#therapy is supposed to give you methods to cope

[tokyoteddywolf]

22 isn't very much at all, I think.

[sysmedsaresexist]

hey does acknowledging the existence of parts make symptoms worse? like if they have a different name or other stuff about them thats different from you as a part, or using we/us, or generally just talking about them as a different part. i see ppl on reddit complain abt 'fakers' and them talking abt parts as if different from themself being against treatment guidelines but whenever i talk about my parts this way w drs/nurses/etc no one gives a shit. how else am i supposed to talk about it

Posting all three asks together.

To the very first question, does acknowledging parts make symptoms worse, yes and no. I have to talk about both, because it depends.

Typically, when people first find out they're a system or start questioning having a CDD, symptoms DO get worse.

A lot of antis and reddit are going on old research (old research doesn't support them, bear with me). Before the age of the internet, most people had someone ELSE point out that they were a system before they saw it in themselves.

This has to do with how mental health was treated a couple decades ago (having problems was Bad™️, deny and hide symptoms, it's still true but it was much worse), and access to resources about symptoms being much, much harder to come by. Amnesia was harder to notice. These days, every time you log in, you can see what your alters were doing while you were gone. There's no denying or hiding it.

That said, take myself, for example. I'm in my mid 30s, and I've been in therapy since I was 4.

Around age 20, after a very serious event, my therapist and I started to discuss alters. Before this point, I had rarely heard them, as far I knew, they didn't have names or personalities. Many of my alters DIDN'T have names. They were little more than emotionally reactive concepts of bad coping methods-- "the angry one," "self harming one."

It wasn't until I worked with my therapist to gain some kind of communication that my system kind of... activated. Suddenly, all my symptoms seemed 100 times worse, I was noticing things more and more, the increased communication was terrifying, we fought and rejected each other. We became more real, gained traits, names, voices.

Typically, this kind of upset settles after a while, but it's normal for it to get worse.

This type of progression of symptoms is well documented, but it's no longer the norm.

Now, is it specifically acknowledging the alters or parts that cause issues?

Fuck no, and Treatment Guidelines don't say that acknowledging them as separate is a bad thing.

The treatment guidelines are very clear that you use the language and words that the client uses.

What the treatment guidelines advise against is encouraging the rejection or disownment of parts. An example is someone who's religious, and believes that their system is related to possession. The therapist is to refer to the alters in the same way the client does-- by name and "we/us", etc, without encouraging the idea that they're actually possessed by a demon.

This is more about system accountability than anything else. The point is to get the system to realize that they are all in this together, and that the actions of one have consequences for all, including the demon in question. There is no hell to return to, when the body goes to jail, so do you.

This is integration.

Learning to get along, compromise on needs and wants, working together, leaning on each other, learning about each other, until together you're an unstoppable power ranger mecha with useful skills spread throughout the system. Everyone has a part to play in success.

You can't do that if you don't acknowledge them and their differences.

Fuck reddit.

[raindrop-on-a-spiderweb]

A Message To My Readers

I don't tend to use this tumblr as a personal blog, but I feel obliged to be honest to my readers this time.

On August 11, I shot myself in the head with a .22 caliber revolver.

The bullet entered through my right cheek, fracturing my orbital and mandibular, and exited through the side of my nostril, embedding shrapnel inside my face. Surprisingly, it didn't hurt very much. All I felt was a burning pressure tunneling through my face, and warm blood fountaining onto the collar of my dress. The rest of that night I do not remember–save that in the ambulance, blood clots the size of caterpillars were dropping out of my nose.

I spent the next few days in the hospital, the side of my face swelling up so much I couldn't see out of my right eye. I was in the hospital under observation for three days. Nurse aids--new hires I was supposing– kept looking at me with that faint gaze of horror and slight fascination, at the bloody mess on my face swelling up into a bloodier mess, like rubbernecking at a car accident. Otherwise my stay was uneventful–I watched the Discovery Channel and reread The Master and Margarita several times while we waited for the swelling to go down and for my flesh to knit itself together enough so I could be discharged.. My left nostril leaked so much blood it covered the pillow. Scabs formed to close the bullet wounds on both sides of my face.

I was then transferred to a psychiatric ward. The experiences I had there and the people I met I will remember for a lifetime. It was a fascinating cross-section of humanity. There was an 18-year-old redneck father-of-two (!) who, during a group therapy session where we were asked to find coping methods to deal with depression, yelled out "GO TO A SHOOTIN' RANGE!". The head nurse on the ward constantly quoted One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest. There was a woman who believed she was "powerful reincarnation of an ancient druidess". Another man had been a highly successful local restauranteur before meth addiction and mental illness took away his life. A slight, blonde former nurse who after a failed relationship, stabbed herself in the liver and trachea.

The library was meager, but I read John Muir's First Summer in the Sierra and lost myself in snowy mountain peaks and the spray of waterfalls. I made myself popular by giving out palm readings in the day room and was correct approximately 80% of the time. I described one man's temperament as "fiery", which he correctly understood to mean he was an asshole. The ancient druidess asked for a reading but spent most of the time telling me about her myriad other reincarnations (respectively, killed in the Holocaust, killed in the Victorian era, killed in the medieval era). An old former nurse–not the blonde lady– came for a reading and it was so accurate she got teary-eyed; we soon became fast friends. She was elderly but sharp as a tack and had worked her whole life in the profession; through the 70s and 80s. She had never married, although she wished she'd had children. She had been a sci-fi writer as well and had a wealth of advice for me, one being that you should never become a nurse. Nursing had ruined her body and left her wheelchair bound.

My roommate was a quiet woman who barely said two words to me the first day and spent most of her time staring at the wall and sleeping. The therapists could not crack her in the least. By the second day we fell into a card game with each other, and little by little she lit up and started smiling. When she laughed it was infectious. She, I and the elderly nurse spent long hours in the day room, playing cards and watching television and laughing with each other. The night before we were discharged, we were up late, and she confessed her terrible circumstances, her life in foster care, her husband who had molested her children, her trafficking, and her upcoming court hearing so she could claw back custody of her children. A flash of contemplation passed her face, and she said to us, "I have talked more with you than I ever have with any of my therapists." I still have her and the nurse's numbers.

The therapy I was given and the connections I made were overall wonderful and affecting experiences. I left the ward looking forward to meeting the world headon, but when I got out, things grew worse. My mother withheld my medications and electronics and blamed me for everything; wanted me to go to a halfway house (thankfully my father let me stay with him permanently). I was on the verge of filing a police report before she gave them back. And then I realized I was being kicked out of the house. To walk into your room and realize it is not your own anymore, to see your belongings packed up and ready to be stored away or sent back with you, is a jarring experience; to have your eyes go to a familiar place and have it be so alien.

Then she said those words that made my heart drop to my stomach: That I was writing awful, dark things for an audience and that she was completely ashamed of me, and that she thought that it contributed to my decision to end my life. (and also that I was "posting sarcastic comments online for ego strokes"--wtf?) She had gone through everything private of mine, everything I strived to keep separate from my real life identity for this very reason, and told God knows how many people. All for nothing now.

Few things can compare to the horror of having a loved one finding out the deepest, rawest, most honest parts of yourself and reacting with disgust. To have them point a finger at your most delicate personal works and say, "This is responsible for your attempted suicide," when writing had brought me nothing but delight, happiness and friends at some of the darkest times of my life. Part of the reason I love writing was the lack of restraint and escapism, and the idea of being someone else. How could I possibly return to writing knowing that someone was constantly judging me and looking over my shoulder? How could I write honestly, without constantly second-guessing myself?

Anyway, my mother wanted nothing to do with me and threw me out with my father once I got my belongings. The last thing I said to her was "Next time, I won't miss." C'est la vie and that's the end. I'm officially disowned now and cutting off contact. No clue where I stand will-wise, but I don't care anymore.

We got in the car and went home. As my mood sank, I was tempted to do the unthinkable and I gave some serious thought to deleting my account and works. The thought of my mother (and potentially other family members too) reading these stories of mine in all their graphicness was a crippling prospect. It also occurred to me that she had started packing my room up when I was still in the hospital, and that finally made me cry. I wondered whether she was the same person who loved me and hugged me and protected me as a child, or she was the same person all along and I just never noticed.

When we got home to my dad's farm I was shaky and unfocused and my mind was in a dark fugue. But it was a bright and sunny August day. As soon as I got out of the car my cats poured out of the fields and out of the barn to surround me, meowing and excited after a week of not seeing me, Spot and Zorro and Aldous and Erik and Gidget. We're glad you're back. We're glad you're here. Beings that didn't judge me, that I didn't have to explain anything to or justify myself to, that just were happy that I existed.

As I felt the sunlight on my shoulders I started to cry again, but they were tears of relief. How could I have tried to kill myself when a moment so beautiful existed? Things will look up. They always do.

I love writing and I will never, and can never, stop.

[altf4d3lete]

I agree with you about Tyler being bigoted towards outcasts and I think he came to hate outcasts just so he could have something in common with his father. A father who is barely there. But your reasoning towards Donovan's hatred is apt. He is afraid that his son is like his wife who was treated like that.

Now about the manipulation, I think it is solely Tyler's decision and he is not that manipulated. He hated outcasts. After he was ordered a court mandated therapy, he met thornhill who is already in nevermore at the time. Thornhill showed him files, revealing his true nature as a hyde and as a proof, showing what happened to his mother. It only fueled his hatred towards them especially at nevermore. In a sense that he might've understood his father's hatred and did Thornhill's methods. Even if it means being chained and whipped. If he doesn't want that, if he doesnt want his hyde to come out with that method already being introduced to him, he could've told his father but he didn't. At that point he isn't being manipulated yet into doing something, they are in the process of waking the hyde so I think he can choose to stop any of that the moment the shackles and whip was shown to him. He could ignore thornhill and tell the sheriff why so he can avoid her or put restraining order. But he didn't. He pushed through with the process of awakening his hyde. So I think that much says everything. Not to mention how he enjoyed killing.

Man I really got myself into some deep Tyler conversation, you guys are giving me lots of food for thought.

I agree with you to an extent. I think that it was fully his decision to help Thornhill because of his bigoted and hateful view of outcasts that was influenced by Thornhill. However, I don’t think he knew exactly what it meant to be a Hyde or what it took to unlock the Hyde. And I think that by the time he got started with being chained and the torture, there was nowhere for him to turn to. He couldn’t have really gone to his dad, because what was he supposed to tell him? That he was a monster like his mom? Plus his dad had been lying to him his whole life about his mom. Thornhill was the only one who hadn’t lied to him. I think that influenced his decision to go through with her plans and what she asked.

