#violent intrusive thoughts are shit man

[twlvie]

trying to explain to my friends why i have a particular soft spot for star trek guest character lon suder who appears in like three episodes to do some gay shit then dies badly so i just drew this instead

[ask-gorgonzolatheclown]

Sometimes it sounds like you genuinely didn’t have a good work relationship with your ex-boss…Got anything you wanna do if you ever see ‘em again?

TWs: Violence, Blood, Scopophobia.

" I don't want to do any of those things. "

[cherrysnax]

[yellow-computer-mouse]

gonna get kinda dark here so tw gory intrusive thoughts under cut

like i am not kidding it is bad /srs

i just. have been having really shitty intrusive thoughts lately? like so bad i can feel a ghost sensation of the aftermath and it's uh. it's fucked up.

it's like- so it started with my little train of thought blah blah blah, using a lil mini-scythe to scrape the excess nail polish off my thumb

then it escalated to the scythe DETACHING all my fucking fingernails and leaving them flopping around

and the bloody fleshy underside is just left exposed

and like the nails getting pressed into my joints and falling off n shit

idk it's fucked up. not like affecting me too negatively or anything but. realllll fucked up.

so ya! teehee

[lemongrass-and-peppermint]

Semi-Realistic Simon “Ghost” Riley Romance Headcanons!

Only semi-realistic because I'm delusional about this man

TW: mentions of angst, drugs, violence

Doesn’t go out looking for romance or dates—you’re most likely to meet him at a pub (the other TF141 boys will introduce you) or at a gym ( probably will only talk to you if you need help with some equipment).

I headcanon the man to be on the aroace spectrum in the sense that he just has no interest in either romance or sex whatsoever until he actually Meets someone. Like he can feel attraction but doesn’t pursue that at all.

And then even if he does fall in love he will not take initiative bc he’s genuinely fine just being friends.

If you wanna date this man then you need to take all the initiative, both romantically and sexually.

He won’t be completely cold though! Will initiate physical touch and affection all on his own. Depending on your size, he will either sling an arm around your shoulders or your lower back, likes to hold your hand.

Won’t be as touchy in public as at home but he will tolerate pretty much any touch from you! Doesn’t get embarrassed easily so if you start dancing in the streets he’ll mostly just keep watch to make sure nobody walks into you or you don’t trip. Will let you use him as a dancing partner even if he’s as still as a pole.

I think he gravitates to people that are both strong physically to some degree and also traumatized or a little fucked up. He might not know abt any of that for sure when u meet but he has a sixth sense for these things.

Regardless, he will make sure you know how to take care of yourself. Marksmanship training and workouts incoming, plus self-defense classes. It is a must, especially if you’re a woman or otherwise fem-presenting/visibly queer/vulnerable.

If you use mobility aids, he might get a *bit* overprotective of them and you. Will be grabby with wheelchairs until it is sternly explained to him to Not Do That. It makes him feel better when he can help you, but he understands and respects your independence!

If anything happens that will cause you to need mobility aids (such as a car accident or physical illness) this man’s taking a long ass leave and staying with you to help you out. He probably knows of some retired military men with mobility aids and assistance needs and will contact them to get a better idea of how to help you.

I see him as someone who likes to work with his hands so I can imagine him straight up building you mobility aids or wheelchairs and walkers and stuff like that. It might take him a couple of attempts until he makes something serviceable but he’d get there.

He is generally extremely calm, naturally just quiet. Still very much a family man (have you seen how he’s with his family in the comics????). He’s very soft, likes to be helpful and take charge of the household like a housewife more than ‘head of the family’ (you're most likely to be the 'top' here).

Will request control of finances if you’re a spender. Might forcibly take control over finances if you're really shit at them.

As calm as he is though, he is still a military man, and they are statistically likely to be… less than stellar partners. Ghost is never violent and if he gets mad he prefers to leave the house, put some distance between the two of you to calm down.

He will be especially prone to disappearing while mad/upset if you’re a woman/fem-leaning, because due to his upbringing he struggles with intrusive thoughts of violence towards women.

If you are the type to throw things, hit things, or degrade/insult him during arguments, he is permanently leaving and not coming back. No amount of apologizing is going to change that decision. He has self-respect and will not stand being abused or mistreated like that. His feelings for you disappear into thin air if you’re that type of angry person.

His toxicity would mostly come from him being emotionally unavailable and thus neglectful. He just has a hard time understanding how some actions come off. Will need long, mature conversations about it that will be difficult for both sides to get things settled here. Willing to hear and understand and change though! But you’d have to give him very clear instructions and behaviors to model.

Ghost’s brother, Tommy (rip), was addicted to drugs and almost died because of them, was quite the piece of shit—which Ghost rectified by forcing him into sobriety and getting him a wife. As such, Ghost hates drugs because he knows what they can do, and doesn’t partake in any. Even medical drugs, especially ones for depression (which he should be taking) are pushing it for him.

However, if he ever starts spiralling—which is rare but can happen—he goes for them real quick. Like, he jumps off the deep end. The spirals very often lead towards suicidal ideation and within a day he can go from “doesn’t even look at drugs” to overdosing on heroin.

Will be in a horribly fragile state for at least a week afterwards. Will need a lot of care and comfort to stay in a relationship (especially after the first time he spirals with you present), cause he’s still eye-deep in self-hatred and needs help to see past it. Grows extra clingy in that period if he has been Convinced. Like, hands on you all the time, following you to every room. He almost lost this??? Let him appreciate it now that he can do it again.

He’s gonna need some time to return to himself. Especially if he was in a hospital. He hates that place.

Will go to therapy but is not happy about it. If you’ve been together long, he might request that you come with him but listen to music so you can’t actually hear anything—he just wants to hold you like a stress ball.

Will melt if you go out of your way to do romantic gestures. He doesn’t do these often himself—at least not the stereotypical ones like flowers—but if you do it for him??? He might not show it with much enthusiasm, but he grows very quiet and soft and smiley, obsesses over the gift for as long as it lasts and needs to stay close to you for a while after. It’s a very small joy but it is marrow-deep and warm, soothing and comforting.

Overall I hc him as being very reserved emotionally but a pretty good boyfriend! If you have rejection sensitive dysphoria I can imagine you going thru the trenches with this man tho—curse his lack of facial expressions ToT

[amywritesthings]

boston holiday. / a joel holiday ficlet

pairing: joel miller x f!reader ( the last of us ) word count: 1.5k summary: You're decorating for the holidays in your Boston Quarantine Zone apartment. A begrudging Joel Miller gets involved. tags: domestic fluff, pre-tlou, explicit language, holiday decorating in the apocalypse, set 6 months after 'seeing you / seeing me' credit: dividers by @saradika

welcome to the third day of the twelve days of amymas 2023 !!!

“The hell’re you doing, girl?”

Only two people have the key to your place.

One of them is Tess Servopoulos.

Giving Tess a spare key was necessary — or so she's claimed, since according to her, she can't trust you to stay out of trouble for longer than twenty minutes.

(She isn't wrong.)

However, you’d love to argue that somehow you have become the saint in this duo.

Ever since that week at Miller's place, every deal has gone smoother than running water. For the last couple of months, you've been clean. Unseen. Invisible.

Tess, on the other hand, has always been a bad influence.

The older woman opens her mouth, starts a Boston-wide battle, and boom — sleepover for two at your place.

(After saving your ass, you'll hide her away from wandering eyes without question. Curfew punishments be damned.)

The other person that has the key to your place, well —

The other is the salt-and-pepper man watching you in mild horror as you teeter on the arm of your dilapidated couch.

(You just haven't seen him yet.)

Joel Miller has been known for his subtlety, his silence, but not around you.

Not when he holds the key to your place; a recent development.

He tends to simply show up when he wants.

You don't mind that — usually.

But his bark scares the shit out of you in the middle of stretching high, your bare toes barely touching the arm of your couch.

The hell're you doing, girl?

Hoping to tack this starting string of garland to the ceiling suddenly becomes you fighting for your life.

"Ah—!"

