#negative stimming tw

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Ugh I love how the Streetkid Chris AU shows his parallels and differences to Kauri so well.

I wonder if Jake may be expecting Chris to be a little more like Kauri, and how that preconception alongside Chris being a little older and having his pill dependency vs seeing the "statue boy" in the rain will change things. Jake is very nonjudgmental so I think he'd quickly adjust to taking him how he comes, but this is a much more guarded Chris than he's used to. Plus Antoni is clearly worried about him being in the home.

Also, from Anon: please forgive me for storming into your asks so soon after you've posted already. but i am sobbing please write a continuation for streetkid chris (if you want to)

Streetkid Chris AU: One | Two | Three | Four

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CW: Brief references to dubcon, heavily internalized ableism, conditioned fear response, panic attack, meltdown with stimming that causes injury, head banging

The pills kick back in about halfway through Baldur fumbling through helping Kauri to create a bed from a pullout couch. He's had some water and a handful of crackers, in the kitchen. Kauri had pulled him into the living room and moved around the space like it was his own, pulling sheets out of a closet door Baldur hadn't even noticed yet, along with pillows that he dropped unceremoniously onto the floor before he told Baldur how to take off the couch cushions and then pull the folded-up mattress on its metal frame out. Like watching paper, he thought, that you've made snowflakes out of when you open it up.

The twinge of pain he feels when the thought comes to him makes him wince. He keeps smelling something in the oven that makes his mouth water for a familiar taste he can't remember. It's locked tight back behind the white lights in his mind, and Baldur tells his thoughts to swerve away as fast as they can, to make the pain stop threatening to take over.

He's lucky.

The pills are working.

His mind is moving slow, but it's listening to him at least. It's like syrup pouring out of a bottle onto a stack of pancakes, so slow your hand is shaking with impatience, waiting for the promised sweetness that doesn't come. He feels clouded over, wading through fog, but it's a comfortable way to be. It's being good, to be like this.

Like mornings spent lying in Sir's bed, staring upwards at the ceiling or maybe beyond it, without thinking anything at all.

It's easier, this way.

Safer.

"So, there you go," Kauri says, standing back with his hands on his hips. The couch has become a cozy bed, with a half-dozen pillows and four blankets piled up high. Baldur could sleep there for days, and as long as the pills kept coming, he wouldn't even notice he wasn't moving. "Will that work? We'll have to share, though, is that okay?"

Baldur swallows. "I-I don't, um-" No. No no no. Statue boy, he reminds himself. Good boys are statue boys. Silence is better than stammering, stillness is better than what I do. His fingers twitch, just once, and then the fog of the pills smothers his fears and presses them down. The prickling energy that bursts out of him when he's sober is safely held back. He pictures his racing mind running out of air, limbs slowing, lungs expanding just once more and then no longer. "I don't mind. I... don't like to sleep alone."

"Yeah." Kauri's face briefly goes strange, like it's been emptied-out of feeling. "Me neither. Never have. Alone is-"

"-bad," Baldur finishes, in a whisper. "No one wants you."

"Right. Yeah. They taught you that, too, huh?"

"No one wants you... then you're not real," Baldur says. He can feel his handler's hand heavy on the back of his neck, like a ghost breathing against his ear.

"... Shit. I guess even the worst shit was just part of the program, huh?" Kauri stares down at the couch-bed for one long moment of heavy silence, then he inhales sharply and laughs, empty and hollow. "We're just fucking dolls in the toy store for rich idiots to pull the legs off of, aren't we? All the same, come in the same boxes-... never mind. I'm having a weird day." He shakes himself like a dog shaking off water. "Just ignore me being weird, it happens sometimes."

"Yeah," Baldur murmurs. "Me, too. Happens... to me, too." Baldur hears an echo of someone screaming in his mind - maybe himself - but the stab of pain doesn't come. He manages to smother the memory before it can come together enough to hurt him.

Kauri takes a deep breath. "Okay, so. Weirdness steadfastly ignored, we'll just settle in and then when dinner is ready-"

The front door opens, and Baldur spins on his heels, hands slipping behind his back. Position One is thoughtless, effortless, instinctive. He always met Sir in Position One or Position Two, depending on the day. Kauri, though, doesn't slip into any position - he just smiles, wide blue eyes sparkling with a warmth Baldur has never seen in him before.

The man who walks inside isn't that much older than Baldur, but he's huge. Tall, and heavily muscled, built like the handlers who could pick Baldur up like a child and force him back against the wall or onto a table no matter how he kicked or fought, until he learned not to fight any longer. He has close-cropped ashy blond hair trending towards light brown, pale skin, and his own face lights up as soon as he sees Kauri, returning the sunshine looks they give each other.

It hurts.

Baldur's never had anyone look at him like that.

"Hey, Kauri," The man says, in a deep voice that sounds like the warm summer nights when Baldur sleeps out in the park and doesn't get cold at all. Then he looks over to Baldur, still standing in careful position, and some of the warmth fades. "Woah. Who's this?"

"Friend of mine," Kauri says, and he grabs Baldur by one arm and pulls him closer, careless of how he stumbles. Once they get close enough, Baldur can smell the tall man's cologne. It's a good smell, kind of woodsy. Not at all like Sir's, which would feel like it stuck inside of Baldur until it was all he could smell. "This is Chris."

"Hey, Chris," Jake says. His smile is back in place, but it's more polite. He holds out a hand, and after a delay, Baldur realizes he's supposed to shake and sticks his hand out. "I'm Jake Stanton."

Baldur catches the way his eyes drop, seeing the barcode on the inside of Baldur's left wrist. Nothing in his expression changes at all, but something of the fizzing tension in the air does. Baldur swallows around a tightness in his throat.

Those eyes are back on him-

Oh. Jake's eyes are blue, too. Like Kauri's but not like his at all.

"WRU, Facility 001, Designation Romantic 223499," Baldur says automatically, to the unspoken question he thinks he sees there.

"You don't have to do that here," Kauri says in a rush, putting a hand on Baldur's back. "It's not like that."

"It's... always like that," Baldur says. He thinks he sees interest in Jake's face, curiosity, and maybe that's who he'll have to give his body to, to earn dinner and the couch bed to sleep on. He can do that. As long as he keeps his mind untethered from his body, he can move his hips and arch his back and make all the sounds and drift inside of himself until it's over.

"Not here," Jake says, voice deep and gentle. He won't be so bad, Baldur thinks. He'll be slow about it, not like the ones who don't care if it hurts. He won't have to lie as hard to make it believable that he enjoys it. "You don't do that here." He turns back to Kauri, and it feels like light moves behind a cloud when his eyes are off of Baldur. "Where's Nat?"

"Up in her room," Kauri says, shrugging. "And Antoni-"

"Is here," The feline-eyed man says from the bottom of the stairs. Baldur blinks, then jumps - a half-second delayed. He hadn't even heard him come down, even though the stairs are creaky in such old houses. "I can talk to you about something?" Those dark eyes briefly rest on Baldur.

There's no warmth in them.

"Huh? What's up?"

Antoni pauses. "In my room, please, Jasha."

Baldur's heart chills. Even through the pleasant fog of pills, he can hear the coldness there. And he knows it's about him, he knows it. He's done something wrong, wrong enough to be talked about. Like handlers outside his door, talking about what he did wrong and what they'll do to make him sorry. He chokes on the fear of it - consequences hurt so much. He must have been caught swaying, or touching, or making sounds that are against his rules.

"... sure, Ant. Just a sec." Jake frowns. He leaves his sneakers on a mat by the door and follows Antoni up - the stairs creak when he walks up them. They're already talking in low voices that don't quite travel.

He hears Antoni's voice, a soft, Not sure it is a good idea for him to be here.

He did something wrong.

Suddenly, Baldur can barely breathe. His vision is blurs of color, shadow and light. His fingers twitch again, and this time they don't stop. His head is full of a crashing noise that even the pills can't hold back.

He's in trouble. He did something wrong. He's in trouble, and they'll come back down and ask, Do you know what you did, darlin'? And he'll have to guess, and he always guesses wrong.

The games are always rigged for him to lose.

You don't learn any other way, sweetheart.

His breath gets halfway down his throat and stops there. It's stuck, and he wishes he was so drunk he blacked out, or so high he slept for the next few days, until whatever he's done wrong blows over and they forget to punish him, or maybe just punish him but he doesn't remember it.

