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actual-changeling · 4 months

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It was actually rather hard to decide how to begin this meta post because there are essentially going to be two main parts: why Crowley does not actually avoid/run from his problems and why "going off" is not a bad thing regardless.

Then I wrote the first part and realised this is now 2.5k words long, so uhhhh I will grant part 2 its own post.

With that, welcome back to Alex's today-not-unhinged meta corner!

I am going to approach this topic from a psychological angle, which a lot of people have already done, but without explicitly mentioning it or going into depth. All my information comes from personal experience, research, my therapist, and my psychiatrist, just so you know I am not making shit up. I actually dug up some resources my therapist gave me a while ago.

Generally, there are four different fear/survival responses: fight, flight, freeze, and fawn. Most people have probably heard about fight and flight, since those two are usually the only ones that are mentioned/taught, so I will stick to explaining the other two.

"Fawning" refers to actively being submissive and subdued, both physically and emotionally. The goal is to appear non-threatening and to calm whoever is causing the fear response in the first place. It shows up as being overly agreeable, not having thoughts/opinions of your own and ignoring them if you do, your body language changing (e.g., making yourself smaller, taking up less space), and generally attempting to 'keep the peace' or reinstate it.

"Freezing" is pretty much exactly what it says on the tin—you freeze. It means slipping into a dissociative state, which disconnects you from your body, your emotions/mind, and/or the outside world. Usually, people stop being able to talk well or at all, they do not move, and if they do, it is on autopilot; you do not fight or flee, you simply exist until what is causing the fear response is over.

While dissociating, your brain is unable to form full memories—and depending on how heavily you are dissociating, it does not form any memories at all.

Freezing as a response happens when fight, flight, and fawn aren't possible anymore, e.g., a child who has no internal mechanisms to deal with large amounts of fear because it's a child, so the only way to escape the pain and aggressor is by fleeing into your mind and shutting down.

Why am I telling you all this? Because most people tend to have one or two survival responses that dominate/they usually fall back on, and the same goes for Aziraphale and Crowley.

When faced with an outside problem and a lot of stress, Aziraphale's first instinct is to fawn, to placate the person, to diffuse the situation, to make sure everyone is agreeing, or, at the very least, submitting to authority figures or aggressors. It is what heaven teaches them—stick to the rules, don't ask questions, do what you are told. If fawning involves lying, he will do so, here the need for safety is stronger than his desire to be truthful and stick to his morals.

Unfortunately, the fact that this is his primary fear response is also the reason behind his extreme cognitive dissonance. How can you stick to the rules when you do not know what the rules ARE? So he is stuck trying to figure out what is "good" and what is "bad" so he can be a good angel and avoid doing anything that might be seen as bad or disobedient.

His secondary response to stress or fear is to fight—once it's clear that fawning won't work, he can and will switch over to being more direct and aggressive/less submissive. We see that happening when he gets discorporated in season 1 and needs to get back to earth, at the airbase, or when the bookshop gets attacked.

If I were to ask you what you think Crowley's primary fear response is, how would you respond?

Well, if you said "flight"—you're wrong, and I will explain why.

Flight is his secondary fear response, it is what he falls back on in absolute emergencies when everything is doomed and there's nothing he can do anymore.

Before that, though, he fights.

Even as an angel, he was already questioning the system, he was ready to go and tell God she was doing a terrible job, that her ideas were bad, that he wants to keep his stars and the universe— six thousand years are nothing! If you actively oppose existing rules and defy people's authority over you, fighting is the only option you have unless you plan on giving up or the response becomes too much to deal with.

Fear itself happens when you or someone/something you love is being threatened (whether that threat is real or simply perceived as such doesn't matter), plus there are a large number of more irrational fears.

Crowley's creations were threatened -> He goes against the rules, he wants to fight for them.

On the walls of Eden, he questions God and talks to an angel, his hereditary enemy, once again defying the rules, questioning them.

Job and his children were threatened -> He goes against orders to try and save them.

There is good reason to believe he went against God by saving some of the children from the flood.

He showed Jesus the kingdoms of the world—do we really think that was based on orders? No, it was once again Crowley not playing by the rules.

Wessex? He proposes the Arrangement, which is one gigantic "fuck you" in his fight against celestial rules. Everything after that goes back to Crowley knowing that their jobs suck and that they can cheat, fight the system by working together. In 1827, it gets him pulled to hell and punished, and yet he does not stop; he keeps fighting.

Crowley is the one who immediately tries to stop the apocalypse. Aziraphale needs to be talked into it, needs to be convinced with selfish reasons and personal pleasure.

The reason why both heaven and hell absolutely loathe him is not because he is a runner; it's because he constantly and consistently defies them. He fights.

In season two, he immediately tries to deal with the Gabriel problem while Aziraphale is standing behind him and saying "I don't know" to all of his questions. Taking him somewhere so they can figure shit out in peace is not 'running'—it's smart. Sure, it's far from ideal, but we see what keeping him in the bookshop brought them, don't we? The hiding miracle is what tipped heaven and hell off in the first place.

Aziraphale goes to Edinburgh based on a hunch, but once again—did that help? Did his journalist roleplay trip actually provide vital information that solved a single puzzle piece of that mess? No. Finding out that Gabriel was at that pub with some mystery person was a nice fact to know, but that's it.

During the ball, Crowley is scared, vigilant, prowling around the shop, checking windows, telling Aziraphale to "stop this charade" so they can figure out what to do. Aziraphale, in that moment, was already convinced that sticking to the rules would save them—a heavenly embassy on a technicality, surely the group of fallen angels who got booted due to not following heaven's rules will respect that.

Crowley goes to heaven, which is once again him actively looking for a solution, while Aziraphale also falls back on fighting because fawning is not going to do shit.

There are three times during which Crowley suggests fleeing—which is his secondary fear response—but those are exceptions. Let's have a look at them.

The first one is at the bandstand, the evening before the Apocalypse, and since Aziraphale is lying to him, the situation seems hopeless to him. Yet he is still having his 'agents' look for him, is still fighting.

Do you know why he even suggests running? He is about to leave when Aziraphale calls him back with "there isn't anywhere to go," and now allow me to insert the following passage from the scriptbook.

Crowley looks back. He looks at Aziraphale. Above them, a beautiful starry sky. And Crowley softens.

"Big universe. Even if this all ends up in a puddle of burning goo, we could go off together."

The sentence in the show is slightly different, but they have one thing in common: If.

IF the world ends, we can still leave and be together. IF.

Crowley is NOT saying "let's leave", he is presenting Aziraphale with a contingency plan in case stopping the Apocalypse does not work. He is NOT running, he isn't even SUGGESTING to run.

It's a "if the world ends, we can be together. We don't need to be with hell or heaven; we can be in the stars," because remember what the end of the world would mean? Eternal torture for Crowley while Aziraphale bores himself to death in heaven.

The next time he suggests it again—when he stops Aziraphale on the street—several things have happened.

First, he did not leave. If he truly wanted to flee, he would have by now, but he didn't. He sits in a cinema waiting for the end: "Out of time. Out of hope," as Neil puts it. Then Hastur and Ligur show up on screen and tell him, 'You're dead meat, Crowley. You're bloody history. […] We're coming to collect you'.

We all know that means "eternal torture in hell," but if you're not convinced for some reason, have another snippet from the script book that did not make it into the show.

Dagon is speaking from the Bentley's radio while he drives towards the bookshop, saying that something has gone wrong and they're sure he has a 'perfectly reasonable explanation' for it. Once he gets out of the car, however, Dagon still keeps going and says the following:.

"Your explanation, and the circumstances that will accompany it, will provide a source of entertainment for all the damned of hell, Crowley. Because no matter what agonies the damned are suffering, Crowley, you will have it worse."

Crowley already knows that. He has been punished by them before, heard, seen, lived torture, there is no doubt as to what will happen should they catch him. So he does what any person with a single fucking brain cell would do—he tries to get his loved one and FLEE.

Flight is the best response in this situation, and if you need me to explain why, then honestly, I cannot help you anymore. I won't go into detail about Aziraphale's response, but, tl;dr, it was shitty and incredibly hurtful, go figure.

Now, let's get to situation number 3, which is his speech during the final fifteen. We do not have an official script for that, but someone did make transcriptions for all episodes; you can find them here. Additionally, I will copy some of what I already said in a different meta post.

Crowley, stuck in his trauma-induced hypervigilance and paranoia, suggests putting as much distance between them and the problem as possible. I think it is interesting that in ep1 he wants to get Gabriel away from them, while at the end of the season, he is ready to get them away from the problem.

So far, I have never seen anyone mention that change! And it’s important! The entire season, it is hammered into our heads how much they love being on earth. It is THEIR bookshop and THEIR car and THEIR life.

Crowley wants to protect that home, and Gabriel is a threat to it, a threat to both of them, their life, the bookshop—everything. He does not want to leave, he wants his peace and angel in one place.

Yet by allowing Gabriel to stay, Aziraphale destroyed the sense of comfort and safety Crowley had slowly developed over the last few decades. Heaven nipping down every now and then to check in with Aziraphale is very different from him sheltering the Supreme Archangel who is running from ‘something terrible’ without even asking if he’s alright with that.

Aziraphale calls it their bookshop, but he fundamentally still sees it as his space to govern and Crowley as a guest; he even calls it a 'heavenly embassy'.

After another horrible week and having his previously safe space violated by several different times and beings, Crowley is back to where he was before—without a home. That fragile existence broke apart, so he is standing in the heap of shards and telling Aziraphale 'I don’t feel safe here anymore, let’s leave’.

He lost his safe space, but he still has his safe person, his best and only friend, the person he loves. I doubt he cares where exactly they go as long as they’re together and it’s safe.

Returning to heaven—it is the one place Crowley cannot follow him to. It’s literally the worst option, he can’t go back, he won’t go back. So he invokes the bookshop again, if you don’t want to stay for me, stay for the bookshop, your books, your corner of existence that I thought we had carved out for ourselves.

There is a common error that people make regarding the timeline, which is assuming that during this conversation they are already aware of the impending apocalypse—but they aren't. Aziraphale himself has no clue, and while Crowley saw the conversation and trial, he does NOT know when it will happen. For all he knows, it could be tomorrow, could be in a thousand years, and, even if he had been given a date, I doubt they laid out all the details and how to stop it.

Considering that his original plan was "get drunk at the Ritz and then have us time," I don't think he knew literally anything about how or when to stop it. So no, Crowley does NOT suggest running away from earth and leaving it to die.

All he wants is some bloody peace and quiet where no demons, angels, or power-hungry floating heads can interrupt them. A space that is safe and theirs. There are also zero mentions of where he wants them to go; he is not talking about the stars or the universe. He wants to get away from where they currently are because heaven and hell show up uninvited whenever they please.

If your boss and ex-boss constantly kicked down your front door and stated their wish to torture you, would you stay there or would you move? Yeah.

This post got very long, but it was long overdue.

I am tired of seeing people call Crowley a callous coward who always runs away from his problems when he is the literal opposite. You take three sentences said under exceptional circumstances and apply them to Crowley as a whole, when it is nothing but his last ditch effort to keep himself and Aziraphale safe.

One last thing: If you come onto my post and start aggressively arguing about this, I will block you. Genuine discussions and questions are always welcome, being a dick is not, and I also simply cannot handle some of the rhetoric people in this fandom perpetuate because it's very triggering.

Make your own post, don't do it on mine.

#alex talks good omens #good omens #ineffable husbands #good omens meta #crowley #aziraphale #good omens season 2 #go2 #aziracrow #crowley x aziraphale #ineffable divorce #the final fifteen #crowley meta #aziraphale meta #crowley deserves better treatment from this fandom #and people that actually remember canon and don't take some fanfic version of him they have created during the hiatus #so many straight up factually incorrect takes #i dont know if i will make it until season 3 guys

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velvetures · 3 months

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Helluuuu!! I saw your post about sending requests and mine is actually a really simple one cause I don't have a creative but I just though about a ghost hurt/comfort story

Little Secrets

A/N: So this is very self-indulgent... I hope you don't mind. I think there are quite a few people who struggle with taking meds for depression/anxiety or feel guilty for it. Me included. Hopefully, this helps everyone feel valid, seen, and supported. Summary: Task Force 141 is where you belong. But it doesn't make the work easy by any means. You finally get the help you need and try hiding it. Ghost notices and is the one who sets you straight. T/W: depression/anxiety themes, medication, guilt, insecurity of reader, fem reader, and I'm sure I've missed something, so let me know.

photo by: pedropcl

You couldn't keep fighting it for any longer.

