#CW: Emotional Abuse

[stil-lindigo]

the fox god.

a comic about a trickster.

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[aemulatorizrafel]

It was a struggle but I made this as my own way of healing and moving on. I don't post this in hopes to get sympathy or attention but as a way to let others know they're not alone.

It took me almost 30 years but things got better, I promise, things will get better and I hope for everyone else's healing as well.

[blueywrites]

turtle dove and the crow, part four

A 1940s Farm AU, featuring bsf!neighbor!eddie x fem!reader

story tags: 18+ (minors dni). smut; true love; unexpected pregnancy; angst, angst, angst; parental issues; corporal punishment; scheming, plotting, and betrayal; hurt/comfort; period-typical stigma regarding unwed pregnancy; angst with a happy ending.

chapter tags: please heed this warning and decide if you are prepared to read this chapter, which includes scenes of harsh but period-accurate parental abuse against an 18-year old child. this includes emotional and mental abuse in the form of 'discipline' and depictions of physical punishment. these methods are always harmful and never appropriate. they do not represent the views of the author. avoiding tw/cw's? read the part four summary instead

masterlist | part one | part two | part three | interlude | part four | part five | part six | epilogue | playlist

PART FOUR: THE WEIGHT BENEATH THE SUN (8.6K)

It’s hard to make the moment last

Hard to keep the dreams you have

Hard to let the love inside your heart

The guards are always at the gates

Turning everyone away

But you got through

Didn’t you?

You’re the One I Want — Chris and Thomas

When you were six— two years before Edward Munson became the new boy next door— your mother still hosted garden parties during the warm months. Pa would arrange the iron furniture into a pleasing configuration, ensuring the grass was level and dry beneath the table's heavy feet. The stiff-backed chairs would be spaced precisely from its wrought edges, far enough for ease of entry but close enough that the ladies would not have to stretch their arms too far to reach the cucumber sandwiches. Those Mama would assemble in careful layers, laying them out on a ceramic platter decorated with filigree. Mama's finest pitcher, made of delicate glass and attractive curves, would be used to serve fresh-squeezed lemonade. She'd garnish the sweet drink with muddled mint leaves plucked from the small personal garden she carefully maintains against the backyard fence. A generous spray of flowers would finish the trio of treasures awaiting the town's ladies, invited by your mother for an afternoon of light refreshments and genteel socializing.

Your sister, Virginia, has the supreme honor of being allowed to join the garden party for the first time this year. She is five years your senior in age and ten your superior in manner, evident in the graceful way she smooths the skirt of her shiny pink dress, perching herself with impeccable posture on the very edge of the iron chair situated to your mother’s right side. Poised and prim, Virginia accepts a glass of lemonade, taking a tiny sip before placing the china delicately to the right of her plate. Ever observant, her eyes dart around the table, absorbing gestures with ease; she follows her sip quickly with a dab of her napkin before arranging it dutifully on her lap again. She is rewarded for this, as the ladies generously indulge her presence among them.

You would be jealous of your sister's invitation if you gave a hoot about such things, but you are entirely disinterested in all of it. You care not for hushed titters floating from beneath their sunbonnets and the passing of cucumber sandwiches, which are nibbled little by little and then chewed behind demure palms as gossip is exchanged. Instead, you've happily plopped yourself behind the apple tree, back to rough bark and short legs spread wide in the ticklish grass. 

Methodically, one by one, you have been picking the delicate yellow petals off the heads of dandelion weeds, dropping each one to collect in the basin of the sunbonnet cradled between your thighs. It's painstaking work and nonsensical, perhaps, but it serves to satisfy some innate curiosity inside you. The purpose of this is unclear; your actions are confusing, the way children's play is often confusing to everyone but the child. But since you are quietly occupying yourself, and your mother and sister are busy socializing, they are happy to leave you to your own devices.

They are happy, that is, until your eye is caught by something much more exciting than plucking weeds.

Your neighbor down the lane has just finished imparting some succulent gossip to the gathering, and her lips are pursed against a grin as she relishes the reaction to her news. Her revelation has the intended effect: shock ripples around the table, but it is mixed with the suppressed delight of knowing a new, tantalizing secret. The party-goers exchange glances, searching for cues in one another, all wanting to know more but reluctant to appear too eager.

"Oh, my goodness." Mama places her hand over her heart as if in regret, but her eyes are gleaming. Interest thrums within the hush of her voice as she begins to ask, "And what d'you suppose he might now do, on account of—?"

"Mama!"

Her question is interrupted by your delighted cry. She turns to see you holding aloft that which made you abandon your collection. Back by the tree, those petals have spilled from the tipped sunbonnet to scatter heedlessly across the grass. "Look't what I caught!" you squeak, eyes alight with eager, innocent delight. "It's a big one, too!"

Despite your excitement, you cradle the large bullfrog gently in your hands, mindful of its comfort as you present it to your mother. You considered it quite the feat to catch the frog without causing it alarm, and when its strong legs twitch against your palm without attempting to flee, pride glows beneath the dirt streaks on your round cheeks.

Your mother does not share your sentiment. 

The way her expression contorts is so opposite what you expected that she may as well have smacked you across the face. Your earlier excitement is smothered like water douses a match, and promptly, you drop the frog. 

You drop it as if by acting quickly, you can undo whatever has caused your Mama offense. But it is not enough. Your mother stares at you, and though the look in her eyes is one you are too young to fully decipher, a parent's disapproval is sensed innately, and felt deeply.

One year after you drop the bullfrog, Mama will sell the garden furniture to purchase seeds and stock in preparation for the coming hardship, and the garden parties would end. Two years after you drop the bullfrog, Eddie will roll in like a summer storm to join his uncle in the red house next door. Seven years after you drop the bullfrog, Virginia will establish a nest of her own, leaving you as the only unwed daughter left in your parents' roost. But no matter how many years pass, you will never forget how your mother's stare made you feel. In the garden, a heavy stone sank in your gut, sickeningly leaden, steadily crushing your delicate insides with each second you spent pinned by her furious stare.

This moment in the hayloft reminds you of that. But there is no stone of lead in your stomach this time. This time, with the salt tang of Eddie's seed still lingering on your lips, your entire body turns to solid, petrified rock. 

Your mother stares up at you from the barn floor. Her face is contorted, screwed up tight with shock and rage, but her eyes are wide, wide enough to swallow you up entirely like a sinkhole would. She traps you. And you remain there, locked tight until the seethe of her voice boils hot from between her lips, blistering the ruddy flesh on its path to you.

"Git. Down. Here."

Each word is a spitfire bullet, enunciated so precisely so as not to be misconstrued. The burn rushes down your spine to melt your solid rock into magma. 

Your muscles are clenched tight, but the warm pulse once stoked between your legs has deadened. You're thrumming instead with horror, with deep, all-consuming dread. Where one moment ago you were heavy as a sinking stone, now you are unsteady, shaky like the first time Eddie coaxed you into a rowboat. 

You can't grab hold of his rough, broad palm to settle yourself this time, and you don't dare risk a glance at the man still nestled in that soft bed of hay. To catch his eye would be torture of a different kind. Instead, you rush to obey your mother's command. Your knee scrapes raw against old, splintery wood as you scramble around and dip one foot to catch the rung of the ladder. 

It's a sturdy old thing, that ladder. Good thing, too, because it holds fast as you cling to it with shuddering fingers and legs so wobbly, they clatter against its rungs with each step toward the perilous ground. By the time you reach the floor, the knee you'd scraped has gone numb. You want to turn your chin down and see if your dress has bloomed a crimson flower of blood, but your neck is unyielding. It's hard enough to step back from the security the ladder provides. All the will your spirit possesses must be channeled into facing the woman looming like a cloud of miasma behind you.

There is no time to brace for a confrontation, but you force your face into as docile an expression as possible before you meet your Mama head-on. She is short and portly, hunched up in such a way as to make her smaller in theory, though, in reality, the sight is only more imposing to you. You expect to meet her piercing stare again, but she isn't looking at you. Instead, she's got one eye hooked on the edge of the hayloft and her lip caught in a sneer so deep it's almost a snarl. 

"You too, Edward," she spits, and your throat dries to dust. "Don't think I'm ignorant of your bein' up there with'r."

The silence that follows is stifling, crowding in on you from all sides. The pressure doesn't ease even as that pregnant pause turns to the creaking and groaning of wood, which protests as the weight of an unseen body shifts toward the hayloft's edge. The thud of booted feet that replaces the wood's cry is little consolation; your heart kicks up at the steady plod that commences, matching it in rhythm but pounding twice as fast. You don't dare to turn and look or even to fiddle with your skirt nervously. Your hands remain still at your sides as your mother stares above your head, watching Eddie climb down from the hayloft. Her eyes dip slowly and steadily along with the thumping of those booted feet until her gaze is even with your face. The final step down behind you is quieter than the rest, and your throat tightens as you sense Eddie's hesitance in the sound. 

As he alights on the ground, Mama's eyes suddenly shift. Where once she had been staring almost uncannily in your direction, as if she may or may not have been trying to look you in the eye, a sudden cut and glint make it abundantly clear that now— now— your mother is gazing directly at you. 

It's all you can do to keep from trembling.

You vaguely hear the shuffle-scrape of Eddie's footsteps and feel the warmth of his body as he comes to stand beside you. The tiniest glance reveals the extent of his mortification: his pale cheeks are beet red with a flush that creeps down his throbbing neck, and his eyes are squinched half-shut as if bracing for a blow. His adam's apple bobs, and unconsciously, you swallow at the same time.

When Eddie finally opens his mouth, all that eeks out is the briefest croak before your mother interrupts coldly. "You best be gettin' home to your uncle now, Edward."

While the words don't drip with venom, the mention of Wayne is nothing if not a threat, and Eddie recognizes it as so. You would never expect him to argue; in fact, you'd be dismayed if he had, but the thought of facing your mother's wrath alone covers the frozen dread inside you with a fine layer of poignant sorrow. You are heavy, but now you are empty, too. 

