#also it’s not a dissociative identity it’s just brain noise

[website-com]

this is what it’s like inside my brain all the time. it’s like having a conversation with someone in a restaurant and when you stop talking you suddenly pick up on the other tables conversation, which you weren’t paying attention to, but knew was happening. and there’s music too

[dorianbrightmusic]

PSA

-OCD is not a synonym for neat or preoccupied with tidiness. Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder is all about distressing intrusive thoughts and rituals (compulsions) used to combat those thoughts.

-Intrusive thoughts are not synonymous with silly things I want to do. They're deeply upsetting, often taboo mental apparitions. Letting them win is the last thing anyone wants, and nobody is immoral for having them. (See 'impulsive thoughts' if you need a term.)

-Anorexic is not a synonym for thin or emaciated. The majority of anorexic people have OSFED atypical anorexia – that is, their BMI is above 18.5. You cannot judge the severity of someone's illness by their appearance. (If you're worried about someone, look out more for rapid weight loss than thinness, even when it's occurring in someone in a larger body. 10kg in 10 weeks is never a good thing.)

-Eating disorders are not synonymous with just anorexia and bulimia. Anorexia is an ED, but it's nowhere near the most common. Bulimia is an ED, but again, not the most common. Together, they do not constitute the most common. The most common ED is binge-eating disorder, and the second most common is atypical anorexia, which is one of many, many OSFED categories. Those living with ARFID, pica, night-eating syndrome, rumination disorder, subthreshold BN, subthreshold BED, and orthorexia all deserve dignity, compassion, and acknowledgement. Remember: EDs are not necessarily thin, and never glamorous.

-Schizophrenic is not a synonym of all over the place, abnormal, unpredictable, dangerous, or crazy. Nor is schizoid or schizotypal. Folks with schizophrenia spectrum disorders live with hallucinations, delusions, disorganised thoughts/behaviour, and/or catatonia. They are far more likely to be victims of violence than perpetrators, and go to huge lengths to act okay even when distressed by symptoms.

-Schizophrenic is also not a synonym of multiple personalities/volatile. For the disorder involving having different facets of personality that are generally unaware of each other, see Dissociative Identity Disorder, and even then, don't assume it's a) dramatic as it is in the movies; b) evil; or c) trivial. DID is a trauma disorder.

-Delusional is not a synonym of wrong. Nor is it the same as this politician/friend is saying something I do not like/that is potentially dangerous. Delusions are false, fixed beliefs held despite evidence. And generally, folks with delusions don't tend to proselytise them. I know that certain politicians have beliefs that seem to persist in the face of evidence, but nevertheless, we don't need to stigmatise mental illness further to call out poor political/social behaviour. If you need a word for the pundit spewing potentially dangerous content, use 'dangerous' or 'wrong', but don't call them delusional.

-Bipolar is not a synonym of all over the place or fluctuating results. Bipolar disorder involves mood states that, even in the rapid cycling form, tend to last at least 3-4 days (mania) and weeks (depression). If you need a word for the weather, use 'British' instead.

-Psychotic is not a synonym of evil. Psychosis is losing touch with reality, whether it be through hallucinations or delusions. It doesn't make a person bad or violent. It's just a neurological phenomenon that may be distressing. It's also relatively common: 6-15% of people will hallucinate in their lifetime.

-ADHD is not a synonym of just quirky/scattered/forgetful/unfocussed/lazy/careless. ADHD is fundamentally a disorder of being able to choose where to direct attention, rather than of just I can't focus. If someone can't tune out the noise of the crowd, but can't prevent themself focussing on something trivial because their brain is wired that way, it's not laziness or just being quirky/scattered.

-Autistic meltdown is not a synonym of temper tantrum.

-Borderline is not a synonym of harridan.

-Narcissist is not a synonym of abuser.

-Mentally ill is not a synonym of volatile or bad person. This doesn't mean we have to make something artificially positive out of mental disorders. If there is good to be found in certain disorders, great; if there is nothing positive about living with certain others, that doesn't make you any less real or resilient than anyone else. It's okay to have complex feelings about your own disorders. It's okay to feel exhausted or frustrated by a disorder. But never should anyone have to face stigma.

[lorelei-system]

Although I love the sentiment of “if you’re worried about faking, you’re not faking, because faking is something you consciously choose to do”, it doesn’t really help for us.

For us, self-fakeclaiming is more along the lines of: what if I’m misinterpreting what’s happening? What if the voices I hear are just my internal monologue/ my brain replaying noise I’ve heard all day? What if I just want to have alters, so I misinterpret every little thing as being evidence of them? What if my trauma (what I remember of it) wasn’t bad enough? What if I just want friends in my head on top of all the negative stuff (like dissociation, flashbacks, identity issues/inconsistencies)?

I think it’s more of a “am I grasping at straws to explain my symptoms this way because I actually want to have alters?” It’s more of a “could I be wrong about this?”Especially because I’ve been trying to find an explanation for what’s wrong with me all my life.

I mean, I still don’t know if the way I hear voices is actually consistent with systems. I also don’t know if my lack of amnesia during “switches”, and the way that I experience switches, is actually valid.

I don’t know if any other systems or questioning systems relate to any of this. It’s scary to even say because I don’t want to have been wrong about this. But it’s always on my mind.

(Also: please don’t tell us to go see a therapist. We would if we could.)

-Poppy

[emerald-polaris]

I only just made this realisation recently, but Uzuki's persona's that are created inside of him in order to protect his mind from overwhelming stress and trauma is SO SIMILAR to Noise in Pandora Hearts.

Albeit, Uzuki's case is due to him suffering from dissociative identity disorder, and although Mochijun may've referenced this condition within Noise, it's mostly the fantasy elements for Noise which cause the two to differ.

But, the both of them have "multiple personalities" within them which occasionally take over as a way to protect their mind, to help them cope with stress and trauma, and to also keep them mentally and emotionally stable.

This is just something random I realised while catching up with the recent Sakadays chapters, and also because my brain decides to associate everything I do/read with ph in one way or another lmao.

[neurodivergentbraingoblins]

Okay, I need advice or information or something because I'm very confused right now.

So the name "Neurodivergent Brain Goblins" comes from these bits of myself that I've named and given an identity to in order to help other people understand my brain.

I've had neuropsych testing done (4.5 hrs of testing, surveys, and forms). They agreed that I have C-PTSD and dissociative symptoms with a somatoform disorder, but they don't agree that I have DID because I don't lose time and don't have other personalities that take over/replace mine.

My brain goblins are their own people but also are just me. Mini little parts of me that sometimes control more of my life than I often do.

Reynold is my logic. He is my assistant manager who definitely wasn't given enough training and is more of a glorified babysitter than anything else 😅 I honor the amount of shit he puts up with every day. He is second in command and acts as a buffer to all the other brain goblins.

Then there is Jeff 🫠 I call him my ADHD goblin. Jeff loves buttons. He loves pushing them and watching them light up and hearing them make noise. Jeff also loves running around, jumping, making ridiculous noises, and seeing how many times he can do the same exact thing in a row before it pisses everyone else off 🤣 sometimes Reynold will give Jeff a tennis ball to go bounce against the wall for a while just so he can get some real work done.

(I'm not done drawing Jeff, but this is him so far 😊 he is a very mischievous little shit lol)

I also have Frank my OCD Goblin. He carries around an abacus instead of a calculator because 1. He is obsessed with numbers and 2. Physically moving the pieces to count calms his anxiety 😅. Frank loves simple repetitive tasks that he can do on repeat so he can count them over and over again. He often teams up with Jeff because of this and then they bug Reynold all day. Kind of a "hey! Hey! Hey check this out! Look what we can do! Hey!"

Bobby is my Autism Goblin 🤣 I love him so much but like sometimes I just.. he tries so hard and his effort is absolutely beautiful, but he just isn't good at any of it 🙃 he is the director of communication, so anytime I socialize Bobby shows up to help navigate talking. But like he just REALLY isn't good at it 🤣 the heart and soul he puts into it though is why he is still the communications director 🥰

I also have Manic Manny, Depression Dave, Sensory Sally. Though they like to work from behind the scenes. Their control is really strong but everything they do is by sneaking up and whispering in Reynolds ear and *poof* disappearing. He can't ever see them, but the weird creepy crawly feeling they give him makes him act on what they said every single time.

There are lots of other Goblins that work in this factory, but they are more like background characters? Like, everyone has a job, but most are just quiet office workers that help to keep the lights on 😅

If you have read this far thank you so much!! My question now is, what are my brain goblins? Is this DID or is it something else?? Tbh I don't really care what it is because these are my Brain Goblins and I love them no matter how much they annoy me 😅 but I also like learning information because sometimes it can really help me with managing life lol

[buntress]

HEHEHEHHEE YES OKAY OKAY SO

danny canonically (well, canon enough, it was a remark from the developers) has npd right. and I have hpd and bpd and they share a lot of symptoms, being cluster b personality disorders and all. so I can proudly say

that man has awful identity issues. he spent so long pretending to be other people for praise, attention and safety that he has no idea who "Danny Johnson" is at all. sometimes he isn't even sure he's actually human. he likely dissociates a lot. he only really thought about it a while after he got taken by the entity, seeing there isnt anything to do outside of trials hes likely been in his own mind most of the time.

he may act buddy-buddy with them as a sort of second nature but he's really insecure with himself and so manifests it as hatred for other killers. (it may also be the 'canon' reason ghostface players tend to be very chill with survivors, despite him being a misanthrope. he feels safer with them because he has the cloak of superiority and being a threat with them which he doesnt have with the killers ykyk) after all he's just an average guy with a knife and knowledge on stalking, hes not overly strong without the entity's help, or tall, or supernatural in any way. to him his "backstory" isnt even bad as any of the other killers, to him at least. (it definitely was, man was literally groomed to be a murderer by his dad. but your trauma never looks as bad as the other people's you know)

also hes FTM and was 3 years on T up until he got taken by the entity (his body time kinda paused after that so he didnt revert to being feminine dw). he still has a set of tits and a coochie because in his words "surgery recovery is a waste of time, it will get suspicious if ghostface goes silent for 6 whole months" :3 he's happy with his body though... mostly. anyway thats the reason he's always hunching during trials. cant wear a binder during a chase thatd be inconvenient (please imagine a ghostface coughing and wheezing and begging the survivors to wait for him now. thank you)

he's still silly, a little clumsy but its one of the things he's less insecure about tbh. an all serious ghostface is not fun and not what wes craven would want.

anyway I need him to get a therapist so bad. bbygirl dw you wont lose your spark the spark in question is you dissociating for hours at a time on your apartment bed having a barbie movie moment like "what was I made for..." therapy will help you babygirl I promi-

THESE ARE ALL SUCH FUCKING GOOD HEADCANONS OKOKOK SO

to share my own while i am at it Teehee (i love him so much)

I def agree on the dissociation and fucked up sense of identity, mans is a messed up lil fuck and def needs to go see an entity ordered therapist. I personally def put Danny on the aro spectrum (i dont think ace personally, aroallo moment imo) though i think more on the demi or greyaro side, and if any of the survivors are ever like, flirty he just stares at them and slowly shakes his head because oh no babygirl one thats a bad idea to try and do and two you are not the person my brain has made an exception for thats for fucking sure

(I'm demiromantic myself so I describe it like that bc im basically aromantic until my brain makes an Exception(tm))

Alsoalsoalso very down for him not being friends with the other killers bc hatred and lowkey jealousy but I think he looks at the legion kids and is like "Cool, I'm your uncle now." because they're the only ones like him at all, just normal dudes even smaller than he is because theyre basically just fucked up teenagers so he feels a slight kinship and he definitely doesn't play favorites at all (this is a lie Suzy is his perfect little baby and he goes full cool uncle mode with her 100% all the time)

Also Also because self shipping noises when/if a survivor or killer (im using survivor mostly bc that's where I see myself self insert wise) does catch his interest in a romantic he genuinely just fucking panics and doesn't know what the fuck to do about it. He fumbles with them a lot and suddenly most of his smooth and cool dude exterior? Gone. Vanished. Fumbling even more than usual and it makes him SO MAD so he just.......threatens them a lot and hooks them a lot because fuck you stop making me feel things i hate you but also please just like hold my hand or something what the fuck

When finally the survivor is like DUDE WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR DAMAGE and blows up on his ass he's like IDK MAN YOU GIVE ME BIG FEELINGS AND I DON'T LIKE IT COULD YOU STOP MAYBE????

anyways when that shits sorted I imagine it being a mutual (healthy) obsession thing where Danny treats his partner like they're the entity incarnate and partner does similar for him and everyone is disgusted by it but at least everytime partner is around in trials he's nice to them so like they can't complain.

