#trauma induced rules

[furiousgoldfish]

Which ones of these arbitrary trauma-induced rules do you follow?

No spending money, ever. what if you need it later and your life depends on it.

Assume that all strangers are 3 seconds close to becoming hostile. fawn to keep them friendly.

No delegating tasks. no telling other people to do things you could potentially do yourself. what if they mess up.

Assume that everyone will consider you a burden if you do 1 single mistake that inconveniences them. do all that is possible to not make that mistake.

Do not admit when things are going wrong. wait until theres no other option but to ask for help, and even then consider not doing that.

Always act like you're okay. not doing so might make you seem 'not normal' and 'accused of being crazy and unstable'.

Do anything for friends, even if it sounds weird, dodgy, illegal. you want to prove that you're fun and easy going and helpful and useful and extremely cool with anything.

Never let it show if you're suspicious of someone. never say out loud that you think their intentions are bad. that might set them off.

If hurt, hide and isolate. Do not let anyone see you hurt.

Do not ask help for problems you feel are your own responsibility to solve. Even if you don't see yourself solving them successfully. If you can't do it, assume nobody can help you.

Help others to try and build positive relationships. Don't accept help so you don't end up relying on them for anything.

Do not start things that involve help or participation from other people. People are not reliable.

Assume that institutions, government, police, social services, and any kind of groups of people are all considering you a nuisance, and would attack you on sight, in every single situation. Never rely on them or assume they would do anything else.

No arguing, confronting, or standing up for yourself unless the situation is absolutely unsurvivable otherwise. Lay low until doing otherwise is seriously damaging your mental health and ability to live.

Give up on hopeful social encounters before they disappoint you. If you have to interact with people, assume the worst is about to happen.

No allowing yourself to idealize, or dream of positive future with people. It's a trap and your expectations need to be either extremely realistic or low.

Assume that fancy and expensive things don't exist for you. Despise them and get away from them.

No comparing yourself and your life to how other people live. It causes depression and despair. Other people's lives and standards of living are none of your business.

Do not showcase any skill or brag about any achievement. Jealous people can destroy you for satisfaction.

Assume people think the worst of you and don't consider changing their mind. Just try to keep out of their way.

Do not display anger. You don't want to be called insane or get arrested. You don't know what people could potentially blame you for if you're openly angry. But other angry people are dangerous and you need to get away from them.

If you follow more than half of these, you have a trauma-induced problem. These are not normal or healthy. These are not developed in a healthy environment. These are extremely self-protective, isolating, ruled by terror of the world and the people living in it. If you follow these, something bad has been done to you.

[bonestrouslingbones]

thinking about a scene where russ is talking to honey and trying so so hard to not completely lie about everything that happens with him and edge but also trying not to make honey completely flip shit about all of his new extremely-visible-edge-induced-trauma & scars and failing miserably because he's already bad at judging when he should care about his own wellbeing and then honey points out the bigass bite mark on his neck/collarbone like "you want me to believe he wasnt trying to kill you when he did THAT" and russ has to be like um. well that was from a different event actually

[psformybss]

i have a request for actress!reader and drew doing hot ones versus for maybe, a promotion of their movie/show

i think the banter between them would be hilarious and just making fun of each other for not being able to handle spicy wings, etc. 😭😭😭

thank you so much 🫶🏻

Burning Questions

drew starkey x actress!reader

a/n: i feel like i could have made this more chaotic, i lowkey struggled coming up with banter for this and idk why like it’s usually so easy for me to come up with it.

You’re already side-eyeing the tray of wings like they owed you money. The sauce is an aggressive shade of red—borderline criminal, honestly—and you swear it’s steaming.

“I just want to state for the record,” you say, gesturing vaguely at the tray like it’s cursed, “that I was bribed into doing this.”

Drew, far too smug for someone minutes away from culinary agony, just shrugs. “You love me.”

You scowl. “You said we were going to a cute little interview. You didn’t mention death by Buffalo.”

He grins. “What’s a little mutual suffering? Builds character.”

“Character? I have enough trauma, thanks. I don’t need hot sauce-induced hallucinations on camera.”

Drew stretches his arms out like he’s prepping for a boxing match. “C’mon. You’ve survived worse.”

“I survived you forgetting my birthday last year. That doesn’t mean I want to relive the trauma with capsaicin.”

He places his hand over his heart, mock-wounded. “I didn’t forget. I was just… building suspense.”

You deadpan. “You sent me Venmoed me hundred dollars with a chili pepper emoji and said, ‘Get yourself something spicy.’”

“Which is… weirdly relevant now, huh?”

You glance at the wings, then back at him. “If I throw up, I’m aiming for your shoes.”

“Fair.”

A production assistant claps the slate and nods. “Rolling.”

Drew sits up straighter, suddenly chipper. “Hi, I’m Drew Starkey.”

You wave lazily. “And I’m a hostage.”

Laughter erupts behind the camera. Drew smirks.

“She’s just mad because I’m gonna outlast her.”

“You’re going to cry on wing two and start calling your mom.”

He points at you. “You say that now.”

You arch a brow. “I say that with confidence.”

You both have five wings. He’s already eyeing his like he’s trying to calculate the scoville units with his brain.

He reaches for the first card and offers it to you like a gentleman.

You snatch it. “Oh, how kind. Chivalry isn’t dead—just bleeding out.”

You clear your throat, affecting a game show host tone. “First question: What was your real first impression of me?”

Drew doesn’t even hesitate. “Dangerous. Unreasonably attractive. Looked like you’d break my heart and then frame me for it.”

You blink. “That’s… shockingly accurate.”

“You gave me the dirtiest look at the Season 1 table read.”

“I had a migraine and you were ten minutes late.”

“I was getting a coffee!”

“And I was plotting your demise.”

He shrugs. “It was love at first threat.”

You sigh dramatically. “God, we’re insufferable.”

“Speak for yourself. I’m delightful.”

You roll your eyes. “Next.”

He picks a card. “What’s something I do that drives you absolutely insane?”

“Oh, do we have time for this?”

He winces. “Oh no.”

You lean in. “You hum when you brush your teeth. Aggressively. Like, there’s toothpaste foam flying everywhere and you’re just vibing to Coldplay like we’re not living in a horror movie.”

He clutches his chest. “That’s a sacred routine.”

“It’s a nightmare. One time you hit a high note and scared the neighbor’s dog.”

He’s laughing too hard to argue.

You pick the next card, eyes gleaming. “Ooh, game time. Rock-paper-scissors. Loser eats a wing.”

Drew rolls his neck. “I was born for this.”

“You were born to suffer.”

You raise your fists.

“Rock, paper, scissors—shoot!”

You throw paper. He throws rock. You smirk. “Ah. The taste of victory.”

Second round: draw.

Final round: you throw scissors, he throws paper.

You clap. “Welp. Bon appétit, babe.”

He stares at the wing like it insulted his mother.

“Is it too late to renegotiate the rules?”

“Eat the wing, lover boy.”

He sighs, lifts it with ceremony, and takes a bite.

Immediately, he blinks. “Nope. Nooope. That’s not food. That’s violence.”

You burst out laughing.

“My tongue is fighting for its life,” he wheezes.

“You’re doing great, sweetie,” you say through a grin.

He swigs milk like it’s holy water.

Next card. “What’s my go-to hangover food?”

You don’t hesitate. “McGriddle. Two hashbrowns. Black coffee. Judgment.”

He nods, impressed. “Wow.”

“I have to watch you eat it like a raccoon every time you go too hard on karaoke night.”

You grab the next card. “Impersonation challenge. Whoever laughs eats a wing.”

Drew immediately pretends to toss his hair and raises his pitch. “‘I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed… and also mad.’”

You press your lips together.

“‘Let’s get a matcha and talk about our feelings until I convince myself I don’t have any.’”

You glare.

Then drop your voice. “‘Hey, I’m Drew. I pretend I’m emotionally stable, but I cried watching a CeraVe commercial.’”

He loses it.

“It was wholesome!” he chokes, already reaching for another wing.

You smirk as he takes a bite—and immediately chugs milk again.

“Oh my God,” he groans. “Why does it linger?”

You read the next card. “What’s something you’ve never admitted about us publicly?”

He leans back, still wiping his face. “That I knew I liked you before we even finished filming Season 1.”

You pause.

He shrugs. “You called me a ‘bland Hemsworth’ in front of the entire cast and I was like, ‘Yep. That’s her.’”

You shake your head. “You’re so emotionally weird.”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

He fans his mouth. “Okay, next. Favorite moment on the Outer Banks set?”

You light up. “The boat day. When JD pushed Rudy in and everyone panicked.”

“Oh my god—yes. I forgot about that. You slipped and screamed like you got shot.”

“You’d scream too if you fell flat on your ass in front of thirty crew members.”

He nods. “Fair enough.”

He pulls another card. “Favorite line your character’s ever said?”

You grin. “‘You touch my brother again and I’ll bury you with your boat keys.’”

“Iconic.”

“Yours?”

He grins. “I like the unhinged ones. ‘You’re not built for this.’ So dramatic.”

You snort. “It’s the delivery. You always sound like Rafe just got rejected from a school play.”

He shrugs. “Maybe he did.”

Next question. “What’s my comfort movie?”

“Kill Bill. Volume 1.”

“I’m honestly worried about how well you know me.”

“You shouldn’t be. I have a whole list.”

He pulls out a card. “Trivia round. Miss one, eat a wing.”

You crack your knuckles. “Bring it.”

“What was my first job?”

“Movie theater.”

“Okay… what actor made me want to pursue film?”

“Jake Gyllenhaal. You say it constantly.”

“Alright. What’s my mom’s favorite cake?”

You tilt your head. “Carrot. From that one bakery in Asheville. You forgot her birthday and made me call in the order.”

He stares. “That’s unsettling.”

You grin. “You’re predictable.”

He sighs, reaches for another wing. “I’m sweating. Is this what marriage feels like?”

You shrug. “Wouldn’t know.”

He takes the bite. Freezes. “I can taste colors. I’m in another dimension.”

You just pop a marshmallow from the plate into your mouth, unbothered.

Next card. “When did we actually start dating?”

You both answer at the same time. “Middle of Season 2.”

You add, “And we gaslit everyone into thinking we were just really close friends.”

“Mad respect to Rudy for calling it out and then letting it go like a true king.”

“He literally said, ‘I don’t care, just stop making eye contact like that during lunch.’”

You glance at his tray. Four wings down. One left.

Your tray? Untouched.

He stares at you. “How?”

You sip water slowly. “It’s called strategy, baby.”

He groans. “You’re the devil.”

You smile sweetly. “And you love me.”

He looks at the camera. “Pray for me.”

You pick the final card. “Double or nothing?”

He eyes the wing. Then you.

“Absolutely not.”

You laugh, reach for the marshmallows again, and toss one at him.

He catches it in his mouth. “Still hot.”

“From the wing or from me?”

