#i know sometimes therapy is not supposed to feel good but this felt very bad in an unhelpful way

[sol1loqu1st]

it's a mental breakdown (skateboarding crab kazoo vine)

[charliemwrites]

Government Asset Soap! This is half of the last part (the smut got too long and I wanted to post this dammit).

Original concept comes from @ceilidho’s military asset Soap. Further inspiration came from @391780’s Nikto version “The Summons”. Both are very good and you should definitely check out!!

Content: Post-trauma coping, Non-Con Touching and Kissing, Violence (mentioned), Unstable Soap

It’s probably a fire hazard, the candles. They’re sprinkled across your little cabin like fireflies, feeble but steady heartbeats of a home you’re failing to build. Too many of them, likely. Two, sometimes three, per room. Tiny tealights, smokeless soy, scented pine. It would be easier, safer, to just turn on the lamps you foolishly invested in.

You can’t bear anything brighter than golden halogen anymore, though. The glare drags you back to a tiny cell bisected by cruel metal, holding back an even crueler fate. No, you’d much rather wade through pools of shadow and firelight, fire code be damned.

It’s a small cabin, but you’ve already cluttered it up with furniture and rugs, a theme for each room. Yellow and blue for the kitchen. Purple and cream for the den. Green and brown for your bedroom. Nooks to hide in, spaces to squeeze into, big shapes to huddle behind. You’ll never be caught out in a cold, barren room ever again.

Your days are long regardless of the time of year. Get groceries in town every day, making a point to be friendly and seen so that someone might notice if you suddenly stop coming. Clean incessantly, so many surfaces to dust. Pick hobbies like daisies. Knitting and crocheting, different paint styles, felting. You’re contemplating carpentry, would like to build shelves for all the books stacked up in the den. Keep a dream journal by your bed that you neglect for weeks at a time.

You draw out the nights until you can count the hours until dawn on one hand. Stay up baking, making homemade ink, learning new ways to style your hair, anything, anything, anything—

It’s not the sleeping – or at least that’s not the worst of it. It’s the waking.

Laswell suggested a cat.

You told her to stop suggesting pussy to unstable people.

But it’s still not a bad idea. Another living thing to keep you accountable; the plants are pretty and time-consuming, but not good company.

You talk yourself out of it every time, knowing the worst-case scenario. It’s not catastrophizing if it actually happens, and you can feel an invisible time weighing on your shoulders like another gravity. Tick, tick, tick. Heavier, heavier, heavier. It’s hard to breathe beneath the wait.

The military doesn’t do apologies. It does platitudes at best. Well wishes and good intentions are painted in brushstrokes of blood. Victory flags are planted on bodies, living or otherwise. Laswell apologized. She swore that if there had been another way – any other way…

She didn’t promise to leave you alone. Didn’t assure you that you’d never see her or her goons again.

If you thought it would do any good, you’d tip one of the candles over and set it all aflame. Rebirth through fire. But you never did figure yourself for a phoenix. And besides, a phoenix is still itself, even when the ash falls away.

So, you spool out your time like picking at tapestry threads, one thin string at time.

Tonight, it’s bread. Cinnamon chocolate babka, to be specific. You were craving something sweet. Are debating the merits of some sort of cream cheese icing while you shower off the long, ever-busy day.

Have decided on an optimistic why not as you slip out to begin your overly complicated self-care routine. Moisturizers, hair oils, lotion. An unexpected benefit of overloading yourself, you suppose. Even when you first got out of the military, you didn’t take such good care of yourself. You have a jogging route now. You’re handling your trauma every possible way except therapy. (And sleeping.) Better than nothing, you figure.

The candles have gone out in your bedroom. You click your tongue in annoyance, trying to remember where you left the matches this time. Bedside table?

You pad across the soft carpet, using the edge of the bed as a guide in the pitch black. The only other problem with candles is that their humble light doesn’t reach very far. But you know this house and keep the floors tidy enough that you’re confident you won’t trip.

Make it to the nightstand without incident and pat around. Knock the side of your hand into the little carton and only just catch it before it hits the deck. Let out a little huff and start to fumble it open.

“Nice catch, bonnie.”

You gasp, but your voice doesn’t get any farther than the back of your tongue. The box slips from your numb fingers, matchsticks scattering across the floor. He tsks.

“Shame that. We’ll get ‘em later.”

You can’t move. Can barely breathe. You’re just frozen, heart thundering with a sudden storm of fear and confusion. Hands still aloft in front of you, spine rigid, knees locked.

You feel more than hear movement behind you, and then the warmth of his body seeping into your naked skin. Not quite touching. Not yet.

“Missed you, little bird,” he rasps in your ear.

You always thought that in a moment like this you would scream. Kick and elbow and fight, damn your certain loss. But when it comes down to it, survival drowns out all those stupid, haughty ideas about pride and dignity. So you don’t curse and shout like you always fancied you would.

You whisper, “Soap.”

He hums but it sounds like a growl in your panicked state. “Missed me too, aye? You’re already naked fer me.”

His hands are searing when they settle on your waist like they belong there. He pulls you back against him; in the dark he’s bigger, broader than you remember. At least, you think, he’s fully clothed for now.

“What are you… how are you here?” you ask.

He barks a laugh, mean and rough. “Was only a matter of time after that shite they pulled.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and see it recreated in the phosphenes behind your lids.

Soap buried balls deep inside of you, murmuring a constant stream of filth as he got harder and harder inside you. Filling you up as you twitched around him, oversensitive and teary, afraid of what would come next.

Then the lights flashed, flicked red. An alarm sounded, Laswell’s voice ordering Soap away from you. But he just snarled and hunched over you, hips snapping to bury himself right back inside while you cried out.

The locked door swung in, armed guards swarming in. Yanked Soap off you while you scrambled to cover yourself. Someone grabbing your arm none too gently to pull you from the room. Soap wild-eyed and snarling like something possessed, until he was overtaken by struggling guards and you were trembling naked in that damned hallway.

“Was mad at you, at first, cannae lie,” he says, almost conversational. Your eyes snap open, though you know it’ll do you no good. “But I’ve had time to think on it. Wasnae yer fault, was it? Saw them drag you out.”

An awful relief floods you. Fuck dignity, fuck honesty. This is Soap right behind you, completely unrestrained and unsupervised.

“Yeah,” you answer, voice small. “I didn’t know they would do that. What… um. What happened to you?”

He presses his face into your damp hair, pressing closer, snaking his arms to squeeze you against him.

“Sent me off on some shite mission,” he explains, “probably hoped I’d die out there. You smell so good, lass.”

You shiver as his breath ghosts over the sensitive skin of your neck. Hot, humid.

“And… and then what?” you insist, trying to stall.

You’re not sure what you’re stalling for. There will be no miraculous saves here – not that you really got any last time. It’s not like there’s any real plan to be made here, either. None that you’d be confident enough to risk his wrath on.

“Disappeared. Took care of business. Came to get my pretty little bird.”

A rough hand trails over the curve of your hip, brush the neat curls of your mound. You suck in a breath, hands twitching with the urge to stop him but not sure of putting up resistance when you’re still unsure of his mental state.

“And what about you, hm?” he rumbles. “Been a good girl while I’ve been away?”

His fingers dart down towards your entrance, not nearly prepared for anything. Least of all his thick digits.

“Y-yes!” you yelp, grabbing at his wrist. Relief makes you dizzy when you manage to stop him. “I-I’ve been good. Which means I’m not… I can’t just take you. I need… I need prep.”

He huffs, nips at the tender spot beneath your ear. The thrill that shoots through your stomach is terrifying.

“That’s what these are for, bonnie.”

And to your horror, he starts to push past your resistance like your staying hands aren’t there at all.

“John!”

He freezes. You shudder air into your burning lungs, feeling dizzy on panic.

You can get through this without pain, just think.

“I haven’t even got to see you,” you stutter, voice shaky. Can’t quite inject the disappointment you’re trying for, but hopefully it’ll work. “And I bet you’re all dirty from travel.”

He grumbles. “So what?”

You scramble to think of a satisfactory response. “S-so let’s get reacquainted in the shower, yeah? That way I can see your handsome face, at least.”

He chuckles, grazes his teeth “playfully” across your cheek. “Bossy thing.”

“You like it.”

And to your shock, he agrees with an amused huff. Hauls you up in his arms and walks you back to the still muggy bathroom. You’re set on your feet and spun around, chin jerked up to receive a savage kiss. All tongue and teeth, no finesse. He’s just licking into your mouth, hungry and animalistic, spit dribbling down your chin.

When he finally pulls away, you blink spots from your vision. Finally focus on his smug features and make a soft, horrified noise when you register the splatter of crimson across them.

“Och, that? My little bird had watchers.”

Of course you did. The horror ebbs a bit. Resentment has made you indiscriminately bitter.

“Oh,” you say, “th-thank you. Definitely glad we’re showering first, then.”

“Squeamish?”

You’d like to know when the world turned upside down and John fucking “Soap” MacTavish began teasing you about the blood on his face.

“A bit,” you admit.

“Poor dear,” he coos. “Hard to believe we were made for each other sometimes, aye? Complementary, we are.”

Is that what he thinks? Christ.

You turn to start the shower again, spine prickling with the weight of his eyes on your back. The water rushes down and then he’s crowding you against the cold wall beneath the (thankfully) warm spray.

“Y-you’re still dressed!” you protest between sharp nips to your collarbone.

“Fix it, then,” he snarls.

You claw his shirt up his back, get momentarily distracted by the impressive display of muscle hidden beneath. Draw your palms over his chest and feel him shudder.

“Fuckin’ heavenly, love,” he purrs. “Missed this.”

A vague memory comes back to you, him gripping you close because he felt you naked against him for the first time. Him admitting he hasn’t had affectionate touch in a while.

This… this you could work with.

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[illdowhatiwantthanks]

The Avocado & The Turnip (The Surprise, Part 8)

Emily Prentiss x fem!reader Warnings: established relationship, pregnancy times, fluffy fluff, kind of hurt/comfort (?), mentions of some pretty horrific crimes (duh), gunshot wound, some explicit language Word Count: 1.8k

Summary: A series of hard cases puts a strain on your relationship with Emily. Anxieties run high on both sides, and the reality of Emily's job–and the risks the come with it–feel even more real than usual now that there's going to be a child in the picture.

Week 16: The Avocado

“I just don’t know what to say to him,” Emily exclaimed, resting her chin on your stomach, a worried look on her face.

Your plans for an adorable evening of talking to the baby had backfired. For unknown reasons, Emily had come home in a bad mood, anxious and on edge. Somehow, the news that the baby could likely hear you now had only made her more anxious.

“You can say anything, Em. She’s the size of an avocado. She’s not gonna remember what we say; she’s gonna remember our voices.”

You ran your fingers through Emily’s hair, trying your best to alleviate some of her stress. You’d meant for this to be good news, to be a fun, cute little moment she could have with you and the baby after a brutal day at work.

“Tell her about your day,” you suggested.

Emily glared at you, and you felt yourself shrink. “I can’t tell him about my day!” she yelled, her voice angry. “What am I supposed to say? Hey, little man! I have to leave you tomorrow to go find a guy who’s murdering teenage boys by ripping their throats out with his teeth and then eating them. But don’t worry, I’ve only had to deal with, oh, ten or so cannibals over the years. The chances of you being cannibalized are slim. Never zero though!”

In your head, you knew that Emily’s outburst had nothing to do with you, nothing to do with the baby, and everything to do with the horrendous things she saw at work. She tried very hard not to bring work home with her, not to carry the weight of the horrors she saw every day into your house. But sometimes they stuck to her. Sometimes they dragged her down, and she couldn’t quite shake them. But it wasn’t often that she was mean. She hardly ever raised her voice at you. She knew it scared you.