The surprise intrusion causes you to falter, ankle losing its balance.

You wobble once, violently twice, before falling backwards.

Joel wastes no time — he slams the front door shut, not bothering to lock it behind him, and rushes to the couch.

Like some fucked up apocalyptic fairy tale, he catches you well before you hit the ground.

Joel Miller, the reluctant hero.

For a moment you stay suspended here: feet barely touching the ground, the older man’s arms wrapped around your torso.

Joel's weather-worn face twists in a concerned scowl.

All you can do is cheekily smile.

“Hey, Miller.”

“Don’t fucking hey me,” he snaps. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

“To be fair, I thought I could reach it.” He stares, so you supply: "The ceiling. I thought I could reach the ceiling."

“You’ve got the tallest goddamn ceilings in the Boston Q-Z,” Joel argues in return, setting you down to properly stand. You hold onto the sleeves of his flannel shirt until you get your footing. “Ain’t no way in hell you were reaching anything.”

He lets go of you to stare at the ceiling like he's ready to pick a fight with it, before dropping his chin.

The man stops moving when he picks up the fallen string of fake green vines strewn across your scratched hardwood floor.

The question is silent: what the hell is this?

You cross your arms over your chest, wishing you had a better excuse.

A funny one that doesn't make you look so childish, especially in front of Joel Miller.

Still, you're a bad liar around him, so you choose to stare at the garland instead of him when you confess.

“I was trying to get the holiday spirit going.”

When you blink up to Joel, your suspicions of confusion are correct: he stares back like you’ve sprouted a second head and become a clicker in the flesh.

A beat passes.

Then another.

“The what now?”

You playfully roll your eyes and walk away towards your radio. Hovering over it, your fingertips reach to toy with the dials until white static takes over the apartment silence.

That radio is the only reliable device in your endless collection of junk, though it's had to go through some repairs this year.

Thanks to Joel it still works, though he won't let you thank him.

(Not verbally, anyway. There are always loopholes in the middle of the night.)

“Every year I do this,” you explain, turning each dial with care until the local radio station comes over the airwaves.

"You... decorate."

Clearly he's unimpressed.

"Yeah," you reply. "Between leaving the Q-Z and scavenging the nearby neighborhoods, I find junk all the time. Snowman trinkets and elf knick-knacks and other stupid shit no one ever touches because it's all useless. I keep all of them in a box until the holidays. My collection's actually grown exponentially over the years.”

Two boxes full, actually.

Forgotten treasures of other families, now kept sacred on your mantle.

“Sounds like a waste of time,” Joel scoffs.

“It is,” you agree once you find the right channel before standing at full height with a tiny smile, "but that time makes me happy, so I’m happy to waste it. What else am I supposed to do between jobs?”

He considers those words, if just for a moment.

Joel scrunches his nose and eyes in a way that says he's debating on being mean.

You don't expect him to get it.

He's been through shit, but so has everyone in this quarantine zone.

(So have you.)

The Eagles croon in the background — not exactly holiday cheer, but any vinyl or CDs of the greats like Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra singing holiday songs are probably nonexistent from the decay of time.

Besides, you can’t imagine many others are trying to keep the holidays afloat in the quarantine zone. Some families, sure, but not many.

Too much heartbreak. Too much loss.

But you've had enough sadness, so you try to bring a little light to your humble abode.

"Don't worry about it, Joel," you add after an uncomfortable amount of silence passes. "I know it's stupid. There's a fresh bottle of stored whiskey in the—"

All words die on your tongue when some kind of winter miracle happens:

Rather than tossing the garland string to the side, Joel turns on the heel of his boot and away from you.

"Joel?"

He carefully slips off his shoes, revealing worn-white socks, and steps on your couch cushion.

With care, he reaches for the ceiling.

A strip of his bare lower back reveals itself in his stretch.

“What are you... doing?” you inquire, stepping around your couch to face him.

He doesn't look down, determined to stare at the white canvas of your ceiling.

Searching.

Your line of sight is in direct contact with the dark happy trail poking from his shirt, causing your face to burn.

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” he retorts.

“You said it was a waste of time.”

“You dying because you wanna try and stick some stupid tree shit up on your ceiling is more of a waste of time. You got tape or something?”

“Seriously?”

He peers down at you. 

“Do I look like I’m kidding?" he retorts. "Get the damn tape.”

You have to try not to smile too wide when you step away, rummaging through your box of supplies.

Truthfully nothing in this box is worth keeping — none of it will save your life in the apocalypse — but your mental sanity thanks you for it every year.

After finding a roll that’s still sticky, you return to the couch and hold it up for him.

Joel grunts in gratitude, focusing his efforts solely on the line of green above him.

He manages to press the start of the decoration in place, holding the bottom of it to you.

“You want big loops or little?”

“What’ll stick better, Miller?”

He gives you a warning look. “Joel.”

A smile spreads like wildfire against your lips.

“...what’ll stick better, Joel?”

That seems to satisfy him.

“Hell if I know,” he grumbles, “just tell me what you prefer and I’ll do it.”

Something stirs in your lower belly as he speaks.

Joel didn’t have to do this.

He didn’t have to do any of it.

You were perfectly fine with keeping your need for holiday cheer to yourself, but he’s stepped in without so much as a fuss.

He’s had a hard life. Tess has alluded to the fact that he was once a father before.

You can only imagine how much he hates this, but he’s still trying.

For you.

It’s not a favor you will easily forget.

Your fading candles burn out in the background as the two of you go through every part of your assorted holiday decorations, popping open a bottle of smuggled whiskey to keep yourselves dehydrated. 

You direct. Joel places.

After some time you both get too tipsy to put the finishing touches.

(Too busy slow dancing in the middle of your living room to the ballads of Patsy Cline.)

Making jokes.

Enjoying warmth.

Choosing life.

It’s the first night Joel Miller ever sleeps at your place.

You both stay in bed long after the sun rises.

.

[foxwyrm]

Edit: turns out op misinterpreted another post, and made an albeit poorly-worded response to it. It was not their intention to hurt those with intrusive thoughts, as they suffer from those as well. While they definitely could have worded things in better taste, it was not their intention to make a "thoughtcrimes are real" statement. I will delete this post if op wishes.

😐? 🤨?

I am NOT going to respond directly to op because well I do not think they would treat me very well ! however I'm mad at this so I'm posting here

- urges are morally neutral. urges are morally neutral. whether or not you ACT on that urge determines morality. I thought we knew that intrusive thoughts are not representative of personal interests! I get violent urges towards human beings sometimes when I'm upset! But I don't act on them because that's bad and i know its bad!! I am not a bad person for having violent urges, I am a good person for not acting on them!

- "you don't have to question whether or not you're a piece of shit for wanting to harm...your pet" well op you see the people you're talking about probably already feel really fucking awful about these urges then and therefore are probably not acting on them. but here you are, making them feel so much fucking worse for something they genuinely have no control over

- insanely ableist language all around from op to be honest.

- "if you want to do gross things like animals in the wild that's fucked up" .....a lot of us are animals. "animal" comes with this gross parts too. you can be uncomfortable with it and cater your online experience to avoid it but like. animals are going to do animal things man. a lot of predatory nonhumans hunt deer and that's cool! Good for them! I am uncomfortable around guns, so I generally don't interact with nonhumans who frequently post about hunting. Maybe people posting about their violent or otherwise gross urges upsets you, which is really valid! Most intrusive thoughts ARE extremely upsetting, especially for the person having them. so instead of making them feel worse, just move on, block if you need to.

- all in all op is a fucking ableist asshole who only cares about the palatable side of nonhumanity.

Nonhumans, and humans! who have incredibly disturbing intrusive thoughts, urges, etc. and feel gross and awful about them: you are not a bad person. you cannot control intrusive thoughts, that's why they're called intrusive. your thoughts do not determine if you're a good being, whether or not you act on them does.

