#I don’t know what I’m so fucking stressed about

[xiaq]

Mom, don’t read this.

Once upon a time, 15-year-old X got her motorcycle license. For three years she was extremely responsible with this privilege, until she went to college.

Unlike her peers, who expressed their desire for rebellion in drinking, drugs, and sexually transmitted diseases, X decided her particular brand of youthful nonconformity would involve motorsports. Namely, street racing.

So, at 18, she set off to seek her fortune with a group of nighttime street-racers that, to be fair, met in a rural area that was unlikely to pose a risk to standard motorists. There were watchmen with walkie talkies (actually, I’m going to show my age, here, they mostly had those horrendous yellow phones that doubled as walky talkies, you remember those? the chirps?) who kept the area clear, and warned of any disturbances.

She went a few times. Raced a few times (won a few times!). It was all, frankly, anti-climactic after a steady diet of progressively more absurd Fast and Furious movies.

Until one night, when someone on watch-duty messed up. Or maybe this was a planned sting of some sort. But the cops arrived; multiple cars. And pretty much everyone ran.

Now, I’d never been in trouble in my life. I had a 4.0 and I was an only child with the definition of helicopter parents (excepting the motorcycle license, and no, I still don’t understand that logic. Can my 15-year-old get a motorcycle? Certainly! Can my 18-year-old headed to college next week have a curfew later than 8pm? Perish the thought! Anyway). In the split second I had to decide, my 18-year-old brain, in its infinite wisdom, said: Motorcycle fast. Police car slow.

So. You know. I…motorcycle fast-ed.

Immediately I was like. SELF!! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!! You just made this so much worse if they catch you!! But I was already in top gear going well over 100mph, so that train of thought quickly turned into: I must not get caught.

I don’t know if you’re aware of how much faster a 600CC motorcycle is than the average Crown Victoria, but just know that it’s a lot. Especially when the motorcycle rider is less than 100lbs.

So the half-dozen of us who all booked it the same direction, we know we’ve got at least one car following us, but they’re a fair ways behind. The trick is getting far enough ahead that you can quickly get off the road and hide without them seeing your exit. So we all start peeling off to find our hiding places.

Now, between our meeting location and my college, there was an IKEA. I’d bought the bookcase for my dorm there. And I’d unpacked the bookcase into my car in the IKEA parking lot, so I could throw away the giant cardboard box in the enormous blue dumpsters behind the store, rather than deal with it back on campus.

I head for the IKEA. I pull around back. I immediately turn off the bike and toe-walk my way between one of the dumpsters and the store wall, completely out of view of the street and most of the parking lot.

It’s literal minutes later that the cop car finally goes flying by, and evidently they don’t think, “hey, I should stop and check behind the IKEA dumpsters.” Several more minutes pass. No more cops.

At this point, the adrenaline turns into existential dread and shaking so bad that I have to put my kickstand down because my anxiety-ridden perfectionist body is not meant for this kind of stress, even when self-inflicted. I quietly have a panic attack, swear to never disobey the law again (unless it’s for civil protest), and, finally, when I’ve pulled myself together around an hour later, I slowly make my way home.

I never attended another race. Because I am a baby.

But I’m a baby who outran the cops, so.

A visual aid of 18-year-old X and her bike (named Shadowfax) (Shadowfax lived up to her name, that night. All hail.)

(To be clear, I do not endorse this behavior. I could have hurt or killed myself going those speeds or even put some innocent bystander in danger had other people been out and about that night. This was very, very, stupid.)

My new boss: “Everyone come to the team meeting with a surprising story about something you’ve done in the past. Something no one would expect of you!”

Me: Googling the statute of limitation for felonies in Texas

[orchidseason]

Too Clingy...?

ִ ࣪𖤐 loser!ellie w x fem!reader

After weeks of tension with your roommate, you turn to your girlfriend Ellie for comfort. But when a teasing comment makes you question your place in her life, you distance yourself, afraid of being "clingy."

warnings ִ ࣪𖤐 word count 1.5k, college!AU, established relationship, anxiety (r), overthinking, hurt/comfort, misunderstanding, emotional breakdown, mild language, kissing

It had been a rough few weeks. The tension with your roommate had reached a breaking point, and you were finding it hard to breathe, let alone function. Every day felt like a struggle. You’d been feeling emotionally drained, constantly walking on eggshells, and trying to avoid conflict in your own space. Your dorm room had become a place of silence, and it felt like you were suffocating.

One night, after another argument with your roommate that left you feeling small and unimportant, you packed a bag and went straight to Ellie’s. You didn’t even need to text her beforehand—Ellie always knew when you needed her. Her dorm had become your safe space, the place where you could let go of all the tension and just breathe.

Ellie opened the door, her face softening when she saw you. She immediately pulled you into a tight hug. “Hey! Woah...what’s wrong?” she asked, her voice gentle.

You sniffled and buried your face in her shoulder. “My roommates a fucking bitch. She argues with me about the stupidest things and leaves passive aggressive sticky notes everywhere and then she just keeps-I just cant do it. Im so done."

Ellie tightened her grip on you, her hands running through your hair soothingly. “Shh, babe. You’re always welcome here, you know that. You don’t need to explain it all to me."

In the weeks that followed, you found yourself at Ellie’s more often than not. Being with her was an escape. You’d spend your evenings wrapped in the warmth of her arms, playing games, watching movies, or simply lying together in a comfortable silence. For the first time in a long time, you truly felt like you could let go of all the stress that had built up.

You and Ellie were lying on her bed, curled up together. You had your head resting on her shoulder while she played Minecraft on her phone, tapping away at the screen as you both enjoyed the quiet of the room. It was one of those perfect moments where everything felt in place. You didn’t need to talk. You didn’t need to do anything except be there with her.

Ellie talked suddenly, breaking the silence. She glanced at you with a teasing grin. “You’re really here every night now, huh? I might start calling you my official roommate. Getting a little clingy, mm?"

The comment hung in the air, and your stomach sank. The word "clingy" hit you like a ton of bricks. She said it with that usual mischievous smile, but something about the way she said it made your chest tighten.

Clingy.

The word echoed in your mind as you lay there, still and frozen. Had you been too much? Was she annoyed with you? You’d been spending so much time at her place lately, leaning on her for comfort when you didn’t know where else to go. Maybe she was tired of it. Maybe she was tired of you.

Ellie went on, completely unaware of how her words had affected you. “I’m just messing with you,” she said, laughing lightly, pressing a kiss to your cheek, "you know my favorite you is clingy you."

Still, you couldn’t shake the doubt. It festered in the pit of your stomach. Clingy. You wanted to push it out of your mind, but it was all you could think about. Maybe she really was tired of you. Maybe her joke had truth lining in it and she was wanting some space from you.

You stayed quiet, too lost in your head to respond. When the moment passed, you quietly gathered your things, not looking at Ellie. “I should head out... I’ve got a lot of work to do,” you said, your voice soft and distant.

Ellie didn’t seem to notice your change in energy. She was already absorbed in her phone again, focused on the game, not on you. She didn’t look up when you left, but if she had-she would not have let you leave.

As you walked out, your heart felt heavy. Had you been too much? Too clingy? Ellie had always been understanding, but that comment, though playful, made you spiral.

