#brutality the worst therapist ever

[littlestarlightseverywhere]

Do Your Worst

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel’s lover is having a hard time, but no amount of acting out can push him away

Warnings: mentions of violence (torture)

Notes: Sorry for the silence, I’ve been having terrible writer’s block but I think I did okay with this one!

Image Credit: Pinterest

Today was rubbish. Probably one of her worst days yet. 

It had been exactly two months since Hybern captured her from Azriel’s post and took her to their war camp deep in the Spring Court’s woods. Exactly two months since she’d been tortured for information she’d die before giving up. Exactly two months since she’d made peace with her death. Rhys couldn’t track her immediately, Mor and Feyre’s searches came up empty each time, and even Azriel’s shadows couldn’t pick up a clue. Azriel had driven himself mad, downright insane, trying to find her. Each day he spent every waking hour looking for clues, scouring the forests for her scent, and each day he returned to bed with nothing to show for it. It took Amren and Nesta a month to finally locate her. In that month she laid cut and bruised, chained to a wooden post like an animal, struck, cut, and burnt for every question she refused to answer. They left her in the middle of that camp, exposed to the heat of the day, the cold of the night, the rain, the wind, and the thunder. They made her into a spectacle. 

She only thought of her family, her Azriel, the entire time. My Azriel, she’d think each time they brutalized her. My Azriel, my Azriel, my Azriel. Rhys collapsed when she allowed him into her mind after they brought her home. He would never forgive himself for sending her on that mission, nor would he ever show his brother what she’d shown him, for Azriel very well would have sent Prythian to immediate war. 

And while the cuts, bruises, burns, and broken bones would heal completely, the skin of her back would forever be changed, marred with angry, raised scars from a heavy leather whip. She could barely walk. 

The first time Azriel saw the lashes on her back, he was helping her undress the night she returned home. Each movement caused her to cry out in pain. She tried to bite her lip, clench her fist, grip Azriel’s arm, tried anything to keep from crying, but nothing helped– the pain was too much. It would’ve been a mercy from the Mother to fall apart, limb by limb, bone by bone, instead. 

Azriel had seen all the other scars when Madja was working on her; those alone made him sick and wild with a hideous rage, potent enough to crumble the mountains surrounding the city into nothing more than powder on the ground. The lashes on her back– the thought of some wretched male stripping her and lashing a whip over her soft, warm skin in the mud and rocks– filled him with a fury so intense, so horrid, he could’ve wrapped his bare arms around the sun and pulled it down to earth. Set everything on fire. 

That very night, with names in his ear courtesy of the shadows and Cassian and Rhys positioned at her door, Azriel made each of those names pay. He was back by sunrise, tucked into bed beside her, wing draped over her restless body, and she was none the wiser. 

“You’re killing it,” Madja’s appointed physical therapist, Jarrah, encouraged as he watched her do her exercises. He was tall and muscled with glittering, golden-brown skin, looking ever the Summer Court high fae that he was. 

“It’s killing me,” she ground the words out, mincing each syllable as they passed through her teeth. Pain gripped her legs, lower back, and upper arms like a vise as she fought to complete a rep, the movements squeezing every last bit of energy out of her and collecting on the mat below in puddles of sweat. “I can’t do it, Jarrah.” 

“You can and you will,” he squared his shoulders at her, smile fading as he willed her to find her strength again. In recovery, he’d taught her, there were good days and there bad days– healing was not a linear process. 

Some days she did well in physical therapy and pushed herself– the pain only meant she was getting stronger. Azriel would be absolutely beside himself with pride and their friends echoed as much. 

Other days, her body seemed to give out in protest, the pain too unbearable, and she’d wonder if she’d ever be the same again. Azriel would encourage her– she knew it wasn’t pity– but she couldn’t stand it all the same. She’d collapse onto the floor against her will during physical therapy, shoving Jarrah away with shame when he’d tried to help her up each time. Sometimes, she’d wake up in the dead of night, clammy, and nauseous from a nightmare that felt more and more real each time she had one. Azriel held her to his body whenever she’d jostle awake, heaving and shaking, stroking his warm hands up and down her arms. Other nights he held her hair back as she retched her dinner into the toilet, panting and crying silent tears. 

“To expect linearity is to set yourself up for failure,” Jarrah lectured during their very first session when all she wanted to do was get to the hard stuff, to prove that she was alright– that she was still whole. Jarrah did not mind her bad days, but something died within her every time she left training without making any notable progress– every time her body failed her when her mind seemed to be giving its all. 

From the moment they started their session this morning, Jarrah noted her body was fatigued and her mind was somewhere else. Oh dear.

“We can take a break–” 

“No!” She buckled down and held her position, determined to prove to herself that even on her worst days she could succeed. It was the most enthusiastic response Jarrah had gotten all session from her so he allowed it. He watched her body tremble from the strain, the sweat bead at her temples, the fatigue in her eyes as she fought the pain in her spine. 

Her body could not bear it anymore. She felt her traitorous legs give out beneath her and the ground came up faster than she could register, faster than Jarrah could react. A strangled cry crawled from her throat as she collapsed and her body trembled in a pain her mind could barely process. 

“Fuck,” a familiar voice rang out from the gym’s entrance and Azriel ran in. Just great. What was he even doing here? After the first training appointment in which Azriel could barely keep himself from choking out Jarrah and coddling her, he agreed to not interrupt her sessions thereafter. His disregard for their agreement made her feel so small. 

“Fuck,” Jarrah echoed. He was at her side in two steps, arms outstretched to help her up, but she scooted away as fast as her leadened arms would allow, turning her face away in shame. 

“Don’t touch me!” She croaked. 

Jarrah stopped himself by the time Azriel was at her side, crouching beside her and taking up what felt like all of the oxygen in her space. Breathe, she tried to remind herself but with Azriel hovering and Jarrah a foot away, both watching her crumpled pathetically on the mats, she couldn’t. 

“Are you alright?”

“Get her some water!”

“That’s enough for today, let’s get you some food.”

“... My love?”

Azriel’s soft voice pierced through her terrible thoughts. She felt his strong hands reach under her armpits to help her up but she pushed against his biceps, swatting him off in a desperate attempt to move away. But the pain made her so dizzy, it was difficult to create any real distance. 

“Don’t!” she cried out, for it was all she could do, and Azriel dropped his hands immediately. “I can get up on my own.”

Azriel didn’t move. Jarrah placed a comforting hand on Azriel’s shoulder. “We should give her some space.”

Azriel clenched his jaw but it didn’t stop the twitching of his upper lip. He stood abruptly, swiveling on his heels so his face was only mere inches from Jarrah’s, who’d since quickly retracted his hand to himself. To his credit, he kept his shoulders square, but even he wasn’t immune to the pure threat in the Shadowsinger’s glare. 

“My mate is in pain, she can’t even stand up, and you want to leave her like this?” He growled. 

Anger grappled her lungs, stealing whatever air she’d managed to collect. That was the problem. “I can stand up, Azriel. I’m not made of glass.” 

It took her a few minutes, but she did it. She first rotated her hips so she was on her hands and knees. With one foot underneath her, she pushed herself up, trembling, sighing, moaning as her body resisted the upward movement, but she finally stood. 

Azriel clenched his hands at his sides to anchor himself back, to resist from helping her. He knew she was capable of doing anything, that she didn’t really need him. Part of the reason he was so hesitant to pursue her all those years ago was because she was so independent that it intimidated him. Azriel wasn’t sure what he brought to the table, what he could do better that she already did for herself, how he would fit into the life she’d built for herself. 

But that didn’t change the fact that he would still do anything for her. It didn’t take away that primal need to protect her. He tried his best not to suffocate her but sometimes he couldn’t help his instincts when his love for her outweighed everything else.  

She allowed Azriel to link his arm with hers as she waved goodbye to Jarrah, silently apologizing for Azriel’s outburst. 

“Let’s get you something to eat, yeah?” His voice was soft as he led her out of the gym and to the townhouse’s sunlit sitting room. “You did so good today, love.”

“I’m not hungry.” Was all she replied. She couldn’t stomach anything after such a rubbish session. Fear that she would never be the same ever again set in, but nobody would understand. No one could even fathom what it would do to her if she couldn’t keep doing her job, going on these missions, protecting this city. If she was relegated to a desk for the rest of her life, she’d have lost everything she’s ever worked for.

“Sure you are. At least something small to keep the medicine down.” 

Madja had her on a cocktail of herbs and elixirs– something for the pain, something for the scars, probably something for how fucked her mind had become– she couldn’t keep track. Azriel kept track for her. She swallowed the pills and the bitters he gave her and allowed him to rub the salve into her scars before bed. Whatever. This was life now– being shoddily held together by some combination of antibiotics, gauze, and ointments. 