[decepti-thots]

the thing about minimus having ocd is like. we do not talk about that man's intrusive thoughts enough. (we do bc i don't want to see the fandom pretend they know what intrusive thoughts are, but yknow) because you can't turn that into 'haha he's quirky and uptight' cute ship fodder ig. but you know that he has unhinged intrusive thoughts. i know he would be dealing with Some Shit in his brain. i am mentally giving him relationship ocd every time i ship him and it is not even slightly fun. i also know he has mentally envisioned half his coworkers' violent deaths and painstakingly explained to himself why this does not mean he ACTUALLY wants them dead, except he genuinely doesn't like drift so he spiralled about that one probably. he was like ah fuck. but i DO hate drift, what if imagining him getting improbably murdered meant something that one time, help

[coldresolve]

Moneymakers, pt.xlv // Speaking Your Language

Previous / AO3 / Wattpad / Masterlist / Next

Freezing your balls off, Renee has to admit, is a weirdly sobering endeavor.

A second cigarette is held loosely between his index finger and thumb, ember flaring at every turn of the wind. He squats in the darkest corner of the patio with his arms poised on his knees, shivering whenever the subzero weather manages to slip through his clothes to cool the sweat that lingers on his skin. Hands still shaking slightly, but that might just be from cold; his face is starting to go numb, too, and whatever sparse movement he makes, like bringing the cigarette to his lips, or refreshing the screen, feels stiff. Requires effort.

Can we talk?

Received at 6:07 – but Renee didn’t read it until 7:51.

It started snowing sometime during the whole ordeal. Not enough to stick the landing, but every few breaths or so, Renee feels the prick in his throat of a snowflake he inhales. He can’t see the moon, can’t even see past the light emanating from the house; anything beyond the halfway point of the back yard is a void.

The screen dims slightly. He brushes his thumb against it, and it comes back to life. Another lungful of smoke, thick in his throat, makes the saliva in his mouth foam up. He swallows the bitterness. The phone is close enough to his face that he can focus on the individual pixels that make up the text. The cracks draw an almost imperceptible shadow across the screen, and he wonders if it’s a trick of the broken glass, or if the LEDs underneath have been damaged in some way. The tiny clock in the corner reads 8:54.

Fancy that, he’s already gotten older.

He shivers. The screen dims. He refreshes it. He takes another drag.

It feels like he’s been stuck in this cycle for hours, but whenever he tries to respond, something gets the better of him. What’s there to talk about? What part of it hasn’t already been said? The quiet reluctance in Lazarus’ demeanor, the air of guilt in that motel room. The moment of hesitation when Renee blurted it out – he's not blind. The sex is good, but it’s just not going to be them. Laz is too busy; Renee is too…

He takes another drag – but it burns in his mouth, awful out of nowhere - he’s smoking the fucking filter. Hacking loudly, he throws the butt away, and spends a good minute desperately spitting out the foul taste. When he has finally gathered his bearings and looks up again, the screen hasn’t just dimmed into standby, it has turned off completely.

Renee is a hair’s breadth from pressing the home button to unlock it again, but he stops himself. He’ll have to face it eventually, but maybe tonight is not the night. He feels depleted. Adding the aftermath of a more explicit rejection to the tally won’t do him any favors, and he’s not sure he has enough remaining control tonight to curb what he says.

Laz deserves better.

Grimacing, Renee rubs his forehead hard with a knuckle, settling further back against the wall. It just feels fucking awful. The cracks forming in the wall of shit he has managed to build up. What does he look like in the eyes of another? In the eyes of Lazarus? The unstable wreck of a man, barely grasping the tethers that keep him grounded, losing them over and over and over again. A man who somehow manages to fuck up every relationship he gets into, every job he works, every opportunity he is given.

And in the eyes of Conrad – the same, now enraged. Violent and cruel for no other reason than to gain… not control, but just the feeling of being in control. And failing miserably at even that.

He thinks about suicide again, and it’s different this time. Not some intrusive thought hammering through his skull, forcing his focus. Not something wreathed in spite or self-hatred, or glamorized through mental images of gore, the mess he’d leave behind, the trails of reactions to a violent death. This is calm. Clear. Sober.

He thinks about it as an option.

Quietly, along with the other routes he could go from here. Turning himself in and dealing with the repercussions of what he’s done. Leaving the house in the dead of night, fleeing this shithole state, fleeing the whole country. Or, well… he could just check out.

It wouldn’t have to be theatric. He could get drunk, down a bag and a half of pills, fall asleep. No drama, no shouting, no big parade. Scribbled on a post-it note on a desk nearby, perhaps, one last sentiment for the world: Yeah, nah, I’m good.

Strangely comforting, that whole idea. Grounding.

The breeze is picking up, the snow falls heavier. It melts on his skin, but the crystals on his sleeves glimmer in the low light. Somewhere far away, coming from the direction of the woods, the high-pitched wail of an animal, uncertain, seeking. A fox, maybe. The silence is otherwise his only companion.

Eventually, he lets out a halfhearted sigh. Presses the home button. With his eyes adjusted to the dark, the screen’s light stings his eyes, and he squints to read the time.

9:25.

His thighs ache from the uncomfortable position. Although he has cooled down enough to no longer shake, the iciness in his fingers has long since started to hurt. With a grunt – several, actually – he hauls his stiff body to its feet, pacing for a while to get the blood running. Rolls his shoulders and then his neck through several deep breaths, before he stretches his arms wide, and finally settles with a drawn-out sigh.

Maybe he has already made that decision, he thinks, if he’s being honest. Maybe that’s why he keeps drifting back to it, time after time. He’s always known he wouldn’t make it to thirty.

Metal clacks as he pulls the door handle, pushing the sliding glass door to the side, kicking off his shoes. The living room is dark, but beyond the nonexistent threshold to the kitchen area, the lamp above the dining table casts out its warm yellow glow. Renee swears he can taste bile in his throat at the sight of Davin sitting there, but he bites it down. Decides aggressively ignoring the fucker will do for tonight.

As he shuts the door again, shrugging off his jacket, the warmth of the house finally starts to seep in, searing through frozen skin. He throws the jacket over the armrest of the couch, rubbing life into his hands as he makes his way through the kitchen, gaze locked on the hallway –

And Davin casually gets to his feet, stepping out to block his way.

Stopping in his tracks, Renee’s hands drop to his sides. He takes a step to the left.

Snorting, Davin does the same.

Renee sharply turns on his heel. Lets out a terse laugh toward the ceiling. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Yes. Sit down.”

“We’re not doing this.”

“We are, Renee.”

Renee turns back, shaking his head. “I’m gonna go to my room and get blasted, actually. High off my fucking—”

“Sit. Down.” Davin’s eyes are dark, and he doesn’t manage to keep the disdain out of his voice.

Renee snarls. “Or what, exactly?”

Davin’s jaw works, breaths coming slow and steady through his nose, eyes scanning his opponent. “I think we’ve left a lot between the lines,” he says low. “Things we might have to work out more explicitly.”

“Schedule a fucking appointment, then.”

“Conrad is right. I am using you.”

Renee pauses at that. His breathing is starting to pick up, the familiar heat in his chest. Hands flexing at his sides. Gnashing teeth.

“I’ve manipulated you,” Davin continues slowly. “Tried to get in your head. Steer you around. Pinned you to a sense of obligation.” He juts out his chin, raising a brow. “Do you want to know why?”

“In the name of good partnership, I assume,” Renee bites out dryly.

Davin smirks. Takes a deep breath, nodding his head slightly. “I put a price tag on entry,” he mutters. “Point zero two per view, eight and a half thousand viewers. Give and take, with the current exchange on ether, that’s four hundred thousand dollars.” With an earnest expression, he holds up a finger for emphasis. “In one night, Renee.”

The sneer fades from Renee’s face. He stares at Davin, shoulders sinking somewhat.

“We’re getting where we wanted to be,” Davin says, eyes intense. “I’m not gonna let you run this shit into the ground. Not now. Not after everything we’ve built here. I am trying to make this thing fucking worth it.”

Renee swallows thick, closing his mouth.