Staring down at the two orange bottles of pills in your hands and the directions packets in the other, you felt like you'd failed despite the psychiatrist you'd spoken to reassure you that this was certainly not a failure. Your brain kept refuting that this was a step in the right direction. Working as a professional and legal murderer should've meant you had no feelings. No failures of regulating your emotions or having such miserable trouble falling asleep at night. That nice woman who'd put the prescription in for you said it would take two to three weeks to see a difference. It felt like no time, yet an eternity all at once. Relief felt so far away, but insignificant compared to other people you often compared your personal struggles with.

You weren't homeless, you could eat without worrying, you had clothes and shoes all of the time, and never needed to wonder if you would have enough money to take care of your responsibilities. Education hadn't been a problem, you were well-respected despite being a woman in such a male-dominated field and kept up with your work extremely well. At least, when your brain decided to deny that you had the ability to do anything. Or... repeatedly try to convince you that nothing you did was worth a damn or actually made you useful. Vicious cycles of fighting with your own brain, knowing that you shouldn't feel or think this way but have no strength or way of stopping. None of the "hacks," meditations, or affirmation bullshit touched that panicky feeling you had mere minutes after laying down at night.

The pills shaking around in your hands were your last resort. And they made you feel so fucking embarrassed as you tucked them in your pockets before entering back into HQ. Praying to god that none of the 141 would see you with them or hear that slight sound of them rattling in their bottles. By grace or luck, you were able to avoid all of them and got back to your quarters to stash them under your bed in a small ammo box repurposed for some personal belongings. The directions you'd thrown away on your drive back, just taking a picture of them for reference and ditching the paper copies so you wouldn't have to keep track of those.

"This better fucking help," You breathe out heavily to yourself.

Staring up at the ceiling and almost dreading having to take one tonight before bed and the other when you wake up the next morning. Daily reminders of how you couldn't be hard and cold like the others. Cool and collected like Gaz, confident like Soap, unaffected like Ghost, or just so very reliable like Price. It made you feel like the weak link needing support. You'd never needed it before, and within two years you'd suddenly realized that your own mind was winning in a fight you'd never even been aware of fighting in the first place.

Keeping all of them in the dark about this would be safest. If they didn't need to question your stability, then it wouldn't feel like such pressure to perform. And hopefully, after a few weeks, things might start to shift a little. Maybe enough to where you could begin sorting out the other problems without the image of a cluttered attic representing the state of your head. Taking care to not raise the alert of the 141 wouldn't be easy. Always noticing everything out of sheer training and sharpened instincts. Having no other good ideas... You just settled on doing everything you could to keep your little secrets under wraps.

In the following couple of days, you’d become adjusted to the routine of taking your medications on the surface level. While the one tasked with easing you anxiety and depression wasn’t going to take effect for quite a while longer the other -a sleeping aid- was definitely making a significant impact. You were able to actually fall asleep and stay that way, problem was, with a couple missions impending in the near future, you were getting concerned that if you took them when you were supposed to -on a schedule- that staying awake would be next to impossible. And if you didn’t take them at all… you didn’t want to deal with the consequences of breaking a much more healthy habit.

And the reason you were so worried about the missions was because of a reoccurring problem that the 141 began finding you falling victim to. Thankfully you were all on leave, making it a lot more acceptable, but they still began walking into different rooms around HQ to see you sleeping soundly. No matter the noise level, temperature in the room, or the space you’d fit yourself into. And no one was quite as intrigued with your sudden change in behavior was the Lieutenant.

Ghost liked things to have order, and often used regiment or habit as a very small form of comfort when he felt that his physical situation was one that could be trusted. And while the others just thought you’d found a new safety in HQ and enjoyed sleeping somewhere safe, Ghost could see that something much different was happening. Your sleeping wasn’t a new habit.

It appeared far too quickly, and you oftentimes didn’t look like you had much control over it. There had already been three times where he’d watched you fall asleep on one of the guys late in the evening without as much as a single attempt to fight the drowsiness. While Ghost didn’t like to think that he cared that much about you, he found himself paying even closer attention to you than he had before.

“There she goes…” Soap chuckled quietly, pointing to you on the couch; head laying in Captain Price’s lap, eyes closed and sleeping deeply with your arms tucked against your chest and lying on your side.

Price had a loving hand on your head, and had been idly petting your hair much like a father would despite being hardly of age to act it. Yet, Ghost felt that Price’s warmth towards you wasn’t the entire reason you had yet again fallen asleep before 11 o’clock. Purposefully he’d been keeping count, and this was the fifth time in a week. More than enough to raise alarm with the others… but he was still waiting silently for someone else to bring it up.

Price chuckled, glancing down at you. “I carried her to bed last time,” His pointed look at each of them was more than enough to guess what he was about to say. “Someone else needs to, otherwise you’ll be voluntold.”

Ghost internally groaned. Not only was that kind of behavior what made people soft, but it also made seeing through the mask of affection far more difficult. But before Soap or Gaz took initiative, the Lieutenant was up on his feet and approaching Price with every intention of being the one to take you back to your quarters. Looks got thrown around the room, and Ghost wasn’t stupid enough to not notice. It was the first time he’d gotten this involved, and there was certainly a spectacle of him picking you up carefully enough to not wake you.

Even though he was quite certain it would take a lot more to get you up than that.

Your door opened up into warm, glowing light from a little lamp you’d left switched on. He catches sight of your quilt on the bed and the little rug that made the polished concrete floors look so much less like the jail cell his own quarters resembled. The whole room smelled like you too. Sweet, and a lot like cinnamon rolls. Probably some type of candle or other smelly thing that you had thought was worth spending money on. Plenty more reasons added to the list of what separates the two of you. Debating your differences or the reason you preferred your quarters smelling like a bakery wasn’t his purpose for bringing you back to your room.

But even with laying you down on your bed and pulling the sheet and blankets over you, Ghost wasn’t seeing any of the possible signs that could lead him to better understand what was going on with you. Nothing is out of place though. Your room is pretty much spotless save for a sleep outfit you’d laid out for tonight, but wouldn’t have the chance to get changed into. And right about the time Ghost decided he’d been looking into your business too much, he bumped into your nightstand.

It knocked something off into the floor, bouncing under the bed and clattering a bit.

Ghost sighed, eyes rolling up towards the ceiling and having quite the frustrating experience of dealing with the sudden responsibility of making sure you were cared for. And that meant picking up whatever shit he’d been too busy watching you, to not knock somewhere under the bed he’d have to fish around and find. So he knelt down and pulled his phone from his pocket and used the flash to spot a tube of chapstick near the bed frame foot.

That, and an ammo box with your initials spray-painted onto the side of it.

Compared to everything else, it didn’t look like it fit amongst the rest of your things. And damn if Ghost didn’t have a sudden gut feeling that it was the reason you’d been sleeping so much. Why you’d been so out of character; Setting his teeth on edge. Reaching out… Ghost grabbed the lip balm and got back to his feet and sit it down on the nightstand where it couldn’t be as easily disturbed again.

“G’night kid.” His whispers fell on your unconscious ears as your Lieutenant dismissed himself from your room and back down to his own space.

***

You woke up in your bed after falling asleep somewhere unintentionally, for the who-knows-which time. Just like before, left in whatever clothes you’d been wearing and all of your blankets tucked up tightly around you. It left a lingering sense of disappointment in yourself. A little pinch of sadness rested like a rock in your stomach. You couldn’t really remember falling asleep to begin with. If you ended up keeping this little habit going, there’d be no doubt you would risk everyone on a mission falling asleep at the drop of a hat.

All because of this damn medicine.

One that you needed to grab from under your bed, and sneak into the kitchen so that you could have some water and food. You'd seen one of the tens of sites -during your research of your pills- that it would help digest it better... whether it actually worked or not wasn't something you could tell. But either way, a doctor had said it, and plenty of people taking it agreed. So you grabbed the pill, shoved it in your pocket, and went out into the kitchen to find a glass.

The floors felt cold even with socks on. And while a steady rain poured from the sky, you were more heated with concern that someone would notice you. Notice your sleeping issues, the way you crawled around in the morning for the first couple hours before the pills began working, or the shady way you hid your face in the refrigerator while swallowing down your medication. Surely the stuff had to be working since you'd not been struggling to get your work done throughout the day. But maybe that was the hard part. Taking pills to fix your head, but needing your brain to recognize whether or not you felt better.

"Oh god help me..." You mutter quietly, searching past Soap's energy drinks and Gaz's revolting jug of green juice to find something you could make for breakfast.

A cabinet door shutting behind you nearly stopped your heart. Seeing Ghost's dark eyes evaluating your reaction didn't make your heart rate drop back to normal either. In his typical day-off wear, a pair of well-worn jeans hung low on his hips and an old SAS t-shirt you'd seen him wear countless times stretched tightly over his chest and shoulders. No doubt he'd been up since four. Quite certain he never actually slept, you wondered momentarily if he could benefit from the sleeping tabs you took. But quickly that got covered in anxiety when his eyebrows furrowed at your expression.

"Nothin' to eat?" He asked with a smooth voice, nodding to the refrigerator door you still held open dumbly.

"N-no... just a bunch of shit drinks." You reply, letting the door shut and noticing that he's got a brown bag with grease spots at the bottom corners. He just nods, looking off into the empty common room. Like he's trying to think of the right way to talk shit about both Gaz and Soap's bad choices in hydration.

"Sit. I've got enough to share." He jerks his head to the other side of the counter, turning that wide back to face you, leaving no room for argument.

You're swallowing down a thick bite of a bagel with god-knows-what in British style as Ghost brews tea. Silently making you a cup as well and standing stiffly with both milk and sugar on the table with the expectancy that you tell him how you like it. Not really unusual behavior from him... typically you get along just fine. But it's the fact that he watches so heavily.

"Just sugar, please." You say through a mouthful, covering your mouth with your hand.

He nods, but then starts putting the sugar in, mentioning something about fucking Americans before sliding the mug closer to you with a couple of fingers. Those damned eyes are just as observant as ever when you crumple up the finished sandwich before he even steeps his own drink. It made you nervous. Wondering if those pills were helping with your appetite too. The psychiatrist said it could; Something about feeling less stressed can give your body more opportunities to worry about being hungry. It was one of those facts on the medication packet you'd taken pictures of.

"Plans for today, L.t.?" You ask, sipping the tea, eyes grazing over the cup rim as you stare at the back of his head.

Mask rucked up high enough to eat and drink freely he nods his head. Leaning his lower back against the edge of the kitchen counter

and resting one hand back.

“Yeah, you?”

You shake your head uselessly, “No. Maybe some laundry, but I’m not really even due. Wouldn’t be worth the water in the machine.”

He hums lowly, taking a drink of his tea. You can hear his swallow and a steady exhale of air that follows. Whether it’s him cooling off the steaming cup or just breathing, you cant tell. But it’s so steady that you actually mimic the tempo of it. Feeling the way it expands and contracts your lungs smoothly. Almost settling. Much like L.t. himself in that way. Terrifying until you see just how easily you can be around him. He’s always quiet and composed, even when there’s plenty of reasons not to be. You wished it was something you could do too. Maybe it would help the task force if you didn’t have to spend your energy keeping yourself at an unnoticeable level of consistent panic.

“Know anythin’ about cars?”

“No,” You’re quick to add on. “But I can learn fast.”

You watch the way the back of his mask slides down further and how his head tilts from side to side to settle it comfortably. Seeing the rest of the tea get dumped into the sink and his own sandwich bag get crumpled up. He’s silent as he washes the cups used and methodically cleans up after the pair of you. Even reaching across the counter to swipe a couple of crumbs off your t-shirt with a subtle nod to his own satisfaction.

