#psycho therapy for shut in

[marvelfanfics1]

Rafe from s2 two, with the sweetest reader, who is completely crazy about the idea of nedding to be in control of *something* in his life, and little reader being his safe place because he gets to take care of her, he is going al psycho and just about to act impulsive again but then he remembers he has her, so everything is going to be fine, he tells himself🤧

Rafe stands on the balcony, pressing the balls of his hands into his eyes to stop himself from crying after just hearing from his dad how 'he fucked up everything'.

"Man up..." He mutters to himself, a choked sob escaping him.

His attention gets drawn to a phone dinging nearby multiple times, glancing to his left he sees Wheezie's phone laying on a table. After checking that no one's there he walks over to grab the phone, looking at all the messages from an unknown number.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out who it is, his anger and frustration building up again. Sarah, the golden child. Every time it's about her and it pisses him off. This whole ordeal with his dad a few minutes ago was, again, just because of her.

A moment of hesitation passes as he thinks about confronting Sarah, to make sure she keeps her mouth shut about everything that happened. He's about to message her back over Wheezie's phone but he stops, he isn't in the right mind to act rational and this could all go south quickly knowing that somehow Sarah always manages to rile him up simply for just existing.

"No, no..." He mumbles, erasing what was about to send and delete the messages all together, blocking the number he places the phone back on the table.

Rafe steps back again just in time as Wheezie comes out. "Have you seen my phone?"

"What?" He turns to her.

"Have you seen my phone?" She repeats and Rafe sighs, acting all nonchalant.

"No I haven't seen your damn phone."

She groans and is about to leave, stopping in the doorway. "Oh, and Y/n is here. Said she'll wait in your room."

He visibly relaxes at the mere mention of your name, nodding his head he walks past his sister. "Thanks."

He makes his way to his room, opening the door and quickly locking it behind him his gaze softens the moment his eyes lock with yours, your bright smile and the happiness radiating off you just by seeing him.

"Hey baby." He smiles a little, striding over to you he cups your face in his large hands, leaning down to give you a quick kiss. "What y'doing here, hm?"

You frown at him. "You forget? You said we make disney night today..."

"Nah, 'course I didn't forget. It's- I was just wondering that you're here so early. Even went to get your favorite snacks yesterday." He says, letting go of your face he walks over to the dresser and opens a drawer, pulling out various snacks and throwing them on the bed beside you.

Rafe chuckles at your wide eyes from seeing all the sugar, knowing he'll have one hell of an energetic little on his hands but he couldn't care less right now. Your happiness is all he needs right now.

You're practically his therapy, it's funny how regressing is your type of dealing with all the stuff you go or went through but somehow heal him as well by letting him take care of you and making him feel appreciated for the things he does, unlike his dad.

The only thing he hasn't messed up yet surprisingly is his relationship with you. You're still looking at him like he's the only person on the planet, the only one you can run to when things get rough and Rafe relishes in that fact. It makes him have control of at least something.

He's pulled out of his thoughts when he hears you talk to him, holding up a bag of gummy worms. "Help pwease."

With a smile he walks over to stand in front of you again, taking the bag and ripping it open, dropping a few worms onto your awaiting palm before popping one in his mouth as well.

"So, what should we watch first?" He asks, grabbing the remote from his bedside he lays down beside you with his arm behind his head.

"Mmm...Beauty and the Beast!" You grin.

"A'ight, whatever the princess wants." He searches for the movie, huffing out a breath when you collapse beside him, letting you snuggle into his side with your lamb plushie tucked under your arm.

As the movie starts playing he wraps an arm around you, his cheek pressed against your head. "Y'know I love you, right? More than anything..."

You lift your head to look at him. "I love you too daddy. Mm, more than my lamb."

"Damn, that's...that's gotta mean something."

As long as he has you by his side everything will be alright, in his eyes at least.

Taglist

For everything:

@my-river-lilly @pauntedblacknails @fanfictioniseverything @devilslilbabysblog @buckymydarlingangel @hallecarey1 @daybreakwinter @loveshineslikethesky @wandaslittlewhore @vase-of-lilies @white-wolf1940 @simpingbutch @mischiefsemimanaged @alina02 @teddybearsgrr @doozywoozy @angelbabydoll28 @glxwingrxse @lilymurphy03 @veryvaughnny @lokigirlszendaya @youngstarfishdinosaur @little--baby--bear @minideathgoddess @rach2602 @gh0stgurl @flourishandblotts-inc @lovelyy-moonlight @yoruse

@mythixmagic @iris-xoxo-juhu

For Rafe:

@chiaraanatra @chimindity

[mypoisonedvine]

PLEASE I HAVE A REQUEST:

Reader is deathly afraid of physical touch and she’s a student of Jonathan Crane’s. She begins to question whether or not exposure therapy is humane and decides to write a research paper against the idea of exposure therapy and Dr Crane plots against her and finds out her fear, inevitably forcing her to confront her fear with non/con(???)

I’m thinking totally brutal / slow burn and Jonathan is just a full psycho in this, not offering her any mercy. He Def does his research and Def traumatized reader

PLEASEEEEEEEEEE

(because this is just drabbles, I'm not going to be able to flesh this out the way you've envisioned, but I love the concept so I will do something based on it!) obviously this is dark, warnings for kidnapping and threats of noncon

haphephobia - the irrational fear or overwhelming aversion to physical touch.

You were far from the only psychopathology student who got into this line of work due to personal experience. Actually, more often than not, this interest begins for people with their own relationship with mental health-- maybe something as simple as a long battle with clinical depression, maybe trauma or abuse, maybe a history of addiction. You would hope that this made most of the students more equipped, more empathetic; that was true, but it also meant that there was a little more... instability among the cohort than you wanted to admit.

And yet, you hadn't even noticed that the worst of them all was right there in the front of the class, teaching.

"I read your paper," he explained, pacing back and forth, sparing long glances at you. "It was quite good. But your conclusions are weak."

Normally, if you'd been receiving this sort of feedback during office hours, you would just tilt your head and ask 'how so, Professor Crane?'

But considering you didn't even know where you were, strapped to an exam table in some dark basement, you weren't as inquisitive as usual. "See," he continued, approaching you, "if you want to disprove exposure therapy, you can't just do a systematic review of previous literature-- you need to get in the field, experiment yourself."

He lowered his voice as he stood closer to you, leaning over you, looking at you with a sort of fascination and pity.

"After all," he continued, "I'm a... fierce advocate of psychiatric experimentation."

"Yeah," you panted, the initial panic of waking up here fading into a general, steady terror, "I'm beginning to realize that."

"And you're always free to have your own opinion-- I think it's important that my students utilize their right to disagree with me-- but in this case, well, you just can't deny the results."

He was fucking smiling as he discussed it-- he was proud of what he'd done, of what he was going to do to you. "I can," you insisted, "if they're not ethical."

He rolled his eyes. "Always such a good girl," he cooed. "Let me worry about the ethics and you-- you can just worry about what I'm going to do now that I've got you tied up down here, where nobody will ever find you."

Bringing his hand closer to your face, you turned it away with a whimper. "Please," you whispered, "I-- you know I can't--"

"How does it feel?" he asked. "Right now, knowing I might touch you?"