You sat up and placed a hand protectively over your stomach, trying to keep your face set, impassive, but flinching a little as Emily moved toward you.

She was instantly full of regret. Her face fell as she noticed that your posture had changed from open to defensive, noticed the way your eyes had glazed over–a remnant of trauma.

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry,” she breathed, cupping your cheek. “I’m so sorry.”

You softened when you saw that she was close to crying–a rarity for Emily–and pulled her head to your chest, pressing kisses to the top of her head.

“I’m sorry, baby,” she mumbled against you. “It was just a hard day.”

“Tell me about it.”

“What?” she asked, lifting her head a bit.

“Tell me,” you insisted. “I can handle it. You’re my wife. You had a bad day. I want to hear about it.”

Emily shook her head, her voice so quiet you almost couldn’t hear. “No, you don’t.”

“Hey,” you said, tilting her chin so she was looking in your eyes. “I can decide what’s too much for me, okay?” You rubbed your thumb back and forth along her cheek. “If I say I can handle it, I need you to believe me.”

Emily sighed, exhaling shakily. “You remember after we started dating?” she explained, her voice low. “And I had a really hard time at work because every victim who was a woman made me think of you?”

“I remember,” you answered. And you did. If there had ever been a time in your relationship when you would’ve broken up with Emily, that would have been it. She’d been angry, on edge, paranoid, and even more obsessive about work than usual. It had eventually gotten so bad that you’d given her an ultimatum–start going to therapy or this isn’t going to work. Nearly six years later, Emily still had a biweekly standing appointment with her therapist–unless, of course, she was in the field.

She played with your fingers, quiet for a moment. “It feels like that all over again, but with kids. Child victims are hard anyway, but… every tiny body I see, I just think of him and–” Her voice broke, and you held her a little tighter. “It scares the shit out of me.”

“Of course it does,” you assured her. “That just means you love her, baby. It means you’re gonna be a great mom. It makes sense that those cases hit closer to home right now.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to take it out on you. Or him.”

You exhaled slowly, kissing the top of her head again. “When was your last appointment with Angie?”

Emily sat up, stretching, and shrugged, looking guilty. “Last month, maybe? I just–I’ve been out on cases and…”

“I know, baby,” you said, taking her hands in yours before she could start biting her nails. “It’s okay. But, maybe you should call her and see if she can get you in. Even tonight, you know? Before you leave tomorrow. She does telehealth, doesn’t she?”

Emily nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

She still looked guilty and nervous. It broke your heart.

“Come here,” you said, tugging her onto your lap. She wrapped her arms and legs around you and hugged you like you were the only thing keeping her tethered to this world. And for your part–you held on like you’d never, ever let her go–and you never, ever would.

Week 17: The Turnip

“She what!?” you yelled into the phone, launching yourself off the couch and scrounging around in the junk drawer for your keys.

“Calm down, mama,” Derek soothed through the phone. “It’s just a surface wound. The bullet grazed her shoulder, that’s all.”

“That’s all!? My wife gets shot, and you’re telling me that’s all!?”

You heard a scuffle on the other end of the phone, a distant, sharp Give me the phone! and then there was Emily’s voice, flooding you with relief.

“Honey, I’m fine, I promise,” she said, and she certainly didn’t sound like she was dying.

“You got shot!”

“Just a little bit…” Her voice was sheepish.

You threw up your hands in frustration. “Emily Elizabeth Prentiss! You have a child coming. You can’t be getting shot!”

“I know, I know.”

You sighed, rubbing your forehead. “What hospital are you at?”

“No, baby, you don’t need to come,” she protested.

“Don’t need to come, my ass,” you grumbled. “Where are you?”

Another scuffle and Derek had the phone back. “Y/N. Hey. We’re just in Baltimore, alright? She’ll probably be discharged here in a few minutes, and I’ll bring her home.”

You were still a little suspicious. “Straight home?”

“You have my word.”

It was the longest hour and a half of your life, sitting on the couch, watching the Find My dot of Emily inch its way home. You frowned when you saw her stop at El Rinconcito. That little shit. She was trying to buy you off with pupusas. Well, it wasn’t going to work. Your stomach rumbled. Well, it might work a little bit.

A half hour later, you heard the door unlock. Derek held it open for a very guilty looking Emily, who walked through the threshold with her arm bandaged and wrapped in a sling.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, your hands fluttering all over her, gingerly touching the bandage and turning her face this way and that to check for more damage.

“I’m fine, honey,” she said, pressing her good hand to your face and kissing you.

“Mmhm,” you mumbled, unconvinced. “Tell that to your unborn child.”

Emily crouched down and pressed a kiss to your stomach. “Mommy’s just fine, little guy, don’t you worry.”

It was so cute, you couldn’t even be that mad.

“Alright, lovebirds,” Derek said, gesturing to the couch. “Get comfortable and let Uncle Derek take care of you.”

You grimaced, thinking of straight people things. “Eew.”

He rolled his eyes at you. “Not like that. Sit down and eat your pupusas, woman.”

You and Emily giggled, plopping yourselves on the couch, one on either side.

Derek threw blankets at you, and you got yourselves situated, your legs tangled in the middle. Derek plated the takeout and brought it to you.

“I could get used to this,” Emily said, taking a bite and running her foot up and down your leg.

“You better fucking not,” you mumbled through a bite of pupusa. “I don’t want you getting shot every time you want a lazy day.”

Derek brought you both glasses of water and set a bottle of pain meds on the side table next to Emily.

“Anything else I can do for you, ladies?” he asked. “Foot rub? Serenade? Grocery run?”

You smiled at him. He was so good to you. Both of you. “You’re gonna make some straight woman very happy.”

He bent down to ruffle your hair and to squeeze Emily’s good hand. “I’ll settle for my favorite lesbians for now. You need anything else before I go?”

Emily shook her head. “No, I think we’ll be okay. Thanks, Morgan.”

“Anytime, Prentiss,” he replied, giving her a small salute as he walked out the door. "Call me if you need anything."

The moment he left, you shot a glare at Emily. 

“What?” she said, trying and failing to shrug, thanks to her injured shoulder.

You couldn’t help the worried expression that took over your face.

“Please tell me you’re careful,” you pleaded, brushing a few unexpected tears from under your eyes.

“Y/N.” She sat up, alarmed, and reached for your hand. “I’m careful. I swear.”

“I just… I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“And you’ll never have to find out,” she reassured, rubbing her thumb across the back of your hand.

“We need you, Em,” you whispered, placing your other hand over your baby bump.

She winced a little as she moved forward, pulling your face toward her so she could stroke your cheek. “I’m never reckless, honey. I do everything I can to stay safe. I promise. I will always come home to you.”

You were quiet as she pressed her forehead to yours, breathing in the smell of her, the warmth. You both knew it was a promise she couldn't make, not with her job. But you needed Emily to understand that it wasn't just her she was staying safe for anymore. It was you and the little one, who deserved to grow up with both of her moms.

“Sometimes it scares me how much I love you,” you said, so quiet she almost didn’t hear.

Emily kissed your forehead, then pressed her lips to yours, soft and gentle. “Me too.”

She pecked you on the lips again, then brushed her thumb over your bottom lip. “But you don’t need to be scared today, okay?”

She smiled a little, and you nodded, taking a deep breath.

“Now, eat your pupusas,” she grinned, pinching your cheek.

[thatfandomslut]

No Matter What

Regine George x Reader

Word Count: 1.1k

Trigger Warning: insecurity

Request:

Valentine's / Follower Celebration Request; Regina George w/ quote 51 and piece of chocolate 5. Or: “In my opinion, the best thing you can do is find someone who loves you for exactly what you are. Good mood, bad mood, ugly, pretty, handsome, what have you.” w/ arguing

Valentine's / Follower Celebration Requests are closed.

"So, what happened?" Cady asked as she passed (Y/n) the glass of water from her counter. What is usually the time that Cady takes to tutor (Y/n) has turned into a therapy session since (Y/n) and Regina are arguing. This was a very rare occasion as they typically settled things in private but Regina brought Karen and Gretchen into it, so (Y/n) has come to Cady. Hence why there was a math book and homework, that was twenty-five percent finished, scattered on the table.

(Y/n) accepted the water gratefully, sighing as she wiped the tears streaming down her cheeks. "I told her I felt uncomfortable with her relationship with Shane Omen. I never said they couldn't be friends. I wouldn't ever tell anyone who to be friends with or they couldn't be friends with. However, she does that for me all the time. That's why I felt like I had the right to at least let her know that the way she was still friends with her ex-boyfriend, the boy she cheated on Aaron with, makes me uncomfortable. Maybe I'm just insecure, but them having a relationship worries me." (Y/n) explained, hoping she didn't sound bitter.

There was a hum that escaped Cady as she listened, nodding carefully. (Y/n) She could see that she was thinking, which made her dread that maybe she had no one on her side. "I understand your worries. I wouldn't feel comfortable either. I think it's actually very healthy to establish boundaries. I also don't think it's fair that Regina has made you unfriend people and then get mad when you express your discomfort with her and Shane." Cady sat beside her, putting a comforting hand on her arm. (Y/n) felt validated by Cady's words, happy to finally have someone who sees the disagreement from her point of view.

"I feel like it wouldn't matter if she didn't cheat on someone else with him. I don't care that she's friends with Aaron or her other exes. It's just Shane." (Y/n) told Cady, leaning back in her seat. She felt a bit embarrassed by how insecure she was, but she knew Cady wasn't judging her. "I just sometimes don't even feel good enough for Regina. Then, I find out she's hanging out with Shane Omen. What am I supposed to think? I know it's bad for me. I'm supposed to trust her. I do trust her. I'm just being insecure. I just really love her."

Cady rubbed her back softly. She understood what (Y/n) was saying. Oftentimes, she felt insecure around the girls herself. But, she knew it was a different level since she was in an actual relationship with Regina. "In my opinion, the best thing you can do is find someone who loves you for exactly what you are. Good mood, bad mood, ugly, pretty, handsome, what have you. I honestly feel like that is the love that you and Regina have. Maybe, you two just need to sit down, and maybe you can try to be vulnerable with her like you were with me." She offered softly.

She was right, too. (Y/n) and Regina did share a love that would overcome this. (Y/n) did love Regina despite all of her moods. She loved her in the morning when her hair was messy, she loved her in the afternoon when she was at lunch looking her most confident. "You're right," (Y/n) said softly, looking at her homework. "But first, I really do need help with my homework." They shared a small fit of laughter before Cady helped her finish her work.

After tutoring, she headed to Regina, wondering what she was going to say. Admittedly, (Y/n) felt a bit nervous. She wasn't the best at confrontation. That's why she sat in her car for ten minutes. Eventually, she pried herself from the driver's seat and made her way to Regina's front door. Before (Y/n) could knock or ring the doorbell, Regina opened the door with flushed cheeks. She stared at (Y/n) for a moment before running a manicured hand through her blonde hair. "I saw you sitting in your car for a while." She confessed, looking away a bit.

There was a moment of silence between the two of them, but there was no tension. It was just a thick heaviness of nervousness in the air. "I'm sorry," the two of them said in sync before laughing softly, a bit of awkwardness lifting off their shoulders. It was nice to see their anger over their last argument has finally worn off. (Y/n) always hated when Regina was angry, and Regina always tried to make sure (Y/n) was never angry. They worked together like that, always trying to protect each other's feelings while communicating and telling the truth. Sometimes, it led to little arguments, but the Shane Omen one was one of their bigger blow-ups.

