#tw: anger management

[demonic0angel]

Similar… (click for clarity)

This is probably why Anger Management/Hardcover and Bad Humor are my favorite ships….

[bl00dfroma-fairy]

[spacedace]

Reluctant War AU Part 2

Part One

...I ended up writing more for that Reluctant War AU...Like. Wrote this before work and started on part 3 with plans for part 4 more.

this was supposed to just be a brain worm what happened (also thank you @catastrophic-crow for the AU name <3 <3 <3 Also, also: welcome to the cult of Ancient of the Speedforce Elle! Membership includes nonsense, shenanigans and chaos haha)

-

Gotham had always been a place for ghosts.

Every corner haunted by death and tragedy.

Every street stained red at least once in its many years.

Every dark shadow holding the faint shadows and shades of the dead.

Gotham was, before all else, a grave yard.

Jason had known that his entire life. Every kid born and raised in the Alley did. Death came fast to Gotham’s streets. Especially for those the rest of the city turned its back on. He did his best to lighten the reaper’s load when it came to the people that called Crime Alley home. Well, mostly. He’d certainly added names to old Death’s list before, when the occasion called.

When the armies of the dead descended upon Gotham, the only surprise Jason could feel was that those white wearing pieces of shit had dared to try and hunker down in his city.

It was a sentiment shared by most of Gotham’s fine citizens. By the city itself - herself? Something to ask later, if there was a later - even if the impossible, living shadow that rose up out of Gotham’s many dark corners was anything to go by. He knew, almost instinctively, that the entity - skin of cracked pavement, mouth a bridge suspended too wide across the face, eyes of CCTV camera lenses and body built brick by grimy, bloody brick of the sharp skyline - was Gotham. Not a ghost but something bigger, greater. Something awfully, terribly alive in all its horrible, noble glory. His city, manifest in the shape almost human beneath the green glow of the torn apart sky above.

Phantom’s armies arrived without warning as they had everywhere else, and their enemies poured out in unforgivably unmarred white suits to meet them. Horrible and garish against the Gotham streets. How they’d ever managed to slink by unnoticed while being so blatantly, clearly not of Gotham Jason wasn’t sure he’d ever know.

If either side thought this would be like the battles they fought before, they were mistaken.

Gotham was a place for Ghosts.

A place the dead piled up, lingered well beyond their deaths. A place where the rules were different from everywhere else in the world. Where crime was rampant and chaos reigned but at the end of the day people said their thanks that they were born to this hellhole and not so cursed to call anywhere else in the world home.

The dead came to fight

And Gotham, a thing so alive it was sickening to look upon, rose up to fight right along side them all.

The agents were ready and prepared for the incursion of the dead. It’d been two weeks since the first volley of attacks. Two weeks spent shoring up defenses and ramping up weapons and strategizing ways to kill what was already dead. They were, as best as they were able to be considering how endless the armies that came for them, prepared.

They weren’t prepared for Gotham.

Weren’t prepared for the city itself to rise up and take spectral, eldritch shape. Jagged building spire and shattered glass teeth bared in a snarl that spanned miles. Screaming rage in a voice made of gunfire and the concussive boom of explosions and the shrieks of a furious crowd.

Weren’t prepared for its people to ignore the gentle ushering of the dead trying to push them away to safety and instead press forward to fight shoulder to shoulder with the ghostly armies.

Weren’t prepared to have brick and bottles and trash and debris rain down upon them from the jeering living. Weren’t prepared for dirty faced children with hard eyes to light up rags stuffed into chipped beer bottles filled with gas and kerosene and throw them with more speed an accuracy than any professional baseball player. Weren’t ready for Gotham’s motley crew of terrifying Rogues to band together with the citizens they so often accosted and worried and bring down wave after wave of chaos and Goons.

Weren’t prepared for Red Hood to swap out his rubber bullets for the real deal and start mowing the fuckers in white down, his own crew at his back, the rest of the Outlaws on their way.

The Justice League was trying to find a peaceful resolution. Trying to play go between to the US Government and the infinite dead. Too wound up in US politics to side with the dead outright, too disgusted by what the American government had done to ever want to stand with them. All it had gotten them was spun wheels and confusion and the slow creeping realization that the time to try and play negotiators had well passed.

Red Hood wasn’t a member of the Justice League.

He had no obligation to try and find a way to talk things out.

What he had was a grave he’d dug his way out of, enough ammunition to arm a sizable country, and a burning need to make things right.

Gotham had always been a place for ghosts, and Jason had long accepted that he was one of them.

Haunting the streets he’d survived as a child, the city he protected as Robin, the family he’d loved and lost a thousand and one times before and after his death.

The sky cracked open above his home, and it was not an invading army that came rushing out but a native one. Friends, neighbors, strangers on the street you caught from the corner of your eye. The people of Gotham knew their own and fought for them. Only Gotham was allowed to fucked with Gotham and they’d been screwed over enough by the government themselves to know what side they were on.

He lifted his guns and fired, teeth bared in vicious satisfaction beneath his helmet as white was splattered bright red.

A hissing electric whine of a weapon, a flash of green from the edge of his vision.

