#kind of about dissociation and not remembering any of the things that made you who you are

[friendofthecrows]

If there was something that could reach inside my memories, or back in time, seeing everything, even things I can't remember anymore, I know the first thing I'd do is look at statistics about my emotions.

Was it really that bad? How did I feel compared to a normal person? Was I weak and lying to myself?

I'd stare at my average feelings laid out on a bell curve, without the bias of what I remembered or remembered to write down in the moment. I'd try to make sense of it. I'd look at an arc of my emotions over time, I'd see myself spiraling downwards - or healing, whichever turns out to be true. I'd look at my low point, and maybe it wouldn't be the spring I lost my best friend. Maybe I made an altar to that suffering in my mind. Or maybe I would look and go, "I see, so I was right. At least I don't have to worry about finding a secret, worse rock bottom." And for joy, maybe the stereotype would be right, and my happiest memories would be in childhood, even though I remembered it sucking in retrospect. Maybe there would be the same baseline, for the most part, but with big spikes for my favorite moments. An especially chaotically fun sleepover with my ex-best friends, the first time I watched my old favorite show that I don't like any more, the concerts, probably the concerts.

Once I'd made sense of the numbers, graphs, and general trends, or had stared at them long enough to know that I had gotten my share of attempted understanding, I would want to see the memories.

There's too much to watch, 22 years of it, so I would ask, "What was my best day from each year? The day that I was happiest?" I would ask it for a summary of each and a short explanation of why it's the best, each totaling a couple of pages. Then I'd watch the best hour of each of the best days.

I would have to split the watching over the course of a few days, and I know that in-between, I would be thinking about it, wanting to immerse myself in happy memories again.

I would write a little story for each of the 22 days. Happy little stories that don't mean anything.

I would do the same for the worst memories, locked in reliving like a trauma flashback.

Then, I'd want to know which moments were most impactful. Which ones changed me the most and altered the course of my life. What if I was shaped by my worst moments, or what if they were all completely mundane? Why am I this person? (These people?)

When I had all 44 to 66 stories, I'd put them in order and read them through. Would it make a coherent story? I would look for themes and compare them to my favorite novels. I would treat the thing like an English class until I understood. I would be scared to find it devoid of merit. Maybe I would share it anyway in the hopes someone would understand me through it.

How much would it say about me, really?

It should say a lot, what my happiest and saddest and most important memories are. How much characterization happens if the moments of joy don't center on graduations or meeting my best friend, but instead on concerts or frenzied mornings of internet chaos? It would be important if the day my mom's boyfriend died, when I was four and didn't understand death yet, so I thought he'd abandoned us and I couldn't understand why, didn't make it into the worst moments, and they were instead occupied by mundane moments of misery, those days where nothing important has happened but your chest rips itself open regardless.

Earlier today, I'd had an idea for a short story. It was about the ghost of a dog trying to keep his still living owner from killing himself.

I wonder if I was really thinking of Nikki, the half wolf half akita that did most of the work of raising me when I was a small child. Many times, my mom has remarked that she thought she heard a dog, only to find the dogs accounted for in another room. Sometimes, people catch glimpses of silver fur out of the corner of their eye, but Nikki isn't there. When I was a child, I was convinced she was with me. I couldn't see or hear her, but I knew she was watching, and I would talk to her. I'd hold my hand out to my side and imagine her running her back under it like she used to, and I couldn't feel her, but I knew she was there. When I was little, I got myself through so many things by thinking that I wouldn't want to make Nikki sad. The dead wolf who raised me. I couldn't break her heart.

At some point, I stopped doing that. I can't remember when.

Would memories of her make it into the book of moments? Would I want to live or die if I relived my most defining moments? Would Nikki be there, trying to comfort me? I wish I could remember how it felt to bury my face in her fur and cry.

[shalotttower]

Fractalize (part 1)

Title: Fractalize

Fandom: Hunter x Hunter

Summary: Lack of hope creates a strange kind of numbness.

Word count: 3700+

Characters: Chrollo x Reader (female)

Notes: yandere Chrollo, kidnapped, depressed and miserable Reader, Reader is dissociating a lot, morbid pondering, suicidal thoughts, explicit/triggering language/words, Reader's thoughts on possible sexual assault in future. Part 2

Fractalize - making things into smaller copies of themselves over and over again.

Sometimes you stand in front of a mirror and try to picture yourself in another timeline. One where your life didn’t take this specific turn. You try to imagine a different setting, a different apartment - perhaps the one you had before Chrollo started moving you around like a luggage bag. Maybe living in a cottage by the sea or an old farmhouse. Someplace rural, peaceful. With a garden and fresh air, far away from the city noises.

It's difficult at first, your reflection keeps slipping through your mental fingers every time you think the image is set in place. But with practice it becomes easier, sort of, so you can now see yourself clearly as you brush your hair - not here.

A blue dress on, made for nights at parties with friends. Laughing until your stomach hurts and eyes become sore. Making silly faces over alcoholic beverages. Or you can wear your favourite jeans with a high waist and head out to the pub, the same one with crooked stools and a broken sign. Drink cheep bear, eat greasy peanuts from a little bowl, listen to some small band play unknown and unheard songs.

Leave intoxicated, and everything is too fast and vibrant and wonderful until you're back home.

It's your favourite pastime now: imagine, remake and slip.

Imagine. Remake. Slip.

You don't quite remember the last time you laughed, a month ago maybe. Maybe more. Lack of hope creates a strange kind of numbness, dull, cold, you would compare it to a winter plastered all over your insides, but it's almost colder than that. It freezes everything and turns it into icicles hanging off the roof.

Remake, slip.

You have new vocabulary now.

"Mm" - is for when he asks you if you like a dress or a top and it doesn't matter how you actually feel about it, because it's going to end up being worn anyway.

"Okay" - is for when Chrollo sets another fancy meal for you on a dinner table and "Eat, don't be shy".

"I'm not hungry" - doesn't work with him, even if it's the truth. You always eat what's put in front of you, that's the rule, because he's not above shoving the spoon into your mouth, so you spare yourself the tears and sobs that will probably come with that. It's so bizarre: how much effort he puts into keeping you alive when you're anything but.

"Whatever you want" - is for when he asks you something that requires a choice, between two or three options usually. He's not one for an extensive list.

"If you say so" - for everything else.

You used to delude yourself with the idea that if you managed to appear pleasant enough, pleasant-talking, pleasant-listening, smiling a bit here and there, it would gain you some privileges and perhaps a bit more freedom. It did. But never where it really mattered. Those little things were absolutely inconsequential in the grand scheme. Yes, you can have that sweater, dear. No, you can't have your own bed. Yes, you can come shopping with me, if you give me a kiss. No, you can't take walks without me holding your hand.

Yes this and no that.

Those moments were fragile and so very takeable that they didn't give you any sense of accomplishment, just a short respite and bitter aftertaste that made you feel pathetic.

Wasn't worth it.

***

"Do you like animals, dear?" Chrollo asks out of the blue one day. He's reading something on his tablet while you're curled up on the couch, watching TV.

It's a new series that's been on the major channels for a few weeks, a mystery drama about a girl who moves into a house she inherited from her grandfather. The picture provides a distraction enough to have you forgetting where you are for a brief period three times a week.

You pull the blanket higher. "I do."

He knows it.

The girl on the screen finds a mysterious box hidden in the attic. Perhaps there's something valuable inside. Or information about her grandpa; your fingers tug on a loose blanket thread without much thought.

"What kind?"

Or maybe it's just a time capsule with photos and postcards and random objects collected over the years.

Or-

You had a cat before he took you. A foster grey ragdoll with blue eyes who liked to rest on your belly and bump her head against your chin. You called her Miss Whiskerton and kissed her little nose, because she did act like a proper lady - poised, dignified and entirely too proud to eat food mixed with medicine. The worst enemy Miss Whiskerton has ever had in her cat life was the corner of your couch. When you weren't paying attention, she would dig her claws into the fabric and leave thin lines. You hope that someone took her in.

She probably thought you abandoned her.

"Cats."

Chrollo hums in acknowledgment and continues scrolling through whatever he's looking at - maybe news or auction listings, you don't know nor do you really care. You shift under the blanket, pulling your legs closer to your body.

"We can get one, if you'd like."

"No."

Your answer is immediate and short, without thinking. You know it, you know him by now - there's nothing Chrollo does out of spontaneous generosity, it always benefits him in some way. And you've studied him enough to figure that any pet would only be a tool to keep you tamed and compliant. Puppies make life better. Happier, lighter, with goofy smiling faces and wiggling tails. Cats make life better with soft purrs and paws stomping on your chest. They're too easy to love.

"Why not?" There's a sound of tablet set on a wooden surface.

The girl on the screen is trying to solve a combination lock on the box when the TV switches off and your little world of carefully shot scenes and scripted lines vanishes. You don't need to turn around to guess where's the remote.

She almost had it, but now you won't know what's inside until Thursday evening.

Your reflection stares back from the dead screen, blank-faced and with a blanket pulled up your nose. It tickles a bit. "Because I don't want one."

A chair creaks. "Why?"

You close your eyes shut for a moment before opening them again. This is tiring. Always probing, digging, pushing. Trying to find chinks in your armor, but all you're wearing is just a flimsy dress with thin straps and a blanket you wish could swallow you whole.

"Don't need it."

"You said you like animals," Chrollo sits next to you and places a hand on top of your covered legs. He squeezes your thigh and you stare ahead, wishing he would just leave you alone tonight.

"I do." Your fingers twitch under the blanket, nails scratching at the fabric.

Strange. Sometimes it feels like he understands perfectly that you want to be alone, have time for yourself and don't want his constant physical presence. At the same time Chrollo brushes this all aside like old tin foil wrappers - insignificant. He pulls the blanket down and you cling on it stubbornly for a few seconds before letting go. His thumb and index finger grasp your chin and turn your face towards him so you have no choice but to meet his eyes.

There's such still intensity within him that made your skin crawl whenever he looked at you with this much focus and attention. You don't know what he saw there most times, it used to be fear or anger or sadness - right now it's none of these things. Everything inside you feels jammed and stiff.

"We should get a fish then," he continues, brushing hair out of your forehead. "You can watch it swim around, wouldn't that be nice?"

Chrollo talks to you like this sometimes, as if you're a child who needs to be convinced to eat veggies or take medicine. Like you're simple-minded and he's reasoning with you out of good will. It's sickening. You hate it.

"I don't want a pet," you repeat the words slowly. "If you're going to give me something only to take it away, then I don't want it."

His finger leisurely stroking your chin pauses at the edge of your bottom lip. Something flickers behind his eyes, it's barely noticeable but you've become good at catching those minuscule shifts. He smiles, yet there's nothing joyful about it. "Take it away? Why would I do that, dear?"

"Because that's what you do. Because that's how you are." You don't try to pull free from his hold, he'll only tighten it; not enough to hurt, no, he is too suave and polished for that - or wants to appear so - but enough for you to feel trapped under his palm.

There's something off about you, you can tell, but are not quite able to discern what or where. It sits in the very structure of your bones and eats away with ravenous appetite. An imbalance in the gut. Fever-warm body, cold fingers. Thoughts like potholes.

"And how am I exactly, according to you?" His voice is light, playful, a stark contrast to his eyes that study you with unnerving precision. Chrollo rarely loses his temper and never gets violent with you (yet, you correct yourself), but he has other ways of expressing displeasure, and they're petty, ugly and cold.

"Cruel," the word rolls off your tongue so effortlessly that almost frightens you; it's easy to tell the truth when you're this numb.

He looks taken aback for a split second, and the smile freezes. His hand stops midway to your hair. Then everything's gone.

Chrollo releases you and leans back into the cushions, almost thoughtful, like your observation is something that requires careful consideration.

"I suppose, it depends," he says finally.

"On what?"

"On how you choose to see things. Your perspective is bound to be biased, dear."

You don't respond.

To continue this conversation would be pointless and circular, like running on a treadmill, like everything else between you and Chrollo, really. He simply has too many answers to any possible argument, and no matter how convincing you manage to make them sound, he'll poke holes into each one. You don't want a fish. Or a cat. Or a dog, a bird, anything that moves and breathes and looks at you with big, trusting eyes.

Chrollo is cruel. Not in a way that's straightforward and brutal. Not in a way of someone who'd tear your limbs apart or rip off a fly's wing to see it wiggle. You have no doubt that he is capable of such a thing, but that would be uncouth. Cruelty in his case is a quieter, more delicate affair - in a way of a sculptor who'd chisel off everything unnecessary and unneeded, no matter the size or significance, to produce something entirely his.

His hands are soft, his voice is always composed, and he wears well tailored clothes. But the rest is sharp, clean and merciless.

"I think I'll go to bed," you say and push away the blanket.

"It's early."

"Mm."

He takes your hand just as you're about to slide off the sofa. Chrollo's always faster than you, always ahead and always observing, and that little realization while bitter is not so shocking anymore, more like another fact that you file away from your interactions.

You watch him. Wait.

"You're distraught," he says. "But you should know by now that there's no need for that."

Your hand remains in his grasp, limp and heavy.

"I don't enjoy seeing you upset, dear. Even more if you make false conclusions."

You turn to see the expression on his face - and there isn't one, at least not the type that most people would make. There are no frowning eyebrows, no clenched jaw that would indicate irritation, nothing like that.

"You're giving me too little credit," his tone is quiet as he runs his fingers up and down your wrist. "My intentions are not to hurt you. They are much, much sweeter than that."

"But you would," you say quietly and lean closer, ignoring the obvious implication behind his words. There is a hollow sensation inside of your head that prompts you to speak, everything is hollow - body and mind, heart, the space in your guts, your throat. "You would hurt me, if that's what you thought was necessary. Rip me apart and leave me deformed beyond repair, to fit into whatever framework you've laid, you would do that."

You're not being deliberately cryptic or fatalistic. These are your observations, based on a period of months spent together. They take root in no one being there for you anymore, in your phone which is long gone, in your closed accounts, your missing laptop and old clothes, the entire previous life in the city that has been discarded for something new. Chrollo was very methodical, you can give him that.

He doesn't listen, he studies your responses. Every single word. He has a talent for that, for absorbing everything about you while hardly ever letting you glimpse his interior - all that you know about him are tiny slivers which you picked up through living together, observation, accidental bits.

You expect him to contradict your statement, to offer a logical explanation why you're wrong, but instead Chrollo brings your hand to his lips and presses a kiss against your knuckles. The touch is light and dry.

"You're not entirely wrong, dear," he says and moves closer until you can smell his aftershave, something fresh.

His proximity is uncomfortable, it always is and probably always will be.

"I'm right then," you say.

"No," he keeps your hand in his grasp. "But you're not entirely wrong either. That's what makes you interesting."

There's a strange kind of fondness in his voice, it's subtle, yet undeniably present. You've never felt less interesting in your life, in a dress with thin straps that's too fancy for a lazy day at home and your bare feet and tangled hair.

"If you say so," you respond and slowly tug your hand free. "I really want to sleep now."

You get up, and he lets you go without another proposition. The blanket falls off onto the sofa, and before you slip into the semi-darkness of the bedroom, he says,

"Not beyond repair. But I like to believe we can both agree it doesn't have to come to that."

***

The drive feels endless. Houses and streets blur in a mix of colors, shapes and people, which soon change to an empty highway with greenery on both sides. Trees and fields, tall grass swaying gently in the wind and rare cars passing you by. Chrollo's hand is resting on your leg; he hasn't moved it since the car started, but you choose to ignore it in favor of your regular pastime, the one that's made of imaginary worlds and places where the timeline stretches differently.

Mostly it's just you and the layout of your fake apartment.

Imagine, remake, slip. Repeat the steps until it becomes muscle memory.

You have this daydream on loop now. Wooden floor and wide windows, lots of sunlight. Books everywhere, comfy clothes and not a single skirt in your closet. A cup of tea with honey in the morning, and Miss Whiskerton curled into a soft grey ball on your lap. You feed her salmon in a shiny bowl, occasionally she catches a lizard outside and drops the tail on your doorstep as an offering, looking immensely proud of herself.