He would be lying if he said he didn’t see, perfectly clearly, the sheer scale of that number. Be lying if he said he could remember ever possessing even an eighth of that throughout his entire adult life. A decade in abject poverty. The memory of biting back shame, having to ask near-strangers if he could spend the night; and curling up behind dumpsters when he couldn’t.

400.000.

And yet…

He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, eyes drifting to the knife clipped in Davin’s pocket – and the hand that has hovered next to it since this conversation started.

A knife, he realizes, that Davin doesn’t need to defend himself against Conrad.

The breath he ejects from his nose feels hollow. An involuntary chuckle bubbles up from his chest soon after, which in turn veers into free laughter. He turns, pacing a few steps through the kitchen, rubbing the back of his neck. Turns back around to face Davin, grinning wide. “If you wanted to call me stupid, you could’ve just led with that, you know?”

Davin frowns. “What?”

Renee throws out his hands. “I guess I gotta hand it to you. Owning up to being manipulative, as a manipulation tactic – that’s some fucking four dimensional chess shit.” He takes a step towards Davin. “What’s next, huh? If that doesn’t work, where do we go from here?”

Another step, and Davin shifts, almost imperceptibly. Shoulders set, eyes drifting to Renee’s chest – to keep his hips, hands and face all within the same periphery.

The gaze, Renee thinks, of someone who thinks they know what to look for. He chuckles, but it slides into a grimace of contempt. “I guess you could threaten to kill me.”

When he takes another step, Davin takes half a step backwards, blading his body – as if fights are neat enough to be swayed by the stance assumed before they even start. In Renee’s experience, the only thing that makes a real difference is size.

“C’mon, fucking reptoid,” he jeers. “Make it explicit. What are you gonna do?”

Another step. Two and a half, maybe three feet, is all that remains between them. Renee’s fists are clenched, core bubbling.

“What are you gonna do to me?”

Close enough.

Renee levels a hard shove to Davin’s chest, one that makes the man stumble backwards a few steps, off-center, with Renee following closely in his wake.

“Tell me. What the fuck are you g—”

It happens so fast, Renee barely has time to brace. Davin moves, but not to reel back for a punch, like Renee expected – instead he sharply whips his arm up, and his elbow hits Renee square in the face. His head snaps back, ears rumbling with the sound of cracking cartilage. He loses his balance instantly, sinking to his ass. Struggles to at least not keel all the way to his back, and blinking at a momentary blindness, he holds one arm in front of himself to block, but he can’t see if more blows are coming or not, or from where. The blood starts pouring quickly, a familiar touch down the front of his face, but the sensation is stronger than his usual nosebleeds. Really, pouring.

“Fucking idiot,” Davin sneers somewhere above him.

Renee instinctually follows the sound with his eyes, but his vision hasn’t returned yet. It’s like he’s passed out and conscious at the same time, black as night. He doesn’t know how to react to it. Just sits there, dazed.

Footsteps. The sound of something clicking.

A light that hits the wall, and in front of it, the vague silhouette of a chair. It’s still dark, but he can see the Davin now, a few feet to the right - or something green and generally leg-shaped, at least, circling just out of his reach.

Renee places both hands on the ground, and plants one foot, relatively firmly, beneath him. Gasps with the effort it takes just to focus on moving his body in the way he wants it to. He manages to push himself to his feet, straightening up uncertainly, staggering. The front of his shirt sticks to his chest in some places. He’s pretty sure the majority of what he swallows isn’t spit.

Blinking against dizziness, Renee struggles to keep Davin’s figure in focus long enough to read his intentions. The man moves around him steadily, taking his time. “You don’t keep fighting after a blow like that. You’re not gonna win.” A pause. “But you know that already.”

Renee grunts. “Fuck y—”

Davin lunges forward, and Renee seizes up, hands shielding his abdomen – only for Davin’s fist to hammer into his throat. Renee drops again, back scraping the corner of the dining table on the way down, and curls around himself, both hands clutching his neck. Dimly aware of the pain. Dimly aware that he can’t breathe, as if the internal mechanisms in his neck are paralyzed, and that his chest is convulsing as a result. He rolls on to his stomach, shakily pushes to his hands and knees, and it feels like an eternity passes before he is finally able to let out a cough. Ragged and coarse, and unbelievably agonizing. The simple act of drawing air into his lungs feels like he might as well have swallowed a mouthful of glass.

“Do you need me to say it in your language, Vaughan?”

Blood drips between his hands, a steady flow from his face, as his body spasms. Renee tries to croak out a response in between coughing, only to realize his vocal cords are paralyzed, too; he can’t even groan in pain. In his periphery, Davin steps closer. A grasp in the short remains of his hair pulls his head backwards, painfully straining his neck. Davin peers down, expression unreadable. The whole room spins around his looming figure, as if gravity itself keeps shifting.

Instinctually, Renee raises his right arm to shield his face – hesitates – continues its trajectory. He wraps a hand around Davin’s wrist. His whole body sways with the effort, and his grip feels clumsy, and Davin doesn’t budge. Movements camouflaged by the constant involuntary jerks of his body, blood from his broken nose sliding down towards his throat. Renee tries to speak again, but the air just croaks in his chest, formless.

Davin smirks. “Maybe you are stupid.”

Renee blinks hard, but manages to swallow – fuck, it hurts. Then a grin spreads across his face, flashing whatever blood stains his teeth. That smug little smile on Davin’s face melts into caution.

Davin’s knife clicks in Renee’s left hand.

They both move roughly simultaneously.

Renee’s grip on Davin’s wrist tightens to keep him from retreating, at the same moment he drives the blade up – but Davin doesn’t pull away. Instead he rams his leg forward, deflecting the knife against his shin, slamming Renee hard enough to knock him backwards onto the floor – Davin himself landing with his full weight knee-first on Renee’s chest.

The dizzying experience it is to have the air forcibly pressed out of his lungs. Renee hears the raspy half-cry that tears past his lips, too stunned to orient himself for a fraction of a second, which is all it takes for Davin to force his arm up, slamming the hand still clutching the knife hard into the floorboards. By some fucking miracle, despite a shooting pain in the bone of his wrist, Renee’s grip doesn’t waver. Breathless, he bucks his body against Davin’s weight, and finally gets the wherewithal to start throwing jabs with his other hand. And he’s in a bad position, but he thinks one of them makes a solid connection with Davin’s side –

Before Davin brings another elbow down on his face. 

A sharp jolt of pain. Blindness, a static void. He can’t see what he’s struggling against, and when his left hand is slammed to the ground again, it opens, and the blade clatters against the floor. Heaving for breath as Davin’s weight momentarily leaves his chest, only to feel himself being hauled by the shoulder onto his stomach. He braces his hand against the floor to push himself up – but Davin’s knee resettles on his lower back, and his arm is yanked out from under him, pried up between his shoulder blades.

His right arm. The broken one.

Renee lets out a shout of frustration, writhing in vain to push the weight off his back. His voice is raw, but the words come out. “Get the fuck off me! Get the f—argh! Shit—”

It’s like Davin reads it in the way he’s struggling – he twists Renee’s arm just to the threshold where making wild movements no longer wins him a sliver of leverage, but instead causes enough pain to suck the air out of his lungs. Renee feels himself involuntarily curling in to Davin’s grasp, some desperate attempt to alleviate the strain on his broken bones, and in that moment, fingers grasp the his hair again, pulling his head back.

“I can tolerate a lot from you,” Davin growls in his ear. “But if you can’t show even a modicum of self-restraint here, I’m gonna drop the curtains on this whole fucking thing, you understand?”

“Argh, fuck, fuck—”

“I don’t care who I need to kill. Do you understand what I’m telling you right now?” Davin pushes his arm up further.

“Ffff—fucker, f—shit, stop—”

“Do you understand?” Followed by another notch, and the blinding tension in the joint seems to instantly triple.

Renee screams, back arching, free hand pushing at the floor. He spits it out, a hoarse cry scraping through his broken throat. “Yes! Fuck!”

It takes a second – emphasis – before Davin lets him go, all at once.

As soon as he is free, Renee kicks himself forward a few paces to get away, clutching his arm tight, panting. He rolls over on his back just in time to see Davin getting to his feet again.  