He gives you a look. “Don’t make me regret this relationship.”

You both dissolve into laughter as he wipes his face again, flushed, wrecked, but grinning.

“I’m never trusting you again,” he mumbles.

You pat his hand. “That’s fair. But like… you kinda crushed it.”

[dilemma-ed]

(tgr spoilers ahead)

the dynamic/parallels between jean and andrew in tgr absolutely kill me

the "tell me his name" scene just means so much to me and it just evokes every bit of andrew's protectiveness, the implicit trauma-induced reaction that he had in tfc, when he pins nicky against the wall and threatens to kill him if he touches neil

jean sees andrew as he is, even if he doesn't entirely understand him. he can see his thought process better than, say, nicky, who abides by andrew's rules without quite understanding or caring to know why, only that the consequences of not doing such are deadly

despite having barely said a word to him prior, jean is able to pinpoint the exact thing to say to convince andrew to quit smoking with a single sentence: promising him that one day, when someone comes for neil, he won't be able to save him

and then someone does come for neil—and comes for him—but all andrew can see past his pain is neil, lying unmoving on the court floor before he can reach him and he knows that jean is right

jean implicitly understands the lengths to which andrew would go to protect neil, would likely understand the necessity for tilda's death and his promise to aaron

for the first time in his life, jean has people he cares about and covets the power to protect them. he knows how fragile and gentle it is, how brutal it is when that choice to do so is taken away

he couldn't save elodie, hadn't wanted to save kevin, but for once, he had something like hope within his grasp and he didn't want to let go

[swiftjay23]

You Remember Wrong

Genre: Psychological Horror Erotic Thriller Unreliable Memory / Glitchcore Smut-Heavy Mindfuck Neo-noir Romance Paranormal Erotica, Dead Boyfriend Isn’t Dead, Or Maybe He Is, Gaslight Gatekeep Ghost Dick, Sex and Memory Collapse, Possessive Glitchboyfriend, Mirror Sex, Voicemail Moaning, Fucking Through Amnesia, Trauma-Fueled Lust, “He’s still inside you”, Is She Dead? Is He Real?, No One Knows. Especially Not You, Emotional Manipulation via Orgasm, Unreliable Narrator, Haunting as Foreplay, File://ERROR, You Died. Maybe.

SUMMARY: Every year at exactly 12:12 a.m., you receive a single text. Always from the same name. Always the same word: “Sorry.” The name? Jake. Your boyfriend. Your first love. Declared dead five years ago. You thought the case was closed. You thought you were healing. But this year, the message changes. “You remember wrong.” Reality glitches. Your reflection moves without you. He never left. And he’s not leaving now.

🔞 CONTENT TAGS / WARNINGS (Explicit): MDNI Oral Sex (M→F), Vaginal Sex, Mirror Play, Rough Sex, Creampie, Somnophilia Themes, Breathplay / Choking, Public Photo/Surveillance Kink, Voicemails Featuring Moaning, Glitching Reality / Horror, Forced Arousal via Haunting, Intense Psychological Themes, Unclear Consent in Dream/Memory Sequences, Body Memory / Amnesia, Blood Mention, Flashbacks to Sex and Grief, Possessive Behavior, Distorted Perception, Delusions of Love, Self-Pleasure Induced by Haunting, Manipulation via Pleasure, Mentions of Death, Fire, Identity Erasure, YOU DIED. (Maybe.)

Pairing! Sim Jaeyun | Jake (Enhypen) × Female Reader

Word Count: 3377

🗂🕯️ Permanent Taglist:

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Your apartment is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that shouldn’t exist in a city that never fucking sleeps.

It’s not just silence, it’s a void.

You’re half-asleep on the couch, remote still clutched in your hand, your phone balanced on your chest. A candle flickers out in the kitchen. You don’t remember lighting it.

Then the phone buzzes.

You jolt, eyes unfocused as the screen lights your skin. One notification. One word. One name.

It starts the same way it always does. Phone buzzes. Screen lights up. 12:12 a.m. You don’t need to look at the name. You already know.

1 new message from: Jake

Your chest contracts. Your breath stalls. Your fingers twitch. The first year, it said "Sorry." The second, third, and fourth did too. A single word. Unchanging. Like a ghost with manners.

But tonight, tonight, it’s different.

No. This time, it’s you who’s the problem.

You sit up. Every hair on your arm stands. Because… he’s dead.

Jake’s dead. He’s been dead for five years. Found dead, stabbed, burned, unidentifiable. The authorities ruled it a home invasion. But something never sat right. Declared gone at exactly 12:12 a.m. the time carved into every death certificate, every news report, every echo of your memory.

You remember wrong.

You stare. Not at the message. At the room. Like something's about to shift. Crack. Like the floorboards might peel back and spill blood. You’re alone. Of course you’re alone.

Except…

The bathroom door is open. You always leave it closed. The faucet’s dripping. You haven’t used it all night. You back away slowly.

You pull yourself off the couch like the air’s thickened. Something’s wrong. The temperature’s dropped. Your reflection in the mirror across the room looks… too still. Like it’s not moving when you do.

You blink. It blinks back. And then. Your legs brush the edge of your bed. You sit down without meaning to. Hands trembling.

You hear it.

A clink. Metal against ceramic. From the kitchen.

You whisper it before you can stop yourself. “Jake?” The light above you flickers. Just once. A joke, maybe. A coincidence. Except you don’t believe in those anymore.

You haven’t said his name out loud in almost two years. You forgot how it tasted. Bitter. Familiar. Like copper and old perfume.

Your phone buzzes again.

Don’t say it again.

You flinch. You’re not alone. You don’t know how you know. But you know. The air shifts. Thickens. Warms. You feel something press against your shoulder, then nothing.

You turn. No one. Except your bedroom mirror. Fogged over. Like someone breathed against it. Like someone’s still breathing.

Your body moves before your brain does. You stumble to the mirror.

The words smear across the glass like fingerprints. "Shh." And behind your own reflection, someone stands.

Close. Too close. Fingertips graze your waist. Cold. Familiar.

You take a few steps back. Head to the kitchen for water and a sleep pill. You step forward slowly, heart hammering in your chest. There’s a knife on the counter. The same one that went missing last week. The same one from the police report five years ago, missing weapon, presumed disposed.

It’s back. Dripping something dark. Like it was just used.

You take one step back. And then—

A hand wraps around your waist. Familiar. Warm. Firm.

Another hand covers your mouth. You try to scream but it’s breathless, like your lungs forgot how. And then you hear him.

That voice. That fucking voice. Right by your ear. A low whisper, like silk sliding over a wound.

“Shh.” “You talk too much when I’m home.”

You jerk forward but the grip doesn’t loosen. His lips brush your jaw, lazy. Fond. Possessive.

“You weren’t supposed to ask.” “You were supposed to miss me.” You twist around. And you see him. Sim Jaeyun.

Alive.

Or at least, something that looks like him. Hair slightly longer. Skin paler. Eyes… glitched. Like a skipped frame in a movie reel. Too real. Not real enough. Both.

He smiles. And your body betrays you.

You feel wetness between your legs. Because your body remembers. Even if you don’t.

You back up. Your voice breaks: “Are you—?”

He’s already shaking his head. “You remember wrong.”

You wake up on the floor.

Hardwood against your cheek. Cold sweat on your spine. The clock on your microwave says 4:43 a.m.

The knife’s gone. The fogged-up mirror is dry. The message from Jake, deleted. And your phone? Powered off. You don’t remember turning it off.

Your throat feels raw. Your lips are bruised. Your thighs are sore.

You pull your sleep shirt down over your ass as you stand, shaky, like your body’s been used. Touched. Fucked. Like the ghost of a man fucked you open and made you forget your own name.

You try to shake it off. Go to the bathroom. Turn on the light— It flickers. No surprise. You lean over the sink. There’s blood beneath your fingernails.

By noon, you’re sitting at your desk with four tabs open: Jake’s police file An archived news report The coroner’s statement The funeral guest list

Every link says the same thing: Jake died. Five years ago. Time of death? 12:12 a.m. No body ever confirmed. Closed casket. The fire burned his face. They ruled it a match using dental records. That’s what you remember.

Except one file doesn’t open. Jake’s identity archive. The system returns a red blinking message.

FILE://ERROR – IDENTITY MISMATCH. SOURCE UNSTABLE.

You stare. The file isn’t corrupted. You are.

You hear your phone vibrate from the kitchen.

One new voicemail. Timestamped at 2:47 a.m. While you were… unconscious? Dreaming? Coming?

You press play.

You expect static. Garbled signals. You get moaning. Your moaning.

Panting, whispering something over and over. Begging.

“Jake, please, just tell me—” A wet sound. Fingers. Something deeper. Your voice breaks. “What are you, what are you doing to me?” “I’m making you forget.” Click. End of voicemail. You drop the phone.

You curl up on the floor of your apartment like it’ll help you hold shape. Your hand drifts down.

It’s not a choice. It’s instinct.

You’re soaked. You slide a hand under your shorts, two fingers curling in like they’ve been taught. Like someone trained them.

You gasp. The memory floods back, his teeth on your shoulder. His voice in your ear. “I know how to make you come harder than truth.”

The orgasm hits before you’re ready. Violent. Full-body. You come shaking, biting your hand to keep from sobbing.

And just as you blink your eyes open, he’s standing in the doorway.

Not a sound. Not a footstep.

He’s just… there. Leaning against the frame. T-shirt half untucked. Hair wet. Eyes on your fingers.

Jake.

Still not dead. Still not explaining. Just watching you unravel.

You try to speak. Your mouth opens. He raises a finger to his lips again.

“Don’t ask.” “Just come here.”

You wake up naked.

Sheets tangled between your legs. Mouth dry. Skin damp. A bruise blooming on the inside of your thigh in the shape of a hand you know too well. Jake is gone. Again. But he always leaves reminders.

The scent of him on your pillow. The ache in your cunt like you were kept up all night. The slick that clings to your inner thighs, cooling.

You try to clench your legs, flinch. It hurts. God, it hurts. Like you came over and over and forgot how to stop.

Your phone buzzes. You drag yourself to the edge of the bed, grab it with trembling fingers.

Unknown Number

1 New Photo 1 New Voicemail

You don’t open the voicemail. Not yet. Your eyes land on the photo first.

You. And Jake. Laughing. Holding hands. Drinking coffee. Last week.

Date stamped. Geotagged. Smiling.

You drop the phone. Because you don’t remember that moment. You didn’t go out last week. You barely left the apartment.

You haven’t smiled like that since—

That night, he comes back. Doesn't say a word, moves up to your room.

You follow him.

You don’t remember standing. You don’t remember moving. But suddenly, you’re in the hallway, feet bare, heart in your throat, the floorboards creaking like they're holding secrets.

Jake doesn’t look back. He doesn’t have to. You’d follow him off a rooftop right now, and he knows it.

