#tw abuse(?

[tranquil-slaughterhouse]

Video shitpost by twt user mmskas_

[swampyswan]

I’m surprised we don’t talk about the Polle statue more.

Anya sleeps next to the Polle statue post-crash because it’s sound activated, therefore alerting her if Jimmy tries to approach her in the night. This is already horrific because it leans into the idea that , even AFTER crashing the ship, Jimmy has not learned that how he treated Anya had consequences and continued to abuse her after the fact, only with no Curly to act as even a theoretical buffer. Curly didn’t do much, but at the very least, the idea of him finding out was enough for Jimmy to keep his abuse of her under wraps. Now he has no one to stop him from doing so as long as it happens while Daisuke and Swansea are asleep.

The Polle statue becomes a symbol of Anya’s safety; her last safeguard against Jimmy, because she knows he cares about his reputation and won’t dare approach her if it’ll attract the attention of the other two, or at the very least alert her in case he tries anything and she can ward him off.

And then, halfway through, we find it broken. Smashed to pieces.

It’s easy to point to Jimmy as the culprit. As his control over the situation starts to dwindle and bite him in the ass, so does his control over Anya. The reason he imagines Polle as a monster in his mind is because he acts as a barrier between him and his favorite punching bag. Destroying it is a sign to Anya that she can’t escape him.

But… maybe it was Swansea, in a drunken rage, who destroyed it, out of annoyance of its constant jabbering about a job he hates, out of desperation, out of the growing stress of starvation and subsisting on only Mouthwash that made him lash out. Maybe he didn’t even realize just how badly he screwed over Anya in the moment, maybe only regretting it when he sees her dead.

It could have been Daisuke. Maybe it was an accident; maybe he bumped into it one day and it shattered. Maybe he couldn’t have known what he did.

Or maybe it was Anya herself. Maybe she’d came to the realization that the Polle statue couldn’t protect her forever, that if Jimmy ever eventually decided the risk of exposure was worth the attack on her, that the statue could not actually stop him. Maybe it was slowly losing battery power and, one fateful night, might no longer work. Maybe it was the beginning of the end for her; her slow realization that there was ever only one way this was going to end.

[meeb-motes]

TW/CW: programming

Programmed and (Program)Cue

requested by @lost-atlantis :P

we tried our very best but the cue one is def based off our programmed members experiences ,,

requests are open !!

-Two

[xx-obliviousfantasy-xx]

1)

Real. Societally we need to remember that unintentional harm doesn't make the harm less BAD.

2) (this is gonna turn political or something I guess)

... N o???? Not entirely.

Who is this in reply to in wondering

Absolutely NOT why they're called that in my community. It's because genuinely, when white women start crying, black and brown people are typically killed as the result.

For example (TW SA and Abuse I fucking guess): In the past, a lot of white women would rape black men or force them to do certain actions for them and they generally could not refuse. If they did, their life was GENUINELY at risk because the woman would lie about the circumstances to save her own ass AND/OR as punishment. ALSO, if they got PREGNANT by a black man, they would cry "rape" which, you know, ended with that black man beat to death.

Another example of "white woman tears" would be a white woman and a black woman disagreeing or getting into something of an argument, and the white woman starting to cry, especially if while telling the black woman to "stop being so aggressive" and "calm down." Even if they're literally just the same level of angry. But it doesn't even HAVE to be the woman saying anything like that because in (Americans society at least) people will ALREADY see that woman as the aggressor which puts her at significant risk.

And honestly, can even, unintentionally be manipulation because of the fact that crying is often a learned response into terms of anger as opposed to others because of how it gets people to treat you differently.

Which then

Like yeah that can be a fucking anxiety response and shit but that's STILL causing fucking harm and THAT is where you gotta understand that your tears are NOT without consequence for others.

Everyone is allowed to cry. There are so many situations where we are allowed to cry. Crying in general is not manipulative. And crying at a fucking film or the thought of a dog without legs or something? Not manipulative.

But in certain contexts? Even if not intentional...yeah.

And we people, who cry really easily, gotta learn how to kinda control it kind of better. Not bottle it up but also be able to just leave or whatever.

One time I was crying really hard and then realized I had stop even involuntarily crying and was just continuing to cry and was able to stop.

But also that was genuinely during a time when I was being abused so that was low-key different

Anyways

Don't listen to me. Idk what I'm saying. Listen to people with a PHD or whatever.

Everyone is so weird about people who cry easily. Fellas, is it evil and manipulative to *checks notes* have an involuntary stress response?

[penofwildfire]

Controversial take perhaps but the idea that shipping two characters who have a canonically unhealthy platonic relationship somehow makes that unhealthiness worse feels. Idk, amatonormative? Like, what's so special about romantic relationships that makes abuse worse than it would be in a platonic relationship? Why is "these two characters are mean to eachother and/or have an unbalanced power dynamic but consider themselves friends" an acceptable interpretation but "these two characters are mean to eachother and/or have an unbalanced power dynamic but consider themselves lovers" isn't? And you might jump to "oh well in the second scenario you're romanticizing abuse by shipping them" but am I really? And do you really think it's impossible to romanticize abuse in a platonic context? I've been in zero abusive relationships but I've had SEVERAL abusive friendships, just saying.

(obligatory "this post is solely referring to relationships between age-appropriate consenting partners" disclaimer)

[lizardho]

I think the worst day I had as a missionary is hard to pin down – for comedy bad day stories, I like to talk about my cute companion who ripped three pairs of pants in one day because his ass was so fat. Literally, two in the morning, we missed 3 appointments in the afternoon because people kept cancelling on us, and we ended up far away from home visiting “Less Actives” in the downtown area. We find a family who says we can come in once their dad get home, and we sit down to wait for the dad to get in and RIIIPPP goes the third pair of slacks this man wore that day. I hand him my suit jacket and he wraps it around his waist like a bashful adolescent who just started his period at an inconvenient time. We catch a ride home on a bus and ended up home an hour early. He cried for like 30 minutes while stitching up his pants, and I got to rest a lot more than expected that day. We ordered a 4-cheese pizza and went to bed early that night, having walked probably 5-6 miles that day knocking doors and getting turned away.

