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apothiplatonic · 1 year

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i've often tried to explain why i'm friend-repulsed – what is so uniquely distressing about friendship to me, compared to other interpersonal bonds – so here's one part of it.

friendships feel distinct from other types of relationships in that they usually start without any agreements, and can be entered into without even realizing. growing up, this was frightening to me; to hear a teacher declare we had to be friends with every student in the classroom, or to be called friends with someone i was just polite or kind to. when i did see models of “people asking if they can be your friend”, it was in children's books about how rejecting them makes you a bully. there was, and is, no escape. to suddenly hear that someone considered me a friend, and that i would be an evil oath-breaker if i left them or failed to be a “good friend” or sat there and did nothing at all, was bone-chilling. i made no oath!

i'm a scrupulous person, and i was even worse as a kid, so my society's friendship norms hurt me a lot. i didn't have any cultural example of how to say “no” to “do you want to be my friend?”, no script to turn down a kind and well-intentioned request for friendship, no means of egress that didn't make me a villain. i would regularly end up in – what seemed to me – servitude to some other child, not sure how i got there but unable to leave until they lost interest in me. i felt bent to the will of one person after the other, each one oblivious to how i felt their every friendly action as suffocating, consuming, as knives carving me into an empty statue who would do what they wanted. i was given no model for negotiating a friendship contract, but always reminded that there was a contract, one that i could not see or understand or alter.

...of course, there are always unspoken rules in social interaction, and culturally-approved coercion, and awful norms around consent. but there's something about how harmless friendship is seen as, and how socially discouraged it is to deny it, that hurt me a lot. i didn't have a drive towards friendships, so my friends were decided by whichever child was pushy and domineering enough, and i assumed that was just how things worked. i never even noticed when my friends actually treated me unfairly, because all of it hurt so much that i couldn't tell the difference. until i found the apl community, i couldn't find the language or ideas to even begin to think about it!

i think in most possible worlds, i would still be aplatonic. but it's this – my own experience of friendship as an inescapable torment, tearing chunks out of myself and offering them to whoever was strong enough, while the adults around me called me “such a good friend” – that made me friend-repulsed.

#aplatonic #aplspec #apothiplatonic #nonfriending #dissociation cw #disordered thinking cw #schizoid related but just as far as it overlaps with my aplatonicism #also this post shows some of the uncharitable skips in my brain from scratches on the disc #that illogical trauma reasoning #but i figured that's worth showing so people understand what friendship repulsion can feel like from the inside?#also if this seems familiar it's because i adapted it from something i said on discord months ago #i am the slowest blogger on tumblr #apothiposts

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ojibwa · 1 year

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#weirdcore #dreamcore #words #spilled words #spilled thoughts #dissociation cw #derealization cw #mine

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mamawasatesttube · 1 year

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OOF. There are so many good prompts on that list, I could barely decide! But I feel like I gotta go with “They’ll find me, they always do.” Preferably as spoken by Kon?

Kon doesn't know where he is.

Well—okay, he has a vague idea. It's... a box, somewhere underground, designed for holding Kryptonians. Designed for breaking Kryptonians, if he's entirely honest; courtesy of Luthor, of course. The walls are twofold, with all the air pumped out of the gap between the layers so that he can't hear anything from outside, and the strange, uncanny silence alone would be bad enough without the darkness, away from any sun.

The only light is, of course, the fucking kryptonite.

It's getting old, he thinks woozily. How many times is Luthor gonna pull this kinda shit? Does he really think he can break Kon's spirit just with a little (okay, a lottle) physical misery? Does he really think Kon will ever give up any of Kal's secrets just 'cuz of some pain, misery, and humiliation?

Admittedly, having to hand himself over for a bunch of civilian hostages just to get slapped with a kryptonite fucking collar is pretty heavy on the humiliation front, but still. Kon's a goddamn joke. He can take being a laughingstock.

He heaves a sigh, closing his eyes. At least the floor is cold and soothing against his flushed cheeks; the hot flashes are better than the cold sweats, so he's grateful, for the moment. He just has to outlast this, that's all.

At some point, the loudspeaker in the ceiling crackles and jolts him out of his doze. "You look pathetic," Luthor informs him. Kon musters up the energy to raise a middle finger to wherever the infrared cameras in here might be. "Classy as ever, Supernova. You could end this anytime, you know. And frankly, you owe me your existence; you'd think you'd be more grateful than this."

Kon rolls onto his back just to raise a second middle finger to the ceiling, too.

Luthor sighs. "So stubborn. Why do you insist on drawing out your suffering? There is only one way this ends, and we both know that."

"Yeah," Kon mumbles. He's too tired and achy to keep his arms up any longer, so he lets them fall back down to his sides. "There is. They'll find me. They always do."

Judging by the hiss of breath, Luthor doesn't care for that answer. Kon smiles despite the burning under his skin, and closes his eyes again.

Some time passes. Kon drifts vaguely in and out of consciousness, thoughts swimming; when the pain and the nausea grow too overwhelming, he retreats into the part of his mind that never left the tube at Cadmus and lets himself float away from reality.

He dreams about the swimming hole a little ways from the farmhouse. It's in a small copse of trees that stand out on the flat horizon; he took Tim there earlier this summer. They splashed around, swam, and made out sitting on the water's edge; right as they were about to leave, Tim stole Kon's shirt and jumped in wearing it, just to make Kon wear a wet T-shirt the whole walk home, and laughed at his own prank on and off all afternoon.

Kon likes when Tim laughs. The memory makes him smile; he can almost feel the warmth of the sunlight on his back as he reminisces. God, what he'd do for some sunlight right now...

Bang. Bang. Bang.

BOOM.

Light floods into the room, artificial, fluorescent light that does nothing for him. Kon squints vaguely at the silhouettes cast against it, but doesn't bother to lift his head; he'd rather dream of the swimming hole and the cool water lapping at his clammy skin.

"Is that a fucking collar?" Cassie's voice, frigid with rage. Warm hands brush against his throat as she kneels, and the sound of metal snapping reaches him from far, far away. "I'm going to kill Luthor. I'm actually gonna kill—"

"Not if I get there first," Bart says, his voice strangely taut. "Hey, Kon. Wake up!"

Someone else is at his side, too. Red, and black, and white eyes in a dark mask... oh. That's Tim, Kon realizes woozily, as a gloved hand cups his cheek.