“Down!”

He was thrown bodily to the cracked and ruined street beneath him, the body shielding him warm and living as one of the agent’s weapon fired a blast of energy right where he’d been a second before. He’d seen that same weapon reduce one of the raging dead to dripping green and screams of agony the dead should not be capable of making.

Before he could shove himself up and respond in kind, the body above him was in motion and the air above him cracking with the snapping-popping-roar of a gun of a much higher power than even what he had. The fucker in white that had shot at him dissolved into a mist of red viscera, body seizing and shuttering in the briefest moment it had before it was obliterated completely.

“Watch yourself.” He looked up - and up - and wondered at the lovely, fierce face he found staring down at him. “Even without shooting at them you’re Liminal enough to trip their sensors.”

She was tall enough to be an amazon, six inches in height on him at least. Body strong beneath the pitch black armor she work - as deep and dark as the depths of space, etched with starlight, a familiar crest upon her chest in the dizzying burst of a supernova - she held herself with confidence. Strands of hair the color of a warning sunrise escaped out from beneath the helm she wore, bright against her pale skin, warming the glass-sharp teal eyes that had pinned him in place.

The hand not holding the gun she’d just used to delete the asshole that had just tried to shoot him - a strange, impossible thing that made him taste lightning at the back of his throat to look at it - stretched out to help him up.

He accepted it.

Something pulsed to life in his chest. A piece forgotten where it’d been left behind, half buried in grave dirt and broken pieces of a casket he’d clawed his way out of. It burned like a hot coal in his chest, froze him with the same aching cold of a blizzard, crackled his nerves to life with lightning even as his brain popped and fried with the same sizzling energy.

On his feet, hair on end and body and Core pulsing with the need to fight, to rend and tear and scream for all done to him, his people, his home, he met the eyes of the woman before him. Her cool gaze softened, just a moment, just a second as she seemed to realize what had happened. Her hand, lighter than the armor she wore should allow it to be, tightened on his just a moment, mouth tilting from determined frown to soft understanding.

Gotham had always been a place for ghosts.

Jason had long accepted that he was one of them.

---

Part Three

[suzukiblu]

Played my first round of "Guess That Artist" on @haunting-heroes-creative-games and @chromatographic and I decided to sow chaos by collabing on a couple of entries, haha. For this one, I did lines; she did colors.

The game was to do fanart for lesser-known fics, and I picked Rowan_the_Escapist's The Unnecessarily Dramatic Death of One Jasmine Fenton for my collab suggestion, which is my fave new Jazz/Jason fic I've tripped over in in a MINUTE. I have read it three times already, hahaha.

[thusspoketrish]

New Chapters | The Art of Getting By

NEW CHAPTERS: Chapters 5 and 6!

EXCERPT, Chapter 6:

Louis leans in then, his tone callous, and says, “Well, maybe your feelings don’t matter as much as you think.” Harry trembles, suddenly feeling nauseous. How often had he felt that way because people constantly dismissed him? His concerns were always brushed off, sometimes with dire consequences…Voldemort, Draco, Snape, Finley…it’s all rushing back to him now. It’s as if he’s reliving the same frustrating experiences, only this time, it was in a sterile, suffocating room filled with strangers. The anger, the sense of betrayal, the helplessness—all hits him at once. “Fuck you,” Harry hisses, a cold anger threatening to settle in the centre of his chest. “It’s clear you don’t care about what I think, but guess what? We would all be fucking dead had I not acted out on my paranoia! So you listen to me, Louis. You have no idea what it’s like to be in my bloody shoes, constantly being doubted and called crazy! I’ve saved lives because I trusted my instincts. And I’m sick of people like you belittling me—!” “Freeze!” Sarah nearly shouts, startling Harry. She steps forward. “Okay, let’s take a breather; try to diffuse that surge of anger. Count to four while you inhale, hold your breath for four counts, then exhale for four counts, repeat. Both of you.” Harry shifts his weight from one foot to the other, closing his eyes as he tries to focus on breathing. He goes through a few rounds before the sharp edge of his anger begins to dull. He opens his eyes, noticing Louis' expression seems softer. Sarah nods. “Excellent. Unfreeze!”

Read The Art of Getting By on AO3, here.

Please mind the tags and warnings.

_________________

I need to give another shoutout to my glorious beta, @youknowyoudid for the phenomenal work she's been doing in triple checking over these chapters!!! Thank you!!! x

_________________

Image Text:

The Art of Getting By

Chapter 5: The Wilhelm Scream Chapter 6: Folded, and Unfolded, and Unfolding

Written by Trishjames and Edited by YouKnowYouDid

[lovsome]

am i so hard to care about?

[objectsarebestest]

Here's some positivity for POSIC+ people with anger management issues!

-To those who have yelled at their companions

-To those who have broken their companions

-To those who don't want to keep hurting their objects, but don't know how to stop

-To those who feel guilt over what they do, and to those who can't seem to get themselves to feel anything for their hurt objects

-To those who have tried what sometimes feels like every trick in the book and none of them seem to help with their anger

-To those who befriend objects because they fear hurting humans

-To those who have a "scary" mental illness that plays a part in their anger

-To those who worry obsessively that their objects wish they had a different beholder, someone with more emotional regulation

-To those who fear they are an object abuser

You do belong in the POSIC+ community, even on the days that you don't think you deserve that. You deserve to get the help you need, whatever that ends up being. Your objects don't hate you. They know that you're struggling. And they want to be able to support you.