He pushes the door open to your bedroom. Except—

It’s not your bedroom. It’s cleaner. Too clean. Sterile. Like a memory of a bedroom. Your furniture, your sheets, but wrong.

The scent hits first. Jake’s cologne. Faint. Faded. Like he’s been here this whole time, bleeding into the walls. Your knees wobble.

He doesn’t speak. Just sits at the edge of your bed. Legs spread. Elbows on his knees.

And that smile. The one that used to mean “Come here and let me wreck you.” The one that made you soft when you were supposed to stay angry.

It’s back. But colder. Hungrier.

You open your mouth, he raises a hand. Stops you with one look. “I’m not here to explain.” “I’m here to remind you.”

He pulls you by the wrist. You stumble, fall into him, straddle his lap without meaning to.

Your shirt rides up. He palms your hips like you’re his. Like he never died. Like you never forgot how good this felt.

He kisses you like punishment. Like silence. Like you’re not supposed to speak, only break.

Your mouth tastes like grief and heat and déjà vu. You don’t even notice when he lifts you, lays you down, crawls between your thighs. Because your head tilts.

And then you see it. The mirror.

Across the room. The full-length one you never liked. The one you threw a blanket over after he died. It’s uncovered.

You see yourself. On your back. Legs around his waist.

But something’s wrong.

The reflection smiles first. Not you.

Your reflection is moaning before you even feel his cock push inside. Grabbing his shoulders. Tilting your head.

You’re still gasping, still catching up. But the girl in the mirror is already cumming.

Already his. He fucks you slowly. Like he’s memorizing you again. Like he’s carving something into your bones that won’t leave, even after death.

“This is the version of you I like best,” he murmurs. “You never talk during sex. Just beg.”

You want to ask where he’s been. Why no one remembers. Why you’re unraveling. But your mouth won’t work. He’s thrusting too deep. Your voice has become sound, not sense.

The reflection lifts her head. She watches you. Smiling, dazed.

She whispers something you can’t hear— But Jake can. Because he leans down and repeats it into your throat. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”

You cum when his hand closes over your throat. Tears slipping from your eyes, not from pain. From remembering. Everything. Or nothing.

And just before you pass out. The reflection mouths something new. “Don’t wake up.”

You wake up naked.

The knock at your door is too normal. It jars. You tug on a hoodie. Nothing underneath. Still wet. The air stings between your legs. You’re leaking. You open the door a crack.

It’s your neighbor. The old woman from 5B.

She frowns. Takes a step back like she’s seen a ghost. “I thought… sorry, I didn’t think anyone lived here anymore.” “Weren’t you the girl whose boyfriend—”

She stops.

“No, that’s not right. You moved out. Five years ago.” “After the fire.”

She leaves before you can speak. Your lungs seize.

You slam the door shut. Collapse against it.

You're not real. Or maybe reality isn’t.

You crawl back to the bed. The sheets are cold. The mirror across the room is cracked. The voicemail still waits. You hit play. Jake’s voice.

“You're tighter when you’re scared.” “When you don’t understand what I am.” “But your body does, doesn’t it?”

There’s a wet sound. Slapping. Breathing. Your voice. “Jake—please, I can’t—” “You can. You always could.” “I’m the only thing that ever felt real.”

You hear him groan. “Say my name.”

Your voice on the recording sobs it. Moans it. Over and over. Crying it into the crook of his neck. Begging for more.

“Say you’re mine.” “Say it, or I’ll fuck you until you forget your name again.”

You say it. On the tape. Desperate. Shattered.

“I’m yours, Jake—fuck—yours—” He laughs. Low. Ruined.

“Good girl.” You drop the phone again.

You don’t remember the night. But your body does. You’re sore, raw, dripping down your thighs like the proof of possession.

You crawl onto the bed again. Still open. Still warm.

And you feel it, Not just slick but him. Like he’s still inside you. Like he never left.

You reach down.

Two fingers. Wet. Warm.

You fuck yourself with the rhythm he used last night. And in the mirror, you see Jake.

Behind you. No expression. Hands on your hips. Watching. But when you spin around? Nothing.

The email from the archives comes at 3:03 a.m. Just two lines:

REQUEST DENIED. SUBJECT: Y/N [REDACTED] – STATUS: DECEASED.

You blink at the screen. Your name, blacked out. Birth certificate: not found. Hospital file: error. Death record: processed.

You’re not dead. You’re not.

You touch your own pulse just to check. And your fingers come away sticky. Slick.

You’re wet again. Still. There wasn't a time you weren't, with his breath hitting you constantly.

A knock at the door. Not tentative. Not curious. Confident. Like someone who knows you’ll answer.

You grab your robe, still braless, panties nonexistent. Because nothing stays on you these days. Jake makes sure of it.

You open the door. And there he is.

Bare-chested. Black sweats. No shoes. Neck glistening with sweat like he ran here. Or maybe… like he came. His eyes flick over you.

The robe barely clings to your shoulders. His gaze drops between your thighs.

“You’re leaking again.” “Let me fix that.” You don’t speak.

Because your body’s already moving. Letting him in. Locking the door. He doesn’t waste time.

Pushes you against the kitchen counter. Hands under your robe. No patience. You gasp when his fingers slide in—two, immediately. Like he owns the place. Like he’s coming home.

“Still this wet?” he whispers, mouth on your throat. “Even when I’m not around?”

You try to lie. Try to say it’s from the dream, the tape, the memory.

But he curls his fingers inside you just right. Finds that spot. And you choke. He smirks.

“Thought so.” He flips you over the counter.

No warning. Your robe’s yanked open, tits pressed against cold granite. One hand between your shoulders, the other already freeing his cock. You look back. And fuck.

He’s hard. Thick. Mean-looking. The kind of cock you don’t forget, even if reality begs you to.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say what you are.” You hesitate. He doesn’t. He slams in. One thrust. Bottoms out.

You scream, choked, sudden, fucked full.

“Say it.” You sob. “I’m yours.” “Jake, I’m yours—”His hips snap forward, fast, brutal. Your nails scratch the countertop.

“Louder.” “Let the walls remember too.”

You say it. You cry it. You mean it.

Because he’s fucking you like he wants to leave a blueprint inside. Like when you’re gone, your cunt will still remember. You cum hard. On his cock. Around it. Slick splattering down your thighs, onto the floor.

He doesn’t stop.

“That’s it.” “Stay broken.” “Stay mine.”

He pulls out just enough, then slams back in. You feel it in your teeth.

And just before you black out— You hear it again. The mirror. A whisper from across the room. Soft. Feminine. You. “Don’t wake up.”

But you don't, you never fall asleep. The room is quiet after he cums.

He doesn’t pull out. Just stays pressed deep inside, breath tickling your neck, his palm cradling your jaw like you’re made of glass.

You’re shaking. He presses a kiss to your shoulder.

Soft. Nothing like before. No thrust. No demand. Just lips.

“You used to cry when I touched you.” “The first time, remember?”

You don’t.

But your body clenches around him like you do.

FLASH.

You’re nineteen. Jake’s apartment. Messy sheets, your first real boyfriend, his trembling fingers between your thighs.

He’s saying, “Tell me if it hurts.” You’re whispering, “Don’t stop.”

Your legs shake when you cum. You cry into his neck. He holds you like it’s sacred. Back in the present, he fucks you slow again. Almost gentle.

“You were so good for me,” he murmurs. “So fucking sweet. Always so wet. Always mine.” Your eyes sting. You don’t want to cry. You don’t know if this is memory or manipulation.

But he leans in. Kisses your lips, soft. Careful. Real.

“You still are.”

You’re riding him now. Hands on his chest. Your thighs sore. The mirror behind him cracked. Still watching.

You roll your hips. Slow. Needy. And Jake? He’s smiling.

Not that twisted grin. A real smile. “That’s it, baby. Just like that.” “Let me see you. Let me remember.” Your walls clench.

You moan. Loud. Unfiltered. And Jake, his hands shake when he grabs your hips. “You’re my favorite version.” You whimper: “Which one am I?”

He doesn’t answer. Just thrusts up, deep, perfect.

And you come.

FLASH. A picnic. Sunlight. Jake handing you strawberries. Telling you your laugh is his favorite sound.

You laugh now. But it’s hollow. You collapse against him.

He wraps you in a blanket. Cradles your head. Hums. “You used to cry when I touched you.” “But now you forget.” “And when you forget, you let me touch you again.” You fall asleep like that.

Still inside him. Still unsure. Still his.

It starts with a letter. On your pillow. Folded once. No envelope. Your name in blue ink. You recognize the handwriting. Yours.

The signature, though, is Jake’s. “You used to write me letters when you were angry. You said it was easier than screaming. You only screamed when I left. I didn’t leave. You did.”

The paper smells like old perfume. Yours. Or his. You’re not sure anymore.

“You begged me to come back. So I did. I made a home in the only place you’d never look again. Inside your own memory.”

The voicemail comes two minutes later. You play it. Your mother’s voice. Shaky. Frayed. Real. “Sweetie, I—I don’t know why you keep saying his name. You always did this, remember? Imaginary friends. But Jake, Jake never existed. We thought it stopped after the… after the accident.”

“You died. Honey, you died. You weren’t supposed to come back.”

She’s crying.

“Why are you calling me from this number? Whose phone is this?Please stop. Just let it rest.”

The world goes quiet.

The room doesn’t feel cold. It feels… gone. Like the lights are on in a house that was never built. You walk to the window.

And across the street. You see it.

Your funeral. A closed casket. Mourning clothes. Black umbrellas under white sun. Your mother on her knees in front of the altar. Sobbing. The same woman who left the voicemail. Only now it’s hours later.

But you’re not there. You’re somewhere else.

The kitchen smells like eggs and citrus.

Jake stands at the stove. Barefoot. Sweats hanging low. Soft music playing from an old radio that never worked.

He looks up. “Morning.” “You look pale.” “You dreamed again, didn’t you?”

You sit down. There’s orange juice in your cup before you speak. “Jake…”

He slides the eggs onto your plate. Kisses your forehead. “I’m yours. You made me that way.” “I can’t leave anymore.”

You blink. He smiles. “Eat, baby. It’s a long life. And we’re the only ones who remember it.”

In the mirror behind him, you’re smiling.

But you’re not eating. Your reflection tilts its head. Blood drips down its nose. You wipe yours. Nothing. Jake sits across from you. Reaches for your hand. And you don’t ask if he’s real.

You just whisper: “Will you stay?” He doesn’t blink. “I never left.”

Outside, the funeral ends. They bury the casket. The wind carries a single name from your mother’s lips:

“Please. Come back.”

But you’re already home. You always have been.

