Summary: Based on the prompt: “I have a key to the theatre, and sometimes I go there when I need to think. Apparently so do you.”
Words: 5,296 (ren and i are just…yeah)
A/N: From Ren (@alexanderhamllton) - Guys, it happened!!! Here’s my first collab with Liv, which I’m so so excited about, we wrote the whole thing in one afternoon and I couldn’t be more proud of the result. I hope you guys enjoy it as much as I do <3
From Liv - I am still dizzy from how much I enjoyed writing this. I finally had the honour of collaborating with Ren (aka real human sunshine) and it was so much more than I could have ever hoped for. Honestly, it is amazing. Happy reading!
There is something very beautiful about a
theatre without an audience. It is filled to the brim with potential, all these
seats just waiting to be filled, an empty stage that could become an entirely
different universe. The lights are dimmed down, and from inside a deserted
Richard Rodgers, it is as if the entire world has stopped spinning.
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.
The cruelest part of his imprisonment was that he was not restrained.
He could roam his own home freely, Grindelwald didn’t live there, and as such he could destroy it as his temper lashed out, as his desperation grew, and Grindelwald could come in, gleefully surveying the physical evidence of his prisoner’s frustration, the destruction wrought upon Percival Graves’ expensive flat and all the personal items therein.
Belle lay in the dark for a long time, her hands behind her head, listening for the smallest sound that might mean he had gotten home safely. Eventually she fell asleep, but she woke often, and at some time after four she heard his key in the door and the sound of his feet on the stairs. She felt herself relax a little; he was home, at least. The shower started to run, a faint hissing sound of water, and she turned onto her side and tried to settle back into sleep. Images came to her unbidden, formed from her own memories of his mouth and hands on her, but with some faceless woman in her place, and she wrapped her arms around herself, squeezing her eyes shut as though that would make the visions fade.
She slept poorly, waking up with a start at seven-ten, and dragged herself out of bed to make much-needed coffee. There was silence from Gold’s room, but she assumed that he had class that day, so if he didn’t get up in half an hour or so she would have to wake him. How the man coped on three hours sleep a night was beyond her; she already felt as though she’d been hit by a train and she had the option of going back to bed when he left the house.
He must have set himself an alarm, she thought, because he padded downstairs already dressed as the clock ticked towards seven forty-five. He looked tired, his eyes shadowed and his cheeks hollow, but he returned Belle’s smile of greeting.
Summary: His tongue was cruel in more ways than one.
Notes: This was inspired by a very NSFW sketch that appeared on my dash. It is also DO-era filth, which means it is incredibly sad. So be aware going into this, it’s probably the darkest thing I have written or will write. Thanks to the bae, @abbadons-little-witch! Also tagging @captainwiley, by request. xo Also on Ao3, as always.
I have lost myself in the sea many times with my ear full of freshly cut flowers, with my tongue full of love and agony. – Federico García Lorca
+ He surrenders in an unknowable moment between her thighs; but he won’t realize he’s lost until it’s too late, the strange, salty taste of her an intimate, uncanny premonition of the blood in his mouth.
“I knew,” she’ll whisper days, weeks, months later, their skin warm and damp in the light of a grey, early dawn, “I knew.”
From a practical standpoint though, there are some ships where you have to consider the context of those characters: in Overwatch, Mercy is a medic. She may have some sort of combat training so that she can defend herself out in the field or something (I don’t read the SUPER DEEP OW lore, I just figure this from gameplay alone)
Pharah is an Egyptian Soldier that has served with distinction??? She wears jetpack armor that shoots rockets like, of course she’s gonna be portrayed as buff as hell. It’s not always about making peoples’ white favs look like delicate waifs, especially when you have to consider WHICH ARTISTS are drawing the ships.
Not to mention that you also have to add that Overwatch (even though every woman still is conventionally hourglass shaped) STILL has diverse body types. It’s not like Pharah is being portrayed as unrealistically buff for a POC especially when you have a character like Zarya (who is white) in the mix.