If it was a killer though they would become absolute terrors and no one would be safe ever. Skip through the moldy corn fields holding hands kinda shit. Absolute fucking idiots.

(Also at one point he tries to give partner a bouquet of flowers except it was like 4 dandelions and a leaf and he ate one of the dandelions)

Anyways I love Danny Johnson I am kissing him on the mouth

[the-void-forest]

• Having Tics Alongside Dissociative Identity Disorder

For us, our motor tic disorder affects the entire brain. This means that it not only affects the host, but every one who fronts. I've noticed, however, that it affects everyone differently. For example, my tics are usually very frequent and involve uncontrollable body movements, such as hitting myself, and random words and noises. Phil on the other hand mainly has one frequent vocal tic that sounds like an owl. He also tics a lot less frequently than me. We are honestly not sure why, this is just our experience. -Pine

[blkcnt]

portrayal notes because the ideas are already rolling in. will be expanding in future meta posts.

i know people don't vibe with the halle berry's catwoman, but i do, so my selina is going to be a mischievous, flirtatious, annoying little shit with too many cats in her apartment as well, aha.

i enjoyed her connection with the egyptian goddess of felines, bast, and i see enough reason to incorporate. can definitely imagine selina with a little jade figurine of this goddess in her bedroom. maybe even on her nightstand so she can look at it, hold it, feel it, every morning.

also enjoyed the symbolism of death and rebirth into a new being, the idea of actually having nine lives. since her mom died, i imagine selina putting on this suit as a way to escape death, to snatch that control she lost as a child and keep it close to her chest.

her apartment on the east end is her safe haven, ironic because it's doubly crime-infested. selina is for sure an insomniac and likely deals with a stress-disorder from her unhealed mother and father wounds.

diving into her childhood—the idea of living with a raging alcoholic could have a huge impact on selina. she hates sudden noises, yelling at her is the fastest way to trigger her fight instincts, and i can see why she would seek the attention of emotionally unavailable or even dangerous, life-threatening men because her brain would find it familiar. maybe even comforting.

her best friend is holly robinson, and holly knows selina is catwoman. if, for some reason, selina doesn't want to go home, she'll just go to holly's house, especially after a rough battle or a failed heist. something about selina dissociating in the bath with a bunch of cuts and bruises while holly bathes her? yesss.

jumping to another topic before i forget—at this point in time, selina has no idea that bruce wayne is batman. i'd go as far to say that she'd be pissed to discover that truth. she would rather think batman is like her, someone who grew up poor and is fighting a losing battle to keep gotham somewhat livable.

she also does not know about her relationship to carmine falcone. i think her brain would be in active denial, because to be falcone's daughter is the loss of her own individual identity.

whew. there's a lot to unpack here.

[mortal-song]

klaus has this habit of searching for answers and purpose in the same place he lost them. his autonomy was stolen from him as a child, and he lives with that loss every day. it’s quite common for people with that experience to live with dissociative symptoms, and i actually think klaus is a realistic portrayal of that. while it’s never outright said that it’s dissociation he deals with, i think a lot of survivors could probably see it in him. he’s always seemed to feel a disconnect with himself, with his own body (for example -- and this is a small one -- when he told ben “you’re not getting in this body,” rather than my body). his identity is something transient, something that shifts drastically sometimes depending on the situation he’s in, which is a common experience in people with dissociative symptoms -- we’re like “chameleons.” 

he forgets key things regarding his trauma: that, or his brain will twist the events to make them more palatable to himself. he didn’t remember being killed as a child, even though it happened multiple times. and despite not remembering anything, he still has visceral reactions when it comes to being confined. he may not consciously remember every event, but his body does, and so he reacts accordingly, as if the threat of being killed again were a present one. because the body remembers the loss of control, it remembers the autonomy that was once stolen. then there’s “bus ball.” obviously, it was an objectively shitty, terrifying thing, being once again murdered, multiple times by your own father and abuser -- and as an experiment, no less. despite that, the events were portrayed as something that was for the most part fun, almost. and when he vaguely recounted said events later on, he referred to it as “bus ball.” like it really was nothing more than a game. that’s another common dissociative symptom, and a common trauma symptom: being so disconnected on a certain level from your own trauma that you’re able to talk about it like it’s nothing. that you’re able to remember a skewed version of it so that you don’t have to internalize any of the real terror.

touch is another one. klaus is a very tactile person. he communicates well through touch. but he often doesn’t like being touched, unless it’s from someone he knows, loves and trusts.

he startles easily, too. will jump back at sudden movements or words, gets frightened by loud noises and will cover his ears.

his need for connection is relevant here, too. he has a hard time being alone with himself, and so he finds people to cling to, or finds people that will cling to him, just to stave off those feelings and to ground himself, almost. sometimes it spirals out of control, like with the cult. but his constant need for connection stems from feeling disconnected.

one of his passing comments to luther in s1 (”I remember my first time... oh no. i don’t”) hits hard, too. it’s not uncommon for trauma victims to experience hypersexuality as a result of this loss of autonomy. and then, to not even remember some of these encounters (obviously, the drugs/alcohol likely play a role in this not remembering. but hey, what’s addiction often a symptom of? oh yeah. trauma.)

this disconnect he feels from his own body is also why he was able to have certain encounters even with people he didn’t like. keechie comes to mind. he didn’t like keechie, that was made clear. but it sounds like he still had no problem having sex with him, despite this. it’s common, when you have dissociative symptoms, to feel this sort of disconnect. you don’t always care what happens to a body that doesn’t feel like yours, hell, you can enjoy it, sometimes -- even if you don’t like the person you’re doing it with.

it’s why he gets off on torture, too. klaus being a masochist was clearly portrayed in episode four, but then was referenced again two other times. (”if i see a boner, i’m out” when he was being tied up, and, “i’m going to beat you, and not the way you like it.”) when you grow up tortured and become accustomed to it it’s easy for the brain to say “hey, this is unbearable so actually we like this thing now. that’ll make it bearable!” i mean, obviously it’s a little more complicated than that, but that’s the gist of the situation. 

you often find comfort -- or even pleasure -- in familiarity, even when familiarity isn’t safe. we see that in klaus.

and that leads me back to my main point: klaus searches for answers, he searches for purpose in the same places he lost them. if he can give up his body to anyone who will take it, then maybe he can take back autonomy, is what he might think. if he can have a say in his own destruction, whether it’s addiction or reckless behavior, then maybe he can take back control. 

but that’s never truly how it plays out. a trauma survivor will never find what they’re looking for this way. i believe that klaus is starting to realize this, even if he does run into setbacks, and even though he will continue to run into setbacks. if he wants to find control, and if he wants to find purpose, he will have to reroute that energy into a path of recovery rather than destruction. it’s a hard hill to climb, but we know he can do it.

i could say more about this, but i think this says enough, for now.

[goldlightsaber]

A Quiet Place Part II

Wow, I just came back from the movie theatre, and I am so pleased that this movie was everything I wanted it to be. So here it goes, another movie analysis/review.

Dare I say iconique? 

There was a lot hinging A Quiet Place Part II. It is one of the first movies “back in theaters.” There was a lot of anticipation because the movie got delayed for over a year. But I don’t think it could’ve come out at a more perfect time. One of the things I noticed about the world of A Quiet Place was that, in thematic ways, it reflects our own. In the height of the pandemic, everyone in our world was scared, worried about supplies running low, losing loved ones, and grieving a life they once had. Like in the movie, we were all forced to lay low by staying inside. Maybe I was projecting my own feelings, but I found it to be highly relatable and touching in that way (without being tragic but rather uplifting instead).

Onto the actual contents, though. The opening scene was *chef’s kiss.* You feel tension right away because of how eerily quiet the town is mid-day, a foreshadowing of what’s to come. Except everything is too neat, the cars too perfectly parked, no windows broken -- we know it is the calm before the storm. I love the patient shot of the stoplight changing lights. We are waiting for disaster to strike but just don’t know when it will. 

The baseball scene subverted a few of my expectations -- I thought Emmett would be a stranger to the family so I was surprised he turned out to be a friendly family acquaintance. This worked well because it probably made Emmett feel some obligation in helping Evelyn and her family later. I also expected Marcus to hit the ball eventually because of the two initial misses -- but then the fireball passes through the sky and life as they know it is over. 

Some part of me expected the flashback scene to be superfluous and just an opportunity to show John Krasinski again, but it served its purpose -- when characters refer to “that day,” we feel the gravity of it because of what we saw in the opening segment. 

I didn’t expect the monster when it first appeared. You expect Lee to have a conversation with the cop, for the monster to show up soon but not just yet -- and then Lee, almost dissociating, is rushing back to his truck after what was no doubt the most traumatic sight of his life at that point. He starts the car with the it’s-going-to-be-all-right facade a parent must don for their child. 

There were several other excellent “oh-shit” moments in this movie. One of my favorites was, after Evelyn sets off the booby trap that attracts the monster (an excellent oh-shit moment in and of itself but already revealed in the trailer), Marcus gets his foot caught in a bear trap. When he screams, it’s like watching a glass you knocked over to the floor crash into a million pieces. My brain was just one big shout of “OH SHIT” and nothing else. Emily Blunt’s acting was superb here and throughout -- the way she played desperation and a simultaneous love for her child was palpable.

Cillian Murphy is an excellent addition to the cast. I was particularly mesmerized by his acting in all the breathy dialogue scenes where he’s protesting against either Evelyn or Regan. Emmett felt believable in all his sweaty, scruffy glory.  He keeps insisting he doesn’t want to help, but, very wholesomely, he always does. He’s a sucker for them from the start. And whether he and Regan like it or not, he is slowly becoming the protective father figure in her life. He can’t get in the way of her plans and her genius, and he can never replace Lee, but the love is there. I love their arc.