Regina led her into the house, all the way to her room. "I want you to know that I cut off Shane. I realized that you had every right to feel uncomfortable. I'm sorry for invalidating your feelings the way that I did. I hope that you'll be able to forgive me." Regina said with a soft smile. (Y/n) only saw that smile when Regina was feeling vulnerable with her. Unlike (Y/n), Regina wasn't someone who wore her heart on her sleeve. So, when she apologizes, it means she took a lot of time out of her day to consider the things that have happened.

(Y/n) sighed, noticing that Regina's hand was taken into hers still. She laced their fingers together as she got the words sorted in her mind. "I'm sorry, too. I realized that I was just jealous and insecure. I trust you, and I should've made that clear. Instead, I let my fear control me." She explained, feeling tears brim in her eyes as she began to feel embarrassed again. She grew even more embarrassed when the tears began to fall down her cheeks.

Regina wiped the tears away softly, kissing (Y/n) gently on the lips. "(Y/n), I love you. No matter what I love you. I love so much it's crazy. You were valid to feel everything that you felt. The truth is, I should've cut him off a long time ago. None of this was fair to you." She said carefully, pulling away, but letting her hands stay to rub away any stray tear that continued to cascade down her girlfriend's cheeks.

There was a soft smile that pulled at the corners of (Y/n)'s lips as she sniffed. "I love you, too, Regina. No matter what." She said softly, moving in to kiss Regina once more.

[cross-my-heartt]

Alright, I’m saying it

I hate what they did with Crosshair in season three

Yes, the entirety of season three, barring maybe only the first three episodes. Let me elaborate.

I’ve been seeing people be more open about criticizing the finale and it’s given me the push to be more open about my own thoughts. And since I still advertise myself as a Crosshair girlie, I think this is a good place to start.

I really honestly don’t like the majority of what they did with Crosshair’s character this season. And yes, that includes the hand tremors. From the myriad things that felt out of character for him to making him a walking exposition dump, to completely stripping him of his more interesting qualities I honestly struggle to see him as the same character I loved right up until the end of season two.

I almost understand why so many people have come around on him – it’s because he’s a completely different character. We’re meant to believe that his time on Tantiss and Hemlock’s attempted reconditioning has changed him as a person. Which is all fine and dandy until you realize that this new character we get feels more like he’s gone through therapy rather than trauma.

New Crosshair is much more agreeable. He’s mild, he rolls over at the first sign of conflict, he talks about his emotions at the drop of a hat and there’s barely any meaningful tension between him and the other characters (not one that’s not forced anyways).

And my question is, why? If we’re just going to use off screen trauma (off. screen. trauma???) to change characters willy nilly then what even is the point of watching a show?

Say I suddenly wanted to make Wrecker this very angry character with a short fuse and I decide that he got an injury off screen that’s causing him chronic pain. It makes sense logically while at the same time making zero sense for him, even less so if you don’t see it play out, because it erases core parts of the character that we already know.

One of the first things Crosshair does in tcw is start a fight. Crosshair has always been a belligerent guy. He literally responds to being hurt by attacking. Where is that combativeness now? I would even go as far as to say that he’s been the primary source of conflict for the group since season one and I don’t even mean that in a bad way. Crosshair bites back. He hides pain by trying to inflict it, he talks back, he challenges, he digs his heels in to the point of proactively making bad life choices.

And the reason why he’s worked so well in this team so far is because his tendencies were counteracted by those around him, right up until the inevitable rift caused by the chip. I could go on about Wrecker and Tech but we all know that the main counterbalance, Crosshair’s foil here, is Hunter. Hunter is supposed to be the one that deescalates, they’ve gotten along so far because he’s the one that handled rising tensions (it’s the reason he’s the leader of their group to begin with. Remember who deescalated that fight in tcw? Remember who started it?) Where Crosshair pushes, Hunter puts a stop to it. Where Crosshair attacks, Hunter deflects, maybe sometimes too much.

And these first two season have felt like they were steadily building towards a confrontation between these two. We wanted Hunter to snap at Crosshair on Pabu because we’ve been craving it. This whole time Crosshair’s been saddled with more and more trauma, unresolved tensions from as far back as season one (which we all seem to have forgotten about as if that story never happened, tldr I’m still bitter no one addressed the Crosshair being abandoned subplot, hello remember that) while the narrative has simultaneously been stripping Hunter of his patience; months of anxiety and frustration and stress chipping away at him and wearing him down so that we can finally get to see these characters clash. The perfect recipe for all of that tension exploding and being set loose.

And what did we get instead?

A tiny little spat. An argument that gets interrupted before fizzling out (because Crosshair can talk about feelings all of a sudden). We got Hunter in the exact right position only for the show to purposefully strip Crosshair of his characteristic belligerence because apparently we don’t want to see any conflict. It’s like they’re teasing us – look Hunter’s on the verge of snapping but Crosshair’s the bigger man now so we don’t get to see that! Why??? What part of that was satisfying?? We got Crosshair pushing back for the tiniest of seconds and resolved two seasons of tension in half an episode. Where they had to fight a giant worm. In what universe is that a satisfying conclusion.

The only reason I can think of is that this mirror development is supposed to be some kind of irony or subversion but honestly that explanation falls so flat in the face of our expectations as an audience.

And the thing is, I think even the authors realized that they had nuked their most intriguing character. Because once they removed his established response to trauma, which was all of those wonderfully complex emotional reactions, they realized they needed to manifest it in some other way. So we got the hand tremors.

Now Crosshair doesn’t get angry or stubborn he just gets jittery. And I know this sounds dismissive but the only reason that is is because the show itself deals with it in a completely ham-fisted and surface-level way.

I hated the hand tremor subplot. Me. Someone who spent two years being disabled because of neural damage to my hands that prevented me from doing the hobbies I used to define myself as a person. Someone who spent two years depressed and dysfunctional because of the loss of identity and purpose I suffered because of that disability.

So no I’m not fucking happy that they used something as serious as ptsd to spice up a character they themselves made bland in the first place. For no reason other than a subplot that went literally nowhere. A subplot that was shish kebabed after an underwhelming fight scene.

Don’t even get me started on the pun level writing of chopping said hand off.

But back to Crosshair… or what’s left of him after this season (see I can make a pun too). Crosshair was already interesting enough as a character without the added hand tremor subplot and I'm dying on that hill.

The thing is, they were so intent on pushing this new, watered down version of Crosshair that even more reasonable, level-headed characters had to be thrown under the bus, made irrationally aggressive next to him to try and make us believe it. I have a lot to say about Howzer this season but the only thing I’ll say for now is that he’s the most prominent victim of this, along with his entire retconned season one plotline.

And speaking of victims, I can’t help but feel like I need to apologize to all the Tech fans out there once again. Because what I think actually happened is that Tech was never the writers’ favorite and was never meant to get any sort of satisfying conclusion.

That was always Crosshair.

The focal point of season one. The most prominent source or drama and conflict. The character who drove the plot forward even when he appeared in a fraction of episodes. The character who got the most development (even if that development spiraled wildly out of control at the end). Nearly every major subplot in this show happened in relation to or in favor of Crosshair’s arc. Tech’s death. Omega’s capture. The CX clones. The hand tremors. All of the meaningful developments and events reserved for two characters in this show, Omega and Crosshair. (Some would argue Hunter as well but really, did Hunter get any development as a character? Spoiler alert, a happy ending is not the same as a character arc.)

My guess is that this was always meant to be the case. The writers just weren’t prepared for the fans’ response to Tech’s death, it caught them off guard, and here’s one more reason why I think creators should stay away from social media or any kind of prolonged fan interaction. Because all it got us in the end was some form of cruel teasing, them trying to ride the wave of attention and thinking their original plans would make up for it when that wave inevitably crashed.

But anyway.

What happens when you dump a bunch of pain and suffering onto a character with a problematic response to adversity? Apparently it makes them emotionally intelligent, at least according to this show. Crosshair in season three feels like a shadow of his former self – the combativeness and complex emotional responses that made him so interesting to begin with are gone, replaced with a ham-fisted manifestation of trauma that gets resolved in an equally ham-fisted way.

And I’m just not on board with that. Nor will I ever be. Even if you give me all the supposed emotional payoffs, hugs or whatever.

[sadstrever]

i’m still 114lbs. i feel sick. yesterday was an awful day, i came home and had an out of body chew and spit session. i wish there was more research on this part of ed’s, or just more people who talked about it because i can’t be alone in this. i refuse to believe i’m the only sick person who does disgusting shit like this. anyways the reason why i call it an out of body experience is because it’s almost like binging-just without all the swallowing of food. i came home and immediately started doing it and filled up 1 and 1/2 2 liter bottles with food. i spent 5 hours doing this without even realizing and pretty much emptied out my whole families fridge. the guilt i felt afterwards was worse than a binge in my opinion. not only did i totally waste SO MUCH food, make a huge mess, ended up with disgusting bottles of mush in my room, i also have to face the consequences of my family coming home to an empty fridge. but when they got home they were happy that i “ate.” god i’m such a fucking piece of shit.

anyways after all that i took 4 laxatives to try and get the guilt of wasting the food out of me. i woke up in the morning today in terrible pain but still had to go to class, cuz what am i supposed to tell my parents? “yeah i haven’t eaten in almost a month and basically just threw all the food we have out in the trash and i also took 4 laxatives, can i please stay home tehe?” so i went to 1 class and ended up leaving because the pain was so excruciating. straight from class i went to the gym and somehow burnt 900 calories because i guess that’s what guilt does to me. i had to take the bus 2 hours home afterwards(bus delays and i went to a new further gym location this time), high out of my mind. i’m home now and my stomach hurts but the laxatives finally did their job. i don’t want to keep doing this. 4 years ago i said i’d recover and then i didn’t. since then i’ve forgotten about recovery (with the exception of a few random moments here and there that i block out immediately), i am so used to living in this fucking misery that i didn’t realize how abnormal my reality is. i don’t want to be a bad person anymore. but i can’t stop lol.

this is what bothers me about the girls who romanticize this disorder SO MUCH, when much of the time they haven’t realized how difficult it can become. i know i’ve done this, even now sometimes as a coping mechanism. but man, i’m sick of it.

i have a friend who writes poetry and she wrote a poem about eating disorders that make me so fucking angry. the thing is, i’ve known her for years and she’s always had the best relationship with food out of most of the people i know. she’s naturally pretty thin(not too thin but normal) and she’s very open about her struggles. i know every single one of her stories, i know she’s diagnosed with adhd. that’s HER disorder, that i don’t understand so i DONT write fucking POETRY about it. a few months ago she kind of forced me into opening up about my eating disorder. after i did, suddenly she started writing these stories about her eating disorder-very very very suspiciously similar to mine. i obviously didn’t tell her everything but i told her about how long this has been going on and just my emotions about it. seeing her start to adapt my fucking disorder into her poetry disgusted me. she glamorized the fuck out of it and made me feel so stupid for ever opening up about it. she’s naturally skinny so she got a bunch of support from our friend group from it and i’m just upset man. i’m sick of living in misery while other people can use the idea of living in pain for attention.

i promised my best friend that in 3 weeks i’ll go back to therapy and try my best to recover. it’s not true. man it’s never fucking true. it’s never fucking over. unlike ms.deep-poetry-girl i can’t just fucking write this and log off and then eat a good warm meal and talk to my parents without them mentioning my body. i can’t wake up tomorrow morning and hug them without worrying that they’re gonna feel my bones. i can’t wear shorts anymore without people noticing the bruises. i can’t go to school and keep my focus because i have nothing to feed my brain. i can’t let anyone get close because soon enough they’ll be just like YOU. OR they’ll hate me for not wanting to get better. i can’t love myself like you do because of the disgusting things i do each day. i can’t wake up thinner and suddenly stop hating myself. FUCK YOUUUUUUUU GOD IM SO SICK OF IT GOD. whatever im done. just sick and tired.