You didn’t go back to your dorm. Instead, you found yourself at the library, hiding away from the world. You tried to focus on your schoolwork, but the thoughts wouldn’t stop swirling in your mind. Was she really tired of you? Had you made things awkward? You didn’t want to burden her anymore, but the more you thought about it, the more you questioned whether she really wanted you around.

Days passed, and you kept your distance. You couldn’t bring yourself to reach out to Ellie. Maybe she was right; maybe you had become clingy, and now you were giving her space to breathe.

You didn't respond to her texts and calls and you're sure that's what set her off to finally just track you down on your shared location one afternoon.

While you were hunched over a stack of textbooks in the library, you heard a familiar voice.

“Hey,” Ellie said softly, making you jump. You didn’t even need to look up to know it was her. “Haven’t seen you around in a while. Everything okay?”

"That's good news, isn't it?"

She looks confused, a little hurt, "what...?"

Your throat tightened, and before you could stop it, all the thoughts you’d been bottling up poured out. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” you said, voice cracking. “It’s just... It's me. I’ve been overthinking everything since you called me clingy. I know it was a joke, but Ellie it's true. I spend so much time at your dorm, in your space. I didn't want to overwhelm you anymore so I just-"

Ellie knelt in front of you, her gaze softening. “No, hey stop that,” she said gently, taking your hands in hers. “I didn’t mean it like that. I was just messing with you. I love having you in my dorm, I prefer it. You’re not clingy. You never could be. I’m sorry I made you feel like you were.”

You bit your lip, feeling the weight lift off your shoulders, but the hurt was still there, lingering. “I didn’t want to make things weird, and here I am making it weird."

Ellie smiled, brushing a hand over your cheek. “You could never make things weird, babe. I promise."

You blinked back tears, suddenly overwhelmed by how much you needed to hear those words. Ellie leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’m always here for you, okay? Don’t shut me out.”

You smiled, finally feeling like you could breathe again. You nodded, feeling safe in her arms as she held you close.

“I love you,” you whispered.

“I love you too,” Ellie replied, leaning in after to press a kiss to your lips.

taglist // @kaykeryyy

[ldydeath]

But I Love You | Kwon Ji-yong (G-Dragon)

Summary: Jiyong is struggling through his hiatus and misses his best friend. You try your best to be there for him, even when it feels like he doesn’t want you around.

Warnings: slight angst, a lot of GD yearning for TOP. Very minor language.

Things hadn’t exactly been easy since Jiyong had decided to take a hiatus. You weren’t really sure if he even knew what a hiatus was. Everyday you’d wake to find him in the studio, writing new material, a stressed look on his face. You’d hoped that a break would’ve actually been just that - but the man didn’t know how to quit. You’d pull him out every night when you could tell he was getting frustrated hoping the next day would be better.

You’d have secret conversations with Youngbae and Daesung whenever you got too worried, knowing deep down that the only person he’d reason with had shut him out. Morning came quickly and you were awoken to Jiyong emerging from his blanket cocoon. “Jiyong, why don’t we just take a rest today?” You tried your best to make your voice sound normal, not a hint of pleading in there but he picked up on it and sighed.

“I can’t today. I really have to finish this song.” He sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes and you took the opportunity to really look at him. The dark circles you thought you’d imagined were real. His skin seemed pale, he looked worn out. “Maybe we can do something tomorrow.” He got out of bed, offered you a smile and headed out of the room.

You couldn’t help the pang of disappointment you felt as he disappeared from the room. You knew Jiyong loved you, of course he did, but you couldn’t help but feel forgotten. You never wanted to come between him and his work, you knew how he got when he felt like he was up against a wall. But something needed to change.

With a heavy sigh, you got out of bed, made yourself presentable and headed out of the house. You unfortunately couldn’t sit around waiting for him today. Work called and even if you’d been willing to call in earlier, that had changed the second Jiyong walked out of the bedroom. You knew you should stay home, save him from himself but you needed a break too. Maybe a without you hovering would help.

When you pulled into the drive that evening everything felt off. The lights were off, the lights were never off - unless you were sleeping. “Jiyong?” You called as you entered the house, closing the front door with a soft thud. You were greeted with silence and the soft meow of your cars. You weren’t going to worry. You weren’t worried. You kept telling yourself that as you wandered the house in search of him. Where the fuck was he?

You paused outside the door to his studio, you’d never gone in there before. Not that you couldn’t, it just was so very him that you didn’t want to disturb his sanctuary. You pressed your ear up to the door but it was useless, the room was so soundproofed you couldn’t hear a thing..

The site that unfolded in front of you hadn’t been what you’d expected. There on the couch in the sound booth was your boyfriend passed out clutching what appeared to be lyrics. So that was why the house was dark, he hadn’t bothered to leave the studio once. You moved the papers out of his hands, careful not to read any of his work and shook him awake.

“Hey” he smiled as his eyes locked with yours. “What are you doing in here?” You moved to sit down next to him and shrugged. “The house was dark. I didn’t know where you were.” He scooted slowly, to sit next to you.

“I’m sorry I worried you, I must’ve passed out. I’ve not been sleeping well.” He admitted. Your head snapped looking over at him, worry etched in your brows. “See, that look right there is why I didn’t tell you. You don’t need to worry about me.” You frowned, reaching a hand out to touch him. “Talk to me. What’s going on with you?” You should’ve asked sooner, but you’d been hoping you were over reacting.

He let out a sigh, shaking his head as he broke eye contact with you. “I keep thinking if I write the right song, the best song, he’ll read it and come back.” You could hear the pain in his voice, and it made you want to protect him from ever feeling this way again. His best friend was doing what he thought was best for everyone - which couldn’t be further from the truth. “I don’t think it’s that simple, oppa.” Seunghyun had been your friend too and you weren’t blind to the void that he left behind. “Seunghyun needs time to heal, he didn’t leave because he wanted to. He left because he felt he had to.” You eyed the sheet holding the lyrics Jiyong has been working on. “Can I read it?”

He nodded and handed the lyrics over. Any other girl might be jealous of such heartfelt feelings being written about someone else but not you. You understand their relationship, he’d come first. They’re more than best friends, they were family and both of them were hurting. “It’s perfect.”

“You’re biased” he smirked, taking the paper back and tucking it into his pocket. “Maybe, but it’s still perfect. You should record it.” He shook his head. “It’s not Bigbang without him.” You offered up a reassuring smile, a playful glint in your eye, “so make it GD.” You hardly ever referred to him as his stage name and he smiled before hiding his face with his hands. There he was. That shy adorable guy you loved so much.

“Maybe.” He yawned, stretching his arms before standing up. “Thank you for this. I should’ve told you sooner.” You shook your head. “Don’t worry about it. Just know you’re not alone, ok?”

He nodded. reaching his arm out to you, helping you to your feet. “I’m sorry if I’ve been acting not myself lately, I just don’t know how to let people in fully. I get in my head and think I have to do it all alone.” He apologized as he led you both out of the studio. Turning on the lights as he went.

“You’re not alone. I’m always going to be here for you. Even if you don’t want to talk about whatever’s going on, I’m still here.” You gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, wishing you could take all his pain away. He pulled you toward him, a small smile on his face. Not his big grin you’d grown to love over the years but it was a start. “I love you. He mumbled before pulling you in for a kiss. “I love you too” you smiled against his lips.

Tag List: @wcnderlnds, @alosss-blog please let me know if you'd like to be tagged!