"Kon," Tim says. His voice is low and urgent. He's not laughing. The kryptonite is gone, Kon realizes suddenly; there's a metal box next to Tim's knee. Classic Tim, he thinks. Always prepared. "Kon, can you hear me?"

Kon blinks at him. He probably should answer, but... he still feels like he's floating, and none of it can quite reach him. It's fine. It's probably fine.

Tim's lips press together in a thin, tight line. Kon doesn't like that; he shouldn't look so tense and unhappy. He likes when Tim laughs.

"Shit, that bastard really did a number on him," Cassie hisses. "Here, move. I got him."

Tim reluctantly pulls away. Kon whines a little as his hand drops from his cheek; he doesn't want Tim to go. But then Cassie is there, gathering him up into her arms, and Kon sighs, relaxing; she's warm, and he's suddenly acutely aware that he's freezing, and he knows in her arms, he's safe.

"Let's go," Cassie says, standing with Kon in her arms.

"He's shivering. Hold on." Kon watches through weary, half-lidded eyes as Tim fiddles with the clasps of his cape, pulls it off, and... oh. Drapes it over him like a blanket, then bundles him up like a baby, in Cassie's arms.

"If you guys have Kon, I can go murder Luthor real fast," Bart offers.

It's probably a sign that his friends are really, really pissed that no one immediately says no murder, Bart. Kon can't figure out what's going on, but he knows he's safe now. He closes his eyes and sinks into Cassie's arms and figures he'll just have to ask them to fill him in later.

#dissociation cw #timkon #(just a lil but. its there)#core four #rimi writes #kon #bart #tim #cassie #lex luthor (derogatory)#necer0s #sometimes you just have to put kon in the blender you know?#tim cassie bart SO FUCKING PISSED and kon just huh. i wonder what thats about! bc hes dumb of ass and SO out of it <3

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catwings-writes-things · 3 months

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Find the Words Tag

I was tagged by @thethistlegirlwrites! Thanks, dear one!

Searching chapter 11 of A World of His Own, or what I have for it at least!

Light:

“Hey, Harriet,” Jon said as he sat up, properly this time. “Thanks for the help.” “You’re welcome,” Harriet chirped, setting a large plastic bag down on the floor by the sofa and untying the handles. “Martin, I didn’t know what sorts of clothes you generally prefer, but I did my best." She retrieved a pair of jeans, a plastic three-pack of white t-shirts, similar packs of socks and underpants, a light green button-up, and pajama trousers made of some light, soft material in a similar shade.

Star:

Hoping it wasn’t a terrible decision, Jon slowly and deliberately lay back down against Martin’s side, grabbed Martin’s arm and returned it to its previous position around his person, and snuggled in as close to Martin as he could possibly get. Martin’s arm around him tightened in a half-hug, and he tilted his head to rest it on Jon’s, even though it had to be putting his neck at a somewhat awkward angle. “Stars, that's adorable,” declared Harriet’s voice from the gust of wind sweeping through the living room.

Touch and Water:

When he was met with only more awful silence, Jon took a deep breath, removed his nightshirt, grabbed the damp towel he'd used to dry off, and stood. "Martin, I'm coming in, if that's all right." When he didn't hear an objection, Jon pulled back the curtain and stepped into the shower. Immediately, he hissed in pain. The water was hot, hotter than could possibly have been comfortable even in cold weather, let alone on a relatively warm day like today. Jon adjusted the temperature until it was still hot but no longer painful, then let himself properly look at Martin. Martin was standing unnervingly still, skin an angry deep pink where the water touched it, staring straight ahead with a blank expression.

Tagging @hauntedsuns, @emthetimelady, @runarelle, @dragonsthough101, and anyone else who sees this and wants to play! Your words are "think," "hurt," "warm," and "luck" or "lucky"!

#tag game #wip tag game #fic: a world of his own #AWOHO ch. 11 #wip word search #jailbreak jon and martin #jailbreak harriet #dissociation cw

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justplainwhump · 11 months

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Morning

Bea/Blanca doesn't understand consent.

[Pet Safety Masterlist]

Content/warnings: BBU setting; BBU romantic; noncon/dubcon implicit; survivor initiating noncon/dubcon; dissociation; trauma response; guilt.

Adrian woke up in his bed, with a headache and the heat of another body close to him. Very close.

He pushed himself up in his bed, away from her, blinking his eyes rapidly until the room around him took shape in the dim light filtering through the curtains.

The pet - Bea - was curled up by his side, naked, except for the collar around her neck. She must've had stripped some time at night, after he'd carried her over, he figured. He himself, he - he looked down. Boxers, pyjama shorts, long sleeved sleeping shirt, all layers still on, all unmoved. He sighed in relief.

He hadn't done anything.

Bea grunted in her sleep, even that tiny, subconscious sound perfectly modulated, and her arm reached out to search for him, found his leg, and relaxed yet again.

Romantics weren't meant to sleep alone. There'd been experiments going on, permanently messing not only with their mind, but also with their perception of temperature. Make them crave another body, if only for their warmth.

Everything to make them dependent, cling onto their owner.

As this one, Bea, now was made to cling to him.

He looked at her, really now, for the first time. Long, soft brown locks, shimmering almost red in the spots where the morning sun fell onto it through his curtains. Underneath the fading bruises, her skin was pale, unnaturally so. It seemed wrong, he thought. She seemed like someone who would soak up the sun, lay on the grass in a park, someone to braid flowers into her hair and look at the sky to find intricate figures in the clouds.

Maybe he'd take her for a picnic, later today.

Her arm wrapped around his leg and she pulled up closer to him. Her breast brushed over his thigh and he felt himself react to the sensation.

Carefully, breath held, he angled his hips away from her.

Picnic, he reminded himself, trying to control his breath. Park. Flowers.

There were scars on her back, as well. A few older ones, pale against her skin. Slim parallel lines, like she'd been hit with a cane until it drew blood. The unmistakable circular shape of a cigarette burn on her collar bone.

Most of her scars, however, were recent. A few months old, at most. Bite marks, deep enough to stay. Abrasions. Cuts. A set of newer cigarette burns, still an angry red. Whip marks. Burns on her arms. The gas stove, he remembered with a shudder. She'd been through so much. Adrian hoped he could do her better.

She stirred, and her eyes fluttered open. "Good morning, Sir," she whispered, lifted her head and before he could even meet her gaze, before she herself was fully awake, one hand pulled down his pants and boxers and her face dipped down between his legs.