"It's..." you trailed off, struggling to find a train of thought with him so close. "It's anxiety-inducing, obviously. It's dread."

"Filled with dread just because I'm getting close," he smirked. "You're in serious need of intervention, sweet thing. I can't believe you've gone without help for so long."

"This-- this isn't help, Professor--" you began to protest, but you winced as he gently brushed a finger over your cheek.

"You look like you're in pain," he noticed.

"It hurts," you hissed. "It hurts to be touched."

"Hurts how?"

"Like... like I'm raw all over. Like my body is one big burn," you whispered, eyes still shut tight as his hand moved down to gently caress your neck.

"And you've ruled out any medical cause-- an autoimmune disorder, hypersensitivity of the skin?"

You nodded, biting your lip to try to think of something other than the pain he was inflicting-- the pain you were totally helpless to. "There's no... physiological cause..."

"It's all in the mind," he finished for you, "and what a powerful mind you have. You're one of my best students, you know-- it's a shame you're limited by your fear. Fear of the truth, fear of breaking your precious ethics... fear of the future."

Your eyes shot open when his touch trailed down even further, toying with the neckline of your shirt; if any human contact was painful, you hadn't even prepared for the overwhelming anxiety of being touched in a way that had even the slightest sexual undertone. "Y-you don't really think you're that powerful, do you?" you pressed. "That you can take away fear?"

He shook his head. "No, dear, I don't have to," he replied. "I don't take it away-- I use it."

Just as his touch wandered, so did his gaze, and you shuddered under his dark stare as he started to properly grope you; his breathing picked up a bit, his lip twitched-- he even darted his tongue out for a second before smiling again.

"And now," he grinned, "I have you to use, too."

[thatsonemorbidcorvid]

“I read my colleague Hadley Freeman’s column in The Sunday Times this weekend in a growing state of shock. Hadley described how, on three occasions, a man had choked her in bed. I then read the section in Escape, the book she references, written by another journalist, Marie Le Conte. Le Conte writes that choking during sex was “mainstream” among those under 40. “If I were to rank it,” says Le Conte, “I would say it sits somewhere around the light spanking mark . . . not so out of the ordinary that you would mention it to someone.”

Readers around my age, 58, will appreciate how I felt. Never mind incorporating strangulation into sex, we belong to a generation where the “light spanking” Le Conte references is itself regarded as a bit weird, a bit pervy, a bit “why would you want to hit someone, or be hit by someone, in bed?” As regards throttling a partner, a phrase I am shocked to find myself writing, that belongs in my mind to the realm of bullies, abusers, thugs, misogynists, rapists. Very niche. Very sinister. Very illegal.

I would regard even pretending to strangle a partner as an outrage. If a male friend told me such behaviour turned him on, that friendship would end. If I contemplated doing it myself, I’d get therapy. And let’s be clear, the choking under discussion, which a study last year found almost 60 per cent of female students in the US had experienced, does not refer to play-acting, but actual hands round the throat, pressure on the windpipe, possible-loss-of-consciousness suffocation. WTF?

When I got to work yesterday morning three younger female colleagues — in their forties, thirties and twenties respectively — confirmed how widespread the practice is. I suppose when Men’s Health carries idiotic articles headlined “how to do choking safely, according to experts” I should have known asphyxiation-as-foreplay had become, if a long way from normal, then at least normalised. All three women said they had encountered it, along with being slapped, hair-pulled and spat on (eh?!) by male partners. None had welcomed any of these actions.

I should emphasise that these were not super-traumatic encounters with evil psychos, but otherwise consensual acts with otherwise normal blokes. Not pleasurable in any way, but not, I gathered, a massive deal either, such is the extent to which formerly minority, hardcore aberrations have entered the everyday bedroom experience.

The youngest colleague told me several of her female friends did enjoy the experience. I’m sceptical about that. I fail to see how partial suffocation by someone physically stronger, someone you don’t necessarily know well, with no help at hand, can be anything other than terrifying. I find it more likely that some young women, not yet fully confident, have been persuaded that being choked is not only not weird, but now a standard aspect of sex to which they ought to submit. Human beings are hard-wired for self-preservation: oxygen deprivation is something we desperately strive to avoid, not embrace. I’m in no doubt that the vast majority of women subjected to choking do not like it, to put it mildly.

What shocks me is why men, so-called normal men who aren’t sadists who ought to be locked up, would want to strangle their lover in the first place. Of course the easy answer is the malign influence of protracted youthful exposure to pornography. Such exposure has, it is argued, normalised sexual behaviour previously thought extreme. And yet it is possible to view porn without going anywhere near clips of men choking women.

A correctly socialised teenage boy in receipt of the correct moral guidance would shut down such content in a cold sweat should his cursor so much as inadvertently hover over a link. Yet evidently lots of boys and young men blithely consume the dodgy stuff, presumably not knowing it is dodgy. They then expect to mimic it when their sex lives begin to encompass people other than themselves.

Therefore, older people, parents, specifically fathers, are not doing their job properly. Shame on them. They should be telling their sons that all sexual violence is despicable, full stop. We’re not in groovy, liberal, “each to their own” territory here. We’re not talking dress-up or role play. We’re talking about actions which are at best distressing and degrading, and at worst deadly. This behaviour should not be up for discussion. It’s just plain wrong.”

[hatsunevitu]

okay so since the Cupid Ye was aired i’ve been constantly thinking about cartman’s mental condition. we know he’s probably taking medication now, so i hc him having antisocial personality disorder and bipolar disorder. and i’ve been imagining him having his depression episode for the first time after he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. he’s not used to it, he has no idea what’s going on and why he suddenly feels so tired and numb all the time, so he just stays at home skipping school and avoiding social contacts. he’s scared and the “it’s all because of your illness, poopsikins!” from his mother doesn’t help at all.

and sooo i wrote a short moment about this?? i’m sorry for any mistakes because it was originally written in my native language, not in english :(

***

Ever since early childhood it was clear and obvious to everyone that Eric Cartman had problems. Not even like that, Kyle corrected himself in his thoughts. Eric Cartman had Problems. Sociopathy, sadism, aggression – all that a person could notice in Cartman after only half an hour of communication.

And Kyle wasn't too surprised when bipolar disorder was added to all of the above in a sloppy psychiatrist’s handwriting.

By the time Cartman was finally diagnosed he had already gone through several phases of mania. Kyle even did a little research on the disorder. "To know what to prepare for the next time I meet this psycho," he told Stan. "And to know how to help him if necessary," he added silently to himself.

By the age of fifteen, Stan's company was already used to Cartman's regular explosive mood swings, which were accompanied by crazy ideas, aggressive behavior, and, if absolutely unlucky, deaths of a couple or more people.

It was typical: after a short break, Cartman would burst into Kyle's room (often through the window), start showering him with business plans, startup ideas, and opportunities to have extreme fun. Kyle was silent, trying his best to ignore him and frowning irritably when Cartman smiled ecstatically and rushed to Kyle, tugging at his sleeve and almost shouting that everything would be better this time and that it’s a one hundred percent successful scheme.