[stickyspeckledlight]

“Indeed, dear mister Stoneheart! My wonderworking will take effect in a few days, and your good luck streak will end! That’ll be 100 000 credits :)”

For da gambler man

Snake oil? Only if you don’t look at it the right way.

(Speckled's End of Year Interaction Prompts, 12/2/24 ~ 1/1/25)

The Stoneheart’s smirk grows, a quirk just at the corner of his lips. It teeters on a careful precipice of amusement and threat, of control and chance. It’s nothing new to you, though. Smug confidence isn’t new to you, but it’s the first time you’ve seen it on someone dressed in such finery.

“That’s a first,” he purrs, resting his cheek in his palm. “In all my time, I’ve never had anyone offer me bad luck. Curses, yes—but not a…blessing.” He comfortably leers at you through his sunglasses, lazily tracing the rim of a cloudy, cracked glass filled with something closer to piss than whiskey.

“The only difference between a curse and a blessing is intent,” you wink, “And with what you told me, Mr. Stoneheart, that luck of yours IS a curse! I mean, what kind of luck is winning a lifetime supply of toothpicks? That luckiness of yours is no good!”

His grin widens, “Indeed. Why, before I say anything else, I must commend you for your generosity!” He lightly claps, putting on all the theatrics you’ve come to expect, “100,000 credits in exchange for curing me? Why, I can’t fathom a deal better than this…”

“Right you are, Mr. Stoneheart!” You snap of your fingers, calloused and rough, almost alien in how bony it is these days. “But careful: my power is a���finicky thing, so we can only do this NOW!”

“Oh?” Suddenly his smile grows sharper, “That’s new.”

“I can’t reveal all my tricks,” you smoothly reply. You catch yourself tapping your foot hurriedly against the pavement and stop. You shouldn’t think about what you can do with that money; you can simply do with the money, after this rich sucker forks over his cash. Luck, as a curse? Who is he kidding? Why would he throw that away, when you and everyone else you know would kill for it?

“Shame.” He says with completely insincerity. He stands and pushes his chair back, “I was hoping you’d find a creative way to explain your con. I was looking forward to what you’d come up with so much, y’know?”

You lock up and stiffen. This rich playboy was acting stupid before! Why’s he suddenly calling you out?! “H-huh? A con? Mr. Stoneheart, you must be—”

“Don’t.” He smiles, “You know, I did introduce myself as ‘Aventurine, of the Ten Stonehearts: a cog in the machine of the Strategic Investment Department.’ Do you actually know who I am?”

“An IPC executive,” you hastily reply; you can’t get on his bad side, you CAN’T.

But he only continues to look at you, looking above you with a foxlike expression.

“That’s correct, but dig a bit deeper,” he peppily nudges. “You’re a smart one; I’m sure you can do it!”

“Uh…” you frown, “You…you make investments?”

“That’s something everyone does.” He shakes his head, “So: no. How about I give you my formal title? I’m a Non-performing Asset Liquidation Specialist.”

…You do not understand whatever that corporate mumbo jumbo means.

Well, phooey. You’re fucked, man. Your con is bust. If anything, this guy had all the cards before you even saw his face.

“Oh, Mr. Stoneheart…” you smile again, standing to meet his eyes, “You it said yourself: we’re friends,” his grin does not fall, but his eyes crinkle with cheshire glee, “So, let’s not bei business into this. And that applies to me too! I should’ve known better; this blessing’s on the house, friend.”

He does not say anything, letting your words hang in the air, and stress gather in your chest before he finally speaks.

“Slow recovery, but it’s not half bad. Especially for someone who hasn’t been in business long. You’ve got some potential,” he whistles. You must’ve had a ridiculous expression on your face, because he just laughs. Mirth dances in his eyes, tinted pink by his sunglasses. “Oh, my bad; I’ll play along just for you, my jewel.”

You’re not given any time to react to the sudden new nickname. “Yes, I can’t believe how astute you truly are, my friend,” he sighs wistfully, clutching his heart and smiling like you two are really, really, really good friends. The whiplash hits you with a crack, and now, you aren’t sure if you’ve ever seen him without a mask. “Still, I would feel bad about just getting a blessing from you for free, so…how do you feel about becoming my employee?”

An employee? What? You were trying to CON him, and now he wants to hire you?!

“W-what?”

“That’s right,” he bows, “I meant what I said, my friend. You’re a diamond in the rough, and it’s my job to polish you up—we at the Strategic Investment Department prioritize long term over short term, you know.”

“But I—” tried to con you, you almost stammer before catching yourself, “—have, uh…”

Well, you never liked him even when he was playing the part of a rich fool, but seeing how that in of itself might’ve just been a mask…you don’t want to be near this guy, period. And now that you think about it, you’ve never seen his eyes.

He makes a zipping motion with his fingers and across his mouth, “My friend,” he kindly winks, “Don’t bother objecting! Tell me: what are two things you now know about my job?”

…All of the whiplash and sudden questions seemingly unrelated to anything said…you think you’re going to get a headache, once your mind is clear from panic and stress.

“Um…you’re a liquidation specialist and…go for long term investments.”

“Perfect; 10/10!” He claps, “Now let’s dig even deeper—dig into you, [Name].”

Time stops.

“[Name]?” You scoff, mouth twitching, “Mr. Stoneheart…are you projecting onto me?”

“Don’t lie, my jewel,” the nickname makes you bristle, and he sighs, “Now’s the time to drop the platitudes and acts. There’s always a time for veiled conversations, but ah, I think there’s no need for that, now.”

For some reason, even though your cowardice has already been shown, now’s the time you decide to keep up the cheery salesman act. In the back of your mind, you shake your head. How could you immediately prove what he just said?

But that’s just the back of your mind.

“Oh, Mr. Stoneheart! Why would I ever lie to you? We’re friends.”

“Indecisive, are you?” He hums, “That’s alright. That’s perfectly fine. Indecisiveness doesn’t erase debt either way.”

“D-debt? Oh, but Mr. Stoneheart—!”

“You can’t erase what your stupid father did.” He plainly states, taking a coin out and playing with it, “Mx. [Name], my condolences for what happened to you; falling into poverty like this wasn’t your fault, but…fault also doesn’t erase debt.”

This time, you’re shaking. You can’t do anything but watch. He was just supposed to be a rich, stupid fool to wring money out of—who—how—how did things go this way—

“Here’s what I was thinking. Work for me, and you’ll be able to pay off your debt without worry. You’ll be provided a reduced salary, of course, but you’ll have enough to…” his mouth quirks, “…get by.”

He saunters around the table, and leans against it lazily. He leans closer, “You understand that there’s no other choice, right?” At your continued, fearful silence, he chuckles, “Don’t worry, Mx. [Name]. I’m the one hiring you; you know I’ll treat you well! Like you said, we’re friends. Good friends, even.”

You hear the sound of a coin flick; you move your head to see it fall onto the table, covered by the Stoneheart’s hand.

A leather clad finger hooks under your chin and drags your gaze to his, “But I’ve got another idea,” he offers, “Gemstones are made to be cut, sold, and coveted. You’re no different…but you’re still rough. You’ve barely been lodged out of the cave walls. So, I have a proposal…just for a beauty like you,” he winks playfully, but it does nothing to alleviate the sheer intimidation and power he’s exerted on you.

The hand on the table slides off, hovering by your wrist.