“Jesus Christ,” Renee gasps.

Davin fixes his folded-up sleeve. He peers down at Renee’s cowering figure, almost in passing, before his eyes drift to his watch. It’s the eerily unbothered demeanor, the way he is barely even out of breath.

“Who are you?”

Bracing a hand on his knee, Davin leans down to pick the knife back up. Clicks it shut and clips it back in his pocket. He finally meets Renee’s gaze directly, but the moment of pause where he might have answered passes, instead, with the silent glance alone. One in which the power dynamic – Renee on the ground with Davin towering above him – isn’t lost between the lines.

He snorts.

And then he leaves the room.

Previous / Masterlist / Next

[absgay]

“I’ve been sleeping so long in a twenty year dark night, and now I see daylight.” (part one)

words count: 2.5k

warnings: 18+ ptsd, friends to lovers, angst, smut, death, owen, violence, fluff, grammar, idk tbh. (she/her pronouns) writing for fun!

summary: friends don’t look at each other this way, do they? You couldn’t stop thinking about her, things will never be the same.

part two,

• “Please— No.” you thought, as someone walked in. You couldn’t fight anymore, couldn’t even move from the ground. You didn’t know what to do or what to say as a stranger approached you, quietly and armed. He looked nothing like them. “Are you okay?” You breathed in and out, trying to remain calm as your hands were still shaking from the attack. You looked at their bodies, just laying there, bloody and almost unrecognisable. “I’m Owen.” he said. “What’s your name? What happened? Are you hurt?” You remained silent as the man kneeled next to you. “They killed them. They’re all dead, they’re gone, and it’s all my fault.” You trembled as the words left your mouth. Owen sighed and touched your shoulder. “Okay…” he hummed. “Hey— Look at me, you’re gonna need medical attention, you’re bleeding. We need to take care of these wounds.”

• “Wait— Who’s that?” Abby asked. “I’ve never seen her before. I thought Isaac didn’t allow any new members at the moment.” She looked at you from across the room as you stood next to others, visibly intimidated by the crowded hall. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Nora said. “Owen and Danny went on patrol last week and found her. Owen’s the one who heard the attack as they were driving near the marina. Apparently, she wasn’t alone, she was travelling with a few other trespassers but they got attacked by Scars.” Abby nodded. “From what I've heard, it was pretty violent. She’s the only one who made it.” The tall woman stared at you, intrigued. “She was in shock when he found her.”

• “Fuck me.” you murmured to yourself, the words directed to your insomnia as you turned around in bed, staring at the ceiling, once again. You walked towards the library, enjoying the calming atmosphere as the stadium didn’t feel as loud and overwhelming as it usually did. During your last conversation with Whitney, she had mentioned the library as you talked about your sleepless nights with her. “It could be nice, it could distract me.” you thought. And as you walked in, you weren’t expecting to see anyone there. You wandered throughout the alleys, looking at the different sections as you searched for the right book. “Who’s there?” someone asked, the unexpected question giving you chills as you turned around and gasped. “Shit, I’m sorry.” Abby chuckled. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” The blond woman was laying down on the bench, a book in hand. “I— It’s okay, I was not expecting to see anyone here at night.” you sighed. “I’m Abby.” she said. “I know.” you chuckled, nervously. “I mean— I heard about you, I’ve seen you around and,” Abby smirked as she sat down. “Everyone is always talking about you, somehow. It’s pretty admirable, even intimidating.” Abby scoffed and shook her head. “What are you reading?” you asked. “The Great Gatsby.” Abby answered, glancing at the book resting on her thighs. “Insomnia?” The woman asked. “Yeah…” You turned back to the bookshelves near the blond. Abby didn’t mean to stare at you so intrusively and deeply, but couldn’t help it as she noticed the bruises and wounds on your arms. You glanced at her, the blond looking away as she hummed, embarrassed. “Any recommendations?” you asked. “Well,” she cleared her throat, then closed the book, leaving it on the bench as she stood up. “I don’t know, it depends on your preferences.” You shrugged. “Anything sounds good, as long as it is entertaining and keeps me busy.” you laughed, sarcastically. “I see.” Abby nodded. “Are you—” she sighed. “Are you okay? I mean— Of course not, but— Shit.” For someone who appeared to be extremely tough, she sounded and seemed surprisingly sweet and gentle. “It’s okay, don’t worry.” you said. “I just— I’ve been struggling to fall asleep lately and I think it’s mainly because I’m afraid to.” you shrugged, looking at her. “God, this is ridiculous.” you chuckled as Abby frowned. “I— I don’t even know why I'm telling you this, we don’t know each other, we just met and I’m already complaining about my shit. I’m sorry.” you said. “You can talk to me, I mean— I understand and I don’t know if you have any friends here yet, or if you have anyone to talk to.” you sighed as you suddenly felt the pain in your chest getting too heavy to contain it. And Abby immediately noticed the distress on your face. “Or not, we— Listen, we don’t have to talk about it, unless you want to. We can talk about something else as well.” For the first time in weeks, a little smile appeared on your face as Abby waited patiently for you to say something. “Okay.” you said. “I don’t wanna talk.” Abby nodded, understandingly. “But, I don’t wanna be alone either.” You couldn’t bear the idea of going back to your cold, empty room. It meant nothing but to deal with your own thoughts. “I need to do something.” you thought, walking to the bench and sitting down as you grabbed the book Abby had left there. “Is this one interesting?” you asked, innocently. “It‘s decent.” Abby answered as she watched you open the book. “I’ve never read it. I’ve heard about it, though.” you said. “Sounds like shit to me.” The blond woman laughed and sat down next to you, a little confused and amused as you both seemed so comfortable around each other, two strangers. “I could read it,” your eyes met hers as she talked. “To you.” You nodded in agreement. “I haven’t told you my name.” you said. “It’s Y/N.” Abby didn’t say anything, she took the book and smirked as she opened it. “I know.” she confessed. “Ready?” she asked, glancing at you. You nodded and watched her attentively as she started to read.

• At first, it wasn’t meant to turn into anything regular, it wasn’t meant to become something so important to you or to Abby, but it did. Now, the darkness didn’t seem as threatening as it used to. Now, you’d sit in your room and watch the sun go down with excitement as it meant you’d be reuniting with Abby soon. “Oh— Shut up.” Abby mumbled as you both laughed. It’s funny because you didn’t even know how important it was for her too. You guys never talked about it, for some reason. You didn’t know how much these moments had impacted Abby. “I’m not reading Harry Potter.” she said, as you both sat down on the ground, right against a bookshelf. “It’s all about fantasy, witches and monsters. It doesn't even make sense.” she continued. “Wizards, Abigail.” She frowned as you took the book. “And, there’s absolutely nothing that makes any sense in our own world. A little fantasy can’t hurt.” you said, pouting. “Fine…” Abby sighed, defeated. “You better stay awake this time, I’m doing this for you.” she said. “Come on— It happened once.” Abby scoffed. “Twice.” You didn’t know what to say, or more specifically how to admit it. “When we’re together, the pain doesn’t seem as heavy as it used to.” you thought, as she started to read, softly. “And I feel so guilty, for how good it makes me feel.” Two hours in, Abby looked down at you as you grew silent throughout the reading. “Y/N.” she chuckled, your head resting against her shoulder as you snored peacefully. “Dammit… I knew it.” She closed the book and put it down as she sighed, closing her own eyes.