[scepterno]

you've made the mistake of endorsing my josé redemption arc so i shall release the horrors within

because i like to think that josé, to some extent, in the back of his mind always felt bad about hurting alejandro. yeah, he thought it was necessary to get him to man up and for alejandro's own good in the long run, hell he even enjoyed taking his frustration out on someone else sometimes. but you don't press lit cigarettes into your little brother's skin and just not care. you don't have someone looking at you with hate and fear and exhaustion in their expression every day and not feel anything. you don't hurt someone day after day and remain oblivious to what it does to them

and maybe years down the line, after a lot of therapy and a long and ongoing process of healing, josé will look at the tiny circular scars on alejandro's arm and feel this... pit in his stomach. something heavy and cold that claws at his insides and makes him nauseous, it clogs up his throat and makes him want to look away. it's the same feeling he gets whenever he sees the relief on alejandro's face when josé doesn't turn something into a competition between them, or when he tenses up at being called "al", and so on

it's so different from the warmth he feels deep in his chest whenever alejandro laughs at something he says, loud and unburdened and giddy, whenever he lets josé see him weak and in pain without trying to cover everything up, whenever he shows the tiniest bit of trust in his older brother

being part of alejandro's life means he has to put up with that annoying twig boyfriend of his, who seems dead set on antagonizing josé with snarky comments and long, hard stares that seem to burn the side of his face. but the effect is lessened whenever alejandro comes to his defense with an easy smile and a "he's not so bad, come on, stop being mean". it also means he has to deal with the lovey-dovey looks exchange between the two of them, which, eugh. but fine, whatever, he can handle it

he still fucks up sometimes, of course he does, they both do. they step on toes and revert back to old habits and hurt each other and pull away. sometimes it feels like it's an uphill battle of three steps forward, two steps back. it's painful, it's messy and it's a long, long process. but they're burromuerto men, which means they're stubborn beyond reason and the very thought of giving up is appalling to them

one time josé goes over to alejandro's and noah's apartment when the little bastard is at work. they're supposed to hang out, just the two of them, watch some cheesy telenovelas and poke fun at the acting, predict the plot 30 minutes in, and get way too invested in the characters' relationships. which is why he's confused to find the apartment silent and empty, no sign of life in the living room or kitchen. he knows alejandro's home, his shoes are at there under the hangers and the door was unlocked, so where is he? he calls out his name as he makes his way towards his bedroom, knocking on the door and waiting for a reply. still nothing. he pushes the door open cautiously and feels his heart drop to his stomach

he recalls both carlos and alejandro mentioning something about "bad days" offhandedly, but neither of them seemed particularly interested in talking about it in more detail, and so josé never bothered asking either. and now he can only assume this is what they meant, because to him this seems pretty fucking bad. alejandro's in his bed, blanket pooled around his hips, a layer of sweat covering his entire body, hair messy. one of his hands is gripping the sheets next to his thigh, knuckles white from the effort, while the other one is pressed to his forehead, obscuring his eyes from sight. he's shaking, jaw clenched tight and in the silence josé can hear how ragged and uneven his breathing is.

he can only stand and stare for another moment, before he calls out alejandro's name again, quiet and more uncertain than he's felt in a long time. alejandro startles at josé's voice, tensing up, before lifting his hand away from his face enough to look at josé. his eyes are bloodshot and filled with tears, exhausted and pained and utterly miserable, and josé doesn't know what to do

later on he's sitting on the edge of alejandro's bed, one of his hands caught in a death grip so tight he swears he can hear his bones creaking, his other hand wound around alejandro's shoulder and buried in tangled, sweaty hair. alejandro has his forehead pressed to josé's shoulder, his entire frame trembling like a leaf, breathing a mix of sniffles and gasps under the weight of his sobs, his hand clutching at josé's back so hard josé can feel his nails digging in.

and it's sat like this, holding alejandro, lightly scratching at his scalp, desperately trying not to fuck this up, that he realizes he doesn't want to see his little brother in pain anymore. fuck what the doctors say, or what his father or the rest of the family will think. this is his hermanito, and josé cannot stand seeing him in pain, not anymore

holy fuck anon just send me to an early grave why dont you UROGUGHGT *psychic damage* *psychic damage* *psychic damage*

yeah so this is EXACTLY what i had in mind with their relationship. you nailed it. it's on the damn cross. i dont even know what to say other than holy shit, you get exactly what i was putting down. AND THEN YOU RAN WITH IT. you dropped this bomb ass mini fic into my inbox and just. HOW DO YOU EXPECT ME TO RESPOND?? my jaw is between my feet.

we stan the burromuerto brothers redemption and healing arc WE STAN IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! BURROMUERTO BROTHER SUPREMACY!!!!!

[princess-of-the-corner]

I think what bothers me the most about Marinette’s behaviour, is the way I see myself portrayed in her.

I am on the spectrum for Ausbergers, ADD and anxiety disorders, and I do, or did, many of the things Marinette does. I have abysmal impulse control, and I used to take things without thinking about the consequences of taking the thing. I also had the schedule of every single one of my friends in high school on my calendar, and to this day, every member of my family is on there, even if I don’t particularly talk to or like them. I would buy or bring people things because I saw a thing and thought of them, but I would also hold in thoughts and emotions that were detrimental to me because I thought I couldn’t tell people. Many of the things I see Marinette doing, I either do, or remember doing.

And what annoys and hurts me most is how they are shown as “good” or “harmless” characteristics. 

I got caught shoplifting and had to go through a lot of therapy to stop from just taking things. It was a compulsion I had to fight against, and though I mostly succeeded, sometimes I still feel it. Bringing people stuff became such a compulsion that when I didn’t, I felt like I had failed somehow. To this day, I have difficulty communicating my feelings, even to myself, because it was so ingrained in me to keep them secret and not cause trouble.

Having the schedule for all of my friends was weird. Like, no justifications, I didn’t need to know when Lesley had a dentist appointment, or when Jake was going to visit his grandparents. These are things that did not affect me, I did not need to know or write down. It was, and still is, a coping mechanism that makes me feel more secure, knowing what’s happening to the people around me. Like, they all thought it was weird. They let me do it, but none of us were under the impression it wasn’t weird. But there’s the important bit, THEY ALL KNEW ABOUT IT. I did not, ever, violate their privacy to find out information, I just asked. Heck, sometimes they didn’t even tell me exactly what they were doing! Just “Hey, between 3 and 5pm on Saturday I’m doing something, don’t try to call me then, I’ll be busy”. That was usually enough.

I could keep going, but my point is, I have a lot of compulsions and habits that I have to either fight or work around on a daily basis. Things that I know can be taken out of context and misconstrued if I’m not careful. Things that I could, and was, judged pretty harshly for. And to see a show take those traits and normalize them in such an ugly, toxic way is … honestly really painful.

-

Yeah it’s.

I think it was one thing back in Season 1-4 when these behaviors were portrayed as something over the top that only happens in fiction, especially cartoons. I think it went a little far at times and should have had a little more ‘this is wrong to do (instead of having a fireman help Mari peep into Adrien’s windows), but things like ‘character steals a phone/commits mail crimes/breaks and enters to keep someone else from receiving a message they didn’t intend to send’ is a very common trope and I’m not going to dig into it /that/ much. 

But when Season 5 came and gave us things like Derision where it went from ‘brush it off as cartoony behavior’ to ‘oh no this is stuff we are supposed to take 100% seriously as a trauma response but it’s totally okay because Marinette only had ‘good’ reasons for doing this so that cancels out the fact that it was bad’.

/That/ is when it becomes a problem/

[sugar-omi]

Hi Naeomi!

I have a Baxter ask, but it might be a bit angst? It's all good if you are not comfortable doing it 🤗🤗

I was wondering how Baxter would react to an MC who is kind, goofy, and easygoing with her friends but not to everyone. When Baxter goes to say, "You dont have to go out with me just to be polite--" MC scoffs, "Please, I would never date a boy I didn't like just to be polite." Seeing Baxter's surprised expression, my nervous MC laughs and goes on. "But I like you, so..." Or Baxter would tell her she's too kind or nice after giving him a compliment or treating well on a date, and she would chuckle, "No, no I'm not."

MC had a hard time in school during puberty (as in mean gossip, boys brazenly checking her out and making comments, and small instances of bullying for being 'different'). That is the MC's history, and she has learned from Liz how to stand up for herself and not let anyone disrespect her--she has instilled a mean girl essence in herself with the most cutthroat comeback that has Cove recoil at her side (she has him cover his ears for this reason).

MC finishes high school with a jaded view of boys (except for Cove and Derek, her standards are high because of how kind and sweet these two are) and developed a bit of a sharp tongue when angry, something she is not proud of. And when MC meets Baxter, her crush from 5 years old, she is nervous and blushy and treats him with the utmost consideration. She worries that Baxter would see her spitting vemon one day and not like her anymore.

crying...... your mc reminds me of myself as well bc I'm also jaded n mean sometimes 😬 I will see your mc's in therapy LOL

anyway here you go anon<333 also I had fem reader in mind but I realize it's not very implied either so I hope that's OK

n i will edit the format a bit later bc I'm on my phone again 👍👍 ALSO NEW HEADER WHAT DO WE THINK it's suppose to be coves tattoo but I shrieked it bc I didn't like how bulky it was but now I feel like u can't tell it's the ocean so.... I try I try

tags: hurt/comfort, ok for fem/masc/nb readers, shy/nervous reader, mentions of bullying/harassment, headcanons at the bottom ft step 4, perhaps I'm using this to tell everyone that I think baxter finds assertiveness/"mean"!mc attractive but we won't talk abt that <3333

the first time baxter hears about the issues you had in the past, it was when your cousin laughed about how you look like a cinnamon roll but you slapped a guy hard enough his nose bled.

baxter took note of how your face scrunched up, and you looked at him to scout out how baxter reacted to the comment.

you mutter something quickly, "he deserved it. anyway..."

the mood was a little damp for a moment after that, the joke not well received because of the new addition and baxter felt bad that you had worries about how he'd take what Lee said.

after your group parted ways, and before you could retreat to your bedroom, baxter stopped you.

"forgive me if my words are unwanted, but... if you ever want to talk about anything, I'm here." his voice was soothing, but his pitiful gaze was off putting...

you did appreciate the gesture, baxter is always so considerate but you didn't want him to feel bad for you. you didn't want him to know how vulnerable you were.

when you were still in school, all the bullying had you feeling like a stray ally cat in front of a pack of dogs.

you didn't want baxter to know about the rougher side of you...

after that, baxter starts to notice your mannerisms even more.

you just nod and thank him, hugging him goodnight.

one morning, you brought him a breakfast sandwich and coffee.

"you spoil me y/n. who knew sunset bird was hiding such lovely people."

you just laugh humorlessly, no shyness or humility in it just a pained expression. "I try, glad to know I'm doing good..."

baxter smiles, trying to bring back your good mood. "you are. that must be why cove gravitates to you so much."

you laugh a bit, thinking about your clingy neighbor. "maybe, but he's the sweetest between the two of us. cove always takes care of me, more than I do him in fact.."

when he's in your living room and you're fluttering around the house with haste and fretting over every detail...

baxter doubts that, thinking about how the stories of your childhood he heard from your family and cove when you graciously invited him on the boat trip.