For some time Broflovski genuinely believed that everyone in their friends group was going through such tortures, but after a short questioning, he found out that they had not seen Eric's mania with their own eyes. Kyle understood — and they won’t, when Cartman just chuckled at the outraged "What the fuck, Fatass?" and replied, "I guess you're just special, Kahl. They wouldn't understand." His eyes flashed especially maliciously, and Kyle looked away hastily so as not to give Cartman the opportunity to start another fight.

Well, all in all, no one's world collapsed when Cartman was diagnosed with a new mental illness. Over the past months of insane hallucinations and obsessive intrusive thoughts, he managed to make everyone sick of him. He refused to go to the therapy sessions for a long time, shouting, running away and trying to get into a fight, and Liane was too afraid to find out another unpleasant truth about her son, preferring to go with the flow and shut him up with the fulfillment of every single of his whims. Kyle doubts that anyone would have done anything to help Cartman if he hadn't intervened. Why – it was unclear to Broflovski himself, but Cartman's first depressive phase hit them both unexpectedly too hard.

Disappearing from everyone’s sight for two weeks, Cartman ignored calls and messages (although Kyle had a serious doubt that anyone other than Butters and Broflovski himself texted him) and skipped school despite Mr. Harrison's threats of expulsion.

Liane avoided answering questions, pursing her lips in frustration and talking her way out with a trivial "He's sick." Kyle didn't believe a damn second, knowing that if Cartman was sick, Kyle would have known about it the very first. Something was wrong. For some reason, the desire to find out what exactly was much stronger than it should have been when it came to Eric Cartman.

***

Perhaps Kyle really shouldn't have worried so much — not to the point of climbing into Eric's window at night. But the Cartmans hadn't opened the front door all day, and by that time Kyle's nerves were so stretched that they threatened to break if he didn't get answers to his questions in the next few minutes. Disturbing thoughts and images of possible turn of events appeared in his head. Perhaps Cartman was dead? Or, on the contrary, has killed someone and had been dissolving dismembered body of his victim for two weeks? One option was no better than the other, but nothing was even close to what he saw in Eric's bedroom.

Haggard, seven kilograms thinner, with an unhealthy skin color and bags under his eyes, he looked painfully wrong, not Cartman-like. He didn’t look exactly ill — more like lifelessly tired. But that wasn't even what hit Kyle so hard.

He did not suspect how much had been hidden in Cartman's eyes before – lively fire, hatred, anger, enthusiasm, passion – all this was gone, dissolved, buried under this empty, dead, unblinking gaze. For a second Kyle even thought (hoped?) that he was really dead, but the heaving chest under the blanket and almost inaudible sound of breathing exposed life in Cartman. He was lying on his back, his head slowly turned towards the window. Kyle sought recognition on his face, but did not see a single shade of any emotions.

He froze in the window, making eye contact with Eric, feeling like he saw something he shouldn't have. He tried to revive the old familiar hatred that usually boiled in him as soon as their eyes met, but Cartman’s emptiness totally killed all the anger. Kyle climbed through the window – Cartman didn't react in any way, lazily closing his eyes – and walked up to the bed, touching his shoulder timidly.

“Hey, Cartman?” he said, shuddering at the way his voice echoed throughout the bedroom. Cartman didn’t open his eyes but smiled hardly visibly.

“Hey, jew”. His voice was empty and emotionless and Kyle pursed his lips with a bit of a pain.

“You need to see a doctor, Cartman”, he said firmly as Eric finally opened one eye disinterestedly. “I’ll help you. I promise”.

And he did.

[transmutationisms]

honestly it is such a relief to see that i’m not the only one who takes issue with the biopsychosocial model of illness because where i live people act like it’s the explanation to everything. when i tried to argue that my “depression” was a result of specific circumstances i was dealing with, they said “biopsychosocial”, but they meant “bio” because they proceeded to force me on ssris. when i tried to argue that my chronic pain was not a result of cognitive distortions, they said “biopsychosocial”, but meant “psycho”, because they sent me to therapy to learn how to stop expressing severe pain to other people.

“biopsychosocial” doesn’t even mean anything. the idea is that illness can be caused by social, psychological, and biological factors. if social=problems caused by other people, psycho=problems someone causes themself, and bio=problems caused by forces of nature, that just covers every possible cause of any possible problem. it doesn’t say anything unique about illness or explain exactly what problems each factor causes and how they cause them. saying a problem is biopsychosocial is like saying “i think this is actually a really complex issue” and then refusing to go any further. the point is to shut down discussion. and it’s not like doctors even have the ability or desire to address social problems anyway.

i agree yes this is some of what i unhelpfully shorthand by calling the bps model "philosophically eclectic" lmao. i would also add that like, there have in fact been efforts to turn doctors into political figures and to treat individuals' health as a function of social forms and conditions, but this isn't inherently a good thing and when it occurs in the context of a capitalist state one thing it can result in is the textbook case of biopolitics. im talking about france in the long 19th century. but anyway yes i agree that 'biopsychosocial' explanations have really limited actual explanatory power; there's some value there in just moving away from a purely biological nosology, but it's not like bps is the only way to do this lol

[blackwolfstabs]

30 Day Writing Challenge: Day 27

ATTACKED

Continuation of day 17: THE CATCH → for greysandmarvelfan & mlgx on AO3

WARNING!!! contains rape/non-consensual elements. (yes, i live for angst and venting what fucks with me through my writing, this isn't new, and we should shut up and move on ok? k great)

“Holy shit, it’s that psycho girl!”

“That’s her?”

Overlapping comments and laughter burned Sam’s ears as she led the way out of the frat party. Her heart still thumped like it never broke from its adrenaline-induced fit that had come with beating the ever-loving shit out of Frankie. She could feel the eyes of the partygoers studying her like she was a feral, stray dog being walked out of civilization by Animal Control. No matter how close the voices to her were or how deep each word was, Tara’s desperate voice overpowered them all. It was her voice blending in and out of another voice that was even more familiar… her own. 

And the thought of what could’ve been with one and what was with the other made her entire being run hot. Very hot, the touch on her back letting her know she was backed by the Meeks-Martin twins actually feeling cool.

She broke out of orange and purple lighting into the crisp outdoors. Moonlight was considered fraud amongst the lively streets of New York, but she didn’t need any source of it to find her way to her baby sister.

She should’ve known better. She should’ve known that Tara would go to the OKB party anyway. She was impulsive and sick of being chained to the apartment, outside of going to her college classes. Sam had begged her—begged her—not to go. 

And Sam never begged. Only for Tara, did she ever. 

This was why. She couldn’t trust anyone, especially after Richie’s betrayal and her secret about being Billy Loomis’ daughter getting out. Either she was the wolf in sheep’s clothing or someone else was. She thought Tara would feel the same, having her own best friend for years betraying her over the orchestration of a fucking requel. If that didn’t destroy Tara’s trust, what would?

But it didn’t matter. Tara was nearly raped at that party, and as much as it was her own fault for getting herself into that situation, Sam took just as much blame. Had she not been in therapy, Tara would’ve never had the chance to make it out the door of their apartment.