A smile slips on your face without meaning to, a wobbly thing; you promptly wipe it off.

It would be a crime to show such blatant joy. This fantasy has become so sweetly personal that every fiber of your being resists even acknowledging it in front of Chrollo. He can sense a stray happy thought from miles away, like a hound, and will never stop prodding until everything is raw and tender. You've learned to say less in his presence, especially if it's something that has you invested. Chrollo knows how to pick things apart.

You lean your cheek against the glass. This world would never happen, never in a million years, but dreaming doesn't hurt anyone, does it?

Your grandma, wearing an apron, sets a tray filled with fresh pastries on a table, because she's amazing like that. She fusses and worries and pretends to scold you. For not calling enough, for not coming sooner, for not eating well. For leaving.

"Dear."

You almost jump.

Chrollo's voice brings you back where his hand is heavy on your leg, you're wearing a dress above the knee and aren't allowed to use scissors or knives.

"Mm?"

"That frown of yours," he says, turning into a small road. The surroundings change again, it's quiet here, not a soul in sight. "It's been there for fifteen minutes now."

You sit up straight and move your hair out of your eyes. Chrollo's a perceptive one, so this is a reminder not to sink too deep around him, unless you absolutely need it.

"Was just thinking."

"You do it a lot lately," he states and looks at you from the corner of his eye.

True, but you have no intention to confirm it. First, he won't like the reason behind these thoughts. Second, he will dig and try to worm his way in. No. Most of what you've been fixating on, staring out of the window like a mindless drone, or reading and rereading pages that you barely grasped, would fail to create anything more complex in his heart than desire to pull it out.

For whatever twisted reason, Chrollo cares for your well-being, or, more precisely, your acceptance of his advances. Yet his way of caring isn't nurturing in any sense.

Chrollo's interest (you don't dare call it love) is crushing, too heavy to carry - he'll find what troubles you and "fix it" in way that will twist it into something pathetic. Something that shows how you have nothing else to cling on but him. You're not stupid enough to keep falling into this trap. Being a slow learner doesn't mean you don't learn at all.

He's done it before. He'll do it again. So you reply, "I haven't noticed."

His thumb rubs circles on your thigh; you press your shoulder against the car door as if hoping it might open. It doesn't, much to your disappointment.

"What was on your mind then?"

Something you shouldn't tell him, that's for sure. Chrollo's watching you, even if his eyes are trained on the road.

"Random stuff," you say. Half-truths, half-truths are safe. "A weird dream I had this morning."

If you bothered to look, you'd see a raised eyebrow and the faintest hint of amusement at the corners of his mouth. You don't.

"Tell me."

You hate when he does that.

"It was boring."

"I'm interested in anything that made you so pensive."

Chrollo likes conversations with you, even if they're short. You can tell that he does, or he wouldn't be trying to make you talk and getting subtly frustrated when you choose not to. It never shows outright, Chrollo is very gifted at keeping his calm exterior, but there are certain giveaways like the slight tightening of his hand, an emphasized "dear", a pause here, or a quiet exhale through the nose. You could make a list out of these.

If you ignore him, he gets quiet and handsy or petty enough to throw away the only dress you feel comfortable in. Stop bringing you new books. Take you to places you hate.

It's always the small things that kill you, not the big, dramatic ones. The devils in the details.

"There was a lizard," you begin, and he hums in response, prompting you to continue. "It was cute with brown spots and a tiny tail."

Lies weave themselves easily, intertwine with truths and turn it into something that resembles a story.

"It was sitting on my windowsill and I wanted to pet it. A cat came out of nowhere and almost ate it, then I woke up. It's a silly dream."

There. Nothing to dissect here, not that you can see. Just a nonsensical dream, filled with random happenings and strange emotions.

"And that's why you frowned for fifteen minutes?"

"Yes, I got sad."

Yes, you think. Yes, Chrollo. I frowned, because I care for the damn lizard that doesn't exist, an animal from a dream. A stupid musing, nothing special, a very mundane and simple thing, because people do have silly dreams sometimes, and it's not a crime. It's not a crime and has nothing to do with that fact that I have a whole dream world where I'm not with you in my head.

"How peculiar. You never struck me as the type to get upset over something like this."

"You never asked," you respond flatly and Chrollo's hand on your thigh moves an inch.

It brushes up, closer to where you really, really don't want it to be, so you squeeze his fingers hard and redirect them to the curve of your knee.

"True," he says after a pause, not sounding too bothered. A month ago you would've brushed his hand off completely, probably that's why. Chrollo is convinced that with enough patience and effort he'll be able to close that final barrier between you both. Time, coaxing, a dose or two of endearment, some carefully calculated touch - but you'd rather stick a knife through your ribs than have sex with him. Or his patience will simply run out and he'll rape you. You're not delusional. Not a fool. "Well, that can be fixed. I'll make sure to ask about your dreams more often, dear."

You lean back into the seat and stare ahead, this time without anything pleasant on your mind. Of course he will. Of course he'll take this as a sign to dig deeper and invade that small bit of solace, Chrollo can't simply co-exist. He wants it all.

"Mm," you say.

Your new vocabulary is such a handy thing.

[stvrni0lo]

𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐬𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐦

nick sturniolo x platonic!reader (fluff)

summary: nick is there to support you for your first concert, and shows his appreciation for you as you come off stage

warnings/notes: none! lmk if i missed anything

requested?: yes! this is the cutest thing ever tysm

a/n: this is sort of short because i wasn’t quite sure where to go with it. but to the anon who requested it, i hope you like it!!!

> > >

For as long as you could remember, you’ve been in love with everything to do with music.

You admired many different musicians throughout your life, whether it be singers, guitarists, pianists - it didn’t matter. You appreciated all kinds of music, and you were passionate about singing especially. It felt like an art form to you.

So when the day came that your music career began to take off, life began to feel like a fever dream.

You were in awe that people enjoyed your music, and even more in shock when you got the opportunity to perform it live. Who ever thought that people would pay to listen to you sing?

The moments leading up to it were nerve wracking, but Nick was there to help you every step of the way. Him and his brothers had backstage passes, so they watched you from the sidelines, cheering you on in sync with the audience.

“You’ll do great. I’ll be right here when you’re back,” he said as you took a few deep breaths.

“Give ‘em hell!” yelled Chris as you made your way on stage.

Now as your set finished, you felt like you were dissociating - nothing felt real. The cheers and flashing lights, all of it, felt like a dream.

Stumbling off stage, you were met with several pairs of arms. Chris and Matt pulled away after a few moments, but Nick picked you up and spun you around.

“Are you kidding!? I can’t believe you were nervous - that was amazing!” he said as he set you back down.

“Any more spins and I would’ve thrown up all over your back,” you said, placing your hands on your knees.

Your nerves were on their comedown now, but the adrenaline still pumped in your veins. You were riled up and it was hard to set your breathing to a steady pace.

Nick rubbed your back as you steadied your breath. He always knew how to calm you down when you needed it. The rhythm of his hands against your spine helped you come back to reality, and you began to laugh excitedly.

Rising up, you looked at him in disbelief.

“I just did that!”

“Yeah you did! I’m so proud of you - I felt like an excited mom the whole time,” he laughed out.

Chris and Matt pulled their phones out to show you the videos and photos they took, including the ones they posted to promote your music.

Nick could be heard in the back of one of them, yelling out a ‘that’s my best friend!’ as the camera panned to him and displayed his huge grin while he watched you.

“I better be coming to the next one,” said Chris as he ruffled your hair. Slapping his hand away jokingly, you smiled.

“Yeah, yeah,” you said. “Seriously though, thanks for being here guys.”

“Don’t thank us yet,” said Matt.

Confused, you looked at him. Before you could ask what he meant, Nick pulled out a floral gift bag and handed it to you.

“It’s not much but we thought you’d like it,” said Nick.

Inside was a t-shirt that they had gotten printed. It was your first album cover plastered on a white shirt, and their names were signed at the bottom. Matt handed you a marker, urging you to add your name to the signatures.

“It’ll be a good memory for when you’re too famous to remember us,” joked Matt.

Rolling your eyes at him, you slapped his shoulder lightly.

“Oh, stop! I could never leave you guys behind.”

And it was true. They had been there for you every step of the way to support you. Whether you needed help with paperwork, or driving you to your recording studio, they were there. You even remembered some nights where they stayed up with you until ungodly hours of the night to help you finish a song.

Popping the pen cap off, you leaned the fabric against a table and signed your name. If it wasn’t for all the excitement you could’ve cried.

“This is awesome. Thank you,” you said as you stared at the shirt, tears prickling your eyes.

“No crying yet! We still have to go celebrate,” said Nick as he shook your shoulder gently.

You furrowed your brows. Nothing about a celebration was discussed beforehand - but knowing them they definitely had other surprises in store for you.

Linking his arm with yours, he began to walk with you, telling you all about how he invited your other friends to go for dinner tonight. It still shocked you sometimes how well he knew you. You wouldn’t want to spend this day any other way - with people who love and care for you.

None of this would’ve been possible if it weren’t for your best friend and his amazingly helpful family. You owed it all to them.

[amywritesthings]

SILVER UNDERGROUND / deleted scene 04.

levi's pov #2. :: a deleted scene from flashback two. this is levi's pov of recruiting james to the gang.

happy silver underground friday! thank you for your patience as i write up ch20. i know many of you requested more levi pov content, so i give to you the initial recruitment (levi's version). this is unedited. 3.5k words / mentions of violence, angst, language, pining. :: please remember: this is additional deleted content, not tied to the current canon of the story.

Three years pass and she still won’t leave his goddamn brain.

The girl with the stale bread.

The girl with the kindness that’ll get her killed down here.

Maybe you're not even that kind — he��s seen how ferociously you take down kids double your size when he’s passing by with Furlan, keeping tabs that you’re still breathing week to week.

Not long after the one and only fight he’s had with you, Kenny disappeared. The son of bitch gave some shitty excuse — something about teaching him all he could — leaving Levi Ackerman in a deathly quiet room for the second time in his life.

Just happened to be alone this time, that’s all.

He almost came to you then, but thought better of it. Getting mixed up in that bitch’s affairs, the one you call Mother, wouldn’t do him any favors.

Maybe she’d up and ditch you the way Kenny ditched him.

Maybe fate would have it—

No.

Dreaming’s a waste of time.

He should keep his distance.

He should never try to speak to you—

“Hello?” 

Furlan waves a hand in front of his face, waking Levi from a dissociative state. His steel gray eyes flicker up to the other boy, expressionless.

“I’m listening,” he curtly replies.

“No you weren’t,” Furlan mumbles, before flopping down into a rickety wooden chair.

This house isn’t much, but it’s home. Better than living on the streets, that’s for damn sure. Somehow him and this kid made enough money to get by and then some — but that’s probably because they’ve found the literal Underground City jackpot.

Two idiot MPs from the surface.

Two sets of Omni-directional Mobility Gear.

(The steal would be much easier than others think. Making the story sound impossible meant other thugs in the area wouldn’t ever try their hand at it.)

Crime’s a hell of a lot easier when you can fly.

Only problem now is that the jobs — and subsequently the money — are harder to come by. Furlan’s insistent on expanding. Levi has no interest in banking on trust beyond Furlan.

Until that idea hit him like a static shock—

All when he realized you were still fighting.

Still, after all these years.

“If you’re still trying to convince me,” Levi boredly starts, “then I might have a name to throw in the ring.”

Furlan perks in his chair, scooting closer. “Well, damn, you coulda said it earlier.”

“I just think you won’t like who I suggest.”

“Huh? Why? One of our guys—”

“No,” Levi cuts off. “Not one of the shitheads we split scraps with. I’m talking about a third.”

“A third… in command?” Furlan slowly inquires. Levi nods once. “So who is it?”

“A girl I knew once,” the dark-haired boy suggests, arms crossed over her chest. When Furlan squints, he continues. “She’s in the fighting rings. Goes by James.”

“She’s a kid?”

“No. Knew her when she was, but now she’s in the adult circuits.”

“So how old is she?”

“Maybe fifteen? Fourteen?” Levi supplies. “Our age.”

“Huh.” Furlan pauses. “And you… think she’d be good? Like how good?’

“Probably the best option we have.”

“Levi Ackerman talking highly about someone else… now that doesn’t happen every day.”

Levi squints in annoyance. 

“Are you cool with me asking her, or not?”

Furlan makes a face. “Well— here’s the thing. If we just add her, chances are the guys we kinda fumble the numbers with will get jealous. We’d probably need to initiate her.”

Levi doesn’t mean to, but he glares right back. Furlan must realize right away that his partner is a fan of the idea — a reaction he’s never offered.

“Five people aren’t jumping her, Furlan,” Levi insists in a bite.

“I— three?”

Three.

He’s seen you take down people double your size and weight. He’s watched you put popular contenders on their backs in seconds. The kids they hire are just that — kids. 

As much as he doesn’t want to agree to it, there has to be a compromise.

You can handle five.

You can certainly handle three.

“Fine,” Levi murmurs. “Three. She has a fight tomorrow.”

“Damn, you’ve been scouting this one?”

Something like that.

.

.

.

.

.

And just as he suspected, you knock them square on their asses.

Truth be told, it’s an unfair fight.

Levi stakes his claim at the corner, in the shadows, and watches the beat down in real time. All goons looking to show off like they know what the hell they’re up against.

They don’t.

Levi does.

When you scramble down the alleyway to get to safety, he takes off into a casual stroll. Taps an unconscious moron or two in the head to make sure they’re seriously out.

(They’re out, alright. Like a snuffed light.)

And when Levi finally catches up to you, you’re swallowed whole by shadow. Your hands are assessing each part of your torso — smart — while your breath exits in a controlled wheeze.

He’s sorry.

He really is, for once.

“You look like shit,” he comments, watching you rip your gaze from your scratched hands towards his voice.

Like a feral, scared animal you watch him.

Blinking once. 

Blinking twice, three times, as if you’re trying to figure out who the hell he is.

Levi knows it’s not from the injuries. You were smart and protected your head as much as possible. He was banking on quick precision from your technique.

“Mind your fucking business,” you snap back at him, and he has to bite his tongue to keep from smiling ear to ear.

(So that’s what you sound like.)

“How bad did they get you?” he casually asks, stepping forward with a boot.

You blink several times once again.

Yeah, you recognize him.

Just like he recognizes you.

“Why do you care?” you hiss, pushing away from the brick wall.

Levi stops moving to give you space. “I don’t.”

(But, fuck, he does. He really does.)

Breathe through the pain all you want, he catches the way you wrap your arm around your abdomen as if he’s going to try and take you on at your weakest.

Maybe those bastards did get a good hit or two in.

“I guess the answer is bad enough.”

“Fuck off.”

“Sure.”

Except he doesn’t want to.

If you let him, then he’ll stay.

“You can leave, you know,” you tell him, and he draws in a slow inhale. “I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, you’ll be fine so long as those shitheads don’t get up.”

Your head whips behind you to see the alley as if Levi’s spotted anyone. 

No, they’re not actually coming. 

In fact, you knocked them out so thoroughly that it’s a little bit funny.

Then you turn, and his stomach clenches. “I can’t believe you’re still alive.”

“I get that a—”

“Whoa.”

His heart seizes when you stumble. Immediately he shoots to the other end of the wall, ignoring the hand that shoots out to stop him.

“Hold on. What the hell are you doing?” Your nostrils flare. “I said I’m fine.”

Damn it, James. Don’t be proud right now.

“Yeah, and I”m six-foot fucking three.”

And he steps closer.

Closer.

Until the expanse of his chest hovers right at your palm.

Well — you aren’t trying to beat the shit out of him. That’s a plus.

You really do remember me, that sad sack of shit you were nice to.

“Roxy’s is close,” Levi slowly states, hoping you’ll connect what he’s thinking about. That you’ll get to where he’s trying to go with this before he has to spell it out.

“I know.”

“They have back rooms with supplies.”

“I know.”