Get back to me if you see earnest fanart of a character like Symmetra being buff while she’s being shipped with Widowmaker or something.
REQUEST! Another hunter makes a few rude comments, which leads Dean to learn more about you and make a few confessions of his own…
**reblog from my old site**
Dean x (curvy) Reader
The hunt had gone well. Really well. Better than had been expected. Which was why you were currently in this shitty bar with the Winchesters, drinking whiskey and trying to one-up each other with stories of monster hunting. So far you were losing, big time, because, lets face it, you hadn’t taken on Lucifer, been to hell, lost your soul, or have Crowley on speed dial. But you were having fun, which was something.
You’d met the Winchesters a few months ago, when a Rusalka case had led them out west to Los Angeles. You had been working some cases out there by night and moonlighting as a plus-size model by day, taking the work you could get. You were surprised how much you enjoyed it- but getting dolled up for photos was a hell of a lot easier and safer than hustling pool or committing credit card fraud, those two hunter staples. You’d caught wind of the Rusalka case as well, you’d all run into each other, and you’d sorta saved their asses because it turns out, Rusalkas don’t really have much interest in drowning women, just men. It had been very handy that you knew CPR or both brothers would be dead. Since then, you’d worked some cases together, and the last month you’d found yourself tooling around the country with them in their big black car.
Okay I’m just going to make it clear from the get-go that I’m going to be disregarding a lot of game canon in this post, particularly the stuff from Black and White 2. I didn’t much like the expansion they did on N in those games and take a difference stance on his and Ghetsis’ relationship. So. Here we go.
N is Ghetsis’ biological son (because how could he not be, let’s be honest? They look the same) and was born to a long bloodline of vaguely royal ancestry. The Plasma cult was established long before N was born, and his future as its king predetermined before he was even conceived. However, despite his place in a grander scheme, Ghetsis genuinely loved his son at first. He told him, constantly, that he was destined for greatness. He wanted him to succeed, to stand by his side and help him turn Plasma’s dreams into a reality.
It was a difficult birth. The Plasma cult was ancient and weighed down by tradition, so N’s mother was denied any form of pain relief, let alone the assistance of a medical professional. She made it through, but only just, and her general health grew worse in the following months as a consequence. She had always been a frail woman, but she was dedicated to her husband and his practices, and so proud to have borne him a son.
Initially, N went by the name Neyiri. He was a curious child, bright and social, revered and adored by all in Plasma. Even at a young age, he was encouraged to play in the gardens surrounding the castle, which were populated by both wild and abused pokémon, brought there to escape the ruling of humans. N would wander the vast, woody forests and plains for hours at a time - accompanied, at first, by Concordia or Anthea or some other dedicated nursemaid. As time wore on, however, they felt able to trust the pokémon in the gardens, who treated N as one of them, to keep him safe on his expeditions. They kept as watchful an eye on him as any human, and certainly knew the dangers of the grounds better.
And that was how N, barely older than three years old, found himself padding through the woods unaccompanied, with only wild Pokémon to supervise him. He had long since formed a close friendship with a zorua, which was barely older than him and pined whenever he went away, and it liked to follow him around, unwaveringly, as he explored the gardens. There were others, of course - a darmanitan, a liepard, an unfezant - that looked in on him and checked that he had come to no harm, but the zorua was his true companion. It never left his side.
And it was this zorua that saw N die.
It happened suddenly, one lazy afternoon in July, the sun still high in the sky. N, about three and a half at the time, discovered a gentle stream in the middle of the woods, and set about to shedding his shoes and playing in it. The zorua joined him, darting in and out of the current, trying to jump across the water without falling in. It was only when N tried to copy it, leaping back and forth over the stream, calling for the zorua to watch, that he slipped on the grass and hit his head.
The zorua froze. It barked at the boy, patted him, tried to get him to wake. When he wouldn’t, the zorua panicked, and did the only thing it could think of.