He was definitely still manipulated, at least in my eyes. And I don’t think he had complete autonomy with the killing and stuff after the Hyde was unlocked. I think there are smaller things he had autonomy with that show he was actively manipulating Wednesday, but with the killing, I feel like he may have come to enjoy it as more of a coping habit. Though his murders were pretty brutal, so who knows, that may have been the Hyde corrupting him or him just letting out anger, not sure. There just isn’t enough information on him or how Hydes work and it’s a bit frustrating given how much focus they put on him compared to other characters.

It’s really interesting to hear all these differing POVs. Honestly really puts the way I feel into perspective. It’s a little crazy lol

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[prince-honeypaw]

may i request more baby shinsou or tamaki, with their mentors??

♡ The world needs more baby Tamaki and Dad Gum, and I am all too happy to supply it. I will admit that I had a lot of trouble with this one for some reason, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless!

♡ Bonus Headcanon: Tamaki is adopted! He was passed around a few foster homes during his first year at UA before Taishiro took him on as an intern. The stress from being swapped from home to home did not work well with the stress of hero work, so Taishiro decided that Tamaki needed a solid and secure home life to truly thrive.

♡ So, Taishiro signed the papers and became Tamaki's legal guardian without a second thought.

♡ It was awfully surprising for Tamaki to be adopted by his mentor, but he'd be lying if he said that Taishiro was wrong. He was significantly less skittish in the field without worrying about where he'd be living in the next month or so.

♡ However, being in such close quarters did mean that Tamaki's new guardian quickly learned about just how deep the boy's anxiety went. He gladly sprung to get Tamaki into therapy and was abundantly supportive of any coping methods he wanted to try!

♡ Regression was just one of the few methods that really stuck for Tamaki, and far be it from Taishiro to stop him from doing whatever helped. In fact, he took on the transition from guardian to caregiver as easy as one, two, three!

♡ Taishiro has trouble leaving Tamaki at home alone even if he isn't supposed to have little time! The thought of him regressing alone is enough to make a grown man weep. But, Tamaki swears up and down that if he feels even a teeny bit small, he will call.

♡ Still, oftentimes this means that even if Tamaki is not supposed to be working that day, he may find himself at the agency with Taishiro.

♡ There is a playpen in Taishiro's office to contain Tamaki's baby crimes and keeping his sticky little hands secluded to only a portion of his wallpaper, but it does very little to keep other sidekicks from taking the baby out and unleashing him.

♡ But, really, Taishiro can't blame them. Normally Tamaki is 50% nervous and 50% tremble, so seeing him so playful and carefree is fun and exciting! And it's good for the little guy to get out and socialize while he's in the mood for it.

♡ Most of the time he does have to go recollect his kid because some sidekicks think that giving the baby with anxiety an iced coffee certainly is not a recipe for disaster. Tamaki's tremble stat went up to 75%.

♡ Baby Tamaki is also a firm believer of food (and drinks) tasting better if it is not his. Doesn't matter if the meals are exactly identical in every way, he believes it's more special when it is shared.

♡ And Taishiro is incredibly weak to this. He is not naturally weak by any means, but seeing those big ol' eyes just staring up at him and watching those ears perk up just makes it so easy to relinquish the first bite.

♡ Tamaki's cheerful purring almost makes it worth it.

♡ Taishiro feels like a true clown when his sidekicks inform him that they've just been pretending to eat the boy's own food so he thinks it's actually their's that he's partaking in.

♡ He's just a big sap that loves his skittish kiddo too much to think that maybe, just maybe, there was a work around this entire time. 😔

[formulatrash]

2022 top intrusive thoughts

Do we still post our songs of the year on Tumblr? I forget how I've been doing it for the past few years. Whatever, Gen Z, here's my top songs of 2022 and a long ramble about the state of everything in my head.

My favourite songs of the year is a sort of mental breakdown only loosely about music. It’s more of a Hazelwipe of whatever mess we’re seeing some purely-numerical way out of and into the next one. 

This year is about death. And grief. And love, stored in a big, white cat. It’s a bit like a webweave with a playlist and the thing I’m mythologising is my own year but haven’t we all been desperately in need of an alternate universe?

It’s annoying that ‘what is grief, if not love persevering?’ is a Marvel quote. But there we go, how appropriate for a year that certainly made me want to face god and walk backwards into hell. The thing is, there’s a difference between grief and loss and I don’t think that 2022 has actually involved a lot of grieving. Just losing and then staring at the void in blank uncomprehension because how are you supposed to just accept that people and things are gone that way. 

I’m old enough that there have been years where a few friends or relatives have died. There’s never been a year before where that’s hit double figures. And what right do I have to feelings about it, anyway? It’s not me that’s dead. 

I know that’s not how it works. But if ghosts are supposed to be spirits that haven’t passed on, still stuck on something holding them to earth then, well, that seems kinda silly but also a blunt metaphor for complicated feelings you can’t process yet. 

What’s more of a haunting than an invasive thought? All my friends are dead, right in the middle of something you were trying to behave normally about but why should you? Why would anything be normal at a time like this? 

I have thought about wanting to go home a lot this year. I don’t know where I mean by that. Maybe it’s this list. Maybe this is the campfire embers that give you the excuse of smoke for weeping. Maybe just mundanely curating a top fifteen songs that have been looped into numbness is the annual, purgative equivalent of the dishes somehow being there waiting to be washed, regardless of the DEFCON level.

In which case: the rules of this (“””rules”””) are that I have to be at least somewhat convinced the song came out this year and only one song per artist, unless it’s a guest spot or possibly a remix in which case that’s just whatever. LFG

Here is the playlist

15. Next to Normal - Lucius

There were a bunch of Lucius tracks that nearly made it onto here. It’s probably an indictment of how basic I am that the one that made it on is the most squelchy disco instead of lovingly crafted acoustics or whatever but there’s no time for shame, on the songs of the year list. 

The opening line of the opening song of this being I lost some friends/along the way is probably a little too on-the-nose. The next line, though, being laughing at the wrong times/saying things too straight, is a different thing.

I’m feeling old, lately. Not really in the sense of thinking I’m going to die, although there’s a bit of me that’s like damn I may not get to do whatever things I want to do, just in a like: heck, think I might be stuck like this way. This is, in fact, what I am doing when I grow up. I am not going to become normaler.

And ok yeah, with massive amounts of therapy and self-development and space and money and time I could probably rewire myself into something more functional. In the interim I have to swing between running in safe mode and developing if not coping methods than at least a deep understanding of exactly which bits are buggy and how to work round them. It’s a contortion and of course it’s not what top medical professionals suggest for dealing with whatever the fuck is wrong with you but I’m hoping that, in lieu of fixing me, I can at least make it funny. 

Squelchy disco is definitely funny, at the same time as fixing absolutely nothing. 

14. Slow Song - The Knocks & Dragonette

This is too shiny, too full of love, to really have a place in 2022. But then, even in times like these there’s tenderness innit. 

Despite what I just said about the previous song, I have been in this years-long attempt to get better. I do not want to be as severely mentally ill as I am, it’s really bad and there’s also this like, general switch-off from life I’ve had where I don’t know what I enjoy anymore. Maybe nothing. 

And one of the things I did to try and improve stuff was get a cat. Not a nice, normal cat, obviously, a semi-demonic, extremely elderly ex-feral cat with dementia who it’d probably be best to describe as “difficult” and “hostile.” 

She’s a big, weird, fluffy cloud and when she’s being really truly possessed and just heavy-thunk-walking around the flat, intermittently screaming then some nice middle-of-the-road music actually stops her being a freak. She’s particularly committed to a few old tracks I’m not a huge fan of (the emergency reset button for Indy is Layla) but this is where we can cross over, in a song about the tender, long term familiarity of love, even when it’s not a conventional fairytale. 

I got ways of losing you baby/I’m faster than whatever you’re chasing shouldn’t, really, be almost heartbreakingly devotional but it is. The idea of love that’s so well-established you can fuck with it, that knowing you can’t be conventional is no problem because there’s trust there anyway - returning to each other like a song loop. Well, maybe there is some aspirational hope for love, after all. Something still to want. 

In the meantime, there is a big, white cat purring like a broken tractor because she likes sitting with me and listening to music. And that’s pretty great, if I’m honest.

13. Broke - BEGINNERS (St Lucia Remix)

This just stumbled into my Spotify release radar at some point and became one of my most-played songs of the year. It’s a glittery electropop banger, under St Lucia’s expert moulding and it’s about making bad life choices - something I am very expert in. 

Something this year has definitely told me is that there is no point waiting and saving things. You don’t know that you’re going to get to them. It’s always better to be broke than lonely is extremely bad financial advice but I’d rather be poor than miss out on the limited number of things I still do outside work. 

Comfort hedonism is obviously ridiculous as a concept and not exactly likely to be a long-term solution but sometimes saying seeing your friends is worth it, that you’d rather eat instant noodles than miss a night in the pub.

Maybe it’s morbid that nearly everything I’ve felt this year has orbited the black hole gravity pit of loss but making sense of something senseless is a recursive, looping process. 

I listened to this a lot when things were getting very bad, this summer. When I knew I had to stop doing the work I loved, that I already didn’t enjoy anything outside of - the bright, glittery, arms-in-the-air shout of I’m trying to stop/having all these bad thoughts rattled round the inside of my head while I locked off more boxes of things it’s not possible to think about and shoved them into cold storage.

In all that rigorously enforced minimalism there’s something so warm to the embrace of your seat, in your pub, with your conversation. To finding something - else, anything - to talk about still. And I was gonna be broke anyway, so what’s it worth being miserable over.

12. Dance For You - Empress Of

Every year I manage to write this list there’s some track about yearning for dancefloors and staying out too long and it used to be because I still did that sort of thing and now I guess I don’t. Not cus I’m old, that’s bollocks, I’m sure I could stay up later than most 24 year olds and actually I was out until like, 6am the other week but well, no one does anymore do we?

Maybe someone is. This is probably just another one of the things I’ve given up doing because I don’t know how to enjoy it anymore. Which is probably why nothing intended for a three-glasses-of-white-wine-and-a-shot-of-sambucca dancefloor invasion is on here, just this, the gentle, warm, melancholy echo of dancing. 

Like setting down an empty bottle and your heels on an abandoned dancefloor and sliding a foot across to see if your tights stick, under your toes. If there’s enough residue of what was all that messy, throwaway, momentary stuff until everything became tediously monumental. 

It’s a sad spell to conjure something back but the votive flame licks enough bpm through it to keep the sparks going. Kiss the morning/on the head/in the body of a woman on the last dance - forgetting how to dance is one thing, maybe just remembering how to come back home happy’d be enough progress.

11. No One Dies From Love - Tove Lo

This is just a very good Tove Lo song and the No one dies from love/guess I’ll be the first chorus is absolutely banging melodrama. Proper 80s ballad stylings on a bunch of levels, not least the thrumming call-and-repeat chorus. 