And speaking of Regan...

Wow, did the kids in this movie shine. Millicent Simmonds and Noah Jupp absolutely exceeded my expectations. Boy, could Jupp scream and look scared for his life. He was completely believable in his role. And Simmonds walks with this quiet strength, this gentleness. I loved what they did with the scenes where Regan and Emmett were struggling to communicate and she had to keep bringing him back down to Earth. I love the way this movie changes the game for what communication looks like -- there is rarely yelling or even regular-volume conversation. Instead there is sign language, exhales, whispers, the mouthing of words. This creates a mesmerizing atmosphere for the movie. These silences and moments of white-noise do not mean the absence of humans speaking to each other. 

I’m not sure how I feel about the shady, red-eyed community of people on the docks. They looked like they were all on drugs and walked like zombies. And the creepy little girl who trapped Emmett just felt like she belonged to another genre of horror? This isn’t a “creepy children” horror movie, it’s an eldritch monster horror movie! It wasn’t the most believable plot point but I wasn’t super opposed to it, either. I wanted to know more about these shady people. I fully expected them to take Emmett and Regan back to their leader or tribal base, but nope, they were just shady people (the kind not worth saving). 

This isn’t a criticism per say but I was definitely expecting more scenes between Emmett and the entire Abbott family, so I was a little sad they split them up and we didn’t get a reunion. This is a possible tease for a third movie -- as is the expanding world of the island and the lack of a total end to the apocalypse. And, of course, there are hints that Evelyn and Emmett might have a future together -- Evelyn symbolically takes off her wedding ring and Emmett reluctantly but naturally fills the father role for the children. At the same time, we leave off at a point where we can imagine what happens next and don’t need to know more -- it can be up to our interpretation. They can end the movie there, since it is clear that the children have figured out how to defeat the monsters.

And speaking of that, the ending had a very Stranger Things feel to it. Never mind that the monsters from each respective series look almost identical -- the ending takes a surprise turn when it is the two Abbott children who take things into their own hands and kill the monsters while their parental figures literally sit back and watch in awe. I appreciated the message here: that young people are innovative, strong and brave enough to do the right thing. They are capable of great things; it’s all right to trust them and let them take the reins. 

I think the movie’s atmosphere is just lovely. Just because it’s horror doesn’t mean there can’t be scenic shots of a sunset on the beach. That’s what I like about both movies so much -- they don’t feel like most horror movies because they still leave room for beauty and tenderness and hope.

Overall, a very enjoyable film. I would love to see the family reunion if there is a sequel -- and that the potential sequel is helmed by the right writers/director once again! Go, John Krasinski! He killed it.

[smiletstoxik]

This blog's Joker looks like:

"Gentleman Jack" with the bite of

Leto's psychopath and the morals of

Phoenix. With the appetite of Hannibal Lector.

He has DID and comes in 3 flavors.

Jay loves gold jewelry, being seen/heard/center of attention, you can catch him listening to rap of all kinds, uses stimulants, loves fucking around with femboys, transmen& women, and dominating men who need it.

Joe loves the 60s and 70s and his clothing aesthetic is very groovy. You can catch him listening to jazz, blues and funk. He drinks Whiskey sours, and loves weed. Usually the one that handles the books. (But is rarely around so Jonny picks up the slack).

And then sweet James who just wants to have fun, love everyone and make sure everyone else is having fun. This is the youngest member of his system. At 10 years old he likes outdoors, loud noises, hide n seek, and pranks. Also temper tantrums is his favorite entertainment on a rainy day.... 🤔

Hes a criminal lord but he does more good than Bruce Wayne. He runs 3 homeless shelters and funds 4 soup kitchens. He employs the homeless and gives them a hand up. All while trafficking illegal goods. He makes all of his money through stocks, sales and loyalties. He owns 5 houses (best of his crew lice in em) and one apartment complex.

His legal name is Jack Napier.

His false identity name is Jackson Kingsley, that's how he gets his mail and makes accounts.

He is 6'9" without shoes when standing up all the way. But he slouches to 6'4" usually.

He has an unsteady gait but isn't unsteady himself. It's clear he was on some heavy antipsychotics at one point. And brain injury. (He has Tardive dyskinesia and sometimes does that tongue thing even though he doesn't want to)

He is strong but doesn't know any martial art. Just street fighting. His grip strength sucks.

He can speak a little French and is fluent in 3 Spanish dialects. (I cannot don't expect me to use it)

He has emotional neglect, physical and sexual abuse, below the poverty line, and abandonment trauma.

He displays symptoms of Borderline Personality Disorder as well as a dissociative disorder.

He is not always a good person, but he has good days.

He collects people as his "family" and quite possessively too.

[internalsealpanic]

I Will be Your Tim Drake for Tonight (3) (Jason Todd/ Reader)

Summary:  Preferring to do anything but your physics project, you decide to accepts Tim’s proposal. It’s simple. He does your project, you try to figure out whether Jason Sionis is criminal. Easy, right?

masterlist

A/n: This takes place in a world where Jason is adopted by Black Mask. Inspired by Building Interest by Zoeleo.The events and characterization in this story are very heavily based on Zoeleo's Long Term Investment series. It is fantastic and I really highly recommend all of her fics.

a/n: For clarification, Reader does have psychic powers but it only lets her sense people's emotions physically. No mind-reading. Her power is more like an overactive sense of empathy which may force her to dissociate into someone else.

There will be violence and mentions of alcoholism (used as coping mechanism for physical pain) and chronic pain.  

As for the additional warning, an animal is harmed but it is barely described. I could not bring myself to actual describe it but the aftermath is described.

I also just converted this from an OC so I apologize for any grammatical mistakes.

Without further a do:

Your stomach drops.

Fuck.

Of course, Damian just had to be the one to pick up.

"Hey baby bro, could you pass the phone to dad?"

"I'm sorry who is this?"

This little shit.

"You're such a kidder! Dami, it's me, Tim. "

“Ah yes, Drake-” You can hear Tim choke in the background. “What do you want?”

“Please Dami just pass the phone to dad, I- I really need to talk to him”

“Very well,”

“Tim?” The voice sounded like Bruce’s but the intonation was all wrong. The voice changer Tim and Babs were working on seems to have made progress.

“Hey dad, I- uh. I might have gotten kidnapped.”

Tim makes another choking noise. “Might have?”

“I was at the party. I think I had around 13 drinks. 13 ! Can you believe it? I felt like a right sailor after that, like the harbor workers, y’know? Anyway, I was taking a smoke-”

“Enough!” The large man roared, snatching the phone from you. “Send us $100 million by tomorrow or your kid’ll be shark bait!” Who says that anymore?

“Of course! Of course! I’ll have the money sometime this evening. Please don’t hurt him.”

Tim, God bless him, does not laugh. Tim’s acting needs some work but he sure does know how to act worried.

The line dies and they tie you back up to the post.

“What the hell?!”

“We have to make sure you don’t just runoff.” The large man says tightening your bonds. Truthfully, you’ve felt far worse. After all, corsets exist. However, this was still a close second.  

“Do I look like I could outrun a snail?”

“He’s got a point boss. He looks like he hasn’t even seen the sun in ages.”

This, you decide, is true for Tim. When was the last time he went out before dark? Maybe he got sunlight when he stayed over at Eddie’s place.

The large man grabs Jason by the collar and throws him to his men.

The 3 men kick and curse at him. They mock him and beat him down. They wail on him with their fists, their steel-toed shoes, and sometimes brick. Jason takes it all with a crooked grin and a sharp tongue. You watched in awe. Even on the floor, Jason looked sturdy, ferocious, and indomitable.

"They all break, sweet girl."

Jason is on a tiled floor. No, he should be on concrete. His blood is on the tile. They’re hitting him. They’re hitting him with a bat. No. They aren’t supposed to be holding a bat. They were kicking him but now they’re holding a bat. No, She’s holding a bat. There's supposed to be three of them, three men,  but their forms coalesce into her .  You can hear his ribs cracking. Next are his legs. His legs are always next. Then his arm. She'll break each bone in his arms and his hands.  He’s wheezing. His voice sounds hoarse. His voice is too hoarse. He sounds like he’s been starved and dehydrated for at least a day. They’ve only been here for an hour. That isn’t right. Oh God! Now she had a cleaver in her hands.

No!

No!

He doesn’t need to die. She can’t.

no.

No.

No!  

 The scene crescendos as the tall, dark, sinewy silhouette towering over Jason raises the butcher's knife above her head.

“Harder, daddy!”

“Son?”

The scene of the kitchen fades and the shit-eating grin on Jason melts into view which shifts from amusement to confusion then back to amusement.

You blink seeing his stupid grin far too clearly.

You let a bark of gut-busting laughter out as you strain against the rope. Your brow pinches with concern but based on the scowls you’re receiving they're more focused on the fact that you were laughing like a mad man.  

Jason looks like he’s about to laugh from the absurdity as well when the man in charge picks him up again tossing him into a chair. The other men tie him down binding his wrists and ankles.

"I've had worse." He spits out.

The phone rings again, the dial tone echoing. Jason looks like hell with his face swollen and bruises beginning to bloom on every surface but he still looked like he was 5 seconds from starting a fight.

The large man punches Jason hard in the gut knocking the air out of his lungs as the dial tone cuts off.  “Hear that, Sionis? Your little bitch is pretty soft.”

Oh God, are they serious?

“Who is this? Nevermind. You ok there, sweetheart?” Roman Sionis’ ‘concerned’ voice carries over the line.

They are.

“Nothing I can't handle, daddy.” Jason chuckles with the utmost casualness. You, on the other hand,  instantly want to disinfect your brain. Thankfully, before your mind could wander somewhere it can't return from,  the big man growls into the phone.

“Don't you recognize the voice of the man whose life you've ruined?!”

“You've gotta be more specific than that. I've ruined quite a few lives but I would like to know whose brain I need to put a bullet in.”

“IT'S ME  BRUNO HARDIN!”

“Doesn't ring any bells.” Roman deadpans almost sounding completely disinterested. “Sweetheart, you remember anyone like that?”

“Nope,” Jason replies letting the p pop. It seemed like a strange sort of triumph before it all crashes down with another swift punch to the ribs.

You stare at the strange scene torn between amusement and horror.

“Take this seriously!” Bruno roars.

"I'm taking this about as seriously as it deserves."

A part of you thought 'yeah this is ridiculous enough to warrant nonchalance' while the other part wanted to scream.  On one hand, even you found his identity anticlimactic. Doesn’t he know just how many small-time businesses Roman has ruined? He’d be lucky to get into the top 50. It’s not like he was running a pretty ethical establishment either.  On the other hand, your freaking kid is getting the shit kicked out of him. Emote damn it.

“Jason. Don’t you worry. Daddy’s going to take care of this. Your Uncle D happens to be in town. He’s on his way to pick you up. Love you, baby. See you soon.”

The line dies. Your stomach sinks further somehow. You don’t know if the nausea is due to the fact that the line died, the threat, or the number of times the word ‘daddy’ came up. Who the hell is Uncle D? How is he supposed to help? Your gaze trails to Jason who is now lowering his head to the floor seemingly tired. Maybe that last punch finally drained the fight from him.