[thirdrootwriting]

Brother of my Brother (Infinite Crisis - Bad End) pt3

Back to Jason POV. There is some gore, torture, and gun violence in this one.

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.

The thing about Lex Luthor was the man had an insatiable need to stick his fingers into every available pie, the greedy capitalistic little Jack Horner pig. If some serious shit went down, there was an absolute guarantee that Luthor had started that shit, worsened that shit, or offered some incredibly condescending ' help' with that shit that was -in reality- probably just a disguised ploy to fuck with Superman.

(And holy hell, Jason could admit that he personally had raging inferiority issues, both before and after his resurrection, but the way Luthor was with Superman made his relationship with the original Robin AND Robin 3.0  look like the model of mental health by comparison).

All this in mind, if you wanted to know something and didn’t feel like trying your luck snooping around Batman's shit, the next best thing was to hop a city over to the next autocratic billionaire. Armed with that knowledge, and with the street cred of being known as one of Gotham's rouges, it's not hard to growl and posture in front of the right seedy bar-owners, fixers, and middle-men to track down a villain that's been getting cash flow from Luthor.

 People in that sort of game might be hard enough to keep their composure and claim ignorance in front of the Big Bad Bat himself, but are always willing to spill the latest gossip to a guy with a rap-sheet, well-used guns, and blood under his nails. It's how they connect thugs and D-list villains to people Luthor or Talia for use as cannon fodder, and while it's annoying as fuck to be seen as nothing more than a gun for hire, it is useful.

So useful, that only three days after reading that stupid memorial page, the Red Hood's got his gun under the chin of some little mathlete, computer nerd called the Calculator (stupid name), the guy squealing about the Secret Society of Supervillains (stupider name) that Luthor had set up with Talia, who really could do better in terms of company, and that fucking creep Deathstroke.

Three fingers shot off at point blank and one knee crunched to bony, gritty pieces under his boot, and the Red Hood's heard way more than he cares to regarding this little fun-time club of murders, their plans for a world-wide prison break (like Arkham didn't have those regularly on its own), the JLA's nasty little foray into memory alteration (the good guys pulling, morally objectionable, authoritarian shit? Say it ain't so!), and how the Luthor leading them had actually been an alternative universe fake trying to pull some sort of multiverse ending evil scheme.

Fun times all around, and the Red Hood could not give less of a shit about any of it if he tried.

Hood readjusts his weight, putting more of it on his left leg that's bearing down on the Calculator's ruined knee. The man underneath him lets out a whimpering, scream. Hood lets his gun's aim wander slowly down the guy's body, he thinks about pointing it at the fucker's crotch just to see if he'll start crying again but decides to have a bit of class and lets the muzzle rest on the Calculator's other, intact knee instead.

"That'd all be real interesting if I gave a shit about what you were getting up to Noah, but I what I want to know is how things shook out. The world's still standing right? So whose dead now that the dust's settled, and how they'd get there? That's the real question."

Hood taps the gun muzzle twice against Calculator's knee. He won't actually shoot, too much chance of hitting a blood vessel and having the guy go unconscious and useless from blood loss, but he doubts this computer geek knows that.

Way too many villains get into this gig all excited about torture, extortion, and killing with absolutely no defenses on what too do if the tables are reserved. It's always hilarious watching them shit their pants and scramble when they suddenly weren't the meanest thing in the room.

"I-, I-, the Luthor we were working with, the one from Earth-3, he ran so the heroes didn't get him, but he's dead already. He made the mistake of trying to go to ground in Gotham, and the Joker got him. Apparently the fucking clown was pissy he didn't invited to festivities, as if anyone half-way sane is willing to team up with his crazy ass." The Calculator grunts out, eyes wide and desperate as they track the gun that's poised over his one remaining knee.

Ugh, what a fool-ass rookie mistake. You only tried going to ground in Gotham if were unhinged and bloodthirsty enough to be too much of a pain in the ass to attack or you were homegrown on its cursed soil and knew how to avoid the city's resident cast of horrors. Hood's willing to guess any version of Luthor's a dangerous genius, but unless this version liked peeling people's faces off and eating them for a midday snack, he'd undoubtedly instead got eaten alive himself by Gotham's hungry jaws.

A least if the Joker got him, the guy definitely didn’t die a nice, easy death. Jason knows that with a painful certainty.

"Mmh, closer to having something actually useful to say. But hey, you went to ground in Gotham too, huh Noah, and it seems that's working out a bit better for you!"

Hood grinds his left heel down again. His boots are too thick to feel the grit of shattered bone, but he can hear the mess of tendons, viscera, and bone shards underneath the Calculator's latest, warbling scream. The guy pissed his pants right around the time Hood shot off his second finger, and the whole air would likely have the sharp mixed stinks of urine and blood if he removed his helmet.