His heart beats so loud inside of him, blood rushing in his ears. His eyes go to the wall, and he can quiet the chaos inside him if he can get to it, but his feet are stuck right here to the floor. He can't. He can't, it's against his rules, he has to be good, be a statue boy, be silent be still but being still hurts so fucking much when he's scared-

Kauri isn't looking at him. He watches the two men go, thick eyebrows a little furrowed. "I wonder what that's about. Antoni can be so weird, sometimes, I swear-" He breaks off and turns, looking at Baldur. He must see something there. He must see the terror in wide green eyes, the white showing all around, in the way his fingers are shaking, how he can't quite stop bouncing on the balls of his feet with the need to get to a place he can curl up and hide, or hit his head on the wall, until the chaos quiets and he can think again.

The pills are supposed to stop this.

They don't.

"Chris?"

He flinches violently backwards when he realizes Kauri is right in front of him, has somehow moved without him seeing. Those long-fingered hands are warm, palms on either side of his face. Those big blue eyes are looking right at his, reflecting him there in Kauri's pupils. When he flinches, Kauri pulls away, and Baldur misses the warmth of touch the way he used to miss darkness when he lived always under white lights.

"Hey." Kauri's voice is soft, slow and gentle. "Hey. Chris, what's wrong? Talk to me?"

There aren't words. He can feel them, there are words, but they're trapped behind teeth on top of tongue. They shift, dipping beneath the surface before he can get his mouth around them. He can't use any of them at all. His hands move, shaking, to twist and pull at the hem of his shirt, but-

No-

Have to be still-

He can't.

He can't be still. He can't be the statue boy, the fear is too strong. And if he can't be still, he'll be in even worse trouble. It's a cycle, a loop of warm ocean water sucked up into the hurricane. It's ash blocking out the sun, killing all the dinosaurs. He remembers the dinosaurs. He remembers the asteroid hit the earth, and the planet was swept by fire burning everything that survived the strike. He remembers that his mind moves like objects in space, impossibly fast and dangerous, because it isn't allowed.

"Chris?" Kauri's swimming in and out of his awareness. He knows there are hands on him, leading him to the couch bed. He feels, distantly, the softness of pillows as his back rests against them. He knows as if staring from the top of a mountain that Kauri is speaking to him in a voice like the clouds rolling in far below.

He can hear other voices, too, but they don't make it through the haze of panic. It's derailed everything. The pills aren't helping, they're making it worse. He can sense the comforting warm blanket of being high just out of reach, and instead it's all terror, overwhelming, flooding the plain.

He knows his mouth is moving.

He can hear himself, tinny and small and from a distance too far to cover, saying, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, don't be mad, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to I didn't mean to I'm sorry, please don't be mad over and over again. He tries to be still. He hits his head on Kauri's shoulder and that strikes new terror, so he hits his head harder, then he bites - he buries teeth into skin that he only belatedly realizes isn't his when Kauri makes a sound of pain.

It's a cycle.

He's circling, he's a hurricane, his mind is dangerous and his body is wrong and it has to be stopped.

He can't stop.

He wails, half a scream that he tries to catch and pull back. The sound dips and drops, it becomes a low, wordless moan, over and over and over again. It rises from the person inside of him who used to exist before he signed his life away and they wrote a new him onto the body of the old one.

He used to be someone else.

He used to be someone better.

He used to make noises like this, before they made him stop. Before they made sure he knew that rocking - he's rocking, he feels himself sway forward and back, his fingers twisting and pulling at fabric, moving and moving to calm the rising chaos and violence inside of him - would lead to pain and fear. Before they taught him to take every pill he was given until his body was quiet and still and good for them, for the handlers for Sir for anyone who wants to fuck him or put a hand on his head and make him choke.

The thick clay shell they made him build up around himself, though, has gone brittle.

It shatters.

He rocks and rocks. He hears the sounds he is making like they belong to someone else. He feels tears, hot and burning as they track down his cheeks, cooling rapidly to drip onto his shirt, onto Kauri's shirt and neck when his face buries itself there. His sounds vibrate against Kauri's scarred collarbone. His fingers are gripped into Kauri's shirt now, holding so tight the threadbare fabric rips and his fingertips brush the heat of skin beneath. There are other voices besides Kauri's, but he doesn't listen to them, he can't listen to them or the fear will rise again.

Kauri is talking to him.

His chin is on Baldur's head, and he's talking, murmuring, "It's okay, it's okay, it's okay, I've got you, I've got you, honey, it's okay," over and over and over again. One hand is on the back of his neck, a gentle weight that starts him falling back down to earth.

He rocks with Baldur.

The hurricane starts to wear itself out, spinning and spinning but the wind dies down. He's falling out of the eye onto the ground. The noise inside his head is agony but it's agony he can hear over and around. He doesn't know how long it's been. The rocking is gentle, endless and soothing, and Kauri's other hand rubs up and down his back like-

His mother-

Someone he can't remember used to do when he did this, a long time ago.

"It's okay. You're okay. You're okay," Kauri whispers.

There are other voices, but Baldur can't hear them or he'll be a hurricane again. He keeps his thoughts on Kauri, on the rock of their bodies together, on the weight and warmth of someone holding on to him until he can come back down to earth.

The eruption stops, the flow of rivers bright orange and red and white with heat cooling to dark, solid, safe.

His bones stop burning, his head stops pounding with the noise inside of it.

Kauri is still rocking.

"I've got you," His low voice whispers, too deep for his delicate shape and size. "I've got you, Chris. Let it out, you're okay, I've got you. I've got you."

He struggles to remember how to make the feeling inside him into words, manages to whisper, " Don't-... don't go-"

"I won't," Kauri promises. His arms are tight and strong around Baldur's shaking, skinny body. "I won't. I'm right here. I'm right here."

"What the hell-" Jake's voice interrupts. "What the hell happened?"

"Why... why is he-" That's Antoni, who wanted to talk, who was talking to Jake about him. His voice is shaking, though, his accent thick and heavy. "Why he is yelling so loud-... you can make it stop? The-... screaming-"

Baldur stiffens.

Stop.

Silent.

Still.

Be good.

Good boys are statue boys, good boys-

The thought breaks apart when he hears Kauri's voice crack loud like a whip against the tile floor. "Probably because the two of you decided to go goddamn gossip. Get the fuck out of this room before I take a cast iron to your faces, you assholes."

"Shit." That's Jake, he thinks. Baldur hides against Kauri's neck until he can't possibly see their faces. The anger, the hate, how they'll be planning his punishment.

But then... footsteps.

They leave.

They go.

Because Kauri told them to.

"Let it out," Kauri murmurs, once they're alone again. "Let it out. Whatever you gotta do, you do it. I'm staying right here."

Baldur tightens his grip on Kauri's torn shirt and starts, finally, to cry. The last of the hurricane falls as tears when the wind dies, draining the terror from him to soak into Kauri's shirt.

"I, I bit you," He whispers, when the words are there. When throat and teeth and tongue work together, finally, to form them. "I'm sorry. I... I, I bit you-"

"No worries," Kauri says, right against his ear. "Didn't even draw blood. Trust me, you're not the first guy to bite - probably not even the tenth - and you won't be the last. But, just between us... I think you're probably my favorite."

Baldur starts to cry again.

This time, it's not a hurricane at all. It's summer showers, welcome warm rain soaking into a thirsty dried-out earth. He cries until he's emptied-out of the fear, until all that's left is hollow like cracked clay warming in the sun.

Like grass growing between dinosaur bones.

He used to know about that.

Someone who lived in his head did, anyway.

But he knows about it, too.

Baldur didn't.

But... Chris does.

-

[steviewashere]

If It Has to Happen, Let It

Rating: Teen and Up CW: Emetophobia, Vomiting, Panic/Anxiety Attack, Negative Stimming as a Form of Self-Harm/Self-Regulation Tags: Post-Canon, Established Relationship, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Sick Steve Harrington, Traumatized Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Has Migraines, Steve Harrington Has Emetophobia, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Cuddling, Steve Harrington Has Good Parents

Okay, I wrote this while enduring a migraine. So we'll see how good this actually is. But I couldn't shake this idea, so here it is. Also, this is based on experience and I have pretty debilitating migraines and emetophobia. I'm asking y'all to be kind about this, that's all. <3

Read On AO3

🤢—————🤢 Steve used to have normal, everyday headaches when he was younger. They’d last a few hours. Be kind of an annoyance, prickling him with an undercurrent of ache. Sometimes make it hard to focus on tasks at hand. But they weren’t life changing. They didn’t affect every aspect of his day to day life. They didn’t linger or take over or knock him down for the count. His headaches used to be normal.

Now they aren’t. They’re debilitating. Humiliating. All consuming.

It wasn’t the concussions that resulted in the migraines, surprisingly enough. Everybody seems to think that and they’re not wrong, not really. But his mom had them. And his dad had them. And his nana had them.

The migraines started out as being mainly genetic. It sucked, sure. They’d come and go. Once every few months, maybe. At most. Just for a day. Isolate him to his bedroom. Leave him to spread on his bed with an ice pack on his forehead. That sort of thing.

