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mirohtron · 1 year

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"You don't understand," the villain hissed. "Loving me will ruin you, you stupid thing. Maybe you want that, maybe you want to be ruined and left unstable and hurt, but you don't seem to realise the extent. I will take all the light you can give me and let you burn to ash, even though I can see it'll kill you. I will not blow you out. I'll take it, selfishly, and I'll exhaust you until you hate me. I—"

The hero trapped them against a wall and kissed them, and kissed them more, and then some more until the villain was pushing against them dizzily and the lack of air crumpled their lungs up.

Then, the hero let go.

The villain slumped against the wall, staring, reeling, gasping in precious air.

"I don't care," said the hero. Just as breathless. "I don't care, I really don't. You think we're bad for each other? Then let's just exhaust each other until the novelty wears off. Until then," the hero kissed them again, harder, shorter, and the villain couldn't suppress their noises, "I'll just take what I can get."

The villain didn't have a response to that.

The hero kissed them again.

note: i wrote an extended version of this :) its p long

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They fought. It was so early in the relationship that after the villain's mind had cleared they hit the pillow and spiralled and spiralled and spiralled some more until they were convinced everything was a mistake. They never voiced out their troubles.

"I'll make you hate me," the villain said one night, when they were staring at the lights in the street in the night and sitting on the grass in some lonely park in the city. "I'll make