodded. He took in a breath to regain composure: “She’s Durant.”

“Durant, Durant… A bug,” Ingo noted. His finger rose all the way up to Emmet’s head, curling a strand of hair around itself and pulling lightly, to tease him - getting a silly grimace out of him: “You have an awful fondness for bugs. You have… A whole lot of them. Way too many, really... And they’re everywhere, all the time… In your pockets…”

“I do,” his brother admitted, “And they are.”

As if knowing they were the subject of the conversation at hand, a few weak squeaks arose from a yellow mass just behind Emmet, maybe vexed by a few bad dreams that dissipated once the crying bundle of static-y fuzz was wrapped in a warm palm.

He presented the quieted down pest to his brother: “You meant these?”

Ingo squinted to see the small insect in the dark: “Hmmm-hm, yes, that’s the one... It’s those - they are… Ah-” he clicked his tongue; his finger twitched a little to point behind the small heap, to the huge legs holding something between a lizard and a bird: “The big one’s called… Galvantula, I think. I can’t remember the... Hmmm...”

“Tiks?” Emmet helped.

His twin hummed and screwed his brow: “Tiks - tik, Jol? Tik? Is it Joltik?”

“Yup.”

He nodded, pensively: “We have so many of them… You have so many of them… They keep- they eat the, the… The lightbulbs.”

“Those are too big for them,” his brother replied. He very carefully placed the little soul-sucker on Ingo’s shoulder, picking another one to keep it company: “They like chewing cables though.”

“Ah, you’re right,” the older twin agreed. “They cost us a lot, don’t they.”

“Not anymore. They learned to behave.”

Ingo hummed approvingly as his shirt was nibbled slowly by little mandibles.

His brows furrowed now as he looked at the flying lizard gekkering in its sleep. He struggled to get something out of himself - a gaping hole in his memory swallowed the thin, almost snake-like head whole, leaving him only with a vague blunt noise - and he hated that.

“There’s...” he still tried, pointing at him: “There’s a hard sound in there.”

Emmet followed the clean line of his index: “That’s Archeops,” he filled in the blank for him.

That... Ingo furrowed his brows: “Not ‘chen’?”

“No,” his brother replied patiently, “Archeops. He used to be Archen, but he’s Archeops now.”

It sounded neither right nor wrong to him - though it was most certainly right, because it was Emmet who said that, and Emmet had not lost his memories. The uncertainty made him uneasy.

Now he was focused on a round mouth squashed on itself, fangs peeking through and slimy limbs sustaining the head, indiscernible from the rest of the neck and spine, upon which laid a long crest of sorts. It was huffing regularly in its sleep, eyes closed, with a slight gurgle like boiling water coming from the recesses of its throat. It was his brother’s, he believed.

And no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he felt like it was important to his twin, no matter how hard he screwed his face in thought, he could not for the life of him recall its name.

He detested that.

“Eelektross.” Emmet helped.

It could have been any other for as much as he knew.

“He is my ace,” his brother’s voice explained: “Like Chandelure is yours.”

Ingo nodded, apologizing softly for not being able to remember on his own. No matter - no matter, he did not want to worry anybody with a fould mood. His eyes fell on the complex metal creature hovering sleepily under the enormous electric lamprey, and he lightened up slightly as he gave a fond huff of recognition: “I know that one,” he said, pointing at it, “Its name is a bit silly - my brain makes that sound when I think… Kling-klang, kling-klang, kling-klang…”

That made Emmet snicker: “Does it?”

“Hm-hm,” he nodded as he repeated, overly amused with himself: “Klingkang, Klingklang, Klingklang…”

A long sigh filled Ingo’s chest and deflated him softly, and Emmet watched as that glowing semblance of happiness melted slowly off of his face, as his scarred thumb drew circles on the younger twin’s knuckles, almost mournful.

The distraction had not worked.

It- he was Emmet’s ace, and he had not remembered that. Had not known that. Not felt that - only barely, vaguely, that he had some kind of importance, but nothing more. Ingo should have remembered that. He should have. Just like he should have not needed Haxorus’ name to remember they had seen him hatch, or like he should have not needed any clues to figure out Joltik, or Durant, or Garbodor, or Gurdurr, or Boldore, or Archeops. It should have been easy. It should have been immediate. Instinctive. Like recognizing his own room, and the objects within it - another task he horribly failed at the more he took in his shadowy sorroundings.

“I don’t know enough…” he growled softly at himself. He sounded heartbroken.

His twin held Ingo’s palm a little tighter and brought it to his mouth, to press his lips on it.

“It’s fine,” he murmured against the bony phalanxes comfortingly, “You know a lot. It’s good. You’re doing good, trying to remember. It’s fine if it’s not all at once. It’s better. And you’re here. You’re right here. It’s fine.”

Ingo hummed. He wasn’t that sure of it.

But he remained quiet, stroking his brother’s index with his thumb. He felt the gentle grip tighten slightly and release, tighten slightly and release, to ease his thoughts. Ah - that’s where that quirk of his came from. He had not even noticed how he had squeezed the nervousness out of his little twin at first.

The back of his hand was kissed kindly again. It made the knot around his heart a little easier to digest, enough to think of somethinge else he wanted to remember in some way.

“Is it just us?” he asked quietly.

His brother hummed: “We live alone, yup.”

The silence was filled with the sleep-chatter of their Pokémon. It was comfortable, in a way; but not the point.

“And in our family?” Ingo continued. “Is it just us?”

Ah - of course, that’s what he meant, Emmet thought to himself, of course. He would word himself very specifically usually, to make sure Emmet had no trouble understanding what he meant - but he was so awfully tired, and he was ever so slightly careless when he was tired, so he would lose a little in the translation between thoughts and words, even though he never meant to be unnecessarily obscure or incomprehensible.

But, if this was about family, then he better get - sitting like this was fine, but not for this. He had to... Hold on--

“Hold on,” he murmured, placing his brother’s hand back down on the covers with a careful pat before untangling his own from it as he stood up: “Hold on, I need a chair. It’s not comfy like this. I’ll take a chair. Hold on.”

The older twin followed him with his gaze and immediately disagreed as he started dragging the swiveling chair closer: “Not that one - it’s dusty…”

“It’s alright. I don’t mind.”

“No - it’s dusty,” Ingo insisted (he made it sound like it was an awfully important thing, that it was dusty, that Emmet could have never sat on it because it was dusty, like that would have been an insult to him). “You’ll get dirty…”

“It’s fine. I’ll shake it off,” his brother just assured him. A fleeting thought made it out of his mouth before he could stop it: “I need to dust your room.”

“I can do that later…”

“No. I’ll do that. You need to rest.”

Ingo grumbled in displeasure; Emmet replied by blowing a raspberry at him.

He never lets me help, they both thought. One day he’ll collapse from fatigue and I’ll have to tuck him in to sleep so tight he won’t be able to get out of bed for a month.

A scratched palm reached out once the chair was close enough; fingers still healing from self-inflicted bites caught it tight.

“I’m here,” Emmet assured Ingo as he took his seat next to the pillow: “I’m here. You’re here. I’m here.”

