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amethystsoda · 9 months

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It’s kind of cliche how stereotypical my abuse and indoctrination was growing up—

(I guess this is technically a bit of trauma dumping??? But hopefully it’s more like “here are some experiences other traumatized millennials will relate to.” We share in this history together 🤝)

Family was into religious cult activities (aka evangelical pentecostals) and made us spend lots of time at church (good for becoming someone who cares about others and giving, but not good bc brainwashing/shaming/etc)

Only got one year of kindergarten before getting pulled into homeschool after a move. Mother got into talk radio and the conservative brain poisoning.

Not allowed to watch cartoons other than veggie tales. Christian bookstore almost exclusively. Hyper patriotic. ONe nation under GOD!!!!!!! *eagle caw*

Rapture scare and apocalypse fear—don’t deny Jesus if someone tries to shoot you and make you renounce Christ. Forced to watch The Omega Code at way too young. Listened to the audiobooks of all the Left Behind series (content including rapture, natural disasters, assassinations, beheadings for not taking the mark of the beast, etc).

My biggest fear around 7-10 years old was that I would have to be loyal to Jesus and get beheaded. I literally sat around thinking about how scary a guillotine was and how I would have to steel myself to accept that fate.

Also as a Pentecostal family, my parents believed in speaking in tongues. Cue up me at maybe 4 years old being forced to “learn the language” (I was getting no divine insight, no spiritual spark. I was a child with my brain still developing)

but being put into the empty bathtub until “the spirit worked” (aka I faked it and replicated how my parents did it with tear streaked cheeks, just so I could escape that hell).

Spanking as punishment… I wasn’t even that bad of a kid. They just didn’t know how to handle me being an independent thinker and curious.

Talk out problems?? Nah. Open palm spanking your butt will silence you and train you not to talk back. You said something I don’t like??? Time to push you to the wall and grab your chin and yell at you until you “repent.” (No wonder my response eventually was just to shut down.)

It didn’t stop there. When we got older and they didn’t spank as much. It was “you have to pray and repent out loud” “you have to read scripture.” And for someone who went nonverbal during those times, it was so painful to do.

I got diagnosed with adhd in kindergarten but my mom basically said “that doesn’t exist” and ignored it. I had tons of sensory issues and that motor system stuff where you trip or are clumsy a lot. I cried when the crinoline of dresses scratched my legs. I was hyper fixated on red shoes and butterflies.

I had purity training at 9 years old. A sliding scale off a cliff diagram of “dangerous actions” (the start was holding hands. Off the cliff was laying in bed naked and sex).

Growing up fat and constant throat infections but no doctor’s care because “you just need to pray when you’re sick and quote scripture and god will heal you.” The advil? Hidden up in the kitchen cupboard and judgement any time you would reach for it.

I remember never talking about crushes too because everyone would embarrass me. I didn’t know any terms for demisexual/bisexual. I just knew I felt deep love for everyone, and sexual desire for almost no one.

I often think about how things could have been different. How I ended up parenting myself and only relying on myself. No one else would care for me, so I had to.

Sure there were occasionally good moments.

I’m sure my mother was trying her best with my dad constantly at work until late hours.

But it also could have been so much better…

If you also grew up like this, I am holding you so tenderly. I’m holding a warm washcloth to the old wounds and wiping the childhood tears off your face.

I’m giving 10 year old you a mug of hot cocoa and a warm blanket and putting cartoons on. There’s no yelling. No threat of abuse. You’re safe 🫂🫂

We’ve been through so much, but there are better days ahead. 💖💖💖

#i’ve been considering making some comics about this…#abuse cw #religious trauma #cults cw #emotional abuse cw #amethyst rants #purity culture

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revvnant · 5 months

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@slaughterlocked / cont.

He loves you and he cares about you, Michael thinks, as his throat floods with bile. He loves you and he cares about you. Look what he got you. He wants to pick it up and hurl it at William's thick fucking head. It's so cool; were it not for the here and now, he'd already be sinking his teeth into it, wanting to see what made it tick. Instead, he's sitting, legs to his chest, a look frozen on his face that's gotten lodged somewhere between a smile and a snarl. That is to say, all teeth. I'm going to rip your throat out. I'm going to funnel gasoline into your stupid mouth and make you sit in the fireplace. He can picture it vividly, the explosion of gore. That comforts him a little bit. But only a little bit.

"It's nice," he croaks. "Thank you. I love it." He doesn't touch it. If he did, he'd melt, he just knows it. Like the Wicked Witch. What a world, what a world! He is being ungrateful, isn't he? This is an amazing gift. But he chokes on any further thanks, because William is still looking at him like that. How is he supposed to enjoy anything he receives, when this is how the gift-giving goes down? He's starting to think that these are elaborate, expensive setups for an excuse to rip into him. Which is hilarious, because William will let him know exactly what he thinks of him without the gifts, but he supposes the money allows him to feel worse for himself. Poor father. Poor, unloved father. He nearly screams and just manages to abort it, and hopes it comes across as a squeak of excitement. "It's ace. Really. I'm so excited."

And then, because he's a fool and a stove-toucher to the bitter end, he adds, "I'm crushed under the fucking weight of your generosity."

#slaughterlocked #v2. all is well in the afton family!#w1. threads #|| SORRY. SORRY. IT BIT ME.#|| WHAT THRHWFUCK.#|| GAS MASKS ON.#emotional abuse cw #|| HELP. FUCKING HELP.#|| THAT TAG DOESNT EVEN REALLY APPLY. IDK WHAT TO TAG THIS AS. RADIATION.

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trauma-culture-is · 1 year

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Trauma culture is never knowing what is or isn't worth being upset about since growing up nothing I cared about mattered, not knowing what is or isn't good to say no to, since no one listened to me saying no growing up.

❤‎

#actually traumatized #trauma culture #trauma #emotional abuse trauma culture #emotional abuse cw #mod puns

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independentzaun · 1 year

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One hell of an ex

((Open starter dealing with Sevika's ex. Let me be very clear here. Angst. Content warnings for emotional abuse, possibly physical abuse mentioned at some point later, gaslighting, and just a horrible relationship that left Sevika with some lasting issues.))

It had been a perfectly normal day for Sevika. Wake up, coffee, smoke, stretches and a bit of a workout before a shower and getting dressed. Few errands around Zaun, a talk with one or two people, and a trip down to the docks. It was a rare day the tall confident woman didn’t ensure her presence was seen around The Lanes at the very least, and this was just another day. She had ended up at the Last Drop of course settling down in her booth to relax for a bit, and that of course had ended up with a card game.

A normal day like any other… and then She walked through the door of the club.