“So why not go?” he grunts, very much over the bravado he’s very much guilty of himself. “C’mon, dumbass.”

You squeak, but it’s too late — Levi breaks that illusion of distance with a smack of your outstretched hand so he can get to the part he’s been agonizing over all day.

Helping you.

Because he sure as hell isn’t going to let you go through this alone.

(Not when he’s practiced this pitch for a week straight.)

You don’t push him away when he touches you. Hell, you just stare — Levi’s worried he has something in his goddamn teeth.

Then you ask. “Why?”

Surely you know.

Surely by now, you must know the why of this.

Because I owe you.

Because you have left my fucking brain since the day you asked my name.

Levi answers. “Because.”

Cautious with every step, Levi lets you call the pace. You’re surprisingly mobile all things considered, and he just acts as your anchor as you make your way through the winding rounds of the Underground City.

“You have a key?”

He has to force himself not to snort. “No.”

The staff at Roxy’s will forgive him.

Or not — he doesn’t give a shit.

Gingerly placing you against the wall, he musters up the energy to use the strength of his short but mighty legs. Levi kicks the wooden door with gusto, waiting a moment for the noise to dissipate, before grabbing you again to continue on.

Eventually he places you on a nearby chair and brushes off his hands, coated with sweat.

What the hell, Ackerman? Get your shit together. Now’s not the time to get nervous.

Especially over you.

God, not when he’s almost got you.

You’re too busy staring at the disjointed door to notice his expression soften when he’s staring at your face.

It’s so… pretty.

Why is it—

Wait.

“Oi.”

He snaps, and you blink and turn your chin back to him. All the air whooshes clear from his lungs. 

You’re worried. He can tell. 

“Eyes on me. They aren’t coming.”

“What makes you so sure?”

(God, he’s such an asshole.)

Choosing to ignore the question, Levi keeps himself busy by searching the cabinets in the room for the med packs he knows they keep here. Way too many wayward souls pass through. They always got some—

Ah.

There.

Turning on a heel, he eagerly brings the med kit and unfurls it, holding it to you.

You stare back, not moving.

(You don’t have a concussion, do you?!)

“What do you want me to—”

“Hold it, idiot,” he snips in his own minor panic. “I can’t do everything.”

Please let me fix my own mistakes, James.

Your hands uncurl like a clam, waiting for the med kit. Levi carefully places it in your hands and takes what he needs.

“I don’t understand,” you murmur. “Why are you doing this?”

Taking a cloth, he douses it with antiseptic and presses it ever so gently on your skin. 

You don’t even flinch.

“Levi.”

Time freezes.

His gray eyes meet yours, and suddenly he forgets to breathe.

You remember.

He never told you, but —

He’s pretty sure Kenny may have said it back at this godforsaken fucking bar.

Should he tell you he remembers you, too?

(You never told him your name. He’ll show all of his cards in one fell swoop.)

“Does it matter?” he gruffly responds, pressing the cloth to your cheek.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s harder to help than to ignore.”

“Kind of like giving bread to a strange kid, right?” 

Shit.

Levi blurts before he can take it back.

This wasn’t how he thought this would go.

Banter here and there, maybe, but—

“I don’t know,” you finally answer. “I’m not a saint for giving you food.”

Of course you’re not.

Saint James, the patron deity that hasn’t left his mind since.

Levi’s nostrils flare as he dips lower, too afraid to touch your torso. “I could have killed you — broken?”

“Bruised,” you reply. “I’ve felt broken before.”

“Positive?” 

“Yes. And I was trying to kill you back then, too. It wasn’t our fault.”

Were you?

Trying to kill him?

Makes sense, with how hard you went at him. It was the only match he felt nervous in.

“I wasn’t trying to,” Levi woefully answers.

“But you could have.”

His fingers pause for a fraction of a second. “Yeah,” he laments. “I could have.”

Just like tonight.

And just like every night after this, if you tell him yes to his bullshit plans.

“I thought maybe something happened to you,” you begin. “I never saw you on the circuit again, so I thought—”

“That was the first and only time I fought in that nasty shit.”

He pushes back his own fears and tips your chin upward. You easily obey.

“...so you weren't sold into it?”

Shit, was she? Too preoccupied by the feeling of how soft your skin is, Levi shakes his head.

“I was your only fight?”

“Technically,” he says.

“So then why were you—”

“Practice, in case I ever met someone who needed to kill me for quick cash.”

“That's a morbid reason. You were just a kid.”

“So were you, but for some reason you’re still in it.”

Gritting his teeth, he knows his temper is getting the best of him. It’s better to stay neutral in these types of talks but you… you’re so nonchalant about something so dire.

You could die.

Hell, he’s spent week after week hoping to hear your name so he’d hear you’re still alive.

Choosing to let that go, he drops his hands away from your face and flexes his fingers.

“Good news: you look like shit, but you’re not in deep shit. I can’t do anything about your ribs, but your face should be fine. You have a bad habit of leaning into your hits.”

It’s true. It’s like she likes getting hurt, as if it fuels her own rage.

A strategy, sure, but a shit one at that.

“Excuse me?” you growl. “What do you mean, I have a bad habit?”

Levi can’t help but give you a look. “Did those shitheads make you hard of hearing, too?”

“No, shithead," you mock right back and it’s actually… impressive. You keep up. It does something weird and unenjoyable to his stomach. “I don't lean into them."

“Yes, you do.”

“What, so you’ve watched my fights?”

Ah, shit.

Found out, yet again.

(Great job, Ackerman.)

“I watch fights. Not just yours,” Levi quickly retorts. “You're not special, so get your head out of your ass.”

“Oh fuck you, man.”

Damn, you really do speak his language.

Don’t smile, don’t smile, don’t—

And you don’t give up, either. “Leaning into them makes an opponent feel like they have the upper hand. Let them hit, then you strike.”

“It’s a shit strategy.”

“I’m smaller than a lot of my opponents.”

“So?"

“So? Coming out to a fight like you own the place puts a target on your back.”

Right.

Self-preservation, a tactic often used by the pimps who bring these poor kids to the rings. It’s a loophole to make sure your fighters don’t know their own worth so they can’t wail on you.

Kenny told him that.

Levi wishes he could have told her, too.

“Did your Mom teach you that?” he flatly responds.

Your nostrils flare. “Maybe she did, but your Dad sure as hell forgot to teach you manners.”

He snaps faster than he means to. “He wasn’t my father.” 

A beat passes, and his shoulders slump. 

“And you’re a better fighter than that,” he softens, exasperated. “Making yourself look weak is a shitty strategy for someone who can't land a punch, let alone someone who can. You take the punches because you damn well know you're better than every opponent they match you with. If you didn’t play the theatrics, then those idiots would all be dead in minutes.”

When you don’t spit in his face, he gently takes a step forward. Then another.

“I met you three years ago. I thought by now you would've found a way out." 

But you need help. 

This is his return payment. This is all he can offer in this shitstain of a city.

“Do you want out?” Your eyes widen, like he’s told you he’s secretly the king of the Walls. His tongue gently darts between his dried lips. “...if I had a way to get you out, would you take it?”

“...I don’t have a way out.”

“You do.”

“I don’t,” you croak, and it breaks his heart. “I’ve tried. You know people in the circuits—”

“You have a way out."

“Levi—”

“James.”

In defeat, he calls to you — your name, that name everyone else calls you.

All of his cards are on the table.

He can’t take this back. 

“This isn’t a charity hand out. We need a fighter.”

“Who the hell is we?”

“Furlan Church and myself.”

“Furlan fucking Church? That’s where you ended up after all this time, with that idiot?”

Levi blinks.

(Wait, what’s wrong with Furlan?)

Nevermind — he’ll ask later. He has a mission here.

“If you stay in the circuits, then you will die,” Levi finally states. “That bitch has been trying to put you in the ground for years. Do you really want her to win?”

Please say no.

Please listen to me.

Except you stagger backwards, and he’s terrified that somehow he’s botched this pitch. That somehow you wouldn’t be interested in a team—

“Wait — did you send those guys after me?”

Oh.

Shit.

“The three in the alleyway,” you continue. “They attacked me after the fight. It was really convenient of you to find me in the nick of time. So was that one of his initiation stunts?”

He wants to swear he was going to tell you, but that would sound like a cheap lie.

He wants to promise this wasn’t what he wanted, but that would sound like a patronizing lie.

“Dirty trick,” you growl and turn away, and worries seizes his heart.

“We need muscle for our next heist,” he quickly states, firming up his voice. “You would get a cut. You would have a permanent place to sleep. You would have routine meals, day and night."

You don’t turn to him. “I’d be selling myself for one contract to another.”

Levi shakes his head wildly, but you don’t see it. “You're free to leave whenever you want. If this doesn't work out in a week? Fine, then you can go. But if you do this, then you would never have to see that woman’s face again.”

“She’d find me.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” he swears.

No, he wants to say. I’ll burn this city to the ground if she so much as tries it. I owe you.

“You would be protected with me.” 

But it isn’t just him.

You had a visceral reaction about Furlan. He has to be honest.

"With us."

Finally you turn back to him, and he’s woefully hopeful once more.

“Levi…”

The way you say his name…

Shit, he could hear you say his name like that every hour of every goddamn day if you’d just say yes to this deal he’s offering.

"You'll be paid,” he adds.

"I don't give a shit about pay,” you retort. “I have no money to my name as it is. Your... proposition just sounds too good to be true, that's all."

He needs more incentive.

He needs you to say yes.

"What do you need to be convinced?” he pleads, but it comes out monotone. “We sent our three best brawn and you cleared them in minutes. You can see why we'd want you."

"And if I say no?"

Fear seizes every cell of his body. You stare at him like he’s the enemy.

“Are you two going to keep sending people after me?”

(Would he finally stop searching for you?)

Swallowing, Levi knows he cannot keep you.

He barely knows you.

He just has a feeling he needs to.

“No,” he promises. “I'd let you live your life. This isn't an intimidation tactic. You would never hear from me again.”

And he means it.

He’ll give you anything for nothing.

It’s some kind of sickness he hasn’t quite recovered from since he was small.

Something about you has just infected his veins faster than the plague.

You turn your gaze to the door, and his face falls.

What can he do?

How can he convince you?

Your name exits his mouth in a fractured plea. “James—”

“I’m in.” 

Wait.

Did he hear that right?

You turn back to him with determination, chin lifted and shoulders squared. 

He can’t help but stare at you with a mixture of relief and admiration. 

Levi wonders if you notice. If you know, just how much you’ve been on his mind.

“I’m in,” you repeat. “I’ll go where you go.”

(And we'll never look back.)

[gold-rhine]

sub!Diluc x Dom! gn! reader

Warnings: very much not safe for w, edging, overstimulation, praise kink, minors get out of here. But also, some unabashed fluff. Yes, it contains multitudes.

words: 3,2k.

A\n: repost since my previous blog got shadowbanned

Listen, i know everyone hcs Diluc as a dom. And he can be a very nice service dom, but I’m here to convince you that sub!Diluc is actually not OOC.

First of all, he’s more repressed than a catholic nun. Diluc is like on six levels of dissociation at any given moment. He sees his body as a flesh suit he’s piloting that requires an inconvenient maintenance like sleep, food and occasional sexual release. He’ll jerk off by himself like it’s a chore.

Diluc is so touch starved it’s ridiculous, and *he doesn’t even know it*, that’s how much he’s disconnected from his needs.

And like. Helping ppl like that discover what they actually want and watching them come undone in pleasure they didn’t know they desired is so delicious. If you know, you know, there’s nothing quite like it.

But you have to go slow with him

I mean first of all, you shouldn’t mess with Diluc at all if you’re not in for a long haul, this man doesn’t do casual.

Oh, he’ll agree to try if he’s already into you, he’s incredibly indulging to the people he values. But also because at first he’ll be incredibly defensive.

Not because he’s not into it. Just as a defense mechanism, as he thinks he’ll disappoint you and he’s preparing for a failure from the start.

Diluc can see any activity with his important people as a trial where his performance will be evaluated. He is one of these “I need to get a good grade in X which is both normal to want and possible to achieve” people.

Remember the coffeeshop event where he was like “When I was a small child, my father told me to mix my first drink using all of the ingredients in the tavern. In hindsight, it was probably to see how creative I am and I must’ve failed because I just made a fruit punch and my father didn’t say if I did well”?

Like, Diluc. Baby. Honey. Sweetie. Your dad probably just wanted you to have fun in an improvised “take your kid to work” event. He didn’t judge your punch because it was about spending quality time together and letting you play with colorful syrups. Who the fuck would evaluate a small child’s creativity on the first time they mix drinks. You think he expected you to invent Pina Colada?

So yeah, he will see even getting edged as a thing he’s not proficient in, so he’s most likely to fail and disappoint you. And that’s one of the worst things he can imagine.

Because being useful is Diluc’s love language. If you read his voicelines or talk to him in teapot, you can notice how he’s very focused on doing things for you, like he’ll invent a drink specifically for you and keeps repeating that you should tell him if you need anything, but at the same time, he “doesn’t do chit chat” and wants to leave if there’s nothing for him to do.

Because Diluc knows he’s not easygoing or fun to be around. He has his charming brother who makes it seem effortless to compare himself with. He knows he’s kind of awkward, intense, brooding and direct to the point of coming off as rude. So he needs to feel like he’s doing something useful for you to justify spending time with you.

So for his first time, don’t tease him verbally. He’s incredibly teasable, I know. But he’s already very anxious about disappointing you even if he tries to hide it and he was conditioned to clamp up at the first sign of perceived mockery by his troll brother. Show him first how good it can feel before you start playing with him.

also, he obviously has a praise kink that he’s not even aware of. like, it’s not even up for discussion, praise from other people and approval from his dad are literally described as his main motivations

“The praise he received from his comrades and citizens spurred him on. But the words of praise he valued most of all were: "Good job. Now, that's my son." His father's words fueled the fire inside his heart and served as his greatest motivation.“ and sure, after he lost his dad and emotionally closed off, he doesn’t allow himself to rely on approval of others. But it doesn’t mean he doesn’t want it.

You can tie his hands, but honestly I think it’s much more fun to just order him to keep his hands up. He’s so stubborn, it’ll be a matter of pride for him to keep his composure. And it will also make it that much more delicious to see it finally break.

When you tell him that he must ask for permission to finish, he just scoffs. He’s so sure he wouldn’t be reduced to that.

Don’t expect him to dissolve into stereotypical meowling and begging when you first start touching him. Again, he’s much too stubborn. He’s coming into this defensive and he wants to be in control of himself.

But hear me out - it actually makes it more fun to tease him. Diluc tries to keep himself still, but no amount of willpower will make him less sensitive and, again, touch starved to hell and back.

So at first, it’s the little things that betray him. How when you kiss his neck, his throat moves under your lips in a shaky intake of a breath, How the taut muscles of his scarred arms flex when you run your hands over his chest. How he draws in his stomach when you slide your fingers down it, slow, tantalizingly slow, making light patterns with just your fingertips. How he avoids your eyes because you haven’t even touched his cock yet and he’s already so obviously, painfully hard.

He has a beautiful cock, big and with a nice curve, and as for all pale redheads, it becomes brilliantly red when aroused. When you finally touch him, slowly stroking it up from the base to the tip, he draws in a breath through the clenched teeth and squeezes his eyes shut. You watch him struggle as you start pumping his dick faster and faster, his jaw clenching, his breath and heartbeat quickening, sweat beads forming on his forehead, his shoulders and hips flinching as he tries to keep himself from arching up and thrusting into your hand.

He’s fighting a losing battle and both of you know it by now. You could break him right here if you wanted. You squeeze and rub the sensitive tip of his cock, and see him open his mouth in a silent, chocked gasp for air. He manages to keep himself from clenching his fists, but his knuckles whiten when he desperately scraps his fingertips against the bedsheets.

But you don’t want him to feel like he lost a fight, it’s not about that, it was never about that. Even shame should feel good. You caress his high, sculpted cheekbones with your thumb, your other hand still on his cock. “‘Luc, look at me.”