It cast an illusion over itself, and turned into the boy that it had just watched die.
It took hours for the zorua-N to find its way back to the castle, so long that Concordia and Anthea were ready to venture out and search for him. He was eventually discovered in one of the castle halls, standing limply, blood all over him and completely silent.
The place fell into panic. They steered N aside, scooped him up, asked and asked and asked him how he had hurt himself, who had hurt him, where he had been hurt, but he wouldn’t - couldn’t, as a young zorua - reply. It wasn’t until they washed the blood away entirely that they noticed he was unscathed.
He wasn’t like the real N. He couldn’t be. A young zorua has no idea how to be human. He couldn’t speak, turned his nose up at human food, lost all of his curiosity and social flair. It grew so concerning that regulation was broken, and an outsider was invited into the castle. A doctor.
The doctor explained that N was likely to have undergone a trauma. Not a physical one, as the blood hadn’t come from him, but something so psychologically unnerving that his mind had gone into shock. It wasn’t uncommon, he explained, to stop speaking in response to distress, nor to abandon your usual habits and seem completely disconnected from the real world. But until N started to process what he had experienced, or regain his speech to tell them about it, there wasn’t much they could do.
Concordia and Anthea accepted this explanation. So did N’s mother. But Ghetsis couldn’t. The more time passed, the more time he spent around N, the more convinced he became that this child, so silent and distant, was not his real son.
How he knew, it was anyone’s guess. But he couldn’t force himself to believe otherwise, and nor could anybody else. He grew resentful to N, accusing, would no longer call him Neyiri - not that name, not his son’s name. His wife pleaded with him, but she was growing weaker with the stress, and she knew she wasn’t long for the world. She died less than a year after her son, before making Concordia and Anthea promise to look after N, and to protect him from Ghetsis to the best of their ability.
They did their best, but the death of his wife only made Ghetsis worse. N became a pawn to him, something that he would use but not acknowledge. Even when N started to pick up speech, using broken sentences and mismatched grammar, Ghetsis did not relent. Upon listening to the boy’s stilted grammar, strange vocabulary, odd speech tempo, his suspicions were only cemented further in his mind - his son had never talked like that, never used those words.
So N was neglected, confined, controlled. Manipulated into believing exactly what Ghetsis needed him to believe, and tricked into thinking that he was the true leader of Plasma. Ghetsis couldn’t let this changeling take his son’s place as king, but he could use him to gain the power for himself. N was still the beautiful, innocent waif that people liked and listened to, the perfect public figurehead. If he wanted to pretend to be Neyiri, Ghetsis would pretend to make him team Plasma’s king, and take the power for himself once N’s work was done. In his mind, it was a fair exchange. It was revenge.
Somewhere along the line, N would have forgotten that he was a zorua at all, and convinced himself that he really was the boy he once befriended. That is why reshiram would present itself to him. To help him uncover the truth about what he was, and show him that the boundaries between humanity and pokémon are not, truly, black and white. He is the proof of that.
I was talking to my friend Pani a bit ago and we were talking about PDA and Jim’s take on it. Because the Jim in Uni was completely different than the Jim now and the Jim in between… well… it was complicated. I told her the following story and she sent me this wonderful picture. It’s just what I always imagined we looked like at that moment. So, Jim and I sat down, wrote up our versions of the story, put it together and … here we are. Hope you enjoy it!
Thanks again my dear Pani…
(the story can also be found here for ease of reading
32: “Just kiss me, you idiot.” (happy birthday!!! I accidentally made this too long yikes)
They’re tramping through the tall grass along the fence of Ronan’s property, Ronan wielding a stick as if it were a machete and the grass was thick jungle. Gansey is terribly charmed by this, and by the way the Barns doesn’t actually seem to have a definable edge, just a fence and then more Barns beyond it — or the same Barns? It’s strange, but it almost looks like a mirror image.