Then the concussions came. One after the other after the other. They got worse. Astronomically worse. It wasn’t just a day that the migraines would hang around. It was multiple days. It was an entire week. Even once, it was three weeks in a row. He was sensitive to everything, sometimes nothing. The smell of Robin’s perfume. The sound of Dustin’s voice. The lights inside Family Video, inside Scoops Ahoy, inside his own house. He’d hole away. Lay in the expanding darkness of his bedroom. Curtains closed. Bed stripped of his sheets. Ice on his head, under his head, wrapped around his neck. He’d sleep shirtless, sleep nude, sleep fully clothed—his body couldn’t regulate. Would barely get up because the world would swirl around him like he was standing in the eye of a hurricane.

Worst of the worst, though, was the nausea.

When he was little, he remembers his nana taking him out for his seventh birthday. Pancakes—Mickey Mouse shaped pancakes, topped with fruit and whipped cream and as much maple syrup as he wanted. He drank orange juice, bubbled the liquid with his straw, took bites of his nana’s egg salad, giggled and snickered and cried with joy. It was fun. A good day. And then no less than eight hours later, he couldn’t keep himself standing. Could only kneel, stripped to his dinosaur themed underwear, hair stringy to his head, his mom cooing softly in his ear—hurling and spewing and coughing on and off for hours. Until, eventually, he landed himself a pretty uncomfortable spot in the emergency room, IV in his vein, and tears on his cheeks.

He remembers the all consuming fear when his stomach would flip. When his mouth would begin to salivate and his throat would burn with the bile that came up through burps, and how his hands would shake. Remembered all the times between being seven and now where he’d kneel on the tile of his bathroom, head stuck inside his toilet bowl, clamping to the porcelain with his slick palms, heaving until there was nothing left to give. And then he’d hack some more, just to see if he was done. If it was over. If he could be relieved instead of walking on glass.

He’d ruined plenty of Pyrex bowls. Dirtied plenty of blankets. Stained several mattresses. He’s apologized through tears as his mom helped clean up the carpet in his bedroom. Let her pet his sweaty hair and say it was alright, even though he knew it wasn’t. Even though it would scare her when he’d dissolve into hysterics.

Steve doesn’t do nausea. He doesn’t do throwing up. He doesn’t even do burps. That’s how afraid he is.

The migraines don’t help. If anything, they make him anxious. Make him trapped inside his own body, shaking and breathing shallowly. Knobby knees and burning tears. Flapping his hands out at his sides as if the stupid movement could will the feeling away. Sometimes, when he’d get really upset and he couldn’t calm down, he’d take to slamming his closed fists over his thighs. Trying to distract himself with another sensation. Something else that should bother him. Steve would slam his palms into his chest. He’d claw at his stomach until he’d either bleed or tire himself out. Would tangle his fingers into his hair and pull, hard enough to leave long strands in his palms. He’d hurt and hurt and hurt until he could forget what it was like to have bile coat his throat.

And he knows, by all means does he know, that to any ordinary person he looks like a basket case. He knows that sometimes it seems like he’s overreacting. That he’s making something out of nothing. But he can’t help it. He can’t help the little freakouts or the rapid breathing or the sound of skin smacking against skin.

Sometimes he knows how to regulate. When he’s feeling even the slightest bit sick. Open a window, stick his head out and take several long gulps of cold night air. Stick himself under a near third degree burning hot shower. (Because his mom had said that hot water helps. Not this hot, but she doesn’t need to know.) He keeps a case of ginger ale. Has a new addiction to peppermint gum. Shoves his big head between his knees and just prays. He’ll say over and over in his head: “You will not throw up. You don’t need to throw up. You aren’t sick. You won’t throw up.” 

It’s all worked. Kept himself puke-free since sixth grade.

But now he gets migraines.

And today’s the worst one he’s ever had.

——— If he doesn’t open his eyes, he won’t throw up. Because if the light gets in his eyes, the pain will worsen. And if the pain worsens, he’ll throw up. But he won’t. Because he doesn’t do that.

It’s 9am on a Monday. He woke up nearly four hours ago, head throbbing, lights infuriating, and body aching. His sheets have been pulled away. And his blanket is tossed somewhere on the floor. Down to his underwear and nothing else. Very briefly, he considers stripping those off, too. He’s sweating, even though the A/C is on, even though his window is open, even though it’s something like forty-three degrees out.

He can’t take the smell of himself. Or the pillow under his head. Laundry detergent, sweat, and the lingering ghost of cologne. His stomach is churning like crazy. Every little movement makes his insides flare. And he thinks, at any moment, he’ll upchuck onto his mattress. Maybe he should go lay on the cold bathroom tiles, wrap himself around the base of the toilet.

I won’t throw up, he thinks behind the deep furrow of his eyebrows, I can’t throw up. I don’t need to. Don’t throw up, Steve.

He should get up. Get an icepack. Something to snack on. His medicine.

But if he stands up, he’ll be slammed by vertigo. If he’s dizzy, he’ll throw up. And if he throws up, he probably won’t stop. And then his heart will try to burst out of his chest and he’ll still be throwing up and then he’ll have a heart attack all by himself, but he’ll be covered in his own puke. He gently turns his head into his pillow, where the cold is running from him, and groans.

Something clatters to the ground downstairs. Followed by the thud of several footsteps. But he can’t get up. Vertigo means throwing up. I won’t throw up, I won’t throw up, he repeats, a mantra.

Then, all at once, his bedroom door is swung wide open and the bright amber light in the hallway is bleeding into his room. It’s lighting up the hand by his head, the hairs dangling over his eyes. He doesn’t bite back the whine that erupts from him. Somebody’s walking closer, their shadow overbearing and large over him. Their body heat like the lick of a freshly lit campfire. He’s burning in their orbit—crisping, boiling, ready to be eaten alive.

“Christ, Steve,” the person states. The person is Eddie, once he hears the voice back in his head. A familiar rasp in his voice. And that’s when Steve picks up on the scent of a recently lit cigarette. He kind of wants to reach up and strangle Eddie, choke him until he promises to never smoke again. Maybe this is how Robin feels about him, too. “It’s fucking freezing in here. Why is your window open?” He steps away towards the window, the light coming back full force. “You’ve got a shift today, y’know? Robin’s already there. Called me to come get you because you’re late and—“

“Shut up, Eddie,” Steve finally gets himself to grumble. It doesn’t have the bite he wants it to have. Weak and small and breaking. He opens his mouth again to add more, but his mouth begins to salivate. He shuts up, swallows and swallows and…It doesn’t work. His stomach clenches harshly and he whimpers, hand traveling down towards his overheated middle, digging into his soft flesh, nails sharp and biting. I won’t throw up. Don’t throw up.

Eddie heaves a disappointed sigh. “Dude, you have to go to work. I’m sorry if you didn’t get enough sleep, but you have to go.”

Steve’s chest rises and falls a little too quick. He can’t catch his breath. Can sense the tremor in his hand through the back of his neck. Too hot. Sweating. Drooling onto his pillow. Kind of wants to cry, but can’t do that. Can’t do that in front of Eddie—he won’t understand. Won’t be able to calm him down like his mom can or give him words of comfort like his dad sometimes does.

Instead of dignifying Eddie’s conversation with a response, Steve sits up hastily. Legs dangling over the edge of his mattress. Vision swimming. Tears prickle in the corners of his eyes. His stomach swoops deep, then sloshes up towards his lungs as if it’s trying to break free. The throbbing is back full force, pulsating and overwhelming. He can’t see, he can’t breathe, he can’t get himself to wade away the nausea. I won’t. I can’t throw up. I can’t. I can’t.

He groans, reaching up to the sides of his head, gripping himself harshly. Fingers in his hair, pulling and tugging and pulling and tugging. Head tucked towards his knees. Swallowing and swallowing and…He tugs as hard as he can on his hair, eliciting a loud whine from his throat.

The window doesn’t close. The curtains don’t even move. But Eddie does. His body swarming Steve, his heat engulfing him as if he’s a house on fire. Hands flittering out. “Steve? You okay?”

“Mi—Mi—“ Steve stutters before gagging. He cries through a quick exhale from his nose. He can’t make it all stop. His heart’s beating too fast. His chest hurts from how fast his breathing has gone. He can’t. He can’t.

“Sweetheart? Are you gonna be sick? I can get you to the bath—“

“No, no, no,” Steve rushes out. “Not gonna—Won’t throw up. Can’t.” He tries to take a breath through his mouth, but with his lips agape and his tongue working to make words, saliva floods out of him. The heat of his own spit warm on his thigh, it glistens in the little bit of light from the hallway. “Head,” he whimpers, “hurts.”

