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Have you suddenly become a petty, hateful little gremlin who thinks people should face the firing squad for (checks notes) leaving teabags on the counter, breathing loudly, or daring to exist in the same space as you? Perhaps mundane and reasonable requests like ‘hey, we agreed to hang out now, let’s hang out’ make you want to scream and move to a yurt in the woods.

You. Are. Overstimulated.

People talk a lot about being overstimulated, and the physical/mental effects of it. What I haven’t seen is people talking about what it does emotionally, and it took me an embarassingly long time to link up those nitpicky, resentful emotions with the state of overstimulation/meltdown/shutdown.

These feelings do not mean that you’re a bad person! They probably aren’t how you actually feel about the people around you. They probably do mean that your nervous system is at its absolute limit and any request/demand/stimulus is Too Much and taking you into fight or flight territory.

Go lie down in a dark room for an hour, or find somewhere safe and familiar to stim for a bit. If it’s happening a lot, schedule yourself regular low-stimulation shutdown time

“She knows… what I am?”

“Goodness, no!” Stede laughs, “of course not! Well, she knows Ed. That’s all I said, when she asked me what your name was. She really was very supportive, you know.”

“I can imagine,” Edward grumbles. “Who does she know me as, then? The weird guy you met at sea? Uncle Ed, the freak in black leather? Oh, just Ed, you know, honey, the captain one ship over?”

Stede opens his mouth to respond swiftly, but then something stops him, and something stops Edward in turn, in the way he’s looking at him. Like he’s happy. Like he’s overjoyed, in fact.

“Oh no,” Stede says softly, “she knows you as the man I love.”

Based on that PotC scene-

Thank you so much for your kind words! <3 I hope you'll like this little piece :)

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To anyone else, Markus would look calm and completely unconcerned, sitting in the interrogation room as if he owns the place, despite his hands being cuffed to the table.

Connor, however, can see the hidden fury in his posture, the controlled anger that has killed so many before, when Markus lets it out. It shouldn't scare him, he did his job and brought Markus in, he doesn't have to live a lie anymore. Yet, looking at the man now, through the glass of the interrogation room, Connor can't help but shiver slightly, knowing he'll still have to face the crime boss.

He sighs, steeling himself and forcing his face into an emotionless mask before pushing the door open to face Markus. The crime boss doesn't acknowledge him yet but keeps staring at his hand as he plucks at his nails, almost looking bored. Connor takes the opportunity to walk inside and take a seat at the table, placing down his files.

“Mr. Manfred,” He begins, grateful his voice doesn’t shake. “I take it I don't have to explain to you why you're here?”

Cut your food into small pieces, make the font size 30 on your e book, use straws to drink, get a pen that’s comfortable to hold, take more naps, walk slowly, eat another cookie, buy velcro shoes, re-watch the part you couldn’t understand the first time, write things on your hands so you don’t forget it… whatever you want and/or need

“Sorry,” he said, holding up his hands. “I didn’t think anyone would be over here.” He didn’t think he remembered an introduction to anyone in that dress. It was a memorable sort of a dress. “I believe I ran into your mother inside?” he ventured, because he ran into so many mothers.

“She’s not here,” she said, which was not what he wanted to hear and which he absolutely could not handle at the moment.

“Right,” he said, trying to recover, pretending as if he’d just remembered something. “Your father–”

“We haven’t met,” she interrupted. “I’m not anyone.”

“Oh thank god,” he said, abandoning propriety to collapse onto the bench, dropping his head between his knees. “Thank you.”

“Too many people?” she said sympathetically.

“I’m really bad with faces,” he admitted.

“A lot of people are,” she assured him.

He dragged his hands down his face. “I just confused a Duke with a waiter.”

She bit her lip. “As long as you aren’t rude to waiters, you should be fine,” she said.

“I wasn’t rude,” he said. “I’m never rude. It would have been better if I was rude.” He buried his face in his hands. “I tipped him,” he said, anguished, muffled by his palms. Why had he been dressed like a waiter?

She burst out laughing, loud and with her head tipped back, overwhelming the empty garden. He separated his fingers to stare at her.

“Sorry,” she hiccuped, which immediately descended back into snorts. She laughed like she was hunting for truffles.

“Thanks,” he said, though he almost did feel better. “I’m feeling very supported in my time of need.”

“There’s only one thing you can do,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes, trying to dab at them to not destroy her makeup. Reflexively, he offered her a handkerchief, which she accepted. “You have to flee the country. It’s the only way.” She checked the handkerchief for signs of smeared eyeliner. “Leave your family. Change your name. Get a new family. Never tell them your dark secret.”

“I think my old family might notice if I got a new family,” he said, now resting his chin in his hands, elbows balanced on his knees.

“That’s why you have to burn your house down,” she said matter-of-factly, now holding his handkerchief in a neat fold in her lap. “Just burn the whole thing. Everything but your favorite hat. You leave the hat on top of the ashes for your family to find. ‘This must be him’ they’ll say. ‘He would never have left his favorite hat’. It’s the perfect crime. Once it’s done, you become a pig farmer. Anyone comes around asking questions, you feed them to the pigs.”

“You seem like you’ve put a lot of thought into this,” he observed. “How are your pigs?”

She looked him over sidelong. “Hungry,” she said primly.