"no need to be humble. now, shall we eat together?"

when he first showed up, you were in a tank top and leggings, but after seating baxter and leaving him with a bottle of water you ran upstairs to get ready and came back in shorts and flowy top in your favorite color.

not that baxter minded, you were beautiful. but you were comfortable before, and it was the middle of the day, so why the sudden change of clothes?

then it was how jittery you were while making some tea, hovering over the pot and fixing baxter's cup diligently.

"y/n..." baxter decides to approach this lightly.

"yes?" you smile but it doesn't reach your eyes. you look so worried, like you're waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"can we talk about what's going on? I don't mean to intrude, I know I'm only here for the summer.."

the reminder stings you but you listen on.

"but you're still someone dear to me, so if it's something you don't mind sharing, I'd like to know what'd bothering you. I want to help, y/n..." baxter places his hand on top of yours.

you swallow but inhale and prepare to tell him enough to paint the picture, at least.

"i.. don't want you to hate me." you hang your head. "i like you so much, baxter. I'm worried that my jaded view will make you run away..."

baxter nods, choosing his next words carefully.

he brings you into his side, holding your hand and the pressure is grounding.

"nothing like that can make me dislike you y/n. of anything, I like you even more." baxter grins at your surprised expression.

"there's nothing wrong with you for being assertive when defending yourself." baxter smiles soothingly and he decides to bring up a moment of weakness he had early in the summer.

"remember when I was a half asleep mess when we went to get drinks that day?"

you nod.

"its like that, I'm not always so prim and proper." baxter laughs, ignoring the flush of his face as he recounts the blunder. "just like I'm a mess in the mornings, you can be a bit snappy but it's all about the situation."

you grin and let out a watery laugh. "are you seriously comparing your inability to be a functioning human in the morning to me being mean when someone pisses me off?"

he grins shamelessly. although with the blush on his face, perhaps bacter feels a bit more humble than usual. "perhaps."

you laugh loudly, "you are!"

baxter grins. "it worked didn't it?"

you nod, wrapping your arms around him, allowing yourself to melt into his body as he hugs you back. "yeah.. yeah it did. thanks baxter..."

baxter loves when you stand up for yourself

seeing you snap at some douchebag hitting on you at the bar even though you said you have a boyfriend and he's right here?!

finds it hot when you're angry

always reassures you that you don't need to bring him breakfast in bed every day for the rest of his life just bc he saw you snap at some nosy Karen after she made a nasty comment about your outfit

it's a beach, what does she expect people to wear???

don't verbally or physically beat someone in front of him bc he Will kiss you

"fuck off! I'm not interested asshole!!"

baxter, heart eyes: "please kiss me, do u wanna get married?????"

[girlgenius1111]

ohhh god that is so relatable. i’ve always been a crier when i get angry and i’ll never forget the time i was maybe ten and fighting with my parents because i was mad at them about something and my mom told me to stop crying so we could have a mature conversation. i don’t even remember what i was mad at my parents about, but i do remember that that was the day that i internalized that i didn’t deserve to be listened to if i was visibly upset and that showing negative emotion = immature and now i’m 24 and to this day can count on one hand the number of times i’ve cried in front of someone since. (that’s not the only time she said that tbf but i’ll never forget how confused and unseen i felt that first time and every time she said it after that when we fought it just became more internalized)

i also, relatedly, wanted to have a baby so fucking bad when i was a teenager. like i was out here watching teen mom content on youtube for hours and plotting how i, a raging lesbian, could get pregnant at like 15. and i will also never forget the day that i realized that that was actually because i had such shitty parents and i couldn’t figure out how to make them be good parents so my brain decided it’s ok! i can just be a good parent myself instead! and really what i needed was not to pop out an actual human infant while i was basically still one myself, but to go to fucking therapy and reparent my inner child.

anywho, my sincerest apologies for the small trauma dump but your post was very relatable and i thought you might find this relatable too. adults forever traumatized by childhood fights their parents unite 🫡❤️

no this is so relatable.

i think about that all the time now. how my parents would tell me to stop crying so we could talk, or yell back at me because "i yelled first," or expected me to act like an adult when i was literally just a kid.

the way i hated myself for years because i just assumed they were always right? because they told me they were? and if they were always right, i was always wrong. which meant i argued for no reason, caused them stress for no reason. which made me bad.

i don't think i even really started to think that maybe i wasn't an awful person until like... last year. and my brain grew up and finally realized that i shouldn't have had to be perfect to feel loved. and i shouldn't have been held to the standards of an adult when i was a kid.

maybe it's because im getting older and i no longer feel like a kid. and i look at pictures of young me and cannot wrap my head around how thoroughly that little girl hated herself. she was so young and just completely convinced that she wasn't a good person. but it just really hits me sometimes where i'm like... oh. that wasn't how i was supposed to feel.

and i really love my parents. and i know they love me. but sometimes i wonder what i'd be like if they had done things differently. like how successful could i be if i didn't spend most of my time thinking about all the things ive ever done wrong?

[rabbitindisguise]

I think I'm going to socialize less irl (long vent post under the cut)

I feel like I've tried so hard at the Be Normal And Nourished from Normal Hobbies and Normal Interactions but tbh it just has not worked. I have not become neurotypical in the slightest (well, duh, should have expected that) and I feel like I'm struggling extremely badly with literally everything all of the time. Something has to give and I think "something" is "having more time to relax and reflect because I'm not talking to people 5 out of 7 days a week."

The thing is that like, I want to do what works and feels best for me. But I feel like the outside world can't accept "hermit that mainly does stuff by themselves." The alternative however is becoming what seems to be a huge jerk. No one else seems concerned with this, like they think the jerk-ness is an active choice and not one that arrived organically because circumstances despite my attempts at learning coping mechanisms and things to stop it. People will complain about X behavior (reasonable) and then act totally unconcerned when I'm like "look this is happening because I'm literally at the end of my rope. There's no rope left. I need to get more rope. That is the solution. Eating broccoli, no matter how helpful that is, is not going to give me more rope."

We're supposed to be perfect even when we're miserable is the thing isn't it?? Maybe that makes me a bad person (to fail to do "basic decency" in a bad place) but I'd rather be a bad person and antisocial or whatever than an active jerk while attempting doing "normal." This is a very easy decision to make actually.

I just need like a break. Some time to get it together. Idk.

. . . and like, there's so much to unpack form "be normal."

When I was living with other people, I was obsessed with doing chores properly so no one would have reason to be upset with me (because ADHD fears™), and house organizing was always something I deprioritized as something not worth asking for flexibility on, etc. I couldn't set rules and I couldn't stop doing what I felt was useless but crucially I didn't want to get mad at other people about that. So I tried (failed) to manage myself to make that sort of situation possible.

I'm general "doing normal" is "follow conventional health advice like to talk to your friends when you feel bad." Except I feel bad and it doesn't help. Lose/lose.

Who knows what other stuff I've internalized trying to just Do The Magic Thing to become tolerable. I feel like it's an impossible task and people keep congratulating me for trying but I feel like it's not the thing I want to be hearing tbh. Isn't that what everyone wants, to be accepted even when they don't fit societal norms?? "Thank you for trying to not be your weird self" feels icky. They're just trying to be supportive of what I thought was necessary, I know, I just also didn't pull "do normal" out of my ass- it's everywhere. Everyone seems to have an idea of the basic steps someone who isn't good at socializing should do (shower more, sleep more, eat correct things, do hands on hobbies, join clubs, take leadership roles in organizations, practice self help tips, exist in one community for a long time, talk about what other people are interested in, ask questions, practice active listening, assertive communication, setting boundaries, anger management, venting to friends, doing therapy, doing physical activity, etc etc etc). But no one seems to have any idea that sometimes you're just like this. And by "like this" I don't mean socializing- maybe I'll find a balance of something that will work. No, I mean the thing they think is the key to socializing that everyone should do. I cannot physically do all of them- especially when plenty are contradictory.

It's like weight loss right?? You might feel more alone than ever, feel physically ill, and struggle with constant fatigue- but at least from the outside you look normal! :) you did everything possible to carve away the stuff people blamed your problems on only to find that- surprise!- the problems were unrelated and that was one of the few things that made you content to begin with. Where are people then? What advice do they have when it "works" to satisfy them but the cost is too damn high for you? What explanation do they have when the thing they thought all your problems were the source of does not improve your life in any way? If you're only allowed to have problems if you try to look normal, what happens when looking normal becomes one of your problems? Do they take your word on it, that you tried the normal thing and it was uncomfortable. Do they finally stop pressuring you to do the normal stuff. Do they reconsider their priorities. Or were their "suggestions" from a place of not considering your welfare to begin with?

I guess we'll find out.

[kaysutcliff-michaelis]

Aggretsuko rant after finishing season 5

I may mention things about past seasons so BEWARE SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT

AGGRETSUKO SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT, BE CAREFUL

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Season 5 had me yelling, talking to myself and feeling like I need to start rewatching it right this instant after finishing it so that I can process everything properly. I really want to read comments and reviews about it but I’ll wait until I’m done writing this so that whatever I read doesn’t influence my rant. And don’t expect any order, rhyme or reason here, I can’t be bothered to make this look like a proper text.

THEY FUCKING GOT MARRIED? WHAT? WHAT? EXCUSE ME WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?????

It was incredibly cute and sweet how they just felt it was their time and eloped, no perfect wedding, no cute bride with her dress and no anything, just Haida and Retsuko. Four seasons raging because she wanted to be a cute bride with her wedding dress in a chapel and she ends up getting married at the registry in the middle of the night, who would have guessed! HOWEVER, it makes me sad that we didn’t see more about it. No rings, no family and friends’ reactions, not even a mention about it. This is supposed to be the final season, so the way A LOT of things were left makes me extremely confused.

We don’t know what Haida’s new job is. We don’t know who was behind the truck attack. We don’t know how come there’s a picture of them with Retsuko’s family now. We don’t know what the deal with Tadano, Gori and Washimi is. We don’t know how the stunt worked for OTM’s social media numbers. We don’t know what happened to that guy who offered Haida the construction work. There are so many things we don’t know! Idk, the ending felt a bit lackluster precisely because the second the elections ended the season was over and it feels there wasn’t proper closure for some points.

And why couldn’t we hear Shikabane singing??? ;__; It almost made me tear up how Retsuko offered her the microphone at the end, I was really hoping to hear them singing together.

I could relate a lot to Shikabane throughout the season. Those feelings of hopelessness, loneliness and having to constantly do something to keep your mind occupied so that you don’t succumb to those thoughts have been incredibly present in my life for the last months (going to therapy and relying on my supportive partner to try and get myself out of it), so I totally get where she was coming from and why she acts the way she does until the end. Plus her character design is SO CUTE. The platform shoes, the ribbons, the colour palette! Had me wishing I looked as cool and fashionable as her!

But Haida. OMG HAIDA. THIS GUY NEVER LEARNS. He was making bad decisions during season 4, but THIS. Retsuko is so patient with him, if my partner was ever in that situation and hid it from me that would probably be a deal breaker. Not because of him being jobless and homeless, but because I’d feel he doesn’t trust me and thinks I’m not reliable or that I won’t help him. He gets on my nerves so much, sometimes he’s the perfect ship for Retsuko and sometimes he just self-sabotages to the point of almost ruining his life. Annoyance aside though, I feel like their struggles as a couple are very realistic and I enjoy that. The struggles of all the characters in general are realistic.

AND SPEAKING OF SHIKABANE, HAIDA AND THE WHOLE NET CAFE THING. I was so shocked because literally two days ago I was watching a video by Nekojita vlog (Spanish-Japanese couple who has been doing Youtube for some years now) talking about this topic, women who live in manga kisas either because they cannot afford an apartment (with the money it would get you just to pay rent you have food, showers, washing machines, drinks, internet and a place to sleep if you find a good deal) or because their lifestyle is more suited to this (maybe they work most of the day/night and it is better to rent a booth for a few hours to crash there than be bothering with rent, bills, neighbours and all that stuff). I found the topic super interesting and it was quite a surprise to see it was one of the main points of the season.