“Shit,” Eddie softly curses. He crouches down in front of Steve, his hands floating above his trembling knees. “It’s a migraine. Okay,” he whispers, “what can I do, sweetheart?”

Steve sobs. “I dunno,” he wetly murmurs. Another wave of nausea crashes over him and he leans forward with his next gag. He’s not going to throw up, but the more the pain increases and the more his stomach flips and the warmer he gets, he may just do the opposite. That thought alone makes him cry harder. He detangles his fingers from his hair, flaps his hands out in front of him like mimicking a bird, and then thrashes them down onto his thighs. In front of him, Eddie visibly winces. But he does it again, harder.

He can’t see that well, but notices the way Eddie’s hands scramble out to stop him. But he flinches away. Fisting his hands tighter, enough that his nails bite into his palms, and punches down on the surely forming bruises. “Steve, stop it. You’re hurting yourself, stop it,” Eddie scolds firmly. But Steve doesn’t. Eddie visibly is shaken up, rocking forward on his heels, hands stuck between actions, and his voice warbles when he speaks. “I think,” he states slowly, “we should get you to the bathroom. And you should go ahead and try to flush out your system—“

“No!” Steve yelps with a whine. “No, I don’t need’a—“ He takes a quick, shuddering breath. Chest caving in with his panic. His thighs are sore and his hands sting. But he slams down again. “—don’t wanna—“

“Stevie,” Eddie murmurs lowly, placating, “you’ll feel better if you let it out. I promise, sweetheart, you will feel better, okay? I’ll sit with you. Put a cold rag on your neck. I’ll—“

Steve’s saliva dribbles from his mouth again, more this time. His stomach gurgles. And it’s like somebody has an iron grip on his brain, squishing the organ between their fingers, toying with it like Play-Doh. I’m going to throw up, he realizes in panic. “Eds—Ed, ‘m gonna—Gonna—“

Gently, though purposefully, Eddie grabs Steve by the elbows. Half-walking, half-dragging them to Steve’s ensuite. He shoves them down in front of the open toilet bowl. And lays his left palm flat on the center of Steve’s back, wincing at the first jarring wet-heave that comes from the back of Steve’s throat.

He pets his palm up and down Steve’s spine. “Get it out, Stevie. I’m right here. You’ll be okay.”

With Eddie’s words and the soothing touch, Steve finally allows himself to expel. Bile burns through him. And he shakes through the first splatter into the toilet bowl’s water. He could never stand the smell, the sound, or the look of vomit. Yet here it is, sour and salty and yellow. Chunky and swirling and fresh. The next heave makes him start crying again, but he doesn’t care anymore. Doesn’t care about breaking down in front of Eddie because he now has to deal with this—the overwhelming anxiety that floods through him, out of him with each hurl. The rabid beating against his ribs and the gasps through sobs.

There’s so much coming out of him. Too much.

“Jesus,” Eddie mutters, “holy…You’re okay, Steve.” He leans across to the toilet paper dispenser for a few sheets. Folds it with one hand and wipes away at Steve’s face between short bursts of vomit. Barely draws his hand away before it starts up again.

Steve spits big globs of saliva-puke. Angles his head so Eddie can catch his eyes. Meekly says, “‘M sorry, Ed. ‘M sorry.”

“Shhh,” Eddie soothes. “Don’t apologize, sweetheart. You gotta do this, it’s alright.”

“Yucky,” Steve sighs. “’T’s…I hate this.” He closes his eyes as vertigo slams sideways at him, T-boned by the dizziness. Takes a burbling breath through his mouth.

“If you have more, let it out, Steve. It won’t do you any good to keep it in.”

He cries softly with his next exhale. “‘M sorry,” he keens. And then he’s convulsing forward with his next gag.

Time stretches, it feels like, for hours. His knees ache and his skin is cold and his hands are slipping with how wet the toilet bowl is from his sweat. Throat sore and stomach empty. But the malaise from gagging for so long lingers, making him dry-heave when there’s nothing left to give. He rests his forehead over his left forearm over the back of the toilet seat. Sniffs and keeps his eyes closed. Shaking through the last bit of it.

Distantly, the sound of the sink goes off next to him. He’s so out of it, he didn’t even realize that Eddie stood up and left him momentarily. Wishes he could leave this, too. Wishes he could step outside of his body and not experience this anymore, for the rest of his life, for the rest of time itself.

Eddie crouches down beside him again. Gently grasps him by the chin and pulls him up to be face to face. He runs the lukewarm rag over his chin, his lips, and under his nose. “Good job getting it out, Stevie,” he whispers, “how are you feeling now?”

“Tired,” Steve mumbles, “and gross and in pain.”

He gets a nod in return. “Okay,” Eddie mutters, “let me get your migraine things, alright? I’ll take you back to bed.”

Steve sighs. Closes his eyes in exhaustion. “‘M embarrassed, too.”

The rag and Eddie’s hand slowly comes off his face. The cloth is crumpled in Eddie’s palm when Steve glances. “Why’re you embarrassed, Stevie? It’s okay to throw up. It’s fine.”

He shrugs. “Just—“ And Steve looks down towards his lap. At the mottled bruises on his thighs, peeking out from his two day old underwear. The light scratch lines on the soft give of his belly. “—It’s stupid, isn’t it? I’m afraid of vomiting. Of vomit. I—I have a meltdown like a toddler when I feel like ‘m gonna puke and…and I get all hysterical and whiny and I sob like crazy. And I—I dunno. I was overreacting and I made you have to take care of me and it’s just…I’m just being dumb.”

“Hey,” Eddie says softly, that scolding edge back. “It’s not dumb, Steve. Vomiting is traumatic, I get it. And—Before you try and interrupt me—you didn’t make me help you. I helped you because I noticed that you were struggling. And had I not, you probably would’ve made a big mess in your room. I wasn’t going to just leave you in a state like that.”

“But it is stupid, Eds,” Steve urges, voice wavering. “It’s stupid because I’m a grown fucking adult. And I should be able to handle this. I should—“ The tears come back. “—Just fucking look at me. Crying, again. I’m so—“ He groans in frustration, fingers clenching into his palms, cutting them up again.

Gently, Eddie unfurls Steve’s hands. “Look at me, Steve.” He does. Fiercely, softly, Eddie continues, “You are sick right now. You didn’t feel good. You were scared. You were anxious. In no way, shape, or form were you stupid for reacting like this. Alright? Steve, you were overwhelmed with it all. I’m not going to judge you because you’re afraid of vomit. The only thing I’m concerned about is the hitting, but we can talk about that a different time, okay?”Eddie’s thumbs work tenderly into the backs of Steve’s hands. There’s a glimmer of protectiveness in his eyes and Steve latches onto it. Lets himself begin to believe that it’s actually okay. Even if his circumstances are concerning. “You wanna know a truly dumb fear?” Eddie murmurs lightly.

Steve almost wants to cry more with how caring Eddie is, but he pushes it to the side. Favors the distraction. “What?” He mumbles.

“I’m afraid of birds. And not them existing or being in my space or landing on my shoulders. I’m afraid of birds flying above me and pooping on my hair,” he states genuinely. Steve can’t help but snort, albeit weakly. “See? It’s kind of dumb, y’know? When have I ever cared about my fucking hair, Steve? Never, that’s when. Well, unless there are birds nearby.”

“I guess it is a little dumb,” Steve whispers.

“I know,” Eddie murmurs, grinning. “Vomit isn’t dumb, though. I promise, Stevie. We can talk about it later, if you want. Or never, if you prefer. Let me get you settled in bed and I’ll grab your stuff.”

He lets Eddie guide him back to bed. Fluff his pillow. Lay him supine. When he returns, he’s holding three ice packs, a bottle of prescription migraine medication, a plate of toast, and some water.

Steve watches in silent infatuation as Eddie lays it out all careful on his bedside table. As he tucks the icepacks where they need to go. Helps Steve take his medicine, eat, and drink. And almost begins crying again when Eddie rubs gentle circles on his chest.

“Lay with me?” He quietly asks.

Instead of making up some long winded excuse, Eddie immediately strips down to his t-shirt and boxers. He slides right next to Steve, not touching, but not too far away, either. Rolls over onto his side to face Steve and gently places his hand over the cold compress on his forehead. “This okay, baby?”

He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly as he tries to relax back into his pillows. “Yeah,” Steve whispers, “‘m just nauseous still.”

“Okay,” Eddie mutters, “I’ve got some Altoids in my jacket if you want them. Your chewing gum might agitate the migraine more.” He reaches over the side of the bed and fishes out the tin can of mints. Pinches three with his index finger and thumb. And requests, “Open your mouth, Stevie.”