“Follow through on that bad luck of yours,” he gently leers. Something cold and sleek and heavy slips to your grip, “If you do…100,000 credits? No; that’s wouldn’t be enough to convey my generosity. I’m going all-in. A carefree life would be yours in an instant. But if you don’t…”

The revolver’s holster clicks against his chest.

“I’ll be free to shape you however I like; and covet you with these lucky hands.”

[d-z20]

yeeeaaahhhhhhh so I had a few more thoughts about Therapist!Agatha as per the tags in these posts and decided to share them with the class :o

Epilogue

As you gathered your things, you felt lighter, almost dizzy with relief. Dr. Harkness always knew what to say and how to smooth out the jagged edges in your thoughts. She made everything feel manageable—like nothing was ever as bad as it seemed.

"You’ve been doing so well lately," she told you, her voice steady and warm. "I can see how much you’re opening up, how much you trust me."

The words had sunk into you, soft and sweet, a balm against something raw. You trusted her. Of course, you did.

Her palm had grazed your back just briefly as she ushered you toward the door. "Take care," she murmured, her touch grounding and familiar.

You stepped out, blinking against the sudden clarity of the hallway lights. Something felt off, but you couldn’t place what. Your mind was hazy—soft, pliable even. Dr. Harkness, no, Agatha made everything better. She always did.

It wasn’t until you were halfway home that the realisation struck; you patted all your pockets and checked your bag to confirm, but yep, you didn’t have your phone on you. A jolt of panic cut through the fog, and you turned on your heel, heart thudding. You must have left it in her office.

The building was quiet when you returned, the hallway eerily still. Her office door was ajar, a sliver of golden light spilling into the dim corridor. You stepped closer, about to knock—

A sharp inhale. Then a soft, breathy moan.

You froze.

The sound was muffled but unmistakable. Your stomach flipped, heat rushing to your face. You should have left, should have pretended you heard nothing. 

Maybe she’s meditating. Maybe it’s some kind of grounding exercise she forgot to mention before. She wouldn’t do anything inappropriate. She’s your doctor. She knows what she’s doing.

But before you could move, her voice sliced through the thick silence.

"Come in, Y/N."

Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Fucking fuck.

Your breath caught in your throat. Had she seen your shadow outside the door? Heard your footsteps? You swallowed hard and pushed the door open, stepping inside, every nerve alight with something dangerously close to dread.

Agatha was slouched back in her chair, legs parted, her hand moving furiously between them. Her chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths, her eyes half-lidded as if she were lost in some delicious haze. The air in the room was thick—charged with something suffocatingly intimate.

She didn’t stop. Didn’t startle. If anything, her lips curled into something knowing, something almost pleased.

"This is good," she huffed, her voice husky yet unwavering. "I had planned for this to be a later session, but... breakthroughs don’t always happen on a schedule. Sometimes, we stumble onto something important before we’re ready."

You hesitated, pulse hammering, but your body moved before your mind could catch up. You lowered yourself into the chair across from her, every muscle locked tight, every breath shallow.

She watched you through heavy eyes, her movements slowing, turning deliberate. "You hold so much inside you. So much stress, so much frustration."

Your fingers gripped the armrests as if they might anchor you. "I—"

A shuddering breath escaped you before you could stop it. Your thighs pressed together, warmth pooling, shame curling at the edges of it. But shame was the wrong word, wasn’t it? Dr. Harkness wouldn’t let you feel ashamed—not when she had spent so long helping you understand yourself.

"It’s alright," she soothed, her voice dipping into something honeyed. "Your body is responding because it knows this is right. You’ve been holding onto so much, and it’s exhausting, isn’t it? Letting go is hard. But I’m here to help you through it."

The air felt too thick to breathe. Your skin felt too tight, too hot, and yet something about her words soothed you, quieted the panic thrumming beneath the surface. Dr. Harkness knew best. She always had.

She shuddered, a long, low moan spilling from her lips as she orgasmed, her body trembling through the aftershocks. Her gaze stayed locked on you, unwavering, even as her chest heaved with exertion. The air between you was suffocating, electric.

And then, just like that, she exhaled slowly, her expression slipping into something serene. "See how natural this is?" she asked, her voice a lazy drawl. "How easy?"

You did feel warm. Overwhelmed, confused maybe—but not afraid. At least, not the kind of fear that made you want to run. If anything, you were rooted to your seat, unable to look away.

She tilted her head. "You don’t have to fight yourself, you know. That ache you feel? It’s just your body telling you what it needs. You can trust it. You can trust me."

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your sleeves. Trust. It was all she had ever asked of you, and you had never had reason to doubt her before.

She leaned forward, resting her chin in her palm as if the last few minutes had been nothing but routine. "You trust me, don’t you?"

The words settled into your bones, curling around your ribs. Of course, you trusted her. She had never led you astray before. The thought of questioning her felt almost childish, like undoing all the progress you had made.

She only wanted to help.

Your pulse thrummed against your skin, and you swallowed hard.

"Good," she murmured. "Then let us begin."

-----

I feel like I should mention that it took all of 15 seconds for Agatha to shove her hands down her pants after reader left and half of that was trying to get her damn button undone

The Therapist's Touch (NSFW)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Reader

Summary: You sought out Dr. Harkness for clarity, for someone to help untangle the mess in your mind. But as your sessions progress, the line between guidance and something far more intoxicating begins to blur.

- OR -

Agatha manipulates you and your mind and uses it as a way to start fucking you in the name of 'therapy'

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, dubcon, smut, Dark Agatha, gaslighting, manipulation, other toxic behaviour, fingering (R recv), praise kink, lots of 'good girl', talking through orgasm, mild choking at the end

Words: 2.9k

A/N: Just to repeat: this fic contains dubcon smut, gaslighting, and manipulation so if that is something that triggers you, please do not read. Requested Fic

AO3 | Master List

You met Dr. Harkness after a particularly bad week. You hadn’t been sleeping, your thoughts a tangled mess of self-doubt and frustration. Friends—if you could even call them that anymore—had started pulling away, and work was becoming unbearable. It was one of those situations where you weren’t sure if you were the problem or if everyone else was. You needed clarity. You needed someone to untangle the mess in your head.

And Agatha was perfect for that.

The first few sessions felt normal, even helpful. She was warm but not overly so, sharp-witted with a knowing smile that made you feel like she already had you figured out. You liked that. You wanted to be understood. She had a way of pulling things out of you, teasing out the thoughts you hadn’t even fully realized were lurking under the surface.

"You feel like you're being abandoned," she told you during a session, her voice smooth and steady. "Like the people around you are slipping through your fingers, and you don’t know why."

You nodded, relieved that someone finally understood.

"It must be frustrating," she continued, tilting her head slightly as if weighing her words carefully. "To always be the one reaching out, only to be left in the cold."

Your breath hitched. Was that true? You hadn’t really thought about it that way, but… now that she said it, it felt right.

"Maybe you expect too much from people," she mused, watching you carefully. "Or maybe they don’t appreciate you like they should."

A quiet pressure built behind your ribs, something heavy and unseen. That wasn’t a comforting thought, but there was something… validating about it. Like all the hurt you felt wasn’t just in your head.

"Maybe," you admitted.

She smiled, pleased. "I think people take advantage of your kindness. You let them, don’t you?"

You did, didn’t you?

—

The shift was slow, insidious. Agatha never outright told you what to think—she just guided you there, nudging you toward conclusions you weren’t sure were yours or hers. Your relationships became strained, but Agatha was always there to reassure you.