The second part of the season threw me off a bit with the whole “suddenly Retsuko is running up for Parliament” thingy, I really dislike politics and it felt a bit like propaganda, it reminded me of this random Modern Family arc in which Claire is running for the council. Despite that, I think some real-life issues that need urgent addressing were mentioned and it would be good if that raised awareness about them in Japan, like how difficult and expensive it is to have your child in kindergarten (me hating politics doesn’t mean I don’t know about how messed up things are there). It also made me feel bad that Manaka and Hyodo kinda sold Retsuko to this creepy Ikari guy just so that they could get free publicity for OTM Girls. And Tadano buying the net cafe so that he can have it for himself??? He left so many people like Shikabane homeless with that move, he could just have remodeled his apartment. Overall this second part had some great moments but some bad stuff that leaves a bittersweet taste for me. And it annoys me that we don’t know who attacked Haida at the end so that Retsuko would quit!! I was so worried that he would die or end at the hospital and in the end nothing really comes out of this event (except for the eloping) and the next day he’s there playing with her (extremely cool btw) like he didn’t get hit by a truck the day before.

Selling Retsuko to Ikari for clout aside, I honestly felt jealous (in a good way) for Retsuko’s support network. I rewatched the whole thing during February so that I would be ready for season 5 and something that really caught my attention was how she gets more and more allies and how much teamwork there is.

Gori and Washimi the best friends ever!

Tadano who saves the day each time he appears, Retsy and him are cut out to be a couple but they sure are to be friends and allies!

Tsunoda and Fenneko being the unexpected wingman team?? They carried so much of seasons 4 and 5.

Anai doing a 180 and going from crazy newbie to someone who legit cares about his coworkers! He has evolved so much thanks to Kabae and his gf!

Director Ton OMG DIRECTOR TON, went from villain to that brutally honest but really supportive person who sometimes seems to know her better than anyone! And his daughters being part of the action of seasons 3 and 4?? And the whole family teamwork at the end of season 4 when they were trying to get the flash drive???? Loved that.

Manaka and the bodyguards making sure Retsuko was safe (Manaka in general with that bat full of nails is super cool). Though she’s still Manaka, 90% of the time I really like her but the other 10% I think she doesn’t care who she has to sacrifice for her idol career... Same goes for Hyodo.

It’s so wholesome to see how much she has evolved since the first season and how she relies on others and her trust is being rewarded.

I don’t really know what to think of her parents though. Her mother seems to have good intentions on the last seasons but in season 2 she’s just the most nosy and meddlesome mother ever. AND DON’T GET ME STARTED ON HAIDA’S FAMILY. I honestly feel bad for his mother, she looked so kind and she has to deal with crazy obsessive Juzo and Jiro. So manipulative, so money-centered, I don’t believe ONE BIT, what Jiro said about him not being behind the truck attack. And if he wasn’t him, it was their dad, how else would he know about what happened? I wanted Haida and Retsuko to tell them to shut their mouths and go to hell SO MUCH.

Random, but the Juliana’s references throughout the series gave me life XD The Bubbly Land ad made me crack up.

So no that the series is supposedly over, I think my fave season is season 3. To me it was perfect in every aspect: the plot, the character designs, the pacing, the ending, the soundtrack... Second place is shared by the Tadano arc in season 2 and the net cafe arc in season 5. Then we have the second part of season 4, all of season 1 and the second part of season 5. And finally the beginning of seasons 2 and 4. Not that Aggretsuko has any bad seasons or episodes, but I certainly cherish some more than others.

I said it before but I really think like I need to watch the season again to process everything that happened and gather my thoughts on it. Maybe I’ll do that tomorrow or in a few days, maybe not. If this is the end, I want to say that since I watched Retsuko for the first time I have related A LOT to the characters and their situations at different points of my life or regarding different aspects of it. The show has got me through so many shifts and has felt so cathartic when I was done with my job and wanted to death voice all my customers and coworkers. I’m so grateful that this show exists to drop a sea urchin in the desert from time to time and remind us that things aren’t as hopeless as they may seem.

[trans-axolotl]

hi, I really like your blog and your antipsych thoughts have been very helpful to me. i hope this is ok to ask for advice (sorry i have brain fog and this question is vague)? i think i'm looking for 'unconventional' advice or suggestions, the kind that someone in the psych system would not necessarily recommend to me.

i have had a bad history with therapy, but i very much need some kind of mental support that i am not getting otherwise in my life (issues like CPTSD, DID, among other things). im in a position where i /can/ go to therapy, and i've been with a therapist that specializes in the things that are causing me the most problems for a year and theyre fine (i.e. has not ever helped me figure out anything about how to improve my life but has been someone who can perscribe me stuff, and hasn't done anything actively harmful to me like other therapists and psychiatrists have), but going is so upsetting for some reason (maybe because the therapy environment has been so bad in the past?) and not at all helpful. it's useful for me to have a relationship to a psychiatrist/therapist for medication and other 'navigating the system' reasons, but it's absolutely unhelpful. i am very frustrated and disillusioned with the whole concept of 'therapy' in general (maybe due to my history)!! but i don't know how else to get help!

it's harder because of the brain fog. i also feel very isolated partially because i'm in a not great environment, and partially because i have multiple mental illnesses in addition to not being a very nice person. i have felt really let down by supposed friends i've come to for help who just said therapy speak stuff like 'you should get help....' and 'sorry i don't have the emotional bandwidth to help <3' and stuff like that. it really makes me feel like i'm too messed up to be able to ask for help from regular people and i have to go to the psych industry but of course i've already been failed by them too :(

hey anon!

I think what you've said makes so much sense. I feel like we're so often told "go get help" but when we do try to seek support, it isn't as simple as just going and easily finding a therapist who is able to provide all the support and care we need. It can be so hard to find and pay for therapy in the first place, harder still to find someone who specializes in a therapy style to meet our needs, and sometimes we might not just be in a place in our life where we are in an environment that allows us to do in depth therapy work. And I just want to say that it isn't your fault if therapy isn't meeting your needs right now--that doesn't mean that you're failing at therapy. You absolutely aren't alone in feeling dissatisfied with therapy and wanting other options.

For me, what's helped when I've been considering making changes about how I approach my mental health has first been sitting down and really taking a thorough look at what things are working and what things aren't working. It seems like you've done a lot of that already--you know that it's helpful to have a therapeutic relationship to get meds and for help in the system, you know that the therapy environment hasn't been particuarly helpful for other types of healing work, and it seems like another thing you're thinking about is how to get mental support from your friends and other people in your everyday life. I think those are really good starting places to consider where you want to go from here. It might be helpful to make a list of what feels like priorities to focus on right now--do you want to develop more skills for navigating crisis? Do you want to focus on changing your relationship with dissociation? harm reduction for self destructive behaviors? building resilience and cultivating relationships in your life? There's no right or wrong answers here--you're going to be the expert on what feels most important right now.

I also just want to say that I think it's really shitty when we're made to feel like we're too crazy or too needy or too messed up to be able to be cared for and supported in our community. I've definitely had people tell me that, and it really hurts and makes me feel hopeless, like I'm always going to be struggling and that there's no chance that I'll be able to get better. But fuck that. We deserve to have meaningful connections in our community, access to resources that help us, and to be able to build resilient relationships where getting emotional support isn't considered an unmanageable burden, even if we're mad/mentally ill/ neurodivergent. I'm sorry that you haven't been able to rely on your friends and community that way, although I know it's hard when everyone we know is struggling and people don't have the energy or skills or knowledge to be able to help each other.

This is getting long, so I'm just going to list off a ton of random tips and suggestions, and I hope some of them might resonate with you.

Join a peer support group aligned with antipsych values. Hearing Voices Network, Alternatives to Suicide with the Wildflower alliance, Multiplied by One, FEDUP trans/intersex eating disorder support groups are all great options.

harm reduction! this can be especially applicable for self-destructive behaviors, but just in general moving outside of an "abstinence-only model." working to understand your actions on a spectrum of totally chaotic, unmanaged behaviors to more managed, intentional relationships with those behaviors. embracing any positive change as an important step instead of self-blame and all-or-nothing thinking.

Trying to think of the best way to describe what I'm thinking here, so I might not have the best phrasing. But basically, spending time separating your ideas for what wellbeing and quality of life look like for you from the psychiatric system's ideas of what a "normal," "healthly," quality of life looks like. For me, this looked like realizing that I wasn't actually interested in getting rid of all my hallucinations, but instead I just wanted to lessen the distress I experienced and find a way to hallucinate without panicking. So I guess just in general--really exploring what is actually important to you for your wellbeing and not limiting yourself to mainstream definitions of "recovery."

Unconventional coping skills, or coping skills that traditional psychiatry deems "risky." I've talked with some people who things like getting tattoos and piercings are actually incredibly healing for them, and are an important part of their "therapeutic" journey. Not going to go into detail or promote other "risky" coping skills on Tumblr lmao, but more just say that it's okay if there's things that therapists view as risky that you might have another perspective on how it fits into your personal healing.

Building up your and your loved ones capacity for community care. This can be a really hard one, because I know it always frustrated me when I would see people talking online about how great things like care webs or the power of peer support when I just didn't have any of that in my physical everyday life. So I'm not just going to put this here like it's a magical solution or something that's easy to accomplish. It's something that can take a ton of work and we're allowed to be frustrated about that. I think one strategy that helped me with this was spending a lot of time building my own understanding of my own capacity to help, my own needs, and what ways I would like to be cared for. That helped me start small, just by having conversations with my loved ones when I wasn't in crisis and saying "Hey, this is how I would like things to go when I'm in crisis. This is something that helps me when I'm hallucinating. This is a way you could let me know that you can't support me tonight but still leaves room for us to have connection. This is how I can help you. Let's talk openly together and develop and practice how we want to care for each other." Starting with just one person and one conversation really went a long way for me in terms of eventually building up an actual support network and for me was super instrumental in healing work.

Setting out an hour a week that's my "self therapizing time." just using one hour a week to look up new resources, try out new skills, journal, do self-inquiry, participate in activism, do something that brings me joy, read something new about mental health, literally anything that feels intentional in that hour. trying out a lot of new things and quitting a lot of new things!

Incorporating your physical needs. I'm sure we've heard a million times things like "get sleep, nourish yourself, go outside," and all that is great but often feels fucking impossible when we're mentally doing not great. but I guess just saying it can be good to be aware of how our physical body impacts our mental health in other ways. things like trying to get our sensory needs met, embracing movement that feels good + making space for rest, embracing things that bring our physical body pleasure whether that's tasty food, sex or other kinds of physical intimacy with other people, if it's using substances in a way that feels helpful or joyful or fun--anything really!

Here's a bunch of random orgs and resources that I have found helpful: Fireweed Collective, Wildflower Alliance, Project LETS, Mapping our Madness, Mad Survival Tools, Organizing Guide for Psychiatric Survivors, MindFreedom Resources, Multiplied by one (I can't personally vouch because I haven't been to their groups, but I have a friend with DID who attends these groups and had positive things to say about them.)

I'd also add on this book: "Psychosis, Dissociation, and Trauma: Evolving perspectives on Severe Psychopathology" although I do want to give a warning that this book is a heavy academic text that has a lot of clinical and stigmatizing language. For me, it had some helpful information that helped me make connections between my experiences of trauma, dissociation, and psychosis, but I would not recommend reading it unless you feel like you're in the right headspace and can deal with wading through a lot of the psychiatric narrative.