“I like to hear it,” His hand palmed at the back of your neck. Gently tugging you off the barstool, and grabbing your jacket to toss it to you. “You’re comin’ with me then.”

Learning about cars actually became quite easy… when Ghost was teaching.

He explained the parts clearly, what his goal was, and didn’t get pissed when you handed him the wrong size socket wrench on the first try. On the other end, you’d only been working next to him -well, sitting on the wheel well- for a couple of hours when you started getting tired again. Almost helpless to your own frustration, you yawned. Fighting the sleepy feeling valiantly, and taking as detailed of mental notes as possible while watching Ghost’s greased knuckles tighten a bracket holding his master cylinder in place. Surely it was a cosmic joke. L.t. was fixing his brakes, and it felt like someone had stomped on yours.

“Hand me that,” He muttered, head stuck down in a gap between his engine block and alternator, still effortlessly pointing at a pair of channellocks. “And get in for me.”

You did as he asked, yawning one more time. Trying to blame your sudden exhaustion on the rain pelting the metal roof above you. Sliding into the back of the car and kicking off your boots to let them rest on the concrete floor outside of it. Attempting to be polite by not getting any dirty spots on the mats of the -very original- DB4 GT Aston he’d given you trust to even sit in. The leather seats help you glide into the driver’s seat, giving you a very slim look at Ghost through the gap in the hood.

“What exactly am I doing in here?” You ask, loud enough so that he can hear you.

It prompts his head to pop up from inside the engine bay, giving you those same, observant eyes from earlier. He looks back down, reaches in and taps on something harshly, then looks back to you.

“Roll it over.”

The car starts effortlessly. Practically purring under you, and echoing in the metal hangar making it sound all the more ruggedly beautiful. The whole car hums, and as you watch Ghost go back to focusing on something in front of him, you feel the heat come through the dash. It’s a perfect storm that lulls you even closer to sleep. A dangerous thing, considering the one man who could figure out what was wrong with you was the only one close enough to see. Hell, you weren’t even sure he didn’t already have it figured out, and wasn’t planning some way to tell Price about it and have you removed from the task force.

Unfit for duty.

You could just picture it now. Red pen in Price’s handwriting detailing your medications and how it was grounds from honorable discharge. Perfectly common in the military, but it felt like death in your hazy mind.

Not that you could fight it for much longer.

Because by the time the Lieutenant had finished his little bit of work, he came into sight of you, slumped over in his driver’s seat with you lips parted and your arms wrapped around yourself. Nothing short of a pretty sight for sore eyes. His car had damn near rocked you sleep, and for once, Ghost felt his heart couldn’t take the feeling of waking you up. He’d watched you all morning. Gauging your reactions, your lack of conversation, and the way you tried to keep from showing him any sign of being tired. Initially he wanted to be angry. Mad that you were hiding something from the team… from him. But seeing you sleeping there, he knew there was a fight in your head. A fight he knew well. So he left you there to sleep.

Turning off the engine to keep from filling the garage with exhaust, but pulling up one of the small space heaters close to the open door to keep you from getting cold while he worked. Making small adjustments, looking over future jobs, and even entertaining the thought of adjusting you over in the seat a little bit so that he could drive-test his handiwork. But that didn’t come, because Soap arrived with a grin on his face and no idea that you were sleeping.

Until Ghost told him to lower his goddamn voice.

“Sleepin’ again bonnie?” Soap chuckled to himself, looking at you before back to Ghost. “How long’s she been out?”

Ghost shrugged, “Few hours.” Really he hadn’t been watching the clock; far too comfortable to concern himself with it.

“I know you’ve been tryin’ to figure it out,” He started back, resting his hands on the hood. “Why she’s doin’ this so much. Have ya’?”

Ghost shook his head. “No. Not yet, but I’m not concerned.”

Johnny laughed softly, slapping Ghost on the back and beginning to walk away. “I never took you for the type to be worried, L.t.. But since you’re so reassurin’ I’ll take it t’heart.”

Any way Ghost came at that statement, he felt himself on the end of a losing battle. Maddening. Losing a fight wasn’t in his nature. Even if that meant he had to take some of the most fucked up torture to reach it. But what bothered him more than Soap knowing he was concerned about you was the knowing you weren’t okay.

Days out in the field were bad enough. But when they got worse, you were always there. And maybe you didn’t feel much better than he did, yet you always held softness. For everyone. For him. A kind of understanding and acceptance that wasn’t required, or exactly approved of in this line of work. You could keep a secret better than anyone he knew, and while he didn’t burden you with a single one of his, there was always the foreign comfort in being able to come with them if he wanted to. Hiding your own feelings wasn’t right though.

Selfish maybe. Thinking it was okay to linger in his own issues and still demand you give him yours.

But hiding behind his rank and position over you meant he could make that kind of decision without any questioning. A type of don’t fucking ask why that saved him face when carrying you from his car back to your room after you still hadn’t woken up nearly seven hours after passing out in his car. Shouldering open the door just like the night before, he expected to see nothing out of place. The same lip balm on the side table, the same rug, and maybe a different night shirt since you’d mentioned doing laundry. But there was something out of place. And damn if it didn’t make his gut twist up in a ugly kind of feeling. One he’d not felt in years, but certainly recognized as soon as he spotted the orange pill bottle sitting on your bed.

It made sense.

The sleeping. The different behavior. The reason you’d practically swallowed a whole fucking sandwich for breakfast when a cup of tea would typically be all you stomached until afternoon. And thank god… you were finally starting to look a bit fuller. Getting prettier every day, and he finally had something to place the blame on. All hesitations about you being able to handle the upcoming missions faded once he got a good look at the bottle. A medication, funnily enough, that Ghost was well-acquainted with. It wasn’t part of his own personal line-up in his medicine cabinet, but it was one he’d taken for a while.

You’d been in need of some help, and luckily for you, it hadn’t been nearly as hard for you to get help as it had been for him. Actually asking for what you needed -and while frustrating- decided to try and manage it without anyone else’s knowledge. Ghost couldn’t think of a better scenario. Realizing that the only thing he needed to know about was your side effects, and how to best manage them alongside you. Thank fuck you weren’t sick… well… sick in a way that someone couldn’t help you with. A way that he couldn’t help.

So, he sit down in on the floor in your room and waited.

Your wake-up call came in the form of sleepy eyes opening to see the massive silhouette of Ghost sitting in your floor. Dark eyes much softer than you’d expected, and a much more concerning sight of your pill bottle resting in his massive hand. A sight that sat you up ramrod straight in your bed, gasping softly and staring at him with wide eyes.

“Don’t tell Price.” You sputter, rushing to get the words out of your mouth. Terrified that he’s going to get up and run out the door. Just sitting long enough to let you get a good look at his plan before exposing you to the Captain as some sick kind of satisfaction.

His eyes narrow a little, “Don’t tell Price?” His voice sounds hoarse. “Don’t tell Price?”

It sounds that much more broken and gritty when he repeats it. Standing up to meet you a bit more level, fisting the pills in his hand, and lightly making them shake. He can’t understand your fear. Completely blind to the fact that -much like him- you’re fearful of being shamed. Misunderstood for it. Or worse. Ghost can’t recognize why you’re looking at him as if he’s going to be the reason your life ends. When in all reality, you don’t see how he’s trying to figure out why you didn’t feel safe coming to him.

“You’ve been takin’ these… fallin’ asleep on everyone, and-and struggling for who knows how the fuck long…” It’s hard for Ghost to keep his tone even, thinking about it. “Why didn’t you tell me. you should’ve told me. Said something. Anything.”

Caving in on itself, your chest burns. Eyes locked on his and scanning every confusing moment of emotion and each shift as it comes and goes.

“You wouldn’t…”

Ghost takes a fast step closer, “I wouldn’t what?” His hand drops the pills on the bed and quickly grabs your face, soft fingers pressing into your jaw. “I wouldn’t get it? I wouldn’t do what you needed me to? Wouldn’t let you sleep on me?”

Your lips open in surprise at the softness in him. All of him. The gentleness of his fingers, how his eyes lay silkily on you. Even his voice, falling so softly despite it’s rough tone and deep sound, feels like he’s terrified of you being scared away from him. Like that gentle hold on your face is all he can manage, and he’d rather do anything other than let you pull away from it.

“You have to know…” he starts weakly. “You have to know that - that I would do… anything you needed me to. Anything to make this easier for you. Even somethin’ small, I’d do it for you, honey.”

reblogs & comments are appreciated 🤎

#simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #cod #cod mwii #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #velvetures writes #velvetures #anon <3 #velvetures answers #anon answered #anon ask

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transmascissues · 2 years

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every day i think about how my old psychiatrist (who was notoriously horrible on many levels, to be clear) tried to convince me to stay on the antidepressants i was coming off of when i told her i was starting testosterone because she was convinced that i’d be incapable of handling the “intense mood swings” that she said it would cause if i was unmedicated

mind you, i was coming off of these meds because they were doing absolutely fucking nothing for me and she had fought me on stopping them every step of the way — in her mind, me starting t was the perfect chance to make one final (transphobic) push against my desire to stop putting completely pointless drugs in my body

she consistently referred to hrt as me “going on steroids” and told me with every ounce of condescending concern she could muster that she had never had a patient start t without being on antidepressants (as if i was supposed to see that fact as anything other than further proof that her main goal as a psychiatrist was just to make as much money as possible by pushing meds on people)

i tried to explain to her that countless trans people i’d talked to had said that being on t made them feel more emotionally stable, not less, and that i had already chosen a method of hrt that would minimize hormonal fluctuations as much as possible, but she wouldn’t believe me — there’s no question in my mind that she just saw me as a ~naive little girl who didn’t understand how testosterone could make my life hell~

and of course, my mom jumped on that idea and started telling me about how it’s not that she doesn’t like that i’m trans, it’s just that she’s ~so worried~ about what the ~big bad testosterone~ might to to my ~poor fragile mental health~

and when i started t, i was terrified that they would be proven right

now i’m 5 months on t (and a few months post-ending that doctor-patient relationship as well) and what do you know? my mood is better than ever! my therapist (who has known me far longer and actually cares about my well-being) says she’s never seen me this happy, and that she feels like i’m actually living for the first time! it’s been incredible!

in fact, i’ve come to the realization that i most likely had premenstrual dysphoric disorder before t, and that it was contributing to a huge percentage of my mental breakdowns and suicidal thoughts, so it seems there were hormones causing mood swings that i couldn’t handle without proper treatment after all, but testosterone isn’t the cause of those issues — turns out it’s the treatment i desperately needed to manage them!

and after some research and hearing from other people, i’ve learned that it wasn’t all anecdotal after all, because some studies have actually found evidence to support the idea that testosterone has antidepressant effects — i told my therapist that testosterone felt the way the antidepressants i had been on were supposed to feel, but i had no clue there was science to back that up

so now i’m just left being endlessly furious with the way testosterone is demonized as some horrible poisonous drug that will destroy your mental health along with everything else in your life, because being on it has improved my quality of life exponentially and that alone makes being on it SO worthwhile, but no one ever gets to see that side of being on t because they’re so busy drumming up fear about how it’ll wreck your moods instead

of course, that’s not to say some people don’t experience serious mood swings on t, because i would never deny someone else’s experience with their own body and mind, and i think it’s important that people know those effects are possible when they start t

what i AM saying is that i would guess that if you looked at pure numbers, more people have probably had a really positive experience like mine than a seriously negative one, and it’s very telling that the negative ones are portrayed as a universal part of being on t despite seemingly being a smaller percentage when you actually talk to lots of trans people, while the positive ones are portrayed as a fluke at best and impossible or even deceptive at worst despite being a really common theme in trans people’s accounts of being on t

testosterone is medicine. testosterone is healing.

it doesn’t solve all our problems — i’m certainly far from cured of all my mental health issues — but it sure as hell lightens the load, and i’m sick and tired of people acting like it’s a horrible thing and not the fucking miracle worker that it is for some of us

#transandrophobia #transandromisia #transmisandry #virilmisia #virilphobia #trans men #transmascs #testosterone #hrt

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purpleberiii · 4 months

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"Her Favourite"

☆Prompt: In which Countess Chelsea has a favourite sugar baby.