Another bad day was the day the Mexico City Temple was re-opening. It was a funny experience for me because the evening before I was contacted by the Mission President and told that an elder in our district had confessed some serious sins to him and that those sins precluded him from going to the temple. The MP told me that nobody in this elder’s ward could get time off to babysit him so he was begging one of us – I didn’t want to go to the temple, it was a crappy way to spend a P-Day in my opinion, so I told the MP I’d do it. I spent the day eating popsicles and napping with an elder who, in between Bolis and naps, would shakily and tearfully confess that no fewer than half of his companions had secret phones they used to watch porn, hire prostitutes, and buy drugs. This was bewildering to me since I had been Trying So Hard my whole mission and had always felt inadequate, and these elders who were doing better than me and more respected than me were somehow out here fucking, doing drugs, and jorkin’ it.

I was actually in a “Punishment Area” at the time because in my last area one of my life-threateningly attractive companions had gone into the homes of widows to repair their electrical wirings (he was a trained electrician prior to going on a mission.) Being alone in the home of an 80-year-old widow with failing lights was “against the rules” to the extent that me mandaron a la goma, and some handful of guys I’d been told to view as role models were out here breaking actual laws and shit. Of course, I knew in my heart of hearts that I was in this area because of the Deep Evil that Lay Within My Heart (wanting to kiss Elder Electrician on his stupid himbo lips) but my MP could not have known that, just like he didn’t know that the guys he was making Zone Leaders were getting their dicks sucked and snorting cocaine. That honestly felt outrageous to me.

I feel like the stereotypical “worst day” of a mission is the last day – they take you to the airport in a big van, all melancholy and nostalgic. We sang on our drive to the airport – elders and sisters tearfully sang or hummed hymns together. I was deadpan the whole time, it was such a relief to be going home. For me the worst part of the day was the relief – the release of pressure. The pressure to perform, to be “on,” to be at your best, is omnipresent for elders. I was the only person flying to Phoenix, so for the first time in two years I felt a release from that pressure. Nobody was scrutinizing me, I no longer felt that every thought, action, and feeling was being evaluated and judged as a sign of my true character. It was hard to realize, a the pressure let up, that I had been holding all that weight for two years without knowing when it had started. I remember getting confused in Customs and needing someone who spoke Spanish to talk to me because I kept forgetting words in English. I remember getting home and my family waiting for me and feeling like it was all finally done, finally over, I could finally breath. It didn’t feel bad, but it did feel heavy. And it definitely was not the worst day of my mission.

The actual worst day of my mission, though, was about 5 months in. At the 6-month mark I was expected to make a long trip down to an area of town near La Basilica de Guadalupe to submit my visa paperwork, and the mission office had sent me an extra $500 MX to use for transportation costs. When I withdrew the money they had sent for the month, I noticed it was higher than expected. My companion, a senior companion and district leader, had the cell phone. He was talking to another elder while he waited for me to withdraw my monthly deposit. I approached and asked if I could use the cell phone to call the mission office, as I had questions. He said “no,” and ignored me. I waited until the conversation ended and asked again, and again, angrily, he said, “No.” I said “Elder, relax, I just need to call the mission office to see why they sent me more this month than usual.” His face turned red as he realized other elders were watching the exchange occur. He handed me the phone, I called and was told the money was for transportation costs, and laughingly returned the phone to my companion. He took it, told the other elders he needed to tie his shoe but they could head on over to the District Meeting, and waited until they were out of eyesight. Once that was done, he grabbed me hard by the wrist, dragged me into a hidden corner out of earshot from others, and said, “If you ever disrespect me or my authority again I swear to God I will kill you.”

I was actually shocked. This guy had spent the last month and a half being SUPER nice to me, so I thought he was kidding and I was just confused. I laughed and said “Haha, yeah, your authority over the cell phone is sacred,” and tried to walk away but he didn’t let go of my wrist. He pulled me back and said “I will literally slit your throat if you ever talk to me like that again. As senior companion my authority over YOU is sacred, and I will not let God be mocked by you.”

I realized that he was serious. Like, actually threatening-my-life serious. I could see it in his eyes, I could feel it in the way he squeezed tighter on my wrist. In actuality, the idea seems laughable now. The guy was absolutely chickenshit. He cried if his shits were too hard, he couldn’t end a human life, but I still didn’t let myself fall asleep first for the rest of our time together. And I still hid the two knives we had in a different area while he was showering the next morning.

If I’m being honest though, even that wasn’t the worst day of my mission. That was bad, and each subsequent time he told me he was going to cut my throat for minor infractions against his God-Given Authority Over Me (like not wearing a belt for morning scripture study, or not taking the path he thought was best to get to a lesson) was a bad day. Every P-Day where he read my emails over my shoulder to make sure I wasn’t telling my parents about how he was treating me, every day he told me that the ward members would never believe me over him, every day he put me down in front of other elders and they laughed in agreement, every day he was in a bad mood and took it out on me was a bad day. But the worst day was the day I told the mission president about it. I told him about the threats to my life, his temper, his physical abuse, hiss manipulation and rule-breaking, and the mission president told me “The time to tell me this was 6 months ago. The time to forgive him and focus on your own failings is now.”