Eyes on her cards Sevika didn’t notice anything until she heard a soft whistle and someone murmur that some people were just too damn good lucking. Eyes flickering upwards to glance around out of sheer curiosity they widened for a second and her shoulders tensed just a bit as well as her jaw before she forced herself to relax. It’d been such a quick reaction few people would have noticed it unless they had both been looking at her, and knew her rather well. The woman in question should have been up in Piltover working as a super model. A sweet kind smile complete with the perfectly timed little giggle and a nod of thanks as someone complimented her. Eyes bright and welcoming with her dark hair sweeping down along her back, and not a hair out of place. Normally five foot six, with a body that was perfectly proportioned and a pair of heels that helped make her a bit taller and her hips sway as she strutted her way very deliberately past any number of people right to Sevika’s booth. Someone tried to offer her a drink, and with a warm smile she thanked them but motioned towards Sevika getting a laughing shake of the head and a comment that some people had all the luck.

Sevika had completely lost track of the card game at this point, and it’d be easy to assume her eyes latched onto the woman was due to admiration but there wasn’t that easy and confident glint in her eyes. Instead there was almost a glint of uncertainty, and as someone tapped at the table asking if she was going to bet or fold she just tossed some coins without really looking at the cards.

“Sevika, it has been so long. Ah I’ve missed you! I’m sure you missed me as well.” Casually the woman just sat down on Sevika’s leg even as she tapped at Sevika’s metal arm which wasn’t really even close to her and murmured softly. “Arm, darling, arm.” Without thinking Sevika moved her arm further away as she spoke. “Keyla, I, thought you were gone, or busy or… what are you doing here?” Keyla pouted and leaned in a bit looking sad. “Sevika really that’s how you greet me after so long? Tsk.” Glancing to the others at the table she offered sad little eyes. “She really should at least give me a kiss on the cheek or something, don’t you all think? It’s mean not to.” There was a quick series of nods and agreements because obviously it was mean not to give such an obviously sweet, and nice and beautiful woman a proper greeting.

Sevika took a breath. “Keyla, Keyla we…” Her voice was cut off as the woman on her lap purred into her ear seeming nothing but well meaning, and even sexy to anyone watching with no one able to hear unless they were perched on Sevika’s shoulder. “Ah ah ah. You wouldn’t want me to tell them about your little anger issue would you dear? That night you hit me? I’ve forgiven you of course but what would everyone else think? They all know you are violent, poor Sevika and her temper, but it’s okay. I understand.”

The fact that Sevika had never actually hit Keyla didn’t matter.

The other woman had a way of convincing Sevika that of course others would take her side instead of Sevika… and with Keyla’s utterly certain tone it couldn’t help but make Sevika wonder if she had despite never having hit a partner like that before, and had simply forgotten. If perhaps one drunken night with party favors in her system just maybe… It wasn’t as though Sevika had any proof she hadn’t.

Eyes closing for a second Sevika’s shoulders actually sunk down just a touch, but that was just her relaxing and enjoying the woman practically on her lap and purring in her ear right? She couldn’t possibly have been backing down… could she? “It’s good to see you again Keyla.” Turning her head she placed a kiss against Keyla’s cheek which immediately got a bright smile and a kiss against Sevika’s in return. “I knew you still cared, Sevika. Now I’m thirsty, but since you are obvious...busy… with your, card game, why don’t you just give me a few coins and I’ll go get a drink?”

A little nod from Sevika, and she grabbed a few coins offering them to Keyla who just gave a warm smile. Another few coins were gathered by Sevika and she offered them as well at which point Keyla took them and patted at Sevika’s shoulder before standing up. “I’m sure I’ll see you again soon sweetheart.Now don’t forget, temper temper, don’t be a sore looser.” Hips swaying she turned and headed to the bar.

Sevika stared at the table for a moment and suddenly a flood of questions came out and she just shook her head. “She’s my ex. Games over. I need to take care of some stuff. Take the pot and divide it up, or whatever.” One of the other players chuckled. “Oh I get it. Take care of some stuff. Shiiiit I’d like to take care of some stuff as well. You enjoy that Sevika. Luckyyy. Come on you all, lets go. An ex, right, just an ex. Wish I had an ex acted like that.”

Moments later Sevika with distant eyes reached for her lighter, and for once it actually took her two or three tries to get it going and light her cigarillo. That was just excitement though, surely, it had to be. Keyla naturally was already becoming fast friends with the bartender, and getting to know people while the Iron Lioness was quietly lost in thought and had pulled her poncho over her mechanical arm keeping it out of sight as she was left for the moment... alone.

#open starter #angst cw #emotional abuse cw

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krakenartificer · 1 year

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Have a new doctor, and while they are very good, and I am of course delighted by that, it also means that their diagnoses tend to be, uh, unsettlingly accurate. They'll be like "Ah, so [diagnosis], which probably means [list of symptoms that couldn't be more accurate if you'd collected them from my own journal]."

Which is how it has come to my attention that no one outside of Tumblr has any kind of reference point for "We know, but HEY!" or "First of all, how dare you--" or "I came out to have a good time and I'm honestly feeling so attacked right now" or "How dare you say true things about me!?" or even just "Ouch 😖"

And the thing is ... that's so necessary. I can react to an accurate statement with "I don't like the emotional impact this statement has on me", and normies will start trying to convince me that the statement is true, and that has nothing to do with what I'm saying. I didn't say you were wrong, I said I don't like it.

Or I can react to an accurate statement with "That is true", and then normies act like I have no right to the emotional impact the statement makes on me: if the statement is accurate, then I'm not allowed to feel grief, or regret, or anger, or practically anything at all other than calm acceptance.

Only on the segment of Tumblr that I have curated for myself do we have the language to acknowledge and hold both truths at once: This is accurate and I'm upset by it; this is correct and I don't want to hear it. Not acceptance, not outrage, but some secret third thing.

I don't have any kind of grand conclusion to this, I just found it an interesting observation.

#gpoy #tumblr culture #some secret third thing #recovery #emotional abuse cw #gaslighting cw

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ollieofthebeholder · 9 months

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to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

<< Beginning < Prev. || AO3 || My Website

Chapter 43: December 2001

“Keep up, Martin.” Aunt Lily’s voice is sharp and brisk. “No lagging behind.”

“Yes, Mum,” Martin says obediently.

Gerard tries not to roll his eyes. Aunt Lily has an even better sense for when they’re being impertinent (her word) than his mother does (her word is insubordinate) and he knows she’ll take it out on Martin if she catches him. The truth is that Martin is probably the only person in the family not having trouble keeping up with Gerard’s mother. Melanie has brought along a wooden trunk for some reason, and Gerard doesn’t know if it’s full or just that the trunk itself is heavy, but she mostly seems to be progressing along by heaving the trunk forward and using its momentum to propel herself and she won’t let anyone else help her. Aunt Lily is having one of her bad days and won’t admit it, so her cane is discreetly packed away—if she even brought it—and she’s leaning heavily on Uncle Roger, who’s obviously struggling with both her and their large suitcase.