Weakly, Eddie clears his throat to rasp, "Yes, ma'am." Your chin trembles at the sound of his voice, but your eyes only begin to sting when you feel the soft, subtle draw of his fingers across the small of your back as he passes by you to disappear out of sight beyond the barn doors. The touch is one last offering of comfort from your beloved before you both must face the consequence of your transgressions.

In the kitchen, Mama takes you apart.

The way she lashes you with her tongue is harsh and unforgiving. Each word darts across the kitchen counter, catches you with its claws, and burrows beneath your tender skin, sinking deep to carve into your marrow. 

"How dare you." Her voice quivers with the force of her rage. "How dare you bring such disgrace upon our family. You know darn well that we forbade you from seeing that boy, yet you went behind our backs anyway. And now, to make matters worse, I find you been carryin' on like a," her lips twist up to spit a sharper barb, "hussy up in the hayloft. What kind of a girl do you think that makes you, y/n?"

She pauses long enough to make you question whether she expects an answer, but she carries on without you. Her eyes dart along the cabinets, unseeing as she chuckles mirthlessly. "And, oh. M'blood could just boil thinkin' how that boy could set there at his dinner table and talk about how good we raised our daughter, only for you two t'turn around and… and…." 

She stutters off, wild eyes rolling as she works herself up. The deepening of her wince uglies her visage, so that lines crease at the corners of her mouth where before there were none. And oh, how foolish you were to think the sight of her bulging eyes would be in any way gratifying. How deeply, utterly stupid of you to think such a thing.

"What you done is unspeakable. How'm I supposed to show my face in town, knowing what you been up to right underneath my nose? It turns my stomach just to think about what y'were doin' up there w'him." 

Each word sinks deep inside you. It’s a barrage of all you deserve because it's the truth. And this is just the beginning. Because there's disgust there, in Mama's screwed-up face, and there's fury, too. But beneath those, there's also hurt— the evidence of a deep wound torn open by your impropriety. It's a hurt you aren't sure you can mend. 

At that realization, fat, hot tears begin to roll unimpeded down your cheeks. They drip from your quivering chin, which tightens with the occasional sniffle as you try to keep yourself from collapsing to the floor, wrapping your arms around your mother’s skirt, and pressing yourself to her shins in pitiful supplication. 

Though Mama is looking at you, she doesn't seem to register that you've started to cry. "I just can't understand it." Mama's fingers press divots into her temples, and her head wags absently as if in subconscious denial. "Virginia was your age when she married her Lawrence. She knew the way of things. And now look at 'er— got her own home and three children to raise." Her hands drop sharply, and a flash of judgment returns. "She's a proper lady. And then what d'we have? You. I never thought I'd see the day when a daughter of mine would behave like this." 

The burrs stick sharply, coating you in a prickly sadness that only intensifies when your Mama's plump arms tighten to her sides, crossing beneath her bosom, cinching in tight as she presses a fist to her lips. 

"Lord help me— what'm I gonna do with you now?" 

It's so much quieter than all else she's said, so much duller, and yet all the more painful for it.

Her name on your lips is a whimper, a sob, a plea all at once. "Mama—" You suddenly feel no more than six years old with dirt streaked on your shameful cheeks, filled with the crushing sense of all you've done wrong.

"Don't." She cuts you off firmly. Your teeth click together painfully as your jaw snaps closed. She stares at you for a long moment. "Th'last thing I wanna do is talk about what was goin' on up there, but clearly…" 

You read the intention in your mother's restless shifting, the discomfited rocking of her heels. Heat floods up your throat, a sickly blaze of shame. "Well," she continues stiffly, "I know y'had your mouth on him, and that's… that's one thing. But I need to know." Her fist drops to reveal a stiff upper lip, but her voice quavers slightly as she asks a question that doesn't stick like burrs or burrow beneath your skin. Instead, it pierces straight through the center of you. 

"Have you had relations with Edward?"

Your shock is like the firm twist of a leaky spigot. The steady flow of your tears ceases so abruptly that it's nearly enough to distract from the question itself.

Nearly enough. Not quite enough.

Horrified panic surges up as the question sinks in: Mama's askin' me if I had sex with Eddie. The feeling claws its way past your stomach, past your heart, past the heat in your throat, and straight up to your head. It rushes there, leaving you dizzy. Black fuzz spreads across your vision. 

And the lie springs up, ready and poised behind your teeth. It's a denial borne of fear, desperation, and the deep ache beating in the child's heart still nestled within your grown one. That tiny heart flutters against your ribs, recalling the plink of music box drift-offs and gentle John the Rabbit wake-ups; the balm of kisses pressed to scraped knees and hurt feelings wrung out with tight hugs; the roundness of laughing cheeks streaked with flour and little hands cradled in large palms, guided to knead love into dough, right here, in this room, all those years ago.

Could you survive the loss that would come with confession? Could you bear to see the lingering light— the final vestige of a mother's regard for her child— die behind her eyes? 

Led by a child's heart and a mind seized by panic, the choice you make is not a choice, but an inevitability.

"No," you whimper, and such sincerity pools within your eyes that even one who knows better might be convinced you believe that. "No, I din't lay with him, Mama. I swear it."

The softening of her features, fractional though it is, brings you such tender relief that tears spring anew at the corners of your lashes. 

"Well, all right," she says finally, and while her voice isn't quite fond, you can see the creases around her mouth ease, fading from deep crevices back to the faint lines you're familiar with. It's a gift you wouldn't dare waste. "Y'know what needs to be done, then."

Without a hint of protest, you retrieve the wooden spoon from the crock on the counter, passing it into your mother's waiting hand and presenting your backside to her. 

With balled fists and a rigid spine, you take your punishment. You press your lips flat to keep all your noises in as Mama spanks you with the rounded back of the wooden spoon. The even raps— ten against your clothed buttocks— smart and sting, but they do not ache. Her actions are not hesitant or reluctant, but they aren’t gluttonous either. Your mother does not grow fat feasting on your pain; she is merely obliged to provide it.

You are braced for another impact when you hear the spoon clatter back into the crock. When you realize another blow will not come, you face her again. Silence reigns the room as you take stock of yourself: warm, stinging skin, pressure in your cheeks, nose, and forehead from crying, and a new, yawning hollowness inside.

"M'sorry, Mama," you sniffle, throat thick with remorse, "M'sorry for disobeying you, a-and bringin' shame on the family. I— I jus'..." You choke and try again. "I—"

There is only one justification, however inadequate it might seem to your mother. It's spoken in the misery of your crumpled brow, in the glaze of your big wet eyes, in the copper of your lower lip where you've worried the spot Eddie's kisses still sweetly linger.

I love him.

"I know." Mama replies as if you'd said it aloud, and her voice is tight, tight with what she is trying to suppress. "I know you do." Her bosom heaves with a heavy, bracing sigh. "But y'know what your Pa said." She doesn’t seem to feel the need to be more specific, and you muster a smidgeon of gratitude for that.

"I know," you echo her, and your voice is tiny and broken. You are tiny and broken. And tired. You realize all at once that you are so tired, it's a labor just to keep from lying down right here on the floor. "R'you gonna tell 'im what I did?"

A jerky nod confirms it, and you think you'd feel more afraid if you could feel anything at all. "I'll speak with your Pa when he gets home," Mama tells you. "Now go'n up to your room. Don't expect you'll get any supper tonight." 

You stare at her, solemn and unresisting, and in that stillness, you can see the moment she hesitates. The flicker that passes across her crinkled eyes is brief, but you see it, and the hush of her voice tells a story all its own. "Don't come down for nothin'," she murmurs intently. "No matter what y'hear. Just stay in your room 'til the morning. Hear me?" 

You can feel yourself wilt further into exhaustion with each passing moment. "Yes, Mama," you croak in dutiful agreement.

The press of her cool palm against your warm, sticky cheek is brief. It lingers only long enough for you to barely realize it has been offered. But that fleeting sensation keeps you alert enough to drag yourself up to your bedroom, softly shut the door, strip off your dress and chemise, and pull on your thin nightgown before relinquishing yourself to the sunken mattress. At that point, you cease to tick, like the final tines have plinked within a wound music box. You have landed on your back atop the covers, and there you will stay until you can summon the strength to turn onto your side.

Though you are tired, sleep does not come to offer a reprieve. Instead, though your eyes begin to strain, you stare at the crack in the plaster above your head. It's the same one you traced while waiting for your crow to land on your windowsill yesterday, yesterday, yesterday. Yesterday beats in the useless yearning of your heart, trailing down your temples to pool in the hollows of your ears.

Yesterday, Eddie held you in your bed until you fell asleep. Today, he never would again.

Heavy footsteps rouse you, and you jolt awake. 

At some point in the afternoon, outside your conscious memory, the slow leaking of your eyes had finally ceased. Blearily, you curled into yourself, tucking your wrists beneath your chin and finally drifting off into unconsciousness. Now, your bedroom is not the way you remember it. It's dizzying at first when your eyes pop open not to the crack in white plaster you'd expected but instead to the sight of your bedroom window. The outside is dark beyond the gauze curtains. The air now hums with the dusk song of cicadas. 

You have little time to orient yourself before the heavy footsteps that woke you yield to the squeal of a door hinge. Your neck is stiff when you lift your head, attempting to blink the strain from your eyes.

Cast in dimness, Pa looms over you like the shadow of death.

Your father is typically imposing, but his visage is made even more severe by the lack of light. His long face appears to be carved with crags, which harshen the snarl of his brow and turn the wrinkles of his sneer into jagged gashes lining his thin lips. What little light remains glints off the bony line of his nose and the flash of his hard, unyielding eyes. He stands unmoving as if etched from obsidian; the only feature to betray him as man and not stone is the ticking of his square jaw. A muscle there jumps erratically, twitching out its silent fury.

Eyes wide, heart fluttering, breath quick and shallow, you lay still as a prey animal hoping to escape a predator's sight. That is no use. Quick as a rattler, Pa's hand strikes out, and the yawning hollowness inside you becomes an uproar of fear flooding your throat.