These are all just some things that sometimes work for me, so please feel free to disregard anything that doesn't resonate with you. I'd also love it if followers could add on with any tips, resources, any "unconventional" advice!

thanks for reaching out, anon, and I hope you have a good night 💜

[danielstalter]

The Babysitter

The Babysitter remains one of R.L. Stine’s most notorious books outside of his Goosebumps and Fear Street titles, and rightly so. Jenny was a relatable and endearing protagonist. Stine did an excellent job with the pacing, slowly building the tension with some genuinely unnerving scenes. On the downside, I had some problems with the motives of the villain and there was some really shoddy police work that was presented as exceptional. I was also baffled by one particular action of Jenny’s mother, which I’ll save for the full review below because of spoilers. I’ll just say that sometimes it’s hard to distinguish between bad/oblivious parenting and things that were still considered OK in the late 1980s. Overall, I really enjoyed this one in spite of its flaws.

Score: 3.5 Full Review: https://www.danstalter.com/the-babysitter/

The Babysitter II

The Babysitter II was a very middle-of-the-road sequel. The characters were solid and by far the strongest part overall. But for every element I liked, there was something of equal measure that I didn’t. The book had some very dated depictions of mental health, which were hard to look past. I hated Jenny’s psychiatrist from the jump. It was immediately apparent he was a bad fit for a traumatized teenage girl. I suppose he sucked in a believable way, but I can’t help but cringe at unhelpful depictions of therapy. It’s OK to break up with your therapist, folks. Jenny certainly needed to. The dream sequences also got really tiring after the first one. Unless the book is about dreams specifically, they just feel cheap. The kid that Jenny babysits for in this round was presented as a menace to society. Eli Wexner is a child genius, he has mood swings, he likes tarantulas, and he can be straight-up weird. I think he read more as an autistic kid with inexperienced and overwhelmed parents than anything threatening. I don’t know if that’s what Stine was going for, but that’s definitely what I got as the story progressed. The other reason I’m being hard on this one is that I guessed the plot twist way earlier than I usually do. I suppose the book holds up as a competent mystery if you aren’t familiar with any other books R.L. Stine has written. For me, it felt like a partial rehashing of the first book and a mix of things I’ve seen repeatedly in the Fear Street books. The Babysitter II wasn’t the worst, and it wasn’t the best. It’s a mostly competent sequel that just didn’t bring anything particularly new to the table.

Score: 2.5 Full Review: https://www.danstalter.com/the-babysitter-ii/

The Babysitter III

The Babysitter III felt like a sequel in search of a story. I’ll start with the good; at least Jenny wasn’t taking on yet another babysitting job after her experiences in the first two books. It changed the formula by introducing Jenny’s cousin Debra as this book’s titular babysitter. Unfortunately, I still saw the twist ending coming from a mile away. It had too many similarities to other Stine books. Everything he did here, he’s done it before and he’s done it better. There were a bunch of B-plot elements that ultimately served no purpose other than to throw the reader off the real trail. The B-plots are great for this function, but they work best when they also tie back into the main storyline. Almost none of them did. Jenny is also very clearly dealing with PTSD, but no longer appears to be in therapy or have any sort of support system in place. I’m used to dated and problematic depictions of mental health in these books, but this one just felt hard to watch. It was like one long, sad cringe. The book also relied on some characterization changes that I just couldn’t buy into. It made me wish the whole Babysitter series featured a different protagonist in each installment. Because the first Babysitter book was great; I consider it one of Stine’s best. The Babysitter II was less so but not bad. This one just felt phoned in. The ending of The Babysitter III does hold some promise for the fourth and final installment, but I can’t say I have a ton of confidence in that happening.

Score: 1 Full Review: https://www.danstalter.com/the-babysitter-iii/

The Babysitter IV

I did not go into this book with high expectations, so I was very pleasantly surprised when this book took a fresh direction. The Babysitter III had squeezed every last bit out of using Mr. Hagan as a villain, so I was happy to see that he was barely mentioned all in The Babysitter IV. In a lot of ways, this book was about Jenny reclaiming the narrative for herself. The way that Jenny’s past experiences caused her to question her own sanity at every turn made for a unique perspective that a lot of sequels miss out on. I figured out some of the twist ending early on, but I wasn’t bothered by it. What did bother me was how rushed the ending was. There was a whole other story received in the last few pages that deserved its own spotlight. It was a shame because I really liked the story it was telling, I just wanted more than an eleventh-hour info dump. I can’t be more specific without dropping massive spoilers, but almost all of the issues I had with this book stem from how it ended. I still liked The Babysitter IV more than I didn’t, and I was happy to see the final installment in the series end on such a strong note.

Score: 3.5 Full Review: https://www.danstalter.com/the-babysitter-iv/

[just-two-blokes]

Small gestures - A Phyllis Baxter and Richard Ellis Friendship Fic

I needed a break from writing my multichapter Fic. So I've decided to change it up a bit by writing... Fic?

This Oneshot came to my mind on my way home from work today and I just had to write it down.

Short CW for references to Thomas' suicide attempts and conversion therapy.

--

The sound of soft footsteps on the hard stone stairs jolts Phyllis Baxter awake from her concentrated work at the sewing machine.

It is Boxing Day, and as the family has decided to spend it at Lady Rosamund Painswick's in London, and most of the servants have gone to see their family, the house is strangely empty and quiet

Apart from Ms. Baxter, only the butler of the house is still present, but he has announced that he is expecting visitors today and will therefore not show his face so often.

In fact, Thomas has holed himself up in his office right after noon, and when Phyllis returned from her midday walk, she noticed that a very familiar man's jacket was hanging on the servants' coat rack.

A jacket that usually only hangs there when a certain royal valet 'happens' to be passing through and swoops in over the threshold of Downton Abbey without warning.

A jacket which Phyllis has seen hanging conspicuously often on this wardrobe in recent days.

And its owner, with whom Phyllis has had many interesting and, above all, enlightening conversations over the past few days.

Conversations about the butler of the house. About his feelings and his needs.

And if Phyllis has realised anything during these conversations, it is that Thomas Barrow is in good hands with this man.

As if to confirm her thoughts, soft footsteps from the stairs now approach the servants' hall and as Phyllis turns towards the door, she cannot prevent a faint grin from stealing onto her face.

Richard Ellis, his hair unusually dishevelled, his clothes suspiciously rumpled against his body, stands in the doorway, a mischievous grin on his face and a huge bunch of yellow tulips in his hand.

'Good afternoon, Ms Baxter. It's good to see you.' Surprised, Phyllis just stares at him for a few seconds before a loving smile creeps onto her face as well.

'I can say the same to you, Mr. Ellis. It's always nice to have a friendly face to visit.'

Mr. Ellis's grin widens just a touch, but before he can say anything in reply, Phyllis's eyes fall on the bouquet of tulips in his hand. 'Oh, these are lovely. I suppose you bought them for Mr. Barrow?'

In the silence that follows, something changes in the room. Just now happy and carefree, there is a heaviness in the air that she has never felt in the presence of Richard Ellis.

Mr. Ellis' smile drips from his face like water from a smooth surface and he suddenly doesn't seem like his usual, confident self.

Instead, he suddenly seems incredibly nervous, almost like a schoolboy who has to bring home a bad grade to his parents.

Mr. Ellis carefully clears his throat and nervously plays with the buttons of his half-buttoned shirt.

'The tulips are not for Mr. Barrow. The tulips are for you, Ms. Baxter.'

For a few seconds Phyllis thinks she has misheard and the answer literally sticks in her throat.

But finally Richard holds out his hand with the bouquet and Phyllis can't help but reach for it.

'May I ask what I have done to deserve this honour?'

Mr. Ellis lowers his gaze and when he raises it again to look her in the eye, his eyes seem suspiciously glassy. But when he finally clears his throat and begins to speak, his voice sounds strong and composed.

'I love Thomas. I love him like I have never loved anyone before. And sometimes I wonder how I deserve to have this wonderful, brave, funny and beautiful man in my life.

Thomas has told me many things about his life, you know. About his experience with 'Choose your own Path' and about the darkest hour in his life. And he also mentioned that there was one person who stood by him during those times. Without expectation of anything in return. Without prejudice.

Without dislike and without judging him for it.

And in the last few days I have realised that the only reason I can brag to my parents about being able to call this inconceivable man my lover is right here in front of me.'

Phyllis' throat feels dry as dust and her heart swells at the thought of the unconditional love Richard must feel for Thomas.

Richard clears his throat again. 'You were there for him when I couldn't. You saved his life and gave me the chance to know him. To love him. And I don't know how I can ever thank you for that.'

The tulips in her hand must be all crushed by now, the way Phyllis tightens her grip around the stems. For a short while she just stares at Richard, her eyes wide and an incredulous smile on her face.

But eventually her features soften again and she gives Richard Ellis a loving look.

'You just have to love him. That's thanks enough.'

--

Actually, Phyllis has decided to put the tulips on the table in the servants' quarters, but when she goes to her room that evening, she notices that the tulips are nicely arranged in a glass vase outside her bedroom door.

Next to the vase is a small note, unmistakably written in Thomas' tight and neat handwriting.

'It doesn't say much for Moseley if he can't even manage to be the first man to give you flowers. You are welcome to take them to your room, they are yours after all. And don't worry, my room is also full of bouquets of roses. If this goes on, I don't know where to put the rest either.'

Phyllis can't help falling asleep with a satisfied grin on her lips, knowing that the butler of the house a few corridors away will also sleep well.

[quietlyimplode]

leave everything but your bones behind

Whumptober 2022: day 29 - better me than you

Warnings: therapy talk (a lot of it) / confrontation of intrusive thoughts / discussion of suicidal thoughts

Word Count: 2.6k (gif not mine)

Summary: Natasha becomes unwell and only the Red Room can fix her. The choice is die or go back to the very place that made her.

A/N: long one. Heed warnings. Apologies for the delay. Not sure when the 30th will come. Almost there.

Main Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

———

They take the car back to his apartment.

He contemplates whether it should be her apartment or the tower but in the end he decides that he’d like some home comforts too.

Clint likes his apartment, his couch and bed. He likes the way it opens up to the balcony that he can reach the roof with and all the little intricacies of home.

It’s his own space.

The tower is great and it’s served so many purposes to keep all of them safe but now; he thinks they just need quiet.

Home is quiet.

She’s silent, apart from the audible breathing through her mouth. Her nose likely blocked from the tears shed.

He reaches across and grabs her hand, driving like they always do with one hand in each other’s.

“Will you talk to someone?” he ventures as he rounds the corner into the car park.

“I suppose.”

Natasha’s voice is quiet, far away.

He offers his phone and the text from their psychiatrist with a link to a secure video call.

“Now?” he asks, knowing he’s put her on the spot.

He could kiss Tony for his skills at making people do what he wants with money. Sometimes money doesn’t solve things but it does make access to resources a hell of a lot easier.

“How’d you manage that?” she asks, handing back the phone.

“Tony.”

“Of course.”

Natasha grasps her hands together, thumb touching her nails, that she rubs over and over unconsciously.

They walk up the stairs in unison, as they have so many times before. He opens the door and lets himself in, closing it behind her.

He offers her water that she takes with a nod.

“She’s ready whenever you are to call.”

Natasha takes the phone and stares at it. Puts it down and then picks it up.

She sighs.

“I can’t.”

Clint can’t stop thinking.

“I saw you standing by the water, I thought you were going to jump.”

He needs her to make the call.

“I was,” she admits.

“I felt like I was drowning without the water.”