She shook her head in defiance and Azriel sighed, stopping her just before the doorway to the living room where the rest of their friends sat. She was so stubborn– if she didn’t want to do something, no one could get her to do it. It was a quality he admired but also a quality that drove him downright mad at times like this.

“What’s bothering you?” 

“You mean besides healing at a snail’s pace and sitting on my ass all day in this house while everyone else goes to work– fulfills some sort of purpose? I’m doing just great.” The smile did not reach her eyes. 

Azriel tilted his head as if to say No, really. I know there’s something else. He could read her like a damn book– it had always been that way. 

She hesitated for a moment before confessing, “I don’t know if I’ll be the same ever again.”

Azriel’s face softened at the anxiety that weighed on her shoulders so heavily they sagged. 

“Of course you will, love. It’s only a matter of time.”

“It’s been two months and I can’t even climb the stairs without needing a break. My body hurts by the time I go to bed. I can still feel my back– the scars–” the words caught in her throat and she quickly cut herself off before she choked on them, unable to talk too much about it without feeling her body and mind repulse. 

“Come here,” Azriel wrapped his strong arms around her frame and pulled her into his body so close their hearts beat in sync before each other as if in private conversation. “The physical training, the medicines, the therapist, you’ve got it all going on. No one here is working harder than you right now.”

“But what if it isn’t enough,” she mumbled into his chest, a single hot tear catching on the fabric of his sweater. She turned her face into his chest to wipe the tear away completely and Azriel’s heart broke for her. He wished he could reach into her chest and pull out the pain with his bare hands, fly with it to Ramiel and drop it at the peaks where it could never find its way back to her ever again. “You know better than anyone, you could do everything right and it still wouldn’t matter. I just need to get better. Be myself again.”

“I will love you no matter what happens. Even if you are never the same, I will still love you. This changes nothing.”

She pushed him away abruptly, hastily wiping away tears as if Azriel couldn’t see them. He didn’t get it. This wasn’t about him, about him loving her. This was her life. If she couldn’t get back to who she was, fill the roles she’d spent her whole life caring about, where would she stand among her family? Where would she stand in this life? In this world? 

“But it changes everything for me,” her eyebrows furrowed incredulously. “I want my body back, my mind back. Thanks for letting me know you’d still love me if I were to be this fucked up forever, but that’s literally the last thing on my mind right now, Azriel. I don’t want to be fucked up forever, I want to get better, and I need you to want that for me too.”

Azriel tried to find the right words, stuttering in his search to say the right thing. He didn’t mean it like that. He only ever wanted the best for her– would kill for her to have what’s best for her. “I-I didn’t mean–”

“No, I’m sure you didn’t.” She huffed, storming past him into the sitting room. Instant guilt flooded her as soon as she left him. Azriel helped however he could. Perhaps it wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t put himself in her shoes in this very situation, but he’d gone through something traumatic too, and Azriel definitely knew a thing or two about helplessness. Still, she felt so alone. Azriel tried, but he wouldn’t understand what it was like to be a woman tortured in a camp full of males. What that took from her. She wouldn’t explain it. 

Azriel watched her storm off, feeling as if he was failing her all over again. Every night, he watched the dullness in her eyes grow as he handed her the medicines. When she laid down in their bed with practiced monotony so he could rub the salve into the scars stretched across her back, he bit the inside of his cheeks to keep from crying. They were nasty things, raised and swollen with blood and she flinched every time he touched them, as if he were delivering the lashings all over again. She was hurting and he felt so helpless. He vowed to always protect her and take away her pains but he could do neither of those things and the thought of it ate him alive everyday. Only the Mother knew the true lengths he’d go to for her. That man would do anything. 

In the sitting room, Azriel brought her a sandwich that he put together in the kitchen. Nuala and Cerridwen insisted that would make it, but he politely refused. He wanted to be the one to do it. 

“Az, I told you I’m not hungry,” She murmured as he handed her the plate. 

“You need to eat something if you want to keep the medicines down,” He reasoned again. 

“I know what Madja said, I was there,” She snarked, crossing her arms. She was so tired of people telling her what to do. Jarrah telling her what exercises to do, Madja telling her what medicines to take, Rhys telling her that she shouldn’t try to work again so soon, Feyre telling her she should take more walks, Cassian telling her to drink less wine, Azriel forcing her to eat more food. 

“Okay, darling,” He placed the plate on the table when she wouldn’t take it from him. 

“Turkey and swiss, okay!” Cassian peeked at the sandwich, nudging her arm. “And he cut it in half too.”

“Just the way she likes it. In half though, not diagonal– too much crust in one bite if it's cut diagonal,” Azriel smiled from where he sat across the table from them. She could have cried at the sight of him, at the love in his eyes, in his voice. Words were never his strong suit but Azriel more than made up for it in acts of service. This was how he showed his love. This was him reaching his hand out, begging for her to take it, to let him in. To let him help. 

And she didn’t know why she had such a hard time letting him in. She didn’t want to seem incapable of anything, and letting herself fall apart the way Azriel would allow her to terrified her. She’d never fallen apart before. She didn’t know how she could do it without completely tearing herself and every past wound open again. It broke her heart to watch his smile falter when she didn’t reach for the plate. 

“I’m going to bed,” she stood up as quickly as her body would allow and left the room. It was too much. Azriel’s disappointment, everyone’s expectations, watching her, studying her, readying themselves to be there for her if she did explode. She never needed this much attention in the past– to receive so much of it all of a sudden made her feel like she was made of porcelain and everyone was expecting her to shatter at any moment. She could hardly breathe in that room and needed to get out before something within her cracked further. 

The stairs loomed before her, mocking with how many there were. Grabbing the bannister until her knuckles paled, she hoisted herself up one step at a time, maneuvering her body so that her entire weight wouldn’t be on one leg for too long. 

Nesta appeared behind her, climbing the steps she’d taken over the course of minutes in just mere seconds, with a stack of books in one arm and a handful of her gown in the other. Nesta stopped a couple steps ahead, turning around and looking down at her through long eyelashes. 

“Well this is pathetic,” Nesta snorted. 

“Fuck off,” she meant to sneer, but it came out in a breathless huff instead. Pathetic indeed.

 Nesta let her skirts fall from her right arm as she extended it toward her. 

“I don’t need your help.”

“You definitely do.”

“Don’t you have those smutty little novels to get back to?”

“Shut the fuck up and take my arm, or bust your ass on these stairs, I don’t care.” 

Begrudgingly, she took Nesta’s arm. Neither of them spoke, but Nesta patiently guided her up the stairs, supporting her where she needed it. Out of the entire Inner Circle, she got along the most with Nesta. Their conversations usually followed a very similar pattern as this one did, but only because they each saw a little piece of themselves in the other, even if they never mentioned it. 

“Heard you being a bitch downstairs,” Nesta finally spoke when they cleared the last stair and stood at the landing so she could catch her breath. 

She couldn’t find it within herself to take offense. “I love him more than I’ve ever loved anything or anyone. I don’t know why I do this,” she confessed. She didn’t need to explain further. Nesta automatically understood. When they locked eyes, that silent comprehension flowed between them again and for the first time since arriving back home from the war camp, she felt relief. The kind of relief that made your heart beat out of your chest and go a little dizzy. The kind of relief that came from being completely understood without having to spend the energy trying to put the thoughts and feelings into comprehensible words. 

“I know. It’s not your fault.” The words fell softly from Nesta’s lips. It was the last thing she said before she led her to the library. They sat in arm chairs across the fireplace and read for hours in each others’ company. No one came looking for her. No one tried to force a plate of food down her throat. No one wanted her to do those stupid mobility stretches. Nobody was asking her if she was okay. It was everything she needed. So why did she still feel restless, like something was missing?

Azriel.

She left the library after she’d calmed down. In the quiet, amongst the books, when she thought that was all she needed, she felt misery instead. She needed Azriel. She wanted to lay in bed with him forever, feel his skin on hers forever, stay in his warmth forever, feel their heartbeats sing side by side forever. Azriel forever. Nothing else would compare. 

When she reached their room, it was empty. Disappointment flooded her chest, but she knew Azriel was giving her space. As she moved closer to the bed, she found a new plate of food waiting beside a note. A remade sandwich, cut down the middle as always. 

Your favorite. Was all the note said. 

Indeed it was. She polished off the sandwich in a matter of minutes, as ravenous as she was. Actually, she was hungry when Azriel first offered one to her in the sitting room, but she was too stubborn to take it then. 

The bath towel beside the note on the bed was warm to the touch. From the soft sound of trickling water in the bathing room, she knew he’d run her a bath. The air above the tub smelled of sandalwood– his scent. As she stripped off her clothes and lowered herself into the warm water, the scent encompassed her as if he was in the room with her right then, waiting to join her. 