The End You remember wrong.

masterlist

[fumifooms]

I don’t like minimizing the importance and gravity of Laios and Toshiro’s fight into just being a childish squabble, even if to a degree it is framed that way, because to both of them it has a lot of personal significance and emotional weight and runs very deep to their characters… The fight isn’t nothing it’s a LOT, they made up but it’s not something easy to express and to get over for either of them which makes it all the more meaningful! I’m on both sides but there very much are sides, there’s no "they’re both having a ball, Toshiro and Laios hand in hand yay" side to the fight, that comes after

The fight with Toshiro WAS very scary to Laios, almost existentially so, but it’s moreso the "I thought I’d made a friend!!" bit and my god. My god actually

Like it’s not "just" about oh his friend liking him less than he thought, THAT IS SO MUCH. It’s a bond he thought he had being a lie it’s all the time and moments spent together either being a lie from his perspective or marred now looking back. It’s not only being upset at Toshiro for lying but upset at himself that he’s so easy to fool, it’s being upset that there’s something so wrong with you that you can’t even tell if your "close buddy" even actually likes you or not, it’s like. Holding my head. He can’t trust his own vision of events that happened do you see. There’s always this film of distrust that it could be a lie that should be there when he interacts with people there’s always this sense of cloak and dagger to expect backstabs out of nowhere because you CAN’T see it coming you CAN’T you CAN’T there’s something about you which makes it impossible so you CAN’T-

He’s so scared of not being able to read people. He knows it’s a weak spot he has, he’s always known. All of these bits are centered around social expectations and betrayals, the assumption that he doesn’t belong either in society or with other humans.

And Laios’ level of awareness is actually sort of complex to analyze, but it’s there, there’s how out of him and Falin he was the one sensitive to the ~aura of hatred~ he felt from the townspeople, there’s of course his nightmares whispering to him about the mocking looks, and how yeah actually he realizes that his gold stripper coworker was taking advantage of him. There’s of course the Winged Lion speech about his trauma and how he fundamentally mistrusts/dislikes humans to some deep seated degree, this distrust that he still keeps under control always. There’s how pre-canon he often wanted to suggest eating monsters but never worked up the courage to bring it up with the others. There’s how he comes across as stoic when he isn’t being enthusiastic…… We don’t know how aware and wary he is exactly in the moment but we do know he has some anxiety around social stuff, and looking back he does notice and aughh augh, the sense you have to hide yourself to not get hurt, and be on your guard and shit and.

When you don’t know what to look out for and when to look out for it, the general ‘common sense’ of not always trusting people or noticing when someone’s messing with you becomes hypervigilance in social settings

"Man they really know what you hate huh." Being socially unaware literally plagues him, he knows, he knows it so well.

It’s so quick that it’s almost hard to digest how literal and blatant Laios summoning his monster to crush all the people who’ve hurt him is. His literal go-to coping mechanism for comfort in his literal monster-induced emotionally intense nightmare, saving him by taking away the upsetting element (the humans)

"Monsters are his coping fantasy, where they can whisk him away from humanity, all the hurt it’s caused him and its arbitrary rules" with the subtlety of a brick. Monsters are his comfort safe zone "because they kill humans" yes but no it’s because he pits them as the guardians against humans who to him are in the role of the agressors. To him they represent freedom from the shackles of what it means to be part of humanity, a fundamentally social species

[aeth-eris]

★  hypothetical  death  |  8th  house  ★ 

★  book  a  reading  ★  ★  masterlist  1  ★  ★  masterlist  2  ★

 ★  aries  in  the  8th  house  ★ 

a  fiery  and  sudden  death—aries  energy  ensures  the  circumstances  are  quick,  intense,  and  dramatic.  scenarios  might  include  head  trauma  from  an  accident  during  high-adrenaline  activities  like  racing,  extreme  sports,  or  even  combat.  mars,  as  aries'  ruler,  adds  themes  of  violence,  heat,  or  machinery,  suggesting  deaths  involving  fire,  burns,  or  weapon-related  incidents.  strokes  or  aneurysms  due  to  elevated  stress  or  blood  pressure  might  also  play  a  role.  the  impulsiveness  of  aries  could  contribute  to  risky  behavior  leading  to  fatal  consequences,  like  a  dare  gone  wrong  or  reacting  without  thinking  in  a  dangerous  situation.  workplace  accidents  involving  machinery  or  tools  might  also  be  significant.  death  could  occur  in  a  high-energy  environment,  like  a  gym,  construction  site,  or  battlefield.  if  mars  is  poorly  aspected,  anger  or  conflicts  might  escalate  into  physical  violence,  adding  a  combative  edge  to  their  passing.  aries  in  the  8th  suggests  a  death  that  is  fast,  passionate,  and  leaves  an  unmistakable  impression,  often  tied  to  their  drive  for  action  and  independence.  their  end  might  reflect  a  moment  of  courage,  boldness,  or  impulsivity—whether  in  a  fight,  an  accident,  or  a  heroic  act.

 ★  taurus  in  the  8th  house  ★ 

a  slow,  grounded  death  tied  to  the  physical  body  or  material  comforts.  taurus  rules  the  throat  and  neck,  so  choking,  strangulation,  or  complications  with  the  thyroid  could  be  relevant.  overindulgence  in  food,  drink,  or  a  luxurious  lifestyle  might  lead  to  long-term  health  issues,  such  as  heart  disease  or  diabetes.  accidents  involving  possessions,  like  heavy  objects  falling,  might  also  feature.  venus,  as  taurus’  ruler,  introduces  themes  of  beauty  and  sensuality—perhaps  death  occurs  in  a  peaceful  or  aesthetic  setting,  like  a  serene  garden  or  during  a  relaxing  spa  treatment.  there  could  also  be  a  financial  or  material  aspect  tied  to  their  passing,  such  as  disputes  over  inheritance  or  wealth.  deaths  involving  the  earth  or  natural  settings  are  possible—think  landslides,  farming  accidents,  or  being  buried  under  physical  weight.  if  venus  is  poorly  aspected,  overindulgence  or  attachment  to  material  comforts  could  play  a  detrimental  role.  taurus  in  the  8th  suggests  a  passing  that  is  steady,  tactile,  and  tied  to  the  physical  world,  reflecting  themes  of  security,  comfort,  or  even  stubbornness  in  their  final  moments.

 ★  gemini  in  the  8th  house  ★ 

a  curious  and  chaotic  death  tied  to  communication,  movement,  or  duality.  gemini’s  connection  to  the  lungs  and  nervous  system  suggests  respiratory  failure,  accidents  during  travel  (cars,  planes,  bikes),  or  even  stress-induced  neurological  breakdowns.  multitasking  or  miscommunication  could  play  a  significant  role—imagine  texting  while  driving  or  rushing  to  meet  a  deadline.  gemini’s  dual  nature  might  manifest  as  two  contrasting  causes  or  settings  tied  to  their  death,  like  being  in  two  places  at  once  or  dealing  with  conflicting  scenarios.  mercury,  gemini’s  ruler,  adds  themes  of  learning  and  intellect,  so  their  passing  might  involve  books,  technology,  or  public  speaking—perhaps  a  fatal  incident  during  a  lecture  or  broadcast.  mental  overstimulation,  like  overworking  the  brain  or  juggling  too  many  responsibilities,  could  lead  to  burnout  or  exhaustion.  gemini  in  the  8th  often  reflects  a  death  tied  to  curiosity,  adaptability,  or  rapid  movement,  with  circumstances  that  are  unpredictable  or  fast-paced.  the  end  might  occur  while  chasing  knowledge,  engaging  in  lively  conversation,  or  simply  moving  too  quickly  in  life.

 ★  cancer  in  the  8th  house  ★ 

an  emotionally  charged  death  tied  to  family,  water,  or  the  home.  cancer’s  rulership  of  the  chest  and  stomach  suggests  causes  like  breast  cancer,  ulcers,  or  drowning.  food  poisoning  or  allergies  from  nurturing  environments,  like  family  meals,  might  also  be  involved.  the  moon’s  influence  brings  cycles  and  tides  into  the  equation,  so  lunar  phases  or  emotional  states  might  align  with  their  passing.  accidents  in  domestic  spaces—like  a  fall  in  the  bathtub,  a  kitchen  mishap,  or  a  structural  collapse  in  their  home—are  possible.  cancer  in  the  8th  also  suggests  emotional  wounding  or  heartbreak  could  contribute  to  their  death,  especially  if  family  dynamics  are  strained.  the  circumstances  might  involve  themes  of  care  and  protection,  like  passing  while  tending  to  loved  ones  or  during  a  significant  life  transition,  such  as  childbirth  or  becoming  a  parent.  water-related  scenarios  are  significant—drowning  in  a  lake,  slipping  into  a  pool,  or  even  being  caught  in  a  storm  at  sea.  cancer  in  the  8th  suggests  a  deeply  personal,  intuitive,  and  emotionally  resonant  passing,  one  tied  to  their  roots,  family,  or  internal  world.

 ★  leo  in  the  8th  house  ★ 

a  dramatic  and  highly  visible  death  tied  to  their  individuality  or  public  presence.  leo  rules  the  heart,  so  heart  attacks,  cardiac  arrest,  or  stress-related  heart  issues  are  common.  their  passing  might  occur  during  a  moment  of  grandeur—perhaps  on  stage,  at  a  public  event,  or  while  performing  a  leadership  role.  accidents  involving  fire,  extreme  heat,  or  light  are  also  possible,  such  as  dying  in  a  blaze  or  due  to  sunstroke.  leo’s  need  for  recognition  suggests  their  death  might  leave  a  lasting  impression,  either  as  a  cautionary  tale  or  a  heroic  act.  venusian  influences  might  add  artistic  or  aesthetic  themes,  like  passing  away  while  creating  something  beautiful  or  during  an  extravagant  celebration.  if  poorly  aspected,  pride  or  stubbornness  could  lead  to  risky  behavior,  like  refusing  medical  advice  or  engaging  in  dangerous  stunts.  leo  in  the  8th  house  often  reflects  a  passing  that  mirrors  their  vibrant  life—bold,  memorable,  and  tied  to  their  creative  or  leadership  pursuits.  their  death  may  carry  a  symbolic  weight,  marking  the  end  of  an  era  or  leaving  a  dramatic  legacy.

 ★  virgo  in  the  8th  house  ★ 

a  precise  and  health-focused  death  tied  to  routine,  work,  or  the  body.  virgo  rules  the  digestive  system,  so  deaths  from  intestinal  issues,  food  poisoning,  or  chronic  illnesses  like  stomach  cancer  might  occur.  virgo’s  perfectionism  suggests  that  their  passing  could  involve  medical  errors  or  complications  during  surgery—perhaps  due  to  misdiagnosis  or  overly  meticulous  procedures.  stress  from  overwork  or  obsession  with  health  could  lead  to  burnout,  strokes,  or  heart-related  issues.  their  death  might  occur  in  a  clinical  or  work  environment,  such  as  a  hospital,  lab,  or  office,  especially  if  service  to  others  was  a  big  part  of  their  life.  virgo’s  connection  to  habits  may  mean  that  small,  unnoticed  health  problems  build  up  over  time,  eventually  leading  to  something  fatal.  mental  health  could  also  play  a  role,  with  overthinking  or  anxiety  exacerbating  physical  conditions.  if  mercury,  virgo’s  ruler,  is  poorly  aspected,  miscommunication  or  lack  of  clarity  might  surround  their  death.  virgo  in  the  8th  suggests  a  passing  that  is  methodical,  reflective  of  their  need  for  control  and  structure,  and  potentially  tied  to  their  dedication  to  service,  health,  or  routines.