It was too much at the same time, her hair on his suddenly bare hips, her breasts on his thighs, and her lips, her soft, warm lips closing around his -

He blanked out.

He was sticky. Everything was. The bed, his body, his mind. Sticky, disgusting and gross.

He could feel physical relief, the echoes of an orgasm, and in return it made his whole body cringe in revulsion.

He choked.

"I'm sorry," Bea whispered, from the side, her voice hoarse, and it sickened him to know the reason. "I'm sorry, forgive me, I..."

Adrian didn't open his eyes. He didn't want to see her, to see what he'd done. He didn't want it to be real, even though every muscle of his body knew.

"Don't," he croaked. "It's... it's not your fault."

"I broke your rules. I... I thought I was good, but I was bad, I... it's what I do, it's what I'm made for, please don't send me back, I'll... I'll learn to be what you want me to be, please." She was sobbing. "Forgive me. It... it hurts my head."

"I forgive you," Adrian whispered. "I... I didn't even say no, did I?"

"You..." Bea paused. "You said nothing. But you... your body said yes."

He let out a broken chuckle. "Bodies can be fucking stupid, can't they?"

"I don't think so," she said. "Bodies are tools of the mind. They can be broken, but not stupid. It's the mind that can be stupid." She hesitated. "But minds can be broken, too. Sometimes it's hard to see the difference."

Adrian turned his head to the side and opened his eyes to look at her.

She sat on the floor, next to the bed, curled up with her arms wrapped around her. Not a WRU position at all, he noted. He didn't know if that was good. He didn't know anything.

Bea's head rested on her arms, tilted to the side so she could peek at him with one eye, careful and frightened at the same time.

"Do you hate me, Adrian?" she asked.

Weakly, Adrian shook his head. "I... I hate what happened. What we... what we did," he said quietly, swallowing against the bitter taste in his mouth. "I hate what made you do it, and I hate that I didn't stop it."

"Because you hate sex?"

Adrian laughed a little. "No, I... I like sex, actually. And I like you, too. But, uh. I like consent."

"I consent," she said promptly. "I signed up for it."

"First of all," Adrian said. "There's two parties involved. Right now, I didn't consent. I..." He broke off. He wouldn't go down that road, not his, not with her.

He cleared his throat, and started again. "I like my own consent, too. And second, did you, really?"

She frowned.

"Did you really want it?"

"I don't understand," she whispered. "I always want it."

"You just said that you wanted to stick to our rules. No fucking."

"Yes." She bit her lip. "But I... You were there and you're my owner, and that's what they-"

"They? 'They' is not you, Bea." Adrian held her gaze. "You were half asleep. You did what someone else told you to. Not me, not yourself. Someone else. That isn't consent. That's the opposite, that's-"

She shook her head, and for a moment Adrian saw a tear glisten in the corner of her eye. "It hurts," she whispered. "It hurts my head to think, I'm sorry."

Adrian pushed himself up to sit on the corner of the bed. "It's alright," he said. "It's..."

He looked down on himself, and cleared his throat. "I really think both of us could use a shower."

She tilted her head carefully. "Both of us... by ourselves?"

Jaw clenched, he nodded.

Adrian showered for more than twenty minutes, scrubbing every part of his body.

It didn't wash away the guilt.

It didn't wash away the shame and horror, nor his utter and sickening disgust at himself.

---

pet safety taglist: @gottawhump @flowersarefreetherapy @whumplr-reader @highwaywhump @tauntedoctopuses @pigeonwhumps @whumppsychology @labgrowndemon @whumpinggrounds

#bbu #bbu romantic #noncon implied #dubcon cw #dissociation cw

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solarisgod · 8 months

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micah stands between reality and unreality, their expression blank and eyes void of light as there is a figure before them. white noises fill in heavy air with its soft muffled sounds — they try to listen more, break through the deep numbness that is drowning them whole — "you're bleeding —" their memories are in distortion, meaningless. they can't remember how they reached here. everything feels so far away. nothing makes sense. everywhere burns and burns and b — slowly, carefully, they touch their hips, palms bearing blood that is real and fake all at sickening once. you're bleeding — i'm dying —

"i'm okay."

a voice falls firm and sharper gaze lifts — phoebus stares at charlie, their grip against the wound tighten to keep the blood from leaving their sore body. "do you - do you have a medical kit around here ??" visions blur, they don't realize they're shaking, coldness embracing them entirely. phoebus steps into charlie's home, trying not to fall, despite the heavy weight present on their existence. they shouldn't be here to protect @goodheartt, but, micah — "just ... give me some time and space, and my hips will be f- fine all patched up." more blood takes over their skin, the floor, then all around them —

phoebus closes their eyes.

#ASK TO TAG CW #BLOOD CW #DISSOCIATION CW #INJURIES CW #GOODHEARTT #///#//#/#𓁹 ༑ ࿐ྂ ⩇⩇ : ⩇⩇ ⚠︎ [ 𝙴𝚇𝙸(𝚂)𝚃 : 𝙶𝙾𝙳 ] * ‹ IC . ›#𓁹 ༑ ࿐ྂ ⩇⩇ : ⩇⩇ ⚠︎ [ 𝙴𝚇𝙸(𝚂)𝚃 : 𝙶𝙾𝙳 ] * ‹ ANSWERS . ›#𓁹 ༑ ࿐ྂ ⩇⩇ : ⩇⩇ ⚠︎ [ 𝙴𝚇𝙸(𝚂)𝚃 : 𝙶𝙾𝙳 ] * ‹ V : IASIP. . ›#𓁹 ༑ ࿐ྂ ⩇⩇ : ⩇⩇ ⚠︎ [ 𝙴𝚇𝙸(𝚂)𝚃 : 𝙶𝙾𝙳 ] * ‹ MICAH . ›#𓁹 ༑ ࿐ྂ ⩇⩇ : ⩇⩇ ⚠︎ [ 𝙴𝚇𝙸(𝚂)𝚃 : 𝙶𝙾𝙳 ] * ‹ PHOEBUS . ›#[ ✨ : ' I.....I had to ...... ' YOU HAD OT ?!??!?!/1?!?///?!??! ]#[ OGUHOFIJHDHJDFNDM CHUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! /lh ]

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kaatiba · 10 months

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oracle wip - an opening snippet

There’s a new guard.

You notice her because she looks you in the eyes, and that’s something no one does any more, not even Alyss. You flinch, but only on the inside.