Surely, an hour or two must have passed. Her eyes pried open, the water and soap around her body in the tub still warm and feathery like a winter duvet. She didn’t know when she’d fallen asleep, only that it was the best sleep she’d gotten these past two months. For the first time since coming home, she slept with no nightmares and no nausea to rouse her from rest. She didn’t even dream. She simply passed out.

When she finally left the bathroom, her body wrapped in the towel he’d warmed for her, she found Azriel sitting on the bed with a book nestled in his large hands. As she stepped through the doorway of the bathing room, he looked up, smiling softly. Pure love shone in his eyes like a beacon, flashing and blinking in the darkness that war camp left her in. 

At the sight of his soft smile, the gentleness of his features, the relaxed sag of his shoulders, she felt something break. 

Sensing a shift in her demeanor, he lowered the book, eyebrows knitting together. 

"What's wrong?"

Those two damned words. She bit the inside of her cheek, walking weakly to Azriel's side of the bed. He placed his book on the nightstand and sat up straighter, anticipating her next move. 

She climbed into his lap, straddling his hips, and laid her upper body against his torso, nuzzling her face into the crook of his neck. Her arms wrapped around his body tightly, breathing him in like he was the oxygen she lived off of. Anything else, anything that was not Azriel, and she could just die right there. 

He brought his arms around her tightly, heart sinking when he felt her hot tears on his neck. She did not shake. She did not sob. He only felt the wetness on his skin and the erratic heaving of her chest against his as she fought to regulate her breathing.

He did not say anything else. He held her, unmoving except to rub her back or run his hand over the back of her head, smoothing her hair. His other hand held the back of one of her thighs to keep her in place as she grew increasingly limp in his arms. 

"I've been such a wretch." Her voice was heavy and filled with sorrow. "I've been such a wretch to you. I'm sorry Az."

"Oh my love," He held her as close as he could, willing her to feel the love he held for her in his chest. His love for her ran everywhere his blood did, from his toes to the top of his head, every day and every second, his astonishment of her coursed his body like an electrical current keeping him alive. Without her,  there was no pulse. 

"How do you put up with me?" He felt her wipe her nose on his shoulder and he couldn't help the smile on his lips.

"Because I love you, and I know your anger has nothing to do with me."

"But you should not have to put up with it."

"I will put up with anything when it comes to you. You don’t ever have to worry about that when it’s you and I,” He pulled her back so he could look into her eyes. “You went through something horrible. You’re going to need time to work through it all, but I will be here for every moment of it. I’m sorry if I’ve been suffocating you, darling. I only do it because I can’t help it. When I see you hurting I wish I could take all of it from you and put it in me.”

“I never want you to hurt,” she told him earnestly. The thought of him going through what she did filled her with rage so sudden and consuming she couldn’t begin to imagine what Azriel felt when they finally found her at the camp. 

“I could never when I have you looking out for me,” He smiled that cheeky, boyish smile that came out so rarely. 

“I’ve just been having so many bad days. I should be happy that I’m back home, that I’m safe now. I don’t know why I’m feeling like this, and it comes out at the wrong times in the wrong ways. But I don’t know what I’d do without you, Az.” 

“Even on your worst days, you’re the best of us. So do your worst. I can handle it." 

The disbelief in her eyes melted away when he cradled her head, smiling earnestly– and gods, she wished she could commission Feyre to paint him like this– a man smitten. With all the tonics and creams Madja had forced on her, she had a sneaking suspicion that none of them would truly heal her. They helped the symptoms, but never the cause. She’d accepted that it would take a damn miracle to heal the cause. And here Azriel was, pleading and lovely, looking like her damn miracle. 

She let him undo the towel from around her body and lay her into the soft covers, warm from where he sat while she was in the bath. Turning over, Azriel smoothed the salve over her scars as he did every night. But for the first time in months, she finally replied to his attempts at starting conversation as he worked. For the first time in months, she laughed genuine laughs that felt only slightly foreign– much like old friends– in her throat. For the first time in months, as he tenderly slicked Madja’s balm over her scars, praying to the Mother for her health over each one he touched, she did not flinch. 

[monsterhighlovurr]

Anyone else see Nathan as having OCD.

Like imagine.

OCD Nathan who cant tell if his obsessions and castastrophizing come from his prophetic dreams or from his mental illness. Nathan whos compulsions devoloped when he was around seven and first went through a major traumatic event and had his first prophetic vision (watching his classmates get killed) and kept replaying the event over and over and over in his head and from then on started doing compulsions in order to “prevent” any future events from happening. His prophetic visions of the future start coming in more and more as his OCD gets stronger. His loving parents, god bless them, and his therapist cant tell whats going on with him because on one hand their son is definently mentally ill, and on the other hand, he seems to be oddly…correct…about his predictions of the future. Like “if I dont touch this doorknob 30 times in a row or until it feels just right, my english teacher will die.” And then his english teacher actually dies, not because he didnt touch the doorknob enough but because hes a demi god who causes death and chaos and can actually predict the future, but only worst case scenarios.

His poor parents in an effort to minimize the destruction therefore encaurage his compulsions through his child and teen years in an effort to prevent the future accidents which only end up causing their son great mental turmoil and fail to prevent the scenarios. In fact, it leads to kore death and chaos because Nathans powers are directly related to his mental state. The more pain hes in, the more brutal. They eventually realize that the OCD and predictions arent related once Nathan grows older and regret ever encouraging them. Adult Nathan is less tormented by his OCD, not because he goes to therapy or fully seperates the two, but because he embraces death and chaos. “If I dont flush the toliet over and over, someone close to me will die, but honestly that would be kind of metal.” He however is still plagued by obsessions and compulsions, more towards his band members being hurt. He constantly deletes albums and rerecords songs until their “just right” because of his OCD AND because of his visions. His OCD tells him if he doesnt get the song perfect there will be great chaos and his prophetic dreams tell him he doesnt get his song perfect there will be great chaos.

At this point Nathan doesnt know what came first, if the OCD caused the visions or if the visions led to the OCD, or if he has simply has both unrelated to each other, and hes too scared to find out.

[fullstcp]

"Sour" by Olivia Rodrigo Sentence Starters

BRUTAL

"I want it to be, like, messy."

"I think that I'll die before I drink."

"I'm so caught up in the news of who likes me and who hates you."

"They'd all be so disappointed."

"Cause who I am if not exploited?"

"Where's my fucking teenage dream?"

"If someone tells me one more time, 'Enjoy your youth', I'm gonna cry."

"I wish I'd done this before."

"I wish people liked me more."

"All I did was try my best, this the kind of thanks I get?"

"They say these are the golden years, but I wish I could disappear."

"Ego crush is so severe."

"God, it's brutal out here."

"I feel like no one wants me."

"I hate the way I'm perceived."

"Lately, I'm a nervous wreck."

"I love people I don't like."

"Got a broken ego, broken heart."

"God, I don't even know where to start."

TRAITOR

"I played dumb, but I always knew."

"I kept quiet so I could keep you."

"Ain't it funny how you ran to her/him/them the second that we called it quits?"

"You betrayed me, and I know that you'll never feel sorry."

"Loved you at your worst, but that didn't matter."

"Guess you didn't cheat, but you're still a traitor."

"If you were true, there's no damn way that you could fall in love with somebody that quickly."

"Remember I brought her/him/them up and you told me I was paranoid?"

"I wish that you had thought this through before I went and fell in love with you."

DRIVERS LICENSE

"How could I ever love someone else?"

"I know we weren't perfect, but I've never felt this way for no one."

"I just can't imagine how you could be so okay now that I'm gone."

"You said forever, now I drive alone past your street."

"All my friends are tired of hearing how much I miss you."

"I kinda feel sorry for them, cause they'll never know you the way that I do."

"I can't drive past the places we used to go to."

"I still fucking love you, babe."

"You know I still love you, babe."

1 STEP FORWARD, 3 STEPS BACK

"You got me fucked up in the head."

"I hate that I give you power over that kinda stuff."

"It's always one step forward and three steps back."

"I'm the love of your life until I make you mad."

"Do you love me, want me, hate me?"

"Maybe in some masochistic way I kinda find it all exciting."

"Which lover will I get today?"

"Will you walk me to the door or send me home crying?"

"Did I say something wrong?"

"Maybe this is all your fault."

DEJA VU

"When you gonna tell her/him/them that we did that, too?"

"That was our place, I found it first."

"I made the jokes you tell to her/him/them."

"When she's/he's/they're with you, do you get déjà vu?"

"Do you call her/him/them, and almost say my name?"

"I hate to think that I was just your type."

"Don't act like we didn't do that shit, too."

"Everything is all reused."

GOOD 4 U

"Well, good for you, I guess you moved on really easily."

"Remember when you said that you wanted to give me the world?"

"I guess that you've been working on yourself."