There wasn’t much of a breeze to tame the invisible fire burning beneath her skin as she followed Chad, who’d passed her and his sister up with his longer strides. It was then that she started running.

She couldn’t get Tara’s voice out of her head, and every time she replayed it, her vision turned everything in sight into a more distinct shade of red. Until it was blood red. Like the blood that painted Frankie’s face. Like the blood left on her hands. Like the blood still smeared on her lips. Like the blood lingering at the back of her throat. 

Like the blood that was once shed in a similar situation, at a similar time, but with an opposite outcome.

Having Tara scream her name, be trapped beneath a repulsive human being, and barely escaping what would’ve become another tragedy she’d have to recover from was only half of the battle that nearly had Samantha losing it all. 

She should’ve known better.

Because when she was 20, she had been exactly where Tara had been…

—

(flashback / Sam's past inspired by Tanto Amor: Chapter 62 (14:58 - 17:16))

She hadn’t wanted to get caught up in any of this. She’d been a rebel, on the run, and so good at getting herself in and out of suspicious situations, anyone could code her Houdini. But she did not favor Halloween in the slightest. She didn’t like the idea of people hiding themselves behind masks, costumes, and hours of make-up, so no one knew who they were. They all became characters rather than real-life identities, and with that advantage, came a thousand things they could get away with.

All it took were 2 girls who’d befriended her for a few days. They’d begged her to come to this stupid party. They told her she didn’t have to dress up, just come for a good time that would allow her to cut loose. She cut loose more than she let on but always did it on her own terms. No one was going to bark orders at her like her mother had done. No one was going to pin her down and handle her however they pleased.

Until someone did… 

And those 2 girls she thought would look out for her didn’t. They didn’t care. They just knew her standoffish personality and impressive beauty would model a perfect bone for a dog to go chase.

She wound up in the garage, encouraged to go fetch more drinks. And she did it for the sole reason that she could get away from the noise and crowd for a moment. What she didn’t know was that doing so would curse this night into becoming the 2nd worst night of her life, after the night her father walked out on everything their family once had all because of what she did.

She leaned against a long, wooden shelf that was bolted against the wall, holding her head with her fingertips on either side of her temples. Having a drink on a mostly-empty stomach was a stupid mistake, even if she had only taken a few sips. She applied pressure, trying to ease the throbbing pain if she could. 

She just wanted to go home, wherever the hell home was going to be for the night.

Behind her, the door opened, making her pick up her head to look over her shoulder. Her heart skipped a beat. She knew it was a man. He was in all black with the exception of a clown mask covering his entire face. It was white, a tri-brid of yellow, blue, and red paint distinguishing different designs as facial features. Complimenting that were three red horns coming out either side of his face and one at the top of his head. 

He stared at her the whole time, keeping her eyes that did the same. He shut the door and locked it, leaving her to drop her gaze to confirm before looking back up.

Sam instantly felt sick to her stomach, the worst feeling imaginable flooding through her just by laying eyes on him. And it wasn’t because he was in a haunting clown mask. It screamed at her to run, even though there was nowhere to run. As much as she wanted to look away in order to find some form of defense, she couldn’t. Her heart seemed to thump her chest hollow as he began to slowly walk towards her.

She bit back a whimper and replaced it with, “What are you doing?”

He didn’t say a word, just kept coming towards her. That was all she needed to know to figure if she was going to get out, she wasn’t giving him a second chance to speak. He looked hungry for lust. She was young, but she’d been around long enough to know that look anywhere.

She tried to move aside to walk around him, but he did the same and blocked her. She moved the other way, and so did he. So, she did what her instincts were telling her to do. She tried to run.

But he caught her, grabbing her arms and pulling her in, earning a yelp.

Sam felt one arm wrap around her waist, while the other lassoed her shoulder blades, making her grab onto him to get a grip on her stability. But that only lasted for a fleeting second, for he was trying to knock her off balance.

This was when full-blown panic set in, and her rationality was no longer her own. “No! Stop!” She retreated her arm that gripped his shoulder to push away from him. But it was to no avail. 

And still, he said nothing, just fought with her.

“Stop it!” She felt his hold grow stronger around her thrashing. “No-ho!”

Yet, no matter what she did, he handled it better, leaving her struggling whines and whimpers echoing off the walls of the garage.

“No, no!” She began to cry without even realizing it, gripping onto his clothes to avoid falling but still resisting him, nonetheless. 

He caught her around the waist, low enough to tilt her at an angle she had to submit to. The grip he held on her arm was promised to leave a bruise as he lowered her to the ground.

Carpenter tried to brace herself in protest, but she couldn’t, which left her spitting out the only words that she could even process. “Please! No, noooo!” her voice pitched into a squeal as he got her pinned on the floor. 

He straddled her churning legs in the process, leaving him battling for control of her arms.

The burning in her chest and inescapable hurricane running her auto-pilot a million miles per second kept her from putting up the fight she might’ve been able to with a leveled head. She tried to push against him, realizing he was trying to get her wrists above her head. Tears fell from her eyes as she begged him, “No, no, no, no, no, no, no, please…” Her muscles burned out, leaving him to have his way, yet again. “Ple-hease! Don’t do this!”

But he couldn’t care less. He just wanted what he wanted, still refusing to say a word or spare any hint of vocalization. With her wrists secured in one hand, he began to feel down her flank, squeezing at the curve in her hips and filing his fingers to her beltline, where he found the button to her jeans.

“No, no— No-hoo! Nooo!” She tried to buck, to kick, to twist. Nothing worked. “Let me go-hoo!” There was only one other hope she had left. “Heeelp! Help me, pleee-hease!” She knew they were people by the garage door and outside too. Someone had to hear her…

Right?

The man had gotten her jeans undone and moved to clutch the collar of her shirt, trying to tug it down, but not missing the chance to rub his hand against her breast in the process.

This just made her panic even more. “Somebody, please!” she cried, “He-heelp!” She pulled her knee up to make another attempt at kneeing him off. “Get o-hoff of me— Nooo!” By now, she was beginning to sob, which made her words struggle to come out clearly. Her next attempt to shout was replaced by a desperate cry. Even with her arms pinned, she still tried to pull them down. 

But then he stopped feeling up and down her body and raised his fist.

She knew what that meant, and as much as she didn’t want to live what would happen next, she couldn’t let herself lose consciousness. “No, no, please! Please, don’t!”

It came down hard and fast.

Pain blasted through the side of her head, and then her whole world went black.

The next morning, she woke up and couldn’t remember a thing… She could smell blood dripping out of her nose. She sat up, confused on where she was or how she’d gotten there. But then she saw her pants down to her knees and her underwear in an awkward straddle around her thighs. Then, the pain hit her head and privates all at once.

And then she knew. She remembered it all… And she broke down into tears of disbelief, shock, and horror.

The worst thing about it was… they heard her. The people at the party the night before… they knew.

It was just that no one cared.

—

All of the rage and merciless sanctions that had fueled her for the last however-many minutes vanished the second she caught sight of her baby sister hugging her knees and crying on a bench. It was like they were back in the ages of 6 and 11, Sam about to be scolded by her mother for not watching Tara and keeping her out of danger, like she was supposed to.