He takes firm hold of your arm, thick fingers like a vice pinching your skin. When he tugs at you roughly, you let him maneuver you to the edge of the bed. You keep yourself limp and unresisting because, now that you've been caught in his jaws, you know he'll only bite down harder if you don't. And you even shimmy to assist him, fingers twisted tight in the hem of your nightgown to keep it from dragging up your legs. Preoccupied with maintaining your modesty, you're unprepared to be dragged beyond the footboard; you lurch off the bed in an ungainly slump, and your knees clunk painfully to the hardwood floor. 

A shock of pain shoots up both of your legs, and you muffle your reaction with lips pressed tight, following the silent command of your father's grip as he insists you turn to face the mattress. He drops you only once you're kneeling how he wants you, and the loss of his clamped fingers is a relief. Feeling begins to return to your arm as blood flows freely again, and a dull throb starts up in the place he'd gripped you. 

Yet that's nothing compared to what you know is coming when you hear the metallic clink of a buckle. It's followed by the unthreading of his belt, which shicks through the loops of his blue jeans with a drag of denim and a snap of leather breaking free. 

Moments pass in agonizing silence as you wait for the first crack of the belt. Everything inside you tightens in preparation for the pain to come— your muscles, your bones, your heart, and your spirit. You brace yourself, thighs quivering as you hold so perfectly still despite how your skin has begun to dew with nervous sweat. As you hold that stillness, you can even detect the sting of your mother's milder punishment throbbing in time with the pulse that thrums within your tense body. 

Your head has just begun to sag when Pa's voice grates loudly like the grinding of stone, gruff and hoarse. "Y'pologized to your Mama for your behavior?" 

You rush to answer. "Yes, sir." 

"Y'ever gonna dare sneakin' around under my roof again?" 

"No, sir." 

A grunt follows your reply. It sounds satisfied enough to untwist a little of the fear inside you. "Y'ashamed of yourself for what you done with that piece of trash? You regret lettin' him," he pauses so the spit of his words might sting you worse, "ruin you with his filthy hands?" 

Unbidden, Eddie's face blooms in your mind's eye: wild curls of soft dark frizz, crinkled eyes lightened to amber in the sunshine, soft nose dusted with cinnamon freckles, pink lips stretched wide in a smile that makes your heart squeeze even in your memory. You see him there, your beloved crow, and your chin trembles with the truth. You manage to steady it so that your second lie of the day can come out strong. "Yes, sir." 

But perhaps, in your remembering, you hesitate a second too long, because your answer is quickly followed by fire cracking across the crease of your thigh and cheek. 

You yelp with shock and pain, reeling as the contact burns through you, beginning as a white-hot ache before dulling to a throb. You tremble, breathing shakily as your father mutters, "I'll make damn sure of that."

Pa belts you across your buttocks and thighs, attempting to scald that shame into you with the cruelty he wields by his hand. But the whip of the belt is not the same as the lashing of your mother's words in the kitchen; it could never be. Not when Eddie's face has bloomed before you, bathed in summer sunshine. Not in this place, where the bunching of your fingers in the bedspread only makes you think about strong arms around your middle, soft breath on your cheek, and the tickle of wild curls against your shoulder. 

Your father feasts on the cries he draws from you. He takes them as evidence of your guilt and shame. But you're fortified by the memory of Eddie's strong body cradling you in this bed, the breadth of his wide palm on your mound as he brings you to the pinnacle of pleasure, holding you snugly against him when you fall into surrender.

Harshness could never drive out reverence. Pain could never drive out love.

Pa might leave you welted and whimpering against the footboard, but he can never make you waver in your devotion to Edward Munson.

That's not, of course, due to a lack of trying. Because try he does. Pa efforts to cleave you from Eddie in any way he knows how. He begins with a belting and continues the next morning with a visit to your neighbor, Mr. Wayne.

He's over there 'til midday, which you know because you do not rouse from your bed until he returns. You'd lain there on your side for the entirety of the morning, wrists again tucked beneath your chin, but legs straight since curling them made the throbbing in your bottom and thighs sharpen to a burning ache. Throughout the morning, you stared out the window, watching the light crawl steadily up the red siding of the house next door. 

You stirred only when Mama came to tend you. She didn't speak, but you could sense her sentiment in the mild soap and damp cloth she used to wash you, in the gentle pat of a soft towel against your cleansed skin, in the earthy spice of the calendula salve she dabbed on your welts. After she was done, your nightgown fluttered back into place around your hip and flank with the lightest touch. You nibbled on the toast sweetened with butter and honey she left for you on the bedside table, but you did not quit your bed.

This was not the first time Pa had taken the belt to you for some indiscretion, but it was by far the harshest. That's evident as the painful throbbing in your lower half intensifies when you prop yourself up on a palm, testing how it feels to sit up. Your father finds you in the midst of this endeavor: leaning gingerly on one flank, your lips pressed tight and pale. 

You glance toward him warily as he bullies open your bedroom door, and he squints back but doesn't acknowledge your pained expression. "Get y'rself presentable," he grunts. "You're comin' with me next door."

Humiliation, it seems, is the next tool Pa has decided to use to cleave you from Eddie. You know it isn't unreasonable to ask you to apologize to Mr. Wayne for your inappropriate behavior. In fact, now that you've had time to reflect on your actions, you even want to apologize to your neighbor. You cannot— will not— denounce your devotion to Eddie, but you do regret disrespecting Mr. Wayne. He's a man who has been nothing but kind and patient with you and his nephew throughout all the years you've known him, and to think you'd wounded him with your actions makes your throat thicken with genuine regret. 

So you dress hastily in your loosest, lightest frock and spend the majority of the time Pa affords you sitting at your writing desk, crafting a missive of carefully-chosen words you hope will convey to Wayne the depth of your sincere contrition. It takes some scratch-outs and restarts, but by the time Pa returns to retrieve you, you feel satisfied with what you've written.

You expect to apologize to Mr. Wayne for the offence you have caused him, and you expect to make the apology in person, so you don’t hesitate as you follow your father into the red house. It is also unsurprising that Pa would watch you deliver that apology. Knowing his nature, it's expected that he'd want to ensure your efforts are satisfactory. But you do not anticipate the way Pa ushers you through your neighbors' house, one palm pressed flat to your back to keep you from retreating when you see Eddie sitting next to Wayne at the dining room table.

Eddie doesn't look any worse for wear, not in the way you feel after enduring Pa's punishment last night, but he isn't unaffected by yesterday's events. He's wilted like a shade plant left too long in the hot sun: limp curls clumped at the ends, broad shoulders slumped, pink lips sagging at the corners. His umber eyes are smudged with purple in the hollows of their sockets as he stares down at the table. He doesn't look up as Pa urges you forward. 

Your heart seizes at the sight of him, stalling as familiar, hungry want mixes with poignant, thrumming sadness. The impulse to rush to the table and throw your arms around him, to bury your fingers in his curls and cradle his face to your breast, to feel his hot arms crush you against him— all comfort, all sweetness, all desperate relief— is nearly overwhelming. 

To resist is worse agony than any strike of leather, but resist you must. Pa's firm hand on your back demands you stand behind the chair across from Mr. Wayne; all the while as he maneuvers you, you will your crow to look up. He doesn't, though you can tell he now knows you're here. You see it in the tightening of his brow and the twist of his plush lips, which pinch with the effort to keep himself at bay. 

Pa scrapes a chair out, settling himself heavily down into its seat. Standing beside him, you fidget with the crisply-folded letter, pinched fingertips crawling slowly along its edges as you pour all your will and longing into a stare that Eddie refuses to return. 

The stalemate ends as Pa clears his throat loudly, growing impatient. "Go'n, now," he prompts, crossing his arms and kicking his feet out under the table in a scuff and thump of heavy boots.

You steal one more lingering glance at Eddie before dropping your eyes to your hands and unfolding your letter. It is silent at the table as you turn it right-side up to read from. You lick your lips and take a breath to steady your nerves before beginning.

"Dear Mr. Wayne," you begin, reading in a cadence reminiscent of your schoolteachers' voices— melodic, perhaps too overly-expressive. "I want to tell you that I am so very sorry—" 

A lump rises suddenly in your throat, and you falter; you begin again, speaking a little faster, though you can't disguise the tiny tremble that has emerged. "I am so very sorry for what I've done to disrespect you. I have been carrying on in a shameful manner…."

The apology becomes a blur as you race to complete it before losing your composure. As you express your remorse and acknowledge your wrongdoing, the shaking of your voice only worsens; by the end, your chin is wobbling hard enough that your teeth start chattering.

"Tha's all right, dear," Wayne interjects, gruff but not unkind. Never unkind. "I kin what you're tryin' to express. 'ppreciate your apology."

You nod jerkily, accepting the reprieve gratefully. You fold your letter back up with trembling fingers and pass it over the table to your neighbor, who tucks it away in his pocket.

With a jut of his chin, Pa motions to Eddie. "S'your turn now, boy," he says, and there's enough vitriol roiling there beneath the surface to more than compensate for Wayne's lack. Pa's shrewd eyes dart to you. "Sit down now."

You don't dare disobey, though your stiffness and pinched expression bely your discomfort as you perch gingerly on the edge of the chair. Eddie rises sharply, and your gaze catches on the clench of his broad fist at his side, how his ruddy knuckles have blanched with the force of his grip. You know they'd tightened at the sight of your pain, and a sudden surge of longing nearly leaves you breathless.

You'd urged Eddie to look up at you when he'd been seated, but now you know why he didn't because neither can you, now that the positions are reversed. You can't look up at his face and see the expression there. It's hard enough to hear his voice as he apologizes to your father for touching you without his permission, for the deep offense of wanting you when he'd expressly been told he wasn't allowed because he was too wild and frivolous, and that he'd proven himself as such for what he'd done with you in the hayloft. 

At the end of Eddie's apology, Pa grunts his acceptance. Then, he informs you in no uncertain terms what now will happen. It is the result of his lengthy discussion with Wayne this morning; in the end, they both agreed on certain truths moving forward, and they share those with you now.