“You're all so fucked.” Jason barks out in a fit of laughter. The men around him, jumping from the volume of his voice.  

Bruno grabs Jason by the collar and begins to shake him as if the  “Shut the fuck up you little bitch! Whoever your Uncle D is he's-”

“Deathstroke”

You feel like someone kicked you in the chest. First of all, Uncle D? Really? You guess that there are worse hills to die on. This was somehow weirder than hearing Faust and her siblings call him pops. Second of all, Fuck. You'd never gotten your asshanded to you by Deathstroke but based on how banged up the Titans looked after fighting him this wasn't gonna be pretty.  All you could hope for was that you wouldn't get caught in the crossfire. Although, the image of Deathstroke grudgingly letting a kid call him Uncle D lightens your mood a bit.  

Bruno throws Jason on the floor hard enough for his body to bounce. Like Jason earlier, Bruno is radiating murder.

Just run, you thick motherfucker.

You, being the ‘nice’ Wayne kid that you are,  try to tell him as much but sadly that was halted by shattering glass. A flurry of black, orange, and metal crash through the glass and cut through the crowd of men.  

They fire at him, panic making their faces even paler. They hit him, bullets sinking into his flesh, blood splatters but none of it fazes him. He skewers and cuts them down with ease. His swords and suit are liberally decorated with their blood when it’s all done.

He steps over Bruno’s body. From the grunt that comes out, Bruno is still alive. Dumb bastard doesn’t know how to play dead. He’ll die from blood loss anyway.

“Hey, kid-” Deathstroke greets tersely,  picking up Jason’s nearly limp body.  “We’re gonna get you home.” He slings Jason’s arm over his shoulder.

“Wait!”  

Deathstroke stops sounding slightly annoyed.

Jason turns to you, who’s still unhappily tied to a post.  “We gotta get him out.” He rasps.  

“Kid, you’re the only one I’m getting paid to rescue.”  Deathstroke helpfully informs as he carefully adjusts his hold on the struggling young man. You blow out a breath somehow more irritable than scared.  “Just cut me out. I can make my way back just fine.”

“Walk in Gotham, are you stupid?” Jason hisses. The concern bleeding through.

“Which one of us charged at their captors while they were armed?”

Jason scowls at you with a petulant twist in his lips. “Yanno what,  Leave ‘im.”

“Ok, ok, I’m sorry and yeah I’ll be fine. I know where to avoid. Just please don’t leave me with them” you plead, throwing away any pride you held as you glance at the most likely dead bodies. Deathstroke cuts you out. Your skin feels raw but you’re otherwise unharmed.

You walk out of the warehouse and Dick practically throws himself at you. “Oh thank god, they didn’t shoot you in the head.” He mumbles into your wig.  

"Why would you think they would shoot me in the head?"

Dick pulls back and frowns at you through the domino mask.  “You aren’t exactly the most pleasant-”

“ We were model hostages.” you squawk.

Jason snorts far too loudly to be helpful.

You glare at him but you weren’t about to say fuck off to him while he has one of the world’s deadliest assassins right next to him.

Deathstroke coughs.  “Well if you don’t mind we’ll be taking our leave.”

Dick holding you protectively, glares but says nothing. Maybe he does but you faint before you can hear it.

A/n: Thanks for reading!

[chameleonspell]

some random iriel words i found

[I just found this in my drafts, must have been there a few years, as I don’t remember anything about it. From context, I gather it’s answers I wrote to some sort of horror-themed OC question meme. I used to do a lot of these for character development when I was writing HTDC, but rarely posted them in case I ended up wanting to use the content in the fic. Might as well post it now? I have no idea if anyone else likes reading this stuff, but lmk if you do, I no doubt have a ton more somewhere...]

They have a premonition that something terrible will happen to them. How do they handle the situation?

Iriel would carry on as normal, because he has anxiety, so that's a normal Loredas, tbh. Perhaps some breathing exercises, or carefully modulated Calm spells. If, however, the premonition is specific and prophetic-sounding enough to convince him it results from an external source and not his own brain, then that's a whole different nest of scribs. Because that means that someone is fucking with him, probably a Daedra, and Iriel has well-documented reservations about the trustworthiness of such things. What situation are they REALLY trying to engineer, and why?

Do they have a fear of the unknown and things they can’t explain?

Not nearly as much as some people. Iriel has enough known-fears to contend with that something being unknown gives it rather an advantage, at times. Besides, he's a scholar. Unknown things are inherently interesting, because then you can research them, and test hypotheses! Sometimes to the point of almost contracting vampirism, because you can't resist touching weird-looking corpses.

What is the most disturbing thing they’ve ever seen?

I had to think about this one, because pitching Iriel through Morrowind involved subjecting him to a lot of disturbing things. Sixth House stuff is obviously designed to be body-horror nightmarish, and Ire's particular terror of skeletons meant that ancestral tombs were always going to be a trial. In terms of character turning points, though, I'm gonna say Rotheran was the worst thing he'd ever seen, the most upsetting. Because it wasn't just the slavery, or the sadistic games, or the Daedra worship, or the illusion-magic mind control (though that was all bad enough!). It was the dark things about himself, about his psychology and attitude to other people, that he believed he saw magnified and reflected there, triggering a spiral into self-loathing and despair, and the events of the next several chapters! Which... sounds really depressing, but was ultimately useful, in a gotta-lance-the-poison-filled-abscess-before-you-can-clean-and-heal-it kind of way.

What would they do if they witnessed an alien ship crash landing?

I like how this sort of question highlights the differences of the TES setting. Cosmology, f'rinstance, is rather a different affair. Space travel is occasionally a thing in the lore, but their "space" isn't the same as ours. The appearance of strange crafts from out of the air filled with unidentifiable creatures wouldn't imply "aliens!!!" to someone from Tamriel, but probably something more like: "oh shit what have the Telvanni made NOW?" or "please no more portals spewing horrors from another Daedric realm-o'-the-week, i am so very tired."

If they were a ghost, what methods would they use to haunt someone?

"If". lol. Iriel spends a fair amount of HTDC baaaaasically turning into a ghost, yeah? Insubstantial, invisible, losing all grasp on the material realm. And yet, he utterly fails to use his powers to prank people! Shani and Bodu agree that this is a tragic waste of ghostly powers.

Actually, this is another one where TES sensibilities might differ from ours. In Tamriel, ghosts are a well-documented spiritual phenomenon - the result of a lapse in burial rites, or, in the case of Dunmer, the successful product of them. Haunted houses tend to be places full of actual screaming spectres, rather than strange, poltergeist activity. Floating objects and suchlike would be more readily explained by a mage's mischievous telekinesis than the restless dead.

Anyway, to return to your question, a house haunted by Iriel is largely identical to one in which he is actually living. Either way, you may see little hard evidence of his presence, yet sometimes experience odd, herbal smells; indistinct, yet melancholic apparitions in the corner of your eye, and soft sighs just on the edge of hearing. You may also find your books mysteriously disappearing, and reappearing with the pages tea-stained and dog-eared.

How much would they have to be offered to live in a haunted house for a month?

"Let me get this straight. You're offering me an empty house... yes, fine, there are ghosts, but no real people... an empty house that everyone else is frightened to go near, so I'd have complete peace and quiet-- yes, yes, apart from the ghosts, I mean-- ...and I can do whatever I like there, and... let me be absolutely clear about this... YOU want to pay ME?"

("Hmm? Oh yes, it's been fine. Honestly, the dead are far less trouble than people think, especially the non-embodied kind. Simple wards and charms will do adequately if you want to keep them contained, but really, a little attention is all most of them want. They like it when I sing to them, actually. I did get one dreadful screamer, and had to spend a night traipsing around the cellar, scrabbling in the dirt until I found where the poor thing had been buried, but ever since I got the gravedigger to move him somewhere more comfortable, he's been a total sweetheart. Which is more than you can say for dogs or babies or Bosmer housemates, honestly.")

Could they stay calm lost in the woods all night by themselves?

It's funny... I'm sure Iriel's pa used to take him camping in the woods as a kid, and I'm sure Ire spent the entire time freaking out about weird noises, and generally having an unhappy, stressful time. And yet, upon being released from prison as an adult, he immediately vanished into the woods, and voluntarily spent multiple days and nights alone out there. (Three reasons: fear of civilisation, dissociation and drugs.)

After that, even once the drugs wore off, he'd become accustomed to wild places, and grown to feel safer there than in cities, where the dangers around him were harder to predict and quantify. Iriel is, in some ways, very unimaginative. His mind will create possible scenarios based on his experiences, but it won't invent implausible monsters from nothing, and he finds darkness comforting, rather than a source of horror. The woods at night are a good deal more peaceful and friendly than many other places he's spent time.

[plaidbooks]

Everyone Deserves Love chapter 3

A/N: This is the last prequel! Which means Barba will be making his entrance next chapter (and then never leaving). I’m excited for y’all to get to the main story, but I do really like how this chapter turned out. I also forgot to mention, but will say now; all names, characters, streets, or buildings that are not specified in the show have been completely made up by me, and are not based on real people. This chapter takes place during season 12.

I’m posting this a couple days early because I’m really wanting to get to Barba/chapter 4 this week, so here’s 3!

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Tags: hostage situations, domestic abuse mention, minor character death, PTSD, dissociation, anxiety, talks about death and the mentality about a profession involved with it

Words: 7k+

Apartment of Devon Motely

Monday, April 7th

It had been too long since Devon had a day off; so long, in fact, that she didn’t quite know how to take a day off. She got up at her normal, early time. She went for her normal, early morning jog, then did her normal, early gym routine before jogging home. She made herself breakfast—a simple omelet—and sat down to watch the news, something she didn’t particularly enjoy. It was more for background noise, but also to stay kind of up-to-date on local goings-on. She even decided to take a longshot; she sent a text to Detectives Stabler and Benson, asking for a lunch date. Alas, it was not in the cards for the day, to no one’s surprise.

By 11am, Devon was already bored out of her mind. I really, really, need a hobby, she thought. But nothing sprang to mind. After debating it for about five minutes, she decided to just go into her office, get a jump on some paperwork that she was behind on. She also thought that there was some filing that she could do…maybe even rearrange her office. Yeah, that sounded like a plan.

Devon practically snuck into her office, but she met no opposition. Not that she would anyways; she was allowed to come in whenever she felt like, work when and if she needed to. There was no such thing as overtime in her line of work; the only time she wasn’t allowed in was when ordered so by her boss, like after a rough case or a stint in undercover. All she had to worry about today was a long side-eye from a coworker. The building was bustling with people going about their work, but no one gave her a second look.

She was there for only two hours, elbow deep in paperwork, before she got a call from Olivia. Knowing that Liv was busy that day, and desperate for some work out in the field, Devon answered quickly, “Motely.”

“Hey Dev. I know you mentioned having a day off, but can you please escort a key-witness to the courthouse? Her name is Madelyn Rosco, and it’s—it’s really important that she testifies for this case,” Olivia had pleaded over the phone.

Devon deflated a little bit. A simple escort? At least it was something to do, Devon thought. She replied, “of course. Text me the address, I’ll head over as soon as possible.” Olivia thanked her before hanging up and sending the details via text. Besides just an address, Liv also supplied Devon with some basic info on the case.

