young survivors

On one hand I see Maglor as a sensitive, passionate, artsy type, but on the other hand I headcanon that when his brothers were young they had a saying along the lines of: it’s all fun and games until Makalaurë gets pissed off.

DID/OSDD metaphor

I’ve been meaning to write this for a while and hadn’t had a chance yet, but I wanted to share this as it may help someone with DID/OSDD or people who care about someone who has either dissociative disorder.

My partner often has to explain what DID is to confused alters in an age appropriate way and this is my favourite metaphor. It might not be helpful in all cases but I thought I’d share as it could help, especially with younger alters.

She tells them to imagine the “original” has 100 bags of shopping which they need to carry. These bags represent different trauma experiences the system has gone through. She asks the alter if the “original” can carry all those bags alone - to which the answer is obviously no. She explains that there are others to help the “original” carry the bags. 

Sorry I hate using the term “original” but just use it here to make it clear what I’m trying to say!

It’s very simplistic but seems helpful for the younger age range. She also makes a point of saying the contents of each bag has equal worth and they’re all needed in order for all 100 bags to be carried (obviously we don’t have exactly 100 alters but it’s an easy number to work with).

Something (negative) triggered a switch last night and Amy ended up telling my partner aspects of trauma she remembers. In the years we’ve known about her we have never been sure if she is a trauma holder.. til now. I hoped she wasn’t to be honest.

I am so so proud of her for opening up but at the same time it breaks my heart. She acts older than a typical 2 year old but she is such an innocent little girl. What kind of sick monster does that, convincing her it’s a ‘game’?! I hate him.


This is Istvan, he started out life as a product of the random vault dweller generating algorithm in Fallout Shelter and after raising him from a level 1 baby doing nothing but bottling Nuka Cola to a level 50 wasteland badass I have become attached enough to him to award him the honor of being my new survival run character.

This is the first OC I’ve decided not to try and bend to fit the forced “pre-war parent chasing lost son” story, instead he’s a vault dweller from a small vault just outside the Commonwealth that has had no contact with the outside world for the last 210 years. Supplies are finally running out and he’s left the vault to see if other vaults in the Commonwealth still exist. In exploring Vault 111 he discovers Nate in the cryo room about to die from complications from the cryogenic malfunction, and with his last breaths Nate explains what happened and asks Istvan to avenge his wife and find his son. Istvan can’t say no to the dying man, so he promises, takes their wedding rings, and steps into the Commonwealth with noooo idea how to find a lost child and very little experience outside a vault.

So far he’s done way better than my first survival playthrough (I didn’t even make it past the deathclaw) even though he keeps dying trying to get through the Corvega factory. HE’LL GET TO DIAMOND CITY EVENTUALLY

Here to Help - Spencer Reid

Part 2

Spencer x Reader

Summary: A case hit home for one of the BAU team but none of the others know why or how to help

Part 1

You had just gotten the case files together was were slowly making your way towards the conference room making sure you didn’t drop them. ‘I thought we were on paperwork today and not cases?’ Morgan’s voice floated through the open door as JJ entered before you. ‘We are but a case needed our attention’ Hotch told the team as JJ sat. ‘Alright’ The team looked at JJ and she just shrugged. ‘I don’t know anything about it, it didn’t come through me’ She explained and they all looked slightly confused.

At that you stepped into the room. ‘That’s because it came through me’ You announced and their heads turned to you. You leaned forwards landing the armful of files you had onto the wood. ‘I flagged a case when I started at the BAU’ You began separating files and passing them across to each of your team. ‘This morning I got a call about it’ You reached over to the center and grabbed the remote for the board. ‘Twenty two years ago a man names Joshua Penican started invading family homes and killing them’ You clicked the mouse and a police drawn portrait of the man came up. ‘This sketch is about twenty years old and the only thing we have to go on’ You walked around the table. 