Obviously being hideously dramatic about a heartbreak is important. I don’t know if I can actually do that anymore. But I respect anyone who can and the scenery-chewing scale of being like “I actually am going to be the first person who straight-up dies about it.” And the synths hum and push it forwards, out of the dirge territory the vocals are in danger of hitting otherwise (please tell me there are no acoustic versions) in a way that contrasts just enough to keep it all interesting. 

There are things I can’t talk about to don’t want you moving on when it’s my end but that’s by the by. It’s just a sad banger.

10.  CUFF IT - Beyoncé 

You know who seems to have her life 100% under control to the tiniest minutiae? Beyoncé. So I respect that a lot of her songs are actually about either being or wanting to be a messy bitch. I don’t know if they’re written autobiographically because Beyoncé doesn’t have to tell us and it doesn’t change the fact they’re true either way. Take this, which is a bubbly little number about wanting to get wrecked and fuck your life up. 

As an area of expertise, for me, that’s naturally of interest. I feel like falling in love/I’m in the mood to fuck something up mm, yeah, maybe not the love but I get the overall vibe. Absolutely wrecking things with the good times. I’d assume B meant like, actually good times or maybe romantic ones but there’s a little discordancy to the track and it’s particularly in the trilling, smooth, hysteria of the way she delivers I wanna go missing/I need a prescription. 

Sometimes, when you are going through a city in the dark, in the back or a passenger seat of a car and you’ve already had a few, there’s this like, electric knowledge that you’re gonna fuck something (yourself) up. It’s exciting and horrifying, like jumping out of a plane but the suspension’s smooth and you’re warm and secure, it’s just the choice that’s a little like jumping. This song gets that, golden lights streaming past the window and all. 

9. The Fall - Zola Jesus

In ‘things that shock no one’ I, an old goth, like Zola Jesus’ dark, creeping semi-classical. This is one of her most straightforwardly poppy songs for ages, almost an MOR rock chorus and some lovely synths a bit like Everywhere by Fleetwood Mac.

It’s probably the unlikely ‘Zola Jesus songs that sound a bit like The Fray’ area that appeals almost exclusively to a venn diagram of me but as a brooding bit of mood-absorption that can cathartically bleed things off through the earphones cable it’s really excellent. 

Then about halfway through it sort of flips and becomes, frankly, even more like ‘Zola Jesus does The Fray’ with a middle eight breakdown that takes all the sludge off it and goes for some light rock stylings before a plunge into aimless, much-more-Zola-Jesus-y echoing for twenty seconds or so.

It’s just a grumpy, curmudgeonly bit of dadrock and I like that. 

8. Feedback - La Roux, Baby Tate

It’s pretty weird that I have a playlist called La Roux Songs About Driver Assist Functions that now has three tracks on it. It almost feels cringe being a car person and putting this in my tracks of the year but also half the reason I like it is because I think it’s very funny. 

But also I’ve been stepping on the gas when I break down, I’m in here running laps when it rains down ok thanks for this blunt metaphor for breaking yourself in a motorsport context. Other banging lines like might swap my twitter for a journal/tried to run but I’m running into hurdles I mean, it’s fucking on the nose like a punch but sometimes someone accidentally puts your own invasive thoughts and cyclical breakdowns into a little fun, bouncy banger that’s coincidentally got a load of car metaphors.

The Weeknd (who I think of as existing somewhere in the timeline of La Roux roughly the way Britney Spears was briefly ‘the American Billie Piper’) does a lot of car related shit but the real automotive fiend in the coked up paranoid electropop space is La Roux. I find it kinda fascinating and I'd love to interview her about it because it's not the same status stuff as with hyperpop's car fixation, it's that she just seems to think about things through various car functions. About actual driving, more than cars even - which is pretty cool to me, obviously because I'm a nerd but also just like, striking as a pop motif.

7. Wasteman - Kate Nash

Didn’t have a break up this year, so maybe it’s weird this one made it in. Well, I lie; didn’t have a break up with a human being I was in a romantic relationship with, just had one of those ones where you realise letting go of years of excruciating effort is the only logical conclusion over something you love that’s really fucking you up. It’s just in my case that was an electric racing series, which is kind of very funny and maybe I’ll do some stand up about it one day. 

“You know,” I’ll say, “when you’re into that stage where you can’t remember what made you feel good about spending any time with them and you still love them but you can’t imagine any way where it works out for you to be happy, with all this water under the bridge and you’ve said for years it’s your fault and you’ll find a way and then they finally cross a line that makes you think - oh fuck you?” 

Oh yeah, the audience is thinking. Yeah, when things have just got like, harrowingly bitter but there’s a freedom to the revelation you can just grieve it. It’s gone. It was making you worse and things worse and no matter how much you wanted it it wasn’t going to work out. 

And they won’t know I’m talking about a stupid, misaligned, increasingly acerbic relationship with a racing series that saved my life five years ago. Something I fell in love with when I didn’t think I could fall in love again. Something that gave me a sense of purpose and joy and hope when I really needed it last time so it’s not just been a waste, man. 

But there’s a point where you have to reclaim a little bit of yourself from the sadness and sometimes that means realising you fucking hate them, just a little bit. That this isn’t fair and you’re sad about it but also there has to be that moment where like: it’s done, it’s gone, you can’t do anything about this anymore. Yes, there are probably other universes where it worked out better but you’re not in them. 

This song helps because it eases you into it like a friend gently explaining that actually, yes, you do have to do this. Let's you turn it around a few times in your own brain with the repetition like the loop conversations anyone who’s had to tell a friend that, yes, you have to get rid of that guy. 

And then the strings kick in and it’s that shoulder shrug of sometimes there being nothing you can do. Doesn’t matter how much you put in or how much you are owed by the universe for this. It didn’t work, it didn’t happen - it is true a lot in motorsport and yes it’s because I’m me, too queer too, too loud, too willing to battle it out on principles, too not in a position to be able to do that. Maybe too insecure, eventually - but I’d like to see the men who call me that on Twitter ship themselves transatlantically and across the world on a hope and a prayer. 

Of course it’s always me but ultimately, it could have worked if enough people had bought into not just the idea of me but what I was doing. It’s ok, it’s over. Maybe it’s good to become a less desperate human being.

Took me some time to see/you’re actually shady

You fucking take the piss/I must have been crazy

You cannot win them all. (but bro, I would’ve really liked to win this one and it hurts like hell and this is my song for when I feel like I want to slink back and beg)

6. Black Mascara - RAYE

This is solidly into the things I can’t speak about, emotionally. 

Musically, this is just a triumph; a beautiful, dark work about how screwed you are. A spectacular, layered, four-poster of what you’ve done to me, what you’ve done to me - I don’t want to be that person. Neither does this song. But there it is, stacking on top of itself in impossible, towering pressure. 

5. Beg For You - Charli XCX & Rina Sawayama

This is so warm and urgent and gorgeous and so desperate for that human contact off a plane. I only took 27 flights in 2022 which is low for me but still horrific for the planet, all were for work. Not getting collected is miserable - not getting dropped off is worse. A few years ago I didn’t mind leaving home at all because home was a boat with no door but now I’ve just managed to get my life enough together to have some sense of a place and people and big, warm, marshmallow cat to come back to that’s definitely mine. Maybe I’m finally doing that becoming a person bit I probably should have worked out 15 years ago. 

Anyway, this - half-angry and very soppy and completely in love, is gorgeous. It’s all desperation and longing and wanting to spend more time with someone even when you’re with them, about the comfort of being known without having to be seen. About the giddiness of missing someone with the excitement they’ll be back. 

I don’t actually know if my friends miss me when I’m away, they might well be glad I’ve fucked off for a bit frankly but I miss them when they go. I got really offended a month or so ago when everyone was busy or out of the country simultaneously and like, what, I’m meant to hang out with people outside the six ones I’ve decided are home? Outrageous. Why would no one cater to my needs like this. 

Turning into the cat aside, this is an early-00s garage banger turned sweetly desperate and that’s exactly the kind of thing I’m into.

4. Somebody Like You - Bree Runway

I had a lot of formative musical experiences in the 90s when a Phil Collins/Annie Lennox style synth ballad of ludicrously dramatic proportions was the height of pop performance. So this In The Air Tonight-scale enormo-pop thing isn’t really what I expected from Bree Runway but does hit a very specific spot. I feel like it deserves more words for being this far up the list but nope: it’s just a very massive ballad and it slaps.

3. This Hell - Rina Sawayama

Cute, very late-00s pop about burning eternally in the after life as a shared queer celebratory experience is a genre I think there should be a lot more of. 

It’s weird cus like, I know I am in queer but tend to think I don’t really face all that much homophobia or whatever, apart from off my mum and Fernando Alonso fans. But like, it’s a pretty tough time to be in the LGBTQ+ community, isn’t it? There’s the Qatar world cup, the constant violent attacks, the legislative pushes to make us illegal to speak about, ‘gender critical’ misogyny and appalling transphobia, queer people hurt and harmed and demonised and treated as threats, as something filthy. 

Idk if it’s the microaggressive oppression-collusion of the way motorsport fans reach for the smelling salts at the first sign of anything remotely queer, like it’s too filthy for the world to ever know about. Or the outright abuse from transphobes, convinced they can ‘just tell’ that a cis woman would never support trans people being able to live their fucking lives like anyone else. 

And a Xenomania-esque, unrepentant pop song that turns the idea of eternal damnation into an endless love is just - honestly, give it all the prizes. I’m sick of media explaining it’s hard to be queer, that’s for straight people. I wanna hear that it’d be worth any vision of hell for a chance at love, that it’s good to be us regardless. That the shitness of the world is better together, that it pays off to stay. 

2. 2 Be Loved (Am I Ready) - Lizzo

It’s really, just. Like. Embarrassing to hate yourself when you’re 36. Like, come on, I should be over this, I need that brain capacity for other things. I can’t be worrying about whether anyone thinks I’m hot for fuck’s sake, we’re past that event horizon.

And yet. Here we are. I can pick at everything from my physical failings to my personal or professional ones, my myriad of mental health issues, my laundry list of trauma. I don’t even want a relationship - or I’m too scared of the idea, at least, now. I wouldn’t expect anyone to put up with this. I’m surprised the cat even does.

Beyond any of that, I guess it’d be nice to be able to take a compliment without having a mental breakdown. Accept that people will sometimes praise my work without it snapping shut a bear trap in my head that literally hurts me. 

I listened to this all the way to Mexico and back last month. The full 11 hours. I feel like I can trust it in a way most coming-out-of-the-self-esteem-crisis anthems don’t. Lizzo is obviously amazingly hot and ludicrously cool. But I can believe she doesn’t always think that about herself. Can understand the idea of having to put in work to not hate yourself. 

At the end of the day, it’s a shiny pop song about finally finding love and of course I’m getting soppy in my old age but that’s hopeful. That it’s worth the work of bothering to deal with the mess in your head because there’s something to be gained from seeking out and accepting love. That there's still value to wanting things.