"Was working out for you, I should say. You must be a local boy, huh?" Hood pauses, till the Calculator's eyes have refocused enough to show he's paying attention to Hood instead of his own pain.

"So, from one Gotham boy to another, how'd it shake out for our Bats? I hear our latest little Robin got out fine, and god only fucking knows that we ain't lucky enough to hope Batman got offed, but how'd birdy number 1 fare?" It's hard to resist the temptation to grind down on the man's shattered bones again, to resist pulling the trigger and making him bleed. Jason can feel himself losing control of the urge to send this piece of trash to hell where he belongs.

"How's Nightwing doing these days?"

"Nightwing and Superboy took down the machine-tower Earth-3 Luthor was using to rewrite the multiverse. I didn't see in person, but I hacked communications, and from Wonder Woman's report Luthor killed Nightwing in rage as reve-"

Hood yanks the aim of the gun up from Noah Kuttler's knee to his skull and blows his fucking brains out close range. The left side of the Calculator's face explodes into a mess of brain tissue and blood.

He gives the body a final kick, then lets himself out of the apartment that piece of trash had set up as a his hideout. It's Gotham, and the few cops not corrupt enough to ignore this are too overworked to give a shit about some villain's death, so no need to waste his time taking out the trash.

Hood slams the door of the run down apartment complex behind him, and stomps out onto the chilly streets. It's not raining, just damp and cold as Gotham usually is in the fall, so there might still be people, but Jason doesn't really give a fuck right now. Between his now-infamous helmet, his more obvious guns, and the wide shoulders he grew into, nobody's gonna mess with him as he prowls the streets.

And if they do, well, actually smashing some drug dealer or rapist shit's head against ground still it cracks like a bloody egg sounds like a good time with the mood he's in.

Hood makes it four blocks, not thinking about where's he going and not lucky enough to pass someone dumb enough to try starting shit with him, before he can even think above the cold, angry, itching boiling beneath his skin.

He needs a plan, he needs to do something, do anything. Jason will boil himself alive in his own itching skin with his rage if he has to just sit on it. He'd planned to kill whoever had murdered Nightwing, figured it would be some hot-shot that got a lucky hit in the chaos of battle, or some too clever for their own good smarmy loser who'd gotten an advantage by holding a little side-kick hostage.

Jason could have worked off his rage on giving them a death that was almost as slow they'd deserved for taking someone like his brother from him and Gotham, and finally proved, that at least in this respect, he was better than Rob-, than Nightwing. He might not be so nice, so naturally talented, so charismatic, but he could have proved himself better in this and given Dick's death the closure a good person like him deserved.

He realizes his loud, angry walk has taken him close to the warehouses of the harbor, the drafty old buildings three times as likely to be housing some sort of illegal goings-on as they are to be housing shipping containers.

His- his- second time heading out as Robin with Nightwing, had been around here.

Jason had jumped into a drug-processing scheme too early, nearly ruined the bust. Nightwing had to swoop in and rescue him - though instead of cracking heads, the annoying prick had just flashed a fake, movie-star smile and sweet-talked the guards and drug processors into letting them walk out.

He'd scolded Jason a bit afterwards, but taken the sting out of it by inviting him along on the real bust later that night. Afterwards he'd shot Robin a much gentler, beaming real smile and told him 'good job'. Then he'd ruined that soft, tingly feeling of pride at being treated like an equal by Nightwing, by prodding and whining until Jason had reluctantly let Dick buy him ice-cream.

Dick had flavor palate of a little kid in regards to sweets, and he'd gotten whipped cream and sprinkles on his. Jason had made fun of him for being 17 and eating like a 7 year old, and-

Jason's nearly twenty now, older than Dick had been when they first met. He's right near the age Dick was when Jason had died, a funny sort of parallelism.

Hey, with the way he's getting on with the family right now, chances are Jason will also miss his brother's funeral. How fuckin' hilarious is that?

He leans his head against one of the warehouse's outer walls and laughs. It comes out monstrous and distorted through his helmet's speakers. His gloved hands can't find purchase on his jacket's shoulders to rip up his own skin and let out some of the anger inside.

Anger and maybe not anger. His face feels wet and he's still laughing a bit. Whatever Jason's feeling it's bad, and he wants it gone. Needs to do something, anything for this feeling to be gone.

He doesn't know what to do though, and the unbearable tide of it swells and suddenly and desperately Jason can't help himself from thinking he wants to be 13 years old again getting painlessly snatched out of the air by Nightwing with a trapeze artist's instincts for a fall about to go wrong. He wants to be 14, half-asleep on a mountain-lodge couch on his first ever family vacation as his brother quietly tells his father Jason's a good kid, with the softest tone he's ever heard Dick aim at Bruce.

He wants to be 15 with this same unbearable angerfeargrief that is drowning him now swelling and calling his brother, his Robin, Bruce's first son, the only person in the world that might understand how he's feeling. The phone won't pick up, and he'd known that, known that the Titans were in space all distant and unreachable, but he'd still called.

Jason had still had a brother to call, and the promise that maybe someday it would connect.