It was her responsibility. 

She had a responsibility to Tara, to love her and protect her, the same as she’s always had. She didn’t ask to be an older sister, but she didn’t have to. It was built-in. It had been since the dawn of Tara’s time—to watch over her throughout her life, to bark when she was in danger or lunge when she couldn’t outrun that danger, to run and play with her when she was happy, to hold her close when she was lonely, to wipe her tears when she cried or make her laugh when she was about to cry. 

That’s why she was called a big sister. That’s why Tara had called her Sammy. That’s why she was still a Carpenter rather than a Loomis.

She knelt down next to Tara, wanting to place a comforting hand on her leg or touch her in some way, like she always used to do. But she knew she couldn’t… Not right now anyway. “Tara?”

Before Tara could respond, Anika interjected, “We got her asthma under control. She’s just still really shaken up.”

Both, Mindy and Chad, gave the sisters space as they moved over to where Anika was standing with Ethan, who had ditched the party when they were trying to get Tara out of the house.

Sam didn’t look away from her little sister. “Tara…” Her voice had lost all of its darkness and animalistic traces, leaving nothing but concern and softness.

She was shaking. Her baby girl was trembling uncontrollably, and it wasn’t because of the crying. She slowly lifted her face from being buried in her knees to reveal glossy eyes that held regret, hurt, and fear. There was no resentment, annoyance, or rebellion. Just a longing that pleaded for comfort. For rescue. “S-Sam…” Her voice was quiet and delicate, close to breaking with the quivering of her lips.

“I’m here,” she assured her, reaching her hand up to gently caress her shoulder. “I’m here, Tara.” She could feel her own emotions start to get the best of her, but until she certified her sister’s safety, she’d hold them all at bay.

“Sam,” Tara choked out, “You were right…” She had to take a moment to keep herself from drowning in more tears, her breath hitching as she sucked in some air. “I-I never should’ve g-gone…” Then her face creased, and she broke down. “I-hi’m so so-horry!”

But her big sister shook her head, “No, no, no, love, it’s not your fault.” She moved up onto the bench as Tara dropped her legs, showing that she wanted to be held. And Sam did, pulling her in against her chest and feeling her trembling arms wrap around her waist. She shushed her quietly as the younger began to whimper in between small sobs. “It’s not your fault. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry for not getting there sooner. I’m sorry for choosing therapy over making sure to keep you home tonight. Don’t you ever apologize for what someone else did to you. You did nothing wrong, Tara.” She promised her all of this through a blurry lens of her own tears. Her voice dropped to a whisper after placing a loving kiss on Tara's head, “Nothing wrong at all…”

Tara clung to Sam’s waist, holding her tight as if someone was going to try to take her away. Maybe in another world, she’d have been stopped by Mindy, Anika, or Chad from following Frankie up those stairs. Maybe in another world, Sam would’ve showed up, and she would’ve been completely embarrassed. Maybe in another world, instead of sitting on this bench, they’d be standing-off in the street, shouting about where they’ve been and where they planned to go—how one was able to move on and the other was still stuck.

Maybe in another world, she’d have told Sam that she had to let her go…

Not tonight, though. Tonight, she wanted Sam to hold onto her forever.

“Thank you for coming, Sammy,” she whispered, hugging her tighter. And she felt her head be kissed again, while a comforting hand rubbed her back, the bowing of her guardian angel’s head leaving her long, black hair to shield her face from the rest of the world. She was safe in Sammy’s embrace.

And Sammy replied. 

“Always.”

i don't know whether to apologize for writing this THIS way or not, but i'm sorry??

special thx to @doctorwhoarchive for chatting with me about Tanto Amor (yes, u told me i had a while to go before reaching this part in the show, but there were 3 problems: 1) i'm too curious for my own good 2) i piss myself off for no fucking reason, and 3) i have access to YouTube so I WENT TO FUCKING FIND IT BC STUPID FUCKING ME and so here we are) i don't blame u tho, dw! much love 🩶

All my best ♡ - parker

[beesmygod]

The number of asks that seem aghast that you have principles, passions, and might want to make the world better for other people is frankly mind boggling. How do you stay (relatively) sane in this deluge of boot licking sociopathy?

i didnt, ive been cracking under the weight and felt fucking miserable feeling like an absolute psycho who everyone treats with varying levels of repressed disgust. ive been trying to fix it by adjusting my meds, therapy, and trying to show things to friends to ask if im the crazy one. venting on private. trying to work it out on my own by convincing myself i was sanctimonious without cause. tried "if you cant beat them, join them" and couldnt maintain the upbeat facade while feeding a machine i loathed. tried to shut up. tried to not care. spend most of my days crying at least once from some combination of stress, a strong awareness i didnt belong, and no one would ever be caught dead defending me. and now i just am opting to leave the space because i cant keep doing this

[finnickyslut]

More of the Truth-warping Cattonquick au because I have to get it out.

Oliver's sisters

His older sister is 29 and the younger one 26. They're both booksmart like Oliver (one studied law and the other psychiatry) and very close to each other. They grew upper-middle class. The older one has a cushy job as a barrister and the younger one is still studying. They both live in London.

They live close enough to Oxford that the older one volunteered to be added to his emergency contacts list when Paula started fussing about her baby so far away from home (the Quicks were chuffed). When Oliver privately asked about appointing her primary contact she was moved but alarmed.

They never lived together and saw him only a handful of times a year. This became even less as they grew older, using their studies as an excuse. They were tepid at best whenever Paula and Oliver were involved, and not much warmer about Jeff. Paula didn't want Jeff to pressure them and risk alienating them even more. Jeff himself was a fool for his daughters.

They saw Oliver as a bother and "that slag's child" for a long time, even if they knew he wasn't really at fault for anything. Never wanted anything to do with him until they were both uni age. (12-14 y.o. Oliver)

Several things coalesced around that time, including an incident where Oliver got his arm scar, their mother happily remarrying, them finally having certain conversations with her and each other... Mostly just maturity.

Although they apologized to him and actively started trying, they had their own lives and Oliver was too wary by then and still hasn't truly opened up. All the same, they did connect, mostly through their love for literature, drive, their feelings about Jeff and Paula, and later when the girls advised him regarding uni and career choices. They each have scheduled calls with him at least once a month.

(Oliver will never tell, but it was a conversation with them about "making your own opportunities" that led to him puncturing Felix's tire)

Oliver has incredibly conflicting feelings about his sisters. He admires, resents and envies them. He appreciates their sustained effort to connect and make things up to him, but he can't fully trust it. He can't bring himself to think of them as his sisters neither give them up. He realizes they were kids too but is bitter about getting the short end of the stick.

All three siblings share dimples, wavy hair, a pale complexion and impressive lashes. (Felix feels shivers at the hospital seeing Oliver's gaze on his older sister's face.)

His sisters gifted him his necklace and a few other things once they started trying to get close (other gifts include tutoring for uni exam preparations, some favorite books, a nice shirt that he has since outgrown, a fancy scarf and gloves, tickets to a play...).

