#writing is theraputic

[pettyprocrastination]

Silent Treatment

Word count: 941

Warnings: angst, lack of communication within a relationship, that's about it? Anyways silent treatment is bad communicate with those you love this is purely for fiction purposes don't do this in real relationships.

An: wrote this on my freewrite for a word sprint whole heavily sick on the couch (still am🤧) so if there are any major spelling or formatting errors blame my Samsung and the tumblr app.

Pairing: Simon Riley x Fem!Reader

If there's one thing Simon Riley can't stand it's the silent treatment.

He's used to anger. Knows it well and knows his own. Something nasty and rotten that boils inside of him, festering until he can extract it from his veins through the catharsis of violence under the command of his captain or splitting his knuckles open in an empty gym late in the night.

A man who spent his childhood fed insults and violence at the hand of his father has no qualms with a belly full of rage.

But oh, your silence all but starves him.

It isn't passive aggressive avoidance. There's no tight lipped smile as you insist everything is fine when the truth is standing before you both, because that'd give him plausible deniability. There'd still be that surface level communication no matter how empty it rang.

You offer him something so much worse.

Absolutely nothing.

At first, he's content to roll his eyes and let you stew. You want to act like a petulant little child? Fine by him. You can't beat Ghost at a game of solitude, he'll win every fucking time, sweetheart.

But then you slip by him in the hall, turning your shoulder to avoid his own brawny frame when before you would reach your hand out by just a millimeter so your fingertips would graze his own if only for a second.

By Christ, you might as well have backhanded him.

It makes him feel something ugly knotted deep in his chest. His body begins to itch down to the very bone when days past and you've yet to speak or for fuck's sake acknowledge him in anyway.

It's stupid and immature and childish.

YOU are stupid and immature and childish.

He's content to simply sit in his own silence and be done with it. He's left men and women for less than a passive aggressive attempt at an apology.

But while you slide into your stoic silence like a hot bath after an exhausting day, Simon singes his skin down to the bone on his. 

Perhaps it's ironic. That a man called "Ghost" is so uncomfortable with his own silence being gifted back to him that he turns to mild annoyances to gain a reaction from you.

Knocking your shoulder as you pass by one another, looming over you to grab something off of a shelf, entirely invading your personal space when it's unnecessary to press his body to yours in some hope of a twitch, a sigh, anything for you to show him that you're still in there aside from a closed mouth and empty eyes.

He'll find himself scratching at his scalp until the skin is raw and his fingers are tinted red.

Scream at him. Insult him. Hit him. Use him. All that is familiar territory.

Anything but silence.

When you return back to your apartment and find the entire place overwhelmed with the stench of cigarettes, he hopes it's the catalyst. That was your cardinal rule afterall, no smoking inside. One he could only get away with after he's fucked you to exhaustion and you're too comfortable to lift your head from his chest to scold him for indulging his self-destrictive habits in your own bed.

The pack is three quarters finished by the time you get home, the cigarette between his fingers is all but crushed flat as he watches you slip off your shoes and take soft steps towards him until you stand between his knees.

A myriad of comments sit behind his teeth, ready to be spit in your face. Wanting to ask if youre done with your childish charade and gotten it all out of your system, or maybe you've finally cracked because youre so lonely you can't help but come to him for a proper fuck because nobody will make you feel like he does.

But he says none of it. Simon Riley simply waits, and stares at you with tired eyes like a discarded shelter dog.

"I'm tired, Simon."

Your voice, my God had he missed it so much, sounds almost raw to his ears. A rasp to it that makes him wonder if you'd been crying.

Beneath the guilt, a sick part of him, just big enough to whisper above his conscience, feels a satisfaction in knowing he matters enough for you to shed tears in his name.

"I know."

"I don't like this. I don't like feeling like-" your words die in your throat as your face begins to scrunch up, forcing the whine in the back of your mouth to halt so you can uphold the facade of strength and resilience you told yourself you would on the car ride over here.

But then you look down and see the tired eyes of the man you don't know what to call to you and feel yourself wanting nothing more than to crumble in his arms.