Martin, on the other hand, has only his backpack, his clothes rolled tightly and neatly slotted in place; that, his current knitting project, and a couple of (carefully vetted) books are the only things he has with him. Even Gerard has packed more than that, and Gerard is used to going on long trips, so this is nothing particularly new.

Except that it is. Because the “trips” Gerard and his mother usually take are work-related, hunting down books and talking to people and…things bound up in the Fourteen. This, though, is an honest-to-goodness vacation.

And it’s one he’s taking with his whole family.

He can’t quite believe that his mother actually agreed to this. He’s not sure what’s going on, what the impetus was, but he’s also not going to ask too many questions lest he not enjoy the answers. Because they’re not just going on vacation, they’re going on vacation to another country, and they’re going to be gone for two whole weeks. She’s even promised she’s not “working”—no meetings, no dealings, no encounters. Just a vacation. She won’t even monitor Gerard’s activities, and he’s welcome to spend as much time with Melanie and Martin as he likes.

There’s got to be a catch somewhere, but for right now he’s going to take it and run.

Right now, the concern is that they might not have left themselves enough time to get through security. Gerard hasn’t flown in a while—his mother usually takes trains whenever possible, and he honestly prefers that—but he guesses wherever they’re going, it’s somehow cheaper for all of them to fly than to take the train. Or maybe she thinks it’ll be better for Aunt Lily. Whatever the case, security is a lot more intense than the last time he flew, and even having left themselves the usual amount of time, Gerard eyes the long lines to get through security and wonders if they’re going to make it. Why the United States has to mess everything up for everybody is beyond him.

Aunt Lily gets to go through a special line once they’ve checked their bags (which takes forever, especially with Melanie’s trunk), and Uncle Roger gets to go with her, but Gerard’s mother hands Gerard and his siblings their tickets, points them at the regular line, and tells them to meet them at the gate. He can’t help but be a little relieved. It’s at least a few minutes away from her, anyway.

“Where are we going, anyway?” Melanie asks as they join the slow-moving queue. She’s still clutching the bag Gerard got her two Christmases ago, which makes him happy in ways he can’t really explain.

“Dunno. Mum didn’t tell me.” Gerard pats down his pockets, trying to remember which one he shoved his passport in.

Martin, who’s already holding his shoes in one hand despite the fact that it’s going to be at least ten minutes before they’re at the point where that’s necessary, studies the ticket held in the other. His face lights up. “Oh, we’re flying into Katowice!”

“Where’s that?”

“It’s in the southern part of Poland, kind of near the Carpathian Mountains. It’s the largest city in Upper Silesia.” Martin’s eyes shine. “Granddad’s parents came from pretty near there.”

“We’ll have to poke around some, see if you’ve still got family there,” Gerard tells him. Martin’s never exactly been big on genealogy or anything like that, but still, he must be interested in knowing if he has family. Especially if it’s related to his grandfather. Actually, Gerard would be interested in meeting anyone related to the old man, too. A family that produced someone as kind as Martin has to be worth knowing.

Of course, they also produced Aunt Lily, so who knows.

They have a momentary delay at the security checkpoint, where they have to convince the guard on duty that they aren’t unaccompanied minors and that they really are meeting their parents at the gate; Gerard still isn’t sure she really believes them, but she lets them through with a dire warning about running on the premises and not losing their tickets or passports. There’s another delay while Melanie and Gerard painstakingly re-lace their boots, and then Martin hands him the various things he’s stuffed in his pockets in lieu of a carry-on bag and they’re off again. The corridors are crowded and confusing; the numbers make little sense, and Gerard isn’t entirely certain which way they’re even supposed to go to catch their plane.

“I think this place was designed by the Spiral,” he grumbles, dodging out of the way of a small child dragging a rolling backpack and clutching a teddy bear almost as big as she is. “Maximum confusion for minimum effort.”

Martin stops a man wearing a blazer and badge decreeing him to be a member of the airport staff and holds out his ticket. “Excuse me, can you tell us if we’re heading the right way, please?”

The employee asks them, again, if they’re traveling unaccompanied, and they again assure him that they aren’t. Gerard assumes there’s just some kind of policy regarding children and teenagers walking around without adults until they get to the right stretch of concourse and the tannoy crackles to life with the final call for their flight, at which point it occurs to him that if they’d been unaccompanied minors, they likely would have been able to ride in some kind of conveyance to get here faster.

They make it to the gate just in time, and although Melanie and Martin spend the entirety of their dash debating—bickering might be the better word—over which of them will take the responsibility for them being late, in the end, they don’t even need an excuse. The woman simply scans their tickets and waves them through, then shuts the door behind them.

The flight is nearly full, and even if it wasn’t, Gerard’s mother and Uncle Roger and Aunt Lily are sitting close enough to the front that they can’t miss the three of them squeezing past, mumbling apologies. There’s another embarrassing moment where the stewardess checks their tickets and discovers they’ve been booked into the exit row—Gerard is old enough to sit there, but Melanie and Martin aren’t—and then holds up the flight even further while she walks up and down the aisle trying to find someone willing and able to switch with them. There’s also a moment of worry when it looks like only Martin and Melanie will be allowed to move, but Melanie refuses to sit without both of her brothers. She’s very emphatic about that.

In the end, a couple in the very back row agrees to take the exit row and let them sit together. There’s not room to stow Martin’s backpack under the seat in front of him, so he quickly pulls out a thick blue book and hands the rest of the bag to the stewardess, who takes it to find somewhere to stow it while the three of them sit down. Gerard figures Melanie will want the window, but to his surprise, she insists on taking the middle. Martin silently gestures for Gerard to take the window, so, slightly bewildered, he does and buckles in for the safety briefing.

Truthfully, he more than half tunes it out. Most of it is intuitive, the rest of it is worst-case scenarios, and he’s flown before, after all, even if he doesn’t much like it. Short of one of the Fourteen attacking the plane, he doesn’t think there’s much he needs to worry about. Martin and Melanie, though, seem totally engrossed in the briefing.

The plane begins taxiing backwards. Gerard glances out the window, watching as the concourse rolls away, then feels the lightest of touches on the back of his hand. He turns his hand over automatically, and Melanie’s fingers wrap around his hand immediately and squeeze.

Surprised, Gerard turns to fully face her. She’s pressed as far back against the seat as possible, feet tucked back under her seat, clutching both Gerard’s and Martin’s hand. Beyond her, Martin sits absolutely still, shoulders and spine perfectly straight, his free hand curled around the other armrest. Both of them are staring directly at the backs of the seats in front of them. With a jolt, Gerard realizes they’re both scared.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, keeping his voice as low as he can. “All that stuff, it’s just a precaution. It’s probably not going to happen.”

Martin shakes his head minutely but doesn’t speak, his lips pressed tightly together. Melanie shrinks back further into her seat, somehow. Gerard decides to forgo comforting words and just be there for them as best he can.

He tries to remember his first flight. Was he scared? Or was he just excited? Or was he even thinking about the flight? He was young—it was long before he met Martin even—and he can’t even remember where they were going. He also remembers falling asleep not long after the plane took off.