I don’t think I’ve ever felt as confused or betrayed as I did then. Like, man oh man, that was a rough thing to hear, but as the day went on I kept feeling more and more confused and scared – had I misinterpreted everything? Had I miscommunicated something in telling the story? Had I not been objective enough in recounting the threats against my life? Was it true that a senior companion actually had the authority to hurt me if I went against his authority? Was I wrong the whole time? I had no idea, to be honest, but it was bewildering.

Knowing now what I wish I had known then, I would have done things differently. But in the moment, on a mission, knowing that my biggest reason for going on a mission was the hope that the Spirit of God, which hymns told me burns like fire, would burn the faggot out of my heart. I think I felt like I deserved it. Like somehow that elder knew the evil I was hiding and felt compelled by God’s power to hurt me. I think that’s what made it so hard to defend myself in the moment – I did not have that problem with other elders. The companion who told me we were gonna wrestle to settle an argument lost three consecutive matches and pouted about it for like a week. The elder who threatened to punch me for making a joke at his expense got knocked on his ass just for raising his fist. But this elder got into my head first, and that made it hard to fight against it. Instead of fighting against it, I just silently lived with actual, verifiable, diagnosed, by-the-book, DSM-5-TR Posttraumatic Stress Disorder because I thought I deserved it. It took consistent supervision of my clinical work revealing countertransference with Male LDS clients (I consistently discussed addressing shame in a client’s presentation where no shame or discomfort had been reported), an awkward conversation with @inbabylontheywept after an even more awkward dinner with a cousin who vaguely reminds me of that companion, and a bad acid trip where I had visceral flashbacks to my mission, before I was able to realize that I was living with a pain that was as abnormal as it was unnecessary.

Even once I realized it, even once I got help, it was hard. I remember telling jokes about what happened to my therapist and seeing her jaw just…drop. She said she didn’t know it had been that dangerous for me. The session ended and he sent me the PCL-5 (a good, evidence-based, highly face-valid measure for PTSD) and some other measure for dissociative symptoms and I was like “Girl, I just took this class, I know what you’re trying to measure and this ain’t it.” I reported my symptoms accurately and was fully prepped to confront her the next session. She showed me my scores and the norms used, and I was like “Oh fuck, this looks really bad on paper,” and she was like “Yeah, I can’t imagine living like this” and I just sobbed for most of that session. We ended up doing 9 months of TF-CBT and ACT (largely because I am a terrible and uncooperative patient, realistically I think I could have been done in like 5-6 months if I wasn’t so stubborn) before I was discharged from treatment successfully.

The thing that was so weird about starting therapy for PTSD was that it made things feel worse for a while. I started taking edibles a lot more. I started behaving differently around family members and Mormons. I started being outright hostile to elders I could see. It took about 3 months before I could see the missionaries and not have an actual fight-or-flight response to their presence. I think the way I had made it a far as I did without getting treatment was by repressing the thoughts, feelings, and memories that made it all hurt, and a soon as I let them just be there it was like all the confusing aching hurt came back. The first few months of therapy were just spent expanding the amount of time I could feel that hurt before turning to other means (like dissociation, cannabis, repression, etc.) so I could actually address the experiences without crashing the rest of the day. It was hard. I know I ended several sessions sweating a LOT from the exertion it took to just let the feelings happen. By 6 months, however, I could go into a church building without blacking out from panic. By 9 months I could sit in the same room as elders without sweating and shaking like a chihuahua on Adderall. 3 months after therapy and me and my supervisors noticed that my work with Mormon men had improved substantially. 6 months after therapy and I was able to begin writing anonymous stories online. Now, about two years after completing therapy, I feel like I can talk about it without needing the cloak of anonymity, and that is empowering.

Again, I am not sure why I’m typing these stories out – they’re not fun to write, I don’t love that my family can find these posts, but I guess I just like to remind myself and others that it can always get better. That mind numbing platitude, the old thought-terminating cliché that “it gets better, just power through it” doesn’t give enough credit to how much it hurts to get through it, but it does get better. There is a light at the end of the tunnel. The triggers can go away with time, great effort, significant expense, and a lot of discomfort. The world can feel safe again, the hurt can feel bearable, that nagging worry that I might have deserved this, or that I did something wrong, can eventually go away too. It’s not easy to do it, and I have an incredible respect for the patients of mine who can pull it off, but it is undeniably as doable a it is difficult. If this story resonates with anyone, if it feels close-to-home, if these experiences feel shared, just know that the relief I talked about can feel shared too. Know that it’s worth it to get the help, that you deserve the help, that you deserve to live a life that doesn’t hurt you, that you deserve to be a full person and not a living prison for the pain and memories. Know that healing yourself does not involve extending forgiveness to Them, whoever They are. That the pain you felt will not be made less important by making the pain less potent. Know that taking care of yourself now is, in a way, taking care of yourself then. And Please, with a capital P, take care of yourselves.

Thank you to my family, especially my immediate family (special shout outs to @flowerologists and @inbabylontheywept) for the support and patience with me as I dealt with this.

Thank you to my therapist, Jordin Borques, who I recommend highly to anyone seeking trauma therapy in Arizona.

Thank you to my wife, @cintailed, for being the push that got me into therapy, and for taking care of me at my worst and still being here with me.

Thanks to my mission president for being such a colossal disappointment to Christianity that my departure from the church was inevitable.

And a general thanks to the queers for being so cute and making life worth living, even on bad days.

[tobydandelion]

Disabled Villainy isn't Ableism, it's Realism, or; Some People are Wrong about Nessa.

[Some 'Wicked' stage musical/Movie part 2 spoilers]

So I've been seeing a lot of takes about Nessa, (mostly on YouTube since that's the best social media platform for my current neurological needs), and there's a somewhat common one that I have the strong urge to dispute into the void. Some folks seem to misunderstand Nessa's role in the deconstruction of 'Evil'.