"I bet that therapist I found for you, she really helped."

"You're doing great out there without me."

"God, I wish that I could do that."

"I've lost my mind, I've spent the night crying on the floor of my bathroom."

"You're so unaffected, I really don't get it."

"I guess you're getting everything you want."

"It's like we never even happened."

"What the fuck is up with that?"

"It's like you never even met me."

"Remember when you swore to God I was the only person who ever got you?"

"Well, screw that, and screw you."

"You will never have to hurt the way you know that I do."

"Maybe I'm too emotional."

"Your apathy is like a wound in salt."

"Maybe you never cared at all."

ENOUGH FOR YOU

"Tried so hard to be everything that you liked just for you to say you're not the compliment type."

"Stupid, emotional, obsessive little me."

"I knew from the start this is exactly how you'd leave."

"You found someone more exciting, the next second, you were gone."

"You left me there crying, wondering what I did wrong."

"You always say I'm never satisfied, but I don't think that's true."

"All I ever wanted was to be enough for you."

"You couldn't have cared less about someone who loved you more."

"I'd say you broke my heart, but you broke much more than that."

"I don't want your sympathy, I just want myself back."

"Don't you think I loved you too much to be used and discarded?"

"Don't tell me you're sorry, feel sorry for yourself."

"Someday, I'll be everything to somebody else."

"You always say I'm never satisfied, but that's not me, it's you."

"I don't think anything could ever be enough for you."

"Nothing's enough for you."

HAPPIER

"We broke up a month ago."

"Your friends are mine, you know I know."

"You moved on, found someone new."

"I thought my heart was detached from all the sunlight of our past."

"Does she/he/they mean you forgot about me?"

"I hope you're happy, but not like how you were with me."

"I'm selfish, I know, I can't let you go."

"So find someone great, but don't find no one better."

"I hope you're happy, but don't be happier."

"An eternal love bullshit you know you'll never mean."

JEALOUSY, JEALOUSY

"I kinda wanna throw my phone across the room."

"Comparison is killing me slowly."

"I'm so sick of myself."

"I'd rather be anyone else."

"My jealousy started following me."

"I see everyone getting everything I want."

"I'm happy for them, but then again, I'm not."

"Their win is not my loss."

"I can't help getting caught up in it all."

"I wanna be you so bad and I don't even know you."

"All I see is what I should be."

FAVORITE CRIME

"Know that I loved you so bad, I let you treat me like that."

"I was your willing accomplice, honey."

"The things I did just so I could call you mine."

"I hope I was your favorite crime."

"You used me as an alibi."

"I crossed my heart as you crossed the line."

"I defended you to all my friends."

"Every time a siren sounds, I wonder if you're around."

"You know that I'd do it all again."

"It's bittersweet to think about the damage that we'd do."

"I was going down, but I was doing it with you."

"I say that I hate you with a smile on my face."

"Look what we became."

"I hope I was your favorite crime, cause, baby, you were mine."

HOPE UR OK

"Somehow, we fell out of touch."

"Don't know if I'll see you again someday."

"If you're out there, I hope that you're okay."

"We don't talk much, but I just gotta say, I miss you and I hope that you're okay."

"Nothing's forever, nothing's as bad as it seems."

"I hope you know how proud I am you were created with the courage to unlearn all of their hatred."

"I hope that you're happier today."

"I love you, and I hope that you're okay."

[inkher0]

How does Ticcimask work in your story? I don't know if you've talked about it before, or if you're tired of this question, I just wanted to ask due to how there are so many conflicting depictions of the ship.

Depends on what you mean? If you're referring to their ages, Origin is about Tim as a teenager. It'd be weird if it was Marble Hornets, Red Flannel Tim dating 15 year old Toby (STARES LOUDLY), but this is a prequel to MH, and they're roughly the same age. The love-hate dynamic that people associate with Ticcimask works better when they're the same age, imho, and that's always been how I've seen the ship. They're rivals to each other, rather than an adult bullying a child because he's Kind Of Annoying (and mentally disabled, which. Yikes).

In Origin, they're both obsessed with each other, but for completely different reasons, and those reasons change over the narrative as their ideologies shift.

In Tim's eyes, Toby is this captivating, all consuming flame. Toby doesn't languish over what's right and wrong, what makes him a "good boy" or a "bad boy"- he does as he pleases, and demands everyone witness it. He spits in The Operator's face and openly questions the nature of their rearing and their orders, even though that hurts his standing. Though that usually pisses him off, he can't help but find it a bit admirable. Toby is very compelling to Tim, in all aspects, and he can't help but want him around even though he finds him so antagonistic. Toby understands Tim's anger at the world, and- most importantly- he validates it through his actions and reactions. At the same time, though, he challenges Tim intellectually, which very few people do. Kate tells him "don't do bad things", but Toby asks him "why?"

When it comes to how Toby sees Tim... I fear saying too much. I kind of want it to be something you interpret yourself. But I'll say that for however intense Tim views Toby, Toby views Tim three times as intensely. Like, don't ever read Toby's mind when he's thinking about Tim, you will feel compelled to Call Someone (therapist, doctor, a priest, or all three). It's very hard to describe how Toby sees Tim without using some very heavy-handed biblical imagery, because from the start, Toby has seen Tim through the lens of believing The Operator is God. You can infer from there how he might see Tim- sometimes as a messiah, sometimes as Satan, and sometimes as both simultaneously. He wants to be close to that light, but he knows in his gut that there's something deeply Wrong about it.

Despite how they are obviously Aware of each other's dangerous faults and how badly things could go, they still choose to rely on each other. Simply because that, despite everything I said above, they get along horrifically well. When they agree on something, that thing is done with brutal efficiency. They are The Operator's Boys, and they're both his Best of The Best. They complete each other in the worst possible way- they're dangerous for each other, but deadly for everyone else. If things go according to The Operator's plan, they will be exactly as Toby fantasizes: Literal Kings, sitting atop a throne of bodies and ruling the humans on Earth like apex predators.

The thing is... is that really what they want? And are they willing to do what it takes to achieve that?

[shywhumpauthor]

Gowns and Green Jello

Y’all I wrote this in maybe ten minutes right after I woke up. The words wrote themselves. Was just gonna be a dialogue prompt.

Cw: recovery, hospital, bad caretaker, emotional trauma from both sides, past torture, descriptions of scars/permanent injuries/healed gore, infection

“Dunno why they call this a gown,” Whumpee grumbled, their frail hand raising to tug at their other sleeve, fixing the thin fabric from where it had begun to fall off their shoulder again. “I don’t feel fuckin’ fancy.”

“Whumpee,” Caretaker chided, giving them a moment to fumble on their own before reaching over and fixing the small tie on the back of Whumpee’s hospital gown that they wouldn’t have been able to reach on their own.

Whumpee huffed, swatting Caretaker’s hand away when they didn’t immediately pull back after retying the strings.

Caretaker looked back at their friend—their best friend. The one they had promised to themself that they would protect. A promise they’d now broken for the second time. The first when they’d let Whumper take them, a crime stained across Caretaker’s sleepless nights and Whumpee’s broken body. You shouldn’t blame yourself, Caretaker’s therapist advised them every time they brought the topic up. You couldn’t have known. You weren’t home.

Whumpee was right, though, the gown certainly was not the most flattering thing in the fashion industry. As thin as paper, made of white fabric with some awful blue and green polka dot and stripe pattern, caretaker doubted it would look good on anyone. Certainly not… not on Whumpee. Not with their too-thin body or their twisted limbs, evidence of broken bones never properly healed laying just below the skin. Their scarred, burned, flayed skin which was now the evidence of caretaker’s second failure, the ugly, red infection creeping out from a wound on Whumpee’s thigh, now concealed by bandages and the hospital’s sheets. Their hair, cut shorter than Caretaker’s ever seen it, falling awkwardly and unevenly as if it had been cut with kitchen scissors—which Caretaker wouldn’t doubt.

Their face was worst of all. Whumper seemed to have targeted every ounce of brutality there, and the rest of their body was just in the danger zone of the attacks. Sometimes, Caretaker couldn’t bare to look. Their throat would close up and the guilt would swell to impossible amounts, and Caretaker would have to quickly excuse themself from Whumpee’s presence. They were sure their friend has seen it. That their forlorn, self-conscious expression was undoubtedly of Caretaker’s doing. They tried to make up for it in any and every way they possibly could.

“You look just as beautiful as ever,” Caretaker took Whumpee’s hand, the one that had just smacked them, using that as a bit of leverage so Caretaker could lean forwards out of the plasticky armchair to press a kiss to Whumpee’s temple. Something in their chest twisted as Whumpee complained and pushed them back, but they couldn’t conceal the flicker of emotion behind Whumpee’s gaze, the weight to their movements. God, how long has it been since they’d kissed Whumpee? Affection was a thing Caretaker used to dish out by the dozen, and they still did. Just… not to Whumpee. Not like they used to. Caretaker tried but, honestly, it felt weird. Wrong. And they hated themself for feeling that way, they tried to make up for it, but half the time their so called casual displays of admirable would come out feeling strained and forced, which they knew Whumpee could feel.