1. Were We Ever - Kyla La Grange

If there are alternate universes, with every point that something happens branching into all possible consequences, then it feels as though those are being snuffed out. Everything turning into a narrowing funnel towards a future no one wants to be in. And yet I wish my friends were still with me to see it. 

This is the song I didn’t loop but somehow turned up in my Spotify Wrapped most played. Every time I think about my dead friends and the insane circumstances, I can’t really think. I don’t have the emotional range, maybe, for so much loss. I know who and what to blame but there’s no fixing it, for that. Destroying weapons is worthwhile but for its own sake, not because it will undo what they’ve done. Curing diseases is good but it can’t bring anyone back. There are a million what ifs to a lot of things and when they converge into whatever is going forwards there’s no take backs. 

This song sits in the sulky liminal. About a relationship crumbling but it might as well be about reality in general; were we ever happy? Was there a point where it was possible to hold each other? What existed before the static-roar of whatever this is now?

I don’t know. Or well, intellectually I do, a little bit - it’s painful to think about, though, which is why the white noise has to be so all-consuming.

This is quiet and calm and furious. It’s not about shock or sudden pain. It’s about what everything has felt like it’s about this year; looping a single thought until you can let it go like a held breath. Holding on in there until the shaking subsides. Keeping your nerve through the impossible. Not screaming.

The if you would’ve held me like that, I wouldn’t forget it refrain is a type of mournful anger that’s accepting as much as it’s denying. The insistent chime feels like the pushing on of time, clocks not stopping even when life does. That’s the thing, isn’t it - it all just relentlessly carries on, regardless of who’s no longer there. 

When I can’t think about the things that are intruding on my thoughts, this fills the space. It’s just cathartic enough that it doesn’t jar. It’s angry but realistic with it, which helps because what’s the point at raging at death, you might as well fight gravity. I find it very hard to talk about my feelings because my fury at Putin’s monstrous actions is one thing and my grief for my friends is another, something sharper and more personal - they died politically and senselessly but I remember them personally and with meaning, from the way they touched my life. 

If you woulda held me like that, I wouldn’t forget it - I don’t know when it will stop feeling like 2022. I don’t know when the static can be turned down. I don’t even know which order to feel things in, when it gets to the future. On the darker days, I don’t know if there’ll be one - there isn’t, for so many people. But there is something about holding and being held, not forgetting. The future is dangerously statistical, except the things you remember.

There isn’t a bright note to end on here. It’s 2022 and it’s dark. But if you need one: go hold something, be held. Keep something in your heart, even if it feels impossibly fragile right now. 

[incarnation-issues]

@destroyyourbinder replied:

Political stuff was the key for me to break my identity attachment to dysphoria. I'll give you the shortcut which I did not have years ago which is that alternate coping methods primarily consist of self-treatment for sensorimotor OCD (and related obsessive complications) and secondarily, body dysmorphia and/or gendered trauma. Can't treat if you consider it ego syntonic to experience your body as alienated, politics is one way people break this

Not convinced politics are per se required to get to this point if someone is sufficiently motivated thru other values. For many dysphoric AFAB people feminism is also ego syntonic. Deliberately provoking cognitive dissonance between one's values w/r/t transition can be a "crack" that permits reorganization of mind/identity around something other than dysphoric structures. Notably many detrans women become stuck at the "crack" and become obsessive about dysphoria, gender

Also: key to treating this as a form of obsessive thinking, and this is where politics can come in, is that treating OCD when it is linked to something real (i.e. say someone with contamination OCD who works in a hospital) requires different strategies than someone with totally unfounded fears. AFAB dysphoric people are not (entirely) wrong about the female body, therapy especially directed by others that does not proceed on this basis will inherently fail

It's funny that you're replying here, because you're the one whose tag I was thinking of when I made this post. Your blog's sidebar has a link saying "What are these supposed "alternate ways" to cope with dysphoria?". That link goes to a tag #alts101. This tag contains the following posts:

a claim that self-harm feels rebellious to some teenagers, but actually self-care is

The post starting with "Your purpose in life is not to love yourself but to love being yourself", which is I suppose somewhat constructive.

A guide to dealing with damage from binding. This seems like it might be a useful resource, but I have no idea how this is supposed to be an alternate method for coping for gender dysphoria.

A post about how women having the option to avoid men more should be the focus of feminism. This is in no way a useful coping method.

A post claiming that some thoughts people have are problematic. Deciding you don't like a thought is a lot easier than not having it. I guess this might help someone, but it's hard to imagine the typical dysphoric detransitioner benefiting from it.

A rupi kaur poem.

Some exercises which seem intended as an argument against the realness of the body map. As someone whose body map used to not match her body, I can tell you that the inaccurate body map definitely did go into motor planning, because I would make plans for moving my body that kept causing my breasts to crash into things. If the exercises are intended for some other purpose, let me know. I'll admit to not having tried them, because I don't actually trust you very much.

The transcript of your video where you cut up your binder. (Also maybe the video? I have a JavaScript blocker.) This is discussing a decision to pursue alternate coping methods, not the concrete details of one.

That's it. That's your alternative coping methods blog section. Overall, I would consider this to be heavy on the "why" and very, very light on the "how". Politics can be a fine motivation, and motivation is good for changing one's mind. But it can't be the only part of a toolbox. Adding a link or two to sensorimotor OCD resources to your blog's alternate coping methods section might make it less grating.

political detransitioners are like "don't be trans, we have alternate dysphoria coping methods" and then all their alternate coping methods are, like, meditation and yoga and agreeing with them politically and random blog posts that aren't even claiming to be about coping

[just-antithings]

i hate the anti argument that people who write fics about their trauma shouldn't share them, cause i'm one of those people who reads those fanfics to cope. i can't think about my trauma long enough to write about it, so i go to read fanfiction someone wrote about the abuse that i experienced, and because it's not about me it doesn't have all the little details that remind me of what happened and i can read about it and process it without triggering myself. and believe me, i would love to go to therapy, but covid has currently made that something i can't do, so i use the same method i've been using for a few years, because it helps. it helps me understand what happened to me, reminds me that it really wasn't my fault and that i didn't deserve it, and gives me a safe way to explore my feelings about it. if antis got their way and people didn't post their fics about this, i'd lose the only coping mechanism i have currently because i can't do anything that makes me think about my trauma specifically without triggering myself. and these fics are what even made me realize i'd been abused in the first place, and that what happened to me wasn't normal. i owe so much to people who are willing to publish works about their trauma and i wish antis would see how they really aren't helping victims

and a bit of a sidenote here, i've noticed that while antis often say writing/reading about trauma is unhealthy and you should stop, the only alternative they ever seem to offer, if they offer any alternative at all, is therapy. therapy is not something everyone can do, so what are those people supposed to do to cope? if you (general you) think something's unhealthy and you want people to stop, give them alternatives. like that just doesn't make any sense to me. if i want people to stop eating meat or something, i can't just say that and expect people to stop. they need to eat. if i offer them an alternative thing to eat, they might put more consideration into what i've said. same goes for trauma, if someone's using fics to cope you can't just take away that coping mechanism without providing them a new one that works for them (i don't think people should stop using fic though if that helps them. i'm just following the logic of their argument)

.

[akindplace]

i have really bad health anciety and in genersl severe anxiety, ontop of ptsd, autism, and ocd and i dont Understand why the Fuck talking to anyone about my issues with any of the things i deal with, even a therapist, just..Does Not Work.

like..talking about my issues just makes my issues even Worse, but at the same time i need reassurance but getting said reassurance makes me more anxious and feel even worse and Guilty after a bit and i dont exactly know what to do and its frusterating as fuck.

I Want to tell friends but i dont want to like dump it all on them because im Bad with knowing when to stop talking because when im upset its hard for me to know when to stop talking because i cannot read social cues or subtext at all and thats a whole issue in itsself and i am just Overwhelmed as fuck about it

I don't know why either because it is not a professional on the area and I don't have the same personal experiences with it as you do. I think it would help if you asked the people you're talking to that they tell you if it becomes too much, and maybe discuss with a therapist how to actually get helpful therapy but also talk not necessarily about what happened but why you feel this way when addressing your issues. The thing is: completely opening up all of a sudden about your trauma is not the way to go, you should take it slowly. I did therapy for my issues with trauma and it requires different types of therapy (this one is called EMDR). There is also a process everyone goes through in therapy that when you face whatever you are going through, it's often very painful and distressing and it might make you not want to do it again. EMDR tackles this problem - the process of opening up and coping with things is very carefully done so it doesn't overwhelm you. Cognitive behavioral therapy is often practiced, but personally it doesn't help me as much as other types of therapy does and that is perfectly fine. There is DBT too that helps a lot with soothing myself. I forgot the name of the method my current therapist uses, but it works better. I don't it's healthy to put yourself in distress because what works for others doesn't work for you (which is okay because everyone's minds are different). Therapy is supposed to help, and it doesn't really help to feel so overwhelmed by talking about something that is so deep without building bridges between you and the therapist and going at it at your own pace and trying different methods of therapy too! You have a right to actually do therapy in a way that works for you, and to ask around until you find the right therapist. I know it may sound silly, but it does help me a lot to vent on my journal too. Some people do vent art too, and it gives them some release and I think it might help you, just don't vent a lot if it becomes overwhelming.

I know we are going through different things, and I hope you can find some relief, maybe none of what I said helps, maybe someone in the comments can help, maybe just sending this messaged help, but I hope it gets easier and less heavy. You don't deserve to carry this alone and in silence and I hope you find healthy ways to communicate that don't overwhelm you and that are adapted to your needs, because that is how treatment should be.

Idk anon. We're going through completely different things but I can relate to what you are feeling a lot.

[chimericchaos]

So it seems like said post really has just disappeared from both tumblr search and my dash huh

Well the post in question was something about a person attending therapy and the therapist being just the worst therapist you can imagine

I looked in the reblogs of the post to see just how many people have had issues with their therapists not being professional and/or not being experienced enough to deal with people, and (before having it taken away from me) I was going to say something

So I'll say it here:

What is justice?

Justice can often be split into two camps- Punitive Justice and Rehabilitative Justice

Punitive Justice being the prison method, to guilt and punish and isolate the individual. Often not for teaching them right from wrong, but to remove that person from society.

Rehabilitative Justice being the therapy method, to understand and teach and rebuild the individual. From the beginning the point being to integrate them back into society.

I guess the sole difference between these two would be if you believe a person can change or not. Whether inmates deserve rights or not.

And looking at the last 50 odd years of recorded history, it's obvious that Punitive Justice isn't helping, both the person and the world around them. They're still a serial killer and they will die in their cell. Nothing is gained there.

But ideally Rehabilitative Justice would be the obviously better option, the serial killer gets his brain fixed via a few years of therapy, does a bit of community service, and gets integrated back into society with another chance to make the world a better place.