One moment you’re not focusing on anything, in that foggy space where you’re almost-asleep and everything’s far away and dreamlike, and the next you’re aware, with a jolt like a shock, of what’s happening, what she’s doing.

She has green eyes, this guard. A dark, deep green that’s almost black. She looks into your eyes and you look back because you quite literally can’t not, even as you brace yourself—

But nothing happens.

She doesn’t start screaming or shaking, doesn’t start gibbering or clawing at her face, doesn’t collapse. She just looks at you, and after an endless moment her eyes drift away, trailing over your face, your body, suspended before her. Her stare is as tangible as a touch, leaving phantom prickles in its wake that linger even after she looks away, turning her back on you as the other guard—Menik—shifts with a sigh.

She seems as sane as ever. Whatever it is that’s wrong with your eyes hasn’t driven her mad.

Maybe she’s already insane, you think. Or maybe she has some way to protect herself.

You don’t know. You can’t ask her. You can’t do anything.

You don’t like remembering that.

You let yourself drift off again.

The guard’s name is Ro. She’s new to the palace. She talks easily, lightly, with Menik. You listen. You could tune her out, but she’s far more interesting than the inside of your head or anything else in this horrible gilded room. She’s made you curious, and you haven’t felt anything besides numb despair and seething hatred for so long.

So you listen, all your attention fixed on her.

She says she’s in her twenty-fifth year and her father was a soldier and her mother a farrier. She says she has a sister Menik’s age, who’s married with three children. She says she was so excited to become the oracle’s guard, but it’s actually kind of boring, and is it always like this?

You wonder if you’re imagining the wrongness in her tone. (You spend a lot of time imagining things, after all. It helps the time pass.) When Ro talks she sounds almost, but not quite, genuine. Her tone is just a little too airy…or maybe you’re just too wretched to be able to take someone who seems so cheerful seriously.

Menik laughs. “Everyone gets disappointed,” he says, leaning on his spear. All you can see of them are their backs, since they’re facing away from you. “They expect to see wonders while guarding the oracle, given he’s…well. An oracle.”

“So this is really all he does?” Ro asks, nodding her head toward you and glancing at you over her shoulder, looking you in the eye again for a brief moment. It’s electric. Electric that she does it, electric that doing so doesn’t affect her at all. “He just…floats there?”

“Mhm,” Menik hums. “Unless her majesty’s visiting, but we’re to wait outside when that happens.”

“Oh,” Ro says, sounding disappointed. “But—so does something happen when the queen visits then?”

“Doors’ spelled silent,” says Menik. “I’m sure plenty happens, but we don’t hear none of it.”

Nobody…nobody hears you?

That shouldn’t hit you like a blow, but it does.

Nobody hears you. Nobody hears what happens in this room. Nobody hears the prisoners, Alyss’s enemies, be driven mad as they’re forced to make eye contact with you. Nobody hears your screaming or your begging or the dull answers you give Alyss for her interrogations or the tantrums she throws when your answers aren’t useful enough.

Soon you won’t have anything at all to tell her. Maybe then she’ll finally kill you. If you die here, will you finally go home? Or will it just be the end of everything you are?

You’ve lost track of the conversation, of the world. When you tune back in, Menik and Ro are gone, replaced by Talma and Rafe.

They’re boring. They never do anything but play cards or read books or have naps. They’ve been guarding you since the beginning, however long it’s been, which means they don’t really guard you at all anymore. Nothing ever happens. There’s nothing to guard you from.

They don’t realize that they’re here to guard against you.

Theoretically, anyway—after all, you can’t move. Can’t even control your blinks or your breaths. You just float there, trapped inside yourself, until Alyss deigns to let you out.

But she likes to be prepared. If you do manage to break out somehow—it would take a miracle—the guards are there to stop you. Your only weapons against them are your eyes, and they have strict instructions not to meet your gaze, lest they be driven mad…so none of them do.

Except Ro.

Why does she do that? Why does she look at you? Did she somehow know she’d be safe? How is she safe? Is it something about her, or is it something done to her, or is it something about you and her that’s different from you and everybody else? Even Alyss doesn’t look you in the eye anymore. No, before she releases you, she blindfolds you and ties your hands so you can’t rip the blindfold off and try and make her look at you.

You chew on these questions until the frustration of not knowing, of not being able to ever know, unless someone says something where you can hear it, starts to make you want to scream.

For a little while, you do. Scream that is.

Just silently, inside your own head.

It’s not as satisfying.

You eventually lose interest in Ro too. She stops talking so much, settling into her position as a guard. She doesn’t look at you all that often anymore either. You miss it. Miss being seen. Miss being interested in what’s happening around you. You spend more and more time lost in your head. That should probably frighten you, but the capacity to be frightened has been worn out of you.

Nowadays you’re either frothing with pointless rage or numb.

So it’s a shock, a complete and utter shock, when one night, indistinguishable from the countless nights you’ve spent in your prison, Ro pulls a gimlet blade of a knife from her belt, turns to Menik, and slits his throat in one swift movement.

Menik doesn't even have a chance to make a sound before he's crumpling into Ro's waiting arms and being lowered slowly to the floor.

She pats his cheek with a solem expression at odds with the crow-brightness of her eyes. “This is a better ending for you than letting you be found by the Queen," she says. "She'd have made you suffer. This is quick and painless—look, you're already gone."

While you’re still reeling from the murder, she begins doffing her armour, until all she’s left wearing are the clothes underneath and the leather armguards. As she undresses, she stares down at your spell circle, brows furrowed, an expression of intense concentration on her face.

Heart pounding double time in the hollow of your throat, giddy anticipation thrumming through your veins, you wonder what she’s going to do next. Or attempt to do, anyway.

She must be an assassin.

Those tapered off a while ago, though you’re not sure how long ‘a while’ actually was. It doesn’t matter; other assassins have tried to kill you. Seven, at last count, but there could have been more that never even made it into your room.

Unfortunately and obviously, none of them have been successful. None of them have even gotten close to being successful. Your prison is too well-formed—the three concentric rings of spells keep you unable to move or speak.

The outer ring is all about security. That’s the section that prevents anybody from crossing its bounds and acts as a shield against projectiles both mundane and magical in nature: the only things allowed through are air, light, and Alyss.

The middle ring maintains your body, preserving your physical health and mobility, placing you in stasis so that you don’t need nourishment as often and no waste is excreted.

The inner ring is all flashy sigils that make you float and cause a breeze that makes your hair move for added ambience. It's a complete waste of magic, in your opinion, but it adds to the mystical effect, and Alyss always did have a tendency towards spectacle.