☆Warnings: jealous Chelsea

She had many sugar babies yet only one of them caught her eyes and supposedly her heart as well. You were no different from others, yet something about you that pulled her in.

The Countess never wanted to leave MBCC, she could have all the luxury she needs while in there and she gets to see her favourite sugar baby every morning.

You were the one in charge of the sinners, with Nightingale as your senior who guided you. You were young, beautiful and kind and you pulled many of the sinners as well, something Chelsea did not like. She could have many sugar babies but if you told her to drop them, she would-but you didn't, cause you didn't care. All you wanted was the money, and probably the special attention you received from Chelsea.

Every morning, you visit each sinners' cell, with two or three persons behind you holding several tray of food. You had to make sure that the sinners are fed and comfortable, which were orders by the Chief. This morning stop at Chelsea's cell was different from the rest. You and one of the other men went in and placed her food down, however, she did not greet you as she normally would. Instead, you were greeted by an angry face.

"Is-is everything okay?"

"Tell your him to leave." You looked in the direction of the man and gave him a nod. He left and closed the door. Chelsea got up and began walking towards you, her steps carrying a powerful demeanor.

As she walked, you backed up until your feet hit something soft and you fell onto a chair. The Countess stood between your legs, her handed folded as she glared down at you. "What was that interaction between you and that psychiatrist?"

Was she referring to Chameleon? "What interaction Chelsea?"

"The one you had yesterday. I saw the way she had you smiling and the way she ran her finger up your arm." Was she jealous?

"We were talking," you breathed out as her glare got more intense.

"About what? What were you talking about that had you smiling like that?"

"She was telling me about the food. She was complimenting it."

"Did she compliment you?"

"No-wait.. are you jealous?"

"Of course not! Why would I be?"

"I don't know. You sound jealous-"

"Yes I am. Now shut up and listen to me." She straddled your lap with an intense glare and the position made you red. "You're my sugar baby. Mine alone. You shouldn't be smiling with anyone else? Don't I give you enough?" She frowned.

"Of course you do! It was just a friendly interaction."

"You don't get too friendly with other sinners understand me?"

"Yes ma'am."

She smiled, a genuine smile. "You're my favourite you know. I don't usually do these things with my other sugar babies," she rested her forehead against yours. Chelsea wasn't afraid to let you know her true feelings and with the way things ate looking, she's going to tell you something that will blow your mind.

"Well.. used to be sugar babies. I dropped them."

"H-huh?! What?!"

"I dropped them so I could focus on you."

"Che-"

"Chief told me something. You can buy anything with money but you can't buy a genuine companionship and that's what I want with you."

"Chelsea I don't know what to say..." indeed you were speechless. You didn't expect the money gobbling Countess to be so... interested in you.

"Of course I'd still give you money whenever you need it but I want to stop basing our relationship off of 'sugar baby and sugar mama'. I want you to be more than that. I want you to be my lover."

You still held Chelsea on your lap, your mouth opened to speak but no words came out. She held your face and gently kissed you. It took you a minute to process it before you kissed back, with just as the amount of passion she had.

Well... you took atleast an hour or two before you left the Countess' office and the chief immediately suspected what happened as Chelsea had practiced what to say using the chief's help.

#chelsea #path to nowhere chelsea #ptn chelsea #chelsea x reader #ptn chelsea x reader #path to nowhere #ptn

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narcissism-awareness · 1 year

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A guide to NPD for anyone who doesn't understand it!

What is NPD?

NPD, or narcissistic personality disorder, is a mental illness in the cluster B personality disorder category.

NPD usually stems from childhood abuse or other unhealthy childhood situations. In my case, abuse.

What are the symptoms?

Symptoms of NPD include an unstable sense of self, prioritizing yourself, having unstable relationships, having low/no empathy, and depression/self hatred.

These can be improved upon, but disordered thoughts will likely remain for most.

Can pwNPD have healthy relationships?

Yes, with effort and work. Plenty can have healthy and successful relationships. (like me, for example, in a loving relationship with my boyfriend)

We have a to be a bit more aware of how we treat others, but it helps when both the person with NPD and the partner set boundaries with each other. With communication, we can be great partners.

And yes, we can feel love and care about our partner(s). Empathy ≠ love. Empathy ≠ compassion.

Why does the term "Narcissistic abuse" harm pwNPD?

Because of the name, anything said about "narcissists" is also associated with us, even if you weren't talking about NPD. If you were, that's just blatant ableism.

Many of also call ourselves narcissists either just as a descriptor or to reclaim it.

Other terms like emotional abuse, gaslighting, and plenty others describe the same thing without ableist roots. Please, speak out about your abuse, but avoid using ableist terms.

But my therapist/psychiatrist uses the term "narcissistic abuse," how can it be ableist?

Sadly, ableism isn't that uncommon from medical professionals. Plenty use terms like "narcissistic abuse" and other ableist terms.

Why not just advocate to change the name of NPD?

Even if the name changed, it would still be ableist. We have another cluster B disorder that got a name change that we can look to for example of what happens.

You used to be able to be clinically diagnosed as a "psychopath," which has since been changed to ASPD. However, people still use the terms "psychopath" and "sociopath" to refer to ASPD. All the stigma around those words still applies to them.

I imagine similar would happen if we changed the name of NPD. It wouldn't matter, we'd still be called narcissists. And the term would still be ableist because it would still hurt us.

#npd #npd positivity #cluster b #cluster b positivity #narcissist #narcissism #narcissistic abuse #surviving narcissism #narc abuse #empath #empathy #narcissistic personality disorder #narcissistic relationship

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keen-li · 5 months

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Only one | 01

Warnings: toxic relationship trauma, trauma in general, mentally broken oc, manipulation, yendere jungkook. [Still more warnings to be added]

Psychiatrist jungkook x patient reader

.......

"I just wanna be good enough for someone you get" you play with the hem of your hospital gown.

"But no one is ever good to me" you take a deep breath feeling the tears coming but you hold them in.

"It's okay to cry, don't hide your emotions from me" your psychiatrist, Mr jeon, says having noticed you holding back. Once he says that your tears fall drop by drop until they're leaving your eyes like a waterfall. Mr jeon doesn't say anything, he just notes down what he observes.

"I know I'm good girl, don't you think I'm a good girl?" Good girl, a word You’ve been trying to stop referring to yourself as. Ever since your last relationship, which is one of the many reasons you're in this damn hospital, where your boyfriend would use it so often and even make you refer yourself as that, you haven't been able to let it go yet. Mr jeon hasn't addressed it yet but you're so sure he's noticed it by now.

He's silent to your question, "don't you think I'm a good girl" you ask so genuinely it's sad. Mr jeon simply smiles at you.

"I think you're a good person" he says no emotion behind it.

You scoff.

"I'm sorry, is there something else you would've liked me to say" he sits attentive and alert. His tone is gentle though the question feels sharp.

"I-i just..." You fail to speak and he gives you a reassuring look to help you speak.

"H-he always told me no-one will ever find me good enough apart from him" jungkook knows who the 'he' is, he's been a major topic of your sessions.

"Mmm" Mr jeon acknowledges as he takes note of something. Sometimes you spend your nights wondering what he's writing about you.

Could it be about how much he doesn't want to work with you anymore. Or maybe you're just insecure.

.....

"No please take me back" you flop around in the nurses hands.

"I'm okay, I promise." You don't sound okay and the nurses know better. It's one of those days where you have a mental breakdown. You don't see the damage you cause but others do and that's why they have to take you back to your room to cool down.

Mr jeon watches from afar as they take you away. You were having a session with him that's when you had your breakdown. You weren't even done with the session only in an hour out of the two hours you always have set. Mr jeon has seen your breakdowns before and even took notes of what you said while in that state.

Guess he has to see you next week.

......

You're sick of this place, its so plain and boring. You've been here for eight weeks and even though you feel you're getting better, the hospital thinks otherwise. Mr jeon hasn't given you anything on your progress, only praising you for your strength and openness. You want to know when you can leave this place. You wanna go back to your home, where your can rest peacefully with your dog and pet fish. Oh, you remembered your mother took your pets since you can't be there to take care of them. You just wanna be around them. And they've been on your mind lately.

"So how have you been?" He starts as he settles in his seat with just notepad, glasses glued to his face.

"I'm sorry I wasn't with you for the last two weeks" it's true, he's the only psychiatrist you trust and he hasn't been with you for two weeks. That caused you to have to speak to another psychiatrist, she honestly didn't understand you like Mr jeon does and that made it harder for you to express your true feelings.

"I had an emergency I had to attend to" Mr jeon doesn't talk about his personal life with you only focusing on yours. He doesn't need to tell you anything about his personal life and you don't need to know.

"I've been thinking about home more often lately." You say avoiding Mr jeon's eyes. He noticed you always did this when you expressed something to him that you weren't sure he'd be interested in. But he's always interested in what you say to him.

"Mm, what is it that you're missing at home?" he says in his ever present professional tone.

When he asks this question you remember the cute dog that's probably missing you right now, and the little fish you kept fed and clean in the tank, you hope whoever is looking after them is doing a good job cause if they aren't they're gonna feel it. Those animals have been the only source of comfort and joy in your life, until you were separated.

And now that he's asked that question and you realise the answer, the tears begin to form.

Mr jeon notices and smiles "its okay" his voice is so comforting that it aids your crying. Next second tears are flowing down your face as you try to control your sobs and breathing.

"I-i-i m-miss.." he can see you struggle with your words and reminds you of the breathing tactic he taught you.

You cool down a bit from the tactic, enough to say your words atleast.

"I miss my pets. My dog, my fish" you say and he can see how much they mean to you.

"Why do you miss them?" Seems like a bad question to ask someone in tears but because it's Mr jeon you don't mind.

"They were my only comfort, my only joy and my only hope" you sob as memories of them, especially your dog, make it to your brain.

He watches intently as you sob, he takes down some notes but you're too emotional to notice.

"I just wanna go home " you confess. "I'm tired of it here, I miss home" you sob intensely forgetting about the tactic.

"I'd honestly do anything to leave this place" Mr jeon stops at that.

"I just wanna leave this place" you confess all of this unconsciously. You feel so free around Mr jeon that you don't even think before you say anything.

"I just wanna go home" you whisper finally calming down.

You can see as you wipe your tears, Mr jeon places the note book down and even takes his glasses off. He only takes them off when he's leaving after his shift. He stands going to the door checking outside and locking it when he finally gets back.

You're confused about this new found behaviour, during your sessions he only focuses on you and never does anything else, especially not take off his glasses.

You're confused even more when he squats in front of you as if speaking to a child. He places his palms on the couch on each side of you as you stare at him with raised brows. It's weird seeing Mr jeon like this, he looks different from the the psychiatrist you speak to most of the time.

"Would you do anything to go back home?" he looks at you with so much patience and determination, like you would a child you're trying to convince to go to school.

"You'd do anything huh?" Even the way he's speaking is different, it's more casual.

You remember your previous confession, and even though it was an unconscious confession you still meant it. You can see him waiting for your answer and you unsurely nod.

He shakes his head declining your response.

"I need you to use your words. I need you to be sure" his tone is so soft and gentle and it makes you even more comfortable around him.

After thinking about it, which he lets you do, you have your answer.

"Yes I would." You nod along your words. He smiles at that, feeling to be going in the right direction with you.

"You know I can get you out of this place in a second, right?" He questions you.

You nod. "Words y/n"

"Yes, I know you can"

He nods. "Do you trust me? " It's actually something you've thought about. Do you trust Mr jeon? yes, yes you do. He's the only one you trust in this whole hospital or even the world.

"I do trust you, Mr jeon" he smiles at the honorific. You're unsure to what's he's getting to but you listen close.

"So if you trust me, then let me get you out of this place" why is he asking you this. Does he do this for others as well.

"I can take you somewhere better. I can take you home" and when he says home your eyes light up.

"Home?" You ask and he nods. "I do wanna go home"

"Okay then" he smiles at you. His eyes then turn dark But you can barely notice mind clogged with the hope of being able to go home.