"You’re growing," she told you after a particularly emotional session. "You’re starting to see things for what they really are."

Warmth unfurled in your chest, wrapping around your ribs like a protective embrace. The weight of her gaze felt like an anchor, steadying you in a way nothing else had.

Agatha was dangerous in the way that only truly intelligent people could be. She never raised her voice, never forced an idea on you—she simply led you there, guiding you through your own thoughts like she was pulling a thread loose from a tangled knot.

And God, she was beautiful.

You noticed it in pieces at first. The sharp line of her cheekbones, the way her eyes stayed locked onto yours just a little too long, the elegant way she moved. She always dressed immaculately, sleek dark blouses that clung to her just right, lips painted in deep shades of red or plum. And then there was her voice. The kind of voice that settled into your bones and curled up there, wrapping itself around your ribs like it belonged to you.

It was embarrassing, really. You were falling for your therapist. But she made you feel seen in a way no one else had. And she never discouraged it.

Not directly.

"You hesitate when you talk about what you want," she noted, her voice gentle. "Why do you do that?"

You blinked, caught off guard. "I—what?"

"You second-guess yourself." She studied you carefully, fingers tapping lightly against the arm of her chair. "I’ve noticed it. You’ll start to say something, then stop. Like you’re afraid of being too much."

Your pulse fluttered. "I guess I just… don’t want to be a burden."

Her lips curled into something almost like amusement. "A burden?" she echoed, as if the idea itself was absurd. "Who told you that?"

You hesitated. Everyone, you wanted to say. Every time someone stopped texting back, every time you felt like you were grasping too hard to keep people close.

Agatha hummed, tilting her head just slightly. “Who have you been talking to about this?”

You blinked. “What?”

Her gaze was steady, expectant. “You said you feel like a burden. Who put that thought in your head?”

You hesitated. “I mean… I don’t know. I guess I mentioned it to a friend the other day, and they—”

Agatha tsked softly, shaking her head. “And what did they say?”

“They told me I was overthinking.”

A slow, knowing smile curled her lips. “Ah. Overthinking.” She leaned back, fingers tapping lightly against the arm of her chair. “That’s an easy way to dismiss you, isn’t it?”

You frowned. “I don’t think they meant it like that—”

“But it made you feel unheard,” she pressed gently. “Didn’t it?”

Your breath came a little faster. “I… maybe?”

Agatha nodded, like she’d expected that answer. “It’s interesting,” she mused, voice low and thoughtful. “How often people minimise your feelings. How quickly they brush you off.” Her gaze flickered back to yours, something soft and reassuring in it. “I would never do that to you.”

A tightness bloomed behind your ribs, bittersweet and impossible to ignore. “I know,” you murmured.

Her lips curled in satisfaction. “Of course you do.”

She leaned forward slightly, voice softening. "They made you feel that way," she spoke, like it was some kind of revelation. "Not because you are a burden, but because they don’t know how to appreciate you properly."

Something about the way she said it made your stomach twist.

"They don’t see you the way I do."

The words hung between you, electric.

You exhaled slowly, suddenly hyperaware of how close she was, how intimate these sessions had started to feelThe space between you felt thinner than before, her voice dipping into something softer, closer—like a secret meant only for you.

And then, like she knew exactly what you were thinking, she smiled.

"Tell me," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "When’s the last time someone truly listened to you?"

Your pulse hammered.

It should have set off alarms. But it didn’t. Because she was listening. She was there for you. More than anyone else has been.

Had anyone ever really listened?

—

The next session, Agatha watched you with something unreadable in her expression. Like she was studying a puzzle, waiting for the pieces to click into place.

“You seem tense,” she noted, her voice low, honey-smooth.

You huffed out a quiet laugh, but it came out strained. “Yeah, well. Life’s a little stressful.”

She tilted her head, gaze sharp, like she was peeling you apart layer by layer. “You hold yourself so tightly,” she stated, studying you like a specimen under glass. “You don’t even realise it, do you?”

Your brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Your shoulders.” A flick of her fingers. “Your jaw. Your hands.”

You followed her gaze, your fingers curling instinctively before you forced them to relax.

“I think,” she continued, voice slow, deliberate, “you’ve spent so long bracing for impact that you don’t know how to let go.”

A strange heat curled in your stomach, something unspoken threading through the air between you.

She leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees. “Would you let me help you?”

Your stomach flipped. “Help me how?”

Agatha smiled—calm, measured, soothing. “A simple exercise. One that might help you process the tension you’re carrying.”

You hesitated, but there was no reason to refuse. It was therapy. She was your therapist.

“Okay,” you said finally.

Her smile deepened, approval warm in her gaze. “Close your eyes,” she instructed.

You obeyed, exhaling softly.

“Now,” she assured, “I want you to focus on the weight of your body. The way your spine curves. The way your breath moves through you.”

Her voice was hypnotic, her words weaving their way into your bones.

And then—

Fingertips against your jaw.

You startled, eyes flying open, but Agatha hushed you gently.

“Shh,” she soothed, thumb brushing along your cheek. “It’s alright. You trust me, don’t you?”

Your breath came a little faster. The warmth of her touch was dizzying. “I—yes,” you whispered.

Her lips curled in satisfaction. “Good.”

Her fingers trailed lightly, tracing the curve of your throat. You swallowed, pulse hammering against her touch.

“Your body reacts before you do,” she noted, head tilting slightly. “You don’t even realise how much you hold back.”

Heat rushed to your face. You couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment or something else entirely.

Agatha’s grip firmed just slightly—not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind you she was there. “I want you to let go,” she murmured. “Trust me to guide you.”

Your mind spun, tangled between this is fine, she’s my therapist and why does this feel so good?

But you trusted her. So you nodded.

Her smile was slow, knowing. “Good girl.”

Your stomach flipped again. A rush of warmth curled through you, unsettling in its intensity.

She let her touch linger a moment longer before finally pulling back, leaving you bereft. “See?” she said, as if the moment hadn’t just unraveled something inside you. “You hold onto so much. But I can help you carry it.”

You swallowed hard, clinging to her words like a lifeline. “…Thank you,” you murmured.

“We’ll work through it together,” she promised.

You believed her.

You wanted to believe her.

Even as something in the back of your mind whispered that maybe—just maybe—you shouldn’t.

—

The session after that felt different from the moment you stepped into the room. The air in Agatha’s office was heavier, charged with something unspoken. It coiled around you, wrapping tight around your ribs as her eyes tracked your movements, assessing, waiting.

“Welcome back,” she said smoothly, gesturing for you to come further in. You obeyed, feeling strangely exposed under her gaze. She hummed, studying you. “You look tense again.”

You exhaled sharply. “I mean… I guess?”

Her smile deepened. “You’ve been thinking too much. Haven’t you?”

Your breath caught. Because—yes.

She chuckled softly. “I told you, darling. You carry everything too tightly.”

You swallowed.

“I want to try something different today,” she announced. “Something a little more… physical.”

Your brain short-circuited at the word.

She leaned forward, voice dipping into something lower, more intimate. “Have you ever done guided breathwork before?”

You shook your head.

She nodded, as if she expected that. “It’s about control,” she said. “Releasing what no longer serves you.”

Your breath hitched.

“May I touch you?” she asked, voice velvety smooth.

“Y—yeah,” you stammered, your pulse pounded in your ears.