She'd explained your prison to you in painstaking, gloating detail, while you'd had no choice but to listen, paralyzed and terrified and devastated.

You’re curious to see how far Ro gets. What she’ll try next. How much she knows about your trap. Being a guard, she’s had ample time to study it, if she can see it. To the unmagical, you just look like you’re floating on an altar. Anyone with enough magical ability will see the glow of the sigils. Anyone studied would be able to decode the spell. Only a master of magic would be able to unmake it, and not without alerting Alyss that her spell is being tampered with.

But she shocks you again. She doesn't try to unravel the spell. Doesn't test it with magic or weapons.

She just walks right through the circles, unimpeded and casual, until she’s only a foot away from you. It takes her all of three steps. The sigils flicker like electricity shorting out beneath her feet and then resume their steady glow once she’s no longer touching them.

You would goggle at her if you could manage anything but the resting placid expression your face has settled into.

She looks up at you. She’s standing too close for you to be able to make out more than the top of her head at about chin level with you. This is it, then. For all of Alyss's efforts, someone's beat her.

An assassin has made it through. You wonder, with staggering relief, just how Ro's going to kill you. You're not even afraid as you once were about dying. Not anymore. Not now that it means this is over.

Ro will kill you and you’ll either be free or dead, but either way, you won’t be trapped anymore, locked inside of yourself, inside of this room, inside of this world.

You feel a twinge of regret that you won’t be able to make Alyss suffer worse than she’s made you suffer, but you know your loss will hit her where it hurts the most. And if there's any justice in the world, your death will mean a reset.

Alyss will be dead along with you and she'll lose everything. You wonder if she'll even have time to know when she loses it all.

Ro shifts. If you could brace yourself you would.

But death doesn't come. Instead, her hand wraps around your wrist.

You register the searing sensation of her skin only after you’ve plummeted to the ground, suddenly and fully in yourself.

For a second you don’t remember how to breathe or move or even hold yourself up, assaulted by sensation—her hand still on your wrist, all calloused palms and long fingers and warmth, your knees smarting from their collision with the stones, the weight of your overgrown hair, of your clothes, of your limbs, of gravity bearing you down, down, down.

You make a horrible gurgling choking noise and your whole body jerks wildly—trying to get away, trying to get ahold of yourself, trying to look up at her, trying to breathe.

“Woah, woah, take it easy,” Ro says, crouching down in front of you and grabbing you by the shoulder with her free hand, grip firm to the point of bruising, forcing you still, holding you upright.

You've never been so aware of anyone’s touch before in your whole life—

You inhale harshly, exhale brokenly, stop flailing, though you can’t stop trembling. “L-let go,” you croak, trying to break free of her hold on you.

Her touch burns. Not in any magical way, no, just in being too much.

She’s very strong, or you’re very weak; all you really accomplish is an exaggerated twitch rather than anything effective.

“If I let you go the spell will take you again,” Ro says, brow arched high. “And I want to talk to you.”

You twitch again, but towards her rather than away, the base instinct to grasp tightly to what will keep you safe driving you to twist your hands in the material of her shirt and cling. Weakly, sure, but fervently. She looks down at your grip on her and then up at you, and obviously, clearly, allows it to happen.

“How—why—what is this?” you ask, stumbling over the words, your tongue, your teeth.

“A temporarily suspended assassination,” Ro replies, smiling cheerily. Her eyes crinkle up with the force of it. There are droplets of blood on her cheek.

“If I kill the oracle, I’ll make a fortune from two different contracts. I haven’t decided if that means I have to kill you yet, though.” Then her gaze goes sharp, her smile razor-edged. “But shouldn’t you already know that?”

You blink at her, mind rapidly spinning, twisting, turning over itself. Oracle, right. You’re the oracle. Alyss’s oracle.

Except you’re not. Alyss is a liar in this as in all things.

What do you do now? You only have more questions, but asking them is admitting to not knowing, and if you don't know then you’re not an oracle, and if you’re not an oracle, will Ro still kill you?

The possibility of surviving, of escaping—

Death is better than being trapped, but living free is better than being dead. After all, you can always die later. If you get out of here, you can torment Alyss the way she’s tormented you. You can take everything from her, the way she’s taken everything from you.

Ro is staring at you, expectant. You make a decision. It’s ironic, or maybe self-destructive, proof that you’ve lost it completely, that it’s the same decision that ruined you—to tell the truth.

“'M not,” you rasp. “'M not the oracle.”

#oracle.wip #>:]#everyone is terrible in this wip btw #except maybe sage but only for now #murder cw #death cw #uhhhh my mc has been driven insane via torture and the weirdest form of longterm solitary confinement #everything is bad and everything hurts on purpose ❤️#let me know what triggers to tag for #torture cw #imprisonment cw #kaatibawrites #i love writing 2nd person its so fun and screwy #long post #my feral baby sage and my amoral darling ro first meeting uwu #dissociation cw

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talentforlying · 7 months

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☎️

she's the first person he rings before he realizes it's a mistake.

you never call the one who'll get it, first. you call the people who DON'T, first, so the empty platitudes burn away the pond scum oil slick of terror and nausea and leave behind the thin, flickering flames of burgeoning rage. so you can cure your rambling, shit-scared diatribe down to the pinpoints of memory that will really need banishing, wrangle the beast off your back and get it out at arm's length — so when you DO call the one who gets it, the calm, rational ease with which they accept your practiced explanation makes it all the more easy to strangle the life out of the whole fucking thing and put it to rest in a way that will keep.

but she's the first person he calls, and his stomach's still in his throat when she picks up the phone, and he doesn't know what to tell her. hasn't stumbled his way through the haze of lead-tongued knee-jerk mind-not-here-anymore to fish up the lie with just enough truth in it to pass muster.

' oi oi. ' great start. good ground. he sucks in a breath that sounds painful and obvious even to his own ears: the kind you see in the movies before someone starts their big, flashy monologue, the one that got them the role in the first place. that's not the kind of thing they go in for, him and scully. less drama, more substance. straightforward answers to sideways problems.