He can’t disobey you, but he has to take a deep breath before he can open his eyes. He meets your gaze, anxious. What’s he going to see, mockery over how pathetically quick he’s breaking down? Disappointment for how bad and inexperienced he is at this? Just a cold, severe rejection?

“You look so beautiful, baby,” you tell him quietly and breath catches in his throat, his pupils widening, his cock twitching in your hand. You kiss the trail from his sharp jawline up to his ear, allowing him to turn away. “Do you enjoy this? Do you want me to keep going?" you smile warmly when he whips his head back to look at you and meet his dazed crimson eyes. “I just want you to feel good.”

This reframes the entire scene for him in a one fell swoop, turning it upside down, leaving him disoriented. It wasn’t a challenge that he was losing, or a trial that he was failing, him giving in to his desires was what you wanted all along? You enjoy seeing his pleasure, even if he’s not being useful to you in return? It seems impossible to him, yet when you look at him like this, when you touch him like this, like he’s precious and wanted, when he knows he’s broken and undeserving… it feels intoxicating and liberating at once, in a way he couldn’t imagine before. He realizes at this moment how badly he wants this, even if he still doesn’t understand how far he’s willing to go for it.

“I… ugh, I… like it,” Diluc swallows harshly, his mouth suddenly dry, and if you thought he was blushing before, now the pink dust on his cheeks turns into a brilliant scarlet glow, covering his face, neck and even top of his shoulders. He clearly wants to look away in embarrassment, but makes himself hold your gaze. “If you… enjoy this too and… want to go on…”

You rake your eyes over him, sprawled in front of you, and smile, meeting his gaze again. “Of course I enjoy it. You look so fucking hot like this.” his eyes widen and his lips part, you can feel his tip leaking in your hand, his entire body strung up like a bowstring. He doesn’t know what to answer and he couldn’t talk even if he did, so when you lower your head down to kiss him he answers eagerly, with passion and gratitude he can’t express in words. You start pumping his cock again, now faster and with a firmer grip, and drink in his abrupt gasp against your mouth, as he freezes for a second and then returns the kiss with twice the abandon. This time he doesn’t try to fight it, his body trembling under you, his hips bucking up to meet your hand, his hands closing into fists, toes curling.

He breaks the kiss when you twist your palm against his pulsing tip, and he cries out, low and strangled, his entire body arching up, but his unfocused eyes find yours immediately, his gaze frantic, almost feverish. He’s going far outside his comfort zone, he’s relinquishing control and he’s so unused to this, he trained himself for years to do the opposite of this, to see it as a failure, so he needs your repeated reassurance to soothe his anxiety, to prove he didn’t imagine your desire few moments ago.

You lean down to him without breaking eye contact. “You’re doing so good, baby. You’re being so good for me.”

It shoots through him, bypassing the brain entirely, through the entire nerve system and right down to the cock, like only discovering a kink you were entirely oblivious to before can. His body goes rigid and he comes, with a choked, shuddering groan.

You stroke him through it, until he limply falls back on the bed, spent and panting. He reaches for you and you let him pull you in, hold him while he’s coming back to his senses, run fingers through his soft hair. When he opens his eyes, he looks at you with a small, almost sheepish smile, and it’s impossible to resist kissing him.

“Are you okay?” you ask, stroking his cheek and he leans into your palm.

“Yes, I’m fine,” he answers immediately, then realizes how it sounds and tries to correct. “I mean, I’m better than fine. I’m... I feel good.”

You chuckle and his eyes flicker to watch your mouth, then throw you a glance from under half-lowered lids. It’s enjoyable seeing him open like this, but what you really want is seeing him come undone. He doesn’t look tired and you know he can go on for much longer, but today it’s more a question of mental state than stamina.

“You want to go for another round?” you ask softly him and he blushes lightly.

“Well, I did technically… um, break a promise to ask for permission in the end,” he says with the same small smile that grows even more sheepish as he tries to avoid admitting he desperately wants more. “So it’s only fair if I remedy that.”

“Oh, of course. Honorable as always. So noble of you, Master Diluc,” you run your fingers over his abs, spreading cum all over them, and his brilliant blush returns in full force. But he doesn’t stop smiling, trusting your good intentions, that you’re mocking the hierarchy of ranks and not him personally. You kiss the corner of his mouth to reassure him, and his smile grows wider.

“Well, you can’t be successful in the commercial trade if you’re not answering for your obligations,” he says, trying and failing to keep a straight face. He really does recover very quickly, you think, if he can already banter. “The Wine Guild would kick me out if they learned I’d backed down on a deal.”

“Well, at least I know I can complain to the Wine Guild if you misbehave then,” your voice is still light, but you catch his chin and lift it up firmly, and he tenses up immediately.

He looks up at you, eyes intense as always, but now glittering in anticipation and tracking your every move, bangs tousled and lips parted for you to claim. You kiss him, messily, greedily, slide your fingers to the back of his head and pull on his hair, forcing him to expose his throat for you. You leave the trail of sloppy kisses and scraped teeth down from his jaw to the collarbones before you let go of his hair and allow him to collapse.

When your hand finds his cock, it’s already half-hard, throbbing. red. This time, you don’t go slowly, you grab it and start pumping it fast. He shudders, still so sensitive after a recent orgasm, and instinctively tries to close his legs.

You don’t force them open, instead, you catch his chin and meet his eyes again. “No,” you say slowly. “Open up for me.”

The thing about Diluc is that he doesn’t do anything by halves if he sets his mind to it. Once he opens up, he burns for you with the same single-minded dedication as he does fighting enemies in the night. He might not know how to ask for help, pleasure or affection, but he sure knows how to give and to give everything he’s got. Do not ask to have him if you want anything less than the whole.

He grits his teeth, his eyes smoldering crimson, and forces himself to spread his legs again, against his basic reflexes. The touch to his overstimulated dick is painful and igniting at the same time, it feels equal parts wrecking and delightful.

You smile and praise him and pump him even harder and faster than before, and he trashes in front of you, muttering a litany of half-choked curses, throwing his head from side to side, hands clawing at the sheets, thighs shaking, but staying open.

You asked for him and you shall have him, no matter what.

It’s still not enough for you, though.

You sprawl on your side against him, circling one arm around his shoulders, still stroking him with the other. The fight goes out of him. He blindly leans into you, trembling, a small whine caught in his throat. When you kiss him, his mouth is soft and pliant, but his hands clutch at you desperately, like a drowning man trying to hold on to the solid ground.

It drives you crazy to watch him writhe under you, completely unravelled, glowing brightly from feverish desire, scarlet silk of his tangled hair sprawled on the sheets, his hips bucking frantically into your hand.

You whisper sweet, tender praises to him, caress his face, neck and shoulders like he’s the most precious and fragile thing in the world, at the same time as your other hand relentlessly winds him up, squeezes his overstimulated, pulsing cock harshly, twists the leaking tip. The pain punctuates desire, a delirious contrast of torturously sweet and deliciously cruel.

His fingers dig into you, holding you close. He presses his face into the crook of your neck, clings to you, seeking comfort and shelter from the same sweet, unbearable torture that is also inflicted by you. The pleasure melts him, but the pain splits him open, wrecks him to the core, he wants this to end, and he wants this to never stop. More than anything, he wants to be yours.

“Fuck, look at you. You’re perfect,” you tell him and you mean it.

He breathes in through his mouth, drawing in your scent. “Please,” he gasps so quietly, you could’ve missed it if not for his lips moving against your neck. “Please, let me…please…”

Next time, you might demand more. Next time, you might make him spell it out completely, what exactly he begs you for. But this is his first time and he was already so brave for you.

“Yes, baby. You’ve been so fucking good. Come for me.”

He comes immediately and so hard, his entire body is shaking, the strangled scream caught in his throat. You keep stroking him, letting him ride it out through increasingly frantic and desperate thrusts, squeeze every last drop out of him until he collapses, limp and shivering, but still clinging to you.

You hold him, stroke his hair and kiss his forehead, whisper to him softly until he stops trembling and his breath evens out. You realize that he’s too weak now to get to the bath, so you stand up to get something to help, but he reaches out, catches your wrist immediately.

“It’s okay, I’ll be back in a second,” you promise. After you clean him up with a wet cloth, he pulls you in and curls around you so possessively and needy, you can’t help but smile. He’s fighting a losing battle to stay awake, the endless sleepless nights finally catching up with him, now that he lowered his guard for a moment and let his body feel alive. But there’s one thing he needs to ask, suddenly apprehensive now that the rush of lust passed.

“Did you… Was I… Ugh, damn. Would you perhaps?..” he stumbles over his words, not knowing how to phrase his concern that he wasn’t good enough for you and you just indulged him. You stop him mercifully.

“I *did* enjoy it. You *were* incredible. And yes, I would very much love to do this again.”

“Oh,” he says, relaxing against you, the same precious small smile appearing on his face again, now more content than sheepish. You chuckle, stroking his face.

“Besides, you did break my order to keep your hands up. You’ll have to suffer the punishment, or the Wine Guild will need to hear about this.”

He snorts indignantly and blushes at the same time. For the first time in many, many nights he falls asleep with a light heart and a smile still tugging at his lips.

[foressfaction]

:Ticci Toby:{A Rewrite}

WARNING:: This story contains EXTREMELY triggering topics such as Domestic/Child/Substance abuse, Death, harsh language, GORE and dissociation triggers.

This story mentions mental illnesses and disorders such as Depression, PTSD, ADHD, and Tourette's Syndrome.

!!TICS MAY BE TRIGGERING!!

Prologue

So it begins. The boy tugged on the skirt of a middle aged woman. She was his mom. Her hair was short, cut into a nice layered bob, though it had grown over time, it at one point was a pixie cut. She had diamond shaped ruby earrings on, in an attempt to look formal. Her name, it rolled off the tongue very smoothly, Connie Rogers.

"Why are there so many old people here?" The brunette boy asked. Connie's son, who's name also seemed pretty vague. Tobias Rogers.

The woman was quick to correct him, shushing him loudly while murmuring under her breath with a hint of embarrassment on her face. "Toby! Haha, I'm so sorry about him," she yearned off the stares she got from her son's odd choice of a question. And a rather rude one too. Toby had always been quite the weird kid. He said what was on his mind, whatever it was, and when he wanted to say it. Maybe the question would've been better at a funeral, or a grandma's birthday party. Do grandma's have birthday parties? Toby wouldn't know honestly. He never did meet his mom's mom. That's a funny way to put it.

The two were currently at a 'meet the teacher' day. Y'know, the day about a week before the first day of school. For Toby, he will be starting the 6th grade. To him, school has always been a joke. He barely passed 5th grade and was one point away from having to be stuck doing summer school. He had never been a people person either, especially with other kids his age.

"Are any of these people actually going to be important?" Toby asked, earning a glance from his mom. Her dark circles are more visible than ever.

"I'm sure they will be, look, that's your principal, you should probably go say hi, or....something. I have a lot of paperwork to fill out. Go have a look around, stretch your legs, we've been walking all day."

Toby made a spitting noise as if he thought that was one of the most boring things she could've said. He bared his braced teeth. Meet his principal? He didn't realize going to a different school would be so tiring. Toby eventually left her side, wandering out into the empty halls. Oh so that's why there was a big sign on the door that read 'staff only.' Not like that mattered to him, no one saw, no one had to know. Despite it being a day for his entire grade to be here, it was almost like the halls were abandoned. His mind was always a little trickster, it would make him believe something when that 'something' isn't in existence. Toby took some steps forward, then found himself walking further away from the chattering of the people from the room he was just in. His entire body felt cold, chills running up and down his broken nerves.

It was kind of eerie, not gonna lie. The only thing Toby could hear was the pitter patter on his own shoes, the same old shoes he's had for years. Honestly surprised the souls haven't torn off yet. The boy found himself turning multiple corners and met with endless hallways of lockers. He's never seen a locker before. There were thousands of them, atleast, that's what his mind was showing him. 'Did I take my medicine?' was the first thing he thought to himself as he continued down these narrow halls. He was over thinking the reason why his mom shooed him away, probably because he was a distraction, or knew he needed one. As uncanny as this felt, Toby found himself quite occupied. He had started counting the lockers, every one of them, and remembered the exact number of lockers on the 8th hallway.

That's suddenly when he saw that one part of the hallway's lights were off. It was right smack in the middle of the hallway, so why did those lights not work? Toby grew curious so he started to inch towards the area. That's when he noticed they weren't just off, but flickering a little.

He knew this feeling a little too well. That feeling of being watched, judged. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. He felt the air grow thick around him, as if gross, slimy water had just been poured onto him, soaking him to the heavy weight of being drenched. This of course actually didn't happen, but it felt like it did.

Toby turned around quickly, hearing something behind him, then again in front of him. He thought he was going to give himself whiplash from all of the darting of his head. Nothing was there though, nothing of sight, atleast. When Toby looked back to the hallway where the lights were supposedly off, he noticed they were working now. This caught him a little off guard, but as he looked closer, he could see that even further down than before, lights were off.

It was leading him further down the hallway?

Toby shook his head. "No that's not real." He whispered. "That's not r-real," he once again whispered with a little more voice. He felt that if the longer he looked, the more that feeling of tightness would increase.

Toby turned his back to the suffering lights, inching his way back to the room he was in not too long ago, with his mom. He turned the corner, only to nearly run into the frantic woman. "There you are, goodness, I thought you left this building." She spoke in a rather worried tone, taking his hand into hers, her rings were cold against his fingers. "You're really warm, are you okay? Are you sweating?"

Toby looked at her quickly, confusion sweeping him. "Am i?" He asked out while taking his free arm and wiping his forehead. Behold, bits of what felt like condensation rubbed off his skin. "Well we can forget meeting your teachers, I have your schedule here. I don't want you overheating again in all those layers, you know you can't feel temperatures to an extreme, you know this." She slightly scolded. Toby was just confused. He didn't feel too hot, he didn't know he was sweating. He does struggle with a certain disorder where he could technically place his hand on a lit stove and not feel a thing, despite his flesh melting off and severely damaging his hand. If anything it would just feel warm.

It was sad to be reminded he wasn't like the other normal kids in his grade, and certainly wasn't looking forward to another year of the constant reminders either. "I will be more aware next time." He stated, tone sounding a bit degraded.

It wasn't long before the two brunettes were on their way home. Toby was gazing out of the window, sitting in the backseat with his legs pulled up into a hug. The ride was silent, but his mom had never been too talkative after the last few months. Things weren't too good at home. Though he was going to go to a different school, they still lived in this dump of a house. Denver was a nice city, but in winters it was hard to stay warm, and in summers it was hard to stay cool. The house overall just about had it.

And the family knew that.

Toby finally broke the silence as the car hit a few road bumps. "There's exactly 286 lockers in the school." There was a moment of silence, but when he expected an answer there was nothing. "Mom?" He called out, not moving from his position but did lean his head over to try to peek into the rear view mirror that hung on the roof of the car.

He could see makeup running down her face, hands clenched onto the steering wheel tightly. If he listened closely, he could hear sniffling.

Toby knew better than to barge into questions but this time he knew the answer. He would have the same reason to cry, but lately he hadn't been able to feel much emotion at all. He, again, only saw life as a joke, nothing was real, no matter how hard he pushed away the reality. A 20 minute drive full of sniffles and awkward silence finally ended as the brown Subaru pulled into the cracked driveway to an old two story house.

The thing looked as if it was gonna fall in at any given moment. On the inside it was pretty big, still had carpet though it was old and stained, very stained.

A couple of whistles left Toby, followed by a few uncomfortable popping sounds from his neck. He had something called Tourette's Syndrome which caused the boy to jerk and tic uncontrollably. It was very uncomfortable for both him and those having to witness it. If he wasn't careful, he could accidentally hit someone, or himself. Which he does occasionally. Toby stepped out of the car to see the man standing on the porch, cigarette in hand. Seemed like he didn't see them pull into the driveway. Toby knew he did.