• “Fuck…” Abby mumbled as she grew impatient. The tall woman walked around the empty library, examining the shelves without much interest as she tried to remain calm. “Come on, where is she…” she wondered as she waited for you. “Dammit— I’m ridiculous.” Abby said to herself as she realised how much this situation affected her: your casual little meetings at the library were always by far, the greatest moments of her week. “Fuck it.” she breathed as she left the library, walking straight towards the dorms. After spending the day out on patrol, Abby wanted nothing more than to see you, to hear you, to have fun with… her friend. The idea of hanging out with you at the library tonight had been the only thing that motivated her during the entire day. And even though she wouldn’t dare to admit it, she truly enjoyed reading the Harry Potter books with you. “What the fuck…” Abby mumbled as she approached your room. She couldn’t get any closer, genuinely shocked at the scene playing in front of her: You were standing by the door with Owen, kissing him passionately. Abby swallowed hard, confused by the sudden sickness overwhelming her. You smiled as the boy walked away, disappearing in the distance. The blond woman nodded as she exhaled, bitter. Abby turned around and left as you locked the door, heading towards the library with excitement. “Abby!” you called happily as you stepped in the quiet room, eyes searching for the blond’s silhouette. “Abs!” But, she wasn’t here. You didn’t find anything, besides the book you guys were supposed to be reading, left on the bench.

• “Something’s wrong.” you thought. Abby would never miss an occasion to see you, to see her friend, right? “Yes, we talked this morning, she’s at the gym.” Whitney said. “But, she seemed a little— Upset.” You sighed. “Okay… Thanks.” You felt anxiety pressed like a blade against your throat as you headed to the gym. “Hey, Abby!” you waved awkwardly at the blond. “What do you want?” she asked, all sweaty and panting as she stood by the machines. “Oh—” you paused, genuinely hurt. “Nothing— I was just wondering how you were doing.” Abby shrugged. “What happened yesterday? Weren’t we supposed to meet at the library?” you asked. “I didn’t know we were supposed to see each other everyday. I had things to do.” you blinked. “You’re right, we don’t have to.” Abby hummed. “Anything else?” You couldn’t save this conversation, it was over as soon as the pain in your chest suddenly came back. “I’ll see you later.” you walked away, humiliated. For the first time in weeks, you stayed away the entire night, the nightmares and voices coming back to get you.

• On Saturday, Owen decided to throw a massive party at the aquarium, which included Abby: the main reason you had agreed to come. God, it was awkward to stand there without talking or even acknowledging her as you both chatted with your friends, pretending not to see each other. “I miss you.” Abby thought as your laugh echoed through the room. “Fuck— Why does she have to looks insanely good tonight.” you thought as you danced with random guys and tried to forget about her. No matter how much you both wanted to talk to each other, you couldn’t find the courage to do it. “She’s really cute.” Jordan said to Owen as they watched you walking around in the tiniest skirt ever. “I need some air.” Abby said, taking a shot. You frowned as she disappeared through the crowd, eyes searching for hers. You waited until your friends seemed busy to leave. “So— You’re just gonna stand there and say nothing?” Abby asked a few seconds later as you both leaned against the wall and stared at the stars. “And, why should I be the one to start the conversation?” Abby sighed, inaudible music playing in the background. “You’re the one who followed me here, Y/N.” you chuckled. “You wanted me to.” Abby’s features softened, delicately illuminated by the moonlight as you both turn to face each other. “Nice skirt...” she complimented, glancing at your legs. “I found it during my last patrol.” you explained, proudly. “Right,” Abby shook her head. “I completely forgot that you started going on patrols with Manny and Owen.” It wasn’t true though. Abby had secretly been listening to Manny and Owen’s conversations for days, trying to get the smallest information about you. She was worried about your safety. Every morning she’d watch Manny leave the apartment, feeling sick at the idea of something happening to you. “You know— I’ve seen so many things out there and I’ve been dying to talk to you about it.” you admitted. “Actually, I have something for you.” Abby frowned as you inspected your small pockets. “One time, we were reading together and you told me about your coin collection.” Abby’s heart melted. “I thought you’d like it.” You dropped the coin in the blond’s hand with a smile. She couldn’t believe it as she stared at you, she had never met someone so sweet and caring before. “I don’t deserve it.” she said, ashamed by how poorly she had treated you lately. “It looks really cute…” she said, glancing at the skirt, again. ���Shit— I wanted to look hot, not cute.” you groaned, touching the fabric. Abby’s mind went wild as she stared at your curves more attentively, something switching inside her. “Abby.” you murmured, the blond’s heart becoming too heavy for her own chest as you caught her staring. She couldn’t deny it: you were an attractive woman. And there was nothing wrong with admitting it, but feeling it… It meant something totally different, something inappropriate. “I don’t know what to say…” Abby murmured back, blushing from the alcohol in her veins or the sudden tension rising between you two. “Fashion isn’t really my thing.” you smirked. “What’s your thing, Abigail?” It could’ve been an innocent conversation with someone else, but not with you. Abby sighed as she watched you step closer, eyes filled with lust. “Boob— Books, Books…” she said flustered, you were staring at her lips without even trying to be discreet about it. “Right— You’re an intellectual and beautiful.” Abby chuckled nervously. “I’m not beautiful, not like that, not like you.” you shrugged. “To me, you’re so much more than that.” Abby’s whole body trembled as you leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Dammit— You’re drunk.” Abby said, trying to play it cool. And as she sensed the frustration and desperation in your sigh, she almost gave in. You weren’t thinking rationally, your thoughts wandering around the blond’s body as she held you by the waist and pulled you closer so effortlessly. “There’s so many guys staring at you tonight, Y/N.” she said. “I couldn’t care less about them.” you murmured as Abby smirked.

• Unfortunately, or fortunately; you weren’t sure. Nothing had happened between you two that night. But emotionally, it completely wrecked you both. It’s true, Abby has been trying to convince herself that it meant nothing. “It was the alcohol.” she thought, leaving the aquarium. “What’s happening to me?” you had asked yourself. Abby didn’t know about the rest though, about what happened as soon as she left and how you ended up in Owen’s bed that night. Obviously, it was mainly to forget about what had happened between you two, to deny it. But as the man pounded into you recklessly, your thoughts went back to your friend. And when you clenched around him as you reached heaven the only thing you could think about was Abby Anderson.

[oatmeal-stans-the-trash-rat]

I know I got no choice, got no choice, but to love myself

Please let me know if you want to be added on or taken off the taglist!

Pairing: Intrulogical

Warnings: violent thoughts, violent imagery, intrusive thoughts, insecurity

Description: Logan admires Remus’ consistent love for himself. Remus doesn’t think it matters. It’s not like he had a choice.

Extra: the title is from the song Reaper Man by Mother Mother. It's a Remus song and I will die on that hill.

[Masterlist] | ao3 link

[fic under the cut]

In the late hours of the night, Logan and Remus lay together on the edges of falling asleep. Both dressed in cozy pajamas, under warm blankets and covers. They drift into a calm atmosphere with each other. It’s been a long day for the both of them, and resting with one another is just the thing they need. Curtains are drawn to let in soft moonlight from windows that peek into a nightscape in the Imagination. An idea Roman had, and one Remus helped install into every bedroom in the Mindscape. It’s peaceful and quiet, though both of them remain somewhat awake in each other’s arms. 

“Cephy,” a quiet, sleepy voice calls. 

Remus’ own sleepy voice hums in response, content as the first runs a hand through his hair. 

“I’m not one to be sentimental,” a sleepy Logan starts, only for Remus to snort at him. “But, I do admire your consistent strive to love yourself. It’s wonderful to witness.” 

At that, Remus turns his head to Logan, eyebrows furrowed. Logan moves his hand with him, keeping up the gentle and calm gesturing of running it through his partner’s hair. The small bits of confusion across his face confuse Logan. 

“You...you what?” Remus mutters. 

Logan gives a soft smile, “I admire your sense of self-love. You have this strength to just love all these parts of yourself, even if certain others don’t. I admire it.” 

Remus can only scoff. Logan’s face shifts from soft fondness to worry, and his hand in Remus’ hair stills. Remus noticeably tenses, eyes darting away from his companion. 

“Cephy,” Logan calls again, his hand moving to cup Remus’ cheek. “What’s wrong?”

Remus doesn’t look at him.

“Nothin’, nerd,” he answers quietly. 

“Hey, if there’s something bothering you, you can talk to me. I will listen,” Logan thumbs Remus’ cheek soothingly, and Remus has to close his eyes before he dares to melt from a simple gesture. 

“I know. You’d—you listen, I know.”