' i think. ' his voice sounds distant, tinny, like a bad radio play of himself. christ, he's good, to sound so calm when everything around him is warping like a hall of funhouse mirrors. or else this is what he's always sounded like when he's scared. ' think i lost time, earlier. didn't realize it, right, 'til i looked up just now an' this book i was readin' was sixty pages down from where i'd left off. s'funny, right? i've done that before, got really inna something and forgot t'check the clock, but this . . . this en't my place. doors are all on backwards, like, used t'be the handles were on the right. there was a — light? '

in the hallway, like a lighthouse beacon. spinning and spinning and spinning. was it in his head, or was it real? he doesn't know, but some certain, stable cornerstone of reason settled in the back foundation of his mind says that she would. could shut this shite down in a heartbeat, put him right back on planet earth where he ought to be. if anyone could, it's her.

he's been sitting with his back against the wall for over an hour. nothing's come down from mars to get him, nothing hurts, but everything's off-kilter. time slipping away in leaps and bounds. heh, it'd be fucking funny if all this is just in his own sodding head. demons, angels, the tumultuous embodiment of the primordial darkness before god flipped on the lights, all fine — but you find out about aliens and it all goes topsy-turvy. fuck that.

' just . . . sod this. tell me somethin' real, alright? anything. i'm asking nicely. please. '

@beyondthescully / MIDNIGHT CALLS

#beyondthescully #constantine 🤝 scully: last names and losing time #dissociation /#dissociation cw #anyway he's normal he's fine it's cool #( V. ) THE RISING DARKNESS. ( ii. )#( answered. ) THIS IS JOHN CONSTANTINE. FUCK OFF.

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flockrest · 9 months

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The fight dies on his tongue, and the words it leaves behind taste like cold ashes in his beak. The world must have stuttered, must have churned to a grinding stop, 'cause suddenly there's nothing else beyond Kido, and Mr. Link, and the spear he holds out like a tribute or some remittance or an apology.

There's a hitch in his breath. A gasp that takes and takes and keeps on taking, and it's all he can do to keep his voice from trembling to an unrecognisable point — to swallow everything his dad makes him feel for the too-many-est time as he croaks, incomplete, "Where'd—?"

Kido feels himself leave. He feels himself go far, far away, climbing in some ineffable flight where nobody and nothing can ever catch him. Not realisation or fear or bitterness or grief — but it's not far enough, it's not far enough, there are still stupid tears springing to his eyes, bursting and spilling over even as he swears he feels nothing.

He looks away— no, he can't, he can't look away no matter how much he wants to 'cause this is his dad's, this is his dad. He can't look away from that scrap of cloth tied to the spear's shaft, torn and dulled; nor can he turn from the jutting feather by its head, pinned by young, unpractised wings and secured with an indulgent laugh.

It's the same green. It's the same green he remembers.

He blacks out for a moment.

Or maybe it's that he refuses to think on how he got here — how he's suddenly collapsed by Revali's Landing, held in someone's embrace, one touch removed from cracking and screeching everything he's been wanting nobody to know to everybody who can listen.

The feathers surrounding him aren't green, the way his dad's are ( were ).

The feathers surrounding him are so familiar, the way his dad's aren't ( never will be again ).

"Let me go," someone says on Kido's behalf, 'cause that can't be him. That can't be Kido's voice: stretched impossibly thin, pitched disgustingly high — with fury or pain or any other thing he can't be feeling over the cluster-void of nothing right now. "Let me go, let me GO, LET ME GO, LET ME—"

The shame will come later. When the gaping hole of nothing-and-everything, carved out where his hope had been, is patched over with threadbare fabric and slapdash stitches. It will come, and Kido will feel awful for fighting-shrieking-crumbling-keening — but for now, he's just a fledgling who can't understand why his dad's left him behind again. He's just a fledgling who can't understand why Dad won't come back, after everything Kido's felt and done and believed in.

What was so important out there?

What stupid thing was more important than anything out there?

What stupid, stupid thing is it about Kido that makes returning — makes staying — not important enough?

#* plumule / study.#( this came. sort of outta nowhere but at the same time it's been smth brewing in my head since starting this blog sdlfkjdf #i need to write up the rest of kido's bio but have been too lazy to so!! maybe this can help kickstart the mood slkfjd #HONESTLY THOUGH I'M SORRY YOU DON'T GET THE SPOTLIGHT MORE OFTEN KIDO. i love you as much as tutu i prommy [pensive] )#* reprise / ic.#* ic / para.#long post cw #death implied #dissociation cw #* v / song of the reclamation.

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the-cosmic-collective-sys-blog · 3 months

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🪽I wrote this as a way to put mine experiences with dissociation into words.

🪽I am unsure whether it would count as vent art, so I felt it would beeth better to share it hither, rather than our art blog!

🪽Content warning for dissociation, and vivid descriptions of such.

🪽If it beeth a feeling, tis fuzzy, yet suffocating. If it beeth a being, it would be quiet, yet silently profound.

🪽Perhaps a certain word hath reached mine ears, or the world feeleth too still. The world still existeth, of course! But tis distant from me now, greyed and incorporeal.

🪽I sitteth, I standeth, I layeth hither, in whatever area I hath found mine own self in. I feeleth disconnected, distant from mine existence.

🪽My mind wandereth-- sometimes to memories, others simply to odd scenarios. At times, it wandereth to a place that feels akin to reality-- so much so that tis difficult to leave.

🪽A bed, ever so soft and lovely. I hath been resting there for hours, I believe. I leave that bed, and findeth myself in an abode that I remembereth not; and yet, tis ever so familiar! I hath created a pot of hot cocoa for mine own self! Tis rich and sweet; I taste it vividly. I feeleth compelled to goeth outdoors, and so I do so! The air is crisp. There is a light sprinkling of rain, and I cooeth as it falls on my skin and feathers! Tis ever so wonderful! A drop falls on my face, as I decide to returneth home. I walk back inside, holdeth the warm cup of cocoa, and go to rest upon the bed once more. I sit, sipping the cocoa, feeling ever so wonderful!

🪽A bed, ever so soft and lovely.

🪽I am home once more, realizing that I hath sat, stood, laid in that spot for only a few seconds. Only a few minutes. Or perhaps an hour or two.

🪽Surprisingly, I am worried not! Ever since I splitteth once more-- and even before then, within that dreamlike state-- I hath had moments of dissociating and daydreaming beyond my control. Tis quite typical for me now; I simply leaveth reminders for mine own self to return to reality, to those I loveth so!

🪽I shalt resteth, now-- though not through slumber, but through calming mine own self with knitting, or reading my favorite book, or making myself so happy that I am left only to cooeth, happy as one could ever be! These are the things that help me stay hither-- the things that help me feeleth more stable, in this reality.