He dials Dick Grayson's current civilian number on numbs fingers.

"The number you are attempting to reach is not in service."

Jason hits redial. He can't say why, the call's not magically gonna go through this time.

"The number you are attempting to reach is not in service."

He redials the number manually, staring hard at the screen to make sure each button press is pulling up the correct number.

"The number you are attempting to reach is not in service."

Once more, repeating the phone number out loud to make sure he's remembering it correctly.

"The number you are attempting to reach is not in service."

"The number you are attempting to reach is not in service."

"The number you are attempting to reach is not in service."

[demonic0angel]

“‘Till death do us part.” (Click for clarity)

I had an idea where Jazz and Jason were engaged and to be married soon, but Jason was scripted to war and Jazz was left alone. Eventually, they reunite in death.

[go-to-the-mirror]

hitting urself in the head cos you're angry is all fun and games until you have. a bruise on your head

[drudeger]

I get it if being around someone with anger issues makes you fear for your own safety, but a lot of us who have poor to no support systems for that sort of thing have resorted to turning anger inward. as in, instead of hurting things that are around us, we hurt ourselves instead.

[bunnyseahorse-blog]

I was today years old when I...

realized that my anger comes from a nervous place, and not an angry place. I learned in DBT that anger is usually a secondary emotion. People don’t generally feel angry as a primary emotion unless they are ready to fight for their lives, or have truly been wronged. I am angry a lot... and tonight my argument turned into a huge panic attack. Like a full body shaking thing where i almost threw up, and my mom had to come talk me down, and I had to take my emergency meds. I didn’t see it coming, i thought I was mad, and I was, but the anxiety in the mix was a really big surprise.

I know now that I am not an angry person. i am a person who happens to be an incredibly anxious person who uses anger as an ineffective coping skill. 

Something about realizing this was freeing. Now I can work on my anxiety more. maybe that is a more direct way of handling things. Prevent anger instead of shaming myself for it. Maybe this is an angle that I can work more easily

[surgerodriguez]

Boiling Point

Setting: Weekly Rodriguez Family Dinner, 1/29/2023 Mentions: @nichelleyoung  Triggers: Toxic Masculinity, Street Fighting, Incarceration, Anger Management Issues, Death Mention  Word Count: 1307 words  Note: Italics are Spanish

It was pretty common for Surge to wallflower whenever the entire family was together. Yes, he would occasionally join the conversation, or play whatever game his brother tried to get him into. But every week was loud, competitive, and being the lone introvert in a family of extroverts was exhausting. 

Well not the only one, Surge knew that his father was one. But the two of them had the tendency to wallflower on opposite sides of the room - if not opposite sides of the house. It was easy to forget within the crowd, the overlapping conversations, the kids all running around, the fact that there were 29 people all in this house that always seemed to small for the amount people that came over. 

But despite how exhausting his family was, he was actually glad to come to family dinner this week. Considering that his mom has insisted that Nichelle come (to which Surge only agreed to extend the invitation if his mother promised not to ask about when they would be having more kids), and this was her official introduction to the family that she hadn’t met at the restaurant, he was just glad that it was going well. That throughout all the craziness she seemed to fit. 

Pilar had taken it upon herself to introduce Nichelle to everyone, and Surge just watched with a smile on his face. He had his phone out, planning on sneaking a picture of the two of them while they were distracted, when a voice from behind him surprised him. 

“She seems nice,” the deep gruffness of Fernando’s voice was quiet, in a way that almost seemed like a contradiction. 

“She is,” Surge nodded to his father, “Didn’t exactly realize how nice it would be to have someone around until I met her.” 

“And Pilar?” Fernando asked, in a way that Surge could tell that his father was trying to get to something, but he wasn’t entirely sure what. 

“Pilar adores her,” Surge admitted, despite being wary of the conversation, a smile still came to his face, “the two of them have really bonded.” 

“Good,” Fernando nodded, “It’s about time you found the girl a mother.” 

The words caught Surge off-guard, his brows instantly furrowing as he took in his father’s words. His hand clasped around his phone, the picture that he was trying to take forgotten as he gripped. While his father had been full of critiques since he had gotten out of jail, it was almost as if Fernando didn’t even realize how insulting the words were. To him, to Pilar, to Nichelle, even to Sarai’s memory. 

“What exactly do you mean by that?” Surge asked, his words measured, hoping that his father has misspoke - but knowing the man well enough to know that hope was probably misplaced. 

“Pilar needs a gentle touch,” Fernando said, matter-of-factly, as if he still didn’t see the problem, “and you seem determined to raise that child surrounded by violence. Someone needs to shield her from that.” 

“You know, Nichelle and her father are both giant boxing fans, right? Oh wait, no you wouldn’t know that because apparently all you think Nichelle is good for is being a replacement Mom for Pilar,” Surge snapped, not realizing that his voice had gotten louder and that everyone had started watching. “But I didn’t start dating Nichelle in order to force her to be a housewife, I’m dating her because I like her. Actually, I love her. But I guess that doesn’t matter to you.” 

“You know as well as I that if Sarai were here...” the older man warned, his voice rising to match his son’s as her was interrupted. 