Clint offers her the phone again.

“And now?”

She takes it.

“The feeling comes and goes.”

“Do you think you can?” if not, Clint thinks he’s going to make the call, not for her but for him, to help him process what he’s seen; what he’s done.

“Ten minutes?”

It’s a reprieve whilst she gets a hold of herself; it’s something he can give her. Setting a timer on the phone, shows her.

Sad eyes look at him for some sort of direction.

“Can we patch your thigh whilst we wait?”

Leaving the room, he keeps an eye on her grabbing a pair of clean pants and then rummages in the kitchen for his first aid kit.

“It’s not that bad,” Natasha tells him, taking off her pants, the blood dried.

“Your stomach?” he asks.

She looks to him in confusion.

“The burns?” He clarifies.

Natasha lifts her top, the healing blisters just now white with a thin red line around them. She gives half a smile.

Reaching up gently, she touches the cut on his nose, and the bruises that litter his face and chin.

“How’s your face?” she asks, grimacing.

“Better than yours,” he grins. Her bruises are healing already but still the dark marks stay.

“I’m sorry,” she says pulling her hand away.

“Don’t be,” he placates.

Gently, he wipes the dried blood away, the skin peeled back, almost flayed as he wonders what she was thinking when she did it. The scar tissue still seems thick underneath.

“God you did a good job,” he mutters.

Natasha watches him carefully, not pulling away and holding her leg down as he dresses the wound.

“I don’t remember doing it,” she admits.

He finishes with a bandage and sits back on his heels helping her pull her pants on over her feet.

“How worried should I be?” he asks, glancing at the timer.

Five minutes.

“How bad do you think it is?” he asks.

Met with silence, she doesn’t answer straight away.

“I don’t know. Some minutes are better than others, and then, I’m drowning again. It feels like I can’t breathe or like I’m so dizzy I can’t stay upright.”

She sighs as the timer goes off.

Holding his phone, she clicks on the link.

.

The therapists face appears almost straight away. Natasha’s hand reaches for Clint’s and squeezes hard.

“Hello Natasha. Hello Clint,” she says, her hair in a high bun, artificial light alighting her face.

“I’m sorry,” Clint begins, feeling bad that it’s likely some ungodly hour where she is.

“Don’t be sorry,” she dismisses, waving her hand.

She’s just as Clint remembers, kind but serious and no nonsense.

“It’s urgent,” he tries to justify, still feeling bad that he’s put her out and made this happen.

“So I heard. I’m sorry, I only have half an hour before I need to go, but we can talk more tomorrow. I think it’s good that we start, okay?”

Natasha body is fixed but even she nods with Clint, leaning slightly forward.

“There’s ugh… there’s a lot that’s happened.”

Clint starts, looking to Natasha.

The therapist looks to Natasha to continue,

“To you?” she invites,

Natasha nods minutely.

“She was telling me that she’s living minute to minute,” Clint breathes, unsure how much of the conversation to divulge.

Biting her lips, Natasha gives a half shrug.

“Sometimes it feels like that.”

The therapist takes it as an opening, and seems to know just what question to ask.

“What happens when you’re not feeling right?”

“She was standing by the water, ready to jump,” Clint can’t stop the words tumbling out of his mouth, much to the surprise of the two women.

“No I wasn’t,” Natasha rebukes.

“Yes you were,” he argues.

There’s an uncomfortable silence.

“There’s been some intrusive thoughts,” Natasha clarifies, but keeps it to herself the extent of the damage they’ve been causing.

“Are they sticking with you?”

Clint’s leg starts to bounce, his anxiety spiking.

“Now? No. They’ve stopped for now.”

He hopes it’s the truth. He hope she remembers the rules of therapy.

“Can you pin point what made them come?”

Natasha opens her mouth but Clint can’t help the words that cut her off, they tumble out of his mouth like vomit.

“She cut her leg,” he tells the therapist.

“What is this telling on me?”

He almost laughs at Natasha’s indignation, it’s the first time in a while she’s been angry or derisive at him.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

Natasha takes a deep breath, knowing this is the start of something hard.

“How much do you know of what’s happened in the last eight weeks?” she asks.

The therapist nods at them both.

“Some, but I’ll need to hear it from you. You know how this works.”

They do.

Natasha almost snarls at the thought.

The therapist seems to sense it.

“What’s been the worst bit for you? What part of the day is the hardest?”

She knows what she’s doing; breaking it down. It’s an old trick they used to do when healing felt to big, the enormity of it too much.

“Everything,” she says, honestly.

Then.

“No that’s a lie,” and it is. Natasha knows that she can separate it. She thinks of the times when she’s been okay, and the times that seem harder.

“I think at night, when I’m alone with my thoughts,” she clarifies.

The therapist shakes her head.

“You’re always alone in your thoughts,” she rebukes.

“What makes the night time different? What is it that makes the night harder?”

Silence.

She doesn’t know. Or can’t answer.

“Does it make it harder to sort through them?” she prompts, “or is it that they seem more harsh when you’re trying to rest?”

Natasha can’t think. Can’t formulate a sentence to save herself.

“When they’re trying to do battle,” she tries, looking to Clint to help her.

“Can you talk back to them?” he asks quietly.

It’s not a new thought.

“I did, I think.”

She turns to the therapist.

“What do you tell them?” The woman asks.

“I thanked them for keeping me safe,” Natasha says honestly.

“They wanted.. There was something they wanted to do, and I didn’t want to…” she tapers off. She doesn’t want to tell Clint that she wanted to kill him and run. All she ever wanted was to make sure he was safe.

Fear and embarrassment make her face burn.

She must see it.

“Our thoughts aren’t all of us,” the therapist clarifies kindly. This is not the first time they’ve had this conversation.

“Do you think you can keep pushing it away?”

“Sometimes.”

“If you can’t, what can you do?”

Natasha freezes.

Oh god, what if she can’t? What if she had killed Clint? What if in her impulsivity, she had done something that was irreversible?

Her breathing quickens as all the possibilities of what could have happened start running through her head.

“I don’t…” she starts, “I don’t..”

Clint squeezes her hand hard.

“Tell Clint?” She offers.

“And?”

She bites on her lip.

“Write it down?”

They’re the right answers, she’s sure.

“Do you still have the cat?”

Liho. Liho’s with Tony, she thinks.

“Yeah.. Yes,” she says, a vague memory of this conversation.

“Tell the cat?” The therapist prompts.

“Liho?”

She feels aghast.

“I couldn’t tell her those things.”

She could never tell the Cat.

“So why do you think it’s okay for them to sit with you?”

Natasha knows why.

“I don’t…” she starts.

“Because it’s me.”

“It’s hard.”

Everything feels hard.

“I know,” the therapist tells her.

“Do you feel suicidal?”

The question shocks Natasha.

She’s fought so so hard to be here.

She doesn’t want to die. She feels it’s not the same as not wanting to live though.

Not wanting to struggle through each day.

“No. No.”

It’s true, she doesn’t. Even if the voices prompt it.

“You don’t have a plan?”

The therapist looks at her intently through the screen.

“No,” the words are confident. She doesn’t.

“You would tell me?”

Would she?

“Yes,” she supposed, the words not confident.

The therapist looks at her until she looks down.

“I don’t, I would.”

The words more confident this time.

She nods.

“Clint, how are you?”

His eyes widen, the question unexpected.

He can feel the shaking of his hands start and overwhelm threaten.

“I’m fine,” he squeezes out.

“You’re worried?”

She can read his mind, he’s sure.

“Yes.”

He can’t look at Natasha.

“That she’ll get lost… that she won’t come back.”

The therapist is silent, waiting. Clint hates it. He knows she does it on purpose.

“That she’ll leave, and I won’t be able to find her.”

The therapist nods.

Clint sniffs, biting down hard on his lip, holding back the onslaught of emotions that threaten.

Natasha reaches under the table and grabs his hand, holds it as tight as she can.

He hangs his head unsure what to say, his greatest fear unveiled.

The silence in the room feels big.

“Natasha?”

The therapist says her name and she takes her eyes off Clint to look at the screen.

“I need to go soon, but I need you to know some things.”

She likes the therapist, likes how clear she is with her communication.

“You’re still figuring out how to live given all the heaviness you’ve faced recently. So many things have changed. There is more to life than pain, than the hurt you’ve been through, but I fear it’s not over yet. Is there anything you want to talk about right now?”

Natasha is so tired. So over talking. Her answer is slow, but one she can sit with.

“I’m not ready to talk about it yet. “

It seems to be the right answer for everyone.

The therapist smiles.

“That’s okay. We have time.”

She glances at the time.

“I’m going to call through tomorrow at ten.”

She nods.

“Homework,” the therapist laughs, “there’s always something right?”

Both Clint and Natasha grimace. Although used to the way this woman works, they haven’t had to do this in a while. They haven’t stopped holding hands.

“Stay in your comfort zones, for now, it’s important. Recalibrating yourselves and your needs, is where we need to start. Your comfort zone is where you’re going to find something that makes you smile, genuinely, conversations with each other, with friends, and those close to you, getting absorbed into something so you forget your struggles, and the heaviness and pain of what you’ve been through.”

“Those thoughts? Let them pass through. You too, Clint. You’re so worried about Natasha that you’re on tender hooks, and eggshells. Say them out loud, tell each other, make it ridiculous, tell the cat, write it down.”

She takes an audible breath.

“I’m sending through a prescription for sleeping tablets, the same ones you’ve used before. Take a quarter tonight, half tomorrow and then a full tablet the day after. You can taper back down but we’ll talk more about that over the next couple of days.”

He can feel Natasha flinch at the mention of medication.

“If you don’t want to or can’t take it, then you need to set aside time for the meditation exercises we’ve discussed before, but Natasha? You need sleep, and this will be easier than the control that takes for the mediation to work. It’s important, you hear me? You too Clint.”

She glances at her watch.

“I’m sorry I have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow. Think about what I’ve said, okay? One day we’ll talk on not so serious circumstances.”

She smiles, “talk later,” she says, and hangs up.

Clint collapses against the couch, thankful he’s in his own apartment and the comfort of it.

He’s exhausted.

It’s clear Natasha is too.

“You okay?” he asks, knowing the answer.

“No,” she says to his surprise.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry my darkness keeps leaking into your life, I’m sorry I got so lost and you had to find me and save me, again and again. They hurt you and it’s my fault. I didn’t mean to get so lost, I don’t feel like me.”

She starts sobbing into his arms, her body cold as he pulls her towards him.

“He’s dead,” Clint starts, his emotions overflowing too, “he’s dead and I couldn’t save you. I would take it all for you.”

Natasha looks sharply at him.

“No,” she says, voice clear and steady. “Better me than you. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, I would never want you to endure…”

Finally, she feels more in control and clear, the sessions, the burst of tears, his words, all helping her with clarity.

“No.”

She takes a shaking breath.

“They did terrible things to me, then; now. But it’s real and it did happen. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get so lost. I am here, I’m not leaving, I’m fighting I swear.”

“I’m not going to leave you.”

Clint nods, exhaustion peaking.

“Can we stay here tonight?” he asks, looking to the promise of his own unmade bed.

Natasha stands and leads him there, pulling out some clothes for her and throwing his pyjama shorts at him.

“It’s like 7pm,” he says aghast. “We haven’t even eaten dinner.”

Natasha looks to the kitchen.

“Do you feel like cooking?”

Clint finishes changing and nods, “I feel like eating. Come on.”

He sticks the Mac and cheese packet into the pan and on the stove top, adding the butter and milk, and stirring it.

“Better than a peanut butter sandwich,” he goads, his voice more steady now, his actions sure.

.