His elbows slid across the pillowcase until his chin was resting upon it as well, snug and comfortable as he leaned his whole back forward. He smiled for a moment, a strange huff leaving him, like a need to cough out a sudden unexplained giddiness, and his grin just grew as he took in the same silly excitement in the slight curve of his brother’s frown. They struggled a second more still with that sudden feeling of complicity, like kids sneaking into one another’s hiding spot in secret - trying to get as comfortable as possible - and finally, finally, Emmet hummed and hawed and bit his lip a little, trying to figure out where to start.

In the end, he decided the best way to do this was chronologically - from oldest to youngest. Hopefully he would not forget anybody.

“We have an uncle,” he began: “Drayden. He’s a gym leader, Dragon type.”

“The one in Opelucid city? Like Skyla said?” his twin interrupted him briefly.

“Yup. And we have a cousin, and a cousin-in-law too. They have two children. Half-siblings. We grew up with them.”

“We did?”

“Yup. The oldest is... uh... eight?” yes, that seemed right. “Eight years younger than us.”

His brother seemed very surprised at that: “We are that much younger than our cousin? Than our uncle’s-?”

“Yup, yup! He had our cousin early. Verrry early. And we were born... I think late. Not sure. But we have younger cousins too. The half-siblings. We’re not proper cousins, but we call them that and they call us that back. The older one is Marshal and the younger one is Iris. They’re both verrry strong. We should battle them again these days, if we can. It would be fun. They’re verrry serious in their battles. Iris was born when we were sixteen.”

“Ah... Then we--” Ingo’s eyes widened suddenly. He gasped quietly at an unspoken realization, and tried propping himself up on one arm as he whispered, leaning a little closer to Emmet, white irises breaking through the darkness with a sort of excited glimmer emphasizing their clarity: “Did we get to hold her? When she was a baby?”

Emmet popped his mouth: “Yup.”

“And how was she?”

“Like a little prune.”

His brother’s awe cracked a little when he snorted: “That’s not nice!”

“It’s the truth. She yelled a lot, so you would yell with her and she would stop. And then you’d stop and she’d start all over again. It was terrible.” and he pushed his nose against the older twin’s, making his head fall back on the pillow while he stared into his pupils with eyes enormous to the point where his expression was comical: “Terrrible.”

Their cackles caused quite the quiet commotion around the twelve sleeping bodies curled up with them, making them all turn and whine and hiss and grumble in a concert of varied calls, and the two men fumbled to reach out their hands and shut each other up, pressing palms to their amused mouths.

Fortunately, none of their beloved beasts awoke.

Emmet kept laughing softly for a moment more, a little stunted, in short bursts, and one of his eyes squinted as it was caught in a square of blueish light peeking through the blinds, another one missing the other eye just barely. He wheezed a little - he had a wheezy laugh, breathy and intermittent, and Ingo instead was prone to long snorts that rattled his throat and face, and in a way it was something they complemented each other in, one of many other little things.

It was a comforting thing to know. To remember.

Like having a family.

“And that’s all of them?” he pressed on. “All our relatives?”

“Yup. For us. Iris and Marshal, they have other cousins too, I think. Proper cousins. Not sorta cousins like us.”

“But they’re not our cousins as well, right?”

“No, not ours. We’ve never met them.”

“That’s a shame.”

His twin hummed in agreement. From what Marshal had vaguely explained a few years ago, the older seemed very serious about battling as well, and the younger was very eager to surpass him. A multi battle... Twins against brothers. All four, very serious. That would have been fun. Verrry fun. The idea curled nicely in his mind like a strand of hair tucked behind the ear.

“Do we have parents?”

Emmet hushed for a moment.

“They’re alive, probably.” he answered quietly.

Ingo understood, as he always did.

“They’re dead to us.”

“Yes.”

Neither were going to talk about this again. Judging by tone alone, there was no need for it.

“Was it our uncle? Who raised us?” he asked instead.

“No. But we lived with him.” a tug at his heart. “He’s a good man.”

Ingo’s hand slipped in his hair, and it felt so very real. He felt it scratch gently at his scalp, soon joined by its mismatched twin with a little difficulty, as the arm had to snake rather awkwardly out from underneath his body; Emmet let him play with his head, let him sway it in his hold and pull it a little closer to his own, until his brother’s beard was almost in his eyes while he pressed his mouth to his forehead. Despite the foreign sensation it felt comforting, it felt real. It felt good and heavy on his shoulders when those scarred arms wrapped around them. He closed his eyes as he embraced him back and soaked into the everything around him, the warmth, the texture, the weight. He smelled like nothing and held him tight enough not to hurt. The phantoms of bruises his brother had sunk in his back when they had first seen each other pulsed dully and sang, reassuringly, that all of it was alright.

“I’m sorry.” Ingo murmured against his skin.

It froze his blood solid.

Like icicles injected in his veins.

“That this… That all of this happened.” he heard him again. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean for it to happen. I swear. I’m sorry. I’m… I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

Emmet held him as tight as he could.

“It’s fine. You’re here.” that’s what matters, he wanted to say, but something made it so that he couldn’t bring the words to leave his mouth. So he just repeated it: “You’re here,” he said, as his fingers dug gently into his brother’s hair, comfortingly, “You’re here. I’m here. You’re here. You’re here. It’s fine. You’re here.”

But it didn’t help: “I’m sorry…”

“You’re here. It’s fine. I know. I know. You’re here. You’re here. You’re with me. We’re here. You’re here.”

“I didn’t mean to forget…” you, he didn’t manage to breathe out. “I didn’t want…”

“I know you didn’t. You wouldn’t. I know. It’s fine-” a horrid doubt came to him - why was he apologizing? Why would Ingo apologize? There was no way for him to have cause his own amnesia and disappearance like that, so why? Was this really happening. Was this real. “Ingo - you’re here. It’s fine. You’re here. You’re here. We’re here. You’re here. You’re here. With me. You’re here with me. We’re here. You’re here. You’re here. You’re home. You’re here. You’re here with me. With me. You’re here. You’re here.”

Maybe if he said it enough times it would come true.

Ingo could not cry, but he tried. He tried as he held tight onto his brother’s back, like a child, as he felt Emmet kiss the side of his head and comb through his hair to assure both of them of something he could not vocalize.

“I love you a lot,” he sobbed for the both of them.

His twin tightened the hold around his head and laid the bridge of his nose on his temple. He did not say anything: his neck was tied in a knot; that horrible question spiraled further on its own.

“I love you a lot,” Ingo sobbed again. “I love you so much. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Emmet must have cried too hard the evening before, because he had no more tears in his eyes to shed.

His brother’s voice was muffled: “I’m sorry…”

He kissed his cheek in complete silence. I love you a lot too.

This was too good.

Ingo was there.

Ingo was in his arms.

Ingo was home again.

This was too good to be true.