"But you have to do one thing for me"

#fanfic #jungkook #jeon jungguk #jungkook x reader #jungkook x y/n #bts #jungkook au #yendere jungkook #jungkook angst #jungkook and reader #jungkook fanfic #jeon jungkook #jungkook x you #jungkook x oc

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gothhabiba · 1 year

Note

hi i just saw some of ur posts on anti-psychiatry and then kept reading more on ur blog about what it is. for the most part i agree with what you've said about how capitalism uses psychiatry to designate people who are bad/abnormal and how it aligns itself w/ misogyny, racism, and so on. with that said i think i have some similar concerns/questions as another asker about what this means for those who do/would suffer even in a non-capitalist society, even if we didn't ascribe a specific label to X symptoms. if we are opposed to psychiatry, what are the options for people today who are suffering and want help? are you opposed to psychopharmaceuticals and therapy? i dont mean to ask this in a confrontational/accusatory way, i'm just new to this and genuinely curious

There are a few different parts to your question & so there are a few different angles to approach it from—

are you opposed to psychopharmaceuticals and therapy?

If this means "are anti-psych writers and activists opposed to individuals seeking treatment that they personally find helpful," then, no—a couple posts in my psychiatry tag do clarify this.

If it means "are there anti-psych critiques of psychopharmaceuticals and therapy," then, yes. Keep in mind that I'm not a neurobiologist or otherwise an expert on medications marketed as treatments for mental illnesses, but:

The evidence for the effectiveness of SSRIs in particular is sort of non-existent—even many psychiatrists who promote the biomedical model of mental illness doubt their efficacy, and refer to the "chemical imbalance" theory that enforces their usage as "an outmoded way of thinking" or "a kind of urban legend—never a theory seriously propounded by well-informed psychiatrists." But promoting SSRIs (and corresponding "serotonin deficiency" theory of depression, despite the fact that no solid evidence links depression to low serotonin) is very profitable for pharmaceutical companies. Despite the fact that direct-to-consumer advertisements are nominally regulated in the U.S., the FDA doesn't challenge these claims.

Other psychotropic drugs, such as "antipsychotics" or "antianxiety" medication, shouldn't really be called e.g. "antipsychotics" as if they specifically targeted the biological source of psychosis. No biological cause of any specific psychiatric diagnosis has been found (p. 851, section 5.1). In fact, rather than "act[ing] against neurochemical substrates of disorders or symptoms," these medications "produc[e] altered, drug induced states"—but despite the fact that they "produce global alterations in brain functioning," they are marketed as if they had "specific efficacy in reducing psychotic symptoms." Reactions to these medications that don't have to do with psychosis or anxiety (blunted affect, akathisia) are dismissed as "side effects," as though they don't arise from the same global alteration in brain function that produces the "desirable" antianxiety/antipsychotic effect. This doesn't mean "psychiatric medication turns you into a zombie so you shouldn't take it"—it means that these medications should be marketed honestly, as things that alter brain function as a whole, rather than marketed as if they target specific symptoms in a way that they cannot do, in accordance with a biomedical model of mental illness the accuracy of which has never been substantiated.

Psychiatrised people also point out that meds are used as a tool for furthering and maintaining psychiatrists' control: meds that patients are hesitant about or do not want are pushed on them, while patients who desire medication are "drug-seeking" or trying to take on the role of clinician or something and will routinely be denied care. Psychiatrised people who refuse medications are "noncompliant" and prone to psychiatric incarceration, re-incarceration, or continued/lengthened incarceration.

As for therapy: there are critiques of certain therapies (e.g. CBT, DBT) as unhelpful, status-quo-enforcing, forcing compliance, retraumatising &c. There are also critiques of therapy as representing a capitalist outsourcing of emotional closeness and emotional work away from community systems that people largely don't have in place; therapy as existing within a psychiatric system that constrains how therapists, however well-intentioned, are able to behave (e.g. mandatory reporting laws); psychotherapy forced on psychiatrised people as a matter of state control; therapists as being in a dangerous amount of power over psychiatrised people and being hailed as neutral despite the fact that their emotions and politics can and do get in the way of them being helpful. The wealth divide in terms of access to therapy is also commonly talked about; insurance (in the U.S.) or the NHS (in England) may only pay for pre-formulated group workbook types of therapy such as DBT, while more long-form, free-form, relationship-focused talk therapy may only be accessible to those who can pay 100-something an hour for it.

None of these critiques make it unethical or something for someone to get treatment that they find helpful. It's also worth noting that some of these critiques may be coming from "anti-psych" people who criticise the sources of psychiatric power, and some of them may come from people who think of themselves as advocating for reform of some of the most egregious effects of psychiatric power.

if we are opposed to psychiatry, what are the options for people today who are suffering and want help?

This looks like a few different things at a few different levels. At its most narrow and individual, it involves opting out of and resisting calls for psychiatrisation and involuntary institutionalisation of individuals—not calling the cops on people who are acting strange in public, breaking mandatory reporting laws and guidelines where we think them likely to cause harm. It involves sharing information—information about antipsychiatry critiques of psychiatric institutions, advice about how to manage therapists' and psychiatrists' egos, advice about which psychiatrists to avoid—so that people do not blame themselves if they find their encounters with psychiatry unhelpful or traumatising.

At the most broad, it's the same question as the question of how to build dual power and resist the power of capitalism writ large—building communal structures that present meaningful alternatives to psychiatry as an institution. I think there's much to be learned here from prison abolitionists and from popular movements that seek to protect people from deportation. You might also look into R. D. Laing's Kingsley Hall experiment.

what does this mean for those who would suffer even in a non-capitalist society, even if we didn't ascribe a specific label to X symptoms?

It means that people need access to honest, reliable information about what psychotropic medications do, and the right to chuse whether or not to take these medications without the threat of a psychiatrist pulling a lever that immediately restricts or removes their autonomy. It means that people need to be connected to each other in communities with planned, free resources that ensure that everyone, including severely disabled people whom no one particularly likes as individuals, has access to basic resources. It means that people need to be free to make their own choices regarding their minds and their health, even if other people may view those decisions as disastrous. There is simply no defensible way to revoke people's basic autonomy on the basis of "mental illness" (here I'm not talking about e.g. prison abolitionist rehabilitative justice types of things, which must restrict autonomy to be effective).

Also, I've mostly left the idea of who this would actually be untouched, since my central argument ("psychiatry as it currently exists is part of the biomedical arm of capitalism and the state, and the epistemologies it produces and employs and the power it exerts are thus in the service of capitalism and the state") doesn't really rest on delineating who would and wouldn't suffer from whatever mental differences they have regardless of what society they're in. But it's worth mentioning that the category of "people who are going to suffer (to whatever degree) no matter what" may be narrower than some would think—psychosis, for instance, is sometimes experienced very differently by people in societies that don't stigmatise it. I see people objecting to (their interpretations of) antipsych arguments with things along the lines of "well maybe depression and anxiety are caused by capitalism, but I'm schizophrenic so this doesn't apply to me"—as though hallucinations are perforce more physically "real," more "biological," more "extra-cultural" in nature than something like depression. But the point is that positing a specific neurobiological etiology for any psychiatric diagnosis is unsubstantiated, and that capitalist society affects how every "mental illness" is read and experienced (though no one is arguing that e.g. hallucinations wouldn't always exist in some form).

#psychiatry #long post /#mental illness #antipsych #antipsychiatry #Anonymous #questions #psychotropic drugs #ssris

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6lostgirl6 · 1 year

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Can you do a request for me with Hannibal x Fem Reader where she starts seeing him as a patient and you reveal to him that you have kinda gray morals when it comes to murder and stuff like that and over the course of about 6 months or so you two start falling for each other but he tries to keep it professional until he can’t anymore and fires you as a patient which upsets you until he tells you why he did it (which was so he could date you)

Unexpected Romance

Pairing: Hannibal Lecter x Fem!Reader

TW: slight meltdown, hints of murderous thoughts, dependence, slight angst, arguing, fighting, happy ending

You sighed, walking out of the building that once held your third psychiatrist of the month, clutching onto the white paper labeled 'referral.' It felt like a slap in the face, sitting in a comfortable office chair and spilling your deepest secrets to someone you barely knew, only for them to refer you to someone else.

'I don't know how else to help you.'

They would question you, offering you a false sense of security, yet when their prescribed medications and deeply-rooted questions did nothing, they simply lost hope in rekindling your sense of morality.

You were...beyond saving...

You slammed your car door shut, flinging the piece of paper onto your passenger seat where it lay abandoned, seemingly mocking you that it would add to your collection of your previous referrals, prescriptions, and office information. You sniffled, staring at the leather of your steering wheel. The next second, you were screaming, crying, and slamming your fist against the steering wheel as if it insulted you.

"Fuck!" You yelled, clutching your sore knuckles, staring at the bruises that were already starting to form from the force of your rage. "Fuck..."

You sniffled, staring into your rearview mirror, hastily wiping away the tears that were streaming down your face, eyes bloodshot and nose threatening to plug up from your excessive crying. You tried calming down, taking a few deep breaths to calm yourself down. Your first psychiatrist taught you about breathing exercises.

Yet, those techniques didn't stop you from the plague that invades your subconscious. The images of your family murdered, blood staining every crevice...

You shook your head before glancing over at the piece of paper, sighing to yourself as you reached over, picking it up. The name of your new therapist stared back at you, promising you of more false promises and hurt.

Dr. Lecter.

A few weeks later, you were sitting in the waiting room waiting for your first session. Well, first session with your new therapist. You were picking your nails as you watched the clock, dreading the unavoidable. The minutes were ticking by, seemingly mocking you of your adversity.

You were anxious all morning, pacing in your room, dressed and prepared only a few hours ahead of schedule. The drive was hellish, thoughts of canceling the appointment, suffering a fee and turning back haunted you. Now, you were in the waiting room with a racing heart, the pattering of the raindrops outside distracting you.

'I am beyond help...'

"Miss (L/N)?" A deep-toned voice asked.

Your head snapped, mind clearing as you faced the person that had called your name. Standing by the door, keeping it open with a charming yet polite smile upon his face, was your new and fourth psychiatrist.

Dr. Lecter

"Sorry, yeah, that's me." You said, standing from your seat but keeping your distance, you simply didn't want to barge into his office. You gave him a small smile, still feeling uncomfortable with the beginning of your session. "It's very nice to meet you, Dr. Lecter."

"Likewise." He replied, stepping to the side with the door still opened for you. "Shall we begin with our session for today?"

"Of course." You walked past him, nodding in thanks before stepping into his office, maintaining from letting out a gasp of surprise over the vastness of his office. If you hadn't known this was his office, you would have guessed it was. The room screamed elegance and filled with decor one would see in an art museum.

"You have a lovely office." You complimented, looking around the room as Dr. Lecter closed the door and walked over to his desk, picking up some papers.

"Thank you, I quite enjoy displaying decorum through interior decorating." He replied, almost in a teasing way. "I apologize that you've been waiting a few weeks before we could start. Your psychiatrist had to send your information over from previous sessions."

"I wish it were longer, actually." You stated halfheartedly, finally taking a seat when he gestured silently towards one of his many available chairs nearby, nodding in thanks.

"Not very fond of sessions are you, miss (L/N)?" He asked, glancing your way as he shuffled through some of your paperwork, most likely your old medications and lack of diagnoses.

"I'm not particularly fond of wasting my time talking about my issues until the person trying to help me figures out I'm just incurable." You refused to return his gaze, fiddling with your nails. "They can't figure out what's wrong with me."

"There is no such thing as being incurable, there's only being overlooked."

"How do you figure?" You asked in confusion, looking up to watch him place down the papers and take a seat across from you. You didn't like the way he refused to look away from you, it made you...fuzzy.

"I believe your experience with your previous psychiatrists are, in better terms, unfit to handle someone like you." He paused for a moment, "You need someone that is able to understand you, discover your innermost self and I'm simply a better fit."

You felt your cheeks warm slightly, glancing away and unable to understand that fuzzy feeling you were feeling in your chest. "You make it seem so undemanding." You only glanced back when he called your name.

"You, my dear, are not incurable."

You were speechless, you didn't know what else to say. Something that would make him deter him away, but nothing could cross your mind before he continued.