The Wizard is Systemic Evil, Glinda is Complacent Evil, and Nessa is Socially Traumatized Evil.

Because Wicked isn't just deconstructing society's perception of evil, but also Evil in practice- which comes from not only bias, misunderstanding, apathy, and greed- but also, the cycle of abuse. And a lot of disabled people don't like to hear this, because there's that lovely statistic that we can point to that says we're "more likely to be victims"- and that's true of abuse that reaches the level of criminality- but I dont think that's true of day-to-day, average, 'just plain mean' abuse. That kind of abuse is a learned behavior that comes from trauma. And, emotional neglect from your peers is trauma. Feeling like a burden is trauma. Watching all the other children playing and feeling left out is trauma. Being made to feel different over your entire life, is trauma.

Nessa isn't an ableist character, she's realistically Borderline for being disabled in a world without Dialectical Behavioral Therapy. Her character literally feels like she was written with BPD/NPD in mind- lashing out the most when she's feeling abandoned by a person she perceives as "hers", feeling the need to control the people around her, not caring how she hurts people in the process of that attempt to control their affection- she's literally my ex wife. They're both very extreme examples, but, with an understandable pathology. And the less extreme version of that is someone a lot of us need to actively fight against becoming every day. It's not fair that that's our burden, but it is. It's the thick line between healthy self-loving disabiltyPunk, or just being a dick. And it's a part of our extra personal labor that 'Entitles' us to an extra amount of grace that I don't think I'll ever really be able to properly quantify, because that line can be hard to see in the heat of the moment, through years of gaslighting and guilt and shame and resulting internalized ableism that we have the urge to fight against. The only way we can really see that line is in hindsight.

And while media that more thoroughly deconstructs this cycle is neccessary, so is simple media like Wicked. Especially in the context of an example of another traumatized marginalized character who made the decision to start actively trying to follow their ethics over their emotions despite their trauma. And, once again, the solution isn't limiting the options for marginalized characters, it's just making more marginalized characters in general.

A lot of folks also take issue with the entire concept of depicting disability being 'cured' in media at all, but, and thankfully I have actually seen this rebuttal: nothing about her life gets better once she becomes abled. And that's because she still has all that trauma from those years of severe marginalization that resulted in ostracization and feelings of powerlessness. She's still disabled- just only neurologically so, now. This is a terrific example of how different disabilities can intersect, and be exacerbated, or even created, by the neurological impact of marginalization.

In fact, that brings up another criticism that I've heard- that the characters are realistically ableist... in a society falling to fascism... in a story all about marginalization. I'm pretty sure that's intended, you guys.

Maybe I'll turn this into a script to film for shortform content next year when Part 2 comes out- I hope I'm out of Postpartum Depression by then. But I couldn't get this out of my head until I got it into words this morning. I think that's probably a good sign I'm starting to feel more like myself. Thankfully I had time to sit down and rock and type this morning, since my partner is taking care of our baby in the other room right now. (Not just babysitting, either- he's washing bottles.❤) He's 6 months now, and the most beautiful, funny, amazing person in the world. Meeting the new version of him every day as he gets stronger and brighter has been the light keeping me going. And we're already doing PHONICS. 💪🧠

[felix-01000101]

When your parents do all of these-

Things people label as abuse when it's done to a partner that parents somehow get away with

Hitting/spanking. Abusive/toxic when it's a partner but fair discipline when it's a child.

No privacy (no privacy = going through their phone, tracking their location, attending therapy appointments, etc.). Abusive/toxic when it's a partner but good parenting when it's a teenager.

Emotional neglect. Abusive/toxic when it's a partner but "not the parents' fault" when it's a child.

Overworking them. Abusive/toxic when it's a partner but earning their keep when it's a child.

Doing things to purposely make them cry. Abusive/toxic when it's a partner but hilarious when it's a kid.

Breaking their stuff/deleting video game progress. Abusive/toxic when it's a partner but fair discipline when it's a child.

Forcing affection when they don't want to. Abusive/toxic when it's a partner but teaching them good manners when it's a child.

Locking them in a room that they can't escape. Abusive/toxic when it's a partner but "they've got to learn one way or another" if it's a child.

Expecting them to suppress their emotions. Abusive/toxic if it's a partner but teaching them to be mature if it's a child.

Getting angry when they ask a question/challenge your logic/need clarification. Abusive/toxic if it's a partner but teaching them to not talk back if it's a child.

Not letting them eat anything unless it's what you put in front of them (that includes not letting them get anything for themselves). Abusive/toxic when it's a partner but teaching them to be grateful if it's a child.

If you've ever labeled any of these things as abuse when an adult opens up about their experiences but will defend parents who do the same thing, you need to reevaluate yourself.

DNI: Narcissistic/Borderline/Anti-social/Histrionic abuse believers.

[steddieunderdogfics]

Where's Your Crown, King Nothing? by StrangerSteddie

@strangersteddiex

Rating: Mature

12,547 words, 4/? chapters

Archive Warning: Chose Not to Use

Tags: Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug, Hurt Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson Lives, Protective Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington Has Bad Parents, Steve Harrington Has Absent Parents, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Abused Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson is a Mess, Brotherly Steve Harrington & Dustin Henderson, Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington Friendship, Good Friend Robin Buckley, Platonic Soulmates Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Slow Burn, mention of conversion camps, LGBTQ Themes, Protective Wayne Munson, Supportive Wayne Munson, Steve Harrington Has Abandonment Issues, Steve Harrington Has Self-Esteem Issues

Summary:

When Steve's parents unexpectedly return and find Steve in hospital they decide enough is enough and offer him a devastating ultimatum. As his world begins to fall apart, he realises that relying on those around him may not make him the burden he believes himself to be.