Madelyn was the victim of severe domestic abuse for months, culminating into her boyfriend viciously raping her, almost killing her in the process. She was only saved by a concerned neighbor, who had called the police when he heard Madelyn screaming. This wasn’t the first girlfriend that he had attacked, but he was escalating; his last two girlfriends had him removed because of DVs, but Madelyn was the first he had raped. The boyfriend—Nathan Woods—had been in police custody but posted bail early this morning, hence why Olivia wanted a protection detail on Madelyn; she was afraid that Nathan may try to intimidate Madelyn…or worse. Devon checked the glock on her hip, her badge clipped next to it. She had left her knife at home, but figured it wouldn’t help her in any case. Satisfied, she left her office, catching a cab to the address Liv had sent.

Residence of Madelyn Rosco

Monday, April 7th. 2:30pm

Devon walked up the steps to Madelyn’s brownstone home. She had a weird feeling in her gut, but she ignored it; just nerves before a case, nothing new. She knocked on the door and waited. She could hear footsteps coming towards the door, but they sounded off somehow…were there more than one set?

“Yes?” a woman asked after answering the door, cracking it so that only half her face was showing. She had thick, blonde, wavy hair. She was petite; Devon stood about a foot taller than her. She looked as though she had been crying recently, eyes puffy and red. She had a split lip that was scabbed over, probably from the assault Olivia mentioned.

“Madelyn Rosco? My name is Devon; Detective Benson asked me to escort you to court,” Devon explained. She looked past the small woman into the apartment, trying to see if anyone else was there, but the door was blocking most of her view. Maybe she hadn’t heard two sets of footsteps. Maybe she just needed some coffee.

“Oh, I, uh, I’ve decided not to testify,” Madelyn sniffled. “Thanks anyway,” she said as she tried to close the door. Devon acted on instinct, shoving her foot into the doorframe, not allowing it to shut. It took a moment for her brain to catch up, something’s not right here.

“Mind if I come in?” Devon asked as she pushed open the door, not waiting for an answer. She had caught Madelyn by surprise, easily pushing her backwards. As soon as she crossed the threshold, Devon realized her mistake. She felt the cold steel of a gun against the back of her head.

“Don’t move,” a gravelly voice ordered from behind her. The bastard had been pushed against the doorframe, gun probably to Madelyn’s head throughout the whole interaction. Devon put her hands up in surrender, silently chiding herself for walking into this so easily. She looked to Madelyn, trying to convey that everything was alright with her eyes. Madelyn started crying anew, sobs burbling out of her. Devon’s heart began to race with adrenaline, but there was nothing Devon could do here. Not yet. The front door shut quietly behind her, and she heard the lock slide into place.

“Who are you?” the man asked. He pushed the gun into the back of Devon’s head, forcing her to walk further into the home. They were in a living room, couch set up with a coffee table in front of it. Devon kept her hands up in front of her, kept her breathing even.

As the man led Devon towards the couch, she repeated, “my name is Devon. I’m here to escort Madelyn to the courthouse.” Once in front of the couch, the man removed the gun from the back of her head, moving to stand in front of Devon, motioning for her to sit down. She released a breath she didn’t know she was holding as the pressure left her head, though she could still feel where the cool metal had bit into her skin. As she sat, the man’s eyes widened. The jacket she was wearing had opened upon sitting, her gun and badge on display for everyone to see.

“You’re a cop? Hand over your weapons, now!” he ordered, shoving the gun closer into Devon’s face. She fought the urge to sigh, instead just exhaling through her nostrils as she moved one hand, keeping the other still in the air, and took off her gun holster, placing it on the coffee table in front of her. “Got a drop gun?”

“No,” she replied truthfully, shaking her head. “And I’m not so much a cop as a Federal agent.”

The guy looked panicked then. “FBI? Are you kidding me? For what, this bitch?” he said, pointing with the gun at Madelyn, who was still standing at the end of the couch, trying to stifle her sobs. Devon instantly stood, putting herself between the gun and Madelyn. The sudden movement startled him, making him aim at Devon once more.

“Nathan, don’t,” Madelyn said meekly, confirming the man’s identity to Devon. So, the boyfriend bailed out of jail and came straight here. Devon was suddenly glad that Olivia had sent her, even though she was now being held hostage. Better me than another detective, Devon thought. Every nerve in her body, though, screamed to get the hell out of there. Devon shoved the impulse down; she wasn’t leaving, not without Madelyn. Plus, she had experience with hostage situations.

“Shut up,” Nathan spat. He returned his attention back to Devon. “How long until cops show up here?”

As if on cue, Devon’s phone chimed in her pocket, signaling a text. The group fell silent for a beat, before Devon spoke. “You may want to let me answer that, or they will be here quicker than you’d like.”

“Fine, answer it,” he said. Devon slowly moved her hand to her pocket in an attempt to not scare Nathan. She grabbed her phone and pulled it out, but Nathan snatched it out of her hand.

“It’s from Benson, asking ‘did you make it Madelyn’s yet?’” Nathan read aloud. “Who’s Benson?”

No point in lying. “She’s a detective at NYPD; she’s the one that sent me here.”

Nathan texted back with one hand, keeping the gun trained on Devon as he sent back something. Hopefully, it was a weird enough answer that Liv would figure out that something was wrong. Come on, Liv. You know me, Devon thought. Almost instantly, Devon’s phone rang, Benson’s name and number on the screen.

“Answer it. But if you tip her off, you and Mads are dead,” Nathan warned, handing Devon the phone.

Devon hit the answer button, holding the phone to her ear. “Devon, is everything okay? What was the text you sent?” Olivia was speaking rapidly.

“Everything’s fine. Madelyn said she didn’t want to testify anymore, so I’m trying to convince her otherwise,” Devon explained, thinking fast. She realized that Nathan neglected to have her put Liv on speaker, so he’d only hear Devon’s side of the conversation. This must be his first time taking a hostage. She looked at him out of the corner of her eyes, but Nathan’s attention was outside, apparently looking to see if police cars would start pulling up. Though, he still had his gun aiming at Devon.

“Didn’t want to testify? Last time I talked to her, she was gung-ho on putting that bastard Nathan behind bars. What changed? Did he get to her?”

“Haha, yeah, I know, witnesses are fickle. It’s fine though, I think I can change her mind,” Devon replied.

“What does that mean? Wait…” Olivia went quiet for a moment. “Is he there now?”

Devon nodded, even though Liv couldn’t see her. “Yeah, yeah. Sometimes, that’s how it goes. It’s fine though, really,” she paused as if Liv said something, then added, “No, I don’t need the whole squad over here for one witness. It might make her nervous. I’ll deliver Madelyn to the courthouse by tomorrow morning.”

Olivia took a moment to think before asking, “do you need backup?”

“Yes,” Devon said clearly. Nathan finally pulled his eyes away from the window, giving her a look, and she added, “really, it’s fine. I’ll meet up with you later. Thanks for checking in, though. Talk to you soon, Benson,” and then she hung up. If Olivia didn’t get the message the first time, Devon’s use of her last name would be sure to kick her into motion.

“Did you throw her off?” Nathan asked, motioning for Devon to give him the phone once more.

Yeah, she’s definitely thrown off, Devon thought. “Yes…I also gave you until tomorrow to leave, to never show your face here again. You should take that,” Devon replied.

Nathan shook his head. “No, I should do what I came here to do.” He changed his focus, aiming for Madelyn once again. “I’m here to keep this bitch from testifying, permanently.”

Devon moved in front of the gun and Madelyn cowered behind her. “Do you really think that if you kill her, or me for that matter, that the cops won’t know it was you? Find you? All that killing Madelyn will do is turn your assault charge into a murder charge. Do you want to spend your life in prison?”

Before he could answer, sirens started to blare in the distance. Damn, that was quick, Devon thought. Never cross Olivia, or one of her friends.

“Did you fucking tip them off?” Nathan yelled, shoving the gun under Devon’s chin, the cold steel digging into her skin painfully. Devon’s heart stopped; was this the end for her?

“You heard me talk to Liv. She must have sensed something was off,” Devon explained. She could feel her hands starting to shake, and she fought to control her body. Stay calm, you can get out of this, she thought.

Nathan huffed and pulled the gun away, walking towards the window to draw the blinds. Once down, he, pulled two apart, glancing out of them. No one there, yet. But the sirens were getting louder. Devon guessed that they had a couple minutes before they arrived.

“Why not leave now? Before they get here?” Devon asked quietly, calmly. She was hoping that if she said it gently enough, it may seem like it was his idea rather than hers.

Nathan was glued to the spot, watching the world outside. Devon thought that maybe he was stuck there, frozen. This may be her only chance. She took a step towards Nathan, but he saw the movement and whipped around, gun pointing directly at her chest. Devon froze.

“No no no, I’m not going anywhere. Not until she”—he nodded to Madelyn—“is dead at my feet.”

Jesus, what does this guy have against Madelyn? Devon thought. For him to be so fixated on wanting her dead, it just didn’t make sense to her. But she made it a point to stay between the two of them, to be a human shield. He turned back to look outside; the sirens were so loud now. Devon was able to see a little of the outside world through the blinds; cop cars were lining the street. She could vaguely see shapes moving across the street; officers going to the other buildings. The evacuations have started.

“Look, Nathan, there’s only one way you get out of this alive, now. Let Madelyn go and keep me as a hostage. They won’t shoot you if you use me as a human shield,” Devon said. She wasn’t wrong per se, but she was also confident in ESU’s ability to take him out even if she was being held hostage.

“No no no, this wasn’t how this was supposed to go,” Nathan whispered more to himself than anyone else. Devon’s phone, still in Nathan’s hand, started to ring once more. Nathan jumped, startled at the sudden noise. She was shocked he didn’t drop it.

“It’s probably the negotiator,” Devon explained. “You should answer it.”

Nathan looked at it, then held it out to Devon. “No, you answer it. On speaker phone this time.”

Devon took the phone; Benson’s name was displayed again. “Olivia, you’re on speaker phone,” Devon answered, putting it on speaker phone as requested.

“Hey Dev. What’s going on in there? Is everyone alright?” she asked, voice shaky, but calm.

Devon gave Nathan a look before answering, “everything’s fine, Liv, we’re all fine. It’s just me, Madelyn, and Nathan inside. We can all hear you.” She wanted to add more, tell her about Nathan’s position, the gun he had. But she knew that Nathan would get pissed, so she refrained.

Olivia took a moment before switching to her professional tone. “Hey Nathan,” she started. “Is there anything we can do for you that will allow you to release Madelyn and Devon?”

Devon could see the gears turning in his head. If all he truly wanted was to kill Madelyn, then would he really accept anything that the NYPD had to offer? Devon wasn’t sure, nor was she sure what his next move would be.

“I—I want a car, and, uh, $500,000 in cash, uh, unmarked bills. And I want free, uh, passage to Canada. And I want no one to follow me,” Nathan replied. It sounded like he had no idea what he was asking for, as if he was copying things he’d seen in a movie. To be fair, though, Devon didn’t think he was prepared for this situation; he probably showed up to Madelyn’s with the intention of killing her, then disappearing. Her very presence really threw a wrench into that plan.