Steve lets him place the mints on his tongue. He spreads them out so that one is in the center and the other two are on either side. “Will this help?” He asks around the Altoids. As if to mock him, a feeling of malaise washes over him. Immediately, he lays his hands over his stomach and digs his fingernails in.

“Hey, hey,” Eddie whispers urgently, abandoning the ice pack and grabbing Steve’s hands instead. Soothingly rubs his thumb up the back of his hands and down to the underside of his wrists, where his pulse is hot, fast, and concerning. “No more of that. No more making yourself hurt.”

“Don’t wanna be sick,” Steve pants, breathing heavy through his nose.

“You won’t be sick,” Eddie says like a promise. Somewhere deep within Steve he knows Eddie’s saving face, saying something false. But he can’t bring himself to come to that realization. It sounds like the voice in his head. I won’t throw up, he thinks in tandem. “Just keep your eyes closed, alright? I’ll keep the door closed. I didn’t shut the window. Focus on the icepacks for me, sweetheart.” Steve squeezes his eyes shut as tight as they’ll go, relenting when it only makes the migraine pulse alive. He tries to center the cold spots. “Where are they, Stevie?”

“My…My forehead.”

“That’s one,” Eddie whispers, “two more.”

“And my neck. And—“ He takes another deep breath. “And under my head,” he breathes out.

“Good,” Eddie praises softly. “That was good, baby.” He gently squeezes Steve’s palms. “Tell me what usually helps. Let me help you through this so that you don’t…I don’t like seeing you hurt yourself.”

Steve quietly whines. Digging back into the icepack underneath him. Breathing out the last little bits of nausea from that particular wave. But he knows it’ll be back. It’s how his migraines always are. “I like the cold air on me,” he confesses near silently. “And I need to make sure I have mints or gum in my mouth. And I—It’s stupid.”

“Nothing’s stupid, just tell me.”

He huffs. “I have to tell myself I won’t throw up. Like I need to hear that I won’t, I guess.”

Gentle and nimble fingers massage his hands and wrists. Small circles, little vertical stripes, horizontal strokes. “I’m getting the box fan from your parents’ room. And then we’ll just lay here. You won’t throw up, Stevie.” As Eddie gets up, he leans down and presses a chaste kiss to his cheek—even where it’s sallow and tacky.

There’s something in the way Eddie says it, nonchalant but not dismissive, that makes Steve believe he’s right. Something in the way he’s not disgusted or afraid of Steve’s everything after, something in that kiss like a vow. So he indulges. Lays with his eyes shut, the box fan eventually blowing the cold air from his window onto his too warm skin, and Eddie’s fingers massaging his hands. Every single time he tenses, Eddie soothes him with that same promise.

He keeps Steve away from harm. Squeezing his hands firmly when he tries to hit or scratch at himself. Pets his hair and coos softly in his ear. And holds the icepacks when Steve goes boneless with sleep, mouth agape and drooling, snuffling softly into the calm silence stretching between them.

At the end of the day, he’s still afraid of vomiting. It’s probably something he’ll never get over, something he’ll be challenged with for the rest of his life (or however long these migraines last). Though, Eddie doesn’t judge him. Doesn’t let the negative in. He’s braver with Eddie. Safer. Afraid, but comforted.

That’s all he could ask for while going through this.

🤢—————🤢

[temporaltourguide]

me rn

[devoursbears]

i do not know enough about intrusive thoughts but like . I nearly constantly am thinking about my ability to maim kill and die. I've never had serious suicidal ideadion, but. I'm showering and I think about how i could slam my body down and hit my head in just the right way to die. I see a knife and I picture what it would be like to like. Tear Into Meat and Flesh.

A small animal near me is in no danger at all but I have visions of how i could accidentally crush thm or how i have the power and strength to end their life and that I dont want to do that.

I don't know if they count as intrusive thoughts though because like. Its a thought exercise in texture and sensory input. I dont want to get hurt or hurt something else but its like deboning a chicken. Cracking bones and tearing meat and biting and biting and throwing is an experience. But that's not alive its not warm it doesnt bleed. This is good!!! I dont want to hurt things. But so often I'm given the thought of "what would it be like?"

[skateboardgoesvroom]

Carre headcanon #16 (angst)

!! Negative/Harmful stimming !!

One of Carre's negative stims is him slamming his back against the wall, except it isn't his back that he aims for, it's his wings. He also pulls on his wings, his tail, his ears and hair.

[wiltingretrospect]

im. AH.

brain is much having a ball with touretts and cane-needing while the body is not Normal or healthy but fine. i am gently shaking the brain

[gaystims]

Warnings for new stim bloggers

Expect to be stalked

Expect to have ever post you make analysed and questioned by said stalker(s)

Expect stalkers to harass you our of stimblr

Stoinks?

[cutiepieautistic]

Tw: ramble/vent about some of my struggles with being visibly autistic under the cut.

I may be an extrovert, but I'm also extremely fucking shy because of my autism and cptsd, I struggle to compliment other people or even just say hello to them(ESPECIALLY saying hello to them,or excuse me or anything of that nature. I can't even order for myself at places) I'm terrified of upsetting other people.

Also I have a speech impediment so I'm very nervous about talking infront of other people,and it's a huge strain on my body and brain to verbalize anyhow.

This follows into the digital space, I often still struggle to message people first/respond back to them/send asks or comment on things despite the fact that I fucking love to socialize,I'm embarrassed about how visibly autistic i am.

I don't like that other people can tell how "weird" i am. I spend a really long time mentally obsessing over making sure I don't say anything too awkward/out of pocket.

Because if I don't,I have a long history of being mistreated for being too different/not allistic. I've still got that social conditioning.

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Hi!!! I’m the same guy as the one that asked about the age range and autism :] just having like another question or so idk I forgot tbh.

Again, it’s so okay if you don’t wanna answer any of these!! I completely get it, all is well 🫶🫶

Would Dominic have any reaction to a reader that stims a lot?? Either verbally or physically; maybe his adoration will miau like a cat as a vocal stim frequently or flap their hands or clap as a physical stim as well?? Would he do anything now that he has that knowledge??

If his obsession suffered from OCD, how would he exploit that disorder?? (under the impression that he would exploit it.) Perhaps their ocd revolves around severe obsessions of having something seriously wrong with them, paranoia, or extreme fear of dirt or contamination??

Can he speak another language?? If his adoration was bilingual would he put genuine effort into learning their mother language??

Would he find it disrespectful if his obsession was eye contact adverse?? Actually what things does he find disrespectful like in general?? Does he do anything to correct that behavior??

Would he be okay with them being like incredibly and insanely cuddly and touchy?? I am autistic myself and when I go nonverbal but can still stand touch it’s how I communicate if that makes sense at all??

OKOK I swear that’s it for at least a while 😭😭 he really has me thinking about things jesus christ man. If there’s any spelling mistakes or something you don’t understand, I’m sorry :[[ German is my first language.

Have a great day or night!! I wasn’t expecting to write this much ngl🫶🫶

In case I ever have anything else I’ll put a raccoon at the end!! :]]

-🦝

TW: Discussions of Mental Health, Mentions of OCD, Dominic Being Dominic

Welcome back, my dear 🦝 Anon <3 ! Your English is perfect, thank you for all your wonderful questions ^^ ! To answer your inquiries:

♡ If Reader stims a lot, Dominic will, of course, try to find a way to make your stimming all about him; especially if you have a lot of physical/verbal stims. He'll try to be in close proximity to you so that, when you do stim, you're more likely to either catch/grab him (unintentionally, of course). If you're apologetic - even though it isn't your fault - Dominic will absolutely find a way to guilt you into feeling bad about it, even when his veneer tells you that it's fine, it happens.

♡ Guilt breeds indebtedness - that's what Dominic has discovered. So, fresh off the wave of panic you're feeling, he'll ask you to do something for him that will require you to stay longer, during which time he'll see if you physically stim again or not. If so, he refreshes the process. Just like printing money.

♡ If you verbally stim and, say, make some kind of animal noise, he'll absolutely try and romanticise it. If you meow, he'll call you "Kitty," giving you a warm smile and a good-natured laugh. If/when you become more comfortable around him, he'll start calling you "Mon Minou," - My Kitty. He's one Discord server away from calling you Kitten.

♡ If you suffer with OCD, he'll start manipulating the physical environment to trigger you. Never in his own house, though. You need someplace as your safe space, right?

♡ He'll never verbally trigger you himself, either; nor will he allow any triggers to exist in his house as to try and reduce the likelihood of you having a negative association with his abode if you experience an OCD urge whilst you're there, regardless of how severe it is.