“I know.”

A scarred hand gently grasps your thigh, slowly guiding you closer until you fold into his lap. Your own hands rise to cup his face, savoring the way he leans into your touch.

"We can't keep doing this."

"I know."

Despite his lack of words, you hear him perfectly.

You know he'll say sorry. He knows you'll say it as well. He'll tell you he's going to try and you'll accept it.

He knows he'll fuck it up again. As do you.

But now, as you tuck your face into the crook of his shoulder and pretend to not feel him shake and tremble in your arms, he vows to himself to make sure he never drives you to silence again.

[letgoofthatego]

i want to go home

[hideyseek]

✨ weekend wip exposure club ✨

rules: post 7 sentences/a snippet of an unfinished work

tagged by eru @forerussake mwahhhhhh thank u !!!!!!! it's just past the weekend but here's a little bit more from the frustration fic, which is a fun (for me) glimpse into zhao yunlan's dynamic with his dad in his early days as sid chief, pre-drama canon:

“--but there are other people’s lives on the line in this job, Yunlan,” his father is saying now, fierce and quiet, the way he gets sometimes. “You can’t be sloppy with the things that have been entrusted to you anymore. You’re an adult now, and you need to act like it.”  Zhao Yunlan’s ribs ache. He wants a smoke. He wants to fall asleep for the next twenty hours, and wake up to his mom’s home cooking. He opens his eyes again. His father sighs, short and sharp. “Yunlan, I know you find all this lecturing tiresome. I don’t want to do it either — there are other important things that my time is needed for. But the Special Investigation Department has a reputation to uphold, and I can’t bear to see that reputation tarnished because I convinced Lao Zhang that handing the reins over to my son wouldn’t be a bad decision.”  As if Zhao Yunlan wasn’t already trying to prove that it wasn’t, with every piece of himself that he could scrape together. He pushes off the wall. “Look, dad, I get the message. Do better next time, loud and clear."

tagging: @crehador @iamanonniemouse @zrllosyn @frogiwi @strangegeology @evolutionsbedingt @motionalocean if you'd like!!!

[selfdigestion]

unedited beginnings of a small drabble i’m forcing myself to write. for therapy reasons

[cg-pup]

₊˚ʚ ᗢ₊˚✧ ﾟ. oh, sweet one. listen to mama. i know right now the days seem all cold and dark and stormy... yes, yes, dear i know how scary storms can be. but i promise the sun always shines again soon. just like the leaves change on the trees outside! and the flowers bloom!

hm?

oh honey... of course i'll be here, even if you're not doing well. i see you for all you are, not just when you feel icky and hurt but the potential you have to feel happy and be your kindest, sweetest, happiest self! and thats all that mama wants for you love. it's going to be okay. i promise. i really do.

[doodlebloo]

what does /A c!beeduo mean on your pinned?

Hey anon! /A stands for /ambiguous. It means that, as far as romantic vs platonic c!Beeduo goes, I write them somewhere in the middle. You can interpret it however you'd like but my goal is to 1. Portray a type of love that doesn't fit neatly into either of those boxes, but 2. Make it so that people who are aromantic but still have/want a life partner are comfortable and maybe can relate to it :)

[constantlymisspelled]

Literally the entire plot of the Long Sunrise, summarised. The Space Wizard, Space Witch, and Space Warlord - a union too powerful for the Empire to handle. They would be too powerful as allies, so Disney kept them enemies...

[Worlds shortest image description - Cal and Merrin beat up an old man. Boba procrastinates, and then helps.]

[du-hjarta-skulblaka]

The ratchet and clank movie is on one of the free streaming services so I stuck it on for one of the kids and I'm only half watching it and still managing to be offended

[beforethebeautyfades]

To be loved like no one is watching, I think that's my favorite kind of love.

[the-mechanica]

No shit. I mean, more aptly put:

... In 2018, a study by the same team found that written exposure therapy was as effective as cognitive processing therapy, another first-line, or most highly recommended, PTSD treatment.