He keeps most of the physical ones in a box, tells himself he just can't throw presents away or his parents would ask (Just the once, he ripped apart a book in a fit, ended up crying like a baby, desperately trying to put it back together)

The girls have a good amount of correct suspicions about Oliver's mental problems. They have tried to have "general" conversations around mental health and therapy but anytime things got too close to home he shut down and deflected. Given he seems high-functioning they've focused on showing they're non-judgmental/a safe space and learning how to be a good support system.

They know from experience that talking to Oliver's parents about any of this would be counterproductive.

Oliver was originally planning on spending part of the summer with them to avoid home. They were looking forward to it but were happy for him once they'd asked around and checked Felix Catton was a real, non-psycho person who actually hung out with their baby brother.

[attorneys-against-court-violence]

The best thing about post-7yg Simon is that a lot of his memories of Athena are when she was a vulnerable, hypersensitive little kid but he never babies her or talks down to her because of it. I think he even says something along the lines of "I'm in awe of you" to her as an 18 y/o. It would have been easy for him to still be treating her like a child but he never does. I really like that about him.

He recognises all the hard work she's put in to even be able to stand in court to begin with, let alone as an attorney qualified to psycho-analyse people. Case 5-3 shows that he wants Athena to avoid a repeat of the UR-1 trial but contrasts Means by pushing her to do better rather than shutting her efforts down (even if it means playing to her competitive and defiant streak).

The fact he lets her carry on with her therapy sessions - even when he's giving testimony - shows that even if he doesn't have faith in defense attorneys, he has absolute faith in her abilities. Notice he drops the nay-saying about attorneys when she's the lead defense? He does that with Apollo and Phoenix, but not her.

She's grown and changed so much since Simon last saw her. He acknowledges that by testing her and letting her work her way through on her own, rather than holding her hand or shutting her efforts down completely. Him finally saying that he's indebted to her for all of that trouble is one of the sweetest moments in all of Dual Destinies.

For all his troubles, Simon's emotional maturity (and appreciation of Athena) is crystal-clear. What a lad.

[ss-shitstorm]

just so there's no confusion about this :

The grief I was talking about is not a recent loss. I am currently married to an amazing man who understands me and my situation about as well as a human can.

The shit clawing at my goddamn insides like a trapped rat happened 8 years ago.

I had a psychotic break that lasted 2 months(sober, I was just high on abnormal neurochemistry) and somehow for most of that time I managed to act normal enough nobody realized anything was wrong. But EXTREMELY long and disgustingly complicated story short, I full on hallucinated I had a husband and son. I cannot even begin to tell you how completely, utterly and fully these two braided themselves into my awareness. It was as if they'd forever been in my life. They were etched and woven into my IRL memories. They were just…there. They'd always BEEN there.

Eventually my family found me once shit really started hitting the fan and had me hospitalized. Once I was forcibly sedated and given antipsychotics, I slowly snapped out of my delusions and into a reality where they were gone.

These people that were as real to me as the air that I breathe were just gone. No bodies. No funeral. No earthly possessions. Nothing to prove that they'd ever been a part of my reality aside from some rambling, largely incoherent notes left on my laptop.

IDK how to explain what it feels like to have memories of giving birth that aren't real, how hard it is to shut off that voice screaming in your head "WHY ARENT YOU LOOKING FOR YOUR SON? How could you just fucking LEAVE HIM? WHERE'S YOUR BABY GO FIND YOUR BABY." Or what it was like to have a goddamn soulmate that filled up every single last little hole in you, who could see the deepest, ugliest, most naked parts of you and still love you unconditionally because "how could I not?" and know that you'll never, ever be able to feel that again because that's not something you could or should ever expect of another human, but you had it and now it's gone. I don't know how to explain what the fuck it felt like to be given the impossible, to be given everything you never knew you wanted, and have it vanish.

I'd like to say I should have gone to therapy then, but part of me doubts I would have been able to find anyone able to help me, and I certainly wasn't cognizant enough to articulate that I was suffering because I'd stopped being crazy. So instead of healing in any capacity, I just apologized to everyone I upset by being a fucking psycho, went back home to a 40+ hour workweek and smeared the homeless feelings for my missing loved ones over Optimus and Bumblebee writing FP for the next six years.

I don't think there's any meaningful way to recover from being kicked out of heaven. I'm not looking for one. My life now is just footnotes after this experience. What I'm looking for is a way to keep the anguish from physically killing me or destroying what's left of my mind because it wasn't until I got to the footnotes that I was somehow able to start helping others.

Anyways thanks for listening.

[ionalottabookmarks]

Duela in Titans Secret Files

There are two issues in this series, both 50+ page comics that contain multiple stories. Duela appears in a single page in the first issue, is mentioned briefly in one of the stories in the second issue, and features prominently in another - her first major appearance since the 70s. We’re combining all the stories into this one post.

Issue one was published in 1999. In the relevant story, word has gotten out that the Titans are re-forming, and will be recruiting members.

Duela is expecting to be recruited (spoiler alert: she won’t be). She claims to be the daughter of Doomsday. She’s at a bar, which we’ll come back to later. It’s the best look at civilian Duela that we’ll get in this era, and she looks like a fairly normal, adult woman.

Issue 2 came out in 2000. Her first appearance is on a computer screen, showing a bunch of former Titans that we’re keeping tabs on.

So. This is a very brief appearance, but there’s just...a lot to unpack here. First of all. Over a dozen? I count Joker, Two-Face, Riddler, Penguin, Scarecrow, and Catwoman in the 70s, and in the 90s, Wildebeest and Doomsday. That’s eight. Eight is not a dozen.

Second. If she’s in a mental institution, how was she in a bar in the last issue?

Third. Schizophrenic. Okay. She’s never really displayed any signs of schizophrenia. But more importantly, the book that first calls her schizophrenic being the same book that first portrays her as a villain? I don’t like that. I don’t like that at all.

Fourth. Acrobat? Not that she wasn’t, I guess, but she’s also an inventor, a detective, and a martial artist.

Okay. Moving on.

When our narrator (Bette Kane, fyi) says this shaped almost all of us for the better, I’m pretty sure the person she’s not including in that is Duela.

In this story, Beast Boy and Bette are going to arrive at their apartment to find Beast Boy’s cousin has invited, like, a zillion superheroes over for a Titan’s recruitment drive. It’s basically turned into a wild party, and they’re not pleased. Then Duela crashes.

I do like the balloons. But wow, Beast Boy. That’s mean. And she was a respected member of the Titans when you weren’t, so, like, shut up.

She’s upset that she wasn’t invited. Understandable, since literally everyone else was. Beast Boy’s cousin claimed he tried to invite her, but she was undergoing electroshock therapy at the time. Which is where I express my absolute disgust at the utter lack of sympathy these *heroes* are showing for a former teammate undergoing a mental health crisis. “Psycho.” “Krusty.” “Creepella.” Look, maybe if you could be nice to your schizophrenic friend who’s clearly going through a hard time, she wouldn’t be attacking you right now.

Also worth noting: Duela calls Bette “Ms. Wimbledon” here. This is the same thing Pantha calls Bette, and Pantha is the person Duela claimed to be last time we saw her, in JLA/Titans.