"You are not beyond saving."

You stared at him for a while, the words sinking into your mind and chasing away some of the doubt that has haunted you for a majority of your life. You decided, against your judgement and the aching of your heart at the risk of more pain, you would give him a chance.

You nodded, which prompted him to give you a polite smile.

Time to restart the process.

At first, it was morbid curiosity.

When Hannibal was notified that he was being referred to a fellow colleague's previous patient, he was curious, very curious. He wanted to know the reason a respected psychiatrist, with an incredible track record, couldn't help a patient for once.

Therefore, he decided he would see the person behind his fellow colleague practically being close to ripping their hair out in stress. However, he was genuinely surprised when he opened his office door and saw you sitting in the waiting room. Your timid form playing with your nails with your gaze laser-focused on the clock that you didn't even react when he stood in your presence. Yet, you were oddly polite and if Hannibal didn't read your paperwork, he would have assumed you were an ordinary girl with her own issues.

However, you were...different.

He couldn't place his finger on what it was, but you weren't like anyone else he had seen step into his office. Your profile made it seem like you were a delinquent waiting to happen. However, you were polite, respectful, and had a deep passion for the arts similar to himself. He's never met an individual who shared a multitude of common interests with him. Perhaps, he underestimated you. He certainly wasn't prepared by how pretty you were and how close you two would become and he wouldn't forget your first session. When he had the opportunity to dig deep within your center and rip out your deepest secrets about yourself, in his own space.

Your gaze was focused on the window, watching the water droplets from the rain slide down the glass, the sleeves of your sweater hiding your delicate fingers. Those slim fingers that he couldn't stop staring at. You seemed so helpless, desperate for validation for the things you were going through, and he wanted to know the root of the problem.

Perhaps then, his curiosity would dissipate and he would have an easier time letting someone like you go.

"You must tell me what you're feeling if I am to help you, Miss (L/N)." He spoke softly, crossing his fingers and catching your gaze as you turned away from the window to return your attention with him.

“I feel…” You muttered with a pause, before turning your attention to the man across from you, “like I’m a danger to myself and others because of the things I think about.”

“And what do you feel?” He asked, voice subconsciously matching your own.

“I think about hurting people, people that I used to care about. Seeing their faces twist in pain as their life drains from their eyes.”

“How does it make you feel? Those thoughts that haunt you, you mentioned that they plague you. Is it because you’re ashamed of them?” He mentally cursed himself, allowing his growing curiosity and obsession to take hold in order to discover you.

“They do haunt me but…it’s not because I’m ashamed of them.” You avoided the intensity of his stare, staring at the loose fabric of your sweater. “I’m ashamed of them because I like the thoughts.”

He swore he felt his heart skip a beat.

It has been six months since you've become his patient and Hannibal was plagued with conflicted feelings. Over the course of six months, Hannibal began to notice the ever growing affection he held for you. The soft moments between you during the break between sessions where you both would discuss your various common interests of art, music, and food.

He never thought he would find an individual so interesting, articulate, and extremely beautiful. He could still remember your lovely smile when he presented you with one of your favorite books he happened to have in his many collections of literature. He knew that he had fallen in love with you. Something he never quite expected to happen in his entire lifetime.

However, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. Not when he was still continuing to be your psychiatrist.

A few days after your last session, he turned in his referral for your new psychiatrist and he prayed that you would allow him to reason with you when you find out what he has done in order to be with you properly. From your previous sessions, he knew of the abandonment you’ve feared, however, he didn’t want you feeling like he gave up on you.

He was sitting at his desk, checking his watch as he waited for your arrival. His mind was repeatedly going through the possibilities of your reaction. Your consistent timing insisted that you would arrive any minute. He decided with a heavy sigh, that he would check the waiting room and hoped that you would accept his feelings.

You smiled to yourself, sitting in your usual spot in the corner of the waiting room. You arrived a few minutes early, yet it allowed you to have some time for yourself before you continued your session with Dr. Lecter.

Despite the happiness you felt, you still felt a little nervous. For the past few weeks, you have realized something about yourself that you didn’t think would possibly ever happen. The fuzzy feeling that continued to tickle your mind all those months was the blossoming feeling of love.

It left you scared, scared of the possibility of what it could do to affect the professional relationship between doctor and patient. The possibility of Dr. Lecter discovering your feelings and refusing to continue helping you. All due to the disgust of having someone like you fall for someone like him. It left you feeling defeated already, yet you will allow yourself to continue to be around him. To be around him and never letting your feelings show.

The sound of the door opening made you stand, giving Dr. Lecter a smile which he gladly returned with a soft greeting. However, something in his face made you hesitate in replying. He seemed to have something bothering him and your heart skipped a beat.

This couldn’t be what you think it is…

Pushing the thought from your mind, you quickly returned the greeting.

“Afternoon, Dr. Lecter.” You said, stepping forward when he moved to the side to allow you to walk past him and into his office. “Something troubling you?”

The suit-clad man quietly closed the door, walking past you to stand near his desk, he leaned against the wood, hands perched on the surface. “We have something to discuss.” He finally said, gesturing to the recliner.

“I think I can manage just fine standing.” You retorted, voice full of ice as your eyes hardened slightly. Your body tensed as you continued standing your ground, crossing your arms. “What’s the issue?” you asked, desperately trying to keep the hurt from your voice.

“Please, allow me to explain myself, I do not wish for you to assume-”

“I think I’m assuming correctly, right? Just go ahead and tell me what you’re thinking.”

He sighed, glancing away, presumably gathering his thoughts.

“I believe it is best if I am no longer your psychiatrist-”

Crash.

Hannibal ducked when something was sent flying towards his head, resulting in a loud crash as the object practically combusted against the wall. In instinct, he was quick to cover his face with his forearm, protecting himself from getting hit directly. He was shocked for a moment, processing what occurred before hearing you rush towards him.

“How could you?!” You yelled, trying to hit him with raised fists, becoming more annoyed when your old physiatrist kept blocking your feasible attacks. “You said you wouldn’t give up on me! You fucking liar!”

“I’ve never lied to you! Let me explain!” You couldn’t bother to see his reaction, his face expressing a mix of emotions of shock and desire. He never witnessed you become so angry before, especially at him. He found his fascination for you grew even more. “You’re only making things worse.”

“I don’t care, asshole!” You screamed, pushing him which didn’t even move him an inch as he stared down at you, gripping your forearms as you started crying. “Why are you getting rid of me!”

“You stupid girl!” Suddenly, you were pinned against the wall, gasping in shock at the warmth of Hannibal’s chest pressed against your own, your wrists pinned on each side of your head. “I only did it to be closer to you!”

“What…?” You were breathless, staring into his eyes that were full of darkness and something else you couldn’t recognize. His warm breath hitting the side of your face from his close proximity. “Then, why would you?”

Instead of answering, Hannibal simply leaned down and kissed you, warm lips pressed against your own, which quickly turned passionate. Eagerly, you returned the kiss, pressing closer to him as Hannibal let go of one of your wrists to grip the back of your head, fingers tangling into your hair.

After a few minutes that seemed like an eternity, he slowly pulled away, gazing down at you while you tried catching your breath.

“I’m in love with you, (Y/N).” He stated, fingers pulling away from your hair to instead delicately graze the soft skin of your cheek. “I cannot court you properly if I remain your psychiatrist.”

“Dr. Lecter, I-” Your eyes watered, ashamed of your previous behavior.

“Hannibal, darling.” He muttered softly, stroking your cheek as he pressed his forehead against your own. “I accept you as you are and I want you to be mine, always. Will you consider that?”

You smiled softly, sniffling as you nodded, resulting in Hannibal pulling you into a tight embrace which you gladly returned. “You already have me.” You replied.

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Taglist: Comment to be added!!

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#hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter x you #hannibal lecter x y/n #hannibal lecter fanfiction #hannibal lecter fanfic #nbc hannibal #hannibal nbc #hannibal x reader #hannibal lecter x fem!reader #fem!reader #hannibal nbc fanfiction #hannibal nbc fanfic #nbc hannibal fanfiction #nbc hannibal fanfic #slasher fanfiction #slasher fanfic

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lucifer-is-a-bag-of-dicks · 2 years

Text

I don't remember why I wrote this but uhhh here's a short thing

Jazz waited patiently, in the Arkham Asylum staff parking lot. She could hear the sound of gunshots going off behind the thick walls, and some kind of minor explosion rocked the ground.

But still she waited, quietly, leaning against her car with an arm full of reports she was taking home to fill out and file.

She stared at the back door of the facility, it was thick steel, requiring a specific passcode to open. It was updated regularly, which made it hard for the staff to remember and caused many of them to write it down somewhere. Jazz had brought the issue up with her supervisor, he said he would look into it. That had been a month ago.

The steel door swung open, and out stepped the man she had been waiting for.

The Joker cackled to himself as he slammed the door behind him, trapping several other crooks that were hot on his tail. Jazz could only just hear their cries of outrage.

"So long suckers!!" The Joker cried mirthfully, before stopping suddenly in his tracks, an inch away from running directly into Dr Jasmine Fenton, Arkham's newest resident psychiatrist.

"Dr Fenton!" he grinned, giving a dramatic low bow. "What a delightful coincidence this is!"

"Hello Mr Joker." said Jazz, she referred to all her patients with professional respect, whether she knew their true names or not. The ones with doctorates seemed to appreciate it the most, very few people referred to them as 'Doctor' once they entered the halls of Arkham.

"You know I was really hoping we would run into each other." Joker placed a hand against the car, looming over the shorter woman. "I think conversation flows much more freely without that pesky glass between us, don't you?"

"I was just thinking that myself actually." said Jazz. "So when do you plan to return to Arkham?"

"Return?" Joker asked, before throwing his head back with a loud cackle. "Well that's just terrible for the self confidence Doctor, you don't have even a little faith in me keeping out of trouble?" he batted his eyelashes innocently.

Jazz met his grin with a polite smile of her own. "Oh? I'm sorry, I just assumed your stays at Arkham were all voluntary."

"Well that is an interesting observation," a twinge of curiosity tugged at his eyebrow. "Now what on earth could have put a silly little idea like that in your pretty little head?"

"You're an intelligent man Mr Joker." Jazz shuffled her papers absent mindedly. "I have no doubt you could stay out of Arkham if you really wanted to, but that would require killing the Batman and, well, we both know you won't do that."

Joker's smile dropped into a scowl, something Jazz recognised was dangerous territory, but she knew what she was doing.

"Oh? You think I can't kill the Batman?" he asked, his teeth glinting as they clenched tightly together.

"Oh, no, I know you can kill Batman." Jazz clarified, "You just won't."

Joker paused, it was one of the few moments Jazz had ever seen him caught off guard. She continued before he could collect his thoughts.

"Like I said, you're an intelligent man, a lot more intelligent than people give you credit for. I imagine it's hard to find someone you can match wits with, it wouldn't make all that much sense if you finally found someone and then just killed them off."

A familiar smile began to creep back onto Joker's face, pulling Jazz back out of the danger zone.

Another explosion rocked the ground, and more shouts were heard from inside the asylum. Joker had almost forgotten he was in the midst of a jailbreak.

"Aren't you observant." he said in a low, calm voice, narrow eyes focused sharply on her face. "So tell me little miss smarty pants, what's keeping me from killing you?"

"The joke." said Jazz, primly.

"What?"

"The joke." she repeated. "Your joke, the ultimate joke. I get it."

"You get it?" Joker asked, his face awash with confusion.

"You won't kill Batman because he's fun, sure, but the fact that he won't ever kill you either means you're locked in an eternal battle." Jazz shifted the papers under one arm as she reached for something in her pocket. "For as long as you refuse to kill him, he's stuck in your game, and if you finally push him into killing you, he'll still lose because it means you broke him. The only way he can win is if he dies. It's funny."

She held out her car keys.

"Please trash it when you're done, if they find it in usable condition my insurance won't cover me for a new one."

Joker snatched the keys from her hand, his usual grin stretching from ear to ear.

"Pleasure doing business with you Dr Fenton." he bowed low, and almost lost his balance as another explosion rocked the ground. "Ah! Amateurs!! Can't even get through the outer wall!"