For the first time, he wonders if his mother drugged him to keep him from making a fuss.

They don’t exactly relax when the plane gets off the ground and seems to level out a bit, but they aren’t quite as rigid. Melanie lets go of their hands and slumps down in her seat, somehow picking up her feet and resting them on the cushion. Martin, for his part, tugs the book out of the seat pocket in front of him and cracks it open. Gerard cranes his head to see the title.

“Death On Board?” he hazards.

“It’s a collection of Agatha Christie mysteries,” Martin says without looking up.

The plane banks a turn, and Gerard can see the sprawl of a city, close enough he can see individual buildings but distant enough that he can’t make out details. It’s almost certainly not London, not with the direction they’re heading, but he can’t resist quipping, “I can see my house from here, look.”

“Urgh.” Melanie scrunches down further. Martin glances up from his book, seemingly involuntarily, and his face goes white. He quickly buries it back in his book.

At that, Gerard realizes what’s going on, and he feels absolutely horrible. “Sorry. As soon as we hit cruising altitude, I’ll shut the blind.”

“Thank you,” Martin mumbles.

Melanie fidgets with the ruffled skirt hem she’s wearing over her leggings. “Gerry? Can you get me my book so I don’t have to…”

“Look?” Gerard supplies. “No problem.” He bends over and snags her bag from where she’s tucked it under the seat in front of her, fishes out the Hans Christian Anderson book she’s had as long as he’s known her, and hands it to her. Taking a hint from them, he finds the Basil Copper novel he’s been reading in the pocket he stowed it in and settles back to read as well.

The stewardess makes Melanie get her feet off the seat and sit up properly, but for the most part, they’re left alone. At last, the overhead crackles to life as the captain announces they’ve reached cruising altitude and turns off the seatbelt sign. Immediately, Gerard closes his book, using a finger to mark his place, and tugs the shade down. Martin takes the first easy breath he’s taken since they boarded.

Melanie slides the bookmark into her own book and rests it on her lap, then looks up at Gerard. She’s scowling, but he can still see the worry in her eyes. “They’re not going to try that again on the way home, are they?”

Gerard frowns, trying to figure out what she means. “What, making us not sit together?”

“Making us sit in an exit row.”

“Oh. I dunno. We can double-check at the gate when we pick up our tickets home, I guess.” Gerard shrugs. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll let us get away with it if we say we’re triplets and you’re just small for your age.”

“No!” Melanie’s voice is sharp and slightly panicked. Martin nearly drops his book and quickly tucks the flap of the dust jacket in between the pages.

Gerard stares at her. “Why not? What’s wrong? We won’t—Neens, it’s really not very likely we’d need to be able to open it or anything. Planes are pretty safe these days.”

“I—I know, but—” Melanie bites her lip and looks from Gerard to Martin and back. “It’s just—you don’t normally fly places, and I heard Aunt Mary telling Mum that it’s all been arranged and it won’t touch anyone else, and then we were in the exit row and I just—I was, I was worried she was trying to sacrifice us to the Vast.”

Okay…that hadn’t occurred to him, but now that it has, Gerard has to admit it makes sense. His mother isn’t really interested in tying herself to a single entity, but if she found something that she was interested in trying—or worse, if she found something that was going to come after her and needed to placate it—she’s not above throwing all three of them to it if she can get away with it. And since Uncle Roger isn’t really…attuned to the Fourteen, it’s highly likely he’d never know precisely what happened to them. Depending on what his mother has—had—planned, he might not even remember them.

“They were talking about when we get there,” Martin says gently. “It’s why Aunt Mary and Mum said we can go off on our own—because they don’t want us hanging about when they’re doing…whatever they’re doing. I think it’s something to help Mum get better, maybe.” He pauses, then adds, “Which isn’t necessarily comforting, but at least it doesn’t involve chucking us off an airplane.”

Gerard blinks at Martin. “Wait, that wasn’t what you were worried about?”

“No. I just don’t like heights,” Martin confesses. “At least not—I don’t mind being in a building so much, but things like—like planes and roller coasters and—I don’t like knowing there’s not really anything much between me and the ground.”

“Oh.” Gerard leans over Melanie and squeezes Martin’s arm comfortingly. “Well, I’ll keep the shade down as long as I can, and when we’re on the descent you can close your eyes again. It’ll be okay.”

Martin gives Gerard a shy smile. “Thanks, Gerry.”

“Of course.” Gerard sits back. “Meanwhile. Now that we know where we’re going, what do we want to do when we get there?”

“We know where we’re landing,” Melanie corrects him. “We might be going anywhere from there.”

“We can run,” Gerard says. “Slip away from them the minute we get off the concourse, disappear into the countryside. Martin speaks Polish, he can translate for us. I can make us a pretty good living selling books. We’ll open up our own used book shop, sell nothing to do with the Fourteen. Few years down the line we’ll be able to buy a sheep farm and sell sweaters and socks made from wool spun off our very own ewes. We can change our names. They’ll never find us.”

Martin and Melanie are giggling so hard they can’t breathe by the time he gets to the end of this, which is kind of his goal. He chooses not to admit out loud how much he’d like for it to be true. Unfortunately, he’ll have to settle for it just being a vacation and then back to London.

Still. At least they can have this much.

#ollie writes fanfic #to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest)#tma fanfic #tma #gerard keay #martin blackwood #melanie king #flying tw #airports cw #emotional abuse cw #mention of sacrifice

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kaesaaurelia · 6 months

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sphinx of black quartz

For @whumptober day 19, using the prompts "psychological," "I'm not as stupid as you think I am," and the lyric prompt, "I’ll take one final step, all you have to do is make me."

Continued from Day 1, wherein Crowley definitely did not move into the bookshop, took a nap on the couch afterwards, and when he woke up his lungs hurt and he passed out, Day 2, wherein Muriel carried him into Maggie’s record shop, because they hoped a human might understand better than they do what was wrong with him, Day 10, wherein Crowley’s illness was causing strange and terrible weather, and help from Heaven was not forthcoming, Day 13, wherein Crowley got even worse, but Muriel thought they might’ve worked out what had happened, and Day 14, wherein Muriel and another angel worked out a very unpleasant cure for Crowley.

Content warning for brief discussion of emotional abuse and stalking.

Once Crowley was able to do miracles for himself, he found his way into a luxurious condo nearby, which someone had foolishly put up on Airbnb. He stayed there for a week and didn't pay, and when he got back to the bookshop he was in much better spirits. He returned to Whickber Street and pushed the door to the bookshop open, bracing himself for lingering traces of holiness. Instead he was nearly knocked back into the street by the sheer volume at which Ozzy Osbourne was trying to make the lyric "Supernatural king / Takes Earth under his wing" scan right.