Writing down traumatic memories may be easier for some people, if they feel shame or embarrassment about what happened to them, said Denise Sloan, a psychologist who helped develop the treatment and is an author of the study. She said patients were asked to write by hand, which takes longer and allows them to engage with the memory.

“It’s a slower process, that allows them to better think through ‘what happened next, and who was there, and what did they say,’ because they’re writing about it,” said Dr. Sloan, associate director of the Behavioral Science Division of the National Center for PTSD. “It slows everything down, versus just saying it out loud.”

The therapy was inspired by the work of James Pennebaker, a Texas psychologist who, in the 1980s, began experimenting with what he called “expressive writing,” and found that people who regularly wrote about negative life experiences had stronger immune systems and paid fewer visits to the doctor.

The first study of written exposure therapy as a treatment for PTSD appeared in 2012. It works, Dr. Sloan said, much the way other trauma-focused treatments do: by allowing the client to confront the traumatic memory, lessening their fear and avoidance, and allowing them to identify misconceptions like self-blame.

[sunshineandcrows]

Blood Stained Tiles //--// A Short Story

Trigger Warnings: ~Blood ~Blades ~Murder ~Abuse (This is my first short story I have actually tried on)

My eyes are held open wide as I stare at my blood-covered hands, trembling with fear from what I just had done. I start to take in quick shallow breaths in an attempt to soothe my aching soul. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and took photographic evidence of what I had just completed, to show you that I did indeed follow through. I had no time to waste though, I had to clean the mess I just made. The red that stained my hands matched the splotches sprawled across the bathroom floor, and those tiles could not stay in that condition. 

 “Evidence… I need to get rid of the evidence...” I started mumbling shakily to myself as I paced over my now discolored bathroom surfaces with a sad old fraying mop, cleaning up the blood and other proof.  I climbed down onto the floor whilst my lungs stung and begged for mercy. I forced myself to clean these old tarnished tiles with a toothbrush. I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed at the grout with no remorse, trying to take away the pain of my actions tonight within these walls.

I threw the old dirty toothbrush into the mop bucket when I finished cleaning. I then reached my arm up and grabbed the blade off the bathroom sink; it too is stained in the same red substance that my hands are. I stared at my palms as I held the blade used in this act of crime, the serrated edges of the blade held onto parts of what was now long gone. For whatever reason I couldn’t wash away the evidence covering my hands. I wasn’t ready to let go. I needed to realize what I had done and as I did I started to shudder. I am a criminal, but I did it for you.

 I put the blade into my pants pocket, keeping it close to my person. No good criminal would willingly leave behind evidence, and If I were now a criminal I needed to act like one as well. I hoisted myself up onto my unsteady limbs, grasping onto the now clean sink as I stared at myself in the mirror. I did what had to be done, but why did it feel so wrong? I couldn’t bear to see the figure looking back at me in the mirror, because that thing was most definitely not me anymore. I let go of the sink and watched the blood flow back to my white knuckles. I needed to get out of here, I needed to escape.

I grabbed the bloody mop water bucket and flushed it down the toilet, toothbrush and all. It was all gone now, the evidence was no more. I did it for you and I just had to remember that. I took a few seconds to ground myself, breathing deeply in and out. If anyone were to walk in now the only thing that would be suspicious is the red substance covering my head and clothes. I needed to change, or at least cover up.

I decided the best course of action to take would be to simply put on a hoodie over my ruined outfit; after all, I would not want to leave behind my shirt as evidence. That would make me a bad criminal. I had to do what I could to get to you quickly, to show that I could do anything just to please you; so I walked quickly into my room and slipped on a hoodie over my head, smoothing it down over my torso. The fabric was nice and soft, almost comforting. It clung to my body like a nice warm hug… something which I did not deserve at the moment.

I had to come show you and prove to you that I am capable of your love. After all, I did what I think you would have wanted me to do, to make you like me. I killed someone for you. I committed an act that no one person should ever do, yet I did it to prove my love… my devotion to you. Crude laughs escaped my lips as I thought about my actions, but I couldn’t care less.