“Then what’s the matter, dear?”

“There ain’t anythin’. That’s the thing, it don’t matter. It’s just somethin’ I have to do.”

“I...I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

Remus sighs, “‘Course, ya don’t.”

He winces. It wasn’t meant to be that sharp. He doesn’t mean it like that. He didn’t mean it. 

He’s trying to be there for you, and all you can do is fuck it up! Rude, rude child. Fuck-up. Stupid little rat man. 

Logan is patient. A hand still thumbing his cheek, still keeping him steady and here, still warm against his face. Logan’s listening. He always listens, and, yeah, it’s a whole lot fucking better than not being listened to. God, why must he be so fucking observant? Why can’t Thomathy have a stupider Logic that doesn’t care about shit? Fuck you, Thommy Salami. Fuck you and your stupidly sweet Logic who cares and worries. 

“You said you like how I love myself,” Remus continues, rubbing his cheek against Logan’s palm apologetically as he opens his eyes. “It ain’t somethin’ that matters. I kinda have to do it.”

Logan sits up a little, bringing Remus with him. He cups his face with both hands now, a sadly withdrawn expression in his cephalopod's stark red eyes. Remus looks at him, shrugging, as they sit there. He nearly closes his eyes again as Logan thumbs both cheeks now, soft and warm and grounding. 

“What do you mean by ‘you have to do it’, Cephy?”

Remus furrows his brows, giving him an of course, I do look. 

“What do you mean when you say ‘it doesn’t matter’?” Logan tries. 

“‘Cause it don’t? What else would I mean, Professor Dork?” Remus says nonchalantly. 

“How could loving yourself not matter? It’s important.”

Remus makes a noncommittal noise, shrugging again. 

“It matters, my dear. Of course, it matters. You’re important, and you loving yourself always matters,” Logan insists. 

Remus searches for the lie, his eyes gazing intensely into Logan’s beautiful grey and indigo. C’mon, he lives with Jannie of all Sides, he’s learned not to take anything at face value. Sure, yeah, JanJan doesn’t always speak in deception and threads of yellow, but living with that guy teaches you how to twist through what’s said and what’s meant. 

After not finding anything for a good few minutes, Remus slumps. There’s an odd silence that makes him itch to scream, so the silence can’t cut his throat out. He doesn’t like the silence. 

I wonder how silence could cut your throat. With a dagger? Like wind so sharp it cuts through wood? Would it sting? Would it bleed like a waterfall and stain Logan’s carpet? Blood’s hard to get out. You shouldn’t make such a mess, you stupid fucking bastard. Bad, bad, bad. 

Logan plants a gentle kiss to Remus’ nose that pushes out a soft whine from the Duke, his eyes closing again as his skin tries to savor the affection. It sends delightful tingles that his mind doesn’t comment on. 

“Why do you think you have to love yourself, Cephy?” Logan asks, a serious tone bleeding through his tongue. 

“I, um…” Remus doesn’t want to open his eyes, but he forces them open to focus and shifts them away from Logan. “Who else would fuckin’ love me?”

Logan’s breath hitches, heart clenching uncomfortably in his chest. 

“What?” is all he can utter. 

“I’ve gotta do it ‘cause no one else will. ‘S not like ‘m wanted much by everyone, anyway,” Remus continues, unaware of the horribly bare concern that washes over his nerd’s face. “I ain’t got a choice, Lolo.” 

He looks back at Logan, and a worried noise slips from his lips. Logan’s mouth is slightly agape, eyebrows furrowed, and looks every bit ready to cry. 

“Lolo—”

“You, you’re...Remus,” Logan will cry any second now, and it’s Remus’ fault. 

Remus squirms under the whimper of his own name, a small flinch shuddering his body. Logan doesn’t call him by name anymore. He calls him ‘dear’ or ‘Cephy or sweet little nicknames that he’d never admit were sentimental. He doesn’t—he doesn’t call him ‘Remus’ unless someone fucked up or it’s really serious. Did he fuck up? Oh, he fucked up, didn’t he? He fucks up a lot of things, but Logan is the one thing, the someone, he doesn’t wanna fuck up. He’s sorry, he didn’t mean to fuck up. 

“Hey, hey, shh. I’m not mad,” Logan’s voice cracks near the end as he tries to reassure his boyfriend. “It’s okay, Cephy.”

The return of an endearing nickname eases Remus, and he pushes his face out of Logan’s hands and into his chest. Logan moves to hold him properly, helping him to lay his head in the crook of his neck. Logan’s arms hold him tight, and he pulls Remus securely into his lap. Remus snuggles into his companion, chasing the nearly overwhelming warmth from being held. He shivers, and Logan wraps a blanket around them. 

“You’re loved, Remus. Of course, you’re loved. I care about you, and–and—” Logan mutters into Remus’ smelly hair, not giving a flying fuck. “Janus cares about you, too. He likes taking care of you. And Roman’s missed you.”

Remus separates his nose from the crook of Logan’s neck, head sharply turning up to look at him. He can’t stop the look of utter disbelief echoing in his eyes, nor can he stop himself from scoffing again. Roman’s not...why would he miss him? He said he didn’t like him! You’re not supposed to miss the people you don’t like, right? How’s that supposed to work? He said he didn’t like him, and it’s not like he’s tried spending time with him much. Of course, he doesn’t miss him. Remus misses him...but that’s him, and not Roman, because he isn’t Roman and Roman isn’t him and Roman doesn’t want to be anything like him. He doesn’t miss him! He doesn’t...he—he—

“He’s—Ro what?” Remus stammers. 

“Roman misses you. He told me himself that he misses you but doesn’t know how to connect with you because it’s been so long. He cares, Cephy,” Logan explains, uttering quietly as they’re both caught up in emotions. 

“No. No, he don’t. He said he don’t like me, how could he miss me? That’s not—no—”

“Cephy, it’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. ‘Cause if he misses me, then why won’t he try? He should know—he should...he’s not...I…”

Remus buries himself back into Logan, as if he were trying to burrow into his chest like a little mole. Logan holds him tighter, engulfing him, protecting him. 

“You’re loved, my dear. You’re loved, I promise, you are. You’ve got people who care about you. You don’t have to depend on only yourself to feel loved and wanted. It’s okay, Cephy, I’ve got you,” Logan mumbles into Remus' head of messy hair. 

“I don’t—I dunno if I can believe you, Lolo…”

“That’s okay, little fry. I’ll keep reminding you until you do.”

“Even if I do?” Remus’ voice is small. 

“Even then,” Logan’s voice is wet. 

A few, tiny tracks of tears flow down Logan’s face and hit Remus’ head. Remus glances up, wiping away his companion’s tears and not giving a shit about the grossness of crying. He wraps his own arms around Logan, clinging to him as his nerd does the same. They slowly lay each other down—the blanket coming with them, warm and soft—and Logan pulls the cover back over them. 

It’s late in the night as Logan and Remus lay together on the edges of tearful slumber and comforting embraces. Both remain dressed in cozy pajamas, under their warm blankets and covers. They drift deep into each other, burying their bodies together. It’s been a long day, and an emotional night for them both. Curtains are drawn to let in soft moonlight, the Imagination sending in calm breezes through the windows. It’s peaceful and quiet as they cuddle there, ready to sleep, ready to gentle each other’s worries away. It’s there Remus realizes he isn’t alone, he’s wanted and loved. It’s there Logan holds on tightly to his love, trying so desperately for his fondness and care for his companion to be felt through how he holds him. It’s there they let silent tears fall and quiet hearts heal. 

It’s there, in the middle of the night, that Remus starts to feel wanted by someone who isn’t him. 

Taglist: @lost-in-thought-20 @thegoldenduckie @not-sure-what-im-feeling

[hentired]

I have a lot to say about ongoing trivialization of mental illnesses and online users not knowing the definition of psychological terminology. Overall its difficult stuff and I can imagine people struggling with definitions and with how they should view themselves, especially when undiagnosed or in the process of a diagnosis.