♡ In fact, he'll do things to make it seem like he's the only one that can combat it; he'll check windows to make sure they're locked, he'll sweep up crumbs off the floor to clear the path for you, he'll even call up one of his many doctor 'friends' (acquaintances. People in high places he's fashioned into his elite social circle) to come and informally examine you, to tell you that you're fine.

♡ If it's paranoia you're afflicted with, he'll seize the opportunity to turn himself into the only person you can come to, the only person you don't feel silly or afraid to spill your deepest worries to.

♡ Anything that will make you gaze up at him with nothing less than gratitude.

♡ Dominic can speak two languages fluently - English and French. He can speak other European and Asian languages, too, but to a minimal degree and only enough to discuss business matters. However, if you speak another language aside from the two he already has at his disposal, he'll absolutely make sure to learn it fluently, if only to become one of the few/only people in the neighbourhood with whom you can feel truly connected with.

♡ For peak manipulation, he'll learn everything about your mother tongue after your first meeting and start speaking to you in it - fluently - the next time you meet, pretending to have been able to speak it for many years past.

♡ If you are eye contact adverse, he'll try not to take it personally. But, knowing Dominic, that is a feat in and of itself. He values being able to exert power over others, and one of his main methods of doing so is unwavering eye contact. So, really, you're managing to inadvertently protect yourself from Dominic's Medusa stare.

♡ Behaviours Dominic views as 'disrespectful' would be signs dismissiveness towards him. Dominic is used to being the centre of attention in every environment he's in, so to have you, the object of his every desire, not paying attention to him is...a blow to his ego, to say the least. A metal rod to the backbone of his entire identity.

♡ Dominic will make quick work of ‘correcting’ your behaviour: standing so that it is only him in your direct line of sight; coming in close proximity so you can’t be ignorant to his presence; and, if he's bold enough, taking your chin between his fingers and making you look at up him.

♡ If you're very touchy-feely, Dominic goes absolutely feral; he can't believe he gets to have you touch him without: a.) having to initiate it, and b.) having to hide it. After all, it's a by-product of your mental health - it's beyond your control as much as it is his!

♡ He'll take full advantage of this, too, offering his arm for you to hang onto, his hand to hold, his chest to hide your face in. And all the while, all he's thinking of is how nice it feels not only to have you so close to him, but also how he can use this as an excuse to keep you close in the future.

Masterlist Yandere AI Masterlist Masterpost

AO3 Wattpad Tumblr Backup Account

[pumpkzsafeplace]

Do u have any advice on dealing with impure regression without a CG ? Is pretty sucky recently :/ <3

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

hihi lil bug’ 🌼 (tw/ trauma)

oh i’m so sorry to hear that love :(

i understand how hard it is, i go through the same thing sometimes, especially after therapy <3.

these are tips that help me:

-> going into a small yet comfortable space: sometimes i create my own little dens, sometimes i just sit in the bathroom for a while, sometimes i’ll make a little blanket nest to feel secure in.

-> music! music! music!: i find that music helps stim my mind a little, find a category you like that comforts you & use that to help fight out those thoughts. for me it’s country <3.

-> do small & rewarding tasks: i’ll do small tasks such as eating a piece of fruit, drinking water, cleaning up the table, just small things to give myself positive re-enforcement.

-> comfort toys/blankets: use these to help ground your emotions & protect yourself in a way. for me, it’s my yellow blankie- i have to have it on me when going through impure regression, it helps protect me from the nasty world.

-> activities: i use this for bad meltdowns or bpd episodes too. it’s basically where you use an activity such as writing or painting or colouring to try and rid it from your brain and onto paper. with impure regression, i find that sometimes finger painting helps as it’s both sensory & stimulating.

-> rewards! rewards! rewards!: try to reward anything and practically everything, use positive words instead of negative ones. talk to yourself in third person & just be kind to yourself.

-> movies & tv: watch uplifting cartoons or movies, for me childhood shows such as: tom & jerry, scooby doo, garfield help me but yours can be whatever you like.

also remember that you’re not bad, none of it was your fault & you will get through this. remember that it’s a marathon not a sprint & we learn as we grow <3

and i’m so so proud of you! no matter what <3

i hope this helped,

- 🍰

[manicplank]

So your 4 years free of Self harm right? I was just wondering if you could tell a teen friend of yours on how to stop and prevent self harm? Hehe :[

- The chaotic Grimlen you know your moots with

small TW for this one

answering this as an ask, just in case other people need to hear advice like this. (if you're not comfortable with it, lmk and I'll take it down and dm you the tips instead.)

So it's hard for me to put it into words but I'll try my best!

My best tip is to find a completely different coping skill. Find something that brings comfort and releases endorphins/dopamine. Stims help a LOT!!! My favorite is to rub a soft blanket until my hand tingles. I also just feel things in my hand (example: I have a fidget cube that I don't use often, but I'll just kind of play with it absently and feel the shape).

CRYING IS THE BEST THING YOU CAN DO!!! Crying is the best way to release negative emotions! Don't be afraid to sob into a pillow. It seems bad, but it's actually a REALLY good coping skill.

I've gotten to a point where when I'm having a meltdown or breakdown, I don't even consider SH. It took a while for me to get there.

For me, SH was temporary relief but invoked more stress anxiety afterward, so keep in mind that it absolutely makes things worse!!! I still look at my scars with regret.

Whatever you're going through WILL get better! It always will, and it always does! I know that sounds cheesy, and everybody says it, but it's true! If I could go back and tell that to my 14 year old self, I think she'd be happy.

It's okay to not be okay. Just remember to take care of yourself. Finding comfort when you're feeling down is the best thing you can do. Whether it be a blanket, a stuffed animal, or a person, it helps so so so much!!!

Almost baby yourself in a way. When people cry, especially with meltdowns or breakdowns, they revert to a childish state of mind, often wanting to be held, comforted, etc. Thing is, it isn't childish. It's normal.

Don't judge yourself when you're upset. Don't judge yourself for crying. You're gonna think all sorts of bad things about yourself, but don't believe it!

Oh, and when you cry a lot, remember to drink a lot of water! If your face gets chapped from rubbing your tears, Vaseline will help that without burning your dry skin. Another thing I like to do after a good cry is use an ice pack on my face. It's soooo soothing.

This was a super long read, but I hope it helps!

[celabi]

I feel like I should put a TW here but I don't know what terms to put specifically so I'll just say I talk a lot about the negative aspects to autistic special interests (specifically really intense ones since I feel like special interests don't get shown in this sort of light much even though it is absolutely an experience that comes with autism?) , mentions of dizzy spells, sleep deprivation, fainting, lack of eating (not intentional/not eating disorder related), overall bad living habits, meltdown mentions, minor mentions of self injurious self-soothing stims, honestly near the end this just becomes a word vomit of me obsessing over Scara with an autistic reader in general near the end because genshin and this man specifically have an absolute chokehold on my poor weak autistic ass and 90% may or may not be my personal experience lmao bye- I probably missed some TWs but like just know there's a lot- I don't know I am going insane lmao

Okay so I know the consensus headcanon wise with scummy Scara is that when it comes to the reader doing things or asking for things his spine is essentially the equivalent of a wet tissue some left on a counter and forgotten about but like- What if he were in a scenario where the reader doing whatever they want was an active detriment to their own health?

Like the main idea in my head since it's an issue I myself suffer with really greatly is like what if he was with an autistic reader who experiences extremely intense special interests and forgets to perform basic tasks like eating, showering or even sleeping as a result of their interest being so intense and unmanaged? Cause it's like on one end bro wants to be supportive towards them and their interest, especially if like they've mentioned that they bring up the thing so much because they're autistic and it's their special interest, no way in hell is bro gonna skip the chance to be seen as an ally to the reader in that sense. Bro would probably yell at the fucking sun like an absolute mad man for making everything so bright and overstimulating if his poor darling ended up being overloaded by it and had a meltdown- But on the other he's watching them develop intense dizzy spells and like seeing them struggle to take two steps to the couch or to a chair while dazed as hell and whenever it's brought up they're just "Oh it's fine, I was just up till 6 in the morning last night because I was doing something related to my interest-". Or like he'll ask them when the last time they ate a proper meal was and they'll just "Oh I forgot I had to do that" or "Well I ate a chocolate bar like a day ago so that should be fine right?" And bro is just internally panicking like "No that is not fine how are you even alive?????"

And it's like he can't just cut the interest out completely since it's basically integral for the reader to have their special interest fix daily otherwise it can be really detrimental to them mentally and he doesn't wanna put them through that distress but like it's not like he would be able to like introduce them to a healthier routine either since like Motherfucker does it look like he knows what a healthy routine is?