Muriel looked brightly up from what they were reading and said something Crowley could not actually hear, but they turned the volume down with a sort of "calm down" gesture. "You're back!" they said. "Are you feeling better?"

"Ehh, I was fine, just fancied a bit of a holiday," said Crowley, not looking them in the eye.

"Does it feel all right in here? Less holy? Maggie lent me a whole stack of records that were supposed to be very evil," they said. "I tried playing them backwards like she said, but they sound much better going forwards. They also don't seem all that evil? This one's just about how the apocalypse was supposed to go," they said.

Crowley shrugged. "If I've learned anything about humans and their knowledge of good and evil, it's that some of them could've used a few more bites at that apple."

Confusion clouded their face briefly, probably because they were trying to square Causing the Fall of Man was bad, evil, and definitely against God's will with If only Man had Fallen a few feet further, perhaps he'd better understand both the depths of cruelty and the soaring grace which he was capable of. "Well! I'm glad you're back," they said. "And feeling better. I was thinking, actually, um. I was thinking I might try drinking tea today."

"Really," said Crowley, trying not to look as amused as he felt.

"I've -- I've been practicing with water," they admitted, as if this was a scandalous vice they had which they were letting him in on. "It's surprisingly nice. I was talking to Arariel the other day and they asked me how it was, and I had to admit I hadn't tried it at all."

"They asked you about tea?" Crowley asked.

"No, water. They worked very hard on water. They're so nice. I'm going to be certain to let the Supreme Archangel know they helped save you from Hell trying to kill you."

His whole mood soured at the mention of Aziraphale, and he was very doubtful that Hell would try to kill him with something holy, since it hadn't worked the last time and it probably took a lot of doing, getting your hands on holy things, if you were Hell and therefore said holy things burned your hands. It had to be Heaven doing this, which either meant that someone was going behind Aziraphale's back, or... no one was going behind Aziraphale's back. "Yeah, well. Sure that'll be... very exciting for Arariel," said Crowley. "If you don't mind, I'm gonna go yell at the plants."

"Have fun!" said Muriel, and turned the Black Sabbath album back up.

And Muriel was content in the knowledge that they had saved Crowley from Hell's machinations for about a month. It was a very exciting month, and they learned lots about Earth.

They had learned caution -- how to look both ways before crossing the street, and also to check that the Bentley wasn't in motion anywhere within a three-block radius. They'd learned how to change their plans quickly, when they'd wanted to go somewhere and their carefully-memorized knowledge of London public transit was meaningless in the face of the reality of delays. They had learned the basics of deception -- they could, in fact, stay after closing at the British Museum if they simply told the workers that they also worked there. And they'd learned the merits of not panicking when a dreadful and unexpected thing occurred, such as staring at John Dee's mirror too long and becoming trapped in it, after closing, at the British Museum. (Crowley had come and fetched them out again, and thus they also learned the merits of letting someone know where they were headed.)

And most importantly of all, they'd learned a lot about expectations and betrayal. It had started when they encountered a very nice human who told them all sorts of flattering things about their outfit and their performance at karaoke night. The human had offered to buy them a drink, and they'd explained that they didn't really drink much, although they were working on getting used to tea, which seemed to confuse the human, but then the human had asked if Muriel would give Nina a note.

Muriel had said yes, and immediately regretted it the next day when Nina's face went still and unhappy at just seeing her name written on the outside of the envelope. Then she'd scowled and told Muriel she didn't want to hear from Lindsay, at all, ever again.

Muriel had tried to explain, no, there must be some mistake, the Lindsay Muriel had heard bits and pieces about was cruel and horrible, and this human the note was from was none of those things! -- but before they could get very far, Maggie grabbed their arm and tugged them away gently, and Muriel had let them.

Once they were outside the coffeeshop, Maggie had said, quietly, "Muriel, you've got to understand, the person you met might've been really really nice, but there's a difference between nice and kind."

"But --"

"It's not your fault, you're -- you're new around here," said Maggie, "and loads of humans would've made the same mistake, I know, I knew this girl at uni whose boyfriend managed to get into -- look, that's not the point, the point is, Nina does not want to talk to Lindsay. Lindsay's done all sorts of things to try to get at her, and she isn't interested. She told me the other day she had to reset a bunch of passwords so she could sign back into a website she hasn't used in ages so she could block Lindsay there."

"Did Nina tell Lindsay that she didn't want to --"

"Yes, of course she did," said Maggie, "but that's the point, isn't it? You can be really awful in a really nice way, you know? It's like -- it's like how Crowley is really mean sometimes, but he's kind."

"But he --" Muriel considered this. "He is very grumpy."

"He's grumpy and grumbly and the most dramatic thing on two legs," said Maggie, "but when it comes down to it he's good, he just doesn't like to hear it. Lindsay isn't... I mean, I don't know Lindsay. I've known... a lot of Lindsays, a lot of people like that, I'm not saying Lindsay is evil, but someone who's politely, nicely trying to get a hold of their ex who they said the most awful things to, and who's so persistent that Nina had to sign back into LiveJournal to block them, which -- well, apparently we were on very different parts of LiveJournal, which is definitely for the best, but I feel so awful for her, I made a joke about MySpace and Nina said 'Yeah, already had to do that one,' and can you imagine -- well, actually, no, I suppose that doesn't mean much to you, but trust me, it's horrifying and also a completely ridiculous thing to have to worry about unless your ex is Tom. Anyway. Look. My point is, you can't just look at how people say things and assume nice means good. Sometimes it just means they don't want you to look too closely at what they're doing."

"Well. I suppose it's a good thing I don't really drink things," said Muriel, "because this human, this Lindsay, wanted to buy me a drink -- which I did think was odd, usually humans buy things for themselves, don't they? -- but who knows what sort of poison might've been in it."

This had prompted a brief moment of stunned silence, and then, after several more questions, Maggie had explained, awkwardly and with much apparent embarrassment, about certain human courting rituals, pronounced Lindsay "incredibly tacky," and then come up with several other descriptors Muriel didn't quite understand, but they were clearly very bad.

At any rate, Muriel had avoided Lindsay at future karaoke nights, and when Lindsay tried to confront them about the note, a small, fierce fire had burned in Muriel's soul and they had reached into Lindsay's head and switched off the ability to persist in this awful behavior, and now Lindsay would go get a nice calming glass of water and drink it instead of trying to contact Nina ever again.

(They related all this to Arariel over the summoning circle; they'd taken to calling Arariel whenever something interesting and Earth-y happened, because Arariel had seemed so bored, and been so helpful, and they understood being bored and wanting to be helpful. Arariel had appreciated the thing with the water, too. "Hydration is supposed to be good for humans!" they'd said. "So I think that counts as a good deed on two levels. What does water taste like, anyway?" And that had been a whole conversation, but they'd also admitted, uncomfortably, that sometimes they'd had supervisors act like Lindsay -- all nice on the surface but actually very unkind -- and Muriel had to admit that angelic behavior wasn't as different from human behavior as they maybe liked to think.)