Toby noticed his mom left the folder of his school rules and other stuff in the car on the dashboard. He opened the door to reach in and grab it, his hand slipping with a slight tic, accidentally honking the horn, making the woman jump.

"Fuck- sorry, fuck! Sorry!" The boy jumped to coo out as he held the folder up. "Got it-"

Toby quickly closed the door to head inside, hearing the man spur something up. "Fuckin' boy." He muttered in a southern accent.

Toby paid no mind as it was something he was used to, rushing into the house and sitting the folder onto the counter, opening it and looking at all the papers. "Oh there were 287 lockers..I was off by one." He had his finger on where it stated the fact. He didn't understand why he was so fixated on the locker count. Gave him a distraction probably.

Toby moved the papers just enough to peer at his schedule, something he didn't have at his old school. "Wait mom? Why did you sign me up for public classes?"

The folder was snagged away from his hands, probably giving him a paper cut. "Stop complainin' and suck it up, it's about time you learn with other kids." The man scolded. Toby could see the vein popping from his forehead. The same shaggy blond buzz cut blanketed the man's head. His dad; he carried a name that would make anyone grimace just hearing it, Jacob Rogers. "Dad!" Toby tried to take the folder back but that only earned him a smack on the hand with the rather hard plastic outsides of the yellow folder.

Toby glared slightly as he took a deep breath.

The brunette woman strolled in, setting her bag down on the small island counter as she rubbed the bridge of her nose. "Look, Toby, I tried to suggest special education, but they said that it was time for you to get to know your grade better, plus wouldn't it be great to hang around people who...Actually respond when you talk to them?" She spoke out, slightly raising her voice.

"But they were nice to me," Toby added, narrowing his eyebrows, taking glances at the folder in his dad's hands. "Can i atleast see it closer? Again?" He eyed the man after asking.

"Your sister takes public classes, so can you. It's time we stop babying you, you're 13 years old for fucks sake. Act like it."

"Jacob!" Connie shouted with an offended tone. She knew the man was an asshole but she usually tried to defend her kid's opinions. Their marriage hadn't been the best lately, especially after her husband started to waste their money and abuse alcoholic substances. Speaking of which, the blonde man held a dark green bottle in his hand that wasn't clinging to Toby's school information.

The second Toby noticed that his mom saw the bottle, he knew they were about to bicker.

He just didn't want to be in the middle of that, excusing himself from where he took a seat.

Toby disappeared upstairs to one of the rooms he called his own. It wasn't much, just a carpeted floor, a dark blue rug with matching bed sheets. Completely unintentional. His shelves consisted of vintage toys he never touched, books, a lamp, and other nick nacks. He only ever kept one thing out, a stuffed cow. Why? He honestly grew an attachment to it. The poor thing was ripped up in many places, had patches on the stomach and left side of the head. It looked derpy as hell but he loved it to death.

Sometimes though when he holds it, he can't help but remember the time he 'played tug-o-war' with his dad who eventually ripped the head completely off while trying to take it from him. His only reason was because 'he was too old.' No one is too old for a comfort item.

Toby crawled onto the bed and took the cow plush into his hands and stared down at it. He gently gnawed at the inside of his cheek, a habit he developed a while ago. "Today isn't the best day, Mr. Cowbells, will you make it better? At least until Lyra gets home.." He hugged the stuffie to his chest and stared down at his sheets. It wasn't long before what he assumed would happen started up. He heard their loud voices downstairs. He knew it wasn't going to be too long until he heard thrashes and door slams.

It was like this all day, everyday.

All day, everyday.

••••••I

[whumpwillow]

Demon's Haven 16

a guy who is just an idiot

—  

masterlist

warnings: past torture, blood, whumpee thinking caretaker is new whumper, self-harm references (he's aggravating his own injuries), vague dissociation references

—  

I just wanted them to respect me.

Words he’d never dared to utter out loud before. Hell was a vicious place where weakness wasn’t tolerated, and vulnerability got you nowhere. So he’d learned to keep his thoughts to himself, and to manifest his more…envious desires in other ways.

He’d never have admitted it to himself if all this hadn’t happened. He spent long hours working in his study just to occupy his mind so that he wouldn’t have to think of such things. And yet there it was, the undeniable proof that he was weak. That he had to resort to base means in order to try and garner respect when his other siblings were capable of it just by virtue of their very existence.

Hah, virtue.

His brothers had the lesser demons looking up to them as if they were gods and all they had to do was walk into a room. Pride especially was a perfect example of this. He was like the sun—he drew attention to himself as if his presence was itself a gravitational pull. Envy hated it. He wanted it. He didn’t have the ability for that sort of thing and had to take the scraps of attention that he was owed, grasping and strangling.

He thought the other demons would be awed or at least cowed by his display of brutality in the human realm, but then Lust had gone and one-upped him without even trying. Envy, as always, faded into the background. His actions forgotten by all the people he wanted to have remembered, yet was brought up again now only to serve as a reminder of his failings.

It was such a stupid farce. All of it.

He clenched his hair in his hands, disregarding the broken fingers. He let the pain consume him. He wanted to disappear.

Throwing his hands down in frustration did nothing to stop the riotous feelings welling inside. Did nothing to stop the voice of the angel. That burning, stinging, cooing voice. It told him he was a sinner. That he should suffer, that he should be punished, that he should live his days in fear and regret and utter misery. The angel made him believe it to be true.

The angel’s voice played out in his thoughts, telling him to be afraid.

Warm hands wrapped around his thin wrists. Envy drew in a sharp intake of breath, his gaze locking onto the witch’s.

Oh, Haven.

Why had he told her who he was? She was going to hurt him now, surely. She said she wouldn’t—many times, in fact—but how could he believe that? How could she not want to?

And yet. She held his wrists in her hands but did not squeeze the bruises there. She did not yank him forward or send him tumbling to the floor. She continued to surprise him by showing familiar actions that usually preceded violence and replacing them with kindness and Envy didn’t know what to do about it.

He wanted to be free of pain. He wanted to be free of his thoughts. He wanted to pay for his sins. He wanted to rest.

He tried to think of what to say as an excuse for his actions, and what had tumbled off his lips were truer thoughts than any he had said in years. Perhaps ever. He struggled to think of anyone he’d ever told his deepest secrets to and came up blank. Such was his life, what he used to think so highly of and yet what crumbled in mere moments.

He was crying again, goddammit. His eyes stung and the back of his throat burned, the feeling distinct from that of holy water being forced down it. Sharper, deeper. Utterly humiliating.

Haven wiped a stray tear from his cheek. Envy allowed his eyes to flutter closed as he savored the touch. When had anyone ever touched him like that? Like he was something worthy of being held so gently, like he was more precious than all the gemstones in his court?

“You’re bleeding again.”

Envy blinked dumbly at her in response to the statement. Finally catching up after a moment too long, he processed the words and turned to look over his shoulder. Sure enough, the lashes from the silver whip had turned the gauze a cherry-red. He was in less pain than he’d been in since…well, the beginning of his imprisonment, so this could actually have been seen as an improvement that he hadn’t noticed.

“Ah, I see,” he said, with utmost intelligence. Clearly.

Haven settled herself on the bed next to him, more carefully than before. He knew it wasn’t because of his injuries, but because of who he was. She was afraid of him. He’d seen it in her eyes when she jumped from the bed, instinct urging her to run from him. He almost wished she had. He only wanted her to be happy, not afraid.

But he was a selfish creature, and he couldn’t stop himself from the need that raged in him, that which made him desperately not want to be left alone. It was the same desire that made him grab her wrist earlier, and what had compelled him to think he could order her to stay while he bathed even when he knew she would have preferred to be elsewhere. He just couldn’t stop himself from causing problems for her.

And know she knew who he was. What he’d done.

Worse, she was a witch. She was of the ilk that he had carelessly slaughtered for amusement and recognition, and now Envy was at the mercy of her decisions. He wondered if she would take revenge for her kind that had died at his hands, or at those of his brothers’. The thought made his chest ache something fierce, but he couldn’t tell her not to. He didn’t have the right. After everything, he was still the same awful being that he was always was and he didn’t want her to treat him any differently than she had been.

He knew he didn’t deserve her kindness. Oh, he knew. The angel had made sure that he believed every awful thing she ever said about him, but by everything he was borne of, he wanted nothing more than for Haven to remain as she was.

“I’ll need to stitch them. The wounds on your back,” she said to him.

There was no malice in her voice, nor fear. The second emotion, however, was plain on her face even as she tried to hide it.

Envy nodded listlessly. “Alright.”

He realized this going to be a long night and that he wouldn’t get to drift off so soon. If he got lucky, she’d let him sleep while she worked. He might even be able to—he’d gotten lots of practice in sleeping in uncomfortable positions while in terrible pain.

Envy nodded, the motion stilted. He braced himself for what was to come and whether or not the witch—Haven, lovely Haven, such an apropos name—would take this as her opportunity to turn on him.

She didn’t, at least not right at that moment. Instead, she pursed her lips, forming them into a mildly displeased moue. Envy winced and cursed his tendency to nod rather than reply with actual words. That must have been what had done it. She was angry with him now for not being treated with the proper respect, of course. Because he was a demon prince, fallen so far, now at the mercy of those once considered beneath him and of course, of course she would want him to demonstrate just how much their positions had changed. He was just so tired, so it was easier to opt for a nod rather than to force the sounds from his throat that was still so raw from begging, screaming, pleading, pleading—

“We should get some rest.”

Haven set her hands down on her lap and stood, then brushed off her skirts. Envy watched her. Blinked once, twice. The witch began collecting the bandages and rolls of gauze from the bed.

“What?” Envy asked, confused.

Haven paused, then looked at him. “We’re both tired, you’re not going to bleed out, and I’m sure you would appreciate not being stuck with a needle while I try to sew you up half-asleep. We can do it tomorrow.”

Envy couldn’t seem to process the information he was hearing. She was going to let him sleep? Not just that, but to let him sleep unhindered by additional pain? What was the catch?

Haven bent down to pick up a bandage roll that had fallen, but Envy slipped off the bed to get it for her. He didn’t account for the fact that he could barely use his legs, and ended up falling ever-so-gracefully to the floor like an utter disgrace. His knees hit first, cracking loudly on the wood slats, and the rest of him followed soon after, crumpling like wet paper. His chest pitched forward and he, thankfully, turned his head to the side so that his cheek hit the floor instead of cracking his chin on it, though it still smarted. The pain shot into his broken ribs had him keening, sending out a high-pitched whine as if he’d become a tea kettle. The angel had humiliated him plenty, but this really did it for him.

He at least managed to wrap his fingers uselessly around the stray bandage he’d meant to offer to Haven.

The witch herself had released her burden entirely, dropping her arms to her sides so that all the gauze she’d previously gathered now fell at her feet and rolled away, adding to the existing mess on the floor. She knelt in front of Envy and gingerly placed her hands on his upper arms, and she was saying something he couldn’t make out. The world was incessantly loud all of a sudden, ringing in his ears. Pain, his only sensation.

“H-help—” Envy croaked.

Fear rose in his throat, burned in his belly, and inflamed the space of his chest. It beat against the inside of his damaged ribcage, fighting to get free as if it were a trapped animal. Envy thought it was kind of funny, to think of it like that. To understand and sympathize with an emotion itself, because he too, was once a trapped animal.

His hands shook.

“-vy! Envy! Your Highness! Prince whatever!”

The witch called out to him. Envy struggled to take in a breath. He felt her rubbing her thumbs up and down where she held his arms, and that too, made an emotion well inside him. He couldn’t place the name of it.

“P-prince whatever,” he said, once he could take in a full breath.

His throat felt raw and scratchy.

“I didn’t know what to call you,” Haven replied, sheepishly.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and gave him a wobbly smile. Envy tried to maneuver his lips into doing the same, but he felt…odd. Disconnected from his body in a way that was not unfamiliar to his time spent in the cell with the angel, on the days where he would go someplace faraway into his mind when the pain became too much to bear. Even before, to a lesser degree, the numbness would come for him without warning. He saw it as being better than the torture, at least.

“Are you…” Haven said, but trailed off and bit her lip.

“Fine.”

Envy was not fine, had never been fine, and likely would never be fine again for as long as he lived. But he was just that—living, and that was all that likely mattered to the witch, if she even cared at all.

He regretted that last thought when he saw her face all scrunched up, appearing at once both sad and irate. Her eyes became red and misty, though no tears fell. She bunched her hands into fists at her sides and Envy thought she meant to hit him, though she only glared.

“Why did you do that?” she yelled.

Envy opened his mouth, but found he didn’t have an answer, or even any idea to what she was referring.

“I—” He remembered the bandage roll grasped loosely in his damaged fingers. “Oh.”

He held it up to Haven as far as his arm would give him the strength to, which to his dismay, wasn’t more than a few inches.

“I wanted to help,” he said.

Haven put a hand to her face and closed her eyes, then exhaled. When she looked at him again, her expression had softened. Envy noticed her unclench her fists and his shoulders sagged in relief.

“Just focus on getting better. Okay? That’s how you can help.”

—

next

(taglist in reblogs)

[multiplicity-positivity]

Okay so I’m anti endogenic and I want to learn more about Endo systems but I find that most of the Endo blogs I come across support transid people/are in the transid community themselves and I just kind of made me scared cus transid people aren’t good and should heal form trauma they have, but my question was are all Endo systems transid supporters and are Endo systems part of the transid community ( asking cus a lot of Endo blogs said yes to both of those questions )

hey… I’m the designated syscourser and we have been getting a few asks about syscourse in our inbox lately, so here i am.

we have not had that same experience. we know of one big blog who supports trans-ids (the user who is still in our dni), and she may have a circle of followers who are also trans-id supporters, but for the most part, we have met and interacted with countless endogenic systems who want nothing to do with trans-ids or the radqueer community.

we see how lots of anti endos might make this connection. it’s an incredibly common talking point in anti endo spaces that endogenic systems “just want to have a disorder” and aren’t actually experiencing the plurality that endo systems claim to experience. but the truth is… plurality and multiplicity simply mean being more than one. that’s it. and there are so many diverse and beautiful people out there who experience life as more than one, without having a dissociative disorder, and without being members of the radqueer community.

so to answer your questions:

no, not all endo systems are trans-id supporters. endogenic systems are not a monolith - they are a diverse group of people with a vast range of ideas and beliefs about the world. if you’ve been seeing lots of radqueer endogenic systems, that’s likely because you’ve been looking for them in trans-id or radqueer focused spaces.

no, being endogenic does not inherently make someone a part of the trans-id community. simply having a system that did not form from trauma doesn’t suddenly make someone “transplural.”

we really would encourage you to read our psa on transx/trans-id and radqueers from our pinned post. we’ll link it below:

that post ^ will likely answer your questions in more detail, so we’d really encourage you to read it if you have the time/energy.

honestly, thank you for coming to us with these questions. we are very much firm supporters of endogenic systems on this blog. at the same time, we understand anti endos are people, often scared, hurt, angry, and traumatized. we want to be available to answer any question from anti endos that can be asked from a place of wanting to learn, and facilitate productive conversations and discussions. remember, endo systems are people too, and they’re deserving of kindness and respect just like you and me.

we hope you’re doing well, anon. feel free to reach out to us again if you have any further questions about endogenic systems in the future - we’re happy to help anti endos come to a better understanding about these sorts of things.