Like bro is literally just out here like

"Babe I love you and I'm glad you're passionate about something but please, please go to sleep it's almost 7 in the morning I'm worried" he says knowing full well he was probably playing Valorant or something and would probably end up pulling an all nighter- Don't question how he knows they were up, it's definitely not like he's monitoring them through some cameras he managed to set up in their room

"Sweetie please tell me you ate something yesterday- Wait what do you mean you skipped dinner last night???? No a packet of chips doesn't count, You're lucky I happened to bring some extra leftovers" yes he probably invited himself over to make them a proper meal tailored to their preferences after this 🥰

The reader has an incident where they end up fainting while doing basically nothing cause their body was just done and Scara's immediately invited himself over for the week just to make sure they don't have any other complications or episodes- Probably even offers to bathe with them just in case they end up fainting while in the bath or shower-

Also not related to the health negligence but still on the topic of him with an autistic reader I love the idea of him letting the reader like scratch and claw at his arm (he doesn't care since he already does it himself) whenever they're experiencing a meltdown just so they can like get the "self-soothing" from it without them doing it to themselves- Although he probably struggles with giving them space when they need it- Also bro probably feels so fucking bad in the early days of like learning how to help them out when they're having a meltdown when he finds out him constantly asking questions about what happened made it worse for them since they can't physically speak in that state and asking questions just draws their attention to that and makes them feel even more helpless and overstimmed than before- He had his heart in the right place though :(

And God forbid if anyone makes an offhand comment about the reader acting a little "weird " socially bro has a whole "Uhm actually they're autistic you dick-" essay ready to go even if the person was nice about it- Qnd God forbid they did mean to mock them, bro is immediately on offensive mode even though he'll probably end up getting his own ass beat-

He probably doesn't care if he has to help them cut their own food because they struggle with the actual motor function required to do it properly- He'll happily do it for them- If they're in public and he has to do it he doesn't care, if anyone wants to give him or god forbid his darling weird looks then they can mind their own fucking business- Maybe he'll have to remember that person for later, just to make sure they get the memo-

ALSO assuming he's also autistic (hahaha not me projecting myself on him at all lmao) the dynamic is just the "Me and the autistic bad bitch I pulled by also being autistic-"

I don't even know if this is comprehensible or if I've just gone insane lmao- I nearly fainted at work yesterday because I stupidly stayed up till 4 in the morning playing Genshin because I have yet to manage my intense special interest towards it yet and my brain is scrambled to all hell- No thoughts, head empty, Only Genshin and Scara with his autistic bad bitch reader-

Also tried to make this open for anyone else who has autism too but it's probably really heavily injected with my own personal experience because I don't know how else to like talk about those things so like- I tried to make it open but it's difficult-

👀👀👀👀 wow I loved this so much it’s so interesting <3333 he just he just he just 🥹🥹🥹 trying to help reader while also trying to help himself r ahhhhh “bae go to sleep it’s 3 am” but he’s also awake and can’t sleep ahh in love. He’s always reminding you to do things he knows you would have looked past on, like showering and sleeping , and he’s no cook, but will whip up 5 course meals when he knows you haven’t been eating 🥺🥺

[phantomram-b00]

Been wanting to do this for sometime so here are some of my headcanon for Autistic Aziraphale.

Please note that Autism is a spectrum and that everyone’s have a different experience because some of these are hc are based on experiences I have as an autistic person or maybe other might’ve too. So please be mindful, but hope you guys enjoy and feel free to ask any questions. (I love this gif)

Headcanon 1:

Aziraphale isn’t comfortable with crowds or at the very least crowds that might be noisy or isn’t his usually spaces or familiar with (I.e his bookshop, Give me coffee or give me death, etc) so he usually just wouldn’t want to go or if he does try it, he’ll bring his yellow Walkman Crowley got him so he can listen to music since music calm him down.

Headcanon 2:

He’s the type to want to listen to any other songs to not get out the comfort zone so if he does, he would have to listen to them twice or three times in order to decide if he like the song or not. (Idk if this one odd let me explain, it something I do since I don’t like to listen to different songs that isn’t in my comfort zone let alone song that aren’t my usual so if I did listen to it I would have to listen to them fully two or three times to see if I like the lyric, rhyme and beat. Just to make sure it not too loud, repetitive, or fits in my comfort zone for me. But also the lyric the factor since I like interpreting songs, probably why I like The Crane’s wives for example or even Laufey sm.)

Headcanon 3:

Hardcover > Paperback because he likes the feeling of the hardcover then he does with paperbacks. But also he feels the texture is better. Hence why most of the books in his bookshop are hardcovers.

Headcanon 4:

He does have specific food textures he doesn’t typically like. Like bananas, if the bread is too flakey, rice is too hard, some sandwiches or eggs. So he stays away from it and stick to his safe foods like sushi, pears, cakes.

Headcanon 5:

Crowley love it when Aziraphale hyperfixates and talk about his favorite book he reading because it fill him with love to see that Aziraphale find something he loves. It actually took Aziraphale some time since heaven would often interrupts, ignore or blatantly brush him off to cut it out leaving Aziraphale to feel insecure about his special interest. Ofc it also toke meeting mortals like him to get him to open up so when Crowley first heard him hyperfixate it made him happy. Because that how Aziraphale in a sense show trust in him and himself to open up.

Headcanon 6:

Aziraphale likes to stim! I think I kinda dip my toes in it in some post from before but I do believe that he stims. Whether he hums a tone, wiggles or etc. he also started doing this after time passed because again heaven and also some mortal look down on this. But with the comfort of his bookshop, Crowley and also meeting understanding mortal he start to feel more comfortable. Granted he still try to hide it due to masking and to this day still mask but once he with Crowley or in the comfort of his home he stims.

And that really about it for hc today

Me rambling in 3…..2…….1 (tw: ableism)

And that’s pretty much concludes it, I might do this again as it fun. Headcanon is my favorite thing as well as when it comes to autistic headcanon. Autistic rep has been… not the best, granted I haven’t watch much tv shows other than ofmd, good omens, and more so I’m not sure if they got better, I don’t know if I’ll talk about that aspect of negative reps but all say, they have harmful impact as I have a family member that will joke “when will I see numbers” which…sure it a joke but…. I can’t help but feel bad. So doing this and seeing positive rep or seeing autistic/adhd coded characters make me happy!

This is fun in so many ways, mostly because as shown in my past post I relate to aziraphale. Still don’t know how I feel about that but regardless I love his character, his flaws, everything! And I see how he autistic coded in my eyes so it makes me almost relate to him even more. And I’ve been wanting to show my personal headcanon for a while just I thought now would be the best day. Especially as this Good Omens brainrot is alive and well among my other brainrot. I do hope you guys enjoy this let me know if you wanna hear more or if you have your own personal hc that you want to share. And hope you guys are having a good day with how bizarre 2024 is and hope you’re also having fun ghostly pals.

Here a Aziracrow/ineffable husbands/spouse/wives gif:

[lixiehugs]

dohee profile

tw : mentions of bullying

BASICS !!

stage name : dohee (hangul: 도희) birth name : wang dohee (hangul: 왕도희) english name : dina wang nicknames : dodo, do, doidoi, doi, hee, doing

birth date : october 8th, 2002 zodiac : libra birthplace : seoul, south korea hometown : boston, usa

ethnicity : korean nationality : south korean languages : korean (100% — native), english (90% — fluent), mandarin chinese (15% — beginner)

PHYSICAL !!

height : 178 cm or 5'10 weight : 54 kg or 118 lbs blood type : b

eye color : brown natural hair : brown, wavy

body modifications : 10 piercings, 2 tattoos face claim : wekimeki lua vocal claim : aespa karina/nmixx sullyoon rap claim : aespa karina

CAREER !!

agencies : hybe labels (2017 - present) training period(s) : 2017 - 2019 group(s) : tomorrow x together subunit(s) : n/a positions : maknae

individual fandom : dodos (after the bird and the similarities to her name) representative emoji : 🦤 (dodo because it is one of her nicknames) social media : @/www.dohee.com on instagram and @/txt_members on twitter

best known for : being the female member of txt. being an autistic kpop idol. her mental health//disabilities representation. her ALWAYS being on beat when dancing. fantastic freestyle dance. being an ace.

PERSONAL !!

mbti : intj-t

positive traits : bubbly. very fun and nice. silly. very loyal. very organised. absolutely adorable. very honest. quite serious but can understand some jokes/sarcasm. funny just by existing. independent (most of the time). very genuine and puts her soul into everything she does.

negative traits : gets attached easily. no concept of time (which causes her to overwork herself). gets angry quite easily but tries to hide it. masks her emotions a lot. has difficulty with change and new environments (to do with autism).

habits : hand flapping. light stomping when excited. rocking. other tics. imitating sounds/words she hears. dinosaur hands. vocal and physical stimming. tapping things. smacking things. stabbing her nails into her palm when stressed. can’t hold eye contact for longer than a few seconds. needing to touch new things and either rubbing it because it feels nice or visibly recoiling. blinking deeply/repetitively.

hobbies : listening to music. dancing! gaming. reading + writing. producing music. painting. crocheting. doing anything to do with art. going shopping. doing everyone’s hair + makeup. going to the gym (sometimes).