But one term that really irks me personally is the misuse of intrusive thoughts. Many times when I read about it its just people saying shit like "sometimes im on a bridge and I think what if I threw my phone of LOL" like man. Everyone thinks shit like that. Even more violent ones like "what if I just punched this guy for no reason" people think that shit sometimes.

The OCD-related intrusive thoughts I deal with hours on end every single day are all about murder and torture. I can't stop thinking about some of the darkest shit imanigable, not in the sense that its me doing it, but just general images of these things happening. I can't for the life of me stop these thoughts from coming in my brain every time I'm trying to sleep or relax and every second sucks cause I dont want to think about this shit.

Please for the love of god understand that intrusive thoughts expressed in mental illness are a very serious thing that can cause a lot of suffering, it's a lot more than just quirky things that pop in your head.

[nadvs]

im rewatching obx and i forgot how fucking tragic Rafe’s character actually is like its breaking my heart😭😭😭

100% 😭 once you realize rafe carries around a lot of pain and secretly hates himself… ouch… under the cut because this became an ESSAY exploring rafe’s trauma

ok i always think about how we haven’t learned what happened to his mom. rafe is the eldest sibling and the loss probably hit him worst of all because being older, he’d remember more. and why do i think he was a mama’s boy? his heart shattered when he lost her and never came back together. hate that my mind goes there but what if he witnessed her passing away and that’s why he’s so broken :(

and his dad is always expressing how disappointed he is in rafe and how much he clearly favors sarah... so detrimental to rafe’s self-worth and mental wellbeing. on top of that, he sees his dad do horrible things, which tells him it’s okay and acceptable. ffs his dad wakes him up in the middle of the night to help him dispose of a body… it’s because of shit like this that rafe is so desensitized to violence.

and when rose tells ward there’s something wrong with rafe and has been since he was ten? ward disregards this and it just shows how rafe’s constantly dealing with consequences of nobody caring about him enough :(

and when rafe tells his dad he’s scared because he has intrusive thoughts and he doesn’t think he can control them. he’s afraid of what might happen. a VERY blatant cry for help. one that could have helped him had it been listened to. but ward tells him to ‘man up���. tells that to his son who could have a severe mental illness. rafe is seen later on telling himself to ‘man up’ when ward turns violent on him, saying ‘i suck. man up’ :( he’s internalised the way ward treats him and it’s turned into a form of self loathing. i think that’s why he is so obsessed with acting like he’s above the pogues. he needs to lie to himself that he’s worth something, even if it’s just because he’s wealthy

rafe has a conscience. he shows remorse for the things he does. he knows deep down they’re wrong and that he’s struggling with thoughts he can’t control. HONESTLY with help, therapy, love, and at least someone in his corner, there is so much hope for rafe being a good, happy person :(

[skaruresonic]

"These guys really treat mental illness with all the tact and decorum of a bull in a fucking china shop."

That what it feels like to me as well when I read those comics, like Surge trauma dump only to this Sonic treat her as a "gimmick" and the treatment Whisper get especially in Urban Warfare got me baffled.

I mean, it's not that surprising considering Flynn treats amnesia like an internal switch that 180s your personality when even the games don't do that. Chip doesn't lose his Light Gaia abilities, nor does Shadow become the life of the party, but Eggman gets sapped on the head and suddenly he's building toys for kids. Sonic receives the same treatment and he's sipping tea, pinkie raised, with Blaze.

In that case, the worst that can be said about it is that they're treating the subject matter too flippantly. But sometimes when they try to be Deep(tm), they wind up mangling this stuff in such a hamfisted manner that it becomes offensive. Like, yes, we get it, we fans love drama, but not like this, man.

Why is Whisper forced to offer Tangle the bigger apology for being triggered by Tangle's insensitive remark?

Why is Sonic's response to people in pain to go "I'll beat your ass until you decide to shape up" and "OH SO YOU THINK WE SHOULD MURDER EVERYONE HUH ESPIO?" Why does he sound like a freaking abuse apologist when he insists to Kit that Surge is "hurting herself"?

Why is the piece entitled "intrusive thoughts" when Lanolin does not seem to be least bit perturbed by them? Intrusive thoughts are ego-dystonic, meaning they're the opposite of what you usually stand for. You might think, for instance, "kill your dog" if you really love your dog, because you would never do such a thing.

Brains are weird. They cook that shit up extra spicy just to prepare you for the worst-case scenario (not that anxiety and the like are so clean-cut and rational, ofc, but that's the most basic gist). If your intrusive thoughts don't distress you, then they're just... thoughts, with no more moral weight than any other thought you have.

That is to say, if Lanolin was in any way suffering ego dystonia from her thoughts of causing an accident to hurt Sonic, we would have seen some pushback, some internal struggle, but no. She shows zero signs of compunction. She acted on those thoughts. The text describes it as "intrusive thoughts" while the subtext suggests rationalization. And sending those implications can potentially be dangerous to impressionable readers.

This is a case where, although I don't think ABT meant harm, he probably also didn't realize how dangerous it can be to conflate someone who intends harm and rationalizes it with someone who would never act on their violent thoughts.

[popatochisssp]

Man,,,, I Know you've been getting a lot of uff asks, or at least answering them, but I can't get this one outta my head (haha, get it? You don't yet but you will)

So, how would it go between Carmine and an S/O with pretty severe intrusive thoughts? Violent ones, maybe once in a blue moon directed at Carmine himself. They aren't wanted thoughts or something his S/O would Ever act on, but it must be weird to Hear that stuff all the time.

Believe it or not, I think Carmine (Underfell Fruition Sans) would be able to handle it!

He’s pretty familiar with the nonsensical, bizarre, and occasionally distressing landscape of the subconscious, at least familiar enough to know that not every thought that pops into somebody’s head has any real desire or intention behind it, and that’s the case here.

It’s probably also likely that most of those violent intrusive thoughts are followed up by a negative internal reaction: ‘No, I don’t want that to happen,’ ‘That would be horrible,’ ‘I wouldn’t do that’ or something to that effect, which makes it pretty clear that the intrusive thoughts are just that, intrusive.

Ultimately, it might be a little alarming for Carmine to pick up on an aggressive vibe like that the first couple of times it happens, before he figures out what’s going on, but once he thinks he’s got the gist of the situation, he’ll be alright.

Their brain likes saying crazy shit to ‘em sometimes, right? Unless they plan on doing something about it, there’s no problem. Pretty sure there’s some kind of saying about actions speaking louder or whatever, so unless his s/o actually has some follow-through behind that random flash of glassing him across the face, he probably won’t worry about it too much.

He’s got a pretty decent sense for real danger, and this ain’t it, nothing to make a fuss about.

[god-of-knk]

Anon in my inbox, I'm gonna be so for real with you, this is a vent account. I don't even know how the hell you found that post, considering it's almost unsearchable, but I also do not give a shit. I know I'm not the prettiest narcissist and I will never claim to be. I'm already the narcissist that they despise. I'm already the monster that they want dead.

I lash out at the slightest hint of distaste or rejection. I have an immensely difficult time accepting blame for anything. I project my own problems onto other people constantly. I'm an extreme control freak that will have full-blown mental breakdowns if that is threatened...

Add onto that the fact that every other thought that I have is an intrusive, violent thought, along with my existing in perpetual anger and seething hatred due to someone's shit coping mechanisms, and it seems real unlikely that I'm not gonna have violent thoughts about people who have further hurt me and driven me into hiding.

I'm a believer that it's better to get that shit out than bottle it up forever. Especially since me bottling it up has hurt people in the past. Numerous times. I really don't care what anyone who comes across this page thinks of me. I'm a horrible poster boy for any of our disorders. I can acknowledge that. I'm not a good man. Sure, I try to be, but I know I'm not. And I can own that.

However, those people will find persecution wherever they want to. They simply will. And I am so tired of censoring myself and pretending to be something I'm not for fear of stigmatizing someone that I can't bring myself to care. So be it. My mere existence is stigmatizing and I can't change that.

Now, kindly, block me if you do not like me. As I said, I'm not gonna censor myself here for other people's sensibilities. I already do so constantly.