He was going to wake up at any moment, wasn’t he? He was going to get up and fall off of bed, he was going to go out and talk about how happy he was that his brother was back only to be met with concerned stares and reminders that there were no news regarding his twin’s whereabouts – no, reminders that they had found Ingo’s body, just his body, just his lifeless body, and he was going to be put on medication so that he wouldn’t kill himself directly or through a slow decline into some kind of addiction, because a dream so good could have only come as a misguided attempt at comforting after something indescribably horrid  - he must have drunk, must have eaten something, consumed something, to have such a dream, or such a hallucination, he must have, he must have, and now it was making him spiral into the delusion that Ingo was there, that he had changed the sheets for nobody, that he had not been talking to thin air, that he was not pathetically hunched over his brother’s bed imagining to hug him like a madman – they must have already put him on medication, they must have done that a month ago, when they found the body, and yesterday he thought he didn’t need it anymore, that he was fine, and he didn’t take it, and now look at him, like this… Serves him right, serves him right, serves him right - he needs it, he needs the medicine, he needs it, he needs it, he doesn’t want to be like this, he doesn’t want to be like this, he wants to live, even if it hurts, he wants to like, he doesn’t want to be like this, he doesn’t want to curl up in the idea that his brother is there and solid and real and warm and breathing and sobbing and holding him and telling him he loves him a lot if it means he’ll drown in it and destroy himself in it – Ingo would hate that, Ingo would blame himself, he would be devastated, he would cry, he cannot give Ingo this grief, not when he’s dead, not now that he’s supposed to be sleeping peacefully for as long as he wants without any pesky schedule waking him up early every morning, he shouldn’t have to get up just to haunt his brother to make him function, he shouldn’t, he shouldn’t, he should sleep, he should be let sleep, he’s so tired… Life is so tiring, he should sleep… He should be allowed to sleep… Ingo is asleep… Forever, forever, he’s asleep… He should not worry him… He should not worry him… The medication, now, he needs it, he needs his medication - Ingo should be allowed to sleep… To sleep…

Emmet tried to stand, to pry himself away from the hold of warm arms that tightened ever so slightly when he tried to leave (it was not real, no matter how solid it felt, no matter how much he wanted to melt into it), shaking so much he could barely move.

“I need to go,” he muttered, struggling to get the words out of  his mouth. He needed his medication. Now. “I need to – get… Get ready. For- for work.”

“You said it was early,” Ingo murmured, worried, scared, holding him.

The hand squeezing his shoulder to calm his uncontrollable shivering felt real. It felt heavy, it felt comforting. He could not fall for it, he needed his medication, he needed to get himself back on track: “It’s- not- I- I need to-”

But Ingo – the hallucination, it insisted: “What time is it?”

Through some miracle, he managed to get his Xtrans to his face. It was barely 3:45. One hour and forty-five minutes.

He still had an hour and forty-five minutes.

“It’s early,” his - not his brother, said, and he- it insisted, reassuring, gentle, terrified of having done something wrong, of being alone, “It’s still early… It’s still early - Emmet, sit down, it’s early, you’re tired… It’s useless getting ready right now, you’ll have time later…”

No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No.

He had to go. He had to. He had to. Before he drowned. His throat felt dry as he tried his best to think and hack out something that made sense.

“Wash… Face…”

Now he was in the bathroom.

His head hurt and his eyes were burning.

He had promised to go back once he was done.

He squeezed his eyelids shut and managed to cry just a little bit more.

His shaking hands struggled to open the cabinet, searched feverishly through whatever was in there. It should have rattled if it had the pills in it, right? It should have - this? No, no, no, bandaids, bandaids, tape, this...? He knocked something over and cursed at himself. This one - this one rattled, it must have been this one. He unscrewed the lid and blindly dumped as many capsules in his hand as possible; then he stopped.

No. Moderation. Safety first and foremost. Safety through moderation.

He counted the pills as he dropped them back into their container, as if the slow and repetitive motion coupled with his own shaking monotone could have helped steady his nerves, until he had only one still in his hand. Just one. Just one would have worked fine.

Most of the water he slammed down with it ended up splashed all over his face. It didn’t feel unpleasant. Even his shaking seemed to be slowing down just a little bit. Maybe the medicine was working already.

“Emmet,” called the voice from Ingo’s bedroom.

Emmet should have ignored it, should have waited for it to melt away with the chemical aftertaste. But he walked back anyways, exhausted; he sat back on that dusty chair, fell back in those arms that could never be real. He could allow himself this, he thought to himself, leaning into his brother’s hold, just this once... Just one sweet dream. Just one. Safety in moderation. Just one, and then he would have gone back to having lost his twin. Just one nice, sweet dream.

Ingo (if this was him) kissed his forehead. It was soft. It was so soft...

“Try to sleep a little more,” Emmet heard him murmur, almost with a tinge of concern: “It’s still early...”

He held onto that body that shouldn’t have felt as solid as it did.

“I will... Be, off. At work. The whole day,” he stumbled on his words, struggling as he chastised himself a little for warning a dream that he would have never had again anyways. His head felt heavy and light at the same time. “I will be back... Late. At night. Don’t wait up for me. Ok? You need to sleep well. Regularly. ‘s important. El... Elesa will come. At noon, to bring groceries.”

“Elesa?” the voice swam in his ears.

He nodded a little: “Our friend. Dear friend. Dearest. Like... A sister. Sweetheart. Verrry pretty. Verrry pretty... Verrry... She has... We gave her keys. So she won’t.... Phone. Or bother you. You need... To sleep. Skeep- sleep. It’s early. It’s... Go... Go to sleep. You need that.”

His face was sunked back into the crook of a neck: “You need that too...”

“Hm. Hm. Yes. I will... I will...” he should have gone to his own room. Distancing and all. But he felt so sluggish. So tired... Just one dream... Just one... “Can I... Can I stay here? With you?”

The hold seemed to tighten ever so slightly.

If Ingo said anything past that, Emmet wouldn’t have known. The single sleeping pill had him breathing deeply, calmly, wrapped tightly in his brother’s very real hug, in a dusty nest of clean sheets and their tangled Pokémon.

#pokémon #pokemon legends arceus #submas ingo #submas emmet #random writing #derealisation tw #depersonalisation tw #medication mention #this chapter features a lot of physical affection. NONE OF IT is romantic. #if you refuse to read as platonic or insist on reading as romantic please find something that actually caters to your tastes instead of this #otherwise i will pull you apart like fabric #anyways im very unsatisfied with this #i could have done way better but i cant. figure out WHAT bugs me and if i do i dont have the strength to change this #it was supposed to be longer but the other half will be another chapter #mmight have been the uhhhhhhh fucking exam im preparing #and also the fact that everybody else is updating at like a normal pace and im a slug #also somebody criticized the presence of my ingo chapters #which is a valid opinion to have ofc #but also ive poured my soul into those so it was like hm! alright! i wish i had never thought of making them!

[awooga-llama]

LIGHTNING STRIKES

Dream x NB! Reader

Triggers// Panic attacks, swearing, derealization, and depersonalization

    It seems like it’s always raining when they’re sad. (Y/N) sat on their window bench watching as the blue droplets fall from the sky. It was nearing midnight and that’s usually when the lightning would start. That was the one thing that scared (Y/N) more than any mobs or war on the server. Nights like these were usually very stressful and led to (Y/N) passing out from unsolved panic attacks, by unsolved I mean that they could never calm themself down enough to feel normal and they were too embarrassed to reach out for help but that was all after Dream was sent to prison. Before, Dream would always be here to calm them down and help bring them back to reality. He would use calming words that showed them how much he appreciated them, he would use comforting items like the blanket they shared when watching the sunset or his hoodie that (Y/N) would always “borrow” to sleep in. Ever since he’s been gone (Y/N) lost themself. 