This is a MOD rec as a part of our Fic Fridays.

Know a fic that deserves extra love? Submit through our asks or the submission box!

[strangegardendelusion]

Hey, so Angel and Valentino are not a hate-love relationship

Valentino is Angel abuser and also his r@pist

Valentino shows all these toxic behaviors towards Angel

And for the people want anymore proof

Hazbin Hotel episode 2 shows Valentino making a lot of belittling voice mails to Angel

Then episode 6 shows Valentino literally hitting Angel and reminding Angel he owned by Valentino

I also include these sceenshots to show the differences between a toxic relationship and a hate love relationship

What Angel and Valentino have is not a hate-love relationship, it a toxic relationship

[mer-acle]

I've been thinking about Athena and Zeus and their whole favorite daughter again because I can see their relationship in two main ways.

The first is Athena having a "good" relationship with Zeus before God Games, Zeus treated Athena with more "love" because she was loyal and well perfect, she did what he wanted and didn't complain even if she didn't like it, and Athena was that loyal because she loved him, and he was a relative good father (emotional manipulative as hell).

The second is if their relationship abuse were already more apparent before, Zeus being a lot more controlling and giving punishments every time she crossed the smallest of lines, but only behind closed doors of course, the rest of Olympus thinks Athena is just daddy's favorite so nobody really on her side since no one likes Zeus very much, and poor Athena just having to deal with this alone and being so very obedient although partly because of love mainly out of fear of what he could do.

Honestly, I don't know which is worse on one side having Athena already having a bad relationship with Zeus is great for angst, and it's so interesting to explore, but makes Zeus finally fiscally hurting ends up being less of a shock, it's just very tragic. And on the other side having Athena who really loved Zeus and was truly loyal having him hurt her out of the blue like that is really heartbreaking because no one really wants to believe our own father could hurt us.

Anyway I don't know if I'm making a lot of sense, english isn't my first language so sometimes is hard to write down what I'm thinking, I just wanted to ramble a bit and I thought you would like to see it lol

ahhhhhhh

you know, when I first read this I stopped and stared at it for a second.

cos you somehow managed to encompass both what I'm kinda aiming for in Fighting to be Loved, where there was a lot of emotional manipulation but the physical escalation is pretty much completely new and unexpected, and what @evermorecatra and I are doing for our AU with Zeus being physically abusive already but behind closed doors. I can't even add anything to what you wrote. It's that. we're doing that.

I totally agree with your assessment of why both are tragic in their own way. I gotta love the angst of Olympus being shocked bc daddy's favorite got so horrifically hurt while Athena 100% saw it coming and wasn't surprised at all. While in the other scenario, those who got hurt were always those around her (Metis, Pallas, Prometheus, even Odysseus to a degree) while she remained unscathed. Getting not only injured but almost killed after thousands of years where you were safe must completely take you out of your reality. Like... what can you reasonably believe at that point? Poor owl. Either way she loses.

I found it made perfect sense, thank you for rambling, I really appreciate it <33

[uselesslittledoe]

All of it, actually. If I pass out then you should simply continue to use me and hit me. After all, it's not about my pleasure-i'm just your fuck toy, really. So long as YOU'RE having fun, I don't care.

*looking up at you cutely with my big wet brown eyes* - “so how much pain do you think i could take before i black out?”

[flowersandskeletons526]

"We Need A Tagger" - Warriors Concept Album Fanfic (Part 1/?)

okay so based off some of their interactions on the album, I am of the firm belief that Ajax was the one to recruit Rembrandt. This is my take on their first meeting and Rembrandt's initiation. Enjoy!

-------

Ajax sat at the table in the Warriors’ tiny apartment, holding a crumpled tissue under her still-bleeding nose. Cleon paced the kitchen around her as she muttered under her breath. In the other room, Cochise sat on the couch thumbing through a newspaper beside their newest addition, the stray Cleon found under the boardwalk and promptly promoted to second-in-command. Ajax was still a little sore about that, but Cleon made the argument that her number two needed to at least sometimes remain level-headed and Ajax couldn’t make a valid point against that. 

“For fuck’s sake, Ajax,” Cleon hissed. “When I said I wanted to expand our territory, I didn’t mean you should go off by yourself to annex two blocks!”

“I thought I was on our turf,” Ajax repeated for what felt like the hundredth time. “I swear, Cleon. I wasn’t picking a fight on purpose.”

“This time,” Cochise added.

“Fuck off.”

“If you thought someone was on our turf, you should've gotten us,” said Cleon.

“There were only three of them.”

“And only one of you!”

“Send your assistant on patrols with me if you’re worried about numbers.”

“Hey, fuck you, man!” Swan snapped.

Ajax leapt to her feet and was immediately pushed back into her seat by Cleon. “I made you an enforcer, not a scout,” she said. “You handle the issues the scouts bring in. You don’t go looking for them yourself.”

“We don’t have scouts,” Cochise pointed out. 

“I thought you were gonna talk to your friend that bartends at the Neptune Lounge. The one that’s always wearing that fucking hat.”

“Still trying to convince her.”

“Fuck.”

“We need a tagger,” Swan interjected. “Yeah, we need more members, but that’s just going to cause more problems for us if we don’t mark our borders.”

“For once,” said Ajax, “I agree with the sewer rat.”

“Dude! The fuck!”

“Cool it, you two,” Cleon warned. “Do you have any nominations?”

“I’ll find one,” Ajax offered.

“If you can find a decent tagger that isn’t already affiliated, you have my permission to bring ’em in to talk.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And no more fights!”