They could see the tug in Whumpee’s expression before they turned away, the heartbrokenness just swimming behind their remaining eye. The atmosphere in the small hospital room faded into something heavy, and Caretaker was tempted to reach for Whumpee’s hand again, but the way they were angled now limited Caretaker’s access from their right hand, their good hand.

Their left rested inches away, just over the bed rail. Mangled fingers and flesh that barely resembled a hand resting on top of the pillow propped in Whumpee’s lap. Two and a half fingers remaining, scarred flesh raised like veins. The back of their palm layered with so much they couldn’t tell on mark from the next, burns from stabs from breaks.

Caretaker let their own hands fall back to their sides. Both Whumpee and then knew just was a lie rested between them.

“I’ll go see if the nurse can sneak us some jello,” Caretaker said after a moment of tension, slapping their palms against their knees with a newfound purpose as they stood up. “I saw someone with a green cup earlier, I know it’s your favorite. Be right back,” they promised, quickly moving towards and out the door.

“Bye,” Whumpee mumbled, looking over their shoulder as Caretaker practically ran out of the room. Only once they were alone, Whumpee raised a palm to their eyes, scrubbing away the tears before they could fall.

[mdhwrites]

It really does feel like the writers just kind of dont care about the world. When i first saw it, i was really interested in just how wild it was, a whole world based of hieronymous bosch? Cool.

But then they just contradict themselves, dont do anything with it or it just doesnt make sense? for example:

-In the first season the world is presented as this brutal, hostile place, where walking down the street can get you killed. Characters dont know what hugging or shaking hands is. The schools are brutal, teachers being downright vile at points. In season 2 they have a whole school dedicated to darwinian logic. But... later the teachers are suddenly nice, the world feels less hostile and they have therapists? what? in a place where you get thrown in prison for writing fanfiction?

-Some jokes are made that are 'haha get it cuz not human' but they make no sense. They have bard magic, walking guitars and bands, but when they have to look after luz, they suddenly think nightmare noises are a banger? Or how willow makes a '40s cartoon' joke, gus has a pb&j samwich, etc.

-Potion magic makes no sense. How is it a coven when you can do it WITHOUT magic. what happens when you get branded? do you just lose all magic? is it a pity coven for bad witches?

I feel on its own these things are nitpicky, but when they pile up it just feels like they were only thinking about making the place LOOK cool while having zero substance.

So you're correct that a lot of these are either nitpicks or just really lazy jokes on the part of the writers. In fact, the lazy, fish out of water jokes came back in S3 and make Amity just look like falling in love literally drained her brain out of her ears. However, that doesn't make them invalid, especially in a show with little worldbuilding. They pile up into making the whole thing feel like a construct.

Luckily, you don't have to go to nitpicks to point out that the writers didn't give a shit. Dana herself is one of the worst writers as far the worldbuilding goes. After all, she wrote Reaching Out.

She was the one who treated being a Wild Witch like choosing not to go to college.

She also co-wrote The First Day where, you know, they don't even acknowledge that multi-tracking is explicitly illegal in this society so why would an EC funded school EVER allow that?

There's SO MANY of these sorts of things peppered throughout the series that makes the ONE part of the world building we ever get, that is anything close to making this world actually unique besides implications, a straight up lie. It'd be like if Avatar made being able to multi-bend something you chose seven episodes in and suddenly slaughtered the entire point of the Avatar being special. It doesn't though because WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT!?

And there's no way to call this a nitpick. It's the hard basis for one of the main cast, even though Eda's status as a criminal is ALL OVER THE PLACE in S1, especially for people giving a shit about it. It's effectively the core of the villain's plot and the society they created. Any crack in the coven system becomes a crack in your main plot... And when it was first introduced, rather than nine, their were hundred, a fact that persisted into S2 when a character VOICED BY DANA talked about joining the Cute Cat Coven. You know, a coven theoretically not affected by the draining spell.

It's even important thematically. It is the oppression that Luz is supposed to fighting against. The way that self expression and being true to you is repressed is through the coven system and the laws surrounding it. Those need to actually function for those themes to feel like they have weight or they fall apart. It's part of why TOH struggles with thematic consistency because self expression doesn't feel like a core part of it when no one gives a fuck what you do. When there is no actual pressure to conform and hide yourself. At least, not for a story like this.

It's probably the biggest reason why when I hear people exclaim that TOH has great worldbuilding I just have to look at them funny. After all, none of this is even new or actually unique *gestures at Dystopian Fiction in general and D&D wizards school of magic* and it's told like shit. And for a story like this, your fantasy epic about sticking it to the man by showing how special you are, it NEEDED to be told better. It needed to have point.

But it never did and it just makes the writers look either like they didn't care or are just incompetent, let alone when the show director themselves is shooting their core concepts in the head.

======+++++=======

I have a public Discord for any and all who want to join!

I also have an Amazon page for all of my original works in various forms of character focused romances from cute, teenage romance to erotica series of my past. I have an Ao3 for my fanfiction projects as well if that catches your fancy instead. If you want to hang out with me, I stream from time to time and love to chat with chat.

A Twitter you can follow too

And a Kofi if you like what I do and want to help out with the fact that disability doesn’t pay much.

[proudfreakmetarusonniku]

thinking about c!tommy and the fawn response is making me go crazy again. like, i think it works so well is because… you'd never notice it. c!tommy doesn’t superficially seem like the person who'd try and appeal to others to save himself, he specifically presents himself as someone who responds by fighting, even. he's abrasive and loud and independent. but if you look into his actions, he's both constantly in survival mode and his survival mode is desperately trying to appease those who frighten him.

the most obvious example is, of course, c!dream. c!tommy literally discarded his own sense of free will to try and avoid more abuse. he didn’t fight against c!Dream’s bizarre and contradictory rules, he didn't ever contest his blatantly incorrect statements. he moulded himself to fit what c!dream wanted, and he started holding himself up to the same standards c!dream did. and it’s not just in exile, too- c!tommy has a tendency to have to actively resist giving into c!Dream’s manipulation, because it’s how his brain is programmed to survive. to use c!tommy's own examples of how he describes his relationship with c!dream, he stops acting like a human and more like a pet, puppet, or plaything, because being a human and having autonomt doesn’t work to keep him safe, whereas if he’s exactly what he thinks c!dream wants him to be he'll get hurt less.

(and I think it’s noteworthy that literally only the idea of that strategy not working allowed him to break free from it. if c!dream wasn’t a friend, if he didn’t want that from c!tommy, if he'd kill him no matter what, c!tommy can reason past his base instincts. he has to believe c!dream hates him and will just kill and torture him indiscriminately, else he‘ll default to trying desperately to be “good” instead of running or fighting when the chips are down. c!tommy was aware he was being tortured, and that’s not why he left. he thought he deserved it.)

but it’s not just with c!dream! it’s so noticeable in pogtopia and bedrock bros too. in pogtopia, when c!wilbur spirals, he ends up falling into a codependent role as basically the closest thing to a therapist they had there (which like, is probably worse than nothing considering he’s an uneducated child, but it was a role he found himself trying desperately to fill because he thought it’d stop c!wilbur from hurting himself and others.) when c!tommy tries to rebuild himself after exile, he acts violent and cruel because he thinks it'll appeal to c!techno, who he's petrified of because he’s been trained to be frightened of any authority figure at this point. he's much more reckless.

his ideals also noticeably change based on who he currently feels he needs to appeal himself to to survive. he’s been anything from a loyalist to an anarchist in the hopes it'll get him hurt less. and c!tommy has a strong sense of morals, is the thing! he's loyal, protective, and would do anything for his friends. yet, even this shifts out of fear. c!tommy has an iron will, but what that’s directed towards he'll change to avoid getting hurt or worse. as far as he’s concerned, the wrong opinion and the wrong word can and has lead to unimaginable physical and emotional harm. c!tommy's grown up to expect ever disagreeing with an adult authority figure will lead to him being thrown out on his own at best, brutally tortured at worst. and he just wants peace. he just wants to be a normal kid. he doesn’t want to hurt anymore.

and c!tommy ends up mimicking the worst of those people, too! c!tommy is noticeably much more cruel and aggressive in ways that mirror the people that hurt him when he’s around them and when he’s afraid. again, this is something especially noticeable around c!dream! c!tommy lashes out and recreates his abuse on others, because his instinctual response to survive is to try and mimic and appeal to the danger so they'll hurt him less badly. he takes on their own traits, good and bad, til it’s hard to tell what’s him and what's his walls to protect himself. and that’s not to say what c!tommy does when he lashes out is okay- but it’s understandable and, quite frankly, incredibly common behaviour for young people in very traumatic situations who haven’t been able to receive help.

idk i just really like how c!tommy is portrayed as an abuse survivor a lot. fawning is generally not something shown well in media- if it’s shown at all, it’s often used to victim blame, or at best it’s used for cheap angst to make a perfect innocent victim. but c!tommy is not innocent, he’s an aggressive loud mouthed kid. but he’s never blamed for it. he isn’t choosing to act in these ways, he isn’t weak for them, he isn’t a coward or stupid and unable to recognise his own trauma- he’s well aware of it, in fact! he's just trying to survive, in a way that’s very common for abuse victims and people in broken homes. and i just guess that’s important to me.