They tell you that you and Eddie have been stripped of your freedoms and grounded for further notice. That you aren't to attempt to see or speak with one another. That you should begin thinking about your separate futures and leave this silly summer romance behind. That you are both lucky they are benevolent enough to allow you to continue living side-by-side without sending one or both of you away. 

You are bidden to acknowledge the rules, and you intone your obedience, as does Eddie. And when Pa is satisfied that you have been sufficiently cleaved from the boy across the table, you are herded back around the tall fence and deposited onto your property.

Having seen the defeat written across your miserable face, Pa leaves you to your own devices. You choose to sit beneath the apple tree, hissing at the lance of pain that races up your buttocks and into your spine as you thump down into the grass. Stubbornly, you ignore the low throbbing in favor of deciphering the storm inside you.

Under the apple tree, a billow of emotion spreads within, complex and layered, filled with contradictions. Because what you've done is indeed wrong, and you know that. But to take the depth of your relationship with Eddie and reduce it to an indiscreet romp, a careless mistake, an insignificant dalliance chalked up to the folly of youthful impulse… 

Well, you know this also. Down to your core, you know that that isn't right. And no one rivals you in conviction once your mind is set.

Twelve days ago, the intimacy you shared with your crow came to fruition in a wondrous way. As you pass your days in solitude within your roost, that wonder begins to transform you. It starts with a letter. 

Though the tall fence running the length of your adjoining properties keeps you apart from Eddie, and your parents' watchful eyes prevent any wandering from your front porch, one minor breach remains in those steadfast defenses. It's the tree stump rotted straight through, the only place where the grass of your backyards mingles to become one. Secrets are concealed there, announced by the innocuous song of two woodland birds: the turtle dove and the crow.

You don't hear the call the day following your public apologies, or even the day after that. It comes on the third day while you're sat on a stool in the goat pen, working down the nanny's final teat with one hand. Milking her has been slow and steady work, impeded because her kid is leaning against your flank, content so long as you keep one hand on his small bristly side. His tiny tail beats rhythmically against your skirt as her milk rains hollowly into the metal bucket with each pull of your pinched fingers. And when the stream has turned to a dribble, you hear that unmistakable sound: a deep, harsh 'kaa-kaa-kaa' that has your heart pattering instantly against your ribs as your head whips of its own accord toward the fence. You strain to see Eddie through those tiny gaps, but you're too far away for the gesture to mean much. Your eyes dip to second best— that familiar stump, gnarled and weathered gray, splintered but surprisingly soft and spongy to the touch as if it would give way under a heavy hand or foot. You cannot see into the dark crevice at its base, but you know what now awaits you there.

You want to throw yourself to the ground and reach elbow-deep into that damp space, dirt and dress be damned. But you know the second you leave the bucket unattended, all the milk you'd painstakingly gathered would be claimed by the kid. You squeeze out the teet a few more times— perhaps a bit too hastily, since the nanny flicks her ears at you— before snatching up the bucket, bringing it to the kitchen to strain with cheesecloth and tuck into the icebox, leaving the bucket and soiled cloth in the sink out of sight. I'll wash it right quick as soon as I check the stump, you assure yourself. You couldn't possibly wait another moment longer to see what Eddie has left for you to find.

You're thrumming with impatience and excitement as you pop the screen door back open, struggling not to rush toward your prize and draw suspicion from anyone who may see you. Thankfully, a furtive glance around the yard ensures you are alone, and with nothing else to impede you, you quickly gather up your dress and kneel before the stump to claim your offering. 

You reach past the blanket of fertile green moss that skirts the stump's base, mind flicking through the possibilities of what you might find in there. It will surely be a scrap of paper, but what will its few words convey? Will Eddie beg you to join him at the creek one last time? Tell you he's enlisted someone's help, an emissary of sorts, to go between you so you can speak again? Will he express his longing for your body's closeness? His pain at your separation? 

A fluttering thrill blooms low inside you, cautious and sweet, fearful in its intensity. Because another wondering crosses your mind before you have the good sense to prevent it, and that wondering is this:

With an acknowledgment, perhaps, of how unideal the timing and the method is… will Eddie finally put words to the truth you see in that soft expression that graces his features, the one that's only come out for you, only you, only ever you?

Your fingertips graze thin smooth paper nested in a cradle of grass. As you pull your arm out of the stump, you can imagine it so plainly, written in that familiar scrawl: three words to turn a scrap into the most precious of treasures.

But the paper that comes out is not torn hastily from the corner of a brown paper bag as it usually is. Instead, you’re holding a folded piece of stationary, lightweight and crisp white, though its edges have soaked up some dirty dampness from where it has been hiding.

You don't have the luxury of time needed to examine the emotions that stir at this unexpected sight; you need to get to safety first. You tuck the letter beneath the band of your pocketless apron, fumbling with the bow at the small of your back to tighten it. There the paper stays, pressed against your stomach as you return to the kitchen to wash the bucket and cheesecloth. You lay them out to dry, then pass by your mother in a brush of fabric down the narrow hallway. Lightheaded, heart thumping, you creak up the stairs to your bedroom, closing your door and releasing a woosh of held breath. You sink to the floor in front of it, pressing your back to the wood. In lieu of true privacy, this position keeps someone from bursting suddenly in on you before you can conceal what you're doing. With that assurance, you shift forward, untying that tight bow and letting the apron fall across your legs, revealing a flutter of crisp white.

That stirring of emotions returns full force as you run your thumb along the bottom edge of the paper, wiping the collected dirt absently on the hem of your dress. As you unfold it and Eddie's penciled scrawl is revealed, the first wave of your emotion crests to sting sweetly in the corners of your eyes.

The letter isn't particularly long. It doesn't wax poetic about your grace and charm or meander through the hills and valleys of your shared story. It little matters when you can hear Eddie's teasing rasp in every sentence, see his wild beauty in every word, and feel his firm touch in each uneven scratch of letters into the page.

My Dove, Eddie murmurs against your temple, and you sigh, melting with the sticky sweet honey as he voices his claim on you. His Dove. That's what you are. 

"Yes, Eddie," you whisper into the stillness of your empty bedroom, lids low, lashes heavy as you read the next line. 

First things first. Don't you even think about writin' me back. You hear me? Plush lips curl as your besotted expression falls into a pout, and you hear the rasp of his laugh as he cradles your face in his broad, rough palms. S'not that I don't wanna get a letter from you, you know. I just can't have you in any more trouble. It nearly killed me to see how you were hurtin' on account of me. Umber eyes crinkle, and his thumb brushes the corner of your lip. Promise me you'll listen for once. 

You regard him sullenly for a moment. "Fine," you grump, and the crooked smile you're rewarded with softens the edge of your frustration. 

Eddie regards you fondly. I know you don't wanna. But you will anyway, 'cause y'can't help but do what I say now that you're all gooey over me.

You flush with heat, bashful but pleased, twisting your lips against the dopey smile that wants to come out for him. Now that that's settled, he snarks, making you yearn to kiss the knowing tilt right off his lips, I want you to know that… well, I really am sorry for makin' a mess of things for us. Maybe if I'd done different, we wouldn't be where we are right now. No use dwellin' on it or nothin', because what's past is past. But I screwed it up for us, and I don't know what to do to fix it, and I'm just sorry, Dove. I really am. 

"Oh, Eddie—" His name is a soft, feminine sigh of anguish as the sting returns full force, burning insistently behind your eyes. You grab up his hands, squeezing them tight; the paper wrinkles in your grip. "Eddie, you didn't make a mess of anything. It's not your fault at all, what's happened."

He stares at you mournfully, dark eyes heavy and sad, continuing as if you hadn't spoken. And I know it's only been a few days since I seen you, but I miss you something fierce. S'like my arm's been cut clean off. His lips quirk up just slightly in the corners. And you'll say that's just me bein' dramatic as always, but I mean it. It really does hurt me that much to be away from you.

Eddie's curls brush your cheeks as he gathers you close to him, pressing his nose to the top of your hair. Wish I could hold you. Be there for you, take care of you. But I guess this's all I can do for now. He breathes in deep, and your heart twists sweetly in your chest at the feeling of his breath there— a cool inhale, and then warmth puffing in short bursts when he murmurs, You know you're my best friend, but you're so much more than that. Y'always have been. I told you I'd never let anyone take you from me, and I intend to keep my word, no matter how long I gotta wait.

Your first tear falls, and Eddie's arms tighten around you. He presses a kiss to your hair. In the meantime, he rasps, quiet but sure and brash as always, if you find yourself missin' me, or if you're havin' a hard go of it, or if you just wanna remind yourself where I am. All you gotta do is call for me, Turtle Dove. And when I call back, what I'm really sayin' is, 'I'm here. I'm here, and I ain't goin' nowhere.'

On the page, there's a gap of space and a scratched-out word, and you can feel Eddie's adam's apple bob in a gulp. And if I'm missin' you, or… or if I'm havin' a hard go of it. If you still want me the way that I want you.

The final line of the letter begins to fuzz while you stare down at it, expanding in a bloom of dark-on-white as more tears flood your eyes. But you don't need to see it; the words have already been etched into your heart. 

Will you call back to me? So I know you're here, and you ain't goin' anywhere?

Those two questions close the letter; there is no signature. After all, when two like souls flutter their wings and settle themselves to perch together on a shared wire, names become nothing more than an afterthought. 

Paper flattens to the wooden floor. It crinkles as you press against it with your palm, leveraging yourself up to your feet blindly as your stirrings finally overtake you in a rush of tears. They flow over as you lurch around the footboard to the windowsill, pushing the gauzy curtains heedlessly aside; they catch the corners of your lips as your fingers twist the stiff window hinge, and your smile stretches in time with the window's jerky progress up the frame. 

September air floods in, ruffling gauze and soothing over your forehead and cheeks. The humid heat of summer has finally broken, leaving mugginess a thing of the past. And it's into that air, scented with crisp wind and the first dry musk of fading leaves, that you call for your crow. 