(Y/N) began to stop thinking and started feeling hollow inside as they continued waiting for the unwelcomed lighting storm, feeling as if they were simply a character in a film. That they were watching themself and the world around them from spectator mode not being able to control anything.  Shortly after sinking into this mental state of being the sky was filled with a blinding light striking a nearby structure, all (Y/N) could do was whimper and shy away from the glass. They watched as the person on the window bench began to breathe rapidly, trembling in fear, sweat mixing with tears as the sky displayed its light show to them. 

A crack of thunder and another bolt of lightning struck closer this time. It hit the oak tree in (Y/N)’s front yard, luckily not starting a fire. The person moved away from the window finally making a mad dash for their bedroom shaking terribly and sweating, their head getting light and struggling to breathe. They sat against a wall sliding down, the house shook and a shelf was knocked down nearby. (Y/N) grasped their head with one hand and the collar of their shirt tugging on it violently as if it were choking them. The flashes of light bounced off the wall as they watched themself break down. They tried to scream and calm down but they were already too far in. 

A loud bang came from the front door but (Y/N) didn’t know if it was the thunder and lightning anymore. The flash of a shadow showed on the wall in their small kitchen. (Y/N) could hear what they thought were footsteps only to cower farther away when the sound of a crackling thunderstep sounded closer to the bedroom window. A voice called out to them and it sounded oddly familiar, but they were too panicked to respond. They just wanted to pass out already. 

“(Y/N)! Where are you?” The voice sounded closer this time. They tried to take control of themself even just a little to get the mystery person’s attention but all they could do was watch and cry. Eventually, their saviour found them. The familiar dirty blonde hair cascading against his slightly tanned pale skin, contrasted with his green eyes that shone like two glimmering emeralds in the soft yellow candle light emitting from the nearby scaffolding desk. He glanced around the room quickly till his eyes fell onto the person wrapping themself tightly in a ball against the wall. 

“Fuck. Hey, hey (Y/N), come back to me, please. Just follow the sound of my voice, we’ll get through this.” His words were already affecting the other’s emotions, they glanced up at him as he quickly ran over to the bed in the corner of the room looking for something in particular. He found the blanket, grabbed a picture off the dresser next to him, and sprinted to the chests against the wall pulling out a royal green hoodie. The man next moved to the side of the room where (Y/N) sat, he set the stuff down pulling the quivering person into his arms, burying their head in his chest as he kissed the top of their head. 

“You’re strong. You’re beautiful. You’re my light. You’re going to be alright.” He planted kisses on (Y/N)’s head but also their cheek after every phrase. The smaller one slowly started to be able to breathe again, still shaking and jumping whenever the lightning crackled or the thunder rolled. Dream grabbed the framed photo from beside him, in it was (Y/N) and him staring at each other lovingly in front of some random waterfall they had found when adventuring around the server, this was way before anyone joined. It was just Dream, (Y/N), and George (Sapnap arriving later). The three of them had decided to go look for a place to build a house when (Y/N) took off running the other direction from the boys, they wandered for half an hour till they found a little hideaway. Inside the forest, covered by bushes and vines they discovered the waterfall where foxes and fish frolicked. They put the coordinates in a book and remembered to bring the boys there later. It was many months later they finally did. The three of them with the exception of Sapnap and Callahan went and had a picnic. George was collecting flowers and wood, Sap and Cal played in the water, and (Y/N) and Dream went to play on the rocks closer to the waterfall. (Y/N) jumped from one rock to the other and then their foot slid, they let out the sound of a dying bird waiting to hit the water only to be saved by Dream. That was the moment the two of them knew they needed each other, their eyes meeting as they stared at what they thought was the most gorgeous thing in the world not focusing on anything else. George took notice and snapped a picture before Sapnap grabbed Dream by the ankle, pulling the two into the water below. 

“What the hell was that for SnapMap!?!” (Y/N) yelled, splashing the dark-haired boy.

“It's SAPNAP! You guys were being weird! Also, you weren’t paying attention to me, Callahan was literally trying to drown me and you guys were too busy eye fucking to bother rescuing me!” He shrieked, voice cracking in a few places, splashing back at his (Y/H/C) haired friend. George smiled and Dream joined in the water fight as did Callahan. Oh how they'd like to go back to those times when the SMP was peacefully simple.

Dream never once let go of (Y/N), he was afraid to permanently lose them in their derealization. They were all he ever thought about in prison, they were his motivation to keep going, the one thing he wanted more than power. At first these feelings scared him and he tried to live a life of war away from (Y/N) only to feel lonely and bitter. But he always had to return because he was dying without them and he knows that now.

"Breathe, just breathe (N/N). Nothing can hurt you." They just looked at the photo, they were breathing normally and not shaking as much. Dream offered them the hoodie next but they shook their head no, just wanting to remain in his embrace. (Y/N) felt in control again and wrapped their arms around the blonde's midsection absorbing his aura of warmth and loving vibes.

The clock on the wall showed it was now 4:30 AM and the storm had come to an end. (Y/N) drifted to sleep in her crush's arms but he moved them to the bed. He was about to leave them to sleep, only to feel a tug on the edge of his orange jumpsuit. 

"Stay with me. I'll hide you tonight and we'll take off in the morning." (Y/N) quietly murmured like a child. Dream smiled and climbed into bed facing them, cupping their face and placing a gentle kiss to their lips. The two of them smile softly while drifting off to live their fantasies in their sleep. 

It was the start of their happy ever after on the run…

#dsmp fanfic #dream x reader #dream smp fanfiction #alternate universe #nonbinary #x reader #oneshot #romance #panic attack #triggering stuff #derealization

[willawhumpspeterparker]

Rest My Chemistry

chapter 4 : you don’t trust yourself for at least one minute of each day

CONTENT WARNINGS FOR:

description of anxiety symptoms, panic attacks, and dissociation (depersonalization and derealization included). description of ptsd symptoms and flashbacks. casual references to passive suicide ideation. implied/referenced self inflicted harm.

The last 24 hours catch up with Peter on his mad dash commute to class and all he can do is take it in stride.

Torrential rain greets Peter once he makes it back outside, the sheets of it assailing his bruised skin like shards of ice and smearing the city around him into a blur of grey, the flashing lights and passing cars all obscured by the ongoing storm like a smudged painting.

There’s hardly anyone on the sidewalk and the few people he does pass all look far more equipped to brave the weather than him. It’s too windy for an umbrella to be of any use, but he envies the rain jackets and waterproof boots he sees on them.

His sneakers and jacket had still been dripping from the night before when he’d put them back on and any progress they’d made in drying undone the second he hit the pavement running. The articles hang heavily on him, the weight making his lungs protest the strain of pumping already leadened legs under the growing burden.

He wraps himself around each street corner like a mad man still, snagging the edges of store windows and street signs to control the way he would skid and slip whenever he turned and having to try doubly as hard not to topple down the slicked stairs of the station entrance in order to maintain his pace.

The surplus of ‘sorry’s and ‘scuse me’s ushered while bullying his way through the throng of slow-milling commuters were drowned out by both the noise of the raging downpour above and the rumbling of passing trains further down in the tunnels. He manages to get only a few colorful responses back before he spots the downtown Q sitting idle on the tracks, but the number definitely multiplied after squirming his way up to the front of the queue and vaulting himself over the turnstile, his prone legs nearly catching the metal sides.