BACKSTORY !!

wang dohee was born on october 8th, 2002 to a korean mother and korean father. her mother, wang rina (born 1973) is a volunteer worker for homeless shelters around seoul. her father, wang eungyeol (born 1970) is a software engineer currently working in seoul, south korea.

dohee was born in seoul, south korea as the first child in her family. the pregnancy was very rough for her mother, so despite wanting to have more children, dohee remained an only child. only having one child to focus on, dohee became very close with her parents. she considered them her best friends all throughout her school years and was always happy to come home to them at the end of the day. when dohee had to move out to become a trainee, she was very homesick and missed her parents so much even though she would still see them every weekend and they were not even an hour away.

when dohee was two years old, her family moved to boston, usa. they lived there until dohee turned eleven, as her parents were worried about her deteriorating korean skills. dohee excelled at her korean secondary school, being especially good at the sciences and maths, her arts grades were also superb. dohee graduated two years early, skipping both her sixth and ninth grade years. dohee had trouble making friends and experienced some bullying in secondary school due to many issues. because of this, her parents wanted her to explore some of her interests outside of school, thus leading to her joining a local dance crew in january 2014.

FACTS !!

dohee became a trainee in august of 2017.

she used to be able to speak better english than korean but since moving back, that has changed. 

her parents can speak english well, but dohee is better. 

after moving back to korea, dohee struggled to make friends and had some bullying issues. so, her parents wanted her to explore her interests outside of school, thus allowing her to join a local dance crew in january 2014.

this dance crew entered lots of competitions where dohee could compete in group routines and as a soloist. this also gave her the chance to try out many different styles of dance. 

at one of their competitions in july 2017, dohee was scouted by a bighit employee for her hiphop solo.

her favorite styles of dance are hiphop and modern.

dohee is also quite flexible, but she rarely shows off her skills. 

dohee is ambidextrous. 

she is musically gifted/a musical genius; having perfect pitch, the ability to sight read, and being able to play many different instruments.

her best instrument is piano, but she is getting better at the flute. 

dohee was diagnosed with autism and ocd when she was four years old after her parents grew concerned about some behavioral patterns. 

she does not have any medication for her autism. she has a medication for her ocd which she takes daily.

due to her neurodivergence, dohee has a near photographic memory. she can remember almost any song she’s ever heard, even if it’s for the first time, she can remember any face or name of any person she’s ever met, she is also great with naming movies and tv shows based off of theme songs, casts, quotes, screenshots, etc.

because of her dance background and partly because of her autism, dohee has an insane ability of always being on time while dancing/singing. if a song starts randomly in the middle, she can pick up the choreography and lyrics instantly. 

her reaction time is also wild!! (like that one video of yeonjun dancing immediately after song starts)

also due to her autism, dohee is a very fast talker. it is natural for her; she’s been like this since she was learning how to talk. 

with this ability, she was able to become a very skilled rapper.

her favorite colors are pink and blue.

she loves playing minecraft!!!

she also loves story and puzzle-type games.

dohee is a cat person.

her favorite kpop artists are hyunA, seventeen, red velvet, taeyeon, mamamoo, and nct 127.

her favorite western artists are sabrina carpenter, lana del rey, madison beer, selena gomez, and cavetown.

her favorite movie is the lion king. 

dohee is a huge nerd. 

she loves the harry potter books. 

her favorite season is winter. 

she loves playing in the snow!!

dohee is very in-touch with her inner child. 

dohee has had an emotional support cat since 2013. she has a somali/fox cat. her name is kyongi!

dohee also has an official service dog which she takes everywhere with her. she has a black labrador called chanho. 

dohee crochets!!!

she’s also really gay!!!

the boys have said that when dohee sleeps she makes this grumbling sound. she only does it when she moves in her sleep. the boys have many videos of her doing this.

[bleedingheart-s]

♡ howdy! i'm pidge, i'm 25, my pronouns are they/them and i'm way too obsessed with fictional characters! main is @ uncannily-adroit - icon by @/zipperqwerty and banner by me!

♡ this will mainly be a mishmash of blorboposting, self-shipping things, and aesthetics! this blog is also sfw!

♡ my main hyperfixation right now is baldur's gate 3, and my fixation f/os are gale dekarios and my tav/oc nox!

☆ please dni: lgbtq+phobic, pedos, terfs, transmeds, racists, radfems, ace/aro/nonbinary exclusionists, body shamers in either direction, if you ship or self-ship with real people, if you age your f/o up or your s/i down, anti-self shippers obviously, or if you interact with the h/arry p/otter fandom. otherwise if you're not an asshole to other people feel free to interact

☆ i don't mind sharing f/os at all- you can even gush to me about them! spread the joy!

☆ i will use tone indicators, and i ask that they're used with me, please!

☆ i type in all caps a lot to convey intense emotions (positive and negative), if my shouting on your posts or in your tags makes you uncomfortable pls tell me!

☆ i will tag sensitive subjects as [ thing ] tw (no brackets), if there's anything specific i should tag let me know!

click read more below for full f/o, oc and tag list! (userboxes by ray-selfshipz and selfshipuserbox)

{ MY MAIN F/OS }

♡ gale dekarios - baldur's gate 3 (romantic)- polyam

♡ nox - baldur's gate 3 (my tav- romantic)- polyam

♡ dr. james wilson - house m.d. (romantic)- polyam

♡ the doctor - doctor who (romantic; eight is my focus but i talk about others occasionally)- polyam

{ SECONDARY F/OS }

○ river song - doctor who (romantic)- polyam

○ charley pollard - doctor who eu (platonic/qpr)- polyam

○ gwen cooper - torchwood (romantic)- polyam

○ titus pullo - hbo rome (romantic)

○ lucius vorenus - hbo rome (older brother)

○ obi wan kenobi - star wars (romantic)

○ general grievous - star wars (romantic)

○ usopp - one piece (romantic)

○ nico robin - one piece (romantic)

{ MY OCS }

♤ myri daraay - star wars

♤ lucia vorenus - hbo rome

♤ livia - baldur's gate 3

♤ nox - baldur's gate 3

♤ freya - baldur's gate 3

♤ ledi - baldur's gate 3

{ TAGS }

◇ #{ the doctor }

◇ #{ river }

◇ #{ charley }

◇ #{ gwen }

◇ #{ titus }

◇ #{ grievous }

◇ #{ gale }

◇ #{ nox }

◇ #{ usopp }

◇ #{ robin }

◇ # { james }

◇ #{ inner self }

◇ #pidge's ocs

◇ #pidge's thoughts

◇ #aesthetic

◇ #stim

◇ #animals

◇ #self ship things

◇ #food

◇ #when do i not see queue?

(will be added to as i think of more)

[sillyfreakx3]

TW: manipulation, abusive relationship, grooming in the manipulation way

(also I think this counts as romanticising them, but still portrayed as negative just in the unreliable narrator way)

Self indulgent transgroomed scenario that AAAAAAAA /pos ;w;

I want to talk to someone friendly and nice. But then they would slowly start toeing boundaries. I might notice and ask them to stop, and they would apologise, maybe draw back a bit, but return to their previous behaviour within a few days. They'd keep gradually going further and further, but it's normal to often be uncomfortable in relationships, right? We'd be talking about something I like, I'd be stimming with happiness but then they'd suddenly say something uncomfortable, that'd make me fall silent. My hand would start shaking in that awkward, nervous way, and I wouldn't know what to say or how to react. So I'd just laugh nervously, or try and do whatever I thought they wanted me to do. It's my fault for not being good enough at socialising, that's the only reason why I'm feeling so uncomfortable and why there's so many ups and downs in how I feel around them. Whenever I did something wrong, made a mistake in how I should act around people, they'd point it out. I mean that's good, it's fair if some of my behaviours are weird or are making them feel uncomfortable. They'd point out stuff I knew were problems, like forgetting to answer messages or rambling about a boring topic for too long. But they'd also tell me stuff I didn't realise were so weird and uncomfortable for others. And soon I'd realise that it's normal to do whatever they want, and that I'm a bad person if I try making a scene about something. I've always had problems with being too dramatic, and I can't let this happen here. I'd just go along with whatever they said, even if it would have been unthinkable to me just a couple months ago.