You let your hand brush off Spencer’s shoulder as you went hoping the small gesture would help show him you were sorry, until you could talk to him properly after. ‘All together he’s killed over 24 families, for the first few years it was only one at a time’ You clicked again and the older crime scene photos came up. ‘Then he began killing in sprees of two or threes. His killing are so periodic no one knows when or where he will strike next’ You looked away from the photos a shudder going down your spine. ‘It’s never yearly but never any more than 4 years between sprees’ You began clicking again. ‘He always targets families with five people in it, a mother, killed by overdose’ You clicked and a photo of a woman in a chair came up. ‘Father, single gunshot to the head’ Again another click. ‘Two daughters’ Two more clicks and their photos came up. ‘And a boy’ Again you clicked but didn’t look at the screen. 

Rossi was flicking through the paper. ‘there was a survivor, a young girl about twenty years ago’ He looked up. You nodded. ‘Yes, that’s where the police got their sketch’ He nodded. ‘There’s a profile in here’ Morgan glanced up at you. ‘Has the BAU worked this case before?’ You shook your head clicking the remote and the screen went blank. ‘No, that profile is mine, a few years ago I heard about the murders of three more families and went down there’ JJ nodded. ‘I remember that, one day you just took off on holiday’ You shrugged. ‘I went to work the case unofficially and gave the cops this profile’ You told her.

Turning back to the screen you clicked on the new images. ‘About twenty minutes ago I got a phone call from a Detective Grenly saying he had struck again, a family of five had been found dead an hour earlier, same MO’ You clicked and the crime scene photos again came up. You flinched when the photo of the oldest girl came on the screen and turned away. And being in a room full of profilers one of them noticed, Spencer. ‘Only this time, the son, Jason Harvey fifteen, survived as the unsub was interrupted while trying to strangle him’ You crossed your arms. ‘I told the police we’d help’ The team nodded. ‘Wheels up in twenty’ Hotch said as he stood. The team nodded agreeing and the room began to clear.

You waited for them to go. ‘Spencer?’ You called just before he left the room and he turned. ‘I’m sorry about this morning’ He just crossed his arms. ‘That was the case file you had hidden in your desk wasn’t it?’ You nodded pulling out a chair and sitting. ‘Yeah, listen I am really sorry about snapping’ Spencer sighed slightly and walked back into the room uncrossing his arms. He sat taking the seat beside you. ‘I’ve never seen you react like that, and I’ve known you almost seven years’ You sighed and glanced at the lone case folder on the table, yours. ‘This case, it’s always been one I’ve known when we had a lead, I just-I wanted to get it to Hotch. I’ve tried for so long to catch this guy and I don’t know what came over me’ You closed your eyes with a long sigh

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When you’re a teen, life can be so hard. Best friends getting buried in the back yard. School is hard enough without enough without running for your life. It’s time to get along, get along, get alone and put down that knife! We’re gonna be there through thick and thin! We’re gonna be there if you lose or win! We’re gonna scream, scream, scream, scream, scream after dark! ♪ Scream After Dark ♪.  Scream After Dark is not recorded in front of a live studio audience. 

I was sexually abused by my older cousin. As a result, it now freaks me out to see men interact with young girls. Even if it’s just a grandfather who has his young granddaughter sitting on his lap… it makes me want to run up to them and take the girl somewhere safe - away from the man.
—  Posted by Anonymous.
“Inner child”

Does anyone else find it really annoying when people think little/young alters are the same as your “inner child”?  

I know obviously there may be overlaps, but littles are completely formed child personalities with their own likes/dislikes, style, tastes, gender etc.  Not just the “child” part of your personality.  

Alters are formed as a response to chronic childhood trauma. Everyone has an inner child.


The poster asked for a fic in which Anna actually lived. They wanted to know what the interaction between Anna, Michael, and Polly would look like. In this chapter, Michael and Anna meet for the first time. They’ll meet Polly in Chapter 2. I had a lot of ideas so it was hard to do a one shot. I’m sorry I have so many ongoing projects. I hope it meets expectations if not just send some feedback and I’d be happy to rewrite it.

PS I am so so so sorry that I’ve taken so long to post. I’ve been pretty ill for the past couple of weeks and it all came to a head last week so I’ve been working on recovering. I’m sorry for the delay and thank you for being patient. I hope you enjoy it. Cheers.