“You don’t get to say her name,” Surge yelled, “and you don’t get to act as if you knew her. That you knew what our family would be like, how we would have parented Pilar. You didn’t even know her!”

“She would have had the girl, and you barely would have seen her. Every other weekend until you lost interest or Sarai decided she had enough. We both know that you’re a horrible example for her, Sergio. Pilar deserves more than a lifetime of watching her father get injured over and over again. She deserves to have a normal childhood with a mother who can help her thrive.”  

“What, like we had a normal childhood?” Surge accused, his eyes narrowing, “Because you sure as fuck made sure we wouldn’t have that.” 

“You don’t know how much I tried. You don’t know what I did for this family,” Fernando warned, his voice growing angrier. 

“Everyone fucking knows what you did,” Surge countered, annoyed at the same excuse that Fernando had given time and time again. “because you were gone. Josue, Maria, and Anita all dropped out of high school the moment that they could to help support this family. I almost got arrested street fighting because nobody would let me drop out and get a job. But that violence that you hate - it’s what made sure that Mom could keep the restaurant. It bought the house that we’re in right now. It made sure that you didn’t have to go back to work after you got out of prison. It has made sure that Angel got to go to college and grad school without any fucking student loans, and has made sure that I’ll be able to do the same for my daughter. And it won me two Olympic medals. So maybe you should finally admit that I’ve done more for this fucking family than you have. And it’s my money that’s keeping us together now.” 

“Your blood money,” Fernando spat with disgust. 

“That you happily take,” Surge snapped back. 

“That. Is. Enough!” Sofia’s voice managed to be louder than the two of theirs, quieting them enough for Surge to realize that everyone was watching - that somewhere in his anger his phone had left his hand and shattered against the wall. And he could feel his father using that as another reason as to why he wasn’t a good person, why his boxing wasn’t an honorable career like everyone else, why he was a terrible father. 

This has been the worst of their fights, and it felt like all the work in his anger management therapy sessions had managed to go down the drain. 

But the worst of it was the moment that he noticed Pilar’s face - scared, crying, confused. Surge had always tried to hide his temper from his daughter, and here it was out in the open. Going over to the girl, Surge scooped her up and Pilar held onto him tight. 

“Why is abuelo so angry?” she cried into his shoulder, her words a whisper in his ear. And Surge didn’t have an answer, not one that he could give a toddler, especially when Pilar was just starting to understand that her mom wasn’t there like the other kids in her preschool had. 

“He’s just having a bad day,” Surge lied to try and comfort the child, wishing that he had something better to say - knowing that Pilar would probably have questions that he was going to have to answer, but figuring that he could at least get her home before she started asking. After saying his goodbyes and letting Nichelle do the same, Surge was still boiling, knowing that he needed to get out before it all started erupting again. 

“You keep treating him like this, and one day he won’t come back. Is that what you want? To lose our son and granddaughter?” Surge overheard his mother angrily lecture his father. 

But he was already out the door before he heard the answer. Because he didn’t want to know the answer. 

He was scared that he already knew it. And that the answer was yes. 

[butwilltherebealcohol]

and why would I tell the truth about my scars, anyway? so “friends” have something to mock and judge? and then call me too sensitive when I retaliate? so my mother can judge me for not trying hard enough to work and be happy? I know how all of these conversations end if I tell the truth. y’all are way too predictable                                                                                                           no, I’m fine. hell, I deserve this. I’ll just keep riding my train with my head down until it finally goes off the rails

please god let it be soon

[principiumindividuationis777]

If You Believe This, Unfollow Me

I try to avoid contention here on Tumblr, but a line was crossed by someone I formerly followed.

If you think that it is okay, understandable or excusable in any way for anyone to abuse their significant other, regardless of the significant other's gender, unfollow me. The attitude that it is okay to abuse men (and I mean real abuse, not some odd roleplay) is disturbingly accepted by some.

The rationalization about physical size, which I actually saw used by this woman, is absurd. Would that imply that it was okay for a very small man to hit a significant other? It is always evil, always heinous, and I will not associate with supporters of abuse of any kind, against any person.

I hate to have to go here, but this is the deepest injustice, and what is more, if we see males as "legitimate" targets of abuse, what of the millions of men in prisons and jails, being abused or constantly at risk of and in fear of it? What of men who suffered abuse as boys?

I will not accept excuses from either sex: If some evil person of the opposite sex was abusive to you, that person deserves to go straight to Hades, but painting four billion males on earth with the same brush, as "legitimate" targets of any kind of abuse is evil, dangerous and sickening.

If someone angers you with words, respond with words. If their words are too irritating, peacefully end the relationship. To do anything else is a despicable act of moral and emotional cowardice, regardless of the gender of the perpetrator or of the victim.

I love women as human beings, as also I love fellow men. Find it in your heart to do the same.

[yanderenightmare]

Bakugou Katsuki

♡ TW: implied and/or present elements of dubcon/noncon, yandere, kidnapping, captive reader, quirkless reader, mentioned death of important character, discrimination, drawn comparisons between quirklessness and disabilities, implied bakudeku, drugging, needles, mentions of hypochondriasis, also angst

♡ manga spoilers in a way, but also not really. anyway, read at your own discretion.