It’s only after he lands in a practiced crouch and the muscles that were still knitting themselves back together relaxed from the stretch of the action that he remembers the ugly bruising that mottles his side.

The pain that follows ie sudden and bright and steals the very breath that had just been making its way down his throat, but he doesn’t have the luxury to stop and wait for the aftershocks to pass. Peter wades right through it instead, refusing to still or slow whenever it ratcheted up after twisting his torso too quickly because the doors have been open too long already and the sheer mass of people still filing out of the train and preventing the sliding doors from closing is the only reason he cleared them in time.

There’s hardly enough room to breathe in the subway car once the doors are allowed to close which makes it nearly impossible to find something to hold onto when there were hands on every visible glint of metal, but Peter fortunately didn’t think it too much of a tragedy and shuffled himself to a relatively vacant spot between the center poles and out of reach of the hanging hand holds, choosing to rely on the exceptional internal equilibrium that usually kept his footing sure when riding the subway sans support hold.

It’s not that it doesn’t now, he’s just slightly too exhausted to keep himself from leaning into the sway. He doesn’t lurch or falter but he can feel how his muscles want to, the full body ache he’d woken up with inching closer to a territory just shy of unbearable now that he’d finally stopped moving.

The pause dragged forgotten pains to the forefront of his attention until they twinged in time with the beat inflating his eardrums near decibel capacity with the too close, too loud sound of his heart. He knew it was s his own and that he had no reason to fear the steady thumping of the vital organ because it meant that he was alive, that he was still here.

But it had also eliminated all other sounds around him on the barreling train and Peter had been operating with his nerves on a hair trigger for so long that he didn’t think he’d mind too much now if it would just stop altogether, because fuck, listening to his amplified pulse was unsettling on a good day, it was absolutely insufferable for it to be further conducted amid an unnatural silence.

The breaths he manages then are sharp and short, and he thinks he might’ve been starting to get back to a stable rhythm until the train jerks so sharply around a bend that for a fleeting second he was certain he must’ve gotten his wish.

Whatever meager contents remained in his stomach surged up into his throat at the same time that his previously securely locked knees threatened to send him to the ground. He staggered in a sad sort of mock drunkenness instead while the roaring in his ears died down enough for the sound of the grating rasps tearing themselves from his chest cavity to certify that he hadn’t.

Peter couldn’t decide whether to be disappointed or relieved because he knows that’s not what’s happening, that he wasn’t actually dying, but it’s the only word he’s able to supply for the tingling sensation seeping into his fingertips like his hands had been dipped into ice water, phantom pins and needles sparking in places farther up his arms until he could hardly believe the things were still attached unless he was actually looking at them hanging slack at his sides.

He was too far gone with the fog dousing his brain in liquid nitrogen to crunch the numbers on which variable might be worse, dropping dead right then and there, or having to tolerate his bodily performing yet another dress rehearsal for a reprise of said event.

Though Peter isn’t afforded the chance to dwell on the dilemma for very long because a swell of nausea abruptly rips his focus back to his most pressing issue of keeping a lid on his shit until he was no longer trapped on public transportation.

It didn’t seem to matter that he knew that it wasn’t real nausea, that his body didn’t really need to throw up, but the dizzying malaise flipping his stomach inside out was very convincing when it decided to make itself known, rushing in and filling his mouth with saliva whenever the panic lulled to provide a new fear for him to manage in its absence. He sits with the gathering pool until his throat is bobbing with the urge to get rid of it, but his attempt to swallow the salty warning only makes him gag harshly.

Peter groans, shuddering hard and not caring to mitigate his volume when more mucus was welling up in his mouth. He chooses to spit it out into his soaking wet sleeve when it becomes too much again because, genuine or not, that was one battle Peter was not willing to lose.

He leans over himself as much as the bodies confining him on every side allowed, fingers curling into the stiff folds of his wet jeans while he attempted to curb the amount of acid singing the innermost lining of his throat.

In and out, he manually coaxed even breaths from his diaphragm, but where queasiness had sat heavily in his stomach was rapidly being replaced with an unyielding pit that clenched and twisted and was descending so fast.

“Come on,” he mouths, his words a wisp that was audible to no one but himself with all the other commotion going on around him. He tries once to drag a breath in deep, forcing the air past the band of resistance until he choked on it and when the coughing ended, tries again.

He could feel his lungs doing what they were supposed to. Expanding to let air in and deflating to let the waste it created out, and filthy and claustrophobic as the train car was, he knew there was still plenty of air in it. That no matter how vivid it felt that the walls of metal and glass were closing in on him, a part of him understood that it wasn’t actually happening, but his senses still felt the inclination to alert him that it was not enough anyway.

It must have been some kind of convoluted maintenance check from his enhanced biology, his body sounding every alarm just to make sure that they were still able to ring or maybe just to test for any faults in his system that might inhibit his performance.

And if that was the case, he supposes it would be all well and good if maybe he didn’t feel like a collection of raw, open wounds these days, new ones tacking themselves onto older bits of carnage every day he woke up and had to face the fact that the sun still rose and fell despite Peter’s entire world imploding in on itself.

That, and maybe if it didn’t keep happening when there was no legitimate danger, because yeah his healing factor might be royally fucked, but none of his injuries were serious. A dirty subway in Manhattan also wasn’t exactly the safest environment he could be in to lose himself to his anxiety, sure, but there were no immediate threats to his safety or anyone else’s. So there was no reason it should be happening again.

Not after one rough night Peter couldn't even measure on the scale of horrible things he’s brought onto himself in the past year alone it was so insignificant. Especially not when all he was starting to hear was the sound of his own bones crunching as malleable flesh met the front of a high speed train somewhere in Berlin, unforgiving metal shocking the air from his lungs upon impact over and over agin as his breathing quickly devolved into an erratic game of catch up.

His mind flitted between then and now until his reality merged with the images that burned themselves into the back of his eyelids every night and he could no longer differentiate the sea of bobbing heads as aimless commuters or figments of swarming attackers.

Real or imagined, he could feel himself recoiling whenever someone lilted too close, clamping down on his bottom lip with his teeth so hard he tasted copper to keep from lashing out when they did.

Realness had been relative ever since he’d been fooled by things that felt so true, since let himself be tricked by people that had never given any reason to doubt them. They had been there though, the clues, he was just too naive to see it back then, hadn’t known any better than to lend his trust so willingly.

No calculable time actually separates the Peter he was then from the Peter he is today except that maybe now he’s knows the consequence of ignorance, the imperceptible error in never pausing to think before he acts simply to have done something at all, and not ever stopping to consider whether that something was the right thing or not.

It didn’t matter whether or not he had the mask and all of the perks that came with his powers, he couldn’t up and abandon the oath he’d made when the city wouldn’t stop needing his help just because he could no longer give it. The last time he hadn’t had the means to do his job correctly he’d lost Aunt May.

Once was truly enough for the lesson to stick, he didn’t think he’d survive letting it happen on his watch again.

“Fuck,” his entire body trembles with reminders of his failures. The muscles in his back spasm under the pressure of a slab of concrete being dropped on top of him, tensing up to protect his abdomen against phantom blows from Stark Industry drones dressed up like his deepest fears and stuttering disjointedly when the sudden weight of his dying aunt fell into his arms all over again.