And so, their time on Earth had prepared Muriel well for the unexpected challenges ahead.

The challenges ahead, as it turned out, were embodied in two angels called Pahadron and Kabniel, who showed up out of nowhere at the bookshop one day. Crowley was out doing... something -- Muriel did not know whether he was actually gluing coins to the ground or whether that was an obscure joke -- but they sensed something holy approaching, and they barely had time to turn off the record player before the doors swung open and the two other angels were there. They were familiar with Kabniel, who had been one of their supervisors in Heaven, but he'd had to introduce Pahadron, who they only knew from the company directory.

Kabniel had started off well enough, praising Muriel's excellent work, their quick adaptation to fieldwork, the way the shop looked tidier now that all the books were sorted by the first letter of every sentence. They did not get the impression he approved of the plants, but he didn't say anything about them.

And then Pahadron had said, "Yes, of course, Muriel is doing an excellent job, but what we really need back is the saint's relic."

Muriel, who was still thinking uneasily about why they'd felt they had to turn off the record player, when really there wasn't anything objectionable about the song that had been playing, except that it always made Muriel very sad, because after all Iron Man had time traveled to the future to save everyone, surely he didn't deserve such rejection from humanity! Only of course the answer was never to become the monster you had set out to defeat. But if Muriel had been there for him, things would have been different.

Anyway, something made them very sure that Kabniel wouldn't have understood that, and for all that they had just met her, Pahadron definitely wouldn't understand that. Pahadron smiled at Muriel. "I do hope you didn't throw it out. It's very valuable."

"Oh, Muriel's very conscientious, they wouldn't just throw something out like that," said Kabniel.

They had not. They had put it in a little plastic bag like detectives sometimes did on television, and labeled it clearly. The note that had come with the candle, the wax, and the little glass container were also all sealed away in separate bags. They had wanted to keep them on hand as Evidence. At first, digging through the file cabinet, they'd looked under B for bone, but then they remembered that it was actually filed under K for knucklebone, and their mind whirled. Pahadron had said it was what we really need back.

What they really needed back was something they had, presumably, already had at one time. Perhaps Hell had stolen the relic from them? It was best to keep an open mind, no matter what Crowley muttered under his breath about Heaven.

They did not panic; it hadn't helped them to escape John Dee's mirror, after all, just brought it perilously close to shattering. (Contrary to popular opinion, it was much harder to escape a shattered mirror than a whole one, because each shard was yet another mirror to escape.) They were cautious; they tried to look at all sides of the problem before proceeding. They planned their route well. And they were prepared for a betrayal. "Sorry," they said, having found the bone after all, "could you just clarify which saint's relic? I wouldn't want to give you the wrong one." Not that they had another one to give, but theoretically Kabniel and Pahadron might've come here by mistake.

"The one from the candle," said Kabniel, a smile masking what Muriel knew to be mild irritation.

"Oh! The housewarming gift?" Muriel asked. Just to be certain.

"It is a charming human tradition," Pahadron informed them. Pahadron did not seem terribly charmed.

"Did you send it on behalf of the Supreme Archangel?" Muriel asked. Because the note had been signed in his name. "That was very kind of you." Because it had, probably. They probably thought they'd been doing the right thing, going behind the Supreme Archangel's back and doing something to drive away a demon they thought Muriel couldn't handle and wouldn't get on with.

"Oh, yes," said Pahadron. "And, if you don't mind -- I'm told you have great attention to detail, Muriel -- how long do you think it took to kill the demon?"

To kill the demon.

Muriel smiled. They did not panic, they were cautious, they planned. They planned for betrayal. No, they thought, as that small fierce fire in their soul lit once more; they planned a betrayal. "It took quite a while, actually," said Muriel, in fact he still hasn't died from it, "but as you can see, he's not here anymore." They hoped Crowley had a lot of coins and a lot of glue and a lot of ground to cover. They paused. "Before you take it, though, I would like you both to sign a proof of receipt for me. Just in case."

"What proof do you need? We're here, we'll receive it, and that's the end of that," said Pahadron, frowning.

"Yes, but we must do things correctly," said Muriel. "We mustn't do them incorrectly, at least."

"They're not wrong," said Kabniel. "Got to have all your T's crossed and your I's --"

"Open?" Pahadron asked.

"Dotted," said Kabniel, perplexed.

"Ah. Of course." Pahadron also seemed perplexed.

Muriel was not perplexed. Muriel was mentally piecing the boilerplate they needed together before sending it all to Aziraphale's printer. "Just a moment, I'll get you the forms," they said. They kept the saint's relic in their pocket so Kabniel and Pahadron couldn't make off with it if either of them turned out to be cleverer than they thought Muriel was.

They came back, forms and carbon paper in hand.

"Now, I need you each to sign here, here, and here," they said, "and initial here, and then here, you have to copy this sentence down on the line below. The full sentence."

Pahadron pursed her lips. "I, Name, declare by my own hand that I personally received the saint's relic which I caused to be sent to Angelic Embassy X, also called A. Z. Fell & Co, on or about -- hang on, what does it mean, 'I, Name'?"

"You're supposed to write your name," said Kabniel. "I, Kabniel, not I, Name."

"My name's not Kabniel," said Pahadron, irritably, "that's your name."

"I know that," said Kabniel, "but -- look, just --" He took the pen and wrote out the sentence himself, then gave the pen to Pahadron and dictated the sentence to her.

"Wonderful!" said Muriel. "But you do have to do all the other signing, and the initials, and..." They waited while the two angels signed and initialed and dated things.

"Is that it?" Pahadron demanded. Her politeness was wearing thin.

"Almost!" said Muriel. "At the very bottom here, could you write Sphinx of black quartz, judge my vow?"

This took both Pahadron and Kabniel by surprise, but they had a very good explanation ready, one that had worked on several angels in the past. "It's a human thing," they said. "It's weird, isn't it?"

"Sounds a bit idolatrous," said Pahadron, disapprovingly.

"Oh, no, no, don't worry," said Muriel. "No, the sphinx of black quartz isn't being worshiped. It's just a very good judge of vows. Humans are weird," they reiterated. Mostly they wanted to see if either of the two angels wrote their y's the same way the person who wrote the note had. Aziraphale didn't, but somebody clearly did, and they wanted to get as many handwritten y's as possible on the form, but they felt like a sample of all the other letters would be a good idea too.

Grumbling at the weirdness of humans, Pahadron and Kabniel dutifully wrote out their pleas to the sphynx of black quartz. Muriel handed over the saint's relic, and kept the signed form. They did not offer to make copies, although they would have if Kabniel had thought to ask for them. They had what they needed.

After a quick telephone call warning Crowley to avoid the two angels, they contacted Heaven to make an appointment with the Supreme Archangel. This time around it wasn't urgent, and they could be very, very patient as they waited.