It’s not the first time Gansey’s been invited to a friend’s extravagant home and been made to feel impressed, but it’s the first time he’s been to the Lynch’s. It feels hard earned, like he’s built up a rapport with a distrustful dog rather than purchased an expensive steak to distract it. Not that Ronan is a dog, or anything short of a prince, really, here in his domain; tufts of creatures and jewels of barns spread out on rolling fields like an overturned jewellery box.
“I wish you could have met my dad today,” Ronan’s saying, and his stick swishing gets a bit more aggressive.
“Well when does he get home?” Gansey asks, casting an eye back at the outline of the house against a dewy afternoon sky.
“Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the next time the moon’s full. Maybe only at the strike of midnight on the twelfth day of the month.”
An extraordinarily enigmatic answer that Gansey can do little with. “He travels?” he asks weakly. Ronan laughs.
“Yeah Dick. He travels. He likes to surprise us.” He hits the fence with his stick, and Gansey frowns when the white paint turns blue at the point of impact.
The thing is, a lot of people have tried to impress Gansey, and a lot of people have walked away satisfied that they have done so. He’s never had such a condensed feeling of curiosity about a singular person who isn’t Glendower. He’s never wanted so badly to keep his awe concealed, to see what else Ronan Lynch can do.
Ronan seems to be able to tell anyway, and he smirks at Gansey. Then his eyes drop somewhere below Gansey’s gaze. And then they slide sideways, and his mouth twitches up, shark-like. A shark in training.
“Mom’s calling,” he says, and Gansey spins to see her, a honey blonde waif like a maiden from a renaissance painting, the sun plying her hair with golden kisses.
She’s waving one hand and holding the door open, and the whole thing feels like a dream come to life or a farm house from a movie, a hero called in to a gritty made-from-scratch supper. Like in the movie though, there’s something sinister about the perfection of it, and from the look on Ronan’s face, he’s in on it.
They reach the main house and Aurora smiles curiously at them. She smiles with her whole body, somehow, like if Gansey could only see her eyebrow or the crook of her arm, he could still tell what expression she was making. “Did you boys get into mischief way out there?”
“Of course not,” Gansey answers at the same time that Ronan says “Oh yeah,” and laughs a little nastily. “Barns burnt down, no little brother is safe.”
“Ronan,” Aurora scolds gently. “You know Matthew would follow you anywhere.”
“Yeah, mom, that’s why it was a joke.” He rolls his eyes at Gansey conspiratorially. He grabs what looks like a pear from the branch of a coat rack before he walks off to the kitchen, and Gansey does a double take.
Aurora smiles warmly at him, and takes his elbow. “You must be hungry.”
Gansey’s eyes are still narrowly watching the coat rack. He feels himself smiling, one part automatic politeness, two parts thrill; the inexplicable magic of the Barns making him feel closer than ever to his quest. And just as importantly — closer than ever to Ronan.
He looks up, and Ronan’s watching him from the kitchen doorway. He recognizes the challenge in his face, and Gansey squares his shoulders. “Starving, thank you, Mrs Lynch,” he says, but then he reaches back and plucks a second pear from the rack. Ronan’s grin widens when Gansey bites into it.
“Come sit down, you idiot. You’ll spoil your appetite,” Ronan says, and just like that, Gansey’s in.
in celebration of today hahahaha god, the yoi fandom is wiLD. here is a little thing i’ve been playing with???? goodness, more AUs
title from the song. you know the one.
sorta pre-slash, spy au thing idk
These are the facts:
The coffeemaker in their breakroom has been there since Viktor was a tiny, waif-like thing;
It produces subpar coffee at best, and shitty tar at worst;
Yakov refuses to replace it mostly on principle, citing some bullshit about character building through awful coffee or somesuch; and
The beautiful, beautiful intelligence officer, Yuuri Katsuki, always visits it every Thursday afternoon to pour the last dregs of terrible coffee into his blue, poodle-print mug.