“Yeah, okay, we can do that, Nathan. It will take a little bit to get the car and money ready, though. As a show of good faith, why don’t you send out Madelyn, okay?” Olivia asked.

“No! Mads stays with me. I’ll send out your FBI buddy instead,” Nathan said.

“I’m not leaving, Nathan. Let Madelyn go; like I said, keeping me hostage is your best bet at survival here,” Devon responded gently. Like hell was she going to leave a civilian in a hostage situation.

Nathan seemed to think this through, sorting through his options. Olivia finally asked, “so what’s it going to be, Nathan?”

“Yeah, okay, fine. You,”—he pointed the gun at Madelyn, making her cringe in response—“get out of here. Go!” he yelled.

Madelyn gave one last look at Devon, who nodded, before bolting out the front door. “Hold your fire!” could be heard, the order yelled over the din of all the officers, placed around the apartment and aiming at the front. The noise was cut off as the front door swung shut. It was a relief having Madelyn out of the house; now Devon could focus solely on Nathan and diffusing the situation…or stalling long enough for ESU to storm in.

“Thank you, Nathan,” Olivia said through the phone. Nathan seemed anything but comforted, though. He reached for the phone, angrily hanging up on Liv.

           “She’s just going to call back,” Devon said, watching him closely. Only thing worse than a hostage taker was a pissed off hostage taker. But she had to bide her time, wait for a moment to disarm him.

           Nathan glared at the door that Madelyn had disappeared out of. “No more talk. We’re going to just sit here and wait until my demands are met.”

           The last piece finally clicked for Devon; Nathan had a control problem. He felt the need to be in control at all times, and Devon, along with Liv, had just fucked up the remaining control he had in this situation. Which meant he was now very pissed, mostly at Devon, seeing as she was the only thing still there that he could even focus that anger on.

           Devon stayed standing, rooted to the spot. “What’s your plan here, Nathan? Taking me and fleeing to Canada? You know they extradite back to the US, right?” she asked. No point in sugar coating the facts; Devon was going to try and scare him into surrendering. If he gets angry enough, he may make mistakes. Or he may just take out his rage on Devon, but that was something she would just have to deal with if it came to that. She sized the man up; he stood head and shoulders above her and had maybe 70 pounds on her. But, he didn’t seem like a fighter; from what Devon knew about most domestic abusers, he probably had a rage that fueled his attacks, but they usually had any sort of form.

           Nathan paced a couple of steps, nervously running his free hand through his hair. Then, he got a peculiar look in his eyes, stopping in his tracks and staring directly at Devon. Devon had seen that look before many times, the look someone made when they made up their mind, and she only had a brief moment to brace herself before Nathan violently grabbed her by the hair, ripping her head back, dragging her further into the house, away from the front windows. Tears instantly sprung up in the corners of her eyes and she let out a gasp, but the pain was soon forgotten as he jammed the gun into her face. Devon’s breath caught in her throat at the sight of the barrel inches from her face.

           “Maybe I’ll just get rid of you, then. By the time they find your dead body, I’ll be on a flight to Switzerland. They don’t extradite there,” Nathan spat into her face, fingers pulling her hair so hard that her head began to tingle.

           Devon fought through the fog and adrenaline in her mind, trying to think of a way out of this. “Whether they extradite or not, I’m still a Federal agent. You kill me and my boss is going to track you down, no matter what rock you scuttle under.” It wasn’t an empty threat; her boss would definitely track this scumbag down.

           Nathan’s chest started to rise and fall rapidly as he panicked. “Either I go to jail for life, or I die…those are my choices.” He was quiet for what seemed like forever. Finally, he spoke, “So, what if I do neither? What if I just start shooting, take as many of you bastards out before they take me out?”

           Devon’s heart stopped; this was a man who no longer cared, a man with nothing to lose. And that was the most dangerous man of all. He released Devon, set his feet, took aim. The motion took a couple of seconds, but time seemed to have slowed to a standstill for Devon. There was one thought that kept creeping its way back into her brain; is this it? Is this how my life ends? In this line of work, there was always the expectation of dying in the line of duty. It always stuck around in the back of Devon’s mind, hardly acknowledged, but always there, like a dull pain that’s ignored when working. But to be faced with death, to have a madman aiming a gun at her, it was completely different. Devon heard him cock the gun and her heart fluttered in panic. So, this is really how it’s going to happen, Devon thought. She wasn’t a religious person, so she had no one to pray to. Instead, she thought about how her life has played out so far. She had regrets, sure; everyone did. Though her more than most. She had made peace with most of her demons, but her only real regret now was that her life would end this early. That she would no longer be able to help others, save other people. She thought about all the faceless people that she would not be able to protect and her heart sunk. She should have done more, been more. She thought about Olivia, about Stabler, about all her friends at SVU. Would they mourn her, lay her body to rest? She suddenly wondered if there would be a funeral for herself. The thought was so absurd, it was almost enough to make her chuckle.

           Suddenly, a gunshot rang out, along with another sound that Devon couldn’t identify right away. Sound filled her ears, her blood rushing through her veins, as she watched Nathan’s body drop lifelessly to the ground. She slowly turned her head, seeing the bullet hole through the back window, her brain recognizing vaguely that the other sound she heard was breaking glass. She felt her mind slowly turning off, leaving her body as both the front and back doors flew open, armored officers rushing in. She didn’t hear what they were saying, didn’t feel them as someone grabbed her arms, didn’t see them as someone was in her face talking to her.

           Olivia recognized the blank stare Devon had, eyes staring right through her, no recognition on her face; Devon was in shock and was dissociating. Liv knew how to bring victims back, but she needed to get Devon out of there first, talk to her before the medics came for her.

           “Come on. Let’s get you out of here,” Liv said, holding her hand out to Devon. The agent didn’t take much coercion to follow the detective, her hand limp in the latter’s grip. Olivia led Devon out the backdoor, pushing through the ESU personnel, and had her lean against the house. She’d have to be checked out by the paramedics at some point, but it was better to let Devon breathe for a moment, instead of having people flitting all around her. Besides, she wasn’t injured, so a few extra minutes to talk wouldn’t hurt.

           “Just breathe, Dev,” Olivia said calmly. She remembered an old conversation she had with Devon about anxiety, remembered the verbiage she used. “Just stay here with me, feel your feet on the ground.” She took Devon’s hands in her own, rubbing her thumbs over the backs of them, trying to return some feeling. Olivia waited until Devon’s eyes weren’t as glassy, whispering encouraging words to her the whole time, until she made eye contact with the detective before continuing, “tell me five things you see right now.”

  ��        It took Devon a couple more moments of deep breathing before she answered. “I see…a white, picket fence….I see two clouds in the sky, a tree in the next yard, a brown, tiled roof next door, and I see that you’re wearing new eyeshadow.”

           “Good, that’s good,” Liv replied, smiling. Devon was calming down quicker than most, but then again, she wasn’t a civilian. “Now, what’s four things you can hear?”

They continued like this until Devon was standing up straight, breathing normally, and with most of the color back in her face.

“Thank you,” Devon said, trying to put as much emotion into those two words as she could. Devon had only been in such extreme shock a few times, but not like this. I almost died, she thought, a heaviness sinking in her stomach. “This job is really going to be the death of me, isn’t it” She meant it as a joke, but her smile faltered, and she ran a hand through her hair, trying to fight back the tears stinging her eyes. Olivia gave her a small smile before pulling her in for a hug, but before she could say anything, Captain Cragen came through the backdoor from inside the house.

“Are you alright?” he asked Devon as Liv released her. She nodded meekly, not trusting her voice quite yet. “Good. The paramedics need to check you out and we need to get your statement.”

           Devon nodded, composing herself. She turned to follow him through the house. Olivia stuck by her side, taking one of Devon’s hands in hers, giving her silent support the whole way. It was like walking through a dream; Devon could feel her mind wandering. It was hard to stay focused, to think through all the events that had transpired. You’re alive. You survived, she thought. But she still felt numb, the words not meaning anything. She kept her eyes forward, refusing to look at the body bag in the middle of the floor. Making it through the home and out the front door, Devon was guided towards a paramedic. While being checked for injuries, a thought struck Devon.

           “Madelyn! Is she--?” She started before Olivia cut her off.

           “She’s safe. She was taken to Mercy Hospital. Fin and Munch are getting her statement now.”

           Devon let out a sigh of relief. “Good…that’s—that’s good.”

           Olivia studied her face closely before asking softly, “would you rather give me your statement here or back at the precinct?”

           “Precinct,” Devon answered almost immediately. She didn’t want to be here anymore, out in the open like this. She’d rather be somewhere she knew, somewhere safe and away from all these geared-up officers.

           “Okay,” Liv said. She looked to the paramedic, who was just finishing up. Devon, having no injuries, was cleared to go, and Liv led her to the squad car, Stabler waiting by the driver’s door.

           “You alright?” he asked when the women were close enough. Devon nodded before Liv opened the backdoor for her, and she climbed in. The ride to the station was silent as Devon closed her eyes, trying to calm her still racing heart, the barrel of the gun aiming at her still fresh in her mind.

SVU Department

Monday April 7th. 5:37pm

           It took a full 45 minutes to go through the whole story with Olivia and Stabler. Devon felt more awake, more alive as she recounted everything, but that could also be the coffee that Stabler had given her. She glazed over her near-death experience, brushing it off as just another occupational hazard. Even so, she saw the looks on their faces, the pity in their eyes. Devon hated it; she didn’t need pity. She was an FBI field agent, and a damn good one. Just because she had a brush with death meant nothing; she was alive, wasn’t she? She was fine, she was going to just continue working, dammit.

           “Well, at least Madelyn doesn’t have to testify, or deal with her ex anymore,” Stabler commented, shrugging. Devon knew he was trying to lighten the mood, but she wasn’t in the mood to entertain him.

           “She didn’t want this; no one would. She’s going to need counselling. I’ve got a good shrink if she needs one,” she replied flatly, standing up from the interrogation table. “Is she still at Mercy?”

           Liv stood up with her, still looking concerned. “She is. But maybe you should go home for the night, get some good sleep…. Maybe get some counselling for yourself.”

           Devon scoffed. “I’m fine, Liv. Really, I’m just great,” she thought about it, though, felt the exhaustion wash over her. “Maybe I’ll swing by the hospital tomorrow, though. Just…just give Madelyn my card, okay?” She took her business card out of her back pocket, handing it to Olivia.

           “Of course. Need a ride?”

           “No, I—no. I’m fine. I’ll talk to you later, okay?” Devon replied, making her way towards the elevators. She stood in the back of the elevator as the doors closed, leaning against the cool, metal wall. She rested her head back, eyes closed. She was fine, she had to be. There was no other way she could be.

Office of Devon Motely

FBI Headquarters

Tuesday April 8th. 9:05am

           Devon stared at her computer screen, eyes unfocused. The FBI database was open, and she had files spread out over her desk. She had been researching a drug ring, looking up information on some lowlife front man, when her mind had wandered. She was acutely aware of her breathing; inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.

She shook herself, hands back on the keys, trying to focus on work. She typed in some key words, started reading the information that popped up. The man was in his 40s, balding, white. His rap sheet wasn’t extensive; petty burglary here, minor assaults there. He seemed to normally roll with a partner, one that seemed a little more aggressive. While the first man had a penchant for using a switchblade, his partner was fond of his .42 caliber pistol.