So ensued two weeks of fruitless searching for an unclaimed graffiti artist. Ajax went halfway insane with frustration by the end of the first week. Every time she found a new artist’s signature, she went back to report and was met with one denial or another. If they weren’t already running with a crew, it was because they were untrustworthy or had been jumped out of their old gang for some offense and Cleon didn’t want someone else’s scraps. 

Swan volunteered to go out for a few rounds with her. She knew more about the political side of things, Ajax could admit that, and since they’d both promised Cleon that they wouldn’t butt heads, the trips passed by in almost complete science. They were out late one evening, the sun setting over the ocean as they patrolled the boardwalk, when Swan stopped before a massive, impressively intricate and detailed graffiti mural sprayed across the front of a shuttered carnival booth.

She whistled as she looked over the painting. “Damn. Someone spent time on this.”

“There are a bunch of these,” Ajax said, standing beside her. “Talked to some of the carnies, they said the things pop up overnight, they get covered or washed off, and the next day there’s a whole new design.”

Swan hummed and nudged the bottom of the grate with her foot. Where she stepped, in gorgeous swirling script, was a signature. “Rembrandt,” she read aloud. “You tell Cleon?”

“Asked her, asked Cochise, asked everyone. No one knows who the guy is, just that he’s talented and prolific.”

“Well.” Swan shrugged. “Let’s find him.”

Easier said than done. When Ajax said no one knew, she meant no one. No one had a clue because no one ever saw the paintings go up. When Ajax explained her plight to the crew, the only help she got was, “You said you would find a tagger, so go find him.”

This resulted in Ajax walking the boardwalk in the dead of night, listening to the waves and her own footsteps and watching out for the sound of spray cans. Her unlucky streak finally broke one night walking past the abandoned parachute tower. She almost thought she was hearing a gas leak at first, a constant hissing from the other side of the structure. She realized it was spray paint when she heard the telltale rattle of a can being shaken.

Crouching low, she crept silently around the base of the tower. A small, slight figure wearing a respirator face mask held a can in each hand, arms flying as the graffiti artist raced through his work. Ajax watched in fascination as he dropped cans into his backpack and pulled out new colors without ever taking his eyes off his canvas, working only by the light of the moon and the city’s distant glow.

She straightened. She’d found the phantom tagger.

“Yo!” She called. The artist froze as she approached. She couldn’t see his eyes beneath his hood, only the mask. “Let me talk to you for a second.”

The artist grabbed his backpack and a paint can and bolted.

“Shit!”

Ajax took off in a chase after the artist. The little fucker was quick and agile, but Ajax was quicker and knew Coney Island like the back of her hand. “Stop!” she shouted. “I just want to talk!” He only ran faster.

Just as she thought she would run out of steam, the artist turned the corner into an alley. He hit the fence at the back hard and started to climb but Ajax had a major height advantage. She grabbed his backpack and yanked him down. He wheeled around, can in hand, and smashed her square in the face with it. 

He was quick but he wasn’t that strong. Ajax was certain the hit at least chipped a tooth, the taste of blood coating her tongue, but she wasn’t stunned. He tried to dart past her. She spun and snagged a fistful of his sleeve, then threw him backwards into the fence with enough force to knock the mask off his face. She wasn’t proud of it - she was trying to recruit the punk, after all - but her mouth hurt from the hit so she considered it a fair trade.

Ajax stood over the artist. On his ass with his back pressed to the fence, he raised a paint can and pointed it at her like a gun. His hand trembled so hard she thought he might drop his improvised weapon. His hood fell back. She finally got a good look at his face.

Staring up at her was a terrified young woman with the saddest deep brown eyes she’d ever seen. She had a busted lip halfway healed and short, wild curls framing her face. She didn’t even try to act tough; she wore the expression of someone who’d been in a similar position and knew she didn’t have the skill to fight her way out of it.

Ajax was violently aware of how dangerous she must have looked at that moment. For the first time in her life, she wasn’t proud of it.

“I’m not tagging,” the girl said before Ajax could get a word out. “I don’t run with anyone. I’m just painting. I swear I was only painting.”

Ajax tried to make her voice sound gentle. “I know. I know you’re not.” She wiped away the blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. “Fuck. You really clocked me. Sorry for throwing you, I didn’t mean to do that.”

“I’m not tagging,” the girl repeated. “I don’t-”

“I know! Calm down, I just want to talk. I’m not going to hurt you. Really.” She crouched down to the artist’s eye level. “You’re Rembrandt, right? That’s your signature?”

The girl lowered the can. “Yeah,” she said timidly. 

“Call me Ajax. I run with the Warriors.” She extended a hand to shake. Rembrandt didn’t take it. Fair enough. “You don’t have a crew, right? Did you ever run with one?”

“No.”

“Well, listen, we’re looking for a tagger-”

Red and blue lights illuminated the alley. Police sirens blared. Ajax shot to her feet.

“Shit! Why are the cops - wait! No, no, no, wait! Come back!”

But Rembrandt was already over the fence. Ajax roared in frustration and booked it, knowing she couldn’t risk getting jammed up by the cops again.

Mission failed, tail between her legs, Ajax ran home.

---------

“The artist’s a girl?” Cleon asked, huddled around the kitchen table with the rest of the gang. “Damn. I feel a little sexist now.” 

“Her paintings are amazing,” Ajax said. She was still a little breathless from her sprint back to the apartment. “And she’s insanely fast. No way the cops would ever catch her.”

“Apparently no way you could catch her, either.”

“She was listening to me. The cops scared her. That’s why she ran.”

“Take a breath, you look like you’re going to pass out,” said Swan. Ajax flipped her the bird, and she rolled her eyes. “You said she looked scared out of her mind. What makes you think you’re ever going to catch up to her again?”

“She has a point,” Cochise agreed. “Ajax, you know I love you, girl, but you’re not exactly the most, y’know, approachable person.”