Viktor has his exact timing down to the very last nanosecond and has taken to skipping out on his daily sparring sessions with Yuri just to catch the man and engage him in a stilted conversation about the weather. He’s already grimacing into his mug when Yuuri appears, a vision swathed in a grey cable-knit sweater over a white button-up and a pair of maroon chinos.
Patroclus is nobody special. He is lanky, has knobbly knees and dark eyes too big for his almost waif-like face.
They call him Owl here and it is almost always a term of endearment.
He is not popular, hated by his father and pitied for his mother who stares at the barren walls of a mental hospital.
He is Patroclus Chironides, adoptive son of the doctor who is believed to have magic singing in his veins.
It is summer, the sun is blazing, with scorching fingers it caresses the ground and makes Patroclus’ limbs hot and heavy and tired.
And on this very day, on which the sun is most brutal, the school is hosting its annual athletics tournament.
People are buzzing around, several lie in the shade and talk to each other in loud, boisterous voices and from where Patroclus is sitting in the shade of an olive tree and handing out bottles of water, he can see the sudden flash of burnished gold dipped into sun-fire that is Achilles Pelides’ hair.
Achilles is everything that Patroclus is not. He is gentle fingers on a harp or a guitar where Patroclus stumbles like a deer on ice; he is swifter and more nimble than Patroclus has ever seen anyone move and he is walking right up to Patroclus, his usual gaggle of admirers watching them with interest.
Patroclus swallows and the water bottle nearly falls out of his hands, slippery with heat and nervousness.
He looks at the young man, whose sun-bronzed face looks as if carved by the masters and swallows again.
Eyes the colour of moss and the sea fixate onto Patroclus face like a hawk would fixate its prey and then Achilles opens perfectly arched, pink lips.
“You are Patroclus. And I have come to get a bottle of water.” he finally says after a silence that makes Patroclus’ fingers shake and his voice is a honeyed blade that wraps around Patroclus’ ears like an unsung melody.
“How…,” Patroclus’ voice stumbles as does his heart when their fingers touch. “How do you know my name?” he croaks, cursing his rapidly pattering heart that feels like a rampaging bunny.
“Your father knows mine.”, Achilles replies calmly, his face showing no emotion but something glints in the depths of his strange eyes. “Will you cheer for me today, Patroclus?” he asks, suddenly.
Patroclus falters and nearly says no because the boy… the young man sounds too sure of himself and he should be, he is the champion of all sports in this school.
But then he sees the foot nervously shuffling on the ground and nods.
“I will. And I will be the one to crown the victor in the end.” he explains.
Achilles nods and clutches the bottle of water like a lay-line, still watching Patroclus avidly as if Patroclus’ eyes hold all the secrets.
“I will not have you sacked for being partial.” he states as if he is king.
“We will see each other after the tournament.”
And with that he is off.
And Patroclus is left staring and almost mindlessly eating a fig he has packed from their own little garden at home.
The tournament begins and before Patroclus knows it, he is cheering with them, louder than he has ever dared.
Some watch him with interest, some with rage and some even grin and cheer with him.
Achilles wins every single game, scoring point after point and he his the last one on the field but Hector Priam, resident champion of the rival school Spartan High.
They will be racing each other.
The whole school is there and they are all shouting for Achilles and Patroclus finds himself joining them.
For one short moment green holds brown in a lockdown and something akin to a smile blooms on Achilles face and then they race.
Patroclus’ blood pounds in his veins. He can taste the excitement, can feel the almost electric buzzing of adrenaline in the air and in his very bones.
There is a distant roar.
Everybody is off their seats and cheering like mad.
Achilles has won and the school rejoices.
Patroclus steps down to crown the winner with a wreath of laurel on his golden hair.
Achilles kneels before him and their fingers and eyes meet.
“I have met you before.”, Patroclus whispers. “When the world was still young and there was war looming overhead.”
There is something in Achilles’ eyes.
The shadow of light, the shadow of a sword. The shadow of love.