My legs started to move at their own free will, carrying me towards your house. It felt as though time was frozen around me; like everyone was staring at me… like they knew the cruel act I had just followed through with. After all, I had just killed one of their own and I don’t feel one bit of remorse. I stared back at the people directly in their eyes, showing them that I wasn’t scared of what I had just done. I got back some looks of disgust, which I didn’t understand. At least I knew that the person I cared about most deeply would appreciate my effort, you would finally appreciate my presence as much as I valued yours.

I stumbled up the steps to your door, ringing your doorbell. I felt fine, but for some reason my lungs couldn’t get enough air. I held tightly onto the railing of your porch stairs because my legs were like jello. You opened the door, your face was in a state of shock… in a state of horror. I stared at your perfect figure, your short dark crimson hair looked better than ever before.

You quickly opened your door and dragged me into your house, staring me down. I didn’t understand what was wrong. I stood there and smiled at you, setting my blood-stained hand gently onto your shoulder whilst with my other hand I pulled down the hood of my sweater. I had to show off the complete final product after all! Your mouth hung open at its hinge, you were not sure what to say… but I did.

“Don’t you love what I did? I did to be just like you… I did it for you…! I don’t understand why you seem so upset-” My mouth shut quickly as I felt the sting of your hand slapping me across the face. I stood there silently, confused as to what I did wrong.

“What the hell is the matter with you?” You yelled at me, your voice cracking in anger as you clenched your fists at the sides of your body. I was stunned, this is the first time I have heard you this upset. I stared at your dark red hair, taking a deep breath.

“Don’t you see what I did?” I started to maniacally laugh; I knew I was never good enough for you and that feeling started to boil over. “You never liked her, you never appreciated her…! She was a laughing stock at your disposal...So I killed her! The old me is dead and she is never coming back” I hissed at you, waiting for your reaction. So I handed you the murder weapon with my blood-red stained hands. The blade that cut all my hair off, the blade that killed me, was now in your possession; but you just stood there frozen in shock, watching my bloodied hands.

“Oh come on!” I continued, staring you dead in the eyes now as I set both of my hands back onto your shoulders. “The world revolves around you, so why not become you? I mean clearly, you don’t like anyone but yourself… so now you have a clone.” My eyes teared up as I spoke these words, but I kept grinning and laughing. I did not want to be seen as a mere clone but you are all I have… You are all I care about. I don’t know why but I just need you to like me. I needed to be good enough. Your body didn’t react as you stared at my newly cut and colored hair in the same exact style you had just gotten done.

“... You are pathetic. Everything you said is a lie. You know I treat you like a goddess.” You said as you stared my trembling figure down. 

You knew my weak points, but this gaslighting was not going to work this time. I finally have realized your bullshit, and. this was the last straw. I am not going to stand here and let you degrade and control me like some pathetic puppet. I am done.

I didn’t say anything more as I swiftly left your house, not looking back once. What was done was done and I was ready to head back home to focus on my own future instead of dwelling on my manipulated past. I walked upstairs into the bathroom, the room where everything had happened. I stood in front of the mirror, taking deep breaths. I knew I was finally free when I threw away the bottle of blood-red hair coloring that I had accidentally left on the floor of the crime scene. I just stood there staring at my long curly brown locks that were coated in red hair dye; they lay nicely in the trash can underneath the bottle.

[letgoofthatego]

i wish you reblossomed

[ressyfaerie]

Hey yall I know I've been GONE for like months (life has been INSANE and I've had to step back from all writing and hobbies for a while) but I have a genuine question for anyone that follows my writing!

I've had a handful of people tell me over the years that they have dyslexia and my writing is easy for them to read. I've also had people with ADHD tell me I can keep their attention really well.

I know it's a loaded question from a dead account in the middle of the day LOL

But what about my writing stands out to you that makes it so easy to read and digest? 🤔

[ittybittybumblebee]

[wereshrew-admirer]

:>

[chloemc]