 ★  libra  in  the  8th  house  ★ 

a  graceful,  relational  death  tied  to  beauty,  partnerships,  or  harmony.  libra’s  rulership  by  venus  highlights  love  and  aesthetics,  so  their  death  might  involve  themes  of  romance  or  occur  in  beautiful,  peaceful  settings.  it’s  possible  they  die  alongside  a  partner  or  as  a  result  of  heartbreak,  betrayal,  or  marital  stress.  accidents  during  social  gatherings  or  public  events,  especially  those  focused  on  art  or  fashion,  could  also  play  a  role.  cosmetic  surgeries  gone  wrong  or  beauty-related  mishaps  might  feature  as  well.  libra’s  focus  on  fairness  and  balance  might  bring  legal  or  contractual  matters  into  their  death,  such  as  disputes  over  inheritance  or  assets.  falls  or  accidents  due  to  losing  physical  balance  are  also  possibilities.  if  venus  is  poorly  aspected,  indulgence  in  luxury  or  unhealthy  relationships  might  contribute  to  their  death.  libra  in  the  8th  suggests  a  poetic,  symbolic  passing  that  reflects  their  desire  for  beauty,  love,  and  peace,  even  if  the  circumstances  are  less  than  ideal.  it  carries  relational  and  aesthetic  significance,  leaving  a  mark  on  those  they  leave  behind.

 ★  scorpio  in  the  8th  house  ★ 

a  deep,  transformative  death  tied  to  mystery,  power,  or  intensity.  scorpio  in  the  8th  house  points  to  dramatic  or  taboo  themes,  such  as  deaths  involving  betrayal,  violence,  or  even  murder.  illnesses  tied  to  reproductive  or  elimination  systems—like  cancer  or  sexually  transmitted  diseases—are  possible.  scorpio’s  association  with  secrecy  suggests  a  death  that  could  remain  unsolved  or  involve  hidden  circumstances,  like  poisoning  or  mysterious  disappearances.  water-related  deaths,  such  as  drowning  in  dark  or  concealed  places,  are  also  possible.  if  pluto,  scorpio’s  ruler,  is  prominent,  there  may  be  power  struggles,  dangerous  obsessions,  or  karmic  ties  involved.  this  placement  also  carries  a  potential  for  self-destructive  tendencies  or  involvement  in  intense  situations,  like  covert  operations  or  high-stakes  activities.  scorpio  in  the  8th  suggests  a  passing  that  is  transformative,  haunting,  and  impactful,  often  tied  to  cycles  of  life  and  death.  it’s  a  symbolic  end  that  might  feel  like  the  closing  of  a  profound  chapter,  affecting  not  only  the  individual  but  those  left  behind.

 ★  sagittarius  in  the  8th  house  ★ 

a  bold,  adventurous  death  tied  to  travel,  freedom,  or  philosophy.  sagittarius’  love  for  exploration  could  lead  to  accidents  during  long  journeys,  such  as  plane  crashes,  hiking  falls,  or  incidents  in  remote  areas.  their  passing  might  occur  abroad  or  while  engaging  in  a  daring  adventure,  like  climbing  a  mountain  or  embarking  on  a  spiritual  pilgrimage.  sagittarius’  connection  to  expansion  suggests  overindulgence  in  food,  drink,  or  risky  behavior,  which  could  lead  to  health  complications  like  liver  disease  or  heart  failure.  their  death  might  also  carry  a  philosophical  or  spiritual  undertone,  such  as  passing  away  in  pursuit  of  knowledge  or  while  defending  a  cause  they  believe  in.  accidents  during  academic  or  educational  pursuits,  like  during  a  lecture  or  research  expedition,  are  possible.  if  jupiter,  sagittarius’  ruler,  is  poorly  aspected,  reckless  behavior  or  overconfidence  might  contribute  to  their  death.  sagittarius  in  the  8th  suggests  a  passing  that  feels  larger  than  life—adventurous,  meaningful,  and  deeply  tied  to  their  pursuit  of  freedom  and  purpose.

 ★  capricorn  in  the  8th  house  ★ 

a  structured  and  karmic  death  tied  to  responsibility,  work,  or  aging.  capricorn’s  connection  to  discipline  and  time  suggests  a  slow,  steady  decline,  such  as  passing  from  old  age,  chronic  illness,  or  the  cumulative  effects  of  stress.  falls  from  heights,  accidents  involving  structures  (e.g.,  building  collapses),  or  work-related  mishaps  might  also  play  a  role.  capricorn’s  association  with  authority  and  legacy  suggests  their  death  could  involve  their  professional  life  or  public  image,  such  as  dying  during  a  high-profile  negotiation  or  business  endeavor.  saturn’s  influence  introduces  karmic  themes,  implying  their  passing  might  feel  like  a  culmination  of  life’s  lessons,  responsibilities,  or  burdens.  deaths  tied  to  cold  environments,  such  as  mountains  or  icy  conditions,  are  also  possible.  if  saturn  is  poorly  aspected,  restrictive  or  oppressive  circumstances  might  intensify,  leading  to  feelings  of  exhaustion  or  burnout.  capricorn  in  the  8th  suggests  a  death  that  is  practical,  significant,  and  reflective  of  their  long-term  dedication  to  goals,  responsibilities,  and  the  structures  they  built  in  life.

 ★  aquarius  in  the  8th  house  ★ 

a  sudden,  unconventional  death  tied  to  technology,  innovation,  or  groups.  aquarius’  connection  to  electricity  and  progress  suggests  deaths  involving  electrical  shocks,  airplane  crashes,  or  futuristic  technology.  their  passing  might  occur  during  group  activities  or  social  causes,  such  as  protests,  conventions,  or  experimental  events.  aquarius  rules  the  circulatory  system,  so  heart  issues  or  strokes  could  be  relevant.  uranus’  influence  adds  unpredictability,  suggesting  a  sudden  or  shocking  death,  possibly  during  a  groundbreaking  moment  in  science  or  technology.  if  uranus  is  poorly  aspected,  rebellious  or  unconventional  behavior  might  lead  to  dangerous  situations,  like  defying  safety  norms  or  engaging  in  risky  experiments.  aquarius  in  the  8th  suggests  a  passing  that  is  innovative,  impactful,  and  reflective  of  their  individuality  and  connection  to  collective  progress.  their  death  might  spark  change  or  inspire  others,  leaving  a  legacy  tied  to  the  future  they  envisioned.

 ★  pisces  in  the  8th  house  ★ 

a  mysterious  and  ethereal  death  tied  to  water,  dreams,  or  spirituality.  pisces’  connection  to  the  subconscious  suggests  passing  away  in  a  dream-like  state,  such  as  during  sleep,  under  anesthesia,  or  through  drowning.  deaths  involving  drugs,  alcohol,  or  escapism  might  also  occur,  reflecting  pisces’  tendency  toward  altered  states.  neptune’s  influence  adds  an  air  of  mystery,  with  deaths  potentially  surrounded  by  unclear  circumstances  or  long-term  illnesses  that  go  undiagnosed.  their  passing  might  happen  in  a  peaceful  or  spiritual  setting,  like  during  meditation,  prayer,  or  while  engaging  in  artistic  creation.  water-related  incidents,  like  slipping  into  a  river,  being  lost  at  sea,  or  even  floods,  are  significant  themes.  if  neptune  is  poorly  aspected,  confusion,  deception,  or  self-destructive  tendencies  could  play  a  role.  pisces  in  the  8th  suggests  a  death  that  is  symbolic,  intuitive,  and  tied  to  the  unseen  realms,  leaving  a  sense  of  mystery  and  emotional  depth  for  those  left  behind.

★  book  a  reading  ★  ★  masterlist  1  ★  ★  masterlist  2  ★

[dumbpuppyfag]

something i see reasonably often is this idea that some kinks may seem morally deplorable, but you have to remember that some people use kink to process trauma. the latter point itself is true (my fixation on unconditional love and acceptance would be a wild coincidence otherwise), but the underlying message in these contexts seems to be "this person has, through suffering correctly, earned the right to behave like this".

that sentiment rly makes me uneasy. time after time i've seen people attempt to navigate interpersonal politics (gay acceptance, internalised racism, gender equality, etc) via a series of rules based on what they're "allowed" to do (a particularly headache-inducing example is when people decide they're allowed to use ableist slurs because they have adhd or whatever). this kind of binary yes/no thinking is fundamentally incompatible with serious critical thought.

this idea of earning the right to, for example, a cnc kink by being the victim of sexual assault isn't helpful, even for the people it's meant to help. on a practical level it gives people a choice between telling complete strangers about the most traumatic experience of their life or being branded as morally equivalent to their abuser. on a principled level it says "yes, this is disgusting and yes, you're right to be judgemental. if they didn't have a permit then you'd be right to call them a rapist". all you're doing is kicking the can further down the road, cooling things down temporarily while reinforcing a reactionary mindset in the long run.

it seems much more helpful as a matter of practicality and principle to stick to the argument that what goes on between consenting adults is none of your fuckin business, even if you think it's icky.

i mean arf arf woof :3

[polysucks]

Hello! I asked earlier about your takes on the ironborn: racially, culturally, and real-world parallels as you did for the northerners in your other post. What are your thoughts on them?

Alright. Time to fly off the handle

The Drowned God and Other Maritime Daddy Issues

A deep dive into the cultural nuance of the Ironborn

Ironborn are way more than Vikings with a reaving kink that the fandom likes to overgeneralize them as. They’re a defiant, sea-soaked culture clinging to the bones of a dying identity—geographically, spiritually, politically, and culturally. They’re not here to kiss the ring or plow the field (but they will plow your daughters’ fields ayooooooooo) They’re here to steal your silver, set fire to your village, and sail off with your livestock and your dignity. While their longships and raiding traditions induce immediate comparisons to the Vikings of our own history, the grgegegrge didn’t ctrl+c, ctrl+v Norse stereotypes and call it a day. My mans contains multitudes (here I go defending a white man again) The Ironborn are a patchwork culture stitched from raiders, islanders, and post-imperial anger, haunted by lost glory and desperate to matter again. Geographically marooned and ideologically medieval, they stand apart from the rest of Westeros not only in how they fight, but in how they remember.

Yes, they raid. Yes, they sail terrifying longships. Yes, they chant “What is dead may never die” (what is dead may never die) while holding drowning parties. But behind the axe-swinging and chronic pneumonia that no one is talking about is a nuanced cultural tapestry that blends ancient Norse badassery with the isolation of real-world island peoples, and the trauma of former empires left licking their wounds and whispering stories of past glory.