I imagine Edmund doing most of the grave digging initially as I find it hard to imagine waif like Wilkinson doing the heavy lifting and labor... then again love does give you strength so who knows
Edmund…”takes breaks.” Alcohol breaks. They do work as a team, though. Somehow they’re a decent enough team to haul bodies around stealthily despite Edmund’s nonsense. Though neither of them are in superb physical condition, they both dig, lift, and transport together. Edmund is a bit more strong than Wilkinson’s scrawny butt, but Wilkinson might be stronger than he looks. He builds those coffins, after all. Also! When they body snatch, they don’t dig up the entire grave. They use the method where a hole is dug slightly above the head of the coffin and drag the corpse up. They burrow down and break open the coffin (Wilkinson’s handiwork…), tie a rope around the corpse’s neck, and carefully remove it. I’m pretty sure Wilkinson is the one that crawls down into the hole, because, well…Edmund’s going to get stuck. Actually, that would make for a great situation. That last paragraph was absolutely unnecessary, but now everyone knows.
THE COFFEE’S TERRIBLE, SCRAPES AGAINST HIS TONGUE and burns his palette; some vender stuck out here in the unabated sun, as miserable as Brian feels and hot, too hot. The sky is barren and blue; there’s not a cloud to mar it as far as the eye can see. The shoreline ruins the quiet; ocean beating on rocks; somewhere on a crag a sea-bird squawks as it devours the weakest of its young. He wrinkles his nose, furrows a bruised brow beneath which a headache skewers him; the coffee really is dirt. Doesn’t stop him drinking it.
The sun is unforgiving, swathes her shoulders in enough sweeping gold to burn her, though thus far she’s not scalded. She’s never in much; against his beaten leather jackets and faded checkered layers Jane is practically bare to blinding haze. She’s a step ahead, a half-step, and he watches that waif-like form sway and cavort as a shadow on the sand they border. Behind shaded lenses, Brian squints the last fractals of a hangover from ‘neath his eyelids.
‘ They’re just penguins, y’know? Waddlin’ and stinking of fish, shit like that. ’
They’ve parked the yellow merc as an ugly, unnatural smudge up on the ridge, walked their way down to avoid traffic, to avoid people. Boulders Beach is a sandy cove, stretches out along the eastern side of the Cape Penninsula: great sea-views, an occasional glimpse at a shark in the water if you’re lucky —— but it’s the penguins, little black, ploppy dots on the beach that pull people in. In the summer months it’s a’burst with tourists; children in hats and sunscreen with parents nudging exasperated at a stroller. He used to bring David here, with his chubby fingers clutched about an ice cream Brian could actually, almost afford at the time. Now the prodigal son only grabs at money and weed and insults. Brian decides they’ll go to a bar after this, cleanse his insides.
‘ They’ll bite off your fingers the closer y’get. ’
↛ @dokkstjarna┇ there’s no sc i just enjoy harassing you. ┇fingerguns
Quiet & loud, how it leaves out recovery and survivors
This is going to be a long piece on my own personal feelings as someone seeking to get better and as a survivor, so be prepared! Content warnings for mentions of abuse (emotional, mental, and sexual).
People want to change the terms quiet and loud borderline to other words that still give off the same good/bad connotation, without realizing that its more complex than people misusing terminology. The (easily misused and misunderstood)terminology of bpd and stigma of bpd are not mutually exclusive, they work in tandem. Part of the reason there is stigma is because of stigmatized & negative terminology when people talk about bpd. The reason so much of our terminology is stigmatized and negative is because they were created with those views in mind, much like the waif, witch, queen, and hermit - all of which are toxic and mostly sexist.
I fell into the quiet borderline type behaviour when I got diagnosed, I continue to fall into it at times, other times, I don’t. I never heard these terms or had them used against me until I stopped internalizing things and started actively pursuing autonomy, actively stating my boundaries, actively validating myself (all the things they want you to do to recover). To do these things, I had to express myself vocally, externally, outwards, I had to reach out.