She stood, stepping behind you. The air shifted as she moved closer, the heat of her body ghosting along your back before her hands settled on your shoulders—firm, warm, grounding.

“You’re so wound up,” she murmured, her thumbs pressing in, kneading slowly. A soft sigh slipped from your lips before you could stop it.

“Breathe with me,” she instructed, her lips near your ear now. “In…”

You inhaled shakily.

“Good,” she praised. “Now out.”

Her hands moved lower, gliding down your arms, her touch light but deliberate. “Again,” she hummed.

You obeyed, and as you exhaled, her hands skimmed lower, fingertips ghosting over the curve of your ribs, her thumbs teasing at the sides of your breasts. You stiffened, heat pooling between your thighs, but she only hummed in approval.

“You’re still holding back,” she whispered, breath warm against your skin. “I need you to let go.”

Her hands drifted lower, over your waist, her grip firm as she guided you back against her body. A quiet, shuddering exhale left you, your head swimming, warmth pooling low in your stomach.

“Good,” she praised, voice like silk. “You’re doing so well for me.”

A shiver ran down your spine as she pressed closer, the solid heat of her flush against your back.

“This tension you carry,” she sighed, her breath hot against your skin, “it needs to be released.”

Her hands slipped lower, over your hips, nails scraping lightly against fabric. A slow, deliberate drag that sent fire licking through your veins.

“Let me help,”

And then her hands moved lower. Your whole body went still.

Agatha hummed in approval. “You feel that, don’t you?”

A sound—something between a gasp and a whimper—escaped your lips, as your body burned with arousal.

“Good,” she praised again, like she could feel you unravelling beneath her touch. “You’re doing perfectly.”

Her touch dipped between your thighs causing a sharp gasp to tear from your throat as your body jolted, nerves alight.

“Shh, this is part of the process,” she soothed, her lips grazing your ear, the warmth of her breath sending shivers down your spine. “Trust me.”

You did. You shouldn’t, but you did.

Her hands were steady, patient, coaxing you back against her body. Heat seeped into your skin where she pressed, her perfume—something dark, heady, intoxicating—curling around you like smoke.

“This is what you need,” she declared, her fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles over your clothed clit. “A full release.”

Your body arched, a broken moan slipping past your lips before you could swallow it down.

“There it is.” Agatha’s voice was rich with satisfaction, her free hand dragging lazy patterns over your torso, her nails grazing just enough to make you shiver. “That’s my good girl.”

Shame curled low in your stomach, but it was drowned out by the pleasure winding tighter, by the way she spoke like she knew you better than you knew yourself. Maybe she did. No one else had reached this part of you—no one else had understood what you truly needed.

Only Agatha.

“You’ve been holding so much inside,” she mused, her fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your underwear, teasing the sensitive skin beneath. “I think it’s time to let me take care of you.”

You whimpered, your breath coming in uneven bursts, but you didn’t pull away. You didn’t want to.

A pleased hum vibrated in her throat as she pressed her fingers against your slick heat.

“Oh, darling,” she cooed, her lips brushing against your temple, “you do need me.”

Your head lolled back against her shoulder, your lips parting in a breathless moan as she circled your clit with practiced ease, teasing and coaxing you into submission.

“Such a sweet thing,” she remarked, her other hand coming up to tilt your chin, guiding your gaze to hers. “Look at me.”

Your eyes fluttered open, dazed and glassy, and the look she gave you made your stomach tighten.

“There’s my good girl.”

The praise sent a pulse of heat through you, something deep and desperate unraveling at the sound of it. You wanted to please her. To prove that you trusted her.

Her mouth slanted over yours, swallowing your gasped moans as her fingers slid inside you, slow and purposeful. A sharp cry left you as she stretched you open, her thumb still circling, teasing, never letting you sink too deep into mindlessness. She wanted you present. Aware.

Your body jerked, overwhelmed by the sensation, but her hands were steady, guiding you through it. “Breathe,” she instructed, her lips brushing against your cheek. “In through your nose… there you go, good girl… and out.”

You tried. You really did. But every exhale was a stuttering moan, your body trembling against hers.

“That’s it,” she soothed, her fingers curling just enough to make you keen. “Let yourself feel it. Let yourself fall.”

Your fingers grasped at her sleeve, desperate for something to hold onto as she worked you open, dragging you closer and closer to the edge.

“You’ve spent so long running from this,” she murmured, voice low, hypnotic, each word coiling around your ribs and pulling tight. “From what you need. From what I can give you.”

You shook your head weakly, barely processing her words through the pleasure threatening to swallow you whole.

“No?” She tutted, her fingers never ceasing. “Then tell me, darling… why are you shaking?”

You couldn’t answer. She had you undone, every nerve alight, every thought consumed by her.

“Let go,” she commanded, her voice velvet-soft but unyielding. “Let me take care of you.”

As the pleasure coiled tighter, your body trembled against her, every muscle wound impossibly tense. Agatha’s touch never wavered—precise, knowing, relentless.

"That's it," she murmured, her lips grazing the shell of your ear. "You’re so close, aren’t you?"

A breathless whimper escaped you, your hips bucking into her hand, chasing that final push. She chuckled softly, her fingers maintaining their rhythm, teasing you to the brink.

"Good girl," she praised, her voice dipping into something darker, richer. "Give it to me. I want to feel you cum on my fingers."

Your breath hitched, your body straining under the weight of pleasure, but she didn’t let you fall just yet. Her free hand dragged up your torso, nails grazing along your ribs before curling around your throat, a light, possessive pressure that made you gasp.

"You've been holding onto this for so long," she crooned. "But not anymore. Let. Go."

Her grip on your throat tightened ever so slightly as her fingers curled against your g-spot, pushing you past the point of no return. A sharp cry tore from your lips, your entire body arching as the pleasure finally snapped, pleasure ripping through you in waves.

"That’s it, my sweet girl," Agatha cooed, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "Ride it out—just like that. So perfect for me."

Your walls clenched around her fingers, the aftershocks making you shudder, but she didn’t stop. Not yet. She drew out every last pulse of pleasure, her touch easing from devastating to indulgent, dragging you through the bliss until you were nothing but a boneless, gasping mess in her arms.

"Such a good girl," she muttered, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple as her fingers finally stilled, her palm resting possessively against your slick heat. "I knew you could do it."

She let you catch your breath, but her fingers traced slow, lazy circles over your sensitive skin, teasing, reminding you who had brought you to this point.

Your breath still came in uneven shudders as she finally pulled her hand away. You barely had a chance to process the loss before she brought her fingers to her lips, her darkened eyes never leaving yours as she sucked them clean.

Heat flared in your cheeks.

Agatha only smiled.“We’ll continue this next session,” she promised, brushing a stray bead of sweat from your forehead. “I think we’re making real progress.”

-----

In this AU Agatha totally only became a therapist so she could mess around with people's minds and get paid for it.

N.B Agatha's behaviour is extremely toxic and manipulative due to the power she holds over reader. This work is purely fiction and such actions have no place in the real world.

-----

taglist: @aceday @danveration @alwaysharmony @idkwhatever580 @jujuu23 @lostbutlovely33 @sweetmidnights @6ange19

[lynzishell]

Prev // Next

Transcript below the cut:

Iris: What are you doing?

Asher: Taking a break. Trying to get… inspired, I guess. Iris: Does that work? Asher: Sometimes.