Instantly, Devon was back in Madelyn’s brownstone, staring down Nathan as he pointed a gun at her, taking aim. Devon jumped, blinking, and she was back in her office, gasping for air, heart hammering in her chest.

“You alright, Motely?” a voice asked from the doorway, making Devon jump again, knocking over her half-full cup of coffee onto the ground.

“Ah! Yes, sorry, sir!” she replied, recognizing her boss’s, Jenkins’, voice. She scrambled to grab paper towels out of her desk, dropping to her knees to clean up her coffee.

Jenkins watched as Devon cleaned the mess, the latter letting her hair fall in front of her face so that she didn’t have to see her boss’s face. “You know, for someone who is generally my best undercover agent, you’re not a very good liar.”

Devon’s hands stuttered as she threw away the wet paper towels, still not making eye contact. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sit,” he ordered, closing the door to the office behind him. Devon did as she was told, knowing where this was going. She wasn’t going down without a fight, though.

“I’m fine,” she said. She hated how her words sounded weaker than her mind wanted them to be. But she wasn’t going to lose this job; she loved it too much.

Jenkins came to stand in front of Devon’s desk. He stood in silence, waiting; he had the most patience in the world. Finally, Devon raised her head, looking him in the eye. Unlike with the SVU detectives, she didn’t find pity there; Jenkins learned a long time ago that people like Devon didn’t want pity. Instead she found resolve, strength, and just the tiniest bit of concern.

“Devon, you were almost killed yesterday. You stared down the barrel of a gun with no out, no plan. It’s okay to not be fine; in fact, it would honestly worry me if you were fine,” he said gently.

The sincerity, the rawness, of his words hit Devon more than she’d like to admit. But she couldn’t show weakness, especially not to Jenkins; he had given her everything, how could she show him that she wasn’t worth it?

“I’m serious; it’s fine. It’s not the first time I’ve been in a losing situation, I can still work, I can—”

“Stop, Dev. Just, stop,” he cut her off, placing his hands heavily on her shoulders. “It’s true that you’ve been in many life or death situations, but not like this. Something’s changed, and I want you to take some time off, go to the team’s psychiatrist.”

Devon felt a heaviness in her gut. Jenkins has ordered time off and a visit to the company’s shrink before, but this time was different. Like he said, something had changed, and that scared Devon more than anything. So, she fell back on her instinct; the instinct to not change, to stick with the familiar.

“How much time off?” she whispered meekly, eyes dropping to her desk.

Jenkins sighed heavily, pulling his hands back. “That depends on Dr. Tomlinson. She’s already expecting you.” Jenkins turned towards the door, slowly making his way out of her office. He stopped with his hand on the doorknob, saying without looking back, “emotions…fear is not a weakness, Motely. It’s an instinct; it’s what keeps us alive.” A pause. “Come and see me if you need someone to talk to.” And then he was gone.

Devon fought against the tears in her eyes, blinking them away before they could fall. He was right; of course, he was, he always was. But that didn’t mean that Devon was happy about it. It still felt like a weakness, how could it not be? Daydreaming, jumping at the slightest noise? Being unable to focus? How could that be anything be weakness? Letting out a huff, Devon gathered herself and left her office, stomping towards Dr. Tomlinson’s office, not mad that she had to go but angry with herself for needing the help.

Apartment of Devon Motely

Sunday, April 13th. 11:36am

Devon felt better already; she had the past week off, and was off for the foreseeable future, until Dr. Tomlinson said otherwise. But her daydreams, and her nightmares, were already starting to go away. She felt less shaky, more in control of herself. She still felt her heart race when she recounted Nathan aiming a gun at her—she actually stopped carrying her glock altogether during this week, as per requested from her shrink—but it was getting better. She had visited Dr. Tomlinson every day this past week, and she was confident that she’d be back to work in another week. Now, there was only one more thing to do today. Devon pulled out her phone, opening her group chat with Olivia and Stabler.

Hey, are you guys free for lunch today? It’s on me, she texted. It was the weekend, which didn’t always guarantee a day off, especially because Stabler was normally with his family when he wasn’t at work, but it was worth a shot.

Sure, but only if it’s that new sandwich shop, Olivia texted back almost immediately. Before Devon even finished reading her text, Stabler responded:

Can’t. My turn to watch Eli while Kathy shops

Have fun, daddy, Devon wrote back while smirking. She knew Stabler hated the nickname, which only made it funnier to Olivia and Devon. He reacted with a thumbs down while Olivia put a laughing emoji. Switching over to a one-on-one conversation, Devon and Liv arranged to meet in 20 minutes.

Riley’s Sandwiches

Sunday, April 13th. 12:15pm

“Thanks for meeting me,” Devon said by way of greeting, giving Olivia a hug. Liv pulled her in, squeezing gently, rubbing her back for a moment before pulling away.

“Of course. We hardly see each other as it is. How’re you holding up after last week?” she asked. Always straight to the point with her.

“Ah, better. I’m doing better.”

They both ordered, got their food, and sat down at a table. They talked about nothing for a little, just being comfortable around each other, like how they always were. But there was a tension there; the unspoken questions building up like a wall between them. It wasn’t until they had finished their sandwiches that Devon spoke up.

“There was a reason I asked you out to lunch…well, besides the fact that I like your company,” Devon started, smiling. “I, uh, I wanted to thank you…you know, after the whole Madelyn thing. I didn’t really get the chance to sincerely tell you how much I appreciated you helping me.”

Olivia waved her off. “That’s what friends are for. I know you’d do the same thing for me.”

“In a heartbeat. But still, it means a lot. I’ve been…off since. I’ve never been through…that. My therapist has been helping me a lot, but I still have a ways to go before I’m back to myself.” It was hard for Devon to admit, but she knew out of everyone she could talk to, Olivia understood; people react to trauma differently.

“What’s changed?” Liv asked, giving her a hard, yet concerned look.

Devon took her time thinking the question over. She thought through her emotions, her thoughts from the past week, the conversations with Dr. Tomlinson. “I’m still not entirely sure myself,” she admitted. “I think I just…it really hit me, ya know? That I could die right then, that that was it. That I wouldn’t go on to help anyone else.” She looked down at her hands. “Plus, I just…I wasn’t ready to die. I know that’s selfish and stupid and doesn’t really make sense, but—”

“It’s none of those things, Dev. I don’t think there’s many people who are ready to die,” Olivia reminded her.

“But I should be…shouldn’t I? I know that there’s a very high chance that I’ll die on the job, that I probably won’t retire. And that never really bothered me before. And I can’t figure out why it does now.”

Olivia sat in silence for so long that Devon eventually looked up, eyes watery. She looked like she was deep in thought, but as Devon watched, a realization formed, brightening her eyes. “Because you’ve finally found something worth living for.”

She said it so simply that Devon just sat there, blinking at her. The words wormed their way into her brain, taking a hold in her mind. She remembered being held at gunpoint, remembered her last thoughts. They were of Olivia. Stabler. Fin. Munch. Cragen. All the wonderful friends she had made at SVU. It really is that simple, isn’t it?

“How do you continue doing this job, then? Knowing that every time you walk out your door could be your last? That you’re letting your friends, your squad down?” Devon asked in a small voice. It was exhilarating—both relieving and horrifying—asking something so personal, something that told so much about herself as much as it did about Olivia.

“I don’t really think about it, to be honest,” Liv answered. “Besides, I know I wouldn’t be letting you guys down; I’d like to think you’d be proud of the person I was. Would you honestly be let down if you heard that I had died while on shift?”

“No, of course not!” Devon blurted out. Then she realized why Olivia had asked; she already knew the answer, but now, so did Devon. “I see. Thank you, Liv.”

She shot her a smile. “Anytime, Dev. You can always come to me if you need to talk.”

Just then, Devon got a text. She glanced down. “Ah, duty calls. Jenkins wants to see me.”

“Need a ride?”

“That would be lovely, thank you.”

 FBI Headquarters

Sunday, April 13th. 2:58pm

Devon was seated in a chair in front of Jenkins’s desk, Dr. Tomlinson in the chair to her right. Jenkins was behind the desk, hands steepled on the hard wood. His gaze flicked between the two of them before dropping to the file in front of him. Devon waited, knowing that he’d start at his own pace; there was no point trying to speed it up.

“Is Motely cleared to work?” Jenkins finally asked, dragging the question out, eyes pinning Dr. Tomlinson to her seat. But she was used to be under his hard gaze. She was undisturbed when she answered.

“Technically speaking, yes. But I’d wait. Give me another week with her.”

Devon hated that they talked about her like she wasn’t sitting right there, as if they were the adults and she was a child. But she held her tongue, keeping her face neutral. She thought about it; was she ready to go back to work? The talk with Olivia early had left her feeling lighter than she had all week. And she knew that she wanted to go back to work eventually. But was now the right time? Or was she trying to hide in an office?

As if sensing her indecision, Jenkins turned to her. “Are you ready to return to work?”

The question hung in the air between them. Their eyes locked, his steely grey eyes boring into her molten brown ones. He was searching for any kind of trepidation, of hesitancy. Of fear.

“Yes sir,” she replied, voice unwavering. How could she say no? It would be like quitting the Bureau right then. Eyes still locked with her boss, she felt Dr. Tomlinson shift uncomfortably next to her. Jenkins looked to the psychologist, dismissing her with a nod. Once the door closed behind her, Jenkins started in with the file on his desk.

“This is going to be a long UC op, Motely. But it will get you out of town for a little, maybe clear your head out of the city. A nice…change of scenery,” he started. Devon waited, saying nothing. He’d get to the main points soon enough. “You’re going to be a college student, attending the University of San Francisco. And you will also be a Madam, buying and exchanging young girls, working your way through pimps until you’re so well known, we round up the biggest players in the Golden State.”

The alias hit her like a punch to the gut; the city, the impending time that will be sunk into this, the shady shit she was going to have to do.  A million questions swirled in her mind, making her dizzy. But she opened her mouth, asking the most obvious question she could.

“When do I start?”