“S’not real,” Peter gasps brokenly, shaking his head and squeezing his eyelids together until he saw stars like the darkness might dilute all the red he saw when they were open.

“Come on, Peter,” he whispers to himself.

‘Come on, Spider-man’ he doesn’t let himself say out loud.

Peter Parker could fall apart however much he wanted, but Spider-man couldn’t afford to keep being this fucking useless. He need to come back to himself. He need to—

“Wake up.”

The words are out of his mouth before Peter can even wrap his mind around the implications of them, rattling around in his mind like an echo chamber, growing louder and more urgent until they sounded less like a plea and more like a warning.

Like something terrible would happen if he didn’t because it sounded like Mysterio was right there chanting with him.

He doesn’t know why that’s what finally does it for him, why it’s what finally severs the string tethering him to reality, only that the train continues to rattle along and the passengers surge with it but the vessels do so without Peter.

The hyper awareness of his every flinching breath had been all he could concentrate one not even a minute ago, pushing at his threshold until it had no other option but to snap, the input overwhelming him on every side fading out all at once like the dial had been set way past ten and then abruptly dialed back to zero.

The change happened so quickly the tears that had welled at the corners of his eyes didn’t even take the time to wet his cheeks before falling to the dirty floor.

He couldn’t pinpoint when it happened, when he’d stopped hyperventilating and every flaring hurt, every all-consuming worry had been demoted to background noise and the pleasant hum of the engines working beneath his feet as wheels glided along uneven tracking had lulled him into a sort of detached calm.

It was like his body had exhausted the energy required to withstand the overload but not extinguish it completely, and so his subconscious decided it would be easier to handle without Peter there.

If he remained present he would just feed into the spiral and make it worse but like this he was a passenger, a spectator. He didn’t have to smother his own anything anymore now that he was on autopilot because it held the panic at bay for him, packaged it into something small and kept it at a distance that he could actually handle, or at least live with long enough to get through the rest of this day.

He had no way of gauging how long he floated there like that, eyes wide and unseeing, but it must’ve been a decent while because the train eventually rolled to a stop, the crowd of bodies packing the train in losing some of its volume.

Peter was slow in turning his head to locate the map and willing his mind to clear so he could at least figure out if he’d missed his stop already or if he should be hurrying to get off before the doors closed. The blur made it hard to see the numbers but he thinks that there isn’t enough yellow on the panel for more than the Penn and Herald’s Square stops to be lit up, so he allows himself to go back to drifting.

There’s another undetermined stretch of time he couldn’t account for that lead him to then, to watching as his legs carried him off the platform and out of the station on their own accord, his hands pushing open a series of glass doors and flashing freshly manufactured identification cards at security guards without receiving any direction to do so.

Peter blinks slowly, opening his eyes up to a new place each time like his connection was simply lagging behind. He saw himself reaching for the right buttons in the elevator and taking all the correct turns to get to the lab without consciously commanding any of it.

He was some place very far from tactile perception then so he didn’t really feel his body doing any of it either. It should scare him. The threads of leftover panic should worsen tenfold, he knows that, but they don’t because if free will was the cost of silencing his mind, then he was more than willing to pay than have to relinquish this tentative peace quite yet.

And so the rest of the journey goes like that, Peter hardly registering a single thing while his body operated on muscle memory to get him to his classroom and sit him down at the right desk. Except when he makes it to his seat only the TA and about half of the students are there. His vision sharpening to the sight of a borderline empty classroom alone was sobering enough to bring him back to the surface just in time to hear the last half of a garbled statement about how tardies and absences will be temporarily excused.

Peter’s hands are making fingerprints of condensation on the black table top he’s using to brace himself as he took in harsh, panting breaths and he was suddenly very grateful that no one in his lab group was there yet because it meant that there was no one to gawk at his beaten face, or his genuine struggle to breathe.

He settles in his seat when a gnawing pang in his empty stomach reminds him that his metabolism doesn’t care how nauseated he still felt and keeps his head down anyway.

Stragglers were still filtering in up until the end of the first hour, each one properly soaked and in similar states of disarray. The professor ended up making a call to not bother touching their lab reports since an overwhelming number of students hadn’t been able to make it to class.

Peter thinks he remembers someone saying that he’d gotten stuck on the railroad somewhere between the city and Connecticut which is why he ultimately had his teaching assistant run through the powerpoint they hadn’t gotten to last week instead.

He sits through all two and a half hours of the lecture feeling like his skin would never thaw and the chill only gets worse once he’s back outside, wrapping his bones in ice and shooting tendrils through the marrow whenever the wind caught an unprotected portion of skin.

The storm had let up substantially while Peter was in class, the downpour having calmed back down to a light drizzle. Still he couldn't help the violent shivers racking his frame when he felt as stripped as the engines he used to take apart with Tony. Like someone had decided he wasn’t worth fixing and tried to gut him for parts too.

Peter doesn’t know how he manages to drag himself home without checking back in once on the way and the only reason he realizes that he’s finally made it is when he can’t go any further than the lobby door. No keys, right.

He finds himself slightly more present when circling back to the corner so he could get to the dumpster lot behind the strip of taxpayer units on his street and web himself up to the roof of his building without getting the cops called on him, though he’s sure they’ve got plenty of better things to do with all the storm damages and traffic jams they probably bringing the city to a halt. The exact kind of things that Spider-man was more than equipped to help with.

Their landlord had never bothered to fix the lock on the door that lead up to it so it was definitely open, but that didn’t change the fact that Peter still had no keys. And he lives on the fourth floor so it wasn’t like there was anyone to disturb by taking the fire escape except for the asshole that lived above him, he just also usually had the cover of night to shield him from wandering eyes when he did it.

His decent then is neither quick nor graceful with numb fingers slipping on freezing wet rungs and legs keen on threatening to buckle, but he does eventually manage to make it down the ladder without breaking an ankle. It’s just as he began to slot one deadened limb through the cracked window at a time when he sees that there is way too much water beneath the sill under him to have sloughed off only his person.

He was soaked from head to toe, but he definitely wasn’t responsible for what looked like close to an inch of water that was pooling in the corner of his bedroom.

“Fuck,” he huffs, breathless and without the slightest bite. He didn’t have the energy to sustain the rightful frustration that was washing over him, he was too cold, his exposed nerves too raw and close to the surface to handle this too.

To handle the fact that his ceiling had actually leaked because of course it did. And of course his building had a shitty foundation that warped the floors and made it all collect on one place, one that just happened to be where he kept the most valuable of the very few items he had to his name.

His desk was next to the window so he could use the street lamps outside when studying at night instead of the overhead lights to shave some decimal places off his monthly utility bill—but so was his sewing machine and his school work and all of the documents that made him a real person on paper.

”Oh fuck.” He’s moving quicker than the trembling he hasn’t been able to suppress for hours should allow, tossing secondhand textbooks that were falling apart anyway onto his mostly dry bed and bypassing the lego figurines completely so he could get to the manila folder he’d swiped from Matt on one of the thousands of trips he’d made down to the firm’s office—the very folder sitting directly below the gaping hole in his ceiling.

“No, no, no,” he moans, voice teetering on the cusp of giving out altogether when the cover of the thing tore off in soft pieces along with various bits of the dozens of legal papers it had been holding.