He jumped into Jazz's little yellow Mazda and hit reverse hard, the tires squealed as he pulled around, bringing the car window back up alongside Jazz, nearly hitting her in the process.

"Just one more question." he said, pulling a gun from somewhere under his jumpsuit and pointing it directly between Jazz's eyes. "What makes you so sure I won't kill you?"

"Oh, I wasn't sure." Jazz replied. "It was just a hunch."

"You aren't even the littlest bit frightened of me?" he pouted, batting his eyelashes again.

"No." said Jazz, bluntly. "But please don't take that personally Mr Joker, you are a very imposing man. I just don't fear death. My parents have a portal to the afterlife in their basement, and it's actually a pretty nice place."

Joker's face froze for a moment, before he burst into outrageous uncontrollable cackles. He hit the accelerator and smashed Jazz's car through the security gates, the sound of crunching metal only briefly drowning out his laughter before he took off down the road.

Jazz watched him go, swearing under her breathe.

"Shit."

The security door behind her slammed open as three guards piled out and stared helplessly at the gate. One of them turned to her.

"Did he hurt you miss?"

"No," Jazz huffed, "Stole my car though. I tried stalling him as long as I could. How on earth does such a high profile villain keep escaping?"

"Corruption miss." the guard answered honestly, his voice quiet. "I'm sorry you were left to defend yourself, you're lucky to be alive. The Joker murdered his last three psychiatrists the moment he had the opportunity, I can't imagine why he spared you."

"I think he thought I was funny." said Jazz.

The guard paused for a moment, then nodded.

"Yeah I guess that'd do it. Don't worry about your car, Arkham's insurance will cover it. I got mine stolen in the last jailbreak, my new one is much better, the windows actually roll down." he grinned, before clapping a hand on Jazz's shoulder. "I'll see about getting you a ride home after debriefing."

"Thank you, how long do you think it'll take?"

The guard grimaced.

"I hope you didn't have any plans tonight, you directly witnessed an escape, you're gonna have a lot of forms to fill."

Jazz sighed. "Alright, lead the way."

Jazz's shift had finished at around 5pm, she didn't arrive home until 9, thankfully one of the kitchen attendants happened to live a few blocks over and had been happy to drop her off.

Jazz shuffled up the steps to her apartment block, stifling a yawn as she pulled out her keys.

Her hand paused, inches away from the lock. She tilted her head slightly, toward a dark alleyway between her and the next building over. She could have sworn she'd heard something, a light step, the smallest crunch of broken glass being disturbed.

She stared over into the shadows, maintaining eye contact with the darkness as she unlocked the door and opened it, but she didn't step inside. Instead she stood back, held the door open, and waited.

After a few moments of silence, a shape emerged from the alley, splitting from the shadows as though it had been a part of them.

The Batman walked up her steps and passed through the open doorway. Jazz followed, leading the large man up to the second floor and into a small studio apartment.

"You have good eyes." He said, in a low, quiet tone.

"Ears." Jazz corrected, as she made her way over to the tiny kitchen. "I grew up with a brother who would sneak up on me any chance he got, he was good at it too, was practically invisible. I got used to listening for his footsteps. Tea?"

"No thank you."

She prepared herself a cup, seemingly unbothered by the vigilante in her living room.

"So can I assume this is about the jailbreak at Arkham?" she asked. "I don't know what I can tell you that you can't get from hacking Arkham's computer system, which I'll guess you've already done. I gave my statement and filled the reports, it's all there."

"They were very brief."

"There wasn't a lot to say." Jazz shrugged. "I tried to stall him until the guards arrived, I failed, he took my car."

"Security footage showed you handing him the keys, after waiting in the parking lot for several minutes."

"I have a good rapport with all my patients, I believed I might have been able to stall whoever came out long enough for security to catch up. When I felt our conversation was running short I distracted him by offering up my keys, should I not have?" she raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure that would have gone just great for me, the man has killed people over far less."

"But he didn't kill you, unlike his previous psychiatrists."

"What exactly are you insinuating?" Jazz turned from the kettle on the stove to face the man. "That I just let him get away? That he bribed me?"

"Bribing you wouldn't keep him from killing you, it likely would have increased the chances. Loyalty means nothing to a man like Joker."

"Then what do you want?" Jazz asked, exasperation clouded her face. "I've been answering questions for the past four hours, you can go read the transcripts instead of bothering me."

"The conversation on the footage appeared longer than the one you recounted to security." Batman stated, still speaking in that low, unwavering monotone. "I want the unabridged version."

Jazz chewed the inside of her cheek, a nervous habit she'd picked up from her mother. Before she could say a word the kettle on the stove began to whistle, she hurried to take it off the heat.

"I said as much as I could without breaking patient confidentiality." she admitted as she poured herself a mug of green tea. "I only gave what was important, I said as much during the security debriefing."

"And they accepted that?"

"If it's not relevant to them they don't care." Jazz blew on her tea before taking a small sip. "If you want to know why he didn't kill me, I can only give you my best guess."

"Which is?"

"I made him laugh." she shrugged.

The room was quiet for a few moments, the only sounds coming from a light pattering of rain just starting to hit the windows, and Jazz softly blowing the steam from her tea.

"Is that why you were able to stay calm? You knew how to make him laugh?" Batman asked.

"Oh, no, it wasn't even a joke, more like a personal anecdote." Jazz shrugged. "I shared it more with the intention of peaking his curiosity than making him laugh, seems like I got lucky."

"Hm." Batman grunted. His eyes narrowed beneath his cowl, pensive. "You said you have a good rapport with your patients."

Jazz nodded.

"Joker notoriously despises any psychiatrist assigned to him, the only one he didn't kill he manipulated into working for him." Batman's voice softened almost imperceptibly with concern. "Do you think he might see you as a potential victim like Harley Quinn?"

Jazz's gaze dropped to the floor as she took another sip of her tea.

"I've already considered that possibility, but trust me when I tell you that I'm not that easily manipulated, and I'm not speaking out of arrogance." her eyes flickered up to meet Batman's directly. "I'm speaking from experience, I have gone toe to toe with severely disturbed manipulators in my own personal life, I know what to look for."

Batman nodded slowly.

"Good, but stay vigilant, the Joker is smarter than-"

"People give him credit for, I know." Jazz nodded. "And he knows I know, I'm not sure he's had a doctor acknowledge that before. Not according to his previous mental health records anyway. I don't think he was expecting that from me, it might have been a contributor to his decision not to kill me."

"There's still one thing I don't understand." Batman glanced over to the window as the rain began to slap more heavily against the glass. "In the footage you were completely calm, not even your body language showed any sign of tension, despite the fact that you were not entirely confident that you could convince Joker not to kill you?"

"That's right." Jazz continued to sip on her tea. "Are you familiar with my family?"

"I can't say I've had much of a reason to be. Yet."

"No, no you wouldn't have. Not many people do, not unless you run in very specific circles." Jazz lowered her mug down to the counter with a little 'clink', "I stayed calm because the worst thing the Joker could have done in that moment while he was in a hurry was kill me. He wouldn't have time to torture me, he'd want to just to get me out of the way. I'm not afraid of death."

"What does that have to do with your family?"

"Look them up." Jazz crossed the room and opened the door into the outer hallway. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have paperwork to complete."

#lula's fanfics #danny phantom #batman #dc #danny phantom fanfiction

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cacoetheswriting · 2 years

Text

for reasons known

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader word count: 2k warnings: 18+ !! minors dni: pure smut although pretty soft and fluffy, oral (female receiving), safe / protected sex, light praise kink, dirty talk, use of pet names, (pretty girl, baby), adult language, a lil self-doubt at the start - pls let me know if i missed anything! also, this is borderline unedited... summary: eddie has fallen head over heels, and he will show you just how much he adores everything about you.

a/n: happy smutty tuesday!! this is technically a part two to this little fic, but can definitely be read as a smutty stand alone. enjoy!

Eddie Munson did not consider himself a lucky guy.

On the contrary, oftentimes throughout his life he referred to himself as the ‘unluckiest son of a bitch on the planet’. Which is why, from a very young age, Eddie was a firm believer in creating his own luck.

Although, even as a kid he was quite self-aware, and he knew that luck did not equate happiness.

A person could not simply make themselves happy just because they wanted to. Like seriously, if that was something people could do, thousands upon thousands of psychologists and psychiatrists alike would be out of work.

Therefore, also from a very young age, Eddie figured happiness was a virtue not available to people like him.

And the curly haired boy carried that belief around until you strutted into his life and slapped him with it — metaphorically speaking.

Jesus Christ, those first couple of months after Eddie came to terms with how he truly felt about you were nothing short of fucking perfect.

Sure, he still had days when his big stupid brain would not offer a moment of peace and he found himself over thinking every single little thing. But you could read him like a book and were always more than willing to listen to his doubts before quickly squashing them with a simple: ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ or ‘No one’s ever made me feel the way you do, Eddie Munson’.

It was scary, how much you knew him. It was also scary how much he fucking adored you.

Yet, despite the fear, the metalhead promised he would show you just how much for as long as you would have him, (which he often hoped would be forever).

“God, you’re so fucking beautiful.”

The statement causes you to adjust your position slightly, and still resting on his chest, you lift your head to meet his gaze.

“You were looking at the back of my head, Eds.”

He chuckles lightly at your reply. “Well, the back of your head is beautiful, baby,” Eddie affirms, “Honestly, just all of you. I swear on my life.”

He crosses his heart and you lean in and peck him on the lips, smiling sweetly at his words.

“Don’t you think swearing on your life is a tad dramatic?”

Eddie’s hand gently closes around your jaw in response. Without saying anything, he’s pulling you in for another kiss. He then kisses your nose, your eyes, each of your cheeks, and your forehead. Using his free hand, he proceeds to move your hair aside and kisses your ears, then down your neck, before kissing you back on the mouth.

“All of you,” Eddie repeats in a mere whisper and his lips brush against yours again, only this time with a little more fervor.

One hand is still cupping your face, while the other reaches for your arm. He trails his fingertips brushing against your skin, downwards, until he reaches your waist and lifts the hem of your tank top just a little bit.

Lips still locked together, you shiver under his touch. Or rather the cool of his metal rings.

Slowly, Eddie slid the shirt up, exposing your stomach, and further still until he reached the bottom of your bra. He pulls back for a brief second, as if to ask whether it was okay to keep going. Your heart flutters because he’s always so fucking respectful and answer his unspoken question by sitting up in your spot to pull the tank top over your head before tossing it aside.

Laying back, you grab Eddie by the hem of his vintage t-shirt and pull him in towards you once more. He takes a second, admiring the view, and leans down to kiss along your jawline as his hands rub over your breasts. It doesn't take long for your nipples to perk up through her bra and Eddie’s caress becomes rougher at that very moment.

Eddie can hear you sighing quietly as he works his lips, and his tongue, along your collarbone. He teases you a little by venturing southward then right back up and you whine underneath him, causing his dick to twitch inside his jeans. Fuck. He couldn’t wait any longer. He wanted to feel your nipples stiffen in his mouth.

He unclasps your bra and removes it with ease before once again taking a second to take all of you in.

“So fucking beautiful,” Eddie whispers and presses his forhead to yours as his eyes go dark, “My pretty girl.”

Heat rushes to your face at the moniker and an all too familiar ache grows between your legs. Eddie notices the reaction, like he always did, and without saying anything else he ventures his mouth to the soft tissue of your breasts. You arch your back on instinct, just as Eddie leads his lips down between your tits, then around the cup, finally swirling his tongue around your right nipple.

Eddie smiles against your skin. He bites it gently, flicking his wet tongue on the peak and you squirm underneath him with delight. This is heaven. You were quite sure of it.

One of Eddie's strong hands is now holding onto your side, fingers digging into your waist, while the other circles around your neck, thumb caressing your soft skin. Eddie’s hot mouth swiftly moves across your chest to take the left nipple between his lips, nibbling it till it is as red as the right.

“Eddie…” you moan and he groans against your skin because Jesus Christ, the way his name falls off your lips is intoxicating. He can feel himself get harder.