[ihavenoconsistentname]

Okay Tumblr people seem to know more about this than I ever will so can someone just aid me by looking at my list of whatever fucking symptoms I can identify here:

Literally 90% of my day I will be dissociating either mildly or heavily and it's mainly just derealization/depersonalization neither of which are distressing but they can actually cause physical discomfort sometimes

Often the dissociation also includes sort of blurred identity like I can't tell if I feel like Alex or Bee or if I even feel like I'm a person at all (again, not distressing for me personally, it's just weird but it happens so much that ive gotten used to it)

There's no "headspace" that can be imagined or seen or anything and I really can't see into my own mind. Bee and Eve just sort of sit there in my subconscious and I can interact with them through speaking and (I avoid using system terms without knowing if this turned out to be OSDD or something so bear with me here as I make a way around it) if it's one of those two that's sort of presented on the outside or as I kinda say 'in control' I have very mild influence over them and they can have mild influence over me, they can push their way past me and mainly it's Bee who does that, and say if Eve is happy we can feel her happy stimming

The only one really distinct is Eve, Bee is sort of like a more energetic younger version of myself but still feels entirely like a different person, whereas Eve is nothing like either of us

None of us have any real control over who's presenting and sometimes don't even realize or notice it changed, if we do it just feels like easing into a different I guess 'personality/identity' with dissociation but nothing like blacking out temporarily or something

Also, there's no distinction between who sees what, I have no idea what Eve sees or what Bee sees or if they even see something different or if they see the same things as I do. My brain can't even begin to try and figure that out

There's no dissociative amnesia when it comes to shifting to someone else, mild short term memory stuff probably is unrelated

I've mentioned a decent bit that previous research showed I probably have undiagnosed ADHD, I seem to exhibit the emotional and more extreme negative behavioral symptoms of it whereas Bee exhibits the more energetic behavior symptoms and cognitive symptoms

Bee also tends to push their way past me when there's an opportunity to indulge in a special interest or when we get proper stimulation like in ag class when we go out to the barn Bee gets very excited to see the cows or I can be doing something random Mrs Wels will start streaming and there's a very quick shift to Bee (because while I absolutely adore Mrs Wels, Bee is the one who really exhibits the feelings and stuff from hyperfixations/special interests)

It isn't even like feeling more energetic later in the day it entirely feels like I've turned into a different person. Bee does not feel the same as Alex and Alex does not feel the same as Bee, needless to say neither feel the same as Eve. Again, Eve is the most distinct/different, so between Alex and Bee it's like two states Alex can be in split into two different identities almost

Bee and Eve only have past memories that I tell them about or that I think about at the moment, otherwise they just draw a blank, but Bee has more than Eve does. That's just for the far past though

This isn't something that I've really noticed happening for a long time. It always felt sort of like I wasn't always the same person but I don't know how long that was, and I guess I only really started noticing it a lot some number of months ago. It's really hard to say because I have the worst memory ever and can hardly even remember what I was doing an hour ago.

Eve is like the personification of age regressing with stuffed animals for comfort after emotional drainage, Alex is just default settings, and like I said Bee is like the personification of being/feeling happy and childish and all that stuff. Eve isn't in a constant state of sadness or drainage or anything, she's often happy

Sometimes I can't even feel or hear the other two but it tends to be in the very early morning and late at night as if they're sleeping in my mind but any other time they're very much there (I can still feel them a bit but they just don't feel active in the slightest)

Sometimes there's physical effects that come with the other two—Bee is really fidgety and stims a LOT and also feels a bit shorter, Eve feels really sluggish and feels even shorter than Bee does

Bee also tics more (I have like. One single tic that's like an aggresive neck twitch and sometimes comes with a little noise but Bee seems to tic significantly more than I do)

Referring to myself in first person doesn't always feel right and sometimes third person doesn't either neither even feel correct so it's weird mainly just referring to me, Bee, and Eve altogether. Referring to them separately feels right sometimes saying Bee feels odd because that's what everyone calls me even when I don't feel like Bee or ig am just not Bee—but yeah

I don't know if that's everything there is to this for me probably not but I can't really identify a whole lot here

[ephemeral-afterlight]

Day 23: Bleeding Out

(Run from the masquerade.)

Whumptober 2019 Day 23: Bleeding Out

Word Count: 1661

Relationships: DLAMP (romantic)

Warnings: Stab wound, blood, knife, dissociation (? kinda), assassin, identity theft/false identities, morally grey Patton (Patton was conditioned and trained from childhood to be a killer, though not by choice)

A/N: sorry that this is late. i've lost my second source of wifi and am now on an unreliable schedule. please forgive me. anyway, i know someone wanted something patton-centric, so hopefully this is okay! i know it's not super whumpy, but i've been playing around with this idea for a while and thought it was interesting.

Who am I?

Words filter through Patton’s brain, drench themselves in an apathy far removed from expression of ideals. Breaks and cracks and trials and tribulations rip throughout his head, shake him to the core, and it’s like his train of thought has switched to a west-bound track at the very last second. Nothing seems to be tangible here, impalpable in the bleak, bleached whiteness of the room itself. Existing in an echo of itself, pictures hung in thin air as residual temperament of times past.

Where am I?

The blank space pushing a pressure on his mind shifts and morphs into something new, amalgams of amorphous nothings twisting and braiding strands of senses, whispering gold in artificial light. Walls rise up, looming and hollow, and Patton wants to hide inside a diamond box until the last bit of oxygen is expelled from his lungs. A roof closes over top, securely snapping into place as if it’s been there all along.

Am I alive?

Dreary greys arise from bleeding spots of discolouration in the new room, pooling out to coat a shade darker like a storm cloud just before it fades away. The attempt at colour is pathetic, and wholly a failure, and none of the words seem to stay in Patton’s brain anymore. There are magicians to tell him no, dancers leaping and twirling as they snatch up every bit of coherency Patton didn’t know he still had. They spin away, leaving him with nothing.

What happened?

A true question, valid and fair, but it doesn’t stop his mind from unconsciously raising a red alert that trails for miles long. The query is stolen away, bartered by thieves of the night for the tiniest splash of the colour magenta, and touching that dot of flat paint sends a shock through his system. The new colour shoots out from every fingertip, shades of red falling heavily over the room to muster shadows and highlights and shapes that are now clear enough to be recognized. A bookshelf, a couch, a table. Blurs of wine, marred by time, falling behind, undefined, stuck in line…

Am I awake?

Taken into consideration, broken and under construction in wavering hands that fall to his sides.

Am I asleep?

Movement blossoms underneath his skin, sparks and compels to bring his tired fingers to wrap around his stomach.

What is that?

A real shape, a real feeling, cylindrical rubber and plastic. It’s a handle, ridged and beaten-up and misshapen, malformed, and Patton grips it hard. Pulling at it is like agony, feeling despite the whims of the shallowly merciful, diluted promises to echo brightly in his head. Each word digs into him, digs deep enough to release his cyan blood, and along with the red comes blue and purple. Azure skies spill from his stomach, coat his hands and stick to his clothes, and the clouds are missing.

How did I get hurt?

The knife rests easily in Patton’s hands, forming to the curvature of his digits like a malleable putty slipping between with the viscosity of caramel. Happy accidents reset the logistics of nightmares, pertinent to the matter of when and where and how and why. The who is him, a stolen identity and a fake face, masked with indifference to the things he had to leave behind. Yellow shines through his chest, rays of light splitting him in half, and the full painting bursts into being.

Patton gasps in a choked breath of much-needed air, pupils blown wide in the dim light of the room he’s in. He shoots up from the concrete, the smell of garbage and petrichor wafting up from the alleyway he resides in. Rain splashes down all around him, filling the city’s atmosphere with a staticky, white noise to offset the far-off ambience of horns honking, vague lyrics, and the occasional police siren. The water soaks through his clothes easily, chills him to the bone in the cool night air, but that doesn’t matter because there’s a huge gash in his abdomen, and a bloodied knife discarded on the ground beside him. Hypothermia is the least of his problems right now.

The pain is acute, ripples deep through his flesh as nerves spark like fireworks under his skin. The wound leaves a bitterness in Patton’s heart, calls forth a litany of self-destructive, self-righteous, asinine introspection, things that usually would remain locked deep in the chasm at the back of Patton’s mind. It’s not as if he necessarily wants to die, but maybe it’d be easier to fall asleep here, lay in the flood and accept each pool of regret as they really are.

Maybe not.

After all, his boyfriends are waiting for him at home. The four of them know about Patton’s job and yet stay with him anyway, despite the danger it’s brought upon them all, something Patton regards with a bittersweet outlook. Yes, the show of sentiment is warming, unconditional love acting as a buffer between himself and his karma that he knows he doesn’t deserve, but it also makes them reckless, loyal to a fault. They will all die if they continue to be with him, something Patton has stressed to them multiple times, but the warning never seems to get through their heads.

Roman and Virgil are similar, in a lot of ways, despite how drastically opposing their personalities are. Virgil is unerringly cautious, finds it easy to betray the powerful under the motivation of bettering the masses, and is rebellious despite his paranoia-- it’s what drew Patton to him in the first place. Roman, on the other hand, prioritizes by not prioritizing at all-- every single person is born equally with the ability to do good or evil, and their path is a result of external factors rather than wholly internal. Setting aside his own wants isn’t losing, not really, because no matter what he chooses he will always find gratification, a trait that Patton does not share but respects anyway. Together, they tend to fight and clash, opposing ideals dancing around each other under a common drive and purpose. This overhang is what brings them together, in the end, as two who refuse to stand on the sidelines and let those who cannot fight for themselves be taken advantage of.

Logan is complicated, mainly because of the very nature that forces him down into commonality. He is inconspicuous in every sense of the word, prefers to work in the shadows rather than the limelight, and it’s this trait that allows him to sneak around those he’s manipulating like a puppet master. His intelligence is boundless, never held down by narrow perspective or innate complacency from where he stands as an individual in a society that constantly seeks to strip him of that title. He’s calculating, assesses every possible outcome before he makes a decision, which makes him extremely dangerous. Exactly the kind of person who would be very high up in the hierarchy in Patton’s line of work.

Ethan is the one out of the four of them that acts as an outlier, the one on the other side of the glass. He’s drastically different to the others, sharing very few commonalities, which made getting to know him much more interesting. Ethan is a coward, bravery having melted away long ago, as if it were never there to begin with, and maybe it wasn’t. He’s opinionated, and fierce, and protective, but when push comes to shove, he will hide in the shadows under an umbrella of regret to part the downpour. He means well, but his fear holds him back, leaves him susceptible to panic. However, this doesn’t mean he’s weak; he’s far from it. While Ethan may crack under direct pressure, when he’s allowed to operate in the flanks, fight by proxy, he’s unstoppable. A worldview untainted by inherent decharacterization pushes him far beyond the rest, an allowance of growth never wavering throughout any success he garners.

They’re all unique, special in how they deal with what the world throws at them, and it’s why Patton hasn’t just killed them all yet. The way he grew up, he was always taught to take advantage of anyone who can provide what he needs and then kill them off when he’s finished with them. Being an assassin means no baggage, not a single suitcase taken along, and shedding identities like the skin of a snake is just another part of Patton’s daily life. He can’t allow them to stay. It’s a terrible idea, leaves him with weaknesses if anyone ever found out. And yet he still refuses to give them up, like an idiot. A lovesick fool, just waiting for an enemy to take revenge and the lives of the ones he cares about.

Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? He does care, dreadfully, impossibly so, and it strips him of his advantages. That cold, detached front he’s worked for years to achieve is easily smashed to pieces any time Logan gives him a stress massage, or when Virgil gently holds his hand, or when Ethan curls up with him under a warm blanket, or when Roman gives him soft kisses early in the morning. There’s no way to be the sharp, clinical assassin known as The Heartbreaker while not confronting the fact that he’s also Patton Etienne (for now, at least), a weak, fun-loving secretary from a small town in Florida.

And when his boyfriends finally get sick of him, he will become Jace, an accountant from Manhattan, or the poor artist Kaden, or Mark, the neighbour from down the street. He will blend in like a chameleon for the express purpose of staying on the down-low, put on a new mask every day to get closer to his target, and then he will move onto the next victim and the higher payout. 

But right now, under cover of the night and the rain, Patton clutches his stab wound, struggles to his feet, and limps home.