#whumptober2023 #no.19 #psychological #I'm not as stupid as you think I am #lyric #good omens #fic #emotional abuse cw #stalking cw #muriel good omens #anthony j crowley #nina good omens #maggie good omens #text #fiction #kaesa op

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bread-tab · 1 year

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ooof

going through papers looking for a misplaced piece of paperwork and found a note from after one of my last sessions with my crappy therapist

"[Therapist] not the type to be harsh w/o good reason so I'd better sit up & listen even if it felt mean. It shows faith in me that she would be brutally honest w/ me even though she knows I'm sensitive as hell - She believed I could take it."

actually no, bro! if your therapist makes you feel like this that is a RED FLAG 🚩

seriously if you're in therapy and the vibe gets this bad there needs to be major work done to repair the relationship and if you feel like you can't safely bring it up then get out of there. get a different therapist. this is NOT how therapy is supposed to go. there has to be TRUST before you can get anything actually done

the "harsh" talk was in reference to me being repeatedly late, a problem rooted in my adhd and anxiety, which was interfering with everything in my life including getting to therapy. in some strange coincidence, after i stopped going to my therapy appointments i started slowly getting better about that! almost as if the way she was addressing the problem was making my anxiety worse!

even if you are partially at fault in a situation like this, there are healing ways to address issues and set boundaries. someone you are going to for help should not be tearing you down further. therapists are trained to be actively not shitty about things like this even if they're frustrated

i can't believe i put up with this person for nearly a year 😠

#malpractice cw #medical abuse cw #emotional abuse cw #bad therapy #<- going heavier on the trigger tags than i actually feel which yeah...#still processing some things #can you tell i have issues with noticing i'm being treated unfairly #it took years of work from my previous (good) therapist to get me to admit it was okay to be sensitive at all #and i'm not letting that go to waste #swearing cw

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egotisticalmachine · 7 months

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one of my least favorite defense mechanisms of my NPD is the fact that i really struggle to care sometimes when other people are struggling a lot with things like depression and self loathing. and i KNOW its a defense mechanism, because of specific trauma that ive faced, and i know that its effective for me BECAUSE of that trauma. most of the time if i see someone talk about problems like that, i internally feel annoyed, but if i feel obligated to offer help then i will. its just that my help will be very objective, mentally running down the list of coping skills i can share, calculated shows of sympathy. even with people im close to, its difficult to not feel irritated sometimes, as if thats my brains defense against feeling what theyre feeling. but i still care about them in the ways im able to care, so i still try to help. once it gets to a point that theyre in danger though, i start panicking.

i know its largely because ive been in situations where i was made to be responsible for handling other peoples suicidal urges, and so now i prickle at situations that seem like they could be repeats. i think maybe that trauma is part of why my empathy is as low as it is. but then i also think that part of why i struggle with being annoyed at peoples distress is because like... i see part of my past self in them, and i think i get frustrated at the fact that they havent learned yet how to get their needs met more effectively, like ive had to learn. and it feels gross to admit that! i know that my own methods of meeting my needs for comfort arent exactly the healthiest either, and sometimes they just involve hiding my distress from people so that i dont push them away. if i hide my bigger emotions and avoid asking for comfort for those, then i run less of a risk of scaring people off, and i can still rely on them for other forms of connection. and i think im bitter about the fact that i cant feel safe just asking for comfort, that ive learned that thats not a reliable way to actually get comfort, that i have to dance around things and hope that my friends offer me comfort themselves - and so internally i direct that bitterness at people who DO try getting comfort that way, without me even wanting to be bitter toward them, it just subconsciously happens. i get frustrated that they havent learned the same lessons i have. or i get frustrated that their begging for comfort works for them and not me. or, circling back to the first point, i get frustrated because they remind me of people who guilt tripped me into handling their problems and then still refused to let me actually help them. i was repeatedly expected to talk people through crises when i was a teenager and it was always like a fight, where they refused to accept my help, they refused to believe my reassurance, they refused to try my advice, but it was still somehow made out to be my fault that they were suffering. so now i get reminded of that and i get irritated. especially if the person in distress is actually being guilt trippy, it takes a lot of effort to recognize that they probably just dont know how to express themself in a healthy way and are still probably in actual emotional pain.

it all pairs pretty uhhh. interestingly? with the way i use helping people as a way to regulate my own ego. i take a lot of pride in my ability to comfort people, to be gentle with them and offer my wisdom, but in order to actually get that feeling of accomplishment i have to push through my own irritation. its at least less of a problem with people im emotionally closer to, even if that annoyance is still mixed in somewhere with the care i feel for them. its just, i have to mask so much in order to help people, and i build this reputation of being kind and caring and gentle, but behind all my heartfelt advice and careful behavior choices, theres this lingering seething frustration. this sense of superiority even, that i dont go crying the way they do, that im better at handling my emotions, that ive learned how not to push my problems onto others, that i only let a little bit of my distress slip through the cracks, just enough to maximise my needs being met. its awful. i hate it. i want to care about people more deeply than i do but i know that there are reasons i cant seem to do so. i know this is a maladaptive safety measure but i dont know how to turn it off, or if it would even be worth turning off, with the bullshit that turned it on in the first place. i just want to care the way regular people care.

#vent #suicide cw #abuse cw #emotional abuse cw

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amethystsoda · 10 months

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thank goodness for concert tickets I already had so I don’t have to go on my parents’ road trip to see a megachurch pastor preach about prosperity again

#they made me go during the PANDEMIC #i was legit so scared i was gonna get covid #and there was a time they all started speaking in tongues and i just took it in #as someone who sees the cult for what it is #and not the little kid crying as her parent forced her to learn the secret language and wouldn’t let her out of the bathroom until she did #and was sobbing and just pretended so she could be free 😭#cult cw #emotional abuse cw #amethyst rambles

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revvnant · 5 months

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❝ do you ever say ‘thank you’? ❞

His fingers crunch in the stiff material of their armchair, and he thinks, not for the first time, I'm going to fucking kill him. He checks that impulse with a swallow. It's like gulping down a golf ball. It tries to bob back up and he clenches his jaw impatiently, seizes it in both hands, and shoves it down, down, into the pit of his stomach, then stomps on it until it stops wiggling. By that point, a full minute has passed with Michael staring at the coffee table, shaking and white-faced with fury. He whistles out the breath he was holding, and feels a bit better.

Why was it always gratitude with this man? He had everything over Michael -- age, reputation, wealth -- yet he wanted this too. Couldn't seem to get enough of it! And Michael, to hear him tell it, always came up lacking, just like he did in every other department. Not for lack of trying! Nothing ever was, with him. It was just that it was impossible. He'd tried every possible measure of thanks, diluting it, heaping it on, making it subtle, giving it in public. Too much, and William scoffed and brushed it off, either told him he didn't need thanks for doing what fathers were supposed to do, or that Michael was embarrassing him, or that he seemed disingenuous, whatever. Too little, and William was up his ass like now, asking why Michael didn't care, why he took everything for granted, if he should just have it back then, if he would ever stop taking. That cut the deepest, every time. More often than not, it was for something Michael hadn't asked for. A gift he didn't smile just right at, or something he outright hadn't wanted. Like this.