[irlrikomoriyama]

can i ask about how many ways can a raven break (if thats one of the thing u can ask was a bit confused)

its one we really hope to turn into a fic we have a friend who is very excited for it (and is also our sensitivity reader) riko joins foxes and as part of his therapy with abby he keeps a journal where he writes long thought spirals any time he is anxious so that then he can consider whatever or not he wants to show it to Abby or not, the journal is here to help him keep his thoughts a bit more organized. At some point Riko notices new notes in the journal notes in German (his notes are always in Japanese) as well as doodles and drawings. this agitates him. he is aware that andrew is the only person reading his journal which he passively allows but after the notes started appearing he started hiding the journal. this leads to andrew growing suspicious, when few days later riko catches him going through journal he had hidden they get in a fightt (riko punches him all of sudden something that somehow never happened before). one thing leads to another and over course of following therapy with new therapist as bee was not qualified enough to diagnose him Riko is diagnosed with dissociative personality disorder (all parts of system refer to themselves as Riko but they do have nicknames they use as well) There is "Fox" (you can think about him as all my cute fox riko headcannosn and arts very energetic and full of life very fannon kind of riko)- Riko after joining the foxes, he is much more open in showing his emotions he is actually based on the rp "quarterhouse/roadkill" he dates renee aaron and kevin , genuinely loves life and is very unhappy when he finds out details of his condition - he feels extremally possessive of the body and time he has which leads to frustration towards other alters and fear that their actions might fuck up his already complicated life "Raven" (much closer to canon riko or even fandom riko - evil brody mad bad) - Raven was the first fronter and keeps most of memories from nest, this is why fox himself did not remember much form before joining foxes, raven hates fronting now, he misses nest he hates fox tower hates the foxes , his pride is still not healed, he does snot feel safe or accepted around them, he is nyctophile and still gets triggered into fronting any time its perfectly dark (when foxes figure that out there is some teasing happening about it which he despises) as well as when it rains. Raven loves kevin and feels posessive over jean and does not see reason why renee and aaron should be part of that. is the one who broke jean "captain" possibly riko's first split - captain is on the court and takes care of all things exy, he will become good friends with neil who will be the only reason captain starts fronting outside of games- just to chat about exy. captain is also not convinced about need for relationship with renee and aaron as he sees both to be mediocre players and he is straight (all of this plays a lot into aarons relationship insecurities and makes fox miserable and resentful of his alters). captain is very frustrated to find out he is not a captain any more and is pretty damn hurt over not being a captain anymore it is bit of crisis for him considering the title was core of his personality as far as he rememberer. later on riko get title of co captain <3 is very confused as to why jean can not play "King" - trauma holder, specifically physical abuse , hates fronting because feels phantom pains constantly "Princes" - a split made to help King cope with the psychological part of the abuse, princess is regressed little girl who just wants to be loved and cared for, jean is her knight and she can NOT find out who hurt him , it would break her

there is also danny who is split from one of riko's most constant abusers he does not front just provides bad vibes and keeps them on edge psyhologically fun stuff i love about it: Kevin absolutely can not deal with the fact that he is not the favourite person of all rikos fox woudl prefer not to choose but renee was his girlfriend before kevin became his boyfriend again raven sees kevin as his everything so this checks out captain also likes kevin but he end sup pretty taken by neils approach to the game over time princess loves jean and renee and idk she doe snot give a fuck about exy so can kevin shut up about it? (jean is delighted) king does not like anyone i don't think kevin should want to be dannys fave luckily nobody other than riko knows about danny anyway there's actually .. a lot of lore for this technically the ship is riko/renee/aaron/jean/kevin the same way like in quarterhouse but fox unlike raven feels embarrassment and shame for pact actions and doe snot feel even allowed to look at the man

[theforlorn]

Do you have any advice for systems who are finding out that their system may be programmed?

Coming to Terms With Being Programmed

When you first begin to realize that your system may indeed exist due to even more cruel and strenuous situations than is typical it can be incredibly stressful and terrifying. Realizing in the first place that you have DID or OSDD can be incredibly difficult and in some parts scary. Though many feel comfort and safety within their system including myself, the initial experience of discovery can be jarring. Realizing you had endured a continuous amount of trauma long enough in your childhood to develop these kinds of disorders can be incredibly scary to realize and it often comes with beginning to remember bits and pieces that makes you realize you had been believing a lie about your own past for possibly decades. When you add on top of that a realization that someone wanted this for you- someone actively went out of their way to induce dissociative amnesia and differing alters in order to take advantage of that and force you to do things for them, it can be overwhelming.

It's incredibly hard for a lot of people to finally come to terms with being a programmed system. It took me so much time and pain and tears to finally reach the stage of acceptance that I did. And even then I sometimes struggle with doubting myself, even when my therapist reaffirms the fact that my DID was purposefully induced in me by my traffickers given the way my system functions and alters exist specifically for my abusers own purposes and goals- I struggle.

I may not have all the answers but I do have some advice for people.

Advice For Not Fakeclaiming Yourself

This part is something that, as stated previously, I personally struggle with. And you know what? That's okay. These things are hard and it's okay to not fully be healed yet. In my case I am still very young and only a little over a year into therapy for my DID and trauma.

Remember that it isn't actually that crazy or unreasonable for someone engaging in more extreme levels of abuse to be aware of methods such as programming. Though programmed DID (aka a purposefully induced case of DID and/or OSDD-1) can only be induced in childhood, OSDD-2 is a dissociative disorder which is also known to be the result of programming aka brainwashing and torture. These things are well documented.

An unfortunately true fact of this all is that sometimes very bad people especially those involved in organized crimes or cults, tend to share information or learn about tactics from various places. The information on how to torture people and force children to develop DID is already out there- bad people can get ahold of it because they seek out these kinds of things.

You are not alone in this- there are others.

You are not taking away anything from other survivors of various situations by suspecting or believing that your own abusers engaged in similar methods and induced a specific dissociative disorder in you when they knew you could dissociate.

Advice For Acceptance Of What Happened

Acceptance is another key part in all of this, and it is once again a very difficult thing to achieve and hold.

It is okay to still love your system even if it comes from someone choosing to induce it. Alters can still grow and change it takes a lot of time.

It's just as okay to hate your system or alters in your system. Some alters can exist to do harm to yourself and self-destruct. Some may just be cruel or ruin your relationships and that can suck to deal with. Especially for systems where alters are created by an abuser- this can happen and you're not bad or evil for it. You're dealing with the fall outs of torture and that never is an easy thing to deal with.

As much as you may be permanently changed from what happened to you- you are still your own person. They can never take away the fact that you survived. You made it through despite everything and nobody can take that from you either.

Getting therapy if possible is definitely helpful and a great thing to do

In general having friends who know about some of what happened and what you're going through is helpful. It helps you still feel like even in the face of everything you still matter (because of course you do).

[aylacavebear]

Retribution Chapter 2

18+ for numerous reasons

Summary: You had DID for most of your life, over forty years, since you were two. It wasn't until after you were forty-three that you were finally able to heal it and become a singular. You're a hunter and have been with Dean for a very long time. Once you become singular, you have to face the horrors that your mental illness subjected on those you cared about, loved. Can you get past seeing yourself as worse than any monster you've ever hunted down?

Pairing is Dean Winchester x Reader/You

Warnings: Sexual Abuse (memories), Physical Abuse (memories), DID - Dissociation Identity Disorder (AKA MPD), Mental Health Issues, Alcoholism, Self-Deprecation, Thoughts of deserving to have it all done to "you".

Please, if you suffer from any mental illness, seek help. There are people out there who can help you get through it, no matter how alone you feel now or how hard it may seem.

A/N: This is going to be very dark, darker than anything I've written thus far. It will include many triggers - abuse both sexual and physical - in memories and what happens to the reader. I'm hoping it will have a happy ending but right now, I am not sure where this will go. This is your main warning before you begin reading. A/N: Dreams and Memories are indented in italics. Thoughts are in italics only.

Word Count: 1687

----------------------------------------- Chapter 2 - Too Many Thoughts

When you woke, it was still dark outside, and your entire body hurt as your head was throbbing. You barely managed to glance at the clock on the night table; after seven. This was probably the worst hangover you’d had, or at least, hoped you’d ever had. Just as you were attempting to sit up, your stomach churned, forcing you to run to the bathroom.

That’s what I get for not eating anything for two days and drinking an entire bottle of whiskey.

There was only what was left of the whiskey in your stomach. That came up, along with stomach acids, and before long, it was only dry heves. You were physically and mentally exhausted. You knew it was your fault for being where you were. You knew better.

With a groan, fighting against the pain in your body, you managed to at least rinse your mouth out before making it back out to the bed. Lying so that you were on your side, you grabbed your phone and dialed the local pizza place, ordering a meat-lovers. Your body needed some sort of nourishment, and this was better than nothing.

“I’m not mad. I just wish it would stop, Sweetheart,” Dean told you as the two of you cuddled in bed. “I don’t remember any of it. I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do to make it stop. I hate that those things are happening to you,” you told him, feeling guilty as you’d seen the new bruises on him. Yeah, he was a hunter and got beat up a lot, but this was different. These bruises were from your other personalities, and you couldn’t stop them. Just seeing them made you want to disappear. He sighed, pulling you closer to him, “I know I’ve asked before, but… Do you have any suggestions?” You thought for a bit, contemplating something that had been on your mind for a while, “What if you forced it? Made whoever is doing this finish you?” You were quiet when you answered him, as you weren’t sure how he’d react to that. Dean was probably the most kind-hearted man you’d ever met. Not only did he hunt monsters, keeping strangers safe, but he’d gone and fallen in love with you, of all people. Then, he’d stayed with you even after the abuse had started. You knew your suggestion was something he could never do, but you had no idea what else to suggest. “I can’t do that. You know that,” he sighed sadly, “Every time I touch you when that stuff happens, you get violent.” He paused, wanting to lighten the mood, “You know, you’re quite strong in your sleep. There aren’t too many things that have hit me as hard as you have,” he chuckled lightly. “Not funny,” you mumbled, still feeling bad. You saw it again, the switch, as you let the memory play out. You had wanted to be close to him intimately, but that wasn’t what happened. “It is kinda funny,” he said playfully, letting his hand find its way to your hip, gripping slightly. Before he could lean over to kiss you, you pulled away, “I can’t this morning. I’m sorry.” You slipped out of bed and began dressing. This had become the norm, and the man still hadn’t cheated on you. 

The knock on your motel room door pulled you from the memory. Forcing yourself up, you grabbed some cash out of your wallet and opened the door. The smell of the pizza wasn’t enticing at all, but you needed to eat. After paying, you sat down on the bed again, the pizza in front of you.

If it weren’t for the throbbing in your head, you would have turned on the TV to at least focus your thoughts on something other than the memories flooding your mind. You did manage to eat a couple of slices of pizza, though, even if it had taken you almost an hour to do so.

Even the vibration of your phone going off hurt your head, but this time, you picked it up and stared at it for a while. 

I should at least let them know I’m alive, shouldn’t I? They shouldn’t worry if a monster is okay. A monster needs to be killed.

Your hands shook at that thought, but you felt oddly calm. Turning off your phone, you glanced at the second bottle of whiskey, debating drinking again. Luckily, you weren’t in the mood for a worse hangover the following day.

Putting the pizza box on the table, you drank some water, then crawled into bed and turned off the light. You hoped the nightmares wouldn’t come, but there was no guarantee anymore. Since becoming a singular, things just hit you out of the blue.

You were in that invisible bubble again, between the door and the bed. Your body was lying on the bed, alone.  Where’s Dean?  To the left of the bed was the desk, and that was where he sat, just watching your body sleeping in the bed the two of you shared. You put your hands on the invisible bubble, leaning a little closer. The dream shifted, and now he was sleeping in the chair. Your heart went out to him, and you wanted to cry, almost as if you knew what was coming. Your body on the bed reached over, finding his side of the bed empty. So, they sat up, looking around before smiling when their eyes found him. They got out of the bed, sauntering over to him. With how he was sitting, there was no way they were going to get his sweats off of him or even low enough to have sex with him. You wondered how this would play itself out. They knelt in front of him, caressing his semi-hard cock through his sweats. Their movements were slow, skilled, and moved with a purpose. He shifted in his seat, making it easier for them. That also made it so that they could slip him loose of his sweats.  You could see the smile on their face, and you screamed at them to stop, pounding your fists on the invisible bubble. It didn’t make them stop, though. They leaned forward, slowly dragging their tongue along the underside of his cock, causing him to not only moan but also twitch in their hand. They started at the tip, teasingly letting their lips slide down his cock, flicking their tongue along the underside. He moved slightly in his sleep but hadn’t touched them yet, so they kept going. They dropped the back of their tongue, opening their throat, then deep-throated him a couple of times before slowly lifting their mouth off of his cock. Their eyes had never left his face, always watching him. With a smile on their lips, they straddled him, lining the head of his rock-hard cock with their entrance. You could hear them moan in delight as they descended on him completely. They ground their hips against his, holding onto the back of the chair behind him. They were careful, though, not rocking him too much, as they didn’t want to wake him. It wasn’t long before you could hear them cry out with their orgasm, but he’d come too. You weren’t sure how you knew; you just did. He never woke up. Once they came down from their high, they slipped off of him, then licked him clean before cleaning up themselves and crawling back into the bed to sleep. The tears had been streaming down your cheeks, and you were on your knees, sobbing again.

When you did wake, you could feel the tears you’d been crying in your sleep. You curled up into a ball and sobbed. When you were awake, it was the memories of when your personalities had lashed out at them. When you were asleep, it was the memories of what they’d done to him while he slept. 

It wasn’t fair. You were what was left now, and somehow, you had to deal not only with the memories of what they’d done but also find a way to pick up the pieces. Then, you got another idea.

I could call Cas, have him wipe their memories of me. They’d never remember what I’d done to them, how I treated them, the abuse I put them through. And they wouldn’t even know who I was. I never want to forget, though. That is my burden to bear. Would he do it, though?

At least you were sober enough to think a little clearer, even if you still felt slightly hungover from the night before. Your head was still throbbing, so you went and made some coffee, hoping it was the lack of caffeine that was giving you the migraine that didn’t seem to want to go away.

What if it was the other way around, and he wanted to make Cas take away my memories? Is that something that I’d be okay with? Is that fair to them, to him?

You were torn, and it only made your head hurt worse as your thoughts wouldn’t stop. Contemplating calling Cas was something you at least wanted to consider, even if it really wasn’t fair to anyone involved.

As you sat with your first cup of coffee, you thought again about contacting Crowley. He was the King of Hell, after all, and you had his number programmed into your phone. He’d helped the brothers with things in the past and you’d gotten his number out of Dean’s phone at one point in time.

Would I have to die in order to have those things done to me in hell? What would Crowley want as payment? How do I come back from this, from being a monster for so long?

Your thoughts were circular, ruminating on repeat. With all you’d cried within the last couple of days, you were a bit surprised when more slid down your cheeks. The pain in your heart and soul felt like more than you could even bear. 

I’m a monster…

----------------------------------------- Chapter 3 - Too Many Memories

Retribution Master List

Tag List: @jc-winchester @nancymcl

[misstycloud]

Patient care

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Yandere doctor x amnesiac fem reader

——————-

The white walls, slightly stained with old grime, were an unfulfilling view. Nothing interesting to look at, they didn't have any sort of art on them. Just simple, plain, white walls. The most stimulating on it would be the crack, but even that wasn't enough sustain her currently. It was hard, being stuck in one place without any sort of entertainment, with only your own thoughts to pass time. But those were also few in a way, that's what happens when you don't have anything to think of. No memory of a family outing, no memory of friends, no memory of doing things you like. Absolutely nothing, an empty mind. Memories were what makes you, you. They form you from youth to adolescent, to maturity. It's the experience. So what do you do if you don't have that? If you just plopped out as an adult and is excepted to live life out there.

That's how (Y/n)'s life currently was. She woke up one day in an unfamiliar room. One with the same plain walls she was presently staring at. At first she was scared and confused. How did she end up there? Then doctors showed up and told her she'd been in an accident, and she was lucky to survive. Her most urgent question had been, who was she? They'd looked at her with pity, and said that they were prepared that it might've happened. She asked what they meant and they responded by diagnosing her with dissociative amnesia. Well that would explain it. Why she couldn't remember a thing. Besides the inital confusion about her whereabouts, there was also an underlying turmoil around herself, her identity. It's usually normal to be disoriented after waking up from an accident, but she quickly realised she couldn't recall anything else.