Your first coo isn't as graceful as usual because your voice is choked by sorrow and joy combined. But you do not let that stop you. You call out your bedroom window again and again, as loud as you've ever been, eyes fixed on the stoop at the back of the red house. You call and call until the door springs open there, and a crow hops out onto the stoop. As you look down upon him, tears run in trails that drip off your chin, and your cheeks begin to ache with the force of your smile. You cup your small hands around your mouth and call again. 

'Turr-turr-turr,' you sing, mimicking the melodic trill of the turtle dove.

This moment will not quell your stirrings. As more days pass, they will billow ever more intensely and change ever more quickly as the transformation continues inside you. Your bitterness and your temper are still to come; you have not seen the last of your aching. 

But, for right now, this is all that matters. A pale face tipped up toward the sun, a cloud of dark curls tossing wild and untamed, a boyish whoop of relief and adoration, and the love that swells within you— still unspoken, but no less true.

[rocketxpilot]

I just want a fic where Bilbo manipulates and gaslights Thorin during his gold sickness, like not even to take control of Erebor or the Arkenstone or anything, just for the hell of it.

Like don't get me wrong I love fics where Bilbo is kind and tries to claw him back with love, but sometimes I just want a dark story where Thorin isn't the raging feral asshole and Bilbo isn't a shining angel of wholesomeness.

I love thorin so much why do I want to put him through the mental and emotional ringer??

[aghastro]

Two characters I developed for a wizard-themed OCT years ago. That's an "Original Character Tournament" For the uninformed! A collaborative comic-making game where you have your characters fight and advance a story. (there are non-battle versions, but that's besides the point)

I never finished my audition comic, but these two remain. I ran into them in my old notes a few days ago and thought I'd share them somewhere, finally

This is all their old concept art, and some stuff about em. I'm too lazy to fix the signatures on these to my modern username so don't worry about that.

Whellik is an Odd girl and only child of a wicked enchantress. (Whether by adoption or by birth, it's unclear.)

They are both deeply paranoid people. They live together in a floating fortress, their only companions being sentinels made with the enchantress' own magic.

The enchantress is obsessed with gaining eternal life- Or rather, she's obsessed with getting one over on hypothetical enemies that may want her dead. She refuses to be killed, because being killed means losing, being lesser, and has tasked her meek, obedient daughter with an important mission to harvest the magic necessary to become unkillable.

Whellik is not a strong person, mentally or physically. Should the tournament have gone forward with her in it, my idea was that her first "win" would've been by complete chance; an environmental accident, the other wizard's spell backfiring, etc. Once a sorcerer was effectively "fallen" the lantern would be used to remove all of their power-- a very painful and deeply unnatural process for both parties.

She really doesn't like doing this. But what choice does she have?

Let Mother down?

Despite having zero contact with her mother once leaving the fortress, she continues to criticize Whellik's every decision. Each cruel, self-depreciating feeling in her mind is narrated in her mother's voice. She begins to see distorted apparitions with her mothers face, but mistakes them for long-distance, magical communications of some sort.

They would've become more aggressive and tangible to her as the tournament- and her violent magical theft- progressed.

I wish I went thru with the competition! It would've been fun to adapt to what powers Whellik would've gotten with each traumatic victory. It would've also been.... interesting...... to ask people if I could permanently remove their oc's magic forever. (It's commonly a rule in these things to ask your opponent first if you can kill their character- I feel like Magic Death would be similarly grave)

I had some ideas in my mind about the true nature of the lantern that I have tucked away on the chance I end up finding a new OCT that she could be reworked into. Who knows! "Why not a standalone story?" She's narratively designed to be a springboard for other characters- Most of the fun for me was going to be working with what my opponents had going for them! It's not impossible though.

Here's more pictures of her shithead mother

Woman Who Sucks. Incredibly fun to draw, though.

[amaryllis-sagitta]

DATV reveal spoilers (recurring characters)

I've heard interpretations that Morrigan in the reveal materials sounds more like Flemeth, having people wonder if she took the Flemeth Juice after all.

If that is the case, I'm curious how they would spin it as a part of the theme of Morrigan being a cycle breaker.

Through the words of Flemeth in DAI and Yavana in comic books, we've received a consistent message that Morrigan misinterprets Flemeth's purpose, instead judging her by the measures of the treatment she received. The message is that Flemeth might be using and abusing her daughters, but it's all to prepare them for The Gift. There is a legacy that the Witches of the Wilds must keep, that supposedly justifies the means. DAO Morrigan was led to think that she was simply disposable. But unbeknownst to her, she was supposedly chosen as an heir.

Somehow, when it comes to Morrigan's and Kieran's intended fates, Flemeth never communicates what she really wants until the last moment. Why would she let Morrigan operate on false assumptions and become more hostile towards the idea than it is neccessary? Perhaps FleMythal shares the same flaw as Solas -- the belief that withholding information from people prevents an unwanted interference in something she wants complete control over. We know how that goes in Solas's case, and it didn'texactly prepare Morrigan for whatever was meant for her.

If the Old God Baby Kieran exists, then throughout conversations with Morrigan leading to the possible showdown between her and Flemeth in DAI, we are shown that Morrigan effectively broke the abusive cycle with Flemeth by raising her child as a person, not as an instrument of fate.

I hope that DATV can continue weaving this theme of overcoming the abusive means through which the Witch of the Wilds' goal is achieved, and still pursuing the goal with a cycle breaker's understanding. If Morrigan takes on the mantle of the Witch of the Wilds and the promised Flemeth superpowers, I hope it will be shown as her recontextualizing these to fit a new moral compass that doesn't instrumentalize people to advance some mystical knowledge about fate and necessity.

The greatest contrast between Morrigan and Flemeth imo is that Morrigan is ultimately a regular person in the world, while Flemeth holds layers upon layers of the alienating supernatural quality: through her secret knowledge, her longevity, her prophetic gift, her being a vessel of a god. This is literal as much as it represents the clutches of co-dependency when the toxic person is the one who shaped you, and what it means to break the mold.

[miradelletarot]

Trauma Dump Hours

Apologizing in advance. This is gonna be HEAVY FEELS. I just...need somewhere to put all of my thoughts down so feel free to scroll past this.

**This is HEAVY mental and emotional trauma with mentions of abortion within so please be mindful of the content below the cut**

I have made mentions of my parents before, but never really went into too much detail about my relationship with them because of everything else going on. But, in light of some things that have happened recently, I need to just get these thoughts out in some sort of order...which might not happen but here we are. So my relationship with my parents has been interesting to say the very least. i was raised in a very conservative catholic home. Silent gen dad, and a boomer mom. both very intolerant of anything they don't agree with. My dad is the epitome of hating everything that doesn't align with his beliefs...If you aren't white or straight especially, and do not live the traditional lifestyle that he feels one should abide by. (hopefully that paints a picture for you).

Anyway, I am the baby of my family. My brother is 50 and my sister is 49 (they are a year and 4 days apart). I arrived 12 years later. I was very well and truly an OOPS. My brother is the golden child, my sister, the problem child (former, anyway, but she was definitely more wild than they liked,) and I...well, I had to be the perfect one to do as my parents wanted 100% of the time.

my mom had no self-esteem and raised me to be the same way. never be too confident and sure of myself b/c it was unbecoming to do so. I had to always get good grades, and always follow the rules. If I ever did something wrong, i got the wrath of my father (that stern, military rage). So, as i got older, my mom would hide things from him on my behalf, but only if I did something for her. Things like keeping secrets from dad, hiding mail so she didn't get in trouble with the finances again. If i ever dared to stop doing that shit for her she would blackmail me...would threaten to tell my dad all the shit i did wrong if I stopped helping her. Basically, I was scared and brainwashed into having ZERO autonomy or individuality. If I showed any emotion other than happiness I always had "an attitude." But, I saw my mom's behavior as if she was the only one in my corner...my buddy who kept my secrets for me because no one else would.

I struggled in school, but almost always got As and Bs. I had to work my ass off for it too. Math was always a sore subject that made me and dad lock horns. He's a math wiz, and I'm not. I'm not well read because I HATE reading books. (thanks school for ruining that for me). history? forget it. i have a horrible memory. But, if i ever got a C? holy shit i was a failure in their eyes. I feel like I am so far behind everyone intellectually that it's hard for me to have conversations with people sometimes because I feel like I can't keep up. By the time I got to high school was when I finally started to see what they were doing to me, but I was too afraid to break free. Honestly? i didn't know I had a choice in the matter. When I was in college, I had to be in remedial math. When my dad found out (b/c he was paying for college,) he literally screamed at me in the financial aid office b/c he couldn't believe I was in such a low math class. His apology? "I just worry about you, and i want you to do well." What a fucking joke. Again, in college, I was big into choir. we had a huge spring performance that we NAILED and we wanted to celebrate. So, we carpooled and went to a nearby club. I was barely 20 so i had the wristbands of course. I CALLED my mom to ask if i could go. Told her who i would be with, where i was gonna be, and that it would be WAYYYY late before I get home. Said I would keep my phone in the car b/c I knew i wouldn't hear it or feel it vibrate, but i could call her when I leave even if it was like 3 am. She said no need, and let me go.

So, in I walk at 330 am to both my parents in the living room, and my dad SCREAMING at me that I am just like my sister. out partying at all hours doing "god knows what." I was dumbfounded. My mom didn't even look at me...just sat there as I got ripped into. Wanna know why that happened?? Because SHE PRETENDED SHE NEVER GAVE HER PERMISSION. She told me later that her and dad had to have a "united front" and I had "no right to be mad" at her. When I tell you I leveled my room into an absolute mess that night and cried myself to sleep. the betrayal I felt...as a 20 yr old, a legal fucking adult, and I had no voice. no independence. My relationship with them has gone south ever since.

Of course, several things have happened between now and then. Their relationship is very transactional, and always comes out with me needing to serve THEM for them to be happy. for them to see me as worthy. But, my mom likes to throw it in my face whenever she can about how great my brother is. How stable he is. that bitch is single and has no kids. fuck him. he's an incel anyway.