Then and only then did I learn the terms and have “loud” borderline used against me. It’s important to realize that no two bpd sufferers will act the same, much like any other human being, but I don’t see why having two polar opposite terms that create an unhealthy dichotomy of good vs bad is necessary or progressive. It’s important to be able to understand that there is not one way to be borderline, that internal things are just as necessary and important as external things in regard to meeting criteria and reaching a diagnosis. Still, this system categorizes complex individuals into black and white groups, many of whom express traits and behaviours from both sides. It continually invalidates our actions and reactions as pathological, as something that needs to be grouped up and labelled for proof, instead of existing as valid emotions.
No matter how much we’d like to have terms to express the different ways our behaviour exhibits itself, time and time again, people are considered a “quiet” or “good” borderline until they are not(speaking up, establishing boundaries, validating their autonomy and emotions). Then they are being “loud” or “bad”. These terms are completely relative and up for judgement to the individual witnessing them.
They’re not regulated, they’re up to interpretation and personal(often abusive) bias, and it leaves no room for recovery. Recovery includes ceasing to internalize all your grief and symptoms, while learning to express yourself proactively and in a healthy manner. I will never stop being borderline but if I do recover(I have complicated feelings about that term as well) what will I be? Quiet because I will deal with some issues on my own? Or loud because I’m expressing myself externally?
I am incapable of existing in either side of a dichotomy, especially one defined by personal bias. I am a complex individual, a person seeking to get better, this holds no place for me.
Beyond this, much of my “loud” behaviour is intrinsically tied to me reclaiming my autonomy, my power, my respect, and my anger after being emotionally, mentally, and sexually abused. Almost all of my “rages” or “acting out” is me finally allowing myself to be mad about what he did to me instead of blaming myself, not allowing that experience to happen to me or anyone else, and giving consequences to people I interact with with do the same sort of predatory, toxic, and abusive behaviour my abuser did.
All of these actions society already punishes me for because I should be complicit and forgiving of abuse. I get punished further by being the non-ideal borderline, I should be seen, but not heard, I should be a quiet mess and never demand more from others - never demand respect or justice, never hold people accountable and give consequence. I refuse to be pushed into that mindset anymore.
Nevertheless, I still exhibit quiet behaviours far more often, I self hate, I internalize almost everything because I believe so strongly that I am a monster, that I am poison, that I am unlovable - all of these beliefs were enforced by my abuser.
It’s harmful and victim blaming to attribute my anger about my abuse, my rightful cathartic healing anger, as “rages”. It de-legitimizes my feelings, my experiences, it claims my reaction is hysterical and over-the-top, unnecessary. My anger is not a symptomatic “rage”, my anger is real and valid. Attributing that to rages and loud behaviour is unhelpful and hurtful, it removes my autonomy from my own experiences.
Having myself be almost congratulated by being quiet and harming myself sends me into a whirlwind of victim blaming. I need to hurt myself more or else I’ll end up like my abuser, if I don’t hurt myself the only other option would be to hurt others, that I need to internalize all my pain or else no one will like me, I feel the need to destroy myself to meet the trivial criteria of the quiet borderline - to be loved.
I can’t see a way for the quiet vs loud borderline dichotomy to exist without leaving me out in the cold as an abuse survivor seeking recovery, as someone who is loud and angry because of injustice, but quiet and self hating because of trauma.
Am I really the only person who looks at this man and worries about his wellbeing? Because everyone seems to be paying more attention to their own loins than the fact that this man here has basically wasted away over the past year. Even in comparison to his physical condition before he buffed up for Bully and Terminator, he is bordering on waif like. Don’t argue that he’s built lean. I know he’s naturally very slim but this is not his natural shape. His natural shape is slim but with muscle. There is nothing there. No muscle tone. His bones are easily distinguishable, even beneath clothes. He just does not look right.