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I keep rolling over in my head the idea of a Hollow Knight crossover with Ori And The Blind Forest.

Both take place in self-contained kingdoms, populated by creatures who are not humans. Nibel and Hallownest could very well be kingdoms in the same world. Hallownest claims to be the last and only civilization, but Cornifer mentions that he and Iselda moved to Dirtmouth from elsewhere. He’s certainly no Mantis, traitor or otherwise, and his fearful reaction to Deepnest would hardly suggest he’s from that village, either. Furthermore, I’m sure by the standards of Hallownest in its heyday, Nibel would be considered uncivilized wilderness as its only settlement of any size was the Forlorn Ruins. 

There are plenty of places to infer overlap between the two: the pale, treelike queen of Hallownest, and the very insectoid Gumon in Nibel. 

Hallownest features plant creatures, including the Moss Prophet who fervently worships the light and claims that light and life are one and the same. Some of the carvings in Greenpath claim that the plant creatures draw their very life from “moss and leaf” when in Ori, the literal life giver of the entire kingdom is the Spirit Tree. 

In Ori, emphasis is placed on the essential balance of light and dark. When Nibel’s light is snuffed, the forest succumbs- life withers, and strange beasts run wild. In Hollow Knight, Hallownest’s radiance becomes blinding, destructive- and much the same occurs.

Both stories feature the manifold children of a godlike being (Spirit Tree/Pale King), many of whom do not survive, leaving behind two survivors- a young child (Ori/the Little Knight) and an older, more powerful figure (Sein/the Pure Knight).

Ori is a child of light born into a period of darkness, tasked with restoring the light. The Knight is a child of darkness born into a period of light, tasked with, arguably, snuffing out the source of the corrupting light.

The two are pleasantly balanced, with Ori being far more maneuverable and having a ranged attack, to the much more physically powerful Knight- and also, having very different personalities evident in their behavior.

Thematically I feel like there could be a very interesting story here.

motherofgriffins  asked:

29. There’s a charcoal sky tonight. << For DWC and Welcome! :)


I might actually continue this later. Enjoy some angst. XD

Surrender in the Wake of Victory

Minrathous was burning. The smoke stung in his lungs, turning the sky a dull, sickly gray. He hadn’t meant for it to come to this, but perhaps things were better this way. This city, built on the bones of his people, stained with their blood and that of their descendants, could be nothing but a cancer on the world. Still, the loss of life would be catastrophic.

“My Lord, our forces have retreated. They want to know if we should help evacuate the city.” Solas took a breath, pulling himself up to his full height. This was a young recruit, a survivor of the Temple of Mythal, he thought. They had no knowledge of the man behind the mask, of his private struggles and fears. He intended to keep it that way.

“Tell them if they wish to volunteer to aid the citizens, they can meet me at the Dreamer’s Gate. We will coordinate our efforts from there.”

“Of course, Fen’harel. Right away.” The young elf bowed and darted away. Solas sighed, but it was directed at himself. He had made the choice to take up this mantle, to do what needed to be done, because, he told himself, he was the only one who could. But now, nearly five years after he had first awoken from uthenera, he knew that it was a foolish notion, borne of pride, ever his greatest vice. Still, he chose it, every day when he put on the armor. He was too far down the path now to find the way back on his own. He headed down the stairs of the watchtower and out into the city.

No one stopped him. Those who bothered to look in his direction shrank back, hoping against hope that the Dread Wolf would not notice them. They needn’t have bothered. He had already done what he came to do. The slaves had risen in revolt, throwing down their magister masters. Now all that remained was to pick up the pieces. Or to leave the city to burn… Did it truly matter, when everything was destined to come to an end? He wasn’t sure anymore. Somehow along the way, his moral compass has failed him.