Mother's day this year was the last straw for me. I called my mom out of obligation. in that 15 minutes she gushed about my brother's financial stability knowing how hard i have been struggling since I left my husband. I told her how proud I was of myself, that I was doing all these things with very little help, and making so much progress in such a short time. her response? As deadpan as possible "Congratulations. You're finally adulting." Finally? FINALLY? Not like I had been trying FOR YEARS when my irresponsible idiot of a husband was the one who had the control. I left my childhood home and walked into another relationship with a person who was just like my parents. A transactional, mentally and emotionally abusive relationship. I was his shadow because i felt like i HAD to be. When he wanted to leave me in 2021 for that very reason i thought i would literally die. That's when I found my spiritual practice. when i started to really change and try to find myself. and yet, he STILL didn't like who I was. Hence, why i finally found the strength in me to leave him back in December. I got no support from my parents. They wanted me to move in with them....ACROSS THE STREET FROM MY EX...just so i could be close to my children. I'm only 15 mins away from them. I see them when I can with the 2 jobs I work for shit pay. I'm busting my ass to pay off my car. Have they ever called in the 6 months I have been gone to ask me how I am??? If I need help?? NO. And why would they?? Between my mom and dad both, I was told on three separate occasions that they wanted to abort me. But I SHOULD BE GRATEFUL THAT THEY DIDN'T. Why would I? I have lived my life feeling like I was never good enough, that i was a worthless burden to the world. All because i was conditioned to believe as such. Thankfully for my sister, she saw through their shit a long time ago, and left home when she turned 18. i wish I understood why back then...but I was a kid. All i knew was how hurt my parents were, or how they seemed to be, and I believed that if I did anything to hurt them i was a bad person. I couldn't be like my sister. because that was a bad thing. But...nothing makes you feel more unloved and unwanted than your parents telling you they didn't want you. Then act surprised when you block them and don't want to speak to them. I can't go thru 38 years worth of shit they did, but this was some of the bigger/more recent stuff. It's amazing i never blocked them sooner (though, being across the street from them at the time was certainly a factor...)

It's why my identity means so fucking much to me. i felt like my name is not my own, my existence isn't my own. Why I want all the labels that I feel make up who I am so i can have some fucking semblance of understanding about what makes me "me."

Aside from spanking as a kid (which was normal back then sadly,) i was never physically abused. i had a roof over my head, I had food when i needed it, I was clean, had nice (not name brand) clothes...all the necessities, but I never *ever* had a healthy grasp on my mental health. never had healthy coping mechanisms for my emotions, and I never felt truly loved by my parents. better seen than heard, and if i was seen it was always to do something that made my parents proud so they could brag about me. I was a trophy. A puppet.

And today, as i sit here, wondering how tf to deal with my parents...I am anxious and scared. i feel like a child all over again, trembling like I am about to be scolded. All because i was conditioned to believe that my feelings were worthless and wrong. I have gotten 2 voicemails today from my dad, telling me I "need" to call them. To explain what's going on. Suddenly, they are worried. Suddenly, they care. But I know it's only for their satisfaction. part of me wants to pour my soul out and light it on fire so they can see how much they hurt me over the years. Part of me wants to pretend they are dead and forget they exist. I am not sure what to do.

So, if anyone ever wonders why Gale means so much to me...why i have such a mental and emotional attachment to his character. this is why. because aside from my 2 bffs, he was the only other entity that made me feel loved and worthy, and it breaks my heart that he isn't real. For now, though, he's a beautiful escape.

idk if I need anything rn...I'm not sure where to go from here. I have no idea what will make me feel better. getting some of it out helps. Being in therapy definitely helps. If you read this then you're a damn trooper...or a glutton for punishment, idk. Either way, thank you for listening to me.

I really don't expect anyone to say anything or even read this. It really isn't necessary. But please know that for the many of you whom I have befriend on here since I joined tumblr...I am grateful for you all. Just being in this space has been so healing for me. thank you.

[chainofclovers]

(some thoughts on beard and jane)

I've seen a lot of posts lately bemoaning the idea that Beard and Jane's relationship is "always" treated as a joke, and I've been a little surprised by that for a few different reasons. I completely understand that it's unsettling to see a relationship that Beard canonically understands is harmful played for laughs. Beard deserves to be free of a relationship that has such a hold over his time, his decisions, and his self-worth. He deserves help. And Jane deserves help.

But I think--no matter what ends up happening with the two characters in this relationship--there's been so much depth to how the relationship is treated on the show, even if some of the treatments are "problematic."

The pain in Ted's eyes when Beard tells him Jane considers him a threat so no, he won't be telling her hello on his behalf

Higgins' decision to talk to Beard about his concerns about Jane, even after many of Higgins' friends/colleagues said it's a bad idea to meddle and/or brushed aside concerning behavior, seemingly because it was too uncomfortable or complicated to dive deeper

The fierce hug Beard gives Higgins in response to his bravery and care in speaking up, even as Beard acknowledges that he would prefer not to speak of it again

Beard's immediate agreement that Ted going on a date with Jane's sister would lead to nothing but trouble

The tonal shift in "Beard After Hours," when we see for ourselves the barrage of messages from Jane and spend time inhabiting Beard's brain for a change, experiencing the highs and lows through his perspective, along with the deep awareness of the problems (awareness doesn't always translate to the will to change, a thing that is tragic and true)

All the evidence of the way the relationship with Jane influences what Beard wears, how he spends his time, his attitude at work, and his relationship to rituals (like morning coffee with Ted) that are important to him but that he "can't" consistently prioritize because managing Jane's erratic affections is a full-time job

All the evidence that even as the relationship with Jane consumes him, Beard continues to care for his friends and colleagues and team, concerning himself with their happiness and well-being even if his out-of-control relationship messes with the execution sometimes

And, yes, the jokes. Sometimes people don't know what to say and they make light of a serious thing. Sometimes people joke because they can't find another way to bring it up. Sometimes people joke because they're making a horrible mistake. Sometimes people joke because they're on a comedy and the structure of the jokes occupy a million different tiers of reality at once. Sometimes people joke because they're too absorbed in their own problems, or afraid of what they'll find if they dig too deeply into someone else's, to find an alternative. Sometimes people joke because there's something genuinely funny about the circumstances, even if those funny circumstances are part of a pretty terrifying whole.

I don't intend this post to be a callout or argument with anyone who finds the Beard/Jane jokes offensive. I just wanted to add a reading of the relationship and the show's treatment of the relationship that suggests that even the offensive, not-serious-enough ways people comment on Beard and Jane are written with intention and weight. I wish we lived in a world where a whiff of mistreatment meant the mistreated person's friends were immediately there with well-reasoned, forthright support. But our reality is a lot more messy than that, and I like that this subplot has spanned from genuine humor to genuine horror, right alongside everything else going on in these flawed characters' lives.

[ponderousorb]

you all had me thinking about Persona 2 so. Well I didn't post it on mothers day so you're welcome CW EMOTIONAL ABUSE! Fictional snippets of Little Boy Blue haha yes... fictional... Imagine if this happened. I am sure the person would turn out very ok

[iamaweretoad]

Been a while since I visited your inbox! :D

We were talking about or RT OCs families, so got a few things for you to consider and share if you want :)

Who were (are?) Mago's parents? What was the relation like between them and their son?

Also, since it is kind of related - how did Mago start his life of crime? What pushed him to do it?

Always a pleasure to see you in my inbox! :D Thank you so much for the ask and for helping me nail down this part of his backstory! 💜

-

His mother (Leta Vanth) was a factory worker in the lower levels of Sibellus’ middle hive. She did not want a child, but was terrified of abandonment and thought that having a child would cement her relationship with her current partner. Unfortunately this backfired and he ditched her shortly before Mago was born. 

I think she tried to want Mago, but she couldn’t. And eventually she grew to resent him, and even blame him – both for his father leaving and just about anything else. She could have abandoned him, but whether it was out of a sense of obligation or just not wanting to be completely alone, she didn’t (a fact she used against him like a blunt instrument). 

A few years later, she had another kid with someone else. This guy stuck around a little longer, but eventually caved under the pressure of trying to support a family in a grimdark industrialist hellscape and left. According to his mother, this was Mago’s fault as well. If he hadn’t been such a handful, they could have stayed ‘a family’. 

While his relationship with his mother was a toxic mess, he was quite close to his little brother, Ani. Mago was responsible for him while his mother was out working her shifts at the manufactorium and they would spend whole days exploring the dangerous warren of the lower hive, hunting rats, foraging for mushrooms or scrap that could be traded for ration coupons. 

While better than nothing, this proved to be an insufficient supplement and they frequently went hungry or without heat/power. Their mother grew increasingly desperate until eventually she was taken advantage of by a chaos cult and joined their ranks. 

When the cult started a small uprising in the lower hive, Leta attempted to sacrifice both her sons. She killed Ani and tried to kill Mago, who was injured but managed to escape. He went to an Arbitrator for help, and the Adeptus Arbites killed his mother and then tried to burn him alive, considering him to be ‘tainted’ by Chaos, but again he managed to escape (he started burning through his 9 lives early). 

After that he fell through the cracks (figuratively and literally) into the Underhive. He survived on his own for a little while before being picked up by a gang of scroungers – he was around 7 or 8 at the time and they needed someone who could squeeze into small spaces when they went on their expeditions and raids. Which is where his life of crime started.

[ghoulpoole]

"you're really going to cut off your biggest support right before surgery?"

cw: breakups, emotional abuse, manipulative behavior.

that's what she said to me when i left.

it was not a question, but a threat.

i know that now because it worked,

because of how well it left me bereft.

you see, she demanded reasons

when i told her i needed to leave.

"so that's it? is there anything else?"

well, yeah.

reasons i had,

but every reason was thrown back in my face.

my bottom surgery was just one such case.

i was hurt by how she spoke to me recently.

"so one rough patch and you give up completely?"

i was extremely upset by our most recent fight.

"one argument and you're ready to leave the very next night?"

i felt overwhelmed with burnout and dread.