#🪽edgar! (cosmic col.)#dissociation #dissociation cw #dissociation tw #maladapting daydreaming disorder #vent writing #light vent

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ojibwa · 1 year

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#trauma #actuallytraumatized #words #spilled words #spilled thoughts #mine #dissociation cw

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lunarscaled · 8 months

Note

∗ o1﹕ sender tucks hair out of receiver’s face .

∗ 95﹕ sender cradles receiver’s face .

∗ 45﹕ sender kisses receiver’s [ forehead / cheek ] .

NONVERBAL PROMPTS

-> Their body goes rigid at the sound of two open palms clapping together in the sickly heat, just once. The confident cue of attention from a teacher standing at the head of a huddle of elementary students in their little sunhats and florescent matching school t-shirts so they don't get lost on the Conservatory grounds. Rudbeckia, periwinkle, and marigold sway unabashedly about their ankles in neatly tidied rows; the arched stones that line the edges scrape the sides of their shoes when they try to lift their feet but can't. Find themselves unable to when all the nerves have gone into keeping themselves ramrod upright, into the cold seize of their lungs that chokes their breath, control the way their body sweats and gasps and grabs for nothing found within themselves. It is the posture of someone waiting for something---the barely hunched angle of their shoulders forward and pulled closer to their ears, how their fingers curl into their palms but don't quite make a fist. Nausea, the burn of acid in the back of their throat and the drop in the pit of their stomach, they think any moment they'll ruin this haven of cultivation and blooms with the sick wet sound of puking their guts out.

They do. Hands gripping a fence railing, white-knuckled; their whole torso pushes with the action. It's all bile and iced coffee and water because they didn't have the energy to eat again this morning, and it was too hot to want to anyways, and they shiver like a drowned rat. Sweat slicks their forehead and the back of their neck and the back of their shirt and their calves. They give one single, sharp sob and make not another noise the whole time.

"---Ironweed... goldenrod... sunflower... aster..."

-> When their focus stops spinning out of control, they realize there is less hair in their face than normal. His palm rests on their back between their shoulders with the worst, messiest loose locks of their hair in his loose grip. ( the thought passes that it's too hot to touch anyone right now, and he must hate it. having to comfort them unnecessarily. having to appear responsible for them instead of being able to pass them off as strangers. he must resent them for it, Lyric thinks, he must feel as sick as they do just being near them like this. ) Shuddering through motions and abdominal pain: they can name every flower in this garden on sight and hold onto it like the only thing keeping them together. Maybe it is.

"Milkweed, buttonbush, lavender, bergamot..."

-> They lift their head just a little. Their body feels exhausted and heavy; it doesn't feel like it belongs to them. His hand stays on their back.

"... ... my mom's favorite flower isn't here."

-> Tremors in their hands run up their arms, into their shoulders---they lift their head, but their stare is miles away. Their hands around the railing are wet with ice that creeps and melts just as quickly, unable to build itself in this unforgiving heat. A hot wind blows through the grasses and flowers and them; what hair he wasn't holding twists at its whim, yet another thing they could not control.

"She had a lily garden at home, and after she died I tried to take care of it, but I didn't..."

-> Their voice cracks. It's so awful, so pitiful, they want to clamp their teeth shut and stop talking right then and there, but they feel like they'll be sick again if they don't keep their mouth open and breathe, or tear their own skin off, or something. Their body prickles, irritable and uncomfortable and upset, and they feel so weak they'd rather die than be like this.

"I didn't know how. And I couldn't control it yet, the magic---when I got upset the whole bed frosted over. It was my fault. And then when dad found out, he..."

-> They suck in a breath so shaky it could hardly be considered breathing. They try to stand up straighter even if they're trembling. ( but they don't want to think about it. they don't feel like they're here at all. they're so cold they feel like they're freezing to death, and so hot they think they'll pass out, and their body feels like someone is pulling each piece out individually until they drop dead from bloodloss. )

"... he would drag me to the barn by my hair, so Marianne and Claudia couldn't see or hear. And he would get the bullwhip."

-> ... Were they alive right now? How had they survived that? Did they even want to? Was living a choice? They remember thumbing through a poetry book in a shop after they had run away from home, trying to stay out of the rain without getting any water on the pages. There was still stains of a nosebleed on the collar of their shirt. ( 'You realize that grief is perhaps the last and final translation of love...' ) Bleu, he says. They don't hear.

( '...and you realize that it will never end. you get to do this---' )

-> Bleu. His hands gently take their face, the first sensation they feel, like a child's first scraped knee. His fingers push hair away from their face at the roots, smooth it back until it no longer hides their face or their scales, so his palms can sit flat against their cheeks. A thumb runs under their eyes, far and unfocused. He presses his lips to their hairline and has to bend all the way down to do it; is it a kiss or a plead. Hey---Come back. They hadn't gone anywhere, had they?

"... I still love my dad. I just wish he loved me as much."

( '---to translate this last act of love for the rest of your life.' )

#villain he #* questions and answers.#🌙 you're the first starlight reborn through the night ( main. )#me writing this: i am going to make something that hurts me so much #child abuse cw #vomiting cw #dissociation cw

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sirsparklepants · 1 year

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ficlet prompt jason gets scratched by something on patrol, small, barely bled, but then he starts losing chunks of time.

Oh, anon, you're speaking my language. I *love* missing time possession shit.

Huh. He hadn't thought that little scrape was enough to get infected.

Jason wasn't even sure how he'd gotten it, actually. He stayed pretty armored up on patrol, no exceptions, but something must have got him in that little gap between wrist and jacket, because there was a tiny patch of broken skin there, throbbing and hot.

Well, it wasn't surprising it got infected, he guessed. Anything that could have gotten him while he was distracted was probably some grimy Gotham surface or other. He loved this city, but Jason more than anyone was aware of just how dirty it could be. It was just a little scrape, though. He'd clean it out with rubbing alcohol and put some Neosporin on it, and that should take care of it.

Jason needed a coffee. Maybe two coffees. Or a triple espresso. He tried to keep his helmet on during patrol at all times, but tonight he clearly had to make an exception, because he'd zoned out on stakeout and had managed to miss everything but the tail end of the meet he was spying on. Enough to get a little information, but not as much as he needed. He'd spent hours up here and he hated wasting his time, and he hated the delay in getting those drugs off the streets even more.