I want to talk about the Ironborn as a composite culture rooted in Old World violence, shaped by seclusion, and haunted by the trauma of cultural decline in a post-imperialist society.

Let’s get the obvious out of the way: the Ironborn are Westeros’s stand-in for Norse raiders. They pilot longships sharp enough to slice inland rivers like butter. They prize the axe over the plow, the drowned god over the Faith of the Seven, and a good old-fashioned reaving over… you know, capitalism.

They're not here to negotiate. They’re here to take. (and good on them!!!)

Much like the Norse raiders of Earth (looking at you, Great Heathen Army), the Ironborn built a culture on plunder, not production. Land? Meh. Crops? Pass. Oaths of fealty? DISGUSTANG. These guys earn (yes, EARN!!!) their keeps with steel, salt, and stolen gold. Even their religion reeks of Norse fatalism: the Drowned God doesn’t promise peace, but power through death. Dying at sea isn’t a tragedy; it’s a promotion.

But here's where it gets juicy: this isn’t raiding for fun (I mean like. Duh. It’s silly fun :3) This is a worldview. A rebellion against the "Green lands" and all their soft-handed, oath-swapping, crop-growing nonsense. In Ironborn culture, you're not born noble; you earn your worth by taking it. Violence is virtue.

Let’s begin with the obvious.

Real-world parallel: The Norse / Vikings (8th–11th century Scandinavia)

Longships with shallow drafts? Check. The Ironborn sail upriver like it owes them moneyyyyyy (it does)

A raiding economy based on “plunder first, ask questions never”? Also check.

A decentralized political structure? Yes, with jarls —I mean, saltlords—ruling from sea-worn keeps.

Gods who care more about blood, death, and the sea than your feelings? Double check. The Drowned God feels like a damp, iron-flavored Odin with worse manners.

Even the Ironborn motto “We do not sow” is a banger. It’s not onlyyyy a rejection of farming and cultivating their uninhabitable land; it’s a middle finger to the entire feudal value system. THEY SAID WE WILL NOT BEND!!!!! (I know das right!!!!!) While the rest of Westeros climbs social ladders, swearing oaths and marrying for land, the Ironborn take what they want. it’s divine theology.

That brings up another point I wanna make. that raiding isn’t just economically sound. It’s sacred. It’s cultural. The Ironborn don’t steal—they earn through force. Just as the Norse elevated pillaging to an artform, the Ironborn dress their brutality in holy robes and saltwater rites. Their sea-baptisms? Violent, intimate, and soaked in fatalism because culturally, that’s all they’ve ever known.

Okay, but not everything about the Ironborn screams Norse. In fact, if you really squint (and maybe tilt your head), you'll start to notice something else pulsing beneath the raider aesthetic: the ethos of isolated island peoples.

Let’s hop from the Iron Islands to the Azores or the Canary Islands—small, storm-battered, independent maritime communities with a deep distrust of mainland politics. Like the Ironborn, these societies relied on the sea because the land gave them nothing. Fishing, whaling, sailing—they weren’t hobbies, they were survival.

Sound familiar?

The Azoreans (15th century–present, Portuguese Atlantic islanders)

Remote and rugged, the Azores bred self-reliant people with strong religious traditions and a stubborn refusal to blend in with the mainland.

They fished, they survived, and they were proud to be... not like the rest of Portugal.

They were often seen as quaint, backwards, or provincial by mainland elites.

Ironborn vibes, anyone? Like the Azoreans, the Ironborn are often dismissed by the “green lands” as brutes with boats. But that outsider perception only intensifies their cultural pride. In both cases, we see the brutal independence of a people who’ve had to scrape a living from rock, sea, and storm—and who hold on tight to their traditions because they’re all they’ve got left.

Even the Ironborn’s gruff spiritualism echoes cultures like the Māori or the Polynesian navigators, whose reverence for the sea shaped not only their cosmology but their entire identity. To these people, the ocean wasn’t ONLY a resource—it was kin. A god, a grave, a memory, a mother and a father. The Ironborn feel this too, but theirs is a darker mirror. Their sea is cold, cruel, and filled with the bones of the drowned. It demands respect and sacrifice.

And just like real-world islanders were written off as "savages" by colonizers, the Ironborn are dismissed by the rest of Westeros as pirates and pests. But this condescension misses something veryyyy critical: the resilience and cultural cohesion that isolation can breed. The Ironborn may be violent, but they are not chaotic. They have codes. They have gods. They have a way. The Old Way.

The Ironborn may not have Polynesian-level navigation, but the spiritual connection is there. The sea is their entire world. It’s where they’re born, where they fight, and where they return—whether by rock or watery grave. The Drowned God demands reverence and veneration.

The Ironborn weren’t always this… small. Once, under House Hoare, they ruled from the Iron Islands to the Riverlands, commanding coasts and hearts with equal fervor. But then Aegon came. And with him, fire.

The burning of Harrenhal was the collapse of a civilization and a birth of a new culture. The Ironborn were stripped of their mainland holdings, their empire, their power. They were, politely, told to go back to their rocks and choose a new leader—one that wouldn't be a problem.

This is colonization with a nice coat of Westerosi politeness. This is "you're part of the Seven Kingdoms now, behave."

So, how do they respond?

Well, if you’re Balon Greyjoy, you throw a tantrum dressed up as a war. You scream, "We used to be kings!" from the rooftops of Pyke while your sons fail both upwards and downwards and your daughter carries the family brain cell but insists on not using it half the time.

It’s an identity crisis. A post-imperial culture trying to reassert itself with war paint and rusted swords in a world of strategy and swords by proxy. Balon doesn’t rebel because it’s strategic; he rebels because he can’t stand being forgotten.

It’s nationalism with barnacles. And it's heartbreaking in its own, salt-soaked way.

The Ironborn are reduced to axe-wielding set pieces in the grand scheme of Westerosi opinions. They are a mournful, defiant culture staring down the long death of their way of life. They are proud, traumatized, deeply spiritual, and yes— assholes. That’s allowed. But they are not one-note villains.

Their raids are rituals. Their violence is honor. Their stubbornness is grief.

In them, we see echoes of real-world islanders and once-great peoples left behind by history and colonialist ideals—fighting not to win, but to matter. To be feared again. To be remembered. To prove that what is dead may never die. (what is dead may never die)

Because even drowned and dying gods have followers.

[mcflymemes]

AS SAID BY JASON TODD/ROBIN/RED HOOD *  assorted dialogue from multiple dc universe sources, adjust as necessary

i did it once for dramatic effect and it just got to be a habit.

you can't tell, but i'm dozing off under this mask.

a whole night in paris... and i managed to not kill anyone. not bad.

you made the same mistake everyone does when it comes to me.

i want to warn them... but i know i can't.

don't know, don't care. i got my hands full.

do you remember the last time we were together?

looks like you guys could use a hand!

i'm looking for someone.

i'm afraid it's about to get much worse.

the angry, reckless vigilante bit is my thing.

i'm not good or bad. i'm just practical as hell.

you and i are more alike than you realize.

i get it. starting over is scary as hell.

i don't even need to turn around to know that's you.

thanks for thinking of me. i'm happy to help. honored, even.

i generally have several madness-inducing hallucinations before breakfast.

nothing in the real world can be as frightening as what we can imagine... right?

you don't think i understand what it's like to be abandoned? forgotten?

i'll be damed if my best friend is going to die... because he was dumb enough to trust me.

i'm sorry. i'm never going to be the hero you want me to be.

next time i see you, i'm going to kick your butt for this dying crap.

you have ten seconds to walk way. nine... oh, screw it.

there are better ways to spend your energy.

that looks like it's gotta hurt. well, i say that like i'm speculating or something. i know it hurts.

we chose to be a family.

if there's hope for us... there's hope for everyone.

you still haven't figured it out?

life's just a game... and this time, you lose.

i seem to have made myself an enemy of all the bad guys.

it's too late. you had your chance.

i'm just getting started.

hard to forget that night, huh?

in a way, this was the site of your first great failure.

ah... memories.

you can't stop crime. that's what you never understood.

you want to rule them by fear, but what do you do to those who aren't afraid?

i'm doing what you won't.

i'm taking them out.

now tell me... how does it feel?

is that what you think this is about?

i don't know what clouds your judgement worse. your guilt or your antiquated sense of morality.

i forgive you for not saving me.

he took me away from you.

i am no one's son.

what do you think this was all about?

welcome to planet earth, baby.

fear isn't the answer.

you son of a bitch.

we were friends, helping each other pick up the pieces of our lives.

it might not be a popular thought, but not everyone wants to be alive.

can you hear it?

funny, i actually escaped death.

the past keeps dragging me back.

they're not monsters. they're victims of programming, abuse, and trauma.

they can change.

fact is, they're just like us.

we became something else.

you hurt a lot of people.

we don't discriminate here.

sometimes you don't know what you want 'til you learn what you don't.

trust? you? i'll give it a try. but i'll tell you right now, i'm probably going to screw it up.

guys like us? the life we lead? we're never truly alone.

i have no idea who you people are.

you pompous ass.

before i kill you, i want the truth.

i'd like to think i'm an open-minded guy.

sure it was fun. but does that mean it was right?

sometimes i wonder if i'm just part of the problem.

i'm not doing one more damn mission with them unless you get me someone i can trust to watch my back.

knew you couldn't do it.

it's official. class is in session.

[dragon-queen21]

Scenario prompts/ miscellaneous

tw: implied child abuse

~Character A doesn’t know what agere is, watches how caregiver and regressor interact. Do they get jealous? Try and steal attention for themself? Ask (too many) questions? Tease the other regressor as a way to deflect from themselves? Push down the feeling?

~Caregiver who wants to spend so much money on their little one + regressor who was never got gifts as a child and doesn’t know how to accept such kindness. Do they throw a fit? Feel really guilty? Don’t use the items until their cg calls them out on it?

~Regressor who never had structure growing up (bedtimes, time outs, anyone watching out if they were in danger/doing something dangerous, etc.) so they’re very confused when Caregiver sets up rules and actually sticks to them

~Similarly, Regressor who grew up with overly strict parents (possibly abusive) who pushes every single one of their caregiver’s buttons so they know what is considered ‘too far’ and will make them snap. Caregiver never does and it confuses them/unnerves Regressor to no end.

~Caregiver saying something (a certain phrase or a nickname for example) that remind Regressor of their bio parents. What’s their reaction, something sweet and nostalgic? Or angst filled and trauma inducing?