Duela’s brought friends! The one with the empathetic stimulator is a Beast Boy enemy. There’s two of them, actually. I’m not sure if the other guys are with them or Duela. All of them, including the stimulator dudes, are dressed to match Duela, but that may be a coincidence; I haven’t read any of Beast Boy’s other comics yet, and it’s been sort of difficult to track down much information in these guys. (Fear and Loathing.)

Duela’s friends/henchman are dispatched quickly. But not Duela herself, because she’s awesome.

“Bozo.” Like, wow, we are really packing on the insults for the mentally ill girl lashing out because her feelings are hurt. Have any of you considered, like, having a conversation with your former teammate who really just wanted to be included?

Okay, so it’s not like Duela isn’t coming through with her fair share of name-calling. And she’s got a jack-in-the-box! I love when Duela has gadgets.

And our girl is unceremoniously knocked out with a rock.

So there we have it. Duela’s first major appearance outside the 70s, Duela’s first appearance as a true antagonist, and Duela’s first time being diagnosed as schizophrenic then being called psycho by people who are supposed to be her friends.

I hate this issue. Have I mentioned that I hate this issue?

Duela’s next appearance will be in about 5 years, in Teen Titans #22, in 2005. We won’t have a dedicated post for that; it’s one of a few issues in 2005-2006 where she appears in the background of big scenes, and I’ll be compiling them in one post.

[runthepockets]

I was watching Lords of Chaos around this time last year. It's about what you expect. Idk why the movie exists, everyone who still cares about those bands has the fuckin story tattooed to the inside of their eyelids, and to outsiders it just reads as a really weird and cruel rehashing of some obscure thing between a bunch of dudes in the 90s. But one thing I will say they did really well was the portrayal of Dead's suicide. It wasn't a cool or glamorous thing, it was very graphic and nerve wracking and devastating. There's a part where he goes to his phone to check his answering machine and it's a message from his dad congratulating him for getting into his university of choice, and it really solidifies the grim finality of what he's doing. You genuinely feel confused and upset when Euronymous' immediate instinct is to start taking pictures of dude's corpse and collecting little pieces of his slaughtered skull to show off to his buddies.

It's crazy how the suicide of one really weird, genuinely mentally ill dude changed the trajectory of an entire music scene forever. Like, before any of that shit with him went down, it was just a bunch of pretentious nerds who were all bark, no bite. The reason Dead was as popular as he was among all those dudes in the first place is because they thought he was playing up an image like the rest of them, walking around naked in the woods and talking about feeling like a vampire and a corpse and what have you, it fused perfectly with the general aesthetic and machismo that everyone was trying to put on, and it's really sad in retrospect. Dude really just needed a solid support group, therapy, and anti psychotics, and instead all he got was a bunch of weird shitty nerds enabling his antics. It reminded me of that Always Sunny episode where Mac and Charlie won't shut up about Psycho Pete, who you assume is some cannibalistic sociopath, until he actually shows up in an episode and is just some anxious, mild mannered, mentally ill dude trying his best.

And the entire core of Black Metal has more or less revolved around this attitude for like, 30 years now. It's crazy. Even now when you ask people about metal, they think about white supremacist dudes burning churches. It's all so stagnant, it's fascinating. If Death Metal, Hardcore, Grindcore, Sludge, and Doom Metal are all encompassing of everything I actually really admire about white masculinity and enjoy putting my own spin on in my day to day life, Black Metal is all encompassing of everything I hate about it, and why it tends to flounder and fall apart on deeper introspection as often as it does. It's really a shame, cus a lot of second wave BM is really fucking good, a lot of those dudes are genuinely talented individuals. But holy shit.

[whathappensintherapy-official]

Intro

This will mainly be for recoveryblogging.

I say rude, un-PC and indelicate things. If you are a prissy person about language, sex and violence, you shouldn’t read this. I am not a doctor, why should my uninformed opinion matter to you? You know what you know about yourself and I don’t have to agree with you for it to count.

I survived severe middle school bullying, physical abuse in a home with DV, sexual and physical abuse in the Troubled Teen Industry, and verbal-sexual abuse plus neglect from an occupational therapist and child psychotherapist after I came home. I need serious help that so far I haven’t gotten.

I was diagnosed with DID by Cristina Mardirossian in September of 2023. I’ve had headmates or alters, whatever, for as long as I can remember. Cristina insisted that it must have been caused by SRA/RAMCOA because I had violent sexual fetishes from a very young age and I am obsessed with blood and bloodletting.

She thinks I’m in denial about being RA’d. I don’t know what I think but I don’t remember anything like that happening to me.

I’m quoigenic, i.e uncertain if endo or trauma genic.

I’m seeing a different therapist, pure talk therapy, no grounding, no somatic interventions, for trauma that actually happened. I’m not telling the new therapist I have DID. Not unless she earns my trust.

UPDATE: New therapist told me therapy was not going to help with my PTSD. Instead, I’ve taken up singing lessons again…and moved on to yet another therapist for things other than PTSD. I will not be disclosing DID to her either.

I know the Official Literature says pure talk therapy would never work, and that only someone experienced in treating DID can help me. It’s supposed to be dangerous to discuss traumatic memories without grounding and establishing “safety.”

We’ll see. If I go psycho from discussing the realities of my own life, you’ll find out.

UPDATE: I didn’t go psycho. Therapy just wasn’t the right solution for my trauma at this point. Great news though—singing isn’t a trigger anymore if I practice every day!

UPDATE 5/2024: I have found another talk therapist and made great strides in PTSD recovery. She does not know I have DID. Two unwanted alters are either gone or shut down. She does not insist on grounding techniques. She has told me that grounding techniques do not work for everyone and I don’t have to do them. Given that I am making a huge amount of PTSD recovery progress without specifically treating or even disclosing the DID: You do NOT have to treat DID before treating PTSD. You can recover from PTSD without even TOUCHING the DID. Anyone who says PTSD cannot be treated without first treating the DID symptoms is FULL OF SHIT.

HANDY LINKS

About the alters: https://www.tumblr.com/whathappensintherapy-official/736286673824006144/about-us?source=share

[aajjks]

TPOL!JK

“you know i would never put my hands on my kookie but please, don’t do that again. i love you and i always will” says ji-ae whose frown is turned upside down when jungkook mentions having kids with the love of his life AKA you.

you whose been comforting ji-ae as she cried and never treated her differently when she was struggling with her mental health.

you were there through all of it and it’s obvious the two of you are working towards a better place in yours relationship and this time you’re staying for good.

ji-ae promises to not invite chaeyoung over any longer and will make sure to change her locks and don’t think she doesn’t notice jungkook’s hand on your waist. he’s such a simp for you and ji-ae can’t help but find his love for you adorable.

the sweet moment is then cut short when jungkook’s phone goes off and he leaves to pick up the call leaving you and ji-ae alone.

“y/n?” she asks.

“what’s wrong?”

“do you…do you really think the baby isn’t his?”

“i honestly don’t know what to believe because he isn’t sure himself but i’ll still love him no matter what. i…i still want us to have a family together so i’m not going to let this deter me from loving him”

and ji-ae smiles and nods her head at you thinking how your parents did a fine job raising you. you’re a beautiful, ambitious, compassionate young woman and the more she talks to you, she begins to understand why jungkook is so hung up on you. you’re literally magical.

meanwhile, jungkook is outside fussing at, you guessed it, chaeyoung.