(Y/n) had hoped the memories would come back gradually, after some time had passed. But sadly nothing came up and she continued laying in her room with no familiarity. Sometimes she wondered if she even had a family to begin with. Why else wouldn't they visit her in the hospital? Perhaps she was in bad terms with them and that the reason she never heard about anyone coming in, asking for her. Maybe she didn't have any friends either. It made her very lonely, spending the days almost completely by herself. At least the staff was nice, nurses and doctors would stop and speak with her, form time to time, to rid her of isolation. She was very thankful for it, they were sacrificing their own time of their busy schedule to help her. When she gets released she'll return and bring them gifts for taking such good care of her. Too bad the food wasn't as favourable, it lacked taste and the consistency was weird and left an uncomfortable feeling in her mouth. But she was saved from her misery by the doctor she was assigned, he would sometimes sneak her things from outside, and they definitely tasted better than the hospitals horrible cuisine.

Her doctor was a very kind to her and she enjoyed his company. It felt like he understood and really listens to her, when she explains her concerned thoughts. He didn't lack any playfulness either, despite being a medical professional trained to care for the most illfated people. It was a tough job, and she admired him for not losing the compassionate side when dealing with certain patients. She however noticed that he treated her alighly better than other patients. For example, she was the only one he risked sneaking food to. The medic also stayed and accompanied her the longest. The others he mostly treated and when he was done, left. But she suspected it connected to her amnesia. He just felt bad for her, that's all.

Speaking of, it appeared that it was time for her check-up. (Y/n) glanced over to the door as soon as she heard voices behind it, and when it opened her gaze landed on her doctor. His dark eyes seemed to sparkle in delight when they met her (e/c) ones, it was probably the lighting she tought. She observed when he finished his discussion with the colleague to his left, before entering the room and closing the door behind him. He smiled at her and she returned the gesture.

He approached her bed and sat on a chair next to it, so he was close to her.  Happily he greeted her and said.

"Hello, how are you feeling today, (Y/n)?"

"I'm good Dr. Harrt, I'm feeling more energetic with everyday."

"Yes. That is...it's good." Dr. Harrt put on a pleased expression on his handsome face. It turns out, Dr. Harrt is the youngest medical professional working in the hospital. He earned his degree at the age of 24, and has worked at this hospital for four years. People call him a genius, for his tributes and effort within the biomedical research. Adding to his popularity is his evident attractiveness. Many swoon over his tall, lean frame. The curly black hair looking healthy and soft, with those gentle brown eyes. Who wouldn't want to date him.

After writing whatever doctors do, on his clipboard, the youn man turned to his patient and explained. "You're doing well,-" (Y/n) perked up at this, Dr. Harrt put up a finger to stop her "-but I can't release you yet."

"What, why?" She'd hoped to get out of there soon. Turns out she's have to wait even lonnger.

"It's because of your muscles. "

"My...muscles?" What did her muscles have to do with it?

"Yes, it appears they won't heal very well, and it'll take time to get their strength back."

(Y/n) turned her head down in dismal. She began playing with her fingers in a nervous habit. "Um, how long will it take?"

He sighed. "It's hard to say, a few months at worst."

No, she didn't want to be stuck there for months. She already had a hard time being there for a few weeks, now she'd have to add months to her time. What is she going to do during that time? The books in the hospital were all aimed at children, and those that weren't had she already read or wasn't interested in.

Going outside was something she'd like, but Dr. Harrt said he didn't recommend it. Even though others told her they thought she'd be fine, but what could they do, Dr. Harrt was their superior and they weren't in charge of her treatment.

A soothing voice broke her line of thought. "Why are you in a hurry, huh? Where are you planning to head to, hehe?"

When (Y/n) thought about it, where would she even go? She didn't know where she lived, or any other place she could crash. Money was something she didn't have either, so no hotel. The young woman peered at her doctor through pieces of hair, he simply gave her an innocent smile. She sighs and chose to change the subject.

"Has..has anyone come asking about me?"

His expression changed into that of a pitying one. "No, sorry. No one has come by searching for you."

"Oh..okay."

Sighing, the man stood up and said. "Get some rest, dear. You'll need it." And then left, closing the door gently but not before sending her one last smile.

(Y/n) laid down and pulled the covers over her body, and tried to sleep. Too bad it didn't come to her like she wished. So she laid there and thought about what was to come.

In the hospital break room sat a handsome man, in front of him a cup of coffee. The steam could be seen rising up from it. He sipped slowly on the beverage while straining his eyes on the flat screen ahead of him. The reporter on the news channel was talking about a case.

"The police found multiple deceased people, they were all discovered buried in the forrest. After completing a DNA test, they were able to confirm all the victims were related."

"Awful, right?"

Turning around, he saw one of his colleagues, nurse Abby. He refocused his attention on the TV and replied in a monotone voice. "Yeah."

"The police suspected that one of the family members may have escaped, but after they found evidence of struggle, speculate they might not have survived after all. They have however, still not discovered a body."

“How can someone do that to other people? Disgusting.” Abby made a disgusted face at the atrocities shown on the screeen. What she didn’t notice was her companion’s dark gaze sweep over her form. He clicked his younger in annoyance and suggested.

“Maybe there’s a reason behind it. Don’t judge before you know the whole picture.”

“But they were people, a family. You can’t justify murder, like that!” She exclaimed, appalled at his suggestion.

“What if they were bad people, and deserved it.”

The nurse furrowed her eyebrows and stood by her claim. “No, you still can’t kill people for it. If they were bad you should just let them rot in jail or something.”

“Right…” Dr. Harrt gave up and let her win the argument. She wasn’t worth his time anyway, she wouldn’t understand his point of view. Feeling tension in the awkward silence, Abby decided to bring up his patient.

“Ahem, eh how is it going with your patient?”

“It’s going great. Why are you asking?” He raised an eyebrow at her sudden inquiries.

“No, I’m just curious. Actually now that I think about it, shouldn’t she be discharged soon?”

The doctor’s grip on the mug tightened in response. He replied with rigid manner. “No, she isn’t.”

“But I thought she’d be fine by now. She should be mostly healed, right?”

“She’s not quite ready.”

“No, really I think that-“

“Are you questioning my judgement?” He hissed “who is in charge of her, me or you?” The doctor fixed his alarming glare on her. Deep down, something in Abby knew that she shouldn’t challenge him further or she’ll regret it.

“No, sir. Sorry of course you know best.”

Apologising was probably the best course of action. “My break is almost over, so I should go now.” She excused herself and left the room, leaving the doctor grumbling by himself.

“Fucking nosy bitch.”

Dr. Harrt brought the cup to his lips and instantly put it back down in disappointment.The coffee had gone cold.

Walking down the dimly lot corridors, the young doctor greeted everyone he passed with a wave. It was night time and nearly all patients were asleep, the staff quietly checking that things are in order. Harrt made his way toward a certain patients room. His favourite little amnesiac. He was so happy she didn’t remember a thing. Not that she got hurt in the process though, but it was fruitful. It had to happen. All so he could have her. Finally.

Now she won’t run anymore. He absolutely hated when she looked at him in fear in her eyes, it made him feel like a monster. Which he of course wasn’t, he’d never hurt her! He just wanted to cherish and love her, it’s not like he was directly responsible for the accident.

Carefully opening the door as to not wake his darling, she was so adorable when she slept. Her chest rising and falling in time with each breath. Standing by her bed, the secret admirer adoringly stared at her sleeping face. He softly stoked her cheek, and proceeded to move to her patient IV. Then he reached down into his pocket and in is hand was a syringe. It was filled with a clear liquid, he let it run into her IV.

There, that should do it. He knows he can’t keep her in the hospital forever. But where would she even go if she was discharged, she doesn’t have any family anymore. Her friends have been long gone as well. He wouldn’t mind helping his parient out though.

Good that his home has room for one more.

——————

[granulesofsand]

I am a gatekeeper of the system who sent an ask in a bit ago expressing concern about signs of potential programming. I would like to add some additional information, because I must concede we may be in need of some recommendations. We do have a therapist, however she lacks training in RAMCOA, so I am beginning to wonder if we may need to seek someone who has that training to proceed safely.

Content warning for specific descriptions of potentially programmed behavior in the rest of this ask.

I was able to safely facilitate an attempt to make contact with the alter in question, by someone in the system who is mentally boundaried(?) enough to resist most passive influence and the like. The alter kept repeating two sentences in a monotone way: that she cannot "know" and cannot "remember."

The alter making contact with her first tried a safety-based approach, letting the alter know that we are safe and that it is safe for her to know things now. The alter heard her, but kept repeating herself. The alter making contact tried to distract her to see if she could get the alter to "snap out of it," but this was ignored. She tried directly contradicting the statements, which made the alter start to get agitated.

After allowing the alter to calm back down, the alter making contact decided to try redirecting this alter by telling her that the thing she was supposed to not know about was something else (an area of mathematics that our system has no interest in, has never learned, and will never have any reason to learn). As soon as she was convinced of this, the entire system felt something the host described as a layer of dissociation lifting.

I try to maintain an illusion of being an all-knowing, all-controlling authority to the rest of the system to discourage them from poking into things they are not ready to know. But I was genuinely surprised that this worked, and now I am questioning if it was safe to redirect her when in reality, I do not know precisely what this alter was meant to obscure from the rest of the system. I have "quarantined" her for now, while I figure out the safest way forward.

I would also like to add, in case it is relevant, that it is my understanding that we had already developed DID from non-organized CSA before the trafficking began, so I wonder if our system is atypical of both non-RAMCOA *and* RAMCOA systems... if our suspicions about this alter are correct in that she reflects some form of MC was attempted on us.

More so than anything else, I am wondering if you have any resources about the safest way for us to proceed. I do not know for sure if this alter was programmed, but at a minimum, I believe her robotic statements and the fact that the only way to successfully address them was redirection raise enough of a red flag to warrant caution.

Thank you for being a resource on this.

A More Helpful Response

🗝️🏷️ RAMCOA, programs, deprogramming, memory work, isolation, CSA

I apologize, I meant to send this response within an hour of the first, but my devices had other ideas.

The ordering is a mess. We have three main pieces of advice; one for memory work, one for kindness, and one for this alter in particular.Breaks always encouraged, you can skip parts that aren’t working at the moment, and you can take as much or as little of it as you want.

Programmed Alter

Yes, this is more clearly different. It is still possible that it is conditioning or a natural response, though it will not hurt to treat it as RAMCOA so long as you respect the need for time and trust required before memory work.

Loopholes are best for dire situations, yet can also serve to break down some of the initial noncooperation programs. It’s very good that you’ve gotten this alter to redirect her silence programs, and that creativity is the same force perps use now on your side.

Memory alteration programs are tough and often layered with several incidents of trauma. Allowing her to remember will be a great help to your system, but there may be memories viewers (or the holding alter herself) aren’t prepared to witness.

Lifting the Veil

One method of easing the weight is through changing the format of the memories. It’s convenient to have an innerworld, but this can be done with visualization or drawing as well.

We use a small movie theater setup. The projector sits at the entrance, opposite the screen, and opens like a box. I believe it was Alison Miller who recommended using the exit and return to daily life to define a clip.

Find the piece where the body gets into a car or notices behavioral shifts in perps. Fill in the gaps until you have a full sequence and an arrival home or the perps leave you, whatever these landmarks look like in your history.

Programmers often divvy up memories and programming lines to insure no singular alter holds too much information that could render programs defunct. We use the box so everyone can place their pieces inside. They can put in their copy and no longer remember their piece, they can duplicate it and keep one, anything that works for your system and systemmates. The doors are always open to the theater, so anyone can come or go without consequence.

You may find it safer to make it so only the alter who placed the memories can remove them, and this can be done by the same hypnotic process DID depends on; if you believe it and require it, it will be done. A therapist can help with this without much knowledge about RAMCOA or systems.

You don’t need to view the memories immediately. We only permit the contributors to view the final version, the only exception an archivist who can file away the clip for future use. You might have to stop and search for missing pieces as you watch. All the sights, sounds, and sensations should be accounted for.

Once you have enough of a movie to view it, play around with details to make it more tolerable. Observe scenes from the distance, in black and white, or as a stop-motion. No one has to watch it all in one sitting, and breaks are encouraged.

What This Does

The system members who do not hold pieces do not need to view the film. Goals with this exercise can be:

associating memories— to disempower programs, stop flashbacks, bring closure

increasing integration— to prevent time loss, skill variation, or dissociation (without fusion) by lowering barriers

fusing alters— to find wholeness, undo what programmers or abusers have done, allow trauma holding alters to rest

If your goal is integration, eventually more alters will have to view the movies. If it’s fusion, the alters who need to know will be those who are participating in the merge.

Discovering the mechanisms behind programming can take away the influence of the tied programs. Healing the trauma removes the hooks programs sink in to be effective. It’s not something to do fast, but rather alike to meeting strangers and trying to heal their trauma. It can be done, and you can find safety within your system.

If this alter is not programmed, associating the memories can still break conditioning and loosen holds. They may be the only programmed alter in the system, but there’s no way to know for certain.

Finding Programmed Alters

Body memories are particularly common in programmed survivors, so asking the void if anyone is responsible for aches and pains can locate unknown alters. If they say it is their job, ask why. If you reach a standstill or they refer to a boss, ask who has them do it.

Programmed alters can be very mean, cruel, or unresponsive. They are still members of the system, likely not initially different from any other new alter. There is trauma there, and that trauma has been interpreted for them to control them. Kindness, constant and noninvasive, is a powerful thing.

In the start, before memories or movies, define what your systemmates are to you. Find meaning in the differences between internal and external people, assemble them into a concept of what your system is for you. Then hold that true to programmed alters.

Treat them as they need to make them feel safe. Don’t fall into the shame they’ve been burdened with, they are not bad. You may find this alter or others have done things that violate your moral code inconceivably, and you must understand that they had to survive. Even if they act like they enjoy it, even if they shove every reason to hate them toward you. They are not bad. Even if they believe they are, they are not bad.

Fitting In

Your whole system may be co-opted by abusers, or just the one or a small subsection. Neither is odd, and you can label your system by your preferences. There will always be people who disagree, but a community exists because we are similar even when we are different.

You can work this out with time, but the main goal of deprogramming is freedom. You should worry less about the things you cannot change and more about current events.

Moving Forward

Look for evidence of contact with a group, including family members or old friends. Make sure no alter is reaching out and telling perps you are becoming aware. Know where you should be and record how time was spent to see if there are discrepancies.

You are allowed to believe your memories, and it is more helpful to act towards healing than shy away from them. Not every memory needs to be perfectly sensible. They are through the eyes of a child, or from a time of extreme distress. You can look for plausible explanations for implausible scenarios, but be careful to sit with memories to support the alters holding them.

Implausible might mean demons flying around the room, eyes in someone’s hair, vampire fangs on perps. These can and have been faked, and need not change beliefs on reality. I do not mean people in cloaks or maiming or blood. Those things are plausible, though you may have to adjust your worldview to accommodate them.

Perps are cruel and creative, but they are not all-powerful or benders of the impossible. You might not encounter these deceptions, and that is valid and preferable. But you still might, and you can be prepared if they do arise.

Resources

Here is a link to the Legion System’s English version Drive. There are books for survivors that I recommend, but only if you can consume material about others’ experiences without doubting your own.

Becoming Yourself, which is pushy for fusion and uncomfortable because of the tone, includes survivor stories in some detail. Safe Passage to Healing talks to systems like singlets and pushes at least constant co-consciousness, and has more explicit descriptions by survivors. Both are helpful, but neither are perfect. Take what you need, leave what you don’t.

Next Steps

You are on the path to recovering from this. I would recommend you don’t isolate alters unless they are a danger at the time. Inform this alter about rules for the system and for communicating safely with others.

She may need a space she can relax in, even if only slightly. Ask what she needs and find a place for her. If they aren’t triggering, include soft blankets and plush toys. Ask how old she is, what she thinks about your current living situation and what rules she’s still following. Feed her if she is hungry, keep her warm and comfortable. If she has to be isolated, consider giving her an option between her room and another safe place.

She might not talk anytime soon, but her barriers might be coming down hard. Some paints, inside or out, that she can use might be easier than speaking aloud.