Jason gritted his teeth and took a couple of deep, slow breaths. It was done. Spending the energy on anger at himself was useless, and worse, it made him more likely to slip up again. So. He'd get a coffee. He'd act on the information he had. He'd do better next time.

And, if he was lucky, he wouldn't have one of those weird nightmares that left him sore with tension and almost more tired than when he'd fallen into bed.

That wasn't where he'd left that gun. Jason wasn't prone to memory problems, especially when it came to his weapons. He was meticulous about them, and he knew none of the rest of the family would have touched them. And no one else knew the code to his safe.

He frowned to himself. Well, maybe it was. Nothing had tripped any of his alarms or shown on his cameras. He'd been so tired lately. Maybe Jason had set the pistol down there. Maybe he hadn't cleaned it. He hissed to himself as he picked the gun up. That damn scrape. It still hadn't healed.

What the *fuck* was happening to him?

He was outside his apartment, with his holsters but without his helmet. The domino was on, but barely - Jason could feel where the adhesive was sloppily applied. His knuckles were scraped and bruised. It felt like he'd broken a finger. Like he'd forgotten how to punch with his thumb outside of his fist.

Had someone drugged him? Was that why he didn't remember leaving? Or what time it was? Or, he realized uneasily, what day it was?

Slowly, feeling almost like he wasn't in control of his body, Jason lowered his fists. Along with everything else wrong with his right hand, the scrape still hurt, a bright flash of pain that somehow he felt over the deep, throbbing pain of the probably-broken finger. He should get that checked out, he thought distantly.

Dissociation. That must be why he felt so calm as he turned around mechanically and began the walk that would take him to - where was he going? Jason felt slightly to the left of himself, like he wasn't really present. He should be worried about this, he thought, but he couldn't remember why.

#my fic #jason todd #batfam #possession cw #dissociation cw #april frightfuls

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dirtfacedgospel · 5 months

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#𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐞 ━━ [ bastien theriot. ]#𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 ━━ [ edit. ]#[ don't know what this is. trying it out. ]#dissociation cw

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survivoirs · 2 months

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Distraction was an interesting concept. There were times when everything Ed did was to find a way to distract himself from his ever-growing boredom. Boredom was a very dangerous thing for someone like Nigma. It caused him to act rash. Make mistakes. Hastily planned jobs that nearly got himself killed or arrested. Then there was the danger of outside distractions clouding his brain, affecting his focus, his already fragile at times psyche. The letter in his inner vest pocket felt like it was burning a hole in his chest. Unopened, despite receiving it three or four days ago, the envelope appeared like it have been hastily crumpled up before being carefully flattened back out. In fact that was exactly what had happened, with being thrown away in between. No, I am not going to read it. I don't care. It's going in the bin where it belongs. He'd told the Girls as he'd dramatically made a show of crumpling and tossing the mail away. It was only after they'd let him be after he'd told them he'd needed space that Edward decided against tossing it. Only to retrieve it and carry it around on his person every waking moment like a ball and shackle.

Riddle me this. How did he find me ? !

Query & Echo hadn't seen him in person since then. And not for lack of trying. As far as they could tell, Eddie hadn't returned to any of the usual spots. Not his penthouse. None of the hideouts. They'd even checked Arkham and the GCPD to make sure he'd not done something stupid and gotten himself locked up again. None of the Rogues knew where he was at either. Two-Face was pretty pissed off because Ed was supposed to show up for a shared job yesterday and had been a total no-show without so much as a text.

The Riddler had been 'spotted' hanging around the Gotham Museum of Art yesterday and when he returned today, one of the curators had called the police. The nervousness of the woman had completely gone past Edward's awareness as he sat on a bench in front of the same painting as the day before. No, he wasn't casing the joint as the woman had whispered over the phone to the police. To be fair, the painting he was fixated on was worth quite a lot of money. A piece from a local Gotham artist who had gotten a lot of deserved recognition over the last few years. In fact, this painting had only been loaned to the museum less than six months ago. It was one of Edward's favorite pieces of art.

"What's green, red, and goes round and round? What's green, red, and goes round and round? What's green-" Edward sat there, mumbling one of his favorites again and again to himself softly.

It wasn't until the lights turned off, that Edward was made aware of anything amiss. Even then, it took him a moment to realize that Batman had appeared behind him. Nigma looked like he was a bit out of it when he turned his head to glance over his shoulder, like he wasn't entirely present in the moment. Nor did he entirely look like his usual well put together self. He looked exhausted. Face wasn't clean shaven, hair completely un-styled, suit a bit disheveled. Not even wearing a damn tie anymore, he wasn't quite sure where that had ended up. He'd loosened it when he'd started feeling overstimulated.

"Frog in a blen--I mean wha--what are you doing here?" Nigma demanded, not even realizing his body had moved. Swiveling around on the back-less bench to stand, he still somehow didn't seem at full height. Yes, Batman in his suit always made the Riddler look small but Eddie's posture wasn't oozing with his usual arrogance and pride. His shoulders were hunched, arms crossed over his chest in a self-soothing manner that provided an unconscious barrier between him and everything else as well. Long fingers tapped rhythmically against his upper arm where the opposite hand was gripping. It was only then that, with the darkness, he was able to notice the flashing red and blue coming from outside through the windows, flashing against the walls around them. Edward winced like it was too harsh for him right now and -- not quite anger -- but irritability welled up inside him.

"What are they doing here? I - I," Edward stammered and he shifted to start pacing before he felt the hero's gloved hand brace him on the shoulder. The movement had been telegraphed enough that it didn't feel like a painful jolt but what he hadn't expected was for it to feel grounding for once. The hold wasn't constricting, he could pull away if he wanted to, but it was firm and heavy. Much like how Edward's arms around himself tightened to apply more deep, consistent pressure. "I--I didn't do anything," Edward started to plead defensively before he felt the other man's grip squeeze lightly to garner his attention.

'Are you feeling alright?'

"No. I'm not. Next bloody question," he answered abruptly, not even bothering to hide the truth within a riddle. "Riddle me this, Batman. When is a ghost not a ghost¿?" Nigma threw his hands up a bit before his fingers curled tightly into his dark hair in frustration. "What's a riddle when I don't know the answer? When I don't know the answer. Me. ME. I don't have the bloody answers. I don't know. I just don't know and it's killing me," Edward whined weakly behind hands rubbing at his face. @bruz3r

#dissociation cw #overstimulation cw #IM SORRY THIS GOT LONG #begging you to not actually match LOL #riddler threads #rp #flashing cw

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