~Early bedtime as a punishment x little one who loves to sleep anyways

~Caregiver telling babysitter that regressor is a pain to deal with. Babysitter finds this not to be true in the slightest and they aren’t sure how to feel about that

Masterlist

[katblaze]

Ella focused post-canon long post ahead:

I like the idea of Tadius having to reign Ella in when she has a mean streak towards particular peasants who had perpetuated her abuse in the past. The peasants who verbally and physically taunted/abused her. The people who disregarded her pleas and distress, writing it off as madness, violently sending her back to her abusers just to get her out of their sight. Because her circumstance and uncleanliness was uncomfortable to be around. Maybe she can't stand to be cordial or impartial to the very same people who she watched drag her mother into the square. Or maybe, at her lowest, she says some unpleasant things about all peasantry, flippantly stereotypes them in a moment of temper. Let's her trauma blossom into rage, into a simmering desire (not necessarily action, mind you) for petty cruelty.

We see her deconstruct a lot of her (admittedly not crazy large) bias against peasant and servantry in the show; this being easier for her to accomplish because she was forced into servitude and squalor herself. For example, one of the first things she jabs at Tadius with is his rank as a servant. She establishes her status and her power over his well-being, potentially his life (and this is important for us to see for her character! this is the first time we see her so confident in her dialog in the show. she is finally reclaiming the autonomy, power, and safety she lacked for potential years, even if this isn't "perfect victim" or kind behavior). This threat could easily have been genuinely fear inducing for Tadius if he hadn't perceived her comment as banter/wit (or he, at the very least, thought she couldn't do anything to him as the prince's right hand servant because she's not from a reputable house). But later, we see her call Tadius "a good man" instead of "a good servant", signifying her growth. She acknowledges where she went wrong in the past and asserts Tadius's position as an equal. Textbook character development.

She also originally vows to the fairy godmother to take vengeance only on those who deserve it, who have taken everything from her and seek to destroy more. She makes clear that her blood lust is for specifically her step family (edit: if Justine and Lucy represent Ella's core values and dreams then Justine establishing kindness to those socially lower to them as an admirable trait makes a whole lotta sense for Ellas character going foward). Hell, she is said to be a good queen by the whole kingdom, implying the peasants favor her rule after she's gained it. She is known by all for her kindness and love which is carried out just as fiercely as her justice.

Does this mean she doesn't have low points? Does this mean that at her lowest Tadius doesn't need to council her and advice her against her (valid, but potentially unfair) anger? That she doesn't let her new found power make it so that, at times, she speaks down to those she deems morally lesser (and could that perception of who is lesser, by this measurement, be influenced by class bias/her past peasant inflicted abuse)? Ella's main character motivation is vengeance in the show, even if her morals are steadfast throughout, I think it would be an interesting conflict between Ella's own ethic values vs. her (again, valid) trauma-induced feelings/vitriol, and how that conflict influences her decisions not only as queen, but interpersonally.

This could also lead to some great tension between Ella and Tadius (who are at this point good friends, partners, or at the VERY least close coworkers). With some communication Tadius would be given better insight into Ella's past, interworkings, and decision making. It would also grant Ella an outlet to talk about all this awful shit that happened to her and how it comes back to affect and shape her presently.

Not to mention Tadius's own trauma regarding aristocrats who belittle their subjects. Maybe at her most cruel (aka in a very bad emotional state) Tadius becomes clinical and emotionally disconnected, just as he was with the prince? Unconsciously or not, sinks back into giving stony irritated advice and doesn't talk to Ella in their normal affable manner for the rest of the day, or longer. Maybe it takes them a while to get to the point of healthy communication because of both of their past isolation (ella is purposely isolated by her supposed "madness" and has no one to talk to, she is overjoyed to vent to a literal frog + no one recognized tadius's wit before ella, implying he is not close enough with anyone for them to know who he is personally) makes it difficult for them to talk in a productive manner at first.

(I do not mean to say this is the only interpretation of Ella's character or the headcanons you should adopt post-cc. Maybe Ella never let's these internal biases (that I've picked up on) influence how she treats her subjects/how she rules. Or, shes developed and grown entirely past them. Maybe Ella and Tadius never have this kind of conflict between them. This is also tackling a very specific negative trait I enjoy exploring, which I personally could see presenting itself in Ella post-canon. I love her. I don't doubt she is a great queen who rules with the working class's benefit, along with the rich's detriment, in mind (in fact, I definitely like to believe she does). I just really like characters having character flaws, even if they are a good person, even if they are the hero, and even past their happily ever after)

[bullet-prooflove]

Stitches: John Nolan x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @cosmic-psychickitty @ravennaortiz @lovebookheart @youlooklikeasixtiesqueen

Companion piece to:

First Case - For John it's love at first sight.

Cake - John's surprised when you remember his birthday.

Culpability - John tries to reach out after he finds out about Robert Ortiz.

Bad Timing - You and John have always had bad timing.

Forget About It - You and John share a heated moment in the breakroom. - Companion piece to Bad Timing

The Deepest Cut - Rosalind forces John to make a confession.

Prequel to:

More Than Life It's Self (NSFW) - John reminds you of his feelings for you at a crucial moment.

Scars - John loves you and all your scars.

Out of Your League - John has always thought you were beautiful.

Rainy Days - John wakes up in the middle of the night to the sound of rain... and you.

Vest - You're there for John when he's shot in the chest.

Disco Ball - An undercover operation causes John and you to start a conversation.

The days after Rosalind’s attack are a haze for you, a mixture of pain and morphine induced nightmares including red haired psycho path cutting into your skin. You can still feel your flesh splitting under the blade, hear her voice as she taunts you with that breathy, melodic voice of hers.

“You’ll bleed out before anyone finds us.” She had told you as she had leaned back against the table supporting the phone and ring light, livestreaming your trauma. “And John, he’ll get to experience every moment of it.”

In your dreams you don’t turn the tables. You don’t manage to dislocate your thumb to get yourself out of those handcuffs. You don’t wrestle the knife from Rosalind. You don’t stab her seven times in the chest until she stops moving. You just sit there and take it. Every slice, every cut, every horrific word she says. You absorb each and every one.  

 The only constant throughout is John. The light pressure of his hand holding yours, the gentle cadence of his voice as he reads out stories from the newspaper or tells you about his shift.

It’s on day three you finally ask him the question that’s been burning in your mind.

“How bad is it?”

Pretty fucking bad is what you deduce from the expression on his face. You haven’t looked in the mirror since you were admitted to the hospital, truth be told you’ve been too afraid because the rest of your body, it’s a terrible mess.

“You have to remember that it’s healing.” John tells you as you hold out your hand for his phone. “There’s still stitches and…”

“Just give me the damn thing.” You say impatiently.

You can tell he’s holding his breath when your thumb presses the camera button, you can see it in the way his jaw sets and his gaze focuses on your reaction as you look at yourself for the first time since the attack.

“Shit.” You whisper because Rosalind she did an excellent job of disfiguring you.

The scar she’s left, it winds from the corner of your left eye socket, over your cheek bone and down towards the dimple at the edge of your mouth. Thick black stitches hold your face together, each thread a violent contrast against your skin. That slice, it’s deep, you’re lucky you still have the use of the muscles underneath.

“Ok.” You say quietly, tilting the camera to examine the damage from a different angle as the left side of your mouth tips up. “I can still smile, that’s something right?”

“Yea.” John says because the sight of that smile, it still lights up a room for him even with the disfigurement. “It’s certainly something.”

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[literaryvein-reblogs]

hey could you do some tips on writing trauma induced mutism? (when children experience trauma at a super young age, it impacts their ability to speak. even tho they can't consciously remember things the way we do, trauma is stored in the body/brain in ways that impact further development. lots of stress early in life can alter the way their brain is structured. ptsd interferes with the neurological pathways that are required for functional speech) asked this a bit ago but hope this helps lol

Writing Notes: Trauma-Induced Mutism

Traumatic Mutism & Trauma-Induced Selective Mutism

There’s a slight distinction between these two conditions.

If you have traumatic mutism, you may be unable to talk in all situations following a trauma.

On the other hand, with trauma-induced selective mutism, you may find it impossible to talk only in certain situations — say, in front of the person who hurt you or in a setting that resembles the circumstances of your trauma.

Selective Mutism - a condition in which a child speaks normally in some situations, such as at home, but refuses to speak in public or social situations, such as school.

In some cases, a child who is selectively mute may speak to peers or family members, but not to strange adults in a social situation.

Selective mutism is often diagnosed with social phobia and is most common among children of preschool or primary school age, particularly among kindergartners.

The cause of selective mutism is unknown, but several explanations have been offered for it, including reaction to traumatic events.

Traumatic experiences, like witnessing a shooting or experiencing relationship abuse, can also contribute to selective mutism in adulthood, Lindsay Scharfstein says, a licensed psychologist and founder of the private practice Rockville Therapy Center in Rockville, Maryland.

According to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fifth Edition, Text Revision, published in 2022, specific diagnostic criteria include:

the ability to speak normally in home situations, coupled with

the persistent avoidance of speaking in particular social situations when speaking is expected (such as in school).

In addition, this avoidance must last at least 1 month,

interfere with the individual’s education or social functioning, and

cannot be better explained by a communication disorder or solely attributable to autism spectrum disorder, schizophrenia, or another psychotic disorder.

There is no definitive test to diagnose a child has having selective mutism or to rule it out, and it is seldom self-reported.

Instead, the diagnosis is usually made based on observed behavior, including parent-child interactions, and also requires ruling out other possible explanations for the behavior.

Notably, children with selective mutism do not necessarily decline to communicate in social situations; they simply decline to speak.

Many will attempt to communicate through gestures, pointing, or facial expressions.

The person's history of mutism should also be considered.

People who have been through trauma may show some of the same symptoms seen in selective mutism.

Symptoms include:

Ability to speak at home with family

Fear or anxiety around people they do not know well

Inability to speak in certain social situations

Shyness

This pattern must be seen for at least 1 month to be called selective mutism. (The first month of school does not count, because shyness is common during this period.)

In Children

Children with selective mutism do not speak in some social situations where they are expected to speak, such as school, even though they speak in other situations. They will speak in their home around immediate family members, but often will not speak even in front of others, such as close friends or grandparents.

The lack of speech may interfere with social communication,

although children with this disorder sometimes use non-spoken or nonverbal means (e.g., grunting, pointing, writing).

The lack of speech can also have significant consequences in school, leading to academic problems and social isolation.

Many children with selective mutism also experience excessive shyness, fear of social embarrassment and high social anxiety. However, they typically have normal language skills.

Selective mutism usually begins before age 5, but it may not be formally identified until the child enters school.

Many children will outgrow selective mutism.

For children who also have social anxiety disorder, selective mutism may disappear, but symptoms of social anxiety disorder may remain.

The most common treatment for selective mutism is behavior therapy or family therapy, and multiple interventions appear to be the most effective in addressing the problem. In addition to psychotherapy, in some cases, antidepressant or antianxiety medication may also be prescribed.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 ⚜ More: Notes ⚜ Character Development ⚜ PDFs

The added info did help! I hope this one more sufficiently covers the aspects of mutism you were looking for as reference. You can find more details in the sources. All the best with your writing!

[thealphavoidofficial]

Alright, saw a CRK Fae Au on Ao3 so now I’m inspired, BOOM!! LOST IN THE FAEWILD AU!