“quit yelling at the mother of your unborn child. guess what? i’ve decided to not release the mugshot pictures so instead of yelling at me, you should be thanking me. our baby has been in the oven for a month now and to celebrate, i’m going to tell the whole world about our baby. isn’t that great?! i hope you’re having fun with that whore because i’m going to ruin that bitch too”

He’s gritting his teeth and he almost throws his phone on the ground, “you mean the bastard child eh? It’s not MY child- and go ahead tell the world. Why would I care?” He scoffs.

“You’ve fucked many men. So… I’m not too concerned.” He smirks. “And for your info. She’s the love of my life. Not some whore. Go ahead and cry. I’m never going to love you or accept this child.” He is being harsh he knows, but what she needs is not to be craving his love but going to therapy.

“Ruin her and I’ll make sure your careers over, I’ll expose your obsession with me and everything you’ve done.” He threatens her back.

“You’re not the only woman who’s tried this, with me Chaeyoung.” He warns her, fixing his hair as he reaches out for a cigarette from his back pocket.

“I’m going to propose to yn- marry her, fuck her senseless and get her pregnant, WILLINGLY. And you’ll watch helplessly.” Chuckling, he lights up the cigarette while balancing the phone on his shoulder.

He hears her screaming, he rolls her eyes. “SHUT THE FUCK UP- even the child in your belly deserves to have a better mother than a psycho like you.” That’s the last blow he gives her after cutting of the call.

He is pretty sure that he’s hurt her a lot, enough to make her do something crazy so he’s a little concerned for you. Jungkook has to make sure that you’re safe.

You’ll have to move in with him.

He’s thinking to himself for a while and after he’s done smoking, he’s back inside. And his worries wash away as soon as he sees you helping his mother set the dinner table.

Oh, how can he ever leave you?

“Yn… once you’re done, I need to ask you something.” He smiles.

After the dinner, you, him and his mother are conversing, laughing and reminiscing about the old times and he scoffs in embarrassment when Jiae starts to tell you his childhood stories.

But overall it’s all very sweet and he feels so good. Then you finally give him your attention once his mother excuses herself to fetch dessert from the kitchen, rejecting your offer to fetch it yourself.

“Yn..” Jungkook looks at you, then on his watch, staring at it.

He hopes that you’ll agree.

“Move in with me.”

[oobleckgargle]

Batman: White Knight #1 (December 2017)

Batman and Joker conversing mid-fight in front of others

Joker: “We’re a team, Bats. Admit it! That’s our dynamic. All that’s missing is the make-up sex. I don’t expect you to acknowledge it. You are, after all, the distancer. I’m the overly complicated one!”

Batman: “You only pretend we’re a team because it gives you purpose and makes you feel special. But your ego won’t let you see the truth.”

Joker: “And what’s that?”

Batman: “You don’t matter. Not to me, not to Gotham. Not to anyone.”

Joker: “Ouch. Cards on the table, huh? Is this the part where we get to be completely honest with each other? Because I don’t have to hold back.”

Batman: “You’re not holding back--you’ve got nothing left.”

Joker: “After all these years, you still have no idea of what I’m capable of? I could have beaten you at any point, turned this city completely against you whenever I wanted. But I chose to hold back--giving you only what you could handle--because I didn’t want to wreck what we had. Admit it--I gave you Gotham City! This corrupt war zone is the home we created together. The only reason Gotham allows you to exist is because they’re so terrified of me! Admit it!”

Batman: “Finished?”

Joker: “I’m the only one who really knows you, Batman! Your vigilantism isn’t about justice--it’s about control: fixing this city is your pathetic way of salvaging the broken bits of your anima. But you’re too stupid to see that it hasn’t worked--crime has become your therapy, and Gotham your victim. You’ve dragged us all into your perpetual halloween!”

Batman: “Enough.”

Joker: “Admit it. You can’t even build a family because the very thought of one terrifies you! How many innocent children will you ruin with your nightmare?”

Nightwing: “Shut up!”

Joker: “Is that Nightwing or Robin? I’ve lost track because they keep disapearing.”

Batman: “Enough!”

Joker: “Even Gordon is fed up, watching his men turned into cannon fodder on the front lines of a war they didn’t ask for. It’s falling apart and you’re incapable of stopping it! Admit it! Face it. The greatest villain… in Gotham City… is you!”

Batman: “Stop talking!”

Joker: “I see Gotham more clearly than any of you… but you won’t admit it. To you, I’m just a psycho in makeup. You left me no choice… but to come here tonight… to probe it to you… with these.” (Joker holding up a pill bottle from where he lay under Batman, beaten and crying) “If I can get better, I can get this city back on track… finally to show you… that you need me.”

[old-wild-child]

(TW: mentions of suicide)

My feelings about Psycho 3 are, well, I have no idea, but my mind keeps going back to the scenes after Maureen's suicide attempt.

I'm sure everyone who ever watched Psycho 3 has said this, but I think it does say a lot that Norman immediately snapped out of the “Mother” mindset and called an ambulance when he saw Maureen in the middle of her suicide attempt. Even suicide is too much for Mother to handle. Hell, Norman's feelings for her overpower Mother's control.

I don’t like to talk about sorrows on the internet, but I was rooting for Norman and Maureen because it’s something that I want to see more of in the world. When I attempted suicide at age 16, my parents each gave lectures about how I’m a disappointment to the family. My mother took it a step further and made it all about her. “But what if you went to the hospital?? What will the family think of us??”

When I confided in my therapist about my suicide attempt and my parents’ lack of sympathy, she threatened to call Child Protective Services on my parents on accounts of Child Neglect unless they sent me to a mental health hospital. My mother then forced me to lie to my therapist and tell her that my suicide attempt was a fable I made up so I didn’t have to go to the hospital. Her reasoning?? “But if you go to a hospital or taken by CPS, you won’t be present at Easter Dinner. What will I explain to the rest of the family?? I don’t want to look like a bad mom.” Well, guess what?? If you ignore your kid's mental health, and are more worried about how it affects your image, you ARE a bad mom. No ifs, ands or buts.

Anyone who is or who has been suicidal can agree with me when I say that it’s tricky to find a support system. My own family has said horrific things over the years of the suicidal that I’ve resorted to shutting down in their presence. My grandma will go out of pocket and say “Suicidal people are so selfish because they’re only hurting everyone else” with no reason or prompt. I’ve lost friends and romantic relationships due to being honest about what I was going through.

Here we have Norman Bates, who was raised by Mother, so naturally he's not good with feelings. Norman Bates out of all people is visiting Maureen in the hospital (after Mother had the literal intention to kill her), he treats her like any other person, he’s asking her out on a date and teaching her how to dance, he accompanies on the cab rides to therapy. He takes time to be kindhearted and nice to her. Norman Bates out of all people.

Sure, Norman may be a LOT to say the least, but as someone who’s struggled with mental health issues with a lack of a support system, those little signs of kindness mean a lot.