Ideally that should happen, but I look on this site and see so so so many posts about bad therapists and how people are actively *not* looking for therapy because of the liklihood that it'll be a waste of time at best and damage them further at worst.

And like, what are people supposed to do if they can't get therapy???

Take the serial killer from earlier, put him under house arrest until his therapist clears him. His therapist doesn't clear him because he's "too much for them to handle" and so he's sent off to another therapist. That one decides to give him 5 different perscription medications and a number to call back in 6 months. He tries another therapist only for them to suggest community religious efforts and healing crystals. He tries one more, tells himself that if this one doesn't work then that's it, it's over. They tell him "sorry I can't help you understand your need to kill people, all I can do is give you coping mechanisms so that you are less likely to commit a crime."

Now take someone who's a bit easier to digest- a normal guy who hasn't done any wrong, but has a bunch of trauma from multiple points in his life and is struggling to hold on to life. Put him through the same therapy process the serial killer went through, nothing changes. Let's say he's still alive by the time the therapist gives him coping mechanisms. How does that help him? How does that help to reintegrate someone into society? Is he supposed to be happy with the pills then? Is he supposed to work in a job he hates just so he can have the money to buy drugs to make him human?

We know Punitive Justice fails, but Rehabilitative Justice seems to fail some people too. What happens to those it fails? Whether a criminal or just someone suffering from an infliction they never wanted, what do they do once the one thing everyone tells them to get, the place all say is where they belong, forsakes them? What will they learn there? What will they do to fix themselves if all they can do is trust in only themself?

They rot.

God if I can just look at a post and the notes of a post to get a full understanding of what to reblog without having my feed refresh and thus losing the post to the tumblr gods

[saltyladynightmare]

Jiliu AU Part 7.8

Beginning, Previous, Next, Masterlist

A/N:

Dej-Amu means Den mother in Amatakka. I am not taking criticism at this time, but I will accept suggestions, thank you. A woman in the slave quarters who keeps and shares the Stories. Also known as the Oral History of the Clans. Usually they are older, but it is not necessary for them to be old or a woman.

Aether Touched is what I’m having the Tatooine Slaves call Force Sensitives, because I haven’t come up with anything I liked.

Warnings, for the entirety of part 7:

Creative liberties taken with the Force (we know why I am writing this), fake medicine, fake medical practices, fake science, wonky time keeping, enviable metabolisms, platonic cuddling between men, several somethings that are supposed to be panic attacks, bad grammar, spelling, and typos galore, hints of how the clones where raised (bad), bullying between children, child birth, abuse between partners, abuse of authority, Anakin Skywalker (excruciatingly low self esteem, unhealthy coping mechanisms, angst)(yes he has therapy, no it does not magically make him a functional human being. that is what a support network is for. also he is 19 and traumatized, give him a break because I won’t), horrible opinions about the use of beds

~~~~~~

All six of them had made one way bonds with him, holding them in place all on their own. Obviously, Anakin really needed to check his mind for more half-bonds. If he had missed these, who could say he hadn't missed more? It boggled the mind that no one had noticed the men are Sensitive enough to form bonds on their own, if only because it was really, really doubtful the only ones able to do so ended up in the Command Staff of Torrent.

There are several hundred thousand clones in the universe, upward three million if one includes the dead. If the only six who could make their own bonds ended up in Torrent, Anakin would drink Fox's kaf.

Though, Anakin had to admit, most of Torrent are survivors. The rest are nearly washed out shinies, even if most aren't Shiny anymore. What if they survived because they were Sensitive enough to give themselves an edge?

Someone else should have noticed this. Anakin wasn't the most observant person on a good day, and he has had very few of those since the last time he was on Tatooine. What's everyone else's excuse?

Anakin shoved all of it from his mind. Not now. Possibly not ever. He had bond mates to care for.

Rex hadn't done well with the Jedi way of post-bonding socializing. Polite distance, shields going up as soon as both parties knew how and calm conversation. He had recovered much faster once Anakin had begun to use the methods he had learned from Dej-Amu Bhirsiinu to ease the bonding between reluctantly partnered Aether Touched. Water, if it can be spared, physical touch, if it is possible, and as much time as either can give.

Anakin can give them water. The temple had a near wasteful amount of it, five more glasses would hardly be missed. He can see if they would be receptive to touch from him. If not, well. The Jedi have long proven that touch meant little for bonds, and Anakin would hardly be the first Child, Touched or not, to have companions who couldn't stand physical contact, even for this. He could wait for as long as they needed him to.

So instead of pushing himself back into his body, dragging all six of them behind him as Rex, too, had slipped into a fuzzy sleepy state, Anakin began to arrange his many many tendrils and feelers around the six points of life bright light, forming a delicate, insulating nest. He carefully wove his shields just so, protecting himself from the sheer power of the Force, and to maybe offer the men some form of cushion from the brunt of himself. He didn't dare to close his shields all the way for reasons he was only just beginning to understand, however. When he finished, he let himself settle in to wait of the bonds to solidify naturally.

Unlike with Rex, Anakin didn't really loose track of time, which was nice. Instead, he kind of just floated while the bonds foraged themselves into something mutual, and stronger than the thread they had been.

Before long, Anakin was gently resettled into his skin. He blinked himself back into awareness.

He found himself in the same exact spot he had been in when he began, legs folded meditatively, seated on the floor. No impromptu cuddling this time, than. Anakin wasn't sure if he was disappointed about that or not.

A visual sweep of the room showed Jesse and Hardcase sprawled together on the bed, gazing dazedly up at the nook ceiling, and Denal and Ridge slumped bonelessly in their respective chairs, while Kix had managed to remain upright with his unknown depths of stubbornness, even if he was looking a little stiff. Rex, by contrast, looked all the world like he'd taken a nice nap, by virtue of not having a new bond weave itself into existence with his own strength in over three hours.

One by one, the men came out of their daze.

"That was...intense." Jesse told the ceiling.

Denal groaned with feeling. "You can say that again." He tipped his head back and rolled his neck carefully. More than one thing cracked.

"How is everyone feeling?" Anakin asked, even as he unwound delicate tendrils of himself to brush over them, checking for pain, or dizziness, or anything that felt wrong.

Nothing really jumped out at him. No pain clouded the Force, no dizziness swirled. He mostly just felt a warm sort of awe, and a deep thrum of what honestly felt like smugness, for some reason.

Hardcase hummed happily. He buzzed in the Force and down their brand new bond like a particularly enthusiastic insect. He made no move to move from his boneless sprawl on the bed.

Ridge made a valiant attempt to pull himself upright. "'M alright, sir." His assurance were undermined when one of his boots slipped, making him slump back down until his armor caught on the back of the chair.

A smirk flashed across Rex's face before he wiped it clean again in true brotherly fashion. He raised his eyebrows lazily when he caught Anakin looking.

Anakin shot a smirk at the Captain, and pulled himself to his feet. Let him have his fun. It wasn't like Rex hadn't had his own recovery period to go through, and had, admittedly, handled it better than they had. Rex had bragging rights, Anakin supposed, and if this was how he chose to use them, it was his business.

Anakin had a medic to check on.

He closed the space between himself and Kix, and dropped into a crouch in front of him. It took a touch of the Force to keep his knees from cracking audibly. He ignored it in favor of the man staring sightlessly before him. When Kix doesn't respond to his presence for several seconds, Anakin rocked back on his heels, frowning. "Kix?" This wasn't normal. Cautiously, ready to snatch his hand back if he got even a hint of discomfort, he rested his finger tips on Kix's poleyns.

Kix blinked, then inhaled. "Sir." Anakin almost felt the medic's brain reengage.

He eased up on his frown so Kix wouldn't get the wrong idea. "You with me, Kix?"

Kix blinked again, then found his eyes. "Yes, sir."

"Feeling floaty? Headache, maybe?" Anakin dared to touch Kix in the Force as gently as he knew how, fully expecting to get smacked at.

Kix didn't take a swipe at him. Instead he turned into the point of contact, curling into Anakin's hold. Anakin wrapped him in a blanket of Force as he had with Rex earlier, hesitantly, than all at once when the man practically melted into his hold.

He didn't feel like he was in pain. Maybe he's just taking longer to settle?

Maybe Anakin is too loud for him.

"No, sir. Just..." Kix blinked rapidly, like it would make his brain speed up. "Just processing."

Anakin nodded wordlessly. Behind him, he felt heard Jesse lever himself up to his elbows, attention locking on Kix. The rest of the men turn to Kix as well.

Something pulsed between Kix and Rex, louder, brighter than the near invisible communication they had shared before. It reverberated through the open bonds they shared with Anakin. He had to curl away from them so he couldn't accidentally understand what they had not intended for him. He grumbled at Kix's knees.

Shielding was definitely something they needed to figure out if they were going to keep being so very obviously not Null. Or telepathic. Could that be it? Eh. That wasn't the point. If they were going to continue to send signals that they were not baseline human, Anakin was not going to be adding to the noise.

Maybe something like double sided mirror shields, but, like, a lot of tiny spot mirror shields arranged in layers. Kind of spread out so the layer behind protected the gaps of the layer above? Would three layers work? How much effort would it take to up keep something like that?

Had they ever done that in front of him before?

Anakin shoved the thoughts down, until they only buzzed unpleasantly in the very bottom of his skull.

Water.

Rex had appreciated water after he bonded to Anakin; it probably wouldn't be misplaced here. Water was good for many things, and it was traditional, besides. For him, in any case. Not to mention, giving them something would make Anakin feel better, and give him something to do in the meantime, none of which were things to sneeze at.

He rose, and abruptly became aware of the eyes locked on him.

His eyes darted between the men, all of them intent on him. Hardcase had propped himself up on the wall to stare, while Ridge and Denal had finally pulled themselves upright in their chairs. All of them stared openly.

It was an effort to keep his shoulders from curling in on himself. The familiarity of this scene itched. "What?" He asked waspishly.

"I could feel you thinking," Hardcase said wonderingly.

Denal considered him, head tilting slightly. "And you made some kind of decision," he added.

"Something about water," Jesse agreed. "Do you...always think so quickly?"

Anakin looked away, tucking his curling hands in his sleeves. This time, he was sure to fist his flesh fingers into the cloth to avoid injuring himself. He shrugged. "Maybe? I don't exactly monitor how I think." Just what he thought, what he felt. How didn't matter, and why was...difficult.

"Huh," Jesse said, which gave away exactly none of the swirling bright-dark-color calculations swirling on his side of the bond. Things started catching and melding into something that was...almost like a fuller picture than it had been before. The bond that was, thankfully, too new to give Anakin more than that without taking liberties he had no plans on ever taking.

Anakin eyed him for a moment, hovering just outside of their bond. He was one to talk, when he was thinking at those speeds. Then Anakin brushed his concerns to the side. It wasn't a fight he wanted to have, and, frankly, he didn't want to know what Jesse was figuring out. It likely wouldn't be good for his blood pressure.

He turned on his heel, and made his way to the bathroom door, dragging his IV drip behind him. Water. The door swished open with a flick of the Force, and another flick kept the lights off.

Jesse sent a cheerful ping down their bond, and Anakin sent him a poke to the forehead, ignoring the tells saying he, like Rex, was much more familiar with bonds than he had any reason to be.

The faucet drowned out his sputtering when the poke landed. Anakin didn't bother hiding his grin, back to the room, mirror shadowed as it was.

All six bonds hummed soothingly in the depths of his mind.

Maybe...maybe this wouldn't be so bad. Maybe it could be a good thing.

He would teach them to shield their bonds, maybe give the Resolute some upgrades. They could help him learn to shield without blocking, and maybe, just maybe, be willing to become something like his friends.

He just hoped he could figure out how to let them be their own people in time to avoid it all blowing up in their faces.

[elentiyawhitethorn]

The Bet | Chapter Nine

Day 24

Feyre was pacing up and down the hallway.

Her heart was thumping at too quickly a rate to be healthy.

She couldn’t breathe.

No, I am okay. I will be okay. This is a good thing and I will go and heal and stop feeling so bad.

At therapy yesterday, Dr. Suriel had suggested a support group for anyone who is suffering or has suffered abuse in a relationship. When Feyre tried to object and say her abuse wasn’t physical until the very end and she didn’t want to intrude, Dr. Suriel had quickly assured her that her abuse was just as real and damaging as being hit. She had said that several other people she knew who attended often were dealing with emotional abuse as well. Dr. Suriel had said that Feyre might not get a feel for the methods they used and she might prefer one-on-one therapy, and that was totally fine. But it couldn’t hurt to check it out and it might prove very beneficial for Feyre.

She had decided to give it a try. And the support group was tonight, Saturday. Hence the nerves.

Feyre has also discussed her anxiety with the doctor yesterday. They hadn’t really gotten into Feyre’s panick attacks with Dr. Suriel before, so she had come clean about the terror that seized her at many moments. Apparently this wasn’t normal - Feyre had been told she had severe anxiety problems that she should talk to a doctor about getting medication for.

Dr. Suriel was never anything but uplifting in her wording, and yet still Feyre felt depressed at the thought of needing medication. She felt nothing but sympathy for the people who struggled with such issues, but was it so selfish to want to be okay?

At least she had her friends to keep her happy. Mor was her rock, constantly making her laugh. She was at her cafe now, and Feyre hadn’t gotten up the nerve to mention the support group. Later, perhaps.

The rest of the friend group had been there as well. All five of the group had met with Feyre a few days ago in her and Mor’s apartment.

Azriel and Cassian were becoming good friends with Feyre the more they talked. Cassian had given Feyre another self-defense class on Monday.

Amren, despite her prickly nature, was growing a soft spot for Feyre, not that she would ever admit that to anyone. Feyre was becoming accustomed to the barbed insults and appreciating the short woman’s wit.

And Rhys... had been there as well. Smirking and flirting and driving Feyre insane. Gods help her, he’d snuck up on her at one point, and when that sultry purr that filled her dreams had floated over her shoulder, Feyre had clamped her thighs together and prayed for salvation.

Feyre pulled herself out of her thoughts. Stop pacing and get yourself together. This is supposed to help. For fuck’s sake, walk out the damn door before you’re late.

Alright, enough thinking about anxiety and friends and Rhys. No more stalling. Feyre was going to leave the apartment and get to this support group if it was the last thing she did.

Feyre picked up her purse, slid it over a shoulder, and marched out the door.

This group was going to “use experience-based methods and activities to provide further insight into the effects of domestic abuse and how to cope with the complex emotions that it produces,” according to the pamphlet. That sounded like a good plan.

Feyre took the subway to her destination, used to the means of New York transportation by now. She entered the building and met a woman at the entrance.

“Hello, my name is Ms. Wood, but you can call me Weaver. Are you here for the domestic abuse support group?”

Feyre smiled and nodded, too nervous to say anything.

Weaver pointed Feyre to a room where several others were headed as well. She said, “I’ll be back as soon as everyone arrives.”

Feyre once again smiled and nodded, still as a loss for words. She entered the room and took a seat, as the others were doing. There was only one man seated so far, and the rest were women, perhaps half a dozen, with more walking through the door.

After a couple minutes, there were over a dozen people seated around in a circle with only a few open seats left. One such open chair was next to Feyre.

And then one last person walked through the door.

Rhys.

Am I seeing clearly? Did Rhysand Night really just enter this room? Maybe I’m delusional.

Feyre stared, open-mouthed, at Rhys. Then he turned and spotted her.

Rhys’ eyes widened and his footsteps faltered, but then he quickly regained his composure - he was always so good at that - and walked over. To sit. Next. To. Feyre.

“Hello, darling, I hadn’t expected to see you here. Lovely day, isn’t it?”

Feyre blinked. “Uh, yeah. Hi.” Wow, how very smooth, Feyre. Try not to be too cool.

Rhys smiled, part smirk and part wince. “Well-”