Iris: I met someone. Asher: Oh yeah? Iris: I think he might be… nice. Asher: I can’t tell from your tone. That’s a good thing, right?

Iris: Is it? Asher: Yes. Nice is good. Iris: I don’t know. Doesn’t it get… boring? Asher: No. Being kind and considerate is how you show someone you care about them. It’s not boring.

Iris: Don’t get me wrong, it’s great that it works for you, but I guess I’m just the type that needs passion, y’know. Asher: Passion? Or drama? Iris: [rolling her eyes] You know what I mean.

Asher: No, I don’t. Nice and passionate are not mutually exclusive. You don’t need to be screaming and throwing shit at each other to have passion. The sooner you realize that, the better. You don’t exactly have the best track record for healthy relationships. Iris: Oh, and you do? Asher: Honestly, yes.

Iris: Please. You and your husband have separate rooms. Asher: So what? We’re under a lot of stress right now, and it’s overwhelming for Atlas to be around so many people all the time. He needs his space, and as his husband, I understand that. Iris: And that’s very kind and considerate of you. But can you really tell me there’s any passion there? When was the last time you two even slept in the same bed?

Asher: That’s none of your business. Iris: Exactly. Asher: [rolls his eyes] How did this become about me anyway? Aren’t we supposed to be talking about you and some guy you met? Iris: Yes.

Asher: Well, don’t string him along and play games with him just to ghost him when you get bored. If you’re not interested, then just walk away now. Iris: No. I don’t want to do any of that. I think I like him. Asher: So, what’s the problem? Iris: [shrugs]

Asher: Iris. Iris: What? Asher: If you like him, then give him a chance. Don’t self-sabotage, okay? You deserve to be with someone who is nice to you. Iris: …Thanks.

Iris: How do you do that? Asher: What? Iris: Always know the right thing to say.

Asher: Easy. I just think about what you would say, and then say the opposite. Iris: [laughs] Fuck you. Asher: I love you too.

Iris: You’re gonna be a really good dad. Asher: See, you’re learning already. Iris: Shut up. Asher: I’m kidding. Thank you, that means a lot.

[jthmaaucomic]

YAY I’m finally fucking hoooome and now I can blabber my mouth off.

SO TECHNICALLY, this wasn’t the end of the chapter, but I’m still figuring out the pacing to everything and I realized there’s a lot im going to have cut or move around. Honestly, this has been such a massive but intensely rewarding challenge. I did NOT expect to draw everyday, I wasn’t even planning on it but I just enjoyed working on it so much that I couldn’t help myself.

But of course now I’ve pushed myself a little too much so im pretty tired and my head is full of nothing but a bunch of tiny psychos. I think I need a small break and for once, actually feel good about it because, if I’m being honest, I could probably crank out another two or three pages if I really felt like it.

I just want to make sure I’m on the right track though so I’m gonna take the week off to kinda go over everything I’ve made so far and reread my script, maybe catch up on some Zim episodes because hehehehehe its coming sooooooooooon.

But really I just want to thank everyone who’s been reading and sharing their thoughts on it. Like, it really means a lot, this comic is kind of my weird love letter to the fandom, for everything it’s helped me get through. So, I hope its kept in mind that I know lines can easily be crossed with the subjects im going to be sharing with this story, but absolutely none if it comes with the intention of wronging others or glorifying what shouldn’t be. It’s more like, stress relief, for people who can’t find it in their everyday lives, and want to escape to a place where it’s okay to let loose. If that makes sense.

Anyways, time to go, expect a lot of sketches this coming week, I might have to figure something out with the blog formatting cause idk, it’s already pretty cluttered. But I like to think that’s just part of the experience of it all lmao. I hope y’all have a wonderful night. Stay safe and don’t let them get you.

[frink-o-matic]

I’m not sure how much longer I can handle being anxious.

[proshipconfessions]

Responding to your last post about proshippers complaining about other proshippers. You didn't provide this option, but I really think it should depend on the content of the ask... And yes, this is a confession blog for proshippers/profic, etc. aligned people. Telling us to go to antiship confession blogs is horrifically stupid and is only going to put us in dangerous positions.

The proship community is not immune from being shitty. There are proshippers who act just like antis. People who think they can change their race and give themselves disabilities are straight up infecting the community as well. There are proshippers who are horrifically ableist against pwOSDDID, schizospec disorders, etc. There are proshippers who straight up use slurs they can not reclaim. There are proshippers who call people the r slur. I especially think proshippers with these disorders (including myself) should have a safe outlet to talk about the toxicity and abuse within our own community without telling us to basically become an anti. Because what the hell???

Of course, I can't read every single anon that you get, but if they are anything along the lines of what I'm talking about here, consider not deleting them. Especially don't tell people to "just become antis" or "just go to antiship confession blogs." That's harmful as fuck.

If anything, these confessions should serve as a reality check that our community isn't perfect. Or serve to remind people that this behavior shouldn't or won't be tolerated in the proship community. Not every self-proclaimed "proshipper" is actually a proshipper, especially if they act abusive, ableist, or harass people like antis do. I will die on this hill.

If you don't want to house confessions about these topics, that's fine. Just say so, and I'll make my own confessional blog where these topics are allowed.

You’re right that there are plenty of people who are proship and also shitty af. It’s something that I’ve both posted plenty of confessions about and have actually even—in case you haven’t been familiar with my blog for a while—made my own post about! It’s like one of just a few posts that I have made speaking directly from my mouth and not a confession. It’s just a post that I wrote about behavior that I hate seeing pop up far too commonly in this community. I literally can’t count how many people I have blocked, which includes not only antis, but also shitty proshippers and pricks who claim to be them while supporting harm caused to others in real life.

You’re also right that you can’t read every anon that I get. I would have much preferred that you even just ask what kind of thing I’m talking about instead of acting like you’re some secret second mod and I’m just some asshole who refuses to hold anyone or any behavior accountable as long as I agree with them on some level.

I really do wonder what you would think about one of the (many with a similar tone) asks that inspired this post.

Do you know how many anons I get with the same fucking attitude and the same fucking insistence that they’re right and I’m wrong and evil, and yet I’m somehow the perfect mouthpiece for their beliefs? What reality check is this supposed to be giving me? Please either stop assuming that everything I say is in bad faith or genuinely try to explain to me what the good content for my followers is in this ask. This is the behavior that I mocked in my post. I also have an old one that I think is somewhere in my drafts(?) where the evil behavior that they’ve seen among a bunch of proshippers that has made them hate all proshippers is venting about harassment from antis. The fake post I made mocking them is an amalgamation of those two, but you only get this one since I’m way too tired to go find the other one rn lol. If someone reminds me, I can reblog it with it later.

Also, I really can’t tell where I said in my post that I would tell these people to go to antiship blogs (other than my reference to a comment where I said that if all that people send to my inbox is how much they hate proshippers and basic proship ideology, then they should probably take that to an anti blog) instead of just deleting the ask, like I actually said in the post. The post that was really more of a way to let off some steam while getting some use out of the Tumblr polls that I practically never get to do anything with. Do you think that the person in those screenshots that I put above is more at home here than they’d be sending this to some anti’s blog?