The Dreamer’s Gate was old, an archway of twisted metal and stone, taken from the ruins of Arlathan itself. It stood at the entrance to Tevinter’s slums. Since many of these residents were elves, there was a certain irony to its continued existence. He put his hand on it, feeling the faintest hum of ancient magics within. After all this time, something remained…

He heard a crash behind him, a groaning of wood and the agonizing screech of metal. There were screams. He spun around and saw a large building, about thirty yards distant, was smoking. “The roof is caving in!” someone shouted. He could hear the sound of children crying. Before he knew what he was doing, he ran, reaching out with his hands and his magic to stabilize the structure, to douse the fire. Others ran past him, but he kept his mind on the magic. Even for him, it was a lot to hold at once, especially as exhausted as was. He did not like drinking lyrium, and so, of course, he had brought none with him. Once again, he would have to bear the weight of the mistakes pride cost him, and this time, hopefully it would only be a headache.

Finally, he felt a hand on his shoulder. “All of the occupants are safe. You can release the spell.” Solas let the magic flow out of him with a sigh, and, as if it had been waiting for his signal, the building fell in on itself like a house of cards. He turned to the speaker, sure he had to be mistaken. But no, it was Abelas, once the High Keeper of Mythal. He looked different, fuller of face and body, his skin now tanned by the sun, and wearing an nondescript outfit of black and gray, but the combination of his facial features and vallaslin were unmistakeable.

“Of all the people I expected to encounter, you are the last of them, lethallin,” he said, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder.

“As you said, Fen’harel, there were other paths and duties open to me. Though perhaps you did not have the White Lady in mind when you spoke thusly.”

Solas gaped. “She is here in the city?” Since disbanding the Inquisition, his love had proved adept at evading his spies. Even in dreams, she gave nothing away. But he had expected that if she was nearby he would have at least had some word….

“She is. And if you do not want to meet her in person, I suggest you…”

“Abelas? Are the reports true? Fen’harel has been sighted?” The sound of the familiar voice was like a dagger to his heart. He couldn’t face her, not here, not now, when already his mind was so troubled. But he could not make himself move.

“Too late,” the former sentinel said, and he stepped aside wordlessly. He heard her rapidly indrawn breath.

“Solas.” The word hit him like a scourge on his bare skin. It had been years since anyone had dared to call him by his given name. Only her. In front of the eluvian that last time. Or in his dreams. “After all these years, now you will not run?”

“Should I?” he said, his voice ragged. Like Abelas, she dressed in black and gray, her only badge of office a silverite clasp on her lapel in the shape of a moon and many-rayed star. Her sigil. Her fair hair flowed down her back unbound. If anything, she was more beautiful than he remembered, the way she walked with poise and surety. “Have you come to kill me at last?” There was a part of him that hoped she would. He was tired, so tired. No one could fault him for not trying, and she would be lauded as a hero.

“I’m sure there are many who would call it justified if I did,” she said, standing just in front of him, close enough that he could pick out every silver blue thread in her eyes.

“I will not resist,” he said, and he found that he meant it. He hung his head, awaiting the blow. In truth, he knew exactly when his path had gone astray. She might have said the plan was wrong from its inception, and maybe it was true, but it was the night in Crestwood that he had really begun to lose himself. And then, when he had taken her arm in the Crossroads, that had been the killing blow. He had laid a curse upon himself, ripping out his own heart and leaving it to rot, and she would only be finishing what he had left half-done, as usual.

“Have you truly given up, ‘ma lath?” she said, her voice now filled with sadness. Her hand gripped his chin, tipping his face up to meet her eyes. He did not, could not, understand, and he shook his head slowly in denial.

“I have become the monster the tales have made me to be, and still all my plans have caused naught but ruin and disaster. At this point, my death would be viewed as a blessing.”

“Not to me,” she said. “There is always time to walk another path.” She held out her hand to him. He blinked as if he was finally seeing it, or at least finally digesting the meaning of it.

“Even after all that I have done?” he said, spreading his arms to indicate the destruction surrounding them.

“I told you before, didn’t I? Var lath vir suledin.” His eyes were wet when he placed his hand in hers. She embraced him, and he wept, for his failures, for his victories, for all the wasted years and lives. Who knew how long they stood there, but no one disturbed them. Somehow, they would find a way forward together.

nothing hillary clinton does on a personal/individual scale matters. i don’t care how nice she is to domestic violence survivors or young girls who escaped the taliban. being nice is fucking irrelevant when you turn around and push legislation that actively harms those very same people on an institutional level.