Pausing, Eddie sits up and hastily removes his shirt, throwing it aside with very little care. He looks down at you, a hungry smile tugging at his lips. Fucking perfect.

And so he’s leaning back down, kissing your lips again. He continues to your cheeks and jawline, then slowly and softly down your neck.

He again guides his mouth southward, between your tits, to your stomach. His hands slide further, then up your cheer skirt and he gives your ass a vigorous squeeze. You moan his name again and he slips his pointing fingers under the elastic of your panties, pulling them down.

The air hitches in your throat, the room grows hotter. Eddie’s hand hovers over your pussy and you want to scream. He’s teasing.

“Baby—”

“Shh…” Eddie hushes, gently covering your mouth with his other hand while glancing at your face, “Can my pretty girl be quiet?”

You nod obediently and he removes his hand, smirking.

The hungry look in his eyes remains as he shifts to the floor, pulling your legs along and positioning your feet on the edge of the bed, causing your underwear to fall like a feather.

Eddie takes a moment to soak it all in — you, almost naked, writhing under his touch.

He wraps his arms beneath your knees and holding you firmly in place, he begins to alternate kisses along your inner thighs. You can sense his embrace coming closer and closer, and you begin to shake, dying for his mouth to make contact, for for his tongue to enter you. For him to enter you.

Just when you’re about to do the one thing he asked you not to, (make a sound), Eddie’s lips meet your opening. His tongue parts your flaps and he begins to lick slowly, up and down, round and round.

You’re chewing on the inside of your cheek, yearning for more, and Eddie answers your unspoken plea by sliding his long tongue inside of you.

Oh fuck, this was his heaven because you taste so good.

He moves his tongue around the tight space like it's a ballroom dance and you tangle your fingers in his brown locks, tugging at them lightly.

Then it happens. He meets your clit.

Now, you can hardly contain yourself. No, you can’t contain yourself, panting as Eddie sucks the little nub between your lips. He caresses it gently with his tongue, you begin to pant harder, you begin to moan. And when his name escapes you — “Eddie…” — he increases his speed.

You arch your back. Tense. Legs squeezing around his head.

He slips his right shoulder out from under your leg and reaches up, grabbing your right tit. He pinches your nippee before grabbing your breast in his hand, while still licking your slit, continuously paying extra special attention to your clit.

“Eddie,” you gasp, almost breathlessly.

The metalhead knows exactly what that means. Head between your thighs, he continues eagerly like a man on a mission, until you release, shaking. At that moment, as he smacks lips together, drinking in your sweet juices, his cock is filled with so much desire that he can no longer contain it.

Giving you a second to recover, he stands to unzip his jeans. The material falls to the ground while Eddie reaches for the box of condoms on his bedside table. With a steady hand, he tears open one packet and pulls out the sticky rubber. He unrolls it onto himself and hovers over you.

“God, you’re so fucking beautiful,” he mutters lovingly, repeating the statement that started all of this, before slanting his lips over yours in a fervent kiss.

You can sense Eddie position himself, his manhood caressing the outside of your sex, teasing. He is always fucking teasing.

But you don’t say anything because his mouth is glued to yours, tongue breaching through, locking together.

His cock clenches and slowly, he pushes the tip in. Holy Shit. You grip the pillows in your fist as he begins to move, barely in, then out, shoving in slightly deeper with each motion. He breaks the kiss and raises his head to stare into your eyes as he makes his final push, fully penetrating.

Eddie could feel each exact detail of the muscles wrapping his cock inside of you as he rocked his hips. His eyes stay directly staring into yours. His lips display a slight, gleeful smile which you can’t help but return.

You lift your arms, placing your hands on the sides of his stomach, feeling each sway of his body meeting yours. You slide your hands, up and down, to the side and over his ribs, then lightly scratch his back with your fingernails.

With each thrust, your scratches become more passionate, deeper, aggressive. Eddie groans, eyes rolling to the back of his head, because of the pleasure your nails provide and increases his speed, rocking harder between your thighs.

He leans down to kiss you again. It’s wet and sloppy, and he quickly moves his hot mouth to your cheek, then upward where he lightly nibbles on your ear, and then down the side of your neck.

Your chest rises and falls against him. Both of your breathing grows more incoherent, as your body surges to meet Eddie’s every motion. He continues to rock faster. His member pulsing in and out of you, back and forth, too and from, till both your bodies begin to tense up.

Nails gripping deeply into his back, you moan heavenly into his ear and arch your back.

“Eds, fuck…”

“Cum for me, pretty girl,” he groans in response, “Cum, baby.”

It’s an order you are happy to oblige.

Your walls clench around his cock and you peak, panting heavily as you release. You ride the high of your orgasm, muscles pulsing around his throbbing member, and Eddie becomes too excited to continue, exploding inside of you mere seconds later.

The swaying slows, your breathing calms.

Eddie slips his cock out and falls next to you. He removes the condom and ties it swiftly before throwing it into the small bin next to his bed. Exhaling, he then proceeds to lift his hand up to gently grab your chin, turning your face toward him.

“That was amazing,” you declare, the tone of your voice is soft and makes his heart flutter.

Eddie nods in agreement and leans over to brush his lips over yours. As you return the kiss, you put your hands on his shoulders to pull him closer, because, well, why stop a good thing?

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actual-changeling · 3 months

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Welcome back to a meta post that was not supposed to exist, but I fucking love answering questions, so here we are.

i got an ask (the answer contains a tl;dr) about why I think Crowley has unstable relationship patterns, and the following will be a detailed look at why this is the case, how Aziraphale plays into it, and what it ultimately means for the two of them.

This won't be as unhinged as my usual analyses, so consider this a special edition of Alex's unhinged meta corner - now hinged.

As always, please remember that this is my personal interpretation—not a generalization—and that genuine questions are welcome, either here on the post or in my inbox!

Everything I will say is based on research I have done, books & studies, and many, many conversations with my therapist (and at points my psychiatrist too); just so you know I'm not making shit up as I go.

Now, in the context of trauma-related/based disorders, what exactly does it mean to have unstable relationship patterns, and how does it apply to Crowley and Aziraphale's relationship?

Canonically, heaven does not care about what Aziraphale is doing and they are not keeping an eye on him. We know this both from references in the script and their dialogue and what we see throughout the show as a whole. That "fear" of being found out should he openly commit to Crowley is, for the most part, self-fabricated.

Yes, hell would potentially punish him (that potentially is another long post), but that is not something Aziraphale gets to take and use against Crowley, and the fact that does it anyway to 'prove' that he is not behaving incorrectly is a big issue.

What that leaves them with is a very common and well-known relationship pattern that requires a lot of self-awareness, control, and work to break it.

Aziraphale and Crowley get closer, spend more time together, their relationship grows and the intimacy increases, resulting in their behaviour changing to reflect that. They go on more romantic-coded dates (e.g. 1827, whatever the fuck 1941 was), eat together more frequently, drink together and feel comfortable enough to get drunk drunk while in each other's company—which always carries the inherent risk of doing something 'forbidden' while their impulse control is lowered.

I think the second episode of season one is actually a great example for all of this. When they drive to Tadfield, there's a mutually respectful conversation, they tease each other, they bicker like an old married couple, and don't fall into blaming the other for the situation they're in. At the manor, they are openly flirting from the start, laughing about the paintball guns and blowing kisses to miracle away stains, and the wall slam scene honestly speaks for itself.

I wrote a detailed analysis of it right here, which contains the conclusion that the entire interaction was intentional and orchestrated by the two of them.

They are doing great, they're comfortable, intimate—both physically and emotionally—and their sides are already on their asses about the apocalypse, so why not commit to the relationship?

Because Aziraphale gets scared, scared of intimacy, scared of what it would mean for his life, scared of what it would force him to confront (his faith, mostly, which is another gigantic topic), scared of the changes it would bring to their relationship, scared of breaking out of the pattern they have been moving in since the very beginning.

So he pushes, hard. He insults and denies and hurts Crowley to get as far away from all of that as possible. Push & pull, no matter when, no matter why, it's always the same.

At this point you might be thinking Alex, this is all on Aziraphale, how is this also Crowley's unstable relationship pattern? The answer to that question can be roughly summarized in one sentence:

He does not punish or discourage Aziraphale's behaviour.

There are NEVER lasting—if any—negative consequences for Aziraphale when he forces them into the push/pull dynamic, when he insults him, denies their relationship, calls him evil, you name it. No matter what Aziraphale does, Crowley always forgives and forgets and comes back to him, essentially resetting their loop. That way there cannot be any progress because they're not moving a single inch in either direction that isn't carefully organized and controlled by Aziraphale.

Why does Crowley not confront him? Because he is scared too.

Now, THIS is the part where I explain why I said Crowley has unstable relationship patterns. It is important to understand that Aziraphale's kind of instability is only one possible manifestation, and that they are—broadly speaking—on opposite ends of the spectrum, which not only makes them incredibly compatible, but also makes them worse.

Crowley is terrified of losing Aziraphale permanently and being on his own. God rejected him, heaven rejected him, hell rejected him—his life as been one traumatic incident after the other with a strong focus on abandonment and neglect, especially from people he cared about.

He says himself that Aziraphale is his only friend, he doesn't have anyone or anything else. The bookshop is Aziraphale's anchor, but Crowley has nothing except the Bentley and whatever Aziraphale allows him to partake in. Hell can take his job, his flat, punish and torture him as they please, and make his life, well, hell.

With the Bentley only appearing in the early 20th century, for 99% of his life he had nothing except for Aziraphale, his best friend, the person he loves.

So what does he do? He clings, he circles him and tries to push his orbit just a tiny bit closer whenever there's a gap he can use, trying to solidify their relationship. Terrified of being abandoned again, he swallows and ignores everything and anything negative.

The final fifteen are the FIRST TIME that Aziraphale asked him for something and he said no without changing his mind later—and it was literally the worst case scenario, the one boundary he has that he is not willing to cross for him, literally the barest minimum.

Every other time he relented, gave in, apologized for something that wasn't his fault, have Aziraphale everything he wanted from Hamlet over shooting a gun at his face to giving him the Bentley. Crowley's primary objective is to do whatever it takes to avoid being abandoned, so whenever Aziraphale DOES push back and abandons him/says that he will, he panics. He panics even more when there is an outside source threatening Aziraphale's presence in his life.

Look at how frantic he is when he finds Aziraphale after the bandstand, trying to say whatever it takes to get him to come with him. He does the apology dance, gives in when it comes to Gabriel, and never reacts to Aziraphale in a way that would prompt him to re-think the choices he is making, let alone stop doing the push/pull.

His identity revolves around Aziraphale, his only relationship is with Aziraphale, he allows him to shape him to his liking as far as he can take and then some, he needs him to be happy, to enjoy himself, to live a life worth living—and Aziraphale needs him to be and do all of those things so he can keep up his behaviour.

They are dangerously co-dependent and just spiral deeper and deeper until they hit rock bottom and are forced to separate.

Look, I have BPD on top of everything else, I have been in a relationship with this exact pattern in Crowley's role, and it is fucking horrible. Absolutely unbearable. My ex-partner was like Aziraphale, pulling and pushing and pulling and pushing but on a daily basis, every few hours. No amount of talking or begging could get them to not behave in a way that would hurt me, and I was so emotionally tied to them and terrified of being alone that just like Crowley, I relented every. single. time. A year and a half and they never, not ONCE, apologized for anything. Ever. Not for hurting me, not for being an asshole, nothing.

The only way I got out was with a lot of therapy, support, and so much emotional work I was having several panic attacks a day because I was so fucking exhausted. Crowley and Aziraphale separating was the best thing that ever happened to their relationship.

Now, Aziraphale is facing negative consequences for his behaviour and is forced to examine himself and deal with all those fears causing him to behave the way he does. Crowley on the other hand is now forced to learn how to exist without Aziraphale to orbit around—he needs to develop an identity that exists outside of Aziraphale, so he can have boundaries and stick to them.

#alex talks good omens #good omens #crowley #good omens meta #the final fifteen #aziraphale #good omens season 2 #go2 #aziracrow #crowley x aziraphale #ineffable husbands #ineffable wives #ineffable spouses #ineffable divorce #alex's unhinged meta corner

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