"couldn't that be because you changed up your meds?"

i wanted to feel confident and secure before bottom surgery.

and that's when she said it.

her words dug down far into my heart,

but that question struck some deep thing that held me together.

like a burst pipe, i just fell apart.

i wept.

i wept and wept and wept.

i wept small shallow sounds.

i wept until my lungs were sore.

i wept until my tears were no more.

she held me while i wept, even though i didn't ask her to.

i gasped and grasped for words amidst the flood,

but my tongue was wet clay

and my feelings were mud.

when she crossed the room to brandish her "love",

my hands brushed a root;

something sturdy, grounded, and infallibly true.

after her speech, i said:

i'm spent. i can't do it anymore. i'm sorry. whatever it is that you need, i have no more of it to offer you.

her face turned to stone.

i saw her realize

that neither the words she had used as a shovel

nor the love she had tried to use as a cudgel

would keep her from being alone.

[deepbluexocean]

Reponse to prompt one Content warning: emotional abuse

Ocean felt most a peace in, well, the ocean (or more specifically, in water of any kind). There was just something about it that helped Ocean shut everything else out of his mind, everything plaguing his thoughts, everything destroying him from within. The problem was when the very thing that kept shattering you over and over again was in the water too.

Lying on his back in the water, the waves gentle today, Ocean had his eyes closed against the sun when a voice came to shatter his tranquility: "I don't even know why you like this so much," the voice sneered, and it was a voice Ocean knew well, a voice he heard in his head every day since they met. At first it had been in a good way, or at least it had felt like that to Ocean; at first that voice had filled him with a sense of burgeoning love. He wondered when it changed, when that voice started to make him anxious, when it started to make him sad, when it started to scare him. Please just go away, Ocean thought desperately. This was his time; this was the one place he had left to feel free. But naturally he couldn't even let Ocean have that. There were two sharp finger snaps in his ear, and Aaron said, his voice full of frustration, "Ocean, are you even listening to me?"

Ocean willed himself not to sigh as he finally opened his eyes; he knew that Aaron hated that, hated when Ocean was exasperated or angry or upset or sad. Around Aaron, Ocean always had to be agreeable and happy. Moving to tread water rather than lying on his back, Ocean looked at Aaron and apologized, "I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you. My ears were in the water." Aaron looked dubious, and Ocean knew he needed to smooth this over. "Come on, I'm sorry, babe. I really didn't hear you; you know I'd never ignore you." He tread closer to Aaron, resting his hand on the man's shoulder before pulling him into a hug, nuzzling into his neck. "You know I could never," he reiterated, hoping Aaron would believe him or else the consequences would be...well, not peaceful, that was for sure. "I don't know what I'd do without you," he added softly, kissing Aaron's neck.

For a moment, Ocean thought Aaron was going to reciprocate the feeling when he replied, "Me either." Ocean leaned back to meet his boyfriend's eyes, and he hoped he didn't look too shocked or disappointed when Aaron added, "I don't know what you'd do without me either." Aaron smirked, and Ocean knew that he hadn't been able to hide the hurt on his face. He couldn't hide much from his boyfriend, had stopped even trying for the most part; it wasn't worth it when Aaron inevitably found out. "Oh come on, don't be such a baby," Aaron taunted him. "You're always so sensitive, Ocean. You shouldn't even have a name like that anyway. Oceans are so vast and interesting, full of depth and mystery. You're more like a puddle. There's not much beneath the surface, is there?"

Aaron was always saying these things to Ocean - it was not the first time he had called him a puddle - and usually he could grin and bear it. But today Ocean felt his heart crack a little bit more; everyday with Aaron, it cracked a little bit more. Turning away from his boyfriend so he wouldn't see him cry, Ocean looked out at the horizon, troubled by what he saw. "I think a storm is coming in," he stated, and it was true. "I thought it was supposed to be nice today."

"Well obviously you were wrong," Aaron snapped. "Why did you bring me here when the weather was going to be bad?" He sounded angry, and Ocean knew he'd pay for this later.

"It wasn't supposed to even rain," Ocean countered quietly, watching the sudden storm roll in; it had come out of nowhere. And all at once, it was upon them. "We need to get out of here!" Ocean shouted, turning to swim back to shore, and he saw that Aaron was already there walking to the car, his back to Ocean as he struggled against the sudden violent waves. Over and over they crashed over Ocean, and he knew he could swim even in weather like this. But the riptide kept dragging him under, Ocean's energy ebbing away with each wave, and finally it pulled him under and wouldn't let go.

All at once, Ocean broke through the surface of the water, gasping for breath, only to find that he wasn't in the ocean anymore: he was in the bathtub in Aaron's house. Outside the storm raged, the house dark as the power went out, and Ocean climbed out of the tub. What the hell was happening? How had he gotten here? And where was Aaron? The last question was answered for him as the half-open bathroom door creaked open the rest of the way, Aaron standing there now. "Ocean, what the hell is wrong with you? You're dripping water everywhere!" he sneered, and Ocean looked down to see that Aaron was right. "You're so fucking hopeless," he added, shaking his head.

"I'm so sorry, Aaron!" Ocean pleaded, grabbing a towel from a nearby rack. Aaron turned to walk away, and Ocean implored, "Please, I'm sorry! I'll clean it up!"

"You fucking better," Aaron retorted, a warning tone to his voice, but he never turned back to face Ocean. After drying himself off, Ocean did his best to dry the floor as well even though his only towel was saturated with water now. This wouldn't be enough, and Ocean knew Aaron wouldn't be pleased, so he left the towel on the sink and headed out into the hallway to find the linen closet. Only when he walked out into the hall, he found that the layout of Aaron's house wasn't what he remembered; there were just endless hallways and intersections and turns, closed doors everywhere he could see. So Ocean picked a direction and kept walking, hoping desperately that he could find some spare towels. Ocean kept walking, taking random turns and trying random doors, but all of them were locked, and he saw nothing that looked like it could be a linen closet. "Ocean!" Aaron suddenly shouted from behind him, and Ocean turned to face his boyfriend. "You're still making a huge fucking mess!" Ocean looked down and saw he was dripping water everywhere now; he was soaked again.

"I'm sorry, Aaron," Ocean apologized meekly. "I just need to find some towels." He turned and ran down the hall, hoping to find the linen closet so desperately that he was crying now. He couldn't let Aaron see this; he got so angry when Ocean cried. "Please please please please please," Ocean silently pleaded, but as he turned another corner, he saw Aaron standing there, startling him, and he looked furious. "I'm sorry, Aaron, I'm trying," Ocean said, unable to hide his tears.

"You're always trying," Aaron snarled, "and you're always sorry. Well here's a thought: stop doing things to apologize for. Fuck, can't you do anything right?" Ocean couldn't speak, backing up against the wall, and Aaron shook his head disdainfully. "You're pathetic," he said, and what made it worse is that there was no malice in his voice; it was like Aaron was just stating a fact. "Just get out of my house," he ordered, and when Ocean didn't move, he shouted, "Get the fuck out of my house!" And then Ocean ran.

He had no idea where he was going, but Ocean knew he needed to get out or else Aaron would be even angrier. He ran down halls, took random turns, tried different doors, but Ocean was in a maze. He felt stuck, trapped, like he would never get out, and as he thought that, one of the doors he ran by swung open to reveal Aaron. "You are trapped," he said, his voice full of mirth; this was funny to him. "And you'll never get out," Aaron added. "You'll always be here." And he was right. Ocean would never escape; he was always in this house, and he always would be.

So Ocean just fell to his knees, totally defeated. Why did he even bother trying to do anything right, anything good, anything worthwhile? That wasn't who he was inside. "Just tell me what I need to do to fix this," Ocean implored Aaron sadly.

Laughing softly, clearly amused by his pain, Aaron walked toward Ocean and ran his fingers through his hair, and then he tugged on it, pulling Ocean's head back. Kneeling down, he whispered in Ocean's ear, "There's nothing you can do. You should know better than anyone that you can't fix a broken thing." And then he touched his hand to Ocean's heart.

Eyes snapping open, Ocean sat up in bed, panting, tears in his eyes. That dream had felt so real, and while he had had dreams like that one before, this one had seemed...different. It had been so vivid, like Aaron had been whispering the most terrible things he thought about Ocean - and that Ocean thought about himself now too - in his ear. Stop crying, Ocean told himself, wiping his tears away and grabbing the glass of water from his nightstand, gulping it down. He went downstairs a moment later and got another glass, swallowing that down too.

After he had filled his glass for a second time, Ocean went back to bed, but as he lie there, all he could think about was that dream. You'll always be in that house, Ocean thought. There really was no escape.

[sachikoeveraftercharm]

Yandere (Kidnapper) ABC - Yuuki Mishima

NOTE: This is decently grounded by canon, not going with a violence heightened AU. This is very much if canon Mishima kidnapped his crush more so than a normal yandere. If this makes you uncomfortable, PLEASE DO NOT READ.

Affection: How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get?: Through favors & cuddling. He would do about anything for his love, even let them go if he isn't to far down the rabbit hole of obsession. He will make their life as close to paradise as he can, hoping that will get across his love.

Blood: How messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling?: I can see Mishima accidentally killing them in a blind rage, though more so at the start of their relationships. After a few months, they're in the clear.

Cruelty: How would they treat their darling once abducted? Would they mock them?: Mishima is oddly gentle. He just wants a friend at the very least. He isn't aggressive unless he needs to assert power, nor violent unless it's for self defense. He's soft & considerate, preferring to bloom love with kindness rather than fear.

Darling: Aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will?: Nothing sexual without permission. That's a huge no no for Mishima. So nothing on top my head, I guess violence if worst comes.

Exposed: How much of their heart do they bare to their darling? How vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling?: After 2 hours he's going to be a crying wreck of guilt and obsession. He might act cold at times, usually trying to make that a 'punishment', but can't do that for very long before giving in. He confides in his lover a lot, even if they didn't ask to be his tear pillow.

Fight: How would they feel if their darling fought back?: Hurt. Mishima is trying his best to make this situation liveable and they want to leave? To him, it proves everyone will leave on their own accordance, more motivation to force his love to stay.