[pcos-and-endo-awareness]

What’s YOUR personal experience with these disorders? :-)

Hello anon! I know I’ve made this post before but it’s buried somewhere. So here it is! Buckle up folks!

I always struggled with bad periods. Heavy flow, horrific cramps, irregular timing. I just thought that’s what it is and everyone deals with it. I figured the pain I experienced trying to use tampons was all in my head, some psychological fear due to my religious upbringing.

It wasn’t until college that I realized maybe my experience wasn’t normal. Maybe people aren’t supposed to be in this much pain. Maybe something was wrong. My pain got to be so overwhelming that I went to the emergency room. After a rather traumatic experience, I was eventually told that I had ovarian cysts and one of them had ruptured, and just go to my OBGYN and take some Advil. (Great advice, wonderful care. /s)

PCOS was in my family history, and my aunts and sisters all struggled with it. My then OBGYN diagnosed me with it, but basically said the same thing as the ER nurses. Take some ibuprofen and birth control and get over it. A diagnosis doesn’t do anything.

I had another episode with cysts about two years later, after I was out of college. I knew what it was this time, and I knew they’d only tell me the same thing. Take Advil and stop crying. So I didn’t bother going to the ER, and I tried to deal with the pain on my own. My (much nicer) OBGYN monitored the two softball sized cysts on my right ovary, and said we’d just keep an eye on them until they went away. That worked for a while, but not for long. One night my mother insisted on taking me to the ER because I was practically screaming in pain. After another traumatic visit, I was, you guessed it, told to take Advil and go home. It was probably another rupture.

Except it wasn’t. The next day I visited my OBGYN for an ultrasound so she could see what was going on. I was called back later that night and told to come in for emergency surgery. The cysts were torsing my ovary and cutting off the blood supply. Very scary situation, I’d never had a big surgery before. I was rushed in for the laparoscopy. This procedure usually takes less than a half hour. For me, I was on the table over two and a half hours. The reason being, not only did I have two huge cysts, but I was discovered to also have endometriosis. The cysts and all my organs had lesions, and everything was fused together. My OBGYN had to scrape the extra tissue from all my organs, she said it was the worst case of endo she’s ever seen, and I must have the highest pain tolerance ever to not be screaming my head off all day long. It was during this surgery I lost my right ovary, dead from having no blood supply.

Recovering from that surgery took me six months. It was brutal and at times, humiliating. My insides were raw and my muscles felt like goo. The only good thing to come out of it was meeting my lovely physical therapist, whom I still talk to today.

Today, five years later, I still deal with PCOS and endo. I have it mostly under control with the depo shot and many other medications. But… I struggle to lose weight, I have high blood pressure, I have major chronic fatigue, I’m at risk for diabetes, I still have migraines and flare ups and GI problems. My health is always going to be a problem for me. I am always going to be battling my hormones. I am going to struggle getting pregnant, if I even can. I am always going to have the risk of losing my other ovary and going into early menopause. I can only pray that these two disorders don’t take away more from me.

[remosdeerica]