Our young protagonist here is GingerBrave! A young 15 year old orphan who entered the FaeWild after his siblings, Strawberry and Wizard, were kidnapped by Fae!

Suffering a head injury not long after he entered, he had forgotten his siblings names and faces, only remembering he needed to find 2 Cookies who were very important to him. Now traversing the FaeWild, fending off monsters that aren’t as friendly as Fantasy states, and gaining many trauma induced survival skills in the process!

GingerBrave is a rather skittish Cookie, having no information about the FaeWild other then the legends he’s grown up on, he only knows a handful of important rules for when it comes to encountering Fae, he keeps an iron Knife with him at all times and a bag of rice he brought with him from the Mortal realm, he brought a flashlight for Nighttime travel and food so he doesn’t starve or feel tempted to eat Fae Food.

The first of the 5 Ancient Guardiens of the Fae Realm GingerBrave encounters in his journey (other then White Lily who is actually Dark Enchantress tricking him into freeing her) is Pure Vanilla, a Fae Beast that governs the Vanilla Plains, and Guardian of Truth.

Pure Vanilla is a very empathetic and kindhearted Fae Beast, when first meeting GingerBrave, his first instinct was to nurse him back to health, but due to the skittish child’s distrust of pretty much everything of the FaeWild, he ends up fleeing.

Pure Vanilla tends to put others well-being above his own, something his high priestess Black Raisin scolds him for. However he does not know much about Cookies as a whole and believes if they are in the FaeWild it means they came here of their own free will, as that is the only way to enter, and may end Enthralling them and turning them in Fae without realising how distressing it may be for them.

The next of the Fae Beast we encounter is Hollyberry, Queen of the Berrywood Forest, and the Guardian of Passion.

Although her appearance may come off as unsettling, she has a heart that is bigger then any in her territory, she protects every Fae in her care with absolute precision and has fun while doing so, she throws parties, balls, more parties, trying to make her followers as happy as possible.

Due to her being the Weakest of the Fae Beasts, she is unable to maintain a Cookie form, as spends most of her time in her Beast Form or her ‘Shadow Form’ as the Fae call it. This is also caused by the fact that her SoulJam was damaged after the battle with Dark Enchantress 2 decades ago. (She manages to gain a Cookie form after she Awakens her true power)

The small berry scouts that follow her around are her eyes and ears around the Berrywood Forest.

Next we have Dark Cacao, the fierce Fae Beast of Tundra Wastes, and the Guardian of Resolution!

In the past he was a just and stern ruler, he ruled with good willed iron, shaping his followers to be able to survive in the Wintery lands of their homeland, however after nearly perishing at the hands of his offspring, Dark Choco, he went into a frenzy and turned feral.

He now hunts along the Mountain near the Black Citadel, so be weary when wandering around those parts.

Next up we have Golden Cheese! The Fae Beast of the Cheese Desert, and the Guardian of Abundance!

As greedy as they come this Fae Beast loves anything and everything shiny, be it of her own making or from outside sources. Her entire culture revolves around trade and tribute, before Dark Enchantress destroyed her civilisation, brought to despair she used her power to create a false reality, and places her followers souls within a fantasy realm within her own consciousness, where they would love forever, and never have to worry about anything ever again, even if she would never wake again.

Her greed is strong, but her devotion to her subjects might just be stronger.

Finally, we have White Lily, the Fae Beast that now rules the Silverwood, and the Guardian of Freedom.

Many years ago, her soul was split in 2 after finding out the origins of the FeaWild, one half went into a deep slumber, while the other corrupted and became ‘The Dark One’, or as many call her, Dark Enchantress. She was the first Fae Beast to meet GingerBrave, and after meeting him again in the Silverwood in the area of the FaeWild cut off from the rest known as ‘Beast-Yeast’, she feels great remorse for what her other half did.

Bonus Info:

The Fae Beasts - The Fae Beast as the 5 chosen guardians of the FaeWild, each baring SoulJam that contains their life essence.

Each Fae Beast is a Faerie Creature that is able to transform into a Cookie-like form.

Ancients:

Pure Vanilla:

Dove

Lyrebird (Awakened)

Dark Cacao:

Wolf

Dragon (Awakened)

Golden Cheese:

Hawk

Harpy Eagle (Awakened)

Hollyberry:

Moth

Tiger Moth (Awakened)

White Lily:

Giant Plant

Butterfly (Awakened)

Beasts:

Shadow Milk:

Snake

Owl (Pre-Corruption)

Mystic Flour:

Spider

Silk Moth (Pre Corruption)

Burned Spice:

Centipede

Eternal Sugar:

Gorgon/Basilisk

Pheasant (Pre Corruption)

Silent Salt:

Phoenix

Roc (Pre-corruption)

FaeWild Laws and facts:

The Fae are known to kidnap Cookies from the mortal realm, however after the Current Guardians were born these laws were changed a bit, for one if the Cookie had to be willing, and if the Cookie was a child they had to be an Orphan, or be from a neglectful family, a law created to prevent anymore child napping from families in the mortal realm.

If rice is places infront of the Fae they are complled to count each one until they finish.

Fae are weak to iron, so you will not find any within the FaeWild itself unless you bring some from the Mortal Realm.

If you feel a Fae is trying to entrap you, give them a nickname you go by, but not a fake name, they will not be able to control you if you do that.

Never eat food given to you by Fae of you will never be able to leave the FaeWild.

Spending to long in the FaeWild without an anchor, eating Fae Food or being enthralled by a Fae Beast will cause you to be transformed into a Fae, where you will be trapped in the FeaWild forever, once turning into a Fae you will loose all memory of being a Cookie, and forget who you were before entering the FaeWild.

An Anchor is an important item that holds great significance to you, like a picture, or a pendant (GingerBrave keeps a teardrop necklace hidden under his shirt, it was a birthday gift from Wizard and Strawberry) reminding you of your past, keep it with you at all times so you do not forget.

Difference between Fae and Fae Beasts:

The Fae look more like the Faerie Cookies from the actual game, transparent wings, and look like a Cookie in every way.

Fae Beasts are Fae creatures either born or created by the witches to guard the FaeWild, able to transform from Beast form to Cookie form at will, however if their SoulJam is damaged they will not be able to maintain their Cookie form until it is fixed.

The more Cookie-like the Fae Beasts form is the more powerful it is.

Elemental Spirits:

Divine Spirits created from the elements to keep the FaeWild from falling apart.

Wind Archer - Secretary Bird

MoonLight - Axolotl

Fire Spirit - Phoenix

Millennial Tree - Deer

Stormbringer - Thunderbird

Sea Fairy - Koi Fish

Frost Queen - Winter Fox

[mypoisonedvine]

PLEASE I HAVE A REQUEST:

Reader is deathly afraid of physical touch and she’s a student of Jonathan Crane’s. She begins to question whether or not exposure therapy is humane and decides to write a research paper against the idea of exposure therapy and Dr Crane plots against her and finds out her fear, inevitably forcing her to confront her fear with non/con(???)

I’m thinking totally brutal / slow burn and Jonathan is just a full psycho in this, not offering her any mercy. He Def does his research and Def traumatized reader

PLEASEEEEEEEEEE

(because this is just drabbles, I'm not going to be able to flesh this out the way you've envisioned, but I love the concept so I will do something based on it!) obviously this is dark, warnings for kidnapping and threats of noncon

haphephobia - the irrational fear or overwhelming aversion to physical touch.

You were far from the only psychopathology student who got into this line of work due to personal experience. Actually, more often than not, this interest begins for people with their own relationship with mental health-- maybe something as simple as a long battle with clinical depression, maybe trauma or abuse, maybe a history of addiction. You would hope that this made most of the students more equipped, more empathetic; that was true, but it also meant that there was a little more... instability among the cohort than you wanted to admit.

And yet, you hadn't even noticed that the worst of them all was right there in the front of the class, teaching.

"I read your paper," he explained, pacing back and forth, sparing long glances at you. "It was quite good. But your conclusions are weak."

Normally, if you'd been receiving this sort of feedback during office hours, you would just tilt your head and ask 'how so, Professor Crane?'

But considering you didn't even know where you were, strapped to an exam table in some dark basement, you weren't as inquisitive as usual. "See," he continued, approaching you, "if you want to disprove exposure therapy, you can't just do a systematic review of previous literature-- you need to get in the field, experiment yourself."

He lowered his voice as he stood closer to you, leaning over you, looking at you with a sort of fascination and pity.

"After all," he continued, "I'm a... fierce advocate of psychiatric experimentation."

"Yeah," you panted, the initial panic of waking up here fading into a general, steady terror, "I'm beginning to realize that."

"And you're always free to have your own opinion-- I think it's important that my students utilize their right to disagree with me-- but in this case, well, you just can't deny the results."

He was fucking smiling as he discussed it-- he was proud of what he'd done, of what he was going to do to you. "I can," you insisted, "if they're not ethical."

He rolled his eyes. "Always such a good girl," he cooed. "Let me worry about the ethics and you-- you can just worry about what I'm going to do now that I've got you tied up down here, where nobody will ever find you."

Bringing his hand closer to your face, you turned it away with a whimper. "Please," you whispered, "I-- you know I can't--"

"How does it feel?" he asked. "Right now, knowing I might touch you?"

"It's..." you trailed off, struggling to find a train of thought with him so close. "It's anxiety-inducing, obviously. It's dread."

"Filled with dread just because I'm getting close," he smirked. "You're in serious need of intervention, sweet thing. I can't believe you've gone without help for so long."

"This-- this isn't help, Professor--" you began to protest, but you winced as he gently brushed a finger over your cheek.

"You look like you're in pain," he noticed.

"It hurts," you hissed. "It hurts to be touched."

"Hurts how?"

"Like... like I'm raw all over. Like my body is one big burn," you whispered, eyes still shut tight as his hand moved down to gently caress your neck.

"And you've ruled out any medical cause-- an autoimmune disorder, hypersensitivity of the skin?"

You nodded, biting your lip to try to think of something other than the pain he was inflicting-- the pain you were totally helpless to. "There's no... physiological cause..."

"It's all in the mind," he finished for you, "and what a powerful mind you have. You're one of my best students, you know-- it's a shame you're limited by your fear. Fear of the truth, fear of breaking your precious ethics... fear of the future."

Your eyes shot open when his touch trailed down even further, toying with the neckline of your shirt; if any human contact was painful, you hadn't even prepared for the overwhelming anxiety of being touched in a way that had even the slightest sexual undertone. "Y-you don't really think you're that powerful, do you?" you pressed. "That you can take away fear?"

He shook his head. "No, dear, I don't have to," he replied. "I don't take it away-- I use it."

Just as his touch wandered, so did his gaze, and you shuddered under his dark stare as he started to properly grope you; his breathing picked up a bit, his lip twitched-- he even darted his tongue out for a second before smiling again.

"And now," he grinned, "I have you to use, too."