Game: Is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape?: Not at all. This is a result of him giving up hope that they could be together normally. He hates it. He just wants to be loved.

Hell: What would be their darling’s worst experience with them?: Not on purpose, but Mishima is very guilt trippy…. Well, sometimes on purpose. He makes his lover feel like they must stay or Mishima will fall apart that's… Partly true. A common guilt trip is him talking about his lover leaving and abandoning him like 'everyone else'. It's a true fear of his and he doesn't mean it to be in such a way, but still is.

Ideals: What kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling?: Mishima wants to work at home and have his lover to work at home too OR just lounge around all day. Whatever his lover wants of those options!

Jealousy: Do they get jealous? Do they lash out or find a way to cope?: Not to his lover's friends. He understands friends. But to people who are best friends/past lovers/close? Insanely jealous. He wished he could of made that relationship naturally himself. He wished he didn't have to kidnap his love, but to him it was the only way.

Kisses: How do they act around or with their darling?: Pre-kidnapping… Nothing notable to show he was in love minus constantly agreeing with them & trying to do small favors. Stuff easily brushed off as Mishima being Mishima. Post? He treats them like fragile glass. Careful and gentle.

Love letters: How would they go about courting or approaching their darling?: Said before, supporting them & try to do favors. Maybe text them randomly and ask to hang out. Things that aren't directly romantic.

Mask: Are their true colors drastically different from the way they act around everyone else?: Mishima is way more emotional around his lover, for better and worse. If Mishima is sad, his love will know it. If Mishima is angry, his love will know it. He doesn't lash out at them, but can be draining for both parties. Naughty: How would they punish their darling?: He hates punishment. Sometimes sending them back to the basement (though no torture) or refusing to talk for a tiny bit. The punishment is that way as to Mishima, the biggest punishment is not being with his love. Maybe this is a blessing for his lover, not having an emotional wreck on their arm.

Oppression: How many rights would they take away from their darling?: At first, freedom of movement. Tied to the chair. Next is upgraded tied to a bed (not sexual, just more comfortable). Then allowed to move around the house while hand cuffed to Mishima. Then free roam but many doors are locked & a secuirty system to stop them from leaving. The progress is pretty quick, not liking to see his love being unhappy. When he knows his love won't leave, they may have internet but monitored accounts + free roam around the house. Maybe after a year they can go in and out freely if they return, slowly evolving to a normal couple.

Patience: How patient are they with their darling?: Extremely. He might say 'this is your final warning' but he will give them endless last chances. He already done so much for his love so he doesn't want to throw it away. His threats are very empty, so him actually carrying out on a real threat (minus what I explained in naught) is rare.

Quit: If their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?: Escape/leaves? He's on the hunt for them. Mostly as he knows his identity is in danger & he could be reported to the police, but also he can't live without them. He put in to much effort. Maybe he will go radio silent for some months and find their social media, tracking them down when they seemingly 'forget' about him. Dies? If it's by suicide, heartbroken they would prefer death. Insane guilt for rest of his life. Killed by him? Once again, heartbroken and mad at himself for doing such a thing.

Regret: Would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling? Would they ever let their darling go?: A lot of guilt, said many of times before up above. Let them leave? If he had no fear of the police, yes. But the idea of going to jail scares him into keeping his love locked away.

Stigma: What brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc)?: Social life. He tries his hardest to make friends, yet they never put as much effort back. No matter what he does, he is never someone's first pick. It made him slowly give up hope in being such, and now with this crush, he can't be number 2 or 0. He has to be their number 1.

Tears: How do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves?: He feels like utter shit. Mishima isn't an evil monster, to him this is a last ditch effort. Why couldn't they understand he isn't going to hurt them? It also makes him feel greedy for taking them away from society, especially if they're yelling for their friends. Unique: Would they do anything different from the classic yandere?: Outside of his possessiveness & kidnapping them, someone could argue this Mishima isn't a yandere. I have many different routes I take Yandere Mishima, but for the sake of this ABC, this is heavily grounded in reality & canon. A universe that's just Persona 5, no heightened emotions or violence (outside kidnapping).

Vice: What weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape?: Him not wanting blood, to be caught & desire for a friend. If they escape but keep touch with him constantly, he will be content with that.

Wit’s end: Would they ever hurt their darling?: Yes, but would cry about it afterward.

Xoanon: How much would they revere or worship their darling? To what length would they go to win their darling over?: About anything.

Yearn: How long do they pine after their darling before they snap?: Multiple months at least. He tries to do it the normal way first.

Zenith: Would they ever break their darling?: For this AU, yes but not on purpose. Probably his words would cut keep & lack of hope would cause his love to break, though not his intent.

[asarlaiochtsystem]

Kind of a vent

Written by Mei and Candy Okay so like... kind of a weird question, I think? So our host, Alma, who isn't around anymore but whose memories we kinda have, if fragmented, occasionally comes back to us. And we keep thinking a lot as of late about our childhood. Increasingly we have this feeling of being stunted and otherwise weak or ashamed or otherwise unworthy of being upset about things or loved. We really REALLY hate being angry or sad, and we hate it when we blow up on people because we're always worried if we show any kind of negative emotion people will leave us. Growing up we were spoiled. 10000% spoiled I think. We got to go to DisneyLand multiple times, we had food, very fancy food, every night, we got our own room while our siblings had to share, we got to take constant vacations and trips to beaches and football games, all things most children really love, but I can't say we particularly enjoyed, especially since games are loud and set of sensory stuff and sand is super super uncomfortable to us, but realistically I think most people would feel extremely lucky to be able to go on such trips. Also our family is paying for our college and we're grateful for that. And yeah we got to do extracurriculars like boyscouts (all the way to eagle scouts), all super privileged things that a upper middle class/rich white child can do. At the same time though: We were bullied... a lot. we're autistic and so people took our mannerisms and awkwardness and generally difficulty to understand things as being free game to pick on us. And the Administration didn't do anything to help us. One of our earliest (7 years old) memories is of kids on the kid's football team picking on us. When we got angry and pushed the kid over, we got smacked by the coach. Host's mother was embarrassed so she left, and then beaten and forced to run until collapse and vomiting by our host's father. (after which btw we came home to our room destroyed and the father yelling at us about our room being a mess and this happened a lot. I remember after this specific incident the host cried her eyes out all night and promised that she would "be the best child ever and make sure this never happens again") A lot of times our very privileged conditions were (and still are) held over us as if we weren't expressing concerns or feelings. We're described as miserable and selfish and greedy all the time and our concerns are often dismissed by the Host's parents as us being spoiled and needing to get used to the "real world", or we're seen as the problem that needs to change our behavior. This includes them on multiple occasions ignoring medical concerns or needs. Many occasions we've been called an "Apathetic freak" by the mother (while at other times being oversensitive) and they've often touched us or done things that make us uncomfortable. And, idk I guess we're asking if like we're okay to complain about or feel bad or feel justified in criticizing all of this stuff, because oftentimes we find it hard to not be like "boohoo, rich white girl is upset cause mommy and daddy were mean to her :(" and idk we feel this may have affected us. Thoughts?

[ariclassof09]

IDK blaming Nicole is kind of a low blow, I think. I'm pretty sure it's homophobic to blame an obviously closeted gay girl for your own problems, Ari.

She was subjecting me to emotional abuse the whole time! And, like, yeah I was super toxic too, but she was just constantly and openly undermining my confidence and using me.

So you know what's really homophobic? Telling lesbians that it's their fault that they were abused.

Eat shit.

PS: Oh, and by the way, if this is @nicole-from-co09 trying to trick me into blaming myself for everything so she can get some gross, sick sense of satisfaction out of making other people suffer, than you know what?

I know you say you're a sociopath. I used to think that was some real fucking bullshit, but if this is seriously how you have fun, maybe you are.

Maybe you were born broken, Nicole. Maybe I'll just be fucked up like this forever, and you'll move on. You'll hurt other people, forever, and find some rich guy you hate to pay for your drugs and for you to cheat on.

And you won't care. If this is you, if you're the one saying this, then you're right. You are a sociopath. You were born broken.

...Maybe we're all born broken.

Why are we even here?

[wastheheart]

Carlisle getting home from a long shift at the hospital, but he's completely shutdown and unlike himself. He just says a curt hello to the others at home and takes himself to his study. Esme comes home shortly after and knows he's there, she can smell him; his coat (which he doesn't need but loves) is hung up by the front door.

And it's weird that Carlisle isn't around, he is genuinely interested in his coven members' days, interests, etc, but he just isn't around.

Esme doesn't have to ask, she's familiar with where he goes on the rare occasion he isn't feeling himself. So she softly knocks on his study door despite him already knowing who it is from the footfalls on floorboards. She has the power to take the door from its hinges, but she waits for Carlisle to open it— their relationship is built on trust and respect so it's important he chooses to open up to her.

And as soon as he sees her, he pulls her into a tight embrace, face buried against her hair while the door clicks closed again behind her.

They stay like that for a while until she asks what happened and for a moment he's silent, but his chest deflates with a practiced sigh and he tells Esme that he had to treat a d.omestic v.iolence victim with children in tow. And despite never seeing Esme that way, he can't ignore the fact she did live that reality and it digusts him that now, 100+ years on, this is still happening; that w.omen still have their hands tied in trying to flee or bring their a.busers to justice.

That they can present at hospital with clear, inflicted injury, and either the a.buser is with them, or they are financially unable to leave or just have nowhere to go and Carlisle can't do anything about it. On the rare occasions he can do something, the little he can do is informing law enforcement or social services, but the lies he hears victims speak to pull the wool over practitioners' eyes shatters him.

And so he comes home, emotionally exhausted and guilt ridden he can't do anything more. Esme stays with him all night, fingers combing through his hair assuring him that his kindness and gentleness would have meant the world to them regardless of the inability to do anything else. Assuring him that it is not his fault; she knows he will look out for them again should they seek medical treatment in the future. That despite not being able to do more, his willingness to help and listen is usually the catalyst in victims admitting to a.buse and the beginning of their healing journey.