♡ gn reader

Sharp crimson eyes assess the fresh scrapes and swelling ruining your soft skin. A deep scowl on his face.

“Tch—look at all this…” he grumbles disapprovingly to no one but himself—too upset with you to acknowledge you, yet treating you no different than if you were glass. “These are gonna last weeks.”

You’d tried running away again—tripped and slipped up all on your own, stumbling through hallways and tumbling down stairs in your panic, only to stop short at the locked door—bolted and padlocked beyond all sane reason.

He was disappointed with you, sure. But that’s not the reason for his current anger.

“Sit there while I get bandages,” he orders, getting up from his crouch, pointing a strict finger at you in threat. “Dare move, and it’ll be bed rest for a whole ‘nother week.”

Bakugou’s obsession with your quirkless nature started a couple of months ago…

It was okay at first—he was hardly the first person you’d met who addressed you with patronizing resolve—but he got weird about it quickly.

You worked at another hero agency he was going to be collaborating with for a big upcoming mission. You weren’t a sidekick or anything grand like that, but a simple pencil-pusher—because they need those too, you know? And you liked your job. You got to work along with some of the greatest heroes in the world, see them up close, and help them out with those things they didn’t have time for—paperwork like budget justifications and incidence reports. Yeah, you might have been somewhat of a pushover, but hey, the salary was good, the environment was lively, and even though you don’t have one yourself, you got to see some really amazing quirks in action. It was, out of what you could hope for, your dream job.

The place was in a real buzz when they heard the number one hero would be joining them for a couple of months. You were excited, too—it wasn’t often your smaller agency would undertake big missions—especially not ones that required such big hero names.

DynaMight wasn’t one to share much of anyone’s enthusiasm. He was strict and down to business and otherwise had a major pet peeve for unnecessary rabble loitering around. He’d stopped mid-meeting at the sight of you, seeing as you were obviously no fieldworker, and had gone as far as to demand you tell him your value as if your presence had been some big distracting nuisance.

Luckily, your Pro-Hero coworkers had stepped in on your behalf and told him you were a transcriber keeping track for later reference. It was probably only a slip-up that they’d added the fact that you were quirkless.

You don’t hold it against them, or well… you did a little, but you couldn’t really blame them either. Evoking the explosion hero’s rage must have made them flustered and desperate to play any sympathy card available to them in the spur of the moment.

Of course, it wasn’t their card to play, nor would you ever have played it yourself, but if the humility was worth anything, it successfully managed to calm the top hero down. Actually, he didn’t say anything for the rest of the meeting. And if you hadn’t been so busy taking notes, you would have noticed his lingering stare.

A couple more incidents had occurred in the office after that. Among others, he’d caught an incoming paper airplane your coworker had thrown your way—stepped right in out of nowhere and cremated it with a controlled explosion before it could hit you.

You’d been speechless for a moment—the entire desk area along with you—confused by his strangeness and, at least in your case, even somewhat appalled by his utter lack of consideration—in your office space, no less. Seriously, top hero or not, you can’t just barge in and incinerate stuff?

“That was an important document,” you'd informed—brow quirked—no regard to how offending him could probably make grounds to have you fired. You'd only slightly regretted it after having said it. But geez, you thought—shouldn’t the top hero have some semblance worth of self-control?

“You shouldn’t be playing around,” he'd stated—tone just as sour as the stink of burned paper tainting the air. “Someone might get hurt.”

You’d almost scoffed at him but had held your tongue until he walked away.

Back then, you’d thought it was an offhand insult directed at you and your respected coworker—that the explosion hero had just called you both unprofessional to your faces, like the biggest scumbag to ever walk in through your humble doors. But looking back at it now, you realize he probably might have meant it in its most sincere regard.

His over-protectiveness knows no limit, you’ve learned—calling it patronizing would be a joke in comparison. He treats you as if anything in proximity might make you shatter by association—like a bubble made from the most thinned-out solution of water and soap.

You’d woken up in your well-prepared pillow room shortly after your agency’s collaboration with DynaMight had ended. It didn’t take long for you to piece together his sickness after that.

At first, you’d thought it was a more severe case of benevolent discrimination. After all, most people treat you with some amount of pity after being privy to your being quirkless—treating it no less than a disability of sorts.

But Bakugou’s view of you was increasingly more unsettling than that—suffering from some type of delusion that has him fully convinced you’re utterly inept without him.

In some odd ways, it would have been better if he was just faking—if he was doing it all, treating you as an inferior for some sick sense of deriving his own sadistic pleasure. But no, you think he actually fully and whole-heartedly believes you’re a danger to yourself and that anything, if not monitored in the perfect conditions of the controlled environment he’s established for you, will result in your fatal illness or harm.

He’s a full-sworn hypochondriac concerning you—even as he himself dregs home some of the worst injuries you’ve ever seen as if it were nothing but a splinter in the rough of his worn soles. Meanwhile, he’s scared that if you leave the bed without socks on, it will give you pneumonia.