But like to try to put myself in your shoes, you could’ve been having a shitty day when you sent this, you could be young, or hell, you could’ve seen someone say something similar to my statement recently while meaning this shitty completely different thing. Or maybe you’ve never seen my blog in your life and have no clue what kind of stuff I do/don’t post. My response might sound super defensive, and I hope that it doesn’t, and that I’m not jumping to conclusions, too. I’d hate to blow this out of proportion over what could easily be just a misunderstanding. If I’m being too harsh, sorry. I aim any coldness towards all of these bigoted ideas and the idea that I hold them, and not at you as a person, as I’m willing to believe that you’re an entirely rational person who just misunderstood me and lashed out at me bc of it. But if there is a next time, please try to give me the benefit of the doubt. I don’t ever intend to do anything harmful, and what I said wasn’t intended to imply anything like what you’re saying here at all. I’m not talking about proshippers venting. I’m talking about actual antis coming into my inbox with the “I’m like TECHNICALLY a proshipper, I guess, but I just despise proshippers and think that people who engage with certain types of fiction are inherently bad!!!” So unless you’re one of these people coming into my inbox, then I am NOT telling YOU to go to antiship confession blogs. And if you are… well, then you’re probably not gonna see this, since I’m going through and blocking all of these dickheads soon.

[chibishortdeath]

Genuinely debating just deleting all my accounts and starting new doing something else because I am miserable. The Castlevania fandom is the worst fandom I’ve ever been in my whole life.

Vent under a cut. Read the warnings in the tags.

First time I started being a fan of it I was a young teenager. At the time I was heavily suicidal, playing SotN is what got me distracted enough not to do it. Started out with Instagram because that’s where I heard most people went to start an art portfolio and do commissions.

First few months of being a fan of the series the hashtags were frozen due to the election happening, so I, a suicidal teenager, was immediately subjected to graphic gore porn of my favorite character (Simon) who I turned to looking up for comfort that was stuck there until the hashtags were unfrozen. For months I could not turn to my source of comfort without seeing that, and turned to dissociating even worse than I already was instead. That was the first red flag.

After this I had some sincerely good experiences with some live streams. Genuinely nice people doing cosplay and gaming. But there was one person I watched who did not end up as good as everyone else. This person followed me, liked my outfit stories, talked to me in chat. I was still in high school. Not gonna go into details for anonymity’s sake, but long story short I got groomed. And at around the same time I had made another “friend” in the fandom who turned out to be homophobic and would take out all their problems on me, a teen, while they were a grown ass adult. Instagram continued to get worse. Found out someone I was close to made some racist rant behind my back. Found out another was a MAP. So on and so forth. And the worst part is how many people I knew who were close friends with these people, people who would not have believed me if I’d told them. Especially since some of them were more popular than I.

So I gave up on Insta, stopped posting, stopped talking, and I got a discord. Which started out fine! Found a small server of nice fans, made good friendships I still have. I had Reddit for a short amount of time and found out how dogshit it is when a smaller server I thought was cool started bullying a small artist for drawing gay fanart. I use it purely for game dev and vocaloid help questions now. Eventually I got the courage to come here, to tumblr. Months into that move I run into CP. And then several TERFs. And then a necrophile in the main tags. And then misogyny. And then racism. And then defending CP. Then a surge of transphobia. And then I get shit for getting the courage to call out CP. I try to go to YouTube to find content and escape— run into out in the open slurs and people bluntly claiming albino people aren’t human in comment sections about Juste. I try to watch videos and see the art of my groomer being used everywhere. I am constantly reminded that I am outnumbered.

I go back to discord. The main mod of it ends up interacting creepily with minors and is transphobic to my friends. Whole server blows up. Large amount of people take the mod’s side and blacklist us from a large amount of servers, gossiping about everyone involved to completely unrelated people while not telling the whole truth, all while being horrifically transphobic about a friend. Someone else in the server turns out to be an abusive piece of shit. I don’t even try making a twitter because it’s a hellhole anyway, and someone I’d know about from most other platforms I’d been on harassed a friend of mine on there. Not to mention the transphobic roleplay account that’s still around somehow.

I swear I have to block a new person in this fandom every. single. day. I swear some bullshit happens in this fandom every. single. day.

I want to draw a vampire hunter and not be absolutely thoroughly terrified that I am going to run into more vile shit and dangerous situations if I talk to anyone. I want to draw a vampire hunter and not be deeply afraid of meeting new people in this fandom. I want to draw a vampire hunter and not have my paranoia confirmed every day. I want to draw a vampire hunter and find comfort in doing so again.

Is that too much to ask.

[trevination]

crying breakdown at 1 am. what else is new

[transmechanicus]

Kind of hard to ask as anon

But you doing ok?

Need to vent?

Hi very kind and thoughtful of you to ask, i am doing mmmmm suboptimal but i do not need to vent to a person per se, so much as i need to say absolutely insane shit in my tags and have everyone pretend not to see <3

[liatorii]

Oh how I hate oral exams where you have no idea how it’ll end because the professor has been so unpredictable and mean-

[good-night-space-kid]

I’m submitting my grad school applications so. Here goes nothing!!!

[oxymoronicdumbass]

if i’m not constantly stressed and busy, then i’m lazy and wasting valuable time, but if i am constantly stressed and busy then i am constantly stressed and busy

[koifrog]

I’m approaching 27 which means that we are now in this unexpected period of life where we need to replace all of our “good enough for now” things that we got super cheap (or free from family) when we first started living on our own. I am realizing that it is VERY difficult to get rid of things, not just from an emotional attachment standpoint but also:

“Well it technically DOES still work even if it’s unpleasant and falling apart” (especially applicable to ugly/uncomfortable furniture)

“We don’t have to get rid of it, we can always repair it” (it is literally broken and falling apart)

“Wouldn’t it be Bad and Consumeristic to just throw something away that isn’t actually broken just because I want a new one?” (this one plagues me)

“Getting a New Thing would be way too expensive” (hasn’t even checked the price of a replacement, I absolutely can afford it but it would cost more than $50)

Even when I’ve fought through those arguments (which is very hard to do considering these are things I learned while growing up during the 2008 recession and struggling financially due to severe illness and death in the family when I was young) and come out the other side determined to actually replace something, a new issue arises. “How am I going to get rid of the old thing?”

“I can’t donate this because it’s broken or stained”

“I want to sell this but this requires a lot of energy that I don’t have (photographing the item, pricing the item, posting an ad for the item, sorting through offers for the item, arranging pickup for the item, possibly even shipping the item)”

“I want to throw this away but it’s too large to put in the garbage so it must go on the curb and I don’t know the protocol for that”

“I want to throw this away but it’s too large to put in the garbage and too broken to give away so it must go to the dump and I don’t have a vehicle I can use to take this there so I will need to reach out to family for help”

“I want to throw this away but I’m not sure how to do so in an Environmentally Friendly way”

This sort of situation is a nightmare for my mentally ill mind, and it results in me simply giving up and putting up with keeping the shitty item I know I want to replace and repeating the same excuses to myself to justify it enough that I don’t break down in frustrated tears every time I look at the thing I’ve been wanting to get rid of for months.

I’m sick of it though. I am tired of having to put up with being stuck with something I don’t like just because it’s not “bad enough” to justify going through the stress of removing from my life. I am tired of living with these things that I want to get rid of taking up the space I want to give to something new that I do love that I picked out myself on purpose. I am tired of my own happiness not being a good enough reason to justify doing something difficult or inconvenient. I am approaching 30. I don’t want to live the next decade of my life like I’ve lived the first two, just dealing with what’s been given to me and not saying no, incapable of removing things I don’t like to make space for things I do.