Any therapist can be a RAMCOA therapist if they are understanding and willing to learn. You will be guinea pigs, but it is better than going it alone. A therapist who will not hear you is not a safe therapist.

I can dig up some conference dates and maybe connect them with other therapists in similar situations, if those would make you feel more secure. There are books for clinicians in that Drive, though still not perfect, and we can write up a doc with context we have our therapist as some are not for survivors. It’s your choice, and your therapy is yours.

We’ve got a preoccupation for the next week, but a cell phone should suffice for simpler communications. We will try to remain reachable, and will answer eventually as long we have internet.

[chalkeater]

What does being a fictive even mean, actually? Is it an actual identity, or something more akin to roleplay? Or am I misunderstanding it even more?

heyy! so while i can be super detailed about it ill try to keep it really simple. ill use some medical terminology but just note that im just using "DID" so you can google stuff after this ok?. skip to the bottom for a TLDR. i just want to be thorough in case youre curious.

have you ever heard of systems? if not have you ever heard of Dissociative identity disorder or DID?

if you dont know what it is we made an infographic on this last year! this will have all the basic info you need, including terms ill use immediately after this sentence

alters can have different "sources" for what the brain can base them off of sometimes.

in the medical world there is the word introject. the opposite of this is insourced. (these are a label/categorizations for a kind of alter to explain its origin- which is going to be part of an identity if one chooses to be public or identify with it. yknow. the nuance of labels)

Introject = an alter based off of an external source from the body/mind. this can be fictional characters or objects, animals.. or factual things like a real life plush, a family pet, or a real person. a famous example for "real person" introjects tend to be family members, friends, or abusers.

Insourced = not based on any external thing, source, media. for the most part. so it's like the brain's "oc" for the lack of a better word lol

NOW. i havent even gotten to fictives yet.

In the community. someone wanted to coin a word to differentiate between "fictional introject" and "factual introject" faster. SO! fictional introjects got coined as FICTIVES. and Factual introjects got coined as FACTIVES!

TL;DR - Fictives is the system community coined term to be the shortened version of "fictional introject"!!! so looking up fictional introject might get you results on google.

Fictives are related to SYSTEMS, NOT SINGLETS (Singlets = non-systems)

Further information on fictives as a person:

alters in systems are not roleplaying or kinning, but you might find the occassional system who will identify that way- but it's in no way roleplaying or pretending at all. every system is different. you meet one system then you MET one system LOL.

fictives are NOT to be confused with fictionkin! the communities have a long tie with each other though!!

its not roleplay. a fictive is just who they ARE. its like how you are YOU! You cant imagine what its like to be someone else. you never were BORN as someone else. you dig?

fictives can remember memories of the past or present of when another alter switches and isnt that fictive but thats not the fictive's memories. that's the other guy's memories from when they were fronting. make sense?

ANYWAY im not an educational blog so feel free to google this stuff! im in class LOL

heres more resources though if you want.

Plural Pride/The Plurality Playbook • Multiplicity FAQ • More than one

Fictives, Factives (you can probably find "professional" articles on these. i just dont have the time right now. you have google you can do it i trust)

[sysmedsaresexist]

Hey ~

It’s been so amazing seeing the positive change on this blog, we are so here for that kind of growth and energy!

We saw that you recently reconciled with @/sophieinwonderland, and we have a couple questions.

Are you okay with and support those who use “tulpamancy” language (a huge thing she defends)? Curious about this because we have seen many Buddhist POC systems express genuine concern with that language (not the practice, just the words “tulpa” and “tulpamancy”)

Are you okay with those who equate therians/nonhumans and the people who love them to zoophiles (another thing she has stood by which was incredibly triggering and offensive to us, a therian-heavy system).

Personally, we followed her for a long time then unfollowed after we saw someone else’s post which brought this stuff to light. We are just curious what your thoughts on this are!

(Also as far as we know she has shared some really harmful misinformation about dissociative disorders… specifically iirc that DID can form after childhood and trauma is not necessary for this disorder to form. Just letting you know in case you weren’t aware!)

- Starling

I kind of went back and forth on whether to reply to this, but ultimately decided that it would be for the best. I'm sure many of my followers are wondering the same thing and what it means.

The truth is, we're married now. I finally wooed her with my charm.

@sophieinwonderland just so you know that this is out here. I hope it's a fair response to both of us.

No, in all seriousness and honesty, I reached out to sophie because she had the largest audience and sway, and when you're so violently mean to each other, you develop a special bond. It's been... jeez, monthsss since I interacted with sophie directly. I don't know if Sophie will agree, but I think we had a habit of getting each other going, with more ridiculous posts on each side the longer the spats went on. I think the fact that we both left each other alone for so long was really good for both of us, and over that time, as much as sophie saw changes in me, I saw them in her. I found that when she wasn't being an inflammatory twot (/aff) and stayed away from the tulpa-language debate, I agreed more and more with some of her posts. She's really been doing good work with the stuff on reddit-- the RAMCOA deniers and fdc.

And what kind of person would I be if I didn't give her the same chance that she and her followers gave me?

Yeah, she's done some really shitty things, but so have I, just to different demographics (? Does that make sense??).

As well, reconciliation and interaction doesn't mean total support. I'm sure I have beliefs that sophie doesn't support. I'm sure sophie will reblog posts of mine that she agrees with, and skip the ones she doesn't like, and I'll do the same.

All that said, let's get a bit more specific.

The post linked in the ask. I am going to link it so that people can make their own informed decision. I think, though, that most of you reading this answer lived through all of that, experiencing each event first hand as it unfolded. Many people have issues with other events not listed. I can't cover everything. Again, interaction doesn't mean total support, and I can decide at any point to step back in support.

So.

Tulpamancy: I'm white as shit. I made my posts about the topic, and I reblogged everything I could in support of changing the language. I will continue to support changing language. This is a topic that is so much bigger than me, though. That's not to say I don't want to try and that I won't support efforts, but... I think the easiest way to explain this point is to use an example-- that it's not feasible to block and refuse to engage with people using the language. However, in those interactions, I can advocate where possible, and not interact with content I don't agree with.

Therians: I'm going to be super honest... I don't know what that is. I especially don't know how it relates to zoophiles. I do remember there being a lot of talk about this, I remember reading what people were saying and Sophie's response, but... I think the only thing I can pull specifically to mind was reading her response and going,

I really can't comment on this. I don't think that having sex with a therian is the same as having sex with an animal?? If you were hurt by something, obviously I support you.

Dissociative disorders: again, I've been watching her grow. I think she's been doing a lot more research as she's been battling fdc and it really shows. She made a post recently about whether DID could happen without trauma and I think I even agreed with it-- something about rare, fringe cases being inevitable in all things, and I was like, you know, I can agree with that. That's a good, happy medium. It's a far cry from what she used to say. I'm seeing a lot more respect about the topic and research, I see better advice to her followers. I want to give her a chance on this front.

[ausetkmt]

YourTango: If You’ve Been Keeping Your Childhood Trauma A Secret, You Need To Read This

You’ve kept your childhood trauma a secret out of shame and fear. There was no one safe to tell. Now, you don’t know who you can trust. If you open up, you’re afraid of being judged or punished. It’s a lonely way to live and bad for your mental health.

Childhood trauma is devastating, no matter what form it takes. It affects your self-esteem, trust, future relationships, and sense of safety in the world. And, no matter what you do to forget, the secrets haunt you every day.

You know some of the reasons you’ve kept secrets, but is there more? Plus, you wonder, are some of the things you’re struggling with caused by your secrets?

Yes, keeping secrets can cause psychological symptoms and problems. So, let’s talk about 6 reasons why you might be keeping your childhood trauma a secret, how secrets lead to psychological problems, and what you can do about it now.

You have your reasons for keeping your trauma a secret. Everyone is different and trauma uniquely affects each child. Yet, there are some common things.

They have to do with what you felt, what you believed about people and yourself, and the only way you knew to manage your trauma. Maybe you can relate to some of these 6 reasons for keeping trauma a secret.

RELATED: 5 Ways To Heal Your Childhood Trauma (So You Don't Have To Suffer Any Longer)

1. You wondered if it was your fault

If your trauma was a form of abuse or even a loss, you might feel it’s your fault.

Children often blame themselves when they have no other way to interpret what happened. Or, when you got yelled at and felt bad. Even if you lost a parent, you might think you made it happen because you needed too much or got angry.

It’s not true. None of it was your fault. But, you’re vulnerable as a child to what you’re told. And to your fantasies and misinterpretations of your trauma and early life.

Now you have a taunting self-critical voice in your head that tells you all kinds of negative things about yourself. That voice makes you feel bad.

If you were yelled at, called names, or criticized as a child, it’s the voice of the parent who picked on you. That voice lives inside you and makes you feel to blame for everything.

This is a terrible thing to live with.  It makes you close off to people. You can’t openly be yourself because you truly feel you have things to hide. Or that no one will like who you are.

When you live with such bad feelings, it’s hard not to feel shame. If you can’t be openly who you are, you can't open up about your trauma.

All you want to do is forget what happened. You don’t see any other choice.

2. You don’t want to remember

“Forgetting” or, at least detaching from the feelings you had in (and about) your trauma, is a typical reaction. It’s called dissociation. And it’s a way of protecting yourself during the traumatic experiences — to feel as if you weren’t there.

This kind of self-protection continues if you don’t get psychological help.

You might live a fairly detached emotional life. Maybe you even have OCD to control your feelings. Of course, you don’t want to remember.

Childhood trauma is too scary and the feelings are overwhelming. Especially when there is no one there to help you or understand the feelings you have. You were alone with it.

You try your best to push aside memories if they start to come back. What else can you do? When you convince yourself not to talk about it, then you are alone now too.

3. Remembering makes you relive it

One of the reasons you don’t want to think about it and try so hard not to, is that remembering makes you relive the trauma. Sometimes it comes back in flashbacks. You feel like you are there. Little and scared and helpless. It’s all real.

So, not only does the idea of telling your secret make you feel ashamed and afraid of humiliation. But, opening up your childhood trauma in any way makes you feel that it’s happening all over again. All the feelings flood back into it. It’s just too much.

You tell yourself, you can do it. Just push it away, don’t think about it, keep yourself busy. You’re convinced it should work. There isn’t any other way to deal with it. You keep telling yourself over and over, “It’s in the past. Isn’t it? Just move on.”

RELATED: The Common Phrase People With Unresolved Childhood Trauma Say Without Even Realizing It

4. You wonder if it is better to move on

You don’t want to open up your secrets. That’s too scary especially when thinking about it by yourself is overwhelming. The only thing that makes sense is to “forget about it” and move on.

You can’t think of any other way to deal with your childhood trauma. So you have to believe that just moving on is the only thing to do.

Yet, sometimes you still have flashbacks. or memories. Even symptoms of anxiety and depression. You feel socially anxious. It’s hard to relax and completely trust. That’s one reason you keep secrets. But, it’s also a difficult way to live. You can’t get close to anyone and it’s sometimes a lonely life.

But, the very thought of letting your secret out to anyone, makes you wonder who? You’re not sure if anyone is safe enough to trust. Who wouldn’t humiliate you? And, you don’t believe that anyone could understand.

5. You think no one would understand 

Childhood trauma makes it extremely difficult to trust. So, you’ve had to go it alone in most ways in your life. You were betrayed by the people you were supposed to trust, the ones who were supposed to take care of you. They didn’t understand. Far from it. Instead, they deeply hurt and emotionally scarred you.

Sometimes you think that no one you meet has suffered the way you have. Intellectually you know that other people have suffered trauma too. But, you don’t know anyone who has. Or, at least, no one has talked about it either. So, where would you find someone to understand? It seems virtually impossible.

And, what if you tried to talk to someone who hasn’t had trauma? Could they remotely “get” what you’ve gone through? How hard it is to open up?

Not believing anyone can understand makes you more lonely. Plus, if you’ve been hurt a lot since childhood, this only reinforces your conviction that keeping your secret is the only way to go. Yet, is it?

Here are some reasons why keeping secrets might not be in your best interest:

1. “Forgetting” doesn’t work

Remember. “Forgetting” is the very common psychological defense of dissociation, detachment, or numbing. Every traumatized person reacts this way. It’s the only way you can protect yourself when you’re being hurt or abused as a child. Especially when the ones who should be helping you hurt you instead.

You want to believe you can forget. Forgetting is your best attempt to keep your trauma a secret from yourself. You think, at least you want to believe, that if you don’t open it up in your mind, it will go away. Certainly, you wish it would. But, it doesn’t work. If you stop to think about it, you know that too.

You are still suffering.

RELATED: Experts Reveal The Most Common Childhood Complaint They Hear In Therapy

2. Secrets eat away at you

Your secrets are living in your symptoms. Eating away at you. You’ve tried your best to move on, but you still have flashbacks or nightmares. Intrusive thoughts and memories enter your mind. Even if you don’t realize it consciously, it’s true.

These secrets of your childhood trauma affect your life every day.

No one keeps a secret unless they feel it’s too awful to tell. And, childhood trauma is awful. That’s the truth. Childhood trauma leaves deep scars.

But, if you live with your trauma in secret, it affects you more. Those secrets eat away at you. They eat away at your self-esteem. Secrets make you feel worse about yourself because you think there’s some shame in telling. There’s not.

But, if you believe that, you can’t get help. Your symptoms continue, even if you try to forget.

3. Untreated trauma creates symptoms

The symptoms of trauma take many forms. You’ve tried to forget and go numb.

Yet, you might still experience persistent episodes of depression. Maybe an eating disorder. OCD is a frequent result of childhood trauma. Even unrelenting physical symptoms, such as gastrointestinal problems, can be the places where your childhood trauma lives.

You can’t go on forever in a state of numbness. Eventually, like novocaine or a sedative, it wears off. Something in you comes alive.

If you don’t have a conscious memory or flashback, you have anxiety or depression. Sometimes it can be really bad. Or your OCD takes over and gets worse. You might even feel panicky and not know why.

These are all forms of the psychological problems a secret begins to take. Yet, these are symptoms. And, underlying these symptoms are deeper scars.

The scars of childhood trauma affect your self-esteem and your trust in people. They're expressed in your difficulty forming close relationships. Even having the work or creative success you want. These scars hide away in your symptoms of depression, anxiety, panic, OCD, physical problems, or eating disorders.

But, these psychological symptoms are clues. They’re signals that your childhood trauma is trying to get your attention. That you need some help. And, keeping secrets makes it impossible to get them.

Secrets make you stay away from psychotherapy too. For childhood trauma, therapy can change your life.

What needs to be understood are the very particular ways your trauma is repeating itself in how you feel about yourself, your dreams, the critical voice in your head that creates your shame, and your fears of closeness and intimacy.

What is being played out is unique to you and your history, different for each traumatized child.

Think about it. Keeping secrets might have seemed the only way to go. Especially since you’ve been convinced you’ll be judged or hurt again. Or that no one will understand. But, there are experts in treating childhood trauma.

And, these experts do know about and understand the reasons for secrets and your distrust.

Where do you start? Look for a psychotherapist who specializes in childhood trauma. If you can, find an expert who also has psychoanalytic training. Why?

Because a psychoanalyst has the knowledge to get to the early roots of your trauma. You aren’t just living with symptoms. The symptoms are expressions of what happened to you.

Once you can take the risk and decide it’s best to tell your secrets to someone who understands, it's important to be in a therapy that gets to the roots of how your childhood trauma, earliest relationships, and history still affect your life.

You don’t have to be alone with the feelings you’re so afraid will all come flooding back.

You need kindness. Understanding. Help develop trust. A therapist who not only gets to the roots but will invite and be with any feelings you have, including your anger. There are therapists who can. If this isn’t happening, move on. In good therapy, telling your secrets and getting help will change your life.

RELATED: The Sad Reason Why Childhood Trauma Is Holding You Back As An Adult

Dr. Sandra Cohen is a Los Angeles-based psychologist and psychoanalyst who specializes in working with survivors of abuse and childhood trauma.

This article was originally published at Sandra E. Cohen's blog. Reprinted with permission from the author.