You were sure you had a couple of control freaks at the agency, but nothing measures up to Bakugou’s mania. How he dresses you is one thing—how he feeds you is another. An assortment of pills first, all vitamins and supplements, a spoon of cod liver oil, then a balanced meal reminding you of those tragic trays you’re served at the hospital—four times a day without fail—breakfast, lunch, dinner, then supper—he also keeps track of all the water he’s decided you need to drink—all things perfectly regulated according to your size and age.

Then there’s the sleep schedule with a set number of eight hours—no more and no less. Exercise is also necessary—workout plans designed and dictated by him. Nothing too severe, though—he’s afraid your quirkless constitution won’t be able to handle anything beyond thirty minutes max.

And then, of course, there’s hygiene.

You sobbed and fought hysterically the first time he’d washed you—in the tub with him after he’d stripped you naked. In fact, you’d made such a fuss he’d had to fetch a sedative.

Even in your drowsed state of complete numb delirium, you’d still heard how he’d fretted over it—the tiny needle hole he’d torn in your arm—as if that was the real violation, even as he’d thoroughly molested the entirety of your body with different cloths and sponges for no shorter than a full hour.

You’d been terrified, of course—horrified by his meticulous routines and odd nature. Yet strangely, despite his rigid rules, he won't ever get violent to enforce them.

You had expected it of him—being known for his brutality—the hero without mercy—the symbol of retribution. You know he's no stranger to leaving the battlefield bloody. But with you, he won't so much as harm a single strand of hair from your head.

He will instead bargain with you, sometimes for hours. Eat what he tells you, and you’ll watch a movie afterward. Go to sleep, and he'll escort you out to see the sun for a few hours in the morning. Let him ensure you wash correctly, and he’ll allow you to dry and dress yourself.  

And in those moments when you leave him no other option, he subdues you through the help of a needle again and never ever by manhandling you—it was as if that weren’t even a viable option. It was obvious he regarded the sedative as the uttermost last resort, always muttering on about chemicals and whatnot under his breath. It seemed he would rather avoid it at all costs—but also, that if it stood between allowing the disturbance of the schedule he felt was needed to keep you healthy and forcibly putting you to sleep, he knew without a doubt which option he considered the lesser evil.

He was certain of it all. And at some point or another… you had even begun sharing his fear of attracting some sort of illness yourself—even something so small as a common cold. But no, it wasn’t the same. Yours was not a fear of the actual disease itself but of what he might do if he caught you sneezing and coughing. You could only imagine the upgraded pill table he’d have in store for you then and what other measures he’d instill due to his excessive ideas of necessity.

And that’s why you’d tried running again even after what must have been a couple of months since the last time. The thought of his inane insanity having affected you so badly you’d started playing along was all too much a painful realization—you’d felt compelled to reject it—run away even when you knew you’d never be able to make the door open if you could even reach it.

You knew it would be in vain, and even though running headfirst into something you know isn’t going to work might be the first signs of madness—you’re still relieved to have found some remaining worth of fight still in you, even if it couldn’t amount to anything.

He comes back as quickly as he’d left, still muttering to himself, cross about the damage you’ve sustained—like you’re one of the collector’s items he keeps up on the mantle in his office—green costume and a big bright smile. You remember the exposés—they’d been rather gruesome, about the hero who’d died in battle not so long ago—a couple of years back now, give or take. He had the number-one spot before DynaMight.

The current top hero retakes his spot at your feet, sighing deeply once he starts dabbing your minor bruises with disinfectant, followed by unnecessary bandages. You’re silent as you watch him work—all so diligently as he does everything, cutting no corners and running zero lights.

His efforts, done with the very epitome of care, all disgust you.

Your lip curls. “I’m not what you think I am…”

His keen glare stops obsessing over your wounds to look up at your face—he’d already tended to the ones he could see, but he’s sure more would blossom and swell in a couple of hours. It’s beyond worrisome—but it’s his fault in any case. He should move you to a place without stairs—it’s way too dangerous for someone as accident-prone as you.

You make eye contact, and his anger fades at the sight of tears welling in your corners—softening as if he’s convinced even a harsh look will have you shatter in his hands.

“I’m quirkless. But ’m not weak.” You’re sure you preached much of the same back at the beginning of your stay, though then you’d hurdled it at him—screamed it from the top of your lungs until you’d lost your voice, unknowing that it’s a statement he’s heard a hundred times over spoken by different lips from yours.

It’s a funny thing almost… how your eyes remind him of his—so soft and yet brimming with determination—a determination that will only get you killed.

He’d put faith in those words before, believed them beyond himself, and it had cost him everything.

But even so, he can’t fault you for believing in them yourself… they’re what makes him love you, after all.

He smiles gently—a most gut-churning sight from the all-scowling man.

“I’m sure you think so.”

He doesn’t relay it with any type of harshness but pity—gross concern and better judgment—overwhelming oodles of it in his garnet eyes, weighing them down with something so awful as compassion and… you don’t exactly know… but it looks like grief.

♡ part two ♡ more thoughts on this ♡ BAKUGOU KATSUKI masterlist ♡ BOKU NO HERO ACADEMIA masterlist