“This isn’t real. This isn’t happening,” he stuttered and choked. “It can’t be.” It had to be a trick, an illusion, something his eyes could be fooled into believing but not his senses.

He dug the palms of his hands into his eyes and willed the voice of Edith to tell him none of the last year had been real, that all of it was over. That everything had all been a horrible, elaborate ruse and he’d open them to Tony and Aunt May and his best friends back, to his old life back. But the programmed voice never filled the expectant silence and the manic laughter of a villain that wasn’t meant to terrorize Peter’s city was beginning to bleed into it instead.

Peter opened his eyes with a ragged gasp to flashes of white blocking his view of the ruined pile, but he’d already seen enough.

His chest was spasming like an engine turning over, pistons overheating and cylinders spluttering out as little violent full jerks sent his body crashing through the water and into the opposite wall. His hands found their way up into his hair and pulled hard, knotting the dripping strands around fingers that still hadn’t quite come back online yet like cutting off circulation to the frozen digits would force feeling back into them.

It didn’t work. He was too cold and the window had been left open so long that the air felt no different than outside.

Peter’s lifeless hands abandoned his curls in favor of feeling along the wall for the doorframe of the bathroom, the hot tears stinging his cheeks making it virtually impossible to see anything in the near darkness.

He doesn’t remember peeling the clothes from his body, or starting the shower, or scrubbing at scabbing wounds until only blood and freshly torn edges remained. And when there were no sore spots left to agitate his fingers dug into the grout lining the tiles, nails scraping for purchase, for something to damage and somewhere to concentrate the waves of agonizing defeat cleaving off of him.

His right hand was folding into a fist and winding back before he could process how easily the ceramic shattered beneath his knuckles. He doesn’t feel it until the second pass and doesn’t stop until bits of tile are falling at his feet.

The water was set to scalding, filling the room with steam and fogging up the mirror and probably burning his skin but he couldn’t find a reason to care when it chipped away at the relentless cold and made it marginally easier to breathe.

His breaths are still harsh and shake his whole body when his mind finally begins to clear, the steady stream above tempering the boil and allowing him to hear something other than a vacuum of white noise, but he doesn’t expect the first thing he that filters in to be someone talking low and urgent in the hallway.

He’s especially surprised to hear them start pounding on his apartment door.

It hurts with the migraine blooming behind his eyes, but he focuses on their voice still murmuring something, on the metal sliding against metal and prodding until there was a give and a click, each minuscule ding vibrating through his skull like a crowbar was coming down on it.

He’s still recovering from the stabbing pain lighting his brain on fire by the time he registers the footsteps approaching the bathroom door and the door knob being jostled once before twisting.

There’s a soft intake of breath and then, “Peter.”

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5

#peter parker #peter parker and harley keener #peter parker angst #peter parker au #peter parker fic #peter parker whump #post no way home #whump #marvel #injured peter parker #marvel whump #hurt peter parker #spider man: no way home #spiderman #spider-man #bisexual peter parker #harley keener is a sex worker in this #peter parker has ptsd #whump writer #whump fic

[chronicallycrow]

You Wanted to Hate Him.

Fandom: DSMP

Relationship(s): Dream/Reader

Word Count: 634

CW: Derealization, Depersonalization, internal battle(?), Possibly more??

Notes: I wrote this as a vent. It started out as just a thing of "I need to write", and then Dream just kinda. Showed up. I mean, at least it made me feel better?? I dunno. I'm just really tired and going through a shit mental health time.

You're not fully awake, but you're not sleep yet, either. The time reads 22:30. Nothing feels real. You close your eyes, rub them, pray things will feel real again. They don't.

The room is unnaturally dark. Too cold. The window is open. You don't want to close it. It's too quite. Everything falls silent. It's so loud.

You close your eyes, take a breath in. There's a knocking at the door. You bite your lip. You get up, not on your own accord. Your legs bring you to the door. You look up at him. He puts a hand on your cheek, rubbing circles into it. The other wraps around your waist, pulling you near.

He doesn't feel real. You close your eyes, breath in his scent. His hand rubs circles on your lower back, other shifting to hold between your shoulders. You take a breath in. The breath doesn't feel real, either.

You glance up. You see part of his hair. Blonde as always. You push yourself into him, body pressed close. You want to merge yourself with him, become one, and then never meet your own body again. He lets you. He doesn't stop running your back. He's a convicted felon, he's a murderer, he was created in the image of the God few have seen.

He lets go of you, hand moving from pressing on you. You move back. He looks at you, gently brushing your hair out of the way. He's horrible. He's horrible and terrible and you want him - Need him - Here. You glance over the scars on his face, down his neck, the burnt mark of a smile, the burnt mark of an 'XD'. You're reminded again of how he's terrible. You're reminded of how you've been branded, too. Your hand goes to your lower neck. You feel over the scar. You hate the way the skin feels - You hate more that you don't want the mark to ever go away.

He moves past you and sits on the bed. You let yourself sink beside him. He moves an arm around you again. Part of you screams to push him away and leave. You lean into him and close your eyes. You ignore the voice yelling. You lay your head on his shoulder. He pulls you closer. You want to merge with him again. Be one. He gives your side a gentle squeeze. You let out a huff, gently pushing your elbow into his stomach. It doesn't do much. He lays his head on yours. You want to hate him. You close your eyes and let out a sigh. The room doesn't feel as silent anymore.

At some point, he'd pulled you onto his lap and fallen back against the bed. You were still awake then. You let your head burry itself in his chest. He held you close. Maybe this is how you left your body. One of your hands made it's way to run its fingers through his hair. They got caught on tangles, caught on dirt, caught on things you didn't want to think about. He let out a content sigh. You swore at yourself for sinking into him more when you did.

You let yourself begin to fall asleep in his grip. You let yourself be completely vanurable. You missed these moments. He was a murderer, an abuser, twisted and traumatized and tortured and hated. Before you fully let sleep grasp you, you leaned up and gave the side of his chin a kiss. You laid your head back down and let sleep fully engulf you. You didn't dream. Things didn't feel as quiet or dark anymore. You cursed at yourself, at the irony of a horrible, horrible man making the room feel lighter. You wanted to hate him. He wouldn't let you.

#dream x reader #dream smp #dream x you #dsmp x reader #x reader #fanfic #fanfiction #x reader fanfiction #vent #vent fic #yall. i am so fucking tired. #i hate my insomnia. my head hurts lmao. #take care of ur mental health. #AM writes #i forgor to add that tag originally. f.

[missvifdor]

Alright, I share a quick thought like this, but imagine Bucky having the DID (be careful, I want to make it clear that I'm not an expert and any mistakes on my part are unintentional and I'm sorry for being so stupid The DID is not a joke, it is a real trouble and I would never allow myself to laugh or joke about it).

So I was saying, Bucky having DID:

Thinking back to all the traumatic moments in his life, it would be easy enough to think that he could have had it. Imagine that at one point his brain and mind say "STOP" and no longer able to cope with all these events, decide that in order to survive, he must create a "shield" (I don't know if I am speaking correctly, sorry if that doesn't make sense).

Because if I'm not saying bullshit, that's what the host's DID is for, to protect it and that's where the Alters come in. The basis of the DID is that the host not supposed to know he has it.