The truth of the matter, he's come to understand, is that there is no right amount. There is only selfish expectation or empty flattery, in whichever direction William pleases that day. It has nothing at all to do with Michael. Knowing that should make this easier. It does not. He goes for old reliable, not having used it in months, hoping it will work again. "I did say thank you, did you not hear me?"

#slaughterlocked #v2. all is well in the afton family!#abuse cw #emotional abuse cw

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fictionkinfessions · 1 year

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(Warning: this post contains mentions of homophobia, transphobia, bullying, and emotional neglect, as well as general issues with ahistoricism and cultural ignorance within the fictionkin community. Also, this only applies to sources that are meant to take place in a relatively realistic setting or are based on a real-world reigon/time period! If that's not you, feel free to ignore this.)

Hm... I was scrolling around and saw an ask from a really long time ago, and it made me want to say something.

Obviously I'm okay with people using whatever labels and pronouns they want for their kins! It's their kintype, so it's their business, sure, fine, all cool with me. However, even if you do remember being LGBTQ+, you have to take the time period and location into account.

For example, hello, I'm Kennith. I was born in 1969 in an average suburban town in Michigan. Nowadays, in this life, I'd say that I was demigreyromantic, gay, genderfluid, transmasc, and generally gnc, and I would've used he/they pronouns.

However, back when I was still alive as a teenager in the 80s, I knew the word gay and... yeah, that really was about it. If you had asked me then, I would've described the rest of that stuff as "I'm not really that much of a romance guy" and "I'm a guy who was born as a girl and hated it, but I still don't mind looking like a girl sometimes", and I used strictly he/him back then since "I'm a guy and that's what you call guys", because again, I was a teenager in the 80s, and I had no idea any of this stuff was even an option.

And, quick reminder, this is a relatively modern time frame, and it's in the United States. You may have all of these really cool microlabels and neopronouns to describe yourself now, and there's nothing wrong with that! It's never too late to discover who you truly are/were. However, you have to realize that you sure as hell weren't using those labels as, say, a member of ancient Japanese royalty. In terms of both the time frame and the language itself, that's just not how that would've worked.

Also, not to get overly negative, but chances are, if you are from sometime back in the day, even if it's as relatively recent as I was, people would most likely have not been accepting of you. I know people weren't accepting of me. I was bullied ruthlessly in school by nearly everyone for being gay and presenting myself femininely despite being transmasc. "Pretty Boy" was actually the tamest of the awful names they would call me, and it didn't even stop at insults. They would deliberately misgender and deadname me at every opportunity, bump me into walls and shit like that, and I even remember them beating me up a few times. My teachers and counselor did absolute jack-shit, and basically told me that I deserved it since I was so "different" (which is the word they used instead of calling me slurs! fun!). My parents were never much help either since A: I wasn't out to them, and B: they never gave a shit about literally anything else. The only people who respected me at all during that time were Stephanie and Greg, but I was barely able to see Greg outside of the gas station he worked at, and I've already gone into what ended up happening with fucking Stephanie... ugh.

Anyways, once again I say, this was in the United States in the 1980s. If people didn't accept me there and then, the chances of people accepting you for who you in another place and/or an earlier time are next to nothing. I'm sorry, it fucking sucks that it had to be that way, but it's true. I'm obviously not saying that you're not valid if you did have people who accepted you, I'm just saying that it's highly unlikely, given historical context.

I'm sorry for ranting once again, and I'm sorry if I said anything hurtful. The last thing I want to do is invalidate anyone. This is just something to consider, I guess... Ah well, who am I to tell you guys what you can and can't do? If I was still alive I'd be like 54 years old. Old Man Yells at Cloud.

-Kennith Simmons

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mctives · 5 months

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headcanon // billy

. they knew each other from the beginning, since woodsboro is pretty insular, but didn't interact much until middle school. stu's only real friend at the time was randy, so when billy started hanging out with him, he immediately became attached.

. stu always thought of billy as someone a lot better than he is; cooler, smarter, better-looking etc. he has this intense drive to prove himself 'worthy' of billy's attention, constantly trying to find ways to impress him. in fact, he was originally a grade ahead of billy, and part of why he was held back in 7th grade is billy dared him to pull the fire alarm and evacuate the school near the end of the year. this led to a suspension and stu's grades plummeting. he never told anyone he'd done it because of billy; he didn't want his parents to stop letting billy come over.

. in high school, with subtle coaxing from billy, stu improved his popularity by using his parents' big house and tendency to leave for days at a time to host parties. still, billy would remind him that most of the "friends" who came over didn't particularly like stu, but it was his house and he had beer, so that was generally enough. it was during this time that stu started to develop intense jealousy of the girls billy spent time with, even though his parties facilitated billy's romantic life.

. billy controlled stu mostly by giving or withholding attention. there would be days when billy would spend whole days with stu, sprinkling in plenty of approval and praise (though rarely directly). then, there were other days when he'd barely acknowledge stu was alive and would be sure to humiliate him at every opportunity. he didn't have to tell stu to do anything; he could just insinuate that he wanted something to happen, and stu would do it in the hopes of getting nice billy again.

. they started talking about carrying out the perfect murders early on. it was like a game for them. one of them would tell the other their plan, and the other would try to poke holes in that plan, and they'd start over again until their plan was airtight. sometimes, days later, they'd think of something else wrong with the plan and they'd ditch it try again. some of the plans were for killing someone specific, some were more general mass killings. eventually, billy focused in on maureen prescott. stu had no idea why, but billy claimed that no one would miss her because everyone knew she was a slut, and that they had the perfect scapegoat to take the fall so no one would even be looking for them.

. billy was the one who took point on killing maureen, but he made sure that stu stabbed her too (even though she was already dying), so he could take part in it and they had something that tied the two of them together. from stu's perspective, it meant that he had something with billy that no one else would ever have, and it gave him a thrill that he'd be chasing right until the end.

. once casey broke up with stu, stu had a lot of anger and resentment toward both casey and steve, and he began coming up with plans to murder them and get away with it, even though they'd previously dropped their "game" after killing maureen. stu never specifically planned to go through with these murders, but as they continued talking about it, and other murders they could get away with by framing themselves as neil prescott's victims, the more it felt inevitable.

. billy knew that stu liked tatum, and didn't really want her dead, but he convinced him that tatum had to be one of the victims, and set up the plan so that stu would be the one who send her to her death--but didn't trust that he'd actually be able to kill her if it came to that. billy would tell stu that they were going to kill sidney too, so it made sense that they had to kill tatum.

#rel // billy loomis #// headcanon #murder cw #misogyny cw #emotional abuse cw

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