I wrote a thing while bored at work. If you don't wanna click the link it's all here>>>>

~~~~

Jon loved Damian. He loved him more than anything. More than Ma's apple pie, more than warm sunny days, more than flying. More than life itself. 

Rationally, Jon could see how that might be a problem for his parents. They got married thinking they would have to adopt if they ever wanted children; human and Kryptonian genes were just too incompatible to conceive a child. The fact that Jon existed at all was a miracle, one that he knew his parents had tried and failed to replicate. 

But Jon couldn’t help it. Damian was everything to him. Damian was the reason he got out of bed in the morning, the reason he was able to face each and every day with a smile. He was the reason Jon became Superboy. Damian was his whole world.

You've only known him for a couple of months. 

You're too young to know what real love is.

He's your first real friend, you're just a little overexcited.

Just some of the things his parents had said to him when Jon had told them his feelings for Damian. They thought it was a phase. 

Until The Hunter showed up. 

One of the many assassins Ra's al Ghul periodically sent after his grandson, the Hunter was meticulous. Vicious. Once he set his sights on his prey there was nothing on earth that could make him give up the hunt.

The day the Hunter caught Damian was one of the worst of Jon’s life. Seeing his love strung up by his wrists like a piece of meat ready to be devoured was an image that would haunt him to his dying day.  

What wouldn't haunt him, however, was the feeling of satisfaction he got as he looked into The Hunter's terrified eyes while plunging his fist through his stomach, pulverizing his insides. 

His father and Uncle Bruce had been the ones to find them after the fact. With Damian still unconscious and held protectively in Jon's blood-soaked embrace.  They never did find The Hunter's body.

Needless to say, they didn't think his feelings for Damian were 'just a phase' after that.

His parents blamed Damian for Jon's behavior, saying he was dangerous and a bad influence. Uncle Bruce himself begrudgingly agreed though he argued that Damian simply wasn't adjusted to 'normal life' yet. 

It infuriated Jon. How dare they? Damian was perfect. Jon was more than old enough to make his own decisions. And the decision to kill The Hunter was his and his alone. Damian hadn’t even been conscious for the confrontation for crying out loud! 

Jon made sure to inform his parents of this fact. He wanted to make them understand that Damian was not some evil corrupter. Jon would have killed to protect anyone he loved. With Damian, he was just a little more brutal. 

That conversation landed his butt firmly in therapy. 

Obsessive, his therapist, Ms. Tate called him. Codependent. Overly attached. Unhealthily fixated. 

Jon remained bitter and agitated during their sessions. Refusing to give an inch. Jon didn’t see what was so wrong with protecting Damian. Damian was his. And Jon would do whatever it took to keep him safe. Ms. Tate did not seem to like this answer. 

Apparently, Ms. Tate had suggested that his parents keep Jon separated from Damian for a while. That some time apart might help Jon find balance in his everyday life. 

It did the exact opposite.  

His parents hadn't explicitly told him that he wasn't allowed to see Damian. Being a whole city away from him meant they couldn't spend as much time together as they liked anyway. And his phone and computer privileges had been revoked, on account of the, well, murder. So, not seeing Damian hadn't been a surprise. It wasn't pleasant, especially after what Damian had gone through, but he figured it would be temporary. 

Two weeks after the incident his parents revealed that they had no intention of letting him see Damian at all. 

To be honest, Jon doesn't really remember what happened. One minute he was arguing with his parents, the next he was waking up strapped to a bed in one of the Watchtower's containment cells, red sun lamps glaring down on him. 

His parents watched him through the observation window as he struggled against his restraints. How could they betray them like this? They were his parents! They were supposed to love him! Why were they hurting him?

For weeks they kept Jon in that cell. Strapped down and bathed in the red glow of the lamps. After the first few days, his anger had died down, leaving him feeling hollow. Numb. 

His parents came and went, never entering the room. Only observing him through the window. He was pretty sure he saw Uncle Bruce once or twice, with his deeply set frown and stiff shoulders. And he had a vague sense that Kon had tried to fight his way into the cell to see him, though ended up being convinced by the Justice League to go back to Titan Tower. He may have been dreaming that last part up, though. It was hard to tell.

Jon just wanted to see Damian. He wanted to hear his voice. See one of his rare but heart-stopping smiles. To feel his calloused fingers thread through his as they held hands. That's all he wanted. Damian was all he ever wanted.

But that was looking more and more like it would never happen. 

Until one night, Jon was abruptly awoken by a hand jostling his shoulder. 

"Jon."

"Jon!"

"Come on, Hayseed. Wake up!"

Hayseed? Only Damian called him Hayseed…

Jon bolted up in bed as far as his restraints would let him. 

"Damian!?"

Damian was dressed head to toe in black with a mask covering the bottom half of his face. 

"Who else, Jon?"

Jon stared at him in wonder, even with half of his face covered, Damian was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. 

"You came for me…."

Damian slowly raised his hand to rest on Jon's cheek.

"Of course, Beloved. I would never abandon you."

Tears of love and gratitude pooled in Jon's eyes. 

"I love you, Dami."

Damian’s eyes softened.

"And I, you."

[intertexts-moving]

cannot stop thinking abt andrew minyard he's a canonical gay goth. hes exactly five feet tall. he only gives a shit about five people ever & one of them is his therapist. he's a study in dehumanization of mentally ill people. he's genuinely a lame little freak with serious opinions on a zombie apocalypse & insanely pretentious syntax. he has gods worst taste in alcohol. he killed his mother in a car crash & then used her life insurance to buy a new slutty car. hes a freelance murderer. he has attachment issues. he gave his crush his house key and his car key & then continued to pretend he didn't like him at all. he's like voted guy most likely to off himself before fifteen but inexplicably he survives. all his friends are utterly terrified of him. he's like the incarnation of brutally murder ur abusers. he's insanely toxic. he's got the world's most obvious crush & no one notices ever because they somehow think he's straight. he carries knives around like a y/a protagonist & it's impossible to tell if this is because the author thought it would rule or he specifically thought it would rule to be like an edgy ya protagonist. his whole deal is being a stone cold bitch but he cares so much & so hard it's like viscerally painful. he's mean as hell. he's got bad taste in expensive cars. he buys his friends cute clothes. he's like ill kill anyone whos mean to u >:( but he's dead fucking serious about it. he's nineteen & he's still painfully nineteen about it all. etc etc etc.

[mercifullymad]

yeah i have ocd too and ive been reading your posts + the ask you answered and man i really really feel it. i was in erp for about two years steady, and i was genuinely able to overcome a few of my less severe obsessions that way, to a large amount of relief. but for my most severe thing, a (very visible, facially) brfb obsession/compulsion that has caused me so much strife and social anxiety for years, i got next to nowhere. even when i would manage to go a handful of days without doing it, i would inevitably lapse - and then feel like absolute shit about it, because i felt like i wasn’t strong enough to win this battle i’d been told i’m fighting. since i have some overlapping perfectionism issues, this cycle was just brutal for my self esteem. then my regular erp therapist retired, and ive been meaning to get back into it but the thought just.. exhausts me. but then i also keep brfb-ing myself and still need help with that. but then erp wasn’t really working on it anyway… it’s really left me feeling like i don’t know what to do. so on the one hand i fully agree with what youre saying about how erp is not necessarily the answer to every o/c and that reassurance is not the Worst Imaginable Thing to offer a person with ocd, but unlike some other compulsions that im sure could be lived with, the thought of going through my whole life doing what i do is… hard lol. socially, mentally, physically hard. anyway i dont mean to just vent at you.. i guess my point is that yeah its just so so so frustrating that erp and fighter mentality is treated as kind of the be all end all solution for ocd right now.

like not to sound like a baby but. im not looking for a fight, im looking for help!! and yeah “only i can save me” or whatever but it feels like ocd is kind of underrepresented in the world of mental illnesses that are/can be utterly debilitating. because its nuts that there is kind of no other treatment suggestion for who are really suffering and simply arent - for whatever reason, temporarily or otherwise - the vigilant mentally tough fighters erp recovery models want us to be. and i dont even mean that in a defeatist or deprecating way, i mean like.. sometimes your ocd makes you depressed! and then, what with the depression and all, you just don’t have it in you for what erp demands. im not a psychologist or anything but man there’s gotta be a better a way

I really relate to and empathize with what you’re saying. I also struggle with a BFRB where I pick at my face and other very visible spots on my body, which increases my already-substantial social anxiety. It is an absolutely brutal cycle for self-esteem, including how you feel “defeated” by not being “strong enough” to be a “OCD fighter.” This is another reason why I don’t like the fight(er) framing around OCD; it makes those who don’t respond to ERP in the prescribed way feel like they have failed, rather than there being a morally-neutral mismatch between the treatment and the individual. 

I do want to ensure we don’t fall into the misconception that critiquing ERP or other “gold standard” treatments for OCD means that the only other option is to learn to live with OCD without attempting to alleviate our suffering or cut back on our compulsive rituals. I have tried, as I’m sure you have, a great many things to try and stop myself from picking (badly) at my face: countless fidget toys, thick press-on nails, NAC pills, pimple patches and hydrocolloid band-aids, reducing my anxiety levels, avoiding mirrors, etc. I doubt I will ever completely eliminate my urge to pick, but I can pick and choose (ha) from what treatments, therapies, and means of harm reduction I find most effective in combination with each other. I can try lots of different things and see what works for me and what doesn’t. And this approach — going in with the assumption that many things won’t work for me, and some will, and neither of those results is a moral reflection of how hard I’m “fighting OCD” — allows me to have a more compassionate and forgiving relationship to myself and my picking. 

You really nail my own feelings when you say “I’m not looking for a fight, I’m looking for help.” This framing of requiring mad/mentally ill people to be “fighters” in order to receive help/treatment is extremely counterintuitive for those of us too depressed to muster up the energy to “fight.” One of the reasons I stopped structured ERP was because I was too depressed to get out of bed, let alone go out into the world and do daily exposures. Like most of the mental health treatment industry, this treatment is not structured for people seriously struggling in more than one area, despite the fact that most people do. 

I agree that there has to be a better way to treat/heal from/live with OCD than the limited options we’re given now, and I believe that creating these “better ways” starts with conversations like this one: talking, sharing, and brainstorming with other mad people and forging new ways of relating to each other and ourselves. I sincerely hope that you’re able to hold compassion for yourself, regardless of whether you “lapse” in picking, and that you’re able to access means of treatment that work best for you as an individual. This is an extremely difficult thing to live with, but thankfully, we don’t have to live with it alone — there is a community ready to commiserate and create with you, regardless of how “successful” you are at “fighting” OCD.

[casketscratch]

I can't stop thinking about something Stephan said, how "everyone wants to meet me until they meet me."

(vague abuse mentions under the cut)

How he was treated by that one friend who fucked us over last year: she'd bring him up at lunches with mutual friends as "a totally different person" from our host, like a party trick, but one who was mean and blunt all the time because he just had no time or patience for her bullshit. He knew what that friend was fucking doing and was the only one who confronted her about it, ever. How he tried to act completely unbothered while also drinking himself to sleep most nights. How our therapist mentioned last week that the way Stephan was treated was particularly cruel, and no one should have to listen to someone list out their flaws to their face like that, and that our t's had it as a "crumb" to follow up on with him if he ever comes back to sessions again. Because he's been avoiding therapy, too, unless it's to show up to help one of the younger alters who're too scared to talk without him.