“She was listening to me! If I can go out there again, I swear I can find her and get her to come back here and talk to us. Cleon, come on, have my back.” 

Cleon sighed and hung her head. “Alright,” she relented. “If you think you can get her, then go get her.”

So Ajax went.

She sat beside the unfinished painting for five nights straight. She made sure no one covered it or washed it away, hoping the graffiti artist would come back to finish her work, but Rembrandt never showed. When Ajax returned to the apartment in the morning, she was met with the same simple question: “Any luck?” And she would only shake her head before going to pass out in the room she shared with Cochise. Cleon suggested she call off the search by the fourth night of no results, but Ajax couldn’t bring herself to take a step back and she didn’t understand why. Maybe it was simply a sense of duty to succeed at this mission for her gang. Maybe it was the paintings. Maybe it was the fear in the girl’s eyes and the fact that there was so obviously someone beating on her that made Ajax want to find her so badly. 

Cleon offered to come with on the evening of the sixth day, an offer that Ajax declined. “I don’t want to show up with the crew behind me and freak her out,” she explained.

“Ajax, I really can’t afford to keep sending you out. We’ve got other jobs I need you for.”

“Two more nights. Give me a solid week.”

“You get tonight. And if you can’t find her, I’m calling it off. We’ll find another tagger.”

“Fine.”

“Be safe.”

Ajax wandered the boardwalk for a bit before parking herself in front of the unfinished mural. It hadn’t been touched. She sighed and shoved her hands in her vest pockets. This mission was a fucking bust. Two weeks of searching and a week of waiting around and she had nothing to show for it. It was already past midnight and she hadn’t seen a single sign of anyone being out there with her, let alone Rembrandt. She promised herself that she’d stay until dawn and after that, she would give up and call it quits. Still, it sucked. She hated leaving things unfinished.

She wasn’t sure when she dozed off, only that she woke with a start to the quiet patter of footsteps on the weathered wooden planks. She looked up to see the masked, hooded figure standing a little ways off and staring straight at her. She climbed slowly to her feet and raised her hands.

“I’m not packing,” she promised. “I’m here as a friend.”

Rembrandt removed her hood and pulled her mask down around her neck. In addition to the split lip, she now sported a black eye with a scabbed over cut on her cheek beneath it. She kept her left arm tucked in close to her side like it hurt to move it.

Ajax grimaced. “Holy shit, man. Is that-”

“It wasn’t from you. You didn’t throw me that hard,” Rembrandt said quietly. “What do you want from me?”

“My gang needs a tagger.”

“I’m not a tagger.”

“You’ve got more than enough skill to be one. Look, the Warriors are on our way to running Coney Island but first we need someone to define our borders. You said you just want to paint? We’d give you free reign to put up new murals anywhere you want and they wouldn’t keep getting taken down. And whatever’s going on with this…” Ajax gestured to her black eye, and she turned aside to hide it. “We could help with that, too.”

Rembrandt hesitated. “Why me? I can’t fight.”

“You wouldn’t need to, just need to run. That’s why they have me.” Ajax looked over her shoulder at the unfinished painting. She flashed a smile. “How long would it take you to finish this?”

She thought. “Thirty minutes max.”

“Great. I got your six.” Ajax stepped away from the wall and posted up behind the girl, who frowned quizzically at her. “Seriously. Finish it. Just promise you’ll come back to Warriors Headquarters with me when you’re done. My friend makes a great breakfast and our leader is a lot nicer than I am. She wants to meet you.”

Rembrandt only stared at the warrior. Ajax made a little go on gesture before returning to her watch position. She heard cans rattling behind her and the thud of a backpack hitting the boardwalk, then the hiss of spray paint. She waited a minute before glancing back. 

The graffiti artist had her mask back up over her face but left her hood off. She painted with one hand this time, moving slow, her presumably-injured arm hanging limp at her side. Ajax cringed a little internally. She was right; someone was definitely going after her. She caught a glimpse of Rembrandt’s expression, and despite looking like she’d lost a brawl, the look in her eyes was one of complete, pure, calm joy. She was truly in her element, surrounded by a cloud of spray paint, building the shape of the Wonder Wheel and the parachute tower with layers of a rainbow of colors. She added in tiny cartoon creatures running through the city. Ajax almost laughed. 

She leaned against the tower beside the painting. “You got anyone who’s gonna freak out if they think you’re missing?” she asked.

“What do you mean?” Rembrandt replied without taking her eyes off her work.

“Boyfriend? Girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Any family?”

Rembrandt paused. She turned to Ajax, showing the deep bruise on her face, her eyes downcast as the joy faded and the sadness and fear replaced it. Ajax’s heart softened just a bit.

“Got it,” she said, and faced front again.

The sky was barely beginning to lighten by the time Rembrandt packed up her cans and stuck her mask in her backpack with them. Ajax stood beside her, admiring the painting. “Looks nice,” she said.

“Thanks.”

“So…? Will you come meet with the Warriors?”

Rembrandt shouldered her bag. She shifted her weight between her feet like a little bird ready to take off. Ajax was convinced she might run again and prepared herself for another chase, but Rembrandt buried her hands in the pockets of her hoodie and looked up at the enforcer.

“Who’s your leader?” the artist asked.

“Her name’s Cleon.”

Rembrandt blinked. “Like… like Cleon? Like the Cleon?”

“Yep. The Cleon,” said Ajax. God, the fucking ego boost this was going to give that woman would be astronomical.

“She wants to meet me?”

“Uh-huh. You coming or not?”

“But she’s like - wait, hang on! Yes, I’m coming!”