But all the time, there will be signs: amnesia, dissociative disorder, depersonalization, derealization,. Imagine, one day, everything is going well, you get ready to go to sleep and then when you wake up, the date, the time have completely changed, you are now dressed and you have no memory of having lived this. that happened after you last remembered.

Now imagine Bucky going through the same thing, he'd be pretty scared I think.

Bucky would have these symptoms, but not just that. For example, he might feel like he has feelings, thoughts, moods, or anything else that is not ... his but belongs to someone else. Or he would hear voices talking to him (Wait, this has nothing to do with schizophrenia, the voices heard cannot be suppressed with medication and to the host this is really heard as a person's voice real voice or an interlocutor. These are real voices).

You know when we think and hear a voice but it is that of our subconscious, and well that is still different.

(I won't procrastinate any longer, but if you are interested, I advise you to inform yourself to find out more. For example, there is a youtube channel that talks about it because the designer has DID, she and other affected people talk about it here: https://youtu.be/ek7JK6pattE ).

Back to our Super Soldier:

Bucky, like anyone with DID will have both good and bad triggers.

The good ones would be: Music from the 40s, his favorite food, something that reminds him of his sister or mother, etc.

The bad ones: Something or someone who could bring back bad memories, maybe the language Russian, the pain linked to his metal arm, the situations where he cannot feel comfortable or very anxious, a dangerous mission that has gone off the rails a bit.

Let's talk about his Alters: The Winter Soldier will have taken a big place in his life and I think he probably never left him because he is part of him.

So I would lean towards the fact that Winter (let's call him that) has become one of his Alters. It would have become this:

Alter Trauma Holder and Persecutor: some of his tasks are to hold traumatic memories ... especially so that other Alters are not not disturbed by these memories and that the system works more or less. And often, well, trauma holders do not voluntarily choose this role, they are there because the brain did it like that and it can seem very unfair!

It is common that in addition to h: And, even when they do, sometimes they just aren't able to pass it on to the rest of the system and, unfortunately, to the outside either. This is one of the reasons why it is very difficult for a system to find and manage trauma or to talk to a therapist, for example. This is one of the reasons why it is very difficult for a system to find and manage trauma or to talk to a therapist, for example.

Trauma holders are also It called “Secret Keepers / Secret Holders”.

Her Part Persecutor: To put it mildly, the "Persecutor" is an alter who is hostile to the system or the outside world . Well, obviously, it’s nowhere near that simple.

In general, persecutors are alters who have internalized hatred or rejection, either towards themselves, towards other members of the system, or towards the outside world. It is a traumatic response that follows physical abuse, toxic relationships and assaults experienced by the system. Like the protectors, the persecutors seek to prevent further attacks, attack in defense or suffer for the rest of the system. But they ... don't always do it the right way.

There are different kinds of persecutors, some tend to reject any outside person, others may have internal words and feelings of worthlessness, still others may sabotage a possible therapy for fear of the medical profession, then of others can re-experience their traumas, injure themselves, etc… They are very often hyperviligant and easily activated.

They are sometimes very withdrawn and influenced by feelings causing for example a strong anxiety or suicidal thoughts. But they can also be authoritarian and seek to impose behavior on the rest of the system, considering that the others are incapable of protecting themselves and are responsible for the abuses suffered. Finally, some persecutors are a representation of aggressors and persecute the system like these. The persecutors are above all persecuted by trauma and in particular they need to be secure. It is very common that, once appeased, they become essential protectors of the system.

Here's another Alter, James: It would be quite similar to the Bucky of the 40s but different at the same time.

He would be an Alter Internal Self Helper: The "Internal Self Helper" is an alter that helps the system internally. It is not uncommon for ISHs to serve as some sort of mediator to the rest of the system, as if they were "the voice of reason."

They often have a good knowledge of Alters and how the system works (but this does not mean that they easily share this information). They are also often discreet, facing little or not at all or only side by side with another alter.

Internal self helpers are often associated with the creation and management of the innerworld, especially when it was conceived unconsciously.

ISH is a frequent supporting role among gatekeepers, protectors and sometimes among trauma holders.

And Bucky would be the host: Host "refers to the alter who fronts most of the time ... when all is well. And this nuance is important!

Indeed, the “Host” is a bit like the basic Alter, the one who is there when there is no need for any other Alter, no triggers, and no Alter is needed wanted to face. In principle, he manages the day-to-day life, so you would think that it is indeed the alter that uses the body most often, yes. But no.

A system is frequently affected by all the little things in life, whether or not it requires the presence of another Alter at the front. And, especially when it is not conscious, it can be common for another alter (social or protective, for example) to be more present than the host. It all depends on the environment of the system and the awareness of its multiplicity as well as the choices and possibilities of each of its members.

For this reason, there are systems without a host (or with a sleeping host) as well as systems with multiple hosts (which are then called co-hosts), which handle different aspects of the day-to-day. good. Of course, the hosts can also have another role, such as caretaker or alter social.e for example. It may also happen that a new host appears and the system changes hosts.

The host is a role that can be difficult to take in at times, as it is often the first alter to become consciously aware (yes, consciously aware) of his multiplicity. And it's already not easy to realize that we "are not alone in your head", but it is also difficult to realize that you have shared your whole life with "these others people in his head ”. It is very common for the host to doubt his legitimacy, to be afraid of lying, etc. They are often influenced by the feelings, thoughts and feelings of other Alters.

On the other hand, the host can usually be an alter who allows for better communication, as he or she serves as a bit of a mediator, conciliatory and benevolent towards the system and the outside world, while being held to it 'deviation from the consequences (emotional for example) of traumas. A stable host is an important basis for functional multiplicity.

Be careful, it must be said: the host is not the original! Many systems don't have an original, and while you might think the host is some kind of original, it isn't. Of course, if there is an original in the system, it can be a host. But, whether host and / or original, all Alters should be considered equally. (Really, for this to work, it's important to understand this)

Otherwise, a person with DID may have other Alters, the number can vary and they are all different!

Now, how would it be if Bucky had a Y / N ? Would other people in the system agree with that? Would Y / N manage and understand this situation? That is the whole question.

But let's imagine that in the best-case scenario, Winter and James are ok with this relationship and even have feelings for Y / N, it will still be a job all the time.

The best would be someone who can differentiate the three and act with the three as if they were three different individuals (Who they are and this is very important because each Alter deserves to be recognized).

Being in a relationship with Bucky is a bit like being with a big teddy bear who could easily shoot you in the head with near-deadly precision. And a gentleman under all circumstances, of course.

Being with Winter is complicated enough, but not impossible. You just have to know how to do it and above all succeed in interpreting his looks, his silences. The man is not the biggest talker but know that he would be ready to kill for you and protect you.

As for James his Fronts are very rare but when he will be there, believe me when I tell you that he will not leave you alone with his affections! He is surely the one who is the most sociable of the three and who will take the greatest pleasure in teasing you or improvising a dance with you in the middle of your living room.

Well I have finished! Do not hesitate to tell me what you think of it in the comments, or if you want a part two to find out more in general or to know more about the romantic relationship side + ... SNFW.

#bucky barnes preferences #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #alters #did you know #system #bucky imagine #bucky headcanon #bucky hcs #Tw