And then he ends up triggered out to the front in a room full of friends who were making jokes about the worst events of his life and all he could do was count out like, 2 or 3 minutes before quietly excusing himself from them to go deal with his panic attacks and rage alone. Because he didn't think anyone would give a fuck when it's him, because he thinks he's an animal who's not fit to deal with people anymore. In reality the worst he did was slam a door on the way out. He went to the bar and instead of drinking himself stupid, brought back a 6-pack of beer to share, and still feels like that was too much of a reaction.

He was also the one who had to deal with B, another friend who up and vanished last year when we were dealing with everything -- another person who basically told him he's the worst part of the system, after he finally snapped at being gaslit and dealing with B's attempts to emotionally manipulate us. Could he have been nicer? Sure. Had she also ghosted us for weeks and then come back and sent a wall of text about how unreasonable we were for daring to be unwell when we were fleeing traffickers and afraid for our lives? ... yeah.

I think it's just really finally registering how much he tried to deal with in the course of a few short months last year and how much it devastated him. And how brutally unfair that is to him, when he still gets triggered to front sometimes and just has to do it all over again in miniature.

I don't really know what to do to help him when he's sort of walled himself off from everyone and everything else, including us. Like he's internalized so much of what they said about him to the point that he thinks we're better off without him now, too, and I don't think that's true at all. I just get echoes of hollow hurt and exhaustion from him now.

Everyone gives "the mean alters" shit but man, like... He was never needlessly cruel. He would spend hours with B trying to help her through her own spirals and bad points because he felt as protective of her as a friend as he did any of us. He'd fuck up and sound harsher than he meant to a lot but he saved his actual anger and hatred for people who deserved it. He didn't insult anyone or go off on them last week. He just went out on the back deck and cried and tried to stop shaking with adrenaline because he felt like he was fucking this all up again and "everyone wants to meet me until they meet me," because then he's not just a fucking story about some mean alter, he's a buzzkill telling people to stop joking about shit that triggers the system and killing the mood, or an irredeemable asshole, or just as bad as our abusers, or whatever someone decides he is this time.

Half the reason he thinks he's such a dog is because he was also one of the trauma holders for a lot of the "we put the kids in dog cages" realm of abuse. I'm certain that a huge part of what's unsettling him is being able to "deal with" that kind of treatment only to feel like he's falling apart over losing friendships he never had any faith in to start with.

Just. He deserved a lot better than the way anyone ever treated him.

And I just miss him.

[harry-styles-obsessed]

The comfort of a hug

Sometimes you got overwhelmed, everyone did occasionally and that was okay but this time you were really struggling,

Truly struggling to get yourself out of the deep deep hole you were in. It was difficult. Anxiety and depression seemed to cloud around at the worst time possible and you felt defeated, lost, confused and to be brutally honest you felt like you couldn't do it anymore.

You couldn't breathe.

It felt like you were drowning and it was exhausting.

You sat backstage in Wembley, applying stickers to Harry's guitar. He had given you a heap of stickers with cute things on them telling you to choose your favourite and to stick them onto his guitar. You knew he hadn't just given them to you for no reason, he was doing it to take your mind off of everything. He didn't ask what was wrong but he knew when something was wrong, he often preferred for you to simply go to him if you had issues and he always made sure you knew he was there to listen.

You stuck a small 'LGBTQ' flag onto the front of the guitar and added a few small dinosaur stickers as well and soon enough Harry made his way back into where you were "ooo, cute designs... I knew you had a knack for this" he said with a cheeky grin making you giggle as you continued sticking the stickers down, it was quite therapeutic you'd admit that. It helped calm your racing mind.

Soon enough you didn't have anymore favourite stickers, your eyes slowly moving to lock with his as he gazed at you his arms crossed over his chest, a bottle of water held in his right hand. "Why are you staring at me?" You asked with a nervous smile and he let out an exasperated sigh "y/n I know you... what's up?" He asked into which you stared at him

"You sure I can tell you? I don't want you to be my therapist... I don't want you to think I'm using you as my mental health bin" you said worriedly and he smiled placing the bottle of water down before he grabbed a hold of your hands, squeezing gently "don't be silly. Communicating is good." He assured and you let out a shaky sigh as you nodded

"I've just been struggling... with anxiety and everything, you know" you said ashamed, his eyes softening as he gazed at you a lot of warmth within his face as he nodded his head "you aren't alone in these feelings you know that right? Even I struggle sometimes and that's okay... it's okay to not be okay" he said, silence soon intruding as he looked at you worriedly

"Come here"

He whispered, his arms rather quickly wrapping around you as he held you close to his body, his hand rubbing up and down your back as he lightly swayed back and forth with you in his embrace, the smell of him instantly comforted you as you gripped onto him his arms stayed wrapped around you as he hummed a soft tune to you

He pressed little kisses to your temple as he fluttered his eyes shut not daring to let go of you, tears forming in your eyes as he held onto you more tighter as he felt you grip onto him more "things haven't been quite the same there's a haze on the horizon babe, it's only been a couple of days and I miss you... when nothing really goes to plan you stub your toe or break your camera I'd do everything I can to help you through" as he sang he slowly pulled back holding onto your hands as he began dancing with you, swaying ever so slightly as he intertwined his fingers with yours beaming as you giggled happily, tears of all emotions welling up in your eyes "if you're feeling down I just wanna make you happier baby, wish I was around I just wanna make you happier baby, we've been doing all this late night talking about anything you wanna till the morning now you're in my life I can't get you off my mind"

He spun lifted your arm up as he span you around before pulling you back into his arms, making you burst out laughing and he smiled down at you "that's a sound I love to hear..." he said happily before he pressed kiss to your cheek, holding onto you more tightly and within those few moments you felt relief... you were okay... but most importantly...

You could breathe again.

How cuteee, hope you enjoyed!(:

[absurdlakefront]

Mae West is such an icon.

When Mae West’s play The Drag was first performed, in Connecticut in 1927, its author was starring as a prostitute in the scandalous Broadway hit Sex. That show was soon deemed indecent, earning her a 10-day jail sentence. She took a limo to prison and said she wore silk underwear throughout her detention. The Drag proved no less controversial: it lasted for 10 performances before it was banned.

Why the fuss? Partly because West was a woman writing about sexuality and, in particular, gay male sexuality. The Drag, subtitled A Homosexual Comedy in Three Acts and written under the pseudonym Jane Mast, is about the cost of living with a secret life. Its hero is a closeted gay socialite, Rolly Kingsbury, who comes “from one of the finest families” and is trapped in a loveless marriage. Rolly’s father is a homophobic judge, his father-in-law a therapist who specialises in gay conversion. West herself had been a male impersonator early in her career, and the play culminates in an elaborate drag ball, with largely improvised dialogue and a jazz band on stage.

The Drag was inspired by her many gay friends. She knew their daily struggles to be open about their relationships, and to be accepted for who they were. When casting the play, she actively sought out gay actors. As a playwright she is compassionate, but also very funny. From performing in stage revues and burlesques, West had gained a reputation as a sex symbol and, as someone who was subjected to it herself, she had a particular understanding of the male gaze. This gave her an interesting angle when writing from a homosexual man’s point of view.

West’s casting of gay men was incendiary at a time when the actors’ union barred them from parts with lines. Likewise the manner in which she auditioned them: open casting calls at a gay bar in Greenwich Village. In her autobiography, she claimed to have “helped a lot of gay boys along” by casting them at a time when “producers never gave speaking parts to homosexuals”.

When it opened in Connecticut, The Drag was a success with audiences, although Variety called it “an inexpressibly brutal and vulgar attempt to capitalise on a dirty matter for profit”. West had hoped it would run on Broadway but it never made it. One Broadway producer said it was “the worst possible play I have ever heard of contemplating an invasion of New York” and that it “strikes at the heart of decency”.

West’s take was that audiences were “too childlike to face like grownups the problem of homosexuals”. The Drag was just too risque for the mainstream. West rewrote the play a year later as The Pleasure Man, sanitising it by making the lead character straight, but she still faced criticism for it being too explicit. Like Sex, The Pleasure Man eventually landed her in court.

[witchygirl99]

Hi Witchy! Longtime fan! I am not trying to be pushy or rush or anything. I’m just curious if you had posted Revelations the squeal to Deductions anywhere? It was absolutely one of my favorites and I was excited when you announced a squeal for it. Thank you for all your wonderful writings! =} Sincerely the Vixen!

AHHHH VIXEN! It's taken me 50 years to answer this, so please know that I'm apologizing profusely with each word that I type.

I have not yet posted Revelations, no. I am (relatively) diligently writing through it. It's...very complicated lol. Far more complicated than Deductions, because it ties up all the loose ends, and also because I'm having a ton of fun with murdering various OCs 🙃

This has been a weird writing year for me? I've written a lot but I haven't posted a lot. And I've gotten into this terrible habit of writing a story, finishing the story (or getting like 85% there) and then vanishing. Terrible, really. Like, the worst thing ever.

My therapist has a lot of opinions on this lol but to end this rambling, kind-of-brutal response, I shall say that I am trying extra hard to get Revelations posted soon.

[herfavoritevirgo]

21:50

Im at a friend’s house , they’re making dinner and all i can think about is , does she have a way to go to uni tomorrow ? when are her exams ? Is she preparing well for them ? Does she need help with anything ? Is she happy? I wish she is .

Last time i talked her and its the final time i talked to her was really brutal , it felt like i died twice , the first is when she said she won’t be around anymore at all , and the second was when she hung up the phone .

She told me that i should heal , and move on , but how can i ever manage to do that when every future plan i had , she was a major part in it .

I really hate how things turned up to , i don’t understand why this had happened , i keep asking god to give me hints or to show me why this had happened , this brutally , this quick, i don’t understand what i did wrong .

The worst part is that she knows that i feel this way , and that i will feel this way forever , she knows im devastated , she would have hugged me and talked to me 3 months ago , she would have made me feel great about everything, she would have found a solution to this .

Its hard being alone , especially after knowing her , cause now i don’t just feel alone but i feel so fucking lonely as well , dear reader you have no fucking clue how lonely it gets sometimes , i was never lonely when i had her , even though she was a couple of hundred of kilometers away , but she always understood me and talked to me , now i just have my thoughts and my thoughts aren’t too kind lately so yeah .

I quit smoking thanks to her before , now smoking is the only thing i do more than crying .

My sink has tons of unwashed dishes since a month ago ( as disgusting as it may seem ) , i don’t know what food i have in my fridge and im afraid to open it . I live in a dumpster now , me who used to clean my house every two days .

You might be wondering why don’t i go to a therapist ? But what the fuck would a therapist do ? Bring her back ? Convince me i can move on and be with someone else ? Convince me that the relationship we had wasn’t worth it ? The therapist does not know who she is , the therapist can’t feel the euphoria and happiness i had waking up to a text message from her , the therapist does not know how much unlimited love i have for her .

Honestly the only person who can save me is her . By just being around , by just being a part of my life , even though she is the one who hurt me ,