Ajax led her away from the beach, off the boardwalk and into the surrounding streets. Ajax always kept her head on a swivel, always, and apparently so did Rembrandt. She walked a half step behind Ajax, staying just slightly to the right in case she needed to take off and leave Ajax behind. Fuck, she was flighty. This early in the morning, not many people were out and about yet, but Rembrandt kept her hood up and looked down to hide her face. Ajax waved her hand by her side, and Rembrandt moved to walk directly behind her. She kept stepping on the back of Ajax’s shoes on accident, apologizing profusely each time, but she picked her head up, at least.

Ajax stopped Rembrandt outside the door to the apartment. “Stay behind me,” she said, “and don’t freak out. Cochise is a little loud and Swan’s got major resting bitch face but no one’s gonna go after you. You’re safe here.”

“Okay,” Rembrandt mumbled. 

They stepped inside. Cochise stood over the stove, stirring something in a pan and humming to herself. Swan sat on the couch with DJ Lynne Pen’s show playing quietly over the radio beside her. Cleon was on the phone listening to someone talk and scribbling notes in a small journal. Ajax reached over Rembrandt’s head to shut the door and hollered, “’Sup motherfuckers!” Rembrandt flinched.

Swan looked up with annoyance drawn across her face. “Who are you calling a motherfu-…” Her voice trailed. Cochise and Cleon turned to Ajax. Ajax stepped to the side and gestured to the girl standing next to her.

“Everyone,” she announced with a smile, “meet Rembrandt.”

No one spoke. Rembrandt waved sheepishly.

Cleon said into the phone, “I’ll call you back,” and hung up the receiver. 

“Wow,” said Cochise. “She actually exists.”

Swan stood, staring at Rembrandt’s black eye. “Ajax, what did you-”

“It’s not from her,” Rembrandt interjected. “Um, sorry. Hi.”

Cleon approached. Ajax nudged Rembrandt forward, but the artist backed up into the door instead. Cleon stopped where she was, raised her hands, and offered the same comforting smile that she had given Ajax and Cochise and Swan on all their first interactions. Above all, Cleon could get virtually anyone to calm down and listen to her. 

“Hey, nice to meet you,” she said gently. Ajax watched Rembrandt’s tensed shoulders come down just a fraction of an inch. “I’m Cleon. Rembrandt, right?”

“Y-Yeah.”

“Want some breakfast?”

------

And that's the end of the first part! Stay tuned because I am going to continue this

[violetsandshrikes]

I met a girl when I was fresh out of high school in undergrad who frankly, annoyed me quite a bit, but I also had an inkling to continue to be compassionate to her given a few things about her life/background/family

I ran into her two years ago. Last week, her daughter turned 1. This girl, let’s called her “P”, is a really good example of why I never feel comfortable mocking trad wives

Her perfect trad husband, who was a shining young figure in the local religious community, volunteered in all sorts of groups, well loved in his workplace and everything else, beat her up at 1 month post-partum. I reached out to her after seeing her desperately asking for a stroller on a page, confused and slightly concerned knowing both of them came from wealthy backgrounds.

The reality for lots of tradwives living “perfect lives” is this: P was immediately ostracised. All the wealth of her husband and her family meant absolutely nothing if she wasn’t in favour and doing what she was told. Her child and her well-being didn’t matter. P, at 25 years old, was basically deemed an oopsie, and left on her own to figure out how to pay for herself, a baby, find housing, and every other task you can think of.

Having known many of these women (and supported many of these women), another factor most people don’t consider is this: they are intentionally raised to be helpless. When I immediately offered my support to P, she really needed it. This young woman needed to be guided through how to apply for government assistance, how to weigh up rentals and apply for them, how to apply for jobs, how to sign up for childcare. How to sign up for your own power and internet, and how to connect them.

It wasn’t that she was “stupid”, or incapable, or spoiled. While it looks like they’re being sheltered, in reality, these women are practically being held hostage. Sure, they might be allowed to learn things that are expected of them (see: basic cooking, baking, cleaning, child rearing, women’s bible studies, hosting, and so forth) but they are heavily controlled from family life into marriage life, and they are never given the opportunity or the reality of what many of us would consider basic adult tasks.

She’s doing okay now. Her daughter turned 1, is happy and healthy. They live frugally, but they have a roof over their heads and the essentials. I often babysit for her so she can attend counselling, or go to a woman’s support group. She is painfully aware that she has so much to learn about how to live as an adult.

I don’t envy tradwives, but I don’t find any joy in mocking them either. Even when they live the most picturesque lives, they’re also practically living a real life Jenga game. If (and often, when) it comes tumbling down, they’re screwed too, and they often have 0 skills to help themselves or find community (that again, isn’t carefully curated).

[wildbasil]

things haven't been great but i think they will be. eventually 🌻🌼🩷

[ask-codeearasure]

I see this happen in more pairings and irl situations than just Killermare if I'm being honest with you, and every single god damn case is just as redundant and equally mind-numbing as the rest before it.

In so many abusive relationships, particularly ones where the only participants are adults, there is always, always, always, a 60% chance there's the argument that "both were wrong/abusive" to avoid the notion of people recognizing their silly widdle blorbos are actually quite fucked up and their defense or postercard "neutrality" of them makes them look either annoyingly fucking illiterate at best or complete assholes at worst depending on if the relationship being debated is fictional or real.

It makes me sick to witness over time because it proves to me in a twisted way that they either don't know what relationship abuse can look like or they do in fact know but just don't give a shit because they either find the abuse itself or the abuser attractive for whatever dumbass reason. And once again there's always the "fiction doesn't affect reality uwu!!!" garbage, as if that clears up anything.

-- Sarco

I suspect that some ppl in the utmv fandom have a harder time empathizing and sympathizing with adult victims being abused by another adult when the abuser and victim are not family, friends, or romantically/sexually involved with or not in love with eachother