Whatever he was about to say was cut off as Weaver walked into the room. She reintroduced herself for those who had forgotten her name, then took a seat in the circle.

As they started discussing positivity or something, Feyre couldn’t stop herself from sneaking glances at Rhys. She should be paying attention; she was, after all, doing this solely for her own benefit. But Rhys was sitting there and she couldn’t stop the questions from running through her mind.

Why the hell was he here? He had suffered abuse? What kind? When? For how long?

During a particularly long glance, Rhys turned his gaze towards her. Feyre immediately averted her eyes, trying not to wince. She didn’t succeed. After a second, she looked back over and Rhys was still staring at her, a slight smile playing on his lips.

Feyre’s face reddened and she turned away once more.

A faint chuckle escaped his lips, almost silent. Feyre kept her eyes facing Weaver.

They mainly discussed how to recover from abuse and how to adapt to new situations. Sometimes Weaver asked a question. No one was required to participate, and only a few people spoke. Some shared their stories. Feyre stayed silent. So did Rhys.

Feyre had tried to keep her gaze and thoughts steered clear of him after he caught her looking. She had mostly been able to keep her eyes looking ahead, but her thoughts strayed back to Rhys constantly. It was hard to concentrate when he was sitting right next to her. Dammit.

The session finally ended. Feyre stood and walked hurriedly to the exit, only pausing to thank Weaver again. She just made it onto the street, almost dark because of the setting sun, when she heard, “Darling, wait up.”

Feyre stopped. Shit. She had been rushing solely to avoid this. “Yes, Rhys?”

Rhys caught up with her and gave a weak smile. “I just wanted to clear the air.”

Feyre sighed. Spending the next gods-know-how-many days awkwardly smiling and avoiding each other probably wasn’t going to work. “Yeah, okay.”

“Well,” Rhys started, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t know exactly what you went through, and I certainly won’t pressure you into talking about it. To be honest, I don’t really want to talk about what happened to me. I just... we don’t need to avoid each other; it doesn’t have to be awkward. And whatever you’re going through, I’m always here, Feyre.”

Feyre loosed a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding and said, “Thank you, Rhys.”

All the words she didn’t say probably shone clearly enough in her eyes because Rhys just smiled and said, “Want me to walk you home?”

“No, thanks.”

“You might get lost. Have you ever traveled around here in the dark before?” Rhys’ worried tone was contradicted by his trademark smirk.

Feyre frowned. “Seeing as the subway station is right there,” Feyre pointed as she said this, “I think I’ll be okay.”

Rhys grinned. “Well, darling, I think I might come with you anyway. I do live nearby, which you might not have know. So I guess we can go together.”

“Why bother asking then?”

A soft chuckle emitted from Rhys, making Feyre frown. “I wanted to see what you would say.”

“Whatever. Let’s go, then.”

Rhys walked with her in silence to the subway and into the station. They boarded the train, mostly void of people. It was rather late.

Rhys looked over at Feyre. “So, was that your first time at a support group?” His tone was purely curious.

Feyre hesitated. “Yes. I don’t think I’ll go back again, though.” In answer to Rhys’ worried look, Feyre added, “Not because of you, of course. I just don’t think group stuff it my style. I’ll stick with one-on-one therapy.” This was all true. Feyre saw how it could be beneficial, but she wasn’t feeling comfortable enough to sit with other people, and to potentially share her thoughts, her feelings, or her past was just something she wasn’t ready for.

Rhys nodded solemnly. “I understand that.” He looked like he was about to say something more, but closed his mouth.

They stayed quiet as they excited the subway station and headed down the sidewalk. Rhys was always the one starting conversation, and now that he wasn’t, Feyre wasn’t really sure what to say. Not that she needed to; this was a conformtable silence.

The pair reached Feyre and Mor’s apartment. Feyre started to say goodnight what Rhys interrupted. “You think I’m not going to walk you to your door, darling? I am a gentleman.”

Feyre rolled her eyes. “Ridiculous man,” she muttered.

Rhys gave a grin at that and walked with Feyre, quite unnecessarily, up the stairs and to her door. “And now we part, darling.”

Feyre glanced sideways at him. “Thanks, Rhys,” she said softly.

Rhys replied, “Whatever for?”

“I don’t know. Just thank you.” With that, Feyre turned, unlocked her door, and stepped inside.

Mor glanced up from the couch where she was reading a novel. “Hey, Fey. What have you been doing? Off on a hot date you’ve neglected to tell me about?”

“Yes, Mor,” Feyre replied sarcastically as she dropped her purse on the counter and slid out of her shoes. “In a sweater and jeans.”

Mor snorted.

“Actually, I was at a support group. My therapist suggested it.”

Mor blinked. “Well that’s great! Did it help?”

Feyre sighed. “No, actually. Too shy. I’ll stay with my usual therapy. But I did see... never mind.” Feyre had been about to mention seeing Rhys, but if Mor didn’t know about that, she would be breaking Rhys’ trust. Feyre walked over and dropped next to Mor on the couch.

Mor gave a small smile. “You saw Rhys.”

“You did know, then. I didn’t want to out him.”

Mor hesitated. “So, um, how did that go? I mean, did you two talk to each other?”

A snort left Feyre’s mouth. “Yes, since he just had to sit next to me. And insisted upon walking me home. All the way up the stairs, of course.”

Mor snorted. “Why am I not surprised? So you two... it isn’t weird or anything?”

“No. It was at first, but he was... nice.”

A grin spread over Mor’s face. “Nice, eh? Do you, perhaps, like him?”

“I absolutely do not!”

Mor’s eyes widened. “Yes you do! You’re blushing!” Damn it.

Feyre scowled. “Am not. Leave me be.”

“Oh, come on. You two are perfect for each other. And you are so in love with him.”

“I’m going to sleep now. It’s been a long day.” Feyre stood and started walking to the hallway.

“Had any more dreams about my dear cousin?” Mor called after her.

Feyre though back to the second wet dream over a week ago that she hadn’t mentioned. Not trusting her ability to lie, Feyre kept walking, more quickly now.

“I knew it!” Mor screeched behind her.

Feyre closed herself in her room.

Fuck.

[seven-oomen]

Until the end of time | Sambucky | Chapter 1

warnings/tags/main post here

Notes:

It's been a long while since I wrote anything for the Marvel fandom but I decided to step back into it after watching fatws. I'm writing this fic through Bucky's perspective mostly because I'm also doing it as an exercise to cope with my own CPTSD. And many of the feelings like pulsating energy and sensory overload are things I myself experience. Considering the things Bucky has been through, it seemed like a logical thing for him to struggle with as well.

I haven't decided if I want to turn this into mpreg near the end, but I wanna bring it up because I'm thinking about it. Haven't made my mind up on it yet. It will get a lot happier and brighter though, near the end. And they will end up together before the fic is over. But the fun is in the journey right?

Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this.

-

He didn’t have a family. Not anymore.

The only living family he had left could no longer remember him. She was 102 and living in a nursing home. He visited Rebecca at times but, well, it never really amounted to anything. She couldn’t remember his name, what he looked like. And he made sure he only ever visited when her children and grandchildren weren’t around. How was he supposed to explain all of it anyway?

I’m your uncle James but I never contacted you or stuck around because I got brainwashed, experimented on, and kidnapped? Yeah… that would go over well.

He only ever observed Rebecca’s children from a distance. She had two sons; James and Robert, and a daughter, Annie, who looked just like her. It gave him some comfort to know that at least her legacy would live on.

Sometimes Hazel’s children and grandchildren visited her as well, even though Hazel herself had passed away a decade ago at 90. He didn’t know if Grace had had any children. He never saw them visit Rebecca if she had. The only thing he knew about her was that she had passed away a year ago at the age of 97.

Though they were his descendants, they weren’t his family. They didn’t know him and he didn’t know them. Not really. Files could only tell you so much about a person.

And now that Steve was gone too, life had become nothing more than a dull thrum as he tried to navigate it to the best of his abilities. Which was a lot harder than he’d anticipated. Living in New York had changed in the last century, of course it had. He found it difficult to settle in and pretend nothing had changed. To live life, go to therapy. None of that truly held any meaning for him anymore.

Or at least, it hadn’t.

Crossing the names of his list had given some of it back, for a while. He enjoyed being able to use technology and his particular skill set for the common good for once, even if his methods weren't exactly... therapist approved. Not that he listened to her anyway. He didn't see the need most of the time.

His phone pinged once again as he left the scene, letting the sirens of the approaching authorities drown out the constant murmurs and images in his head. A quick phone check revealed a text from Sam.

[Barnes I need you to answer me.]

He ignored it. Again.

It had been the fifth text in three days. Sam clearly wanted something from him, most likely his help. He didn't care much anymore. All he cared about was finishing his pardon and finding something, anything to stay alive for.

Please. Please I didn't see anything.

He squeezed his eyes shut at the intrusive thought, shaking his head and clenching his hands until his nails dug into his palms. Body thrumming with a pulsating energy. No. No, not now.

A deep breath. In, hold it, and out. He repeated the gesture, navigating his way through busy streets purely on autopilot

In the sanctity of his apartment, he dropped down in the nest of blankets in front of his tv and wrapped his arms around himself.

He- he couldn't.

Images of flashing metal, blood dripping to the floor plagued his mind, and the overwhelming feeling of his throat contracting made him gasp for breath.

He couldn't breathe.

His phone pinged again.

"What do you want, James?"

Family. Love. Understanding. But above all... "Peace."

"That is utter bullshit."

"You are a terrible shrink."

It was and it wasn't. He didn't want to be alone with his thoughts but he also wanted those same thoughts to just- just stop.

[Barnes, pick up your damn phone.] Sam's text read this time.

He just needed it all to stop.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed as he breathed in and out, letting the energy just flow through him as he tried to calm his mind. Blinking back the tears that threatened to fall once he was done, he rubbed his hand over his face and got up to grab some water and a snack.

The days passed as usual.

He went to therapy, spend some time with Yori, went on a date that failed, and revisited Rebecca again. He read the hobbit to her once again, just as he had back in the '30s. She smiled at him once he was done and asked; "Who are you?"

He'd taken his leave after that. Endlessly roaming the streets of Brooklyn until evening fell and he ended up back at his apartment in front of his tv.

He had nobody left.

His sister was as good as gone. Steve had left him. He was alone. And he would die alone. Out of his mind with the walls closing in on him.

The incessant ringing and vibration of his phone pulled him out of his thoughts. Jesus…

“What the hell do you want, Sam?” He said as he picked it up, probably a little more forceful than he meant to.

“Not Sam, and I’m just checking in on you.” Rhodey’s voice said on the other end.

Shit.

He sighed. “Rhodes, I-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Rhodes paused, “Have you seen the news yet?”

He really couldn’t take this kind of bullshit right now, of course, he knew what Sam had done. “I know he retired the shield, Rhodes. You don’t have to keep checking on me. I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Rhodes clearly didn’t believe him, although to be fair, he wasn’t sure he would have believed himself right now, “And that’s not what I meant. They-”

His tv chose that moment to cut back to the news from the commercials that had been running. Almost as if it had a mind of its own with the world’s worst possible timing. There, in white letters on a blue banner, was the worst news he’d seen in a month.

John Walker named Captain America.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me…”

“Barnes, I know what this looks like-”

“Please tell me you’ve tried to stop this.”

“I tried. They wouldn’t listen to me.”

“Fuck…” He couldn’t believe this, this was, just, fuck. He needed to punch something.

“Barnes,” A pause “do I need to call someone?”

He shook his head, though it only took him several seconds to realize; Rhodey couldn’t see him shaking his head. “No. No, I’m- I’m fine.”

Rhodey didn’t say anything for several seconds but he practically felt the man’s incessant gaze and knowing smile. “In that case, you should check on Sam, make sure he’s okay too.”

“Yeah…” He didn’t want to, especially not now. But maybe Rhodes had a point, he probably wasn’t the only one struggling with this news. “Give Pepper and Morgan my love, alright?”

Rhodey probably wanted to press on, judging by the hesitation in his breathing. He didn’t though. Something he was inherently grateful for. “Sure. I’ll pass it along. Take care Barnes, I’ll be a phone call away if you need me.”

“Alright. Bye.” He said, looking at the number on his phone screen for several minutes while the interview played in the background. He was grateful for all the strings Rhodes had pulled within the government to get him his pardon. He was grateful for Pepper’s non-stop work to get his bank accounts, social security, and money restored. He was grateful for the fact that they had helped and stuck their necks out for him, even though he didn’t deserve any of it. Especially considering his past and what he’d done to their family. They didn’t seem to care, and if they did, they were good at hiding it. They helped him anyway.

But he wasn’t part of their family. It didn’t feel like he was.

He sat there, watching Walker’s interview. And goddamn it was so stupid. The man didn’t know anything about Steve or the mantle he was taking on and yet there he was talking about him as if he’d always known Steve. Calling him his brother and whatnot.

He didn’t register the bleeding lip until a metallic taste filled his mouth, his hands clenched in his lap, and anger pulsing through him with an energy he couldn’t contain. What he wanted to do in that moment would have negated everything he had worked so hard for and would undoubtedly mark him an international terrorist once again.

Instead, he grabbed his keys, went to the nearest bar, and drank through so many bottles of booze that the bartender wanted to call an ambulance for him. He didn’t need one. It wasn’t a healthy coping mechanism in the slightest, but it was far better than tracking Walker down to pummel his ass.

Although he knew it wasn’t fair and part of him knew that Sam couldn’t have foreseen this coming. It was easiest to blame him. So he did.

It was all Sam’s fault. If Sam hadn’t given up the shield, none of this would have happened. If Sam hadn’t given up the shield, Walker wouldn’t have become Captain America. If Sam hadn’t given up the shield, hadn’t given up on Steve’s wish-

He shook his head and sighed. If Steve had been wrong about Sam being the right man, then Steve was wrong about him too. And that was something he couldn’t process, not now, not yet.

In the morning, he arranged an Uber to take him to the Air force base.

-

End notes:

So that's it for chapter 1, there will be seven chapters in total. Let me know what you think of it so far, comments fuel me and keep me writing.

What did you like this chapter? Are there things that aren't clear or not written clearly? Let me know and I will make sure to fix them.

I would love to hear your thoughts.

[kittensjonsa]

When you watch something (not telling you what it is) and it screams Jonsa and won't let you rest until you let it out.. another sub/Dom jonsa fic with Sansa holding the whip this time.

Summary: Sansa has deep seated issues she needs to work on thanks to a recent trauma from being mugged in an alley. But sometimes, it takes more than just therapy. BDSM-ish.

One-shot, I leave the rest to your imagination because I think.. we all have different versions how this could go.. 💦 and unfortunately, I am not a good enough writer to explore these visions and putting them into words lol.

Safe Word

Dove.

Little bird. Those are the words that spring to mind as Sansa sees the forms before her. It is strange, having to fill out forms and giving strangers a piece of her life before she gives all of herself to another. Well, almost.

He did come highly recommended. Sansa looks out the window from the lounge sofa she finds too comfortable to be filling out forms in.

Also, this is a sex club.

“You will keep my details private, right? I mean, I'm here because.. you know,” Sansa's voice trails off, wondering if she should explain at all. The lady with bright purple hair and blonde streaks looks up from Sansa's forms, only to smile at her, subtly hinting how she has encountered many a red-faced first timers like Sansa. Only thing, this time it's different. I'm different. Not like the rest, Sansa mumbles in a small voice in her mind.

“Miss Stark, I can assure you have our strictest confidence. Besides, your therapist made a call earlier this week to let us know about… your case. Don't worry, she didn't say anything, she just asked for Jon to help you. And that's enough for us to know. And, yes this is only between you and us,” the lady assures, the piercing on her lower lip quivering as she smiles again at Sansa.

Oh right, yes. My case.

Sansa nods and glances at the black tinted glass doors behind the counter. Sansa wonders what awaits her, come the day when it beckons.

“We'll give you a call once we've set up your appointment. You'll hear from us in a few days.”

Sansa heaves a sigh of relief and manages a polite grin. “Right, thank you. I'll.. wait for your call then, Miss Val,” Sansa addresses her after a quick glance at the name plate. Val nods and waves her goodbye and calls for the next one in line. Sansa gathers herself and leaves, regretting what fresh hell she had gotten herself into.

The hours ticked by at first when Sansa found herself in bed and staring at the ceiling. When sleep finally came, the nightmares took over. Sansa had tried everything from herbs, to tinctures and sleeping aids. None helped, because none of these, not even the anti-anxiety medication gave her the peace that was robbed from her, one fateful night in an alley. There were so many things Sansa realised, in retrospect, how the night could have gone differently. If she had taken the train instead of walking to the bus stop, if she went home on time instead of staying back an hour later, if she hadn't answered that goddamned phone call from her ex. But it only wrecked her inside and turned her stomach into knots every time she walks down that particular memory lane. Six months later, Sansa still finds herself in her nightmares, crawling in that alley, bruised, battered and mugged.

Seeing a therapist was the last resort. Describing and reliving the experience again was painful but gradually it eased, no longer was Sansa sobbing at the end of a session, thanks to Dr Carr, her therapist whom had provided an outlet Sansa didn't know she needed. Slowly, the sessions grew less arduous. The nightmares lessened somewhat though haven't ceased completely. Perhaps it was only thing that caused great concern, seeing what little sleep she'd been getting. Six months since a deep, restful sleep, Sansa recalls.

“There's a deep anger that needs to be resolved. Pure rage that I feel needs to be addressed here, Sansa. As someone, I think, who rarely expresses such an emotion, I can imagine this must be quite difficult for you,” Dr Carr suggests, tapping the end of her pen onto her notepad. Sansa sighed as she brushes off some imaginary fluff from her skirt.

“Might I suggest something? You might think this is quite strange but I feel it can be freeing for you. It's.. an acquired taste and you don't have to if you don't want to but perhaps you may want to consider letting all this anger out? On someone.. who is willing?”

Sansa raises her eyebrow at the 'willing' part. “You mean find someone to beat up?”

A wistful tilt of the head tells Sansa only one thing. “I don't recommend this method to anyone but I feel that you, Sansa, will find that it helps. I'll write down the address so you can decide for yourself. Now, before you say anything, I'd like you to approach this with an open mind. As open as you can possibly be.”

“What is it that you suggest, Dr Carr? I'm all ears.”

An address with a name. Jon Snow. Château Noir. Sansa answers back with a questioning glance. Sounds mysterious. Another therapist? Am I that hopeless?

“He's highly recommended. I heard of him from someone in my circle. He does… very particular work. And he has helped one of my former patients it seems, last I heard. So, moving forward.. I think you might want to try him.”

To do what exactly? This is uncharted territory. Sansa's mind wanders off to the darkest bits she was brave enough to muster.

“He's.. a provider of services for a small part of the community, whom I suppose require an outlet for their.. inclinations.”

Sansa's eyes widens at the statement and Dr Carr quickly adds, “Please, bear in mind that I do not in any way think that you have such inclinations but rather, been pushed against your own free will to a corner you no longer have space to move in. And it is affecting you more than you can cope. Am I right to say that? And I think one of the ways we can break out of that space.. is to face it head on, in a safe and controlled environment. I heard he's very professional. Would you at least think about it?”

Seven o'clock. As always, she is on the dot. Sansa fidgets with her jacket, hoping she was properly dressed for .. her meeting. A good sized room filled with contraptions Sansa thought she'd only seen in movies. The kind with mediaeval torture segments. Sansa quickly realises how this was probably a bad idea. But she had paid for it, that and also not wanting to face a disappointed Dr Carr, after the arrangements she had made.

Together, they both had made good progress; this is just a step further, she thinks. Still, torture devices aside, it was a cozy room otherwise for conversation if nothing happens. If she doesn't want anything to happen, that is. Sansa finds some small comfort how the lighted candles seem to brighten up the otherwise dim room, and a soft scent lingers in the air. Sandalwood? Rose? Sansa tries to guess, occupying herself while waiting.

The door creaks. A head of inky black curls and a boyish smile greets her. Sansa gasps. He isn't at all like how she imagined. And good-looking. Dr Carr didn’t mention that. 

“You must be Sansa Stark. From Dr Carr's office?”

Sansa nods and gingerly reaches out to meet his hand. She quickly looks away, out of courtesy. Perhaps also out of shyness and embarrassment. Quite the impression, and straight to business.

The harness strapped across his broad sinewy shoulders and chest made her jaw drop. And the crotchless leather trousers. Good thing he has briefs on, as Sansa's eyes dart back to the floor.

“Nice to meet you. I'm Jon Snow. And I'll be your sub tonight. At your service, whatever you need.”

Sansa sucks in a deep breath and blinks at the sight before her. All right no conversations then. Willing party. For fuck's sake, get over yourself and get it over with.

“Umm.. okay. Right.. oh, do you have.. a safe word?” Sansa remembers to ask, putting her bag down and removing her stifling jacket. He smiles again, his eyes shining in the poor light of the room. They gleam with anticipation. Somehow, Sansa had a feeling he had been waiting for her arrival, the moment she stepped into his lair. His castle. Strangely, not an ounce of fear filled her body, but something else entirely. Something hot and heady, as her breathing quickens.

“Well, thank you for asking. I do have one. It's.. crow.”

Sansa watches him slide across the room to a standing handle bar that stood chest high. A pair of shackles sit ominously on the handle, waiting to clamp on the next poor soul.

“Okay. But.. hold on. Don't you want to ask me questions? Sorry this is my first time, I don't know how this works,” Sansa apologizes as Jon stands behind the handle bar.

“Ahh, yes of course. But later, if you'd like. Sometimes, thinking about it, hampers.. the process. I know it is your first time. Don't worry, I'll lead you into it. Just.. tell me what you want to do, how do you feel and why you're here. At least that gets the ball rolling, no?”

“Well.. well-I'm here because I need to let some anger out,” Sansa stammers, suddenly feeling very large, self-conscious and awkward.

“Okay.. and why are you angry? Did someone take something from you?” Jon prods, his voice and tone as soothing as Dr Carr's.

“Yes.. yes. And he hurt me... He beat me. He left me for dead in an alley.. I had to crawl home, no one helped me..”

Jon keeps quiet as he watches Sansa, his heart slightly heavy. Poor girl. All the more she needs this, he thinks.

Sansa stops, the rage Dr Carr was talking about had finally reared its head. Ugly and snarling and all Sansa wanted to do was to smash its head in. Indeed, this is exactly what she needs.

“Well then, Mistress. Shall we begin?”

Sansa looks up from the floor and sees Jon already shackled to the handle bar.

And a loosely coiled whip hanging at one end.

---

Note: Dr Wendy Carr is a character who is a psychologist on Mindhunter and I adore her (and aspire to be like her one day). So much so that she deserves a place in my fics lol. Sorry, she's not an oc 😂 if you're wondering.

[cupidmarwani-archive]

I Know your deaf!Buck tag is supposed to be about Buck being deaf which makes sense obviously but I would really like to see more of the autistic side of this AU If you wouldn't mind?🙈😬

yuh yuh I got you. I feel like I should also address that I am not autistic, this AU is informed by my research and interactions with autistic people, as well as my personal experiences with sensory and social issues. Those who are actually autistic please feel free to step in if I say something that’s out of line ily anyway under the cut bc this got long //

- Buck’s deafness and his autism are very much connected for him, if that makes sense. They both very much inform his approach to the world and to other people, and his being deaf affects how he copes with his autism, and his autism affects how he copes with being deaf.

- One of his most common stims is ASL, because it’s a very natural thing for his hands to fall into and moving hands? Feels good. At first as the team learns ASL it’s kind of frustrating, because it can be hard to tell if Buck’s signing to communicate or to stim. The usual tell for the difference is when he’s stimming it tends to be a singular word or phrase, and rarely anything that makes any sense.

- The main reason that Buck prefers to have his aid turned off, besides the fact that he’s used to silence, is that it’s a lot of sensory input that would be overwhelming in the best circumstances, but especially because it’s not something he’s ever had to learn to cope with. It takes a lot of getting used to for him. 

- While everyone kind of knows right away that Buck is deaf- it’s not like he can hide it if he wanted to- they don’t really know he’s autistic until much later. Buck’s approach is somewhere along the lines of “it’s none of your business and the people who know have usually been dicks so this for my knowledge only.” He eventually brings it up not because he feels obligated to, but because he trusts the team enough to be respectful, if that makes sense. They’ve been supportive about his preferred method of communication, and about his aids, and his PTSD, so he eventually trusts them to be respectful about this too. It helps explain some things, and gives them a jumping off point on how to help him with things when he wants/needs it. Knowing that Buck isn’t being an asshole for fun and is actually just on the brink of sensory overload means that instead of arguing with him, the team can help find a way to tone down the amount of sensory input and give him the space or comfort he needs at that time. 

- Buck prefers his long sleeved uniform because things touching his bare skin? Hmm. Bad.

- His main special interest has been fire for a long time, which is part of why he wound up being a firefighter in the first place. He has a lot of books, but the majority of them are about combustion and the different ways fire and “fire” exist on and beyond Earth. He’s always just really liked it and learning about it. For a while, Hunger Games was nearly more intense than fire, but that SpIn didn’t last as long as fire has for him.

- After the tsunami, like in Canon, Buck fixates on natural disasters, and that becomes another special interest for him. It’s due in large part to the trauma of the tsunami, which ties into his trauma/PTSD, but also because once he started down the rabbit hole of learning about what causes tsunamis, it tearned into learning about earthquakes, and then volcanos, and then tornados, and suddenly Buck knew an alarming amount about any given natural disaster. Everyone’s a little concerned, but at this point as Buck is going to therapy about his Trauma(tm) they know he’ll tell them if something is wrong.

- Side note there was a major incident where when Buck was in a really bad place, Bobby made him go to a support group for survivors of the tsunami. Buck info-dumped about tsunamis. It did not go well.

- Buck’s stims have pretty much always been whole-body as opposed to verbal or localized. Besides ASL, his main stims are jumping and rocking.

- Sex is kind of an issue for Buck because of sensory issues. There are some specific parts or it/certain sex acts that are just Bad to him and it takes some trial and error both on his own and with other people to find a way that he enjoys it and isn’t spending the whole time uncomfortable or outright distressed. It’s not to say that he dislikes sex but it’s just not as simple for him.

- Buck falls more on the “hyper-attached” side of the emotional spectrum. He has a lot of love to give and it doesn’t take much for him to get close to a person, even if he can’t fully open up right away. He forgives extremely easily for the same reason, as well as going through a lot of his life with very few or no friends depending on the point in time, and he doesn’t want to lose the friends he has made. Like when the Chimney Incident happened, Buck was only really upset at him for a few days before he forgave him, while everyone else took a little longer. It took Maddie over a month. Buck just gets really attached to people really easily.

- Buck has a fixation with the firetruck

- He also does have some “self-destructive stims” in that if he’s overwhelmed enough, there are some times that he doesn’t necessarily notice or recognize that what he’s doing isn’t healthy, such as picking at his cuticles, digging his nails into his palms, and pinching his palm. It’s pretty much always regarding his hands, because they’re the most “used” part of his body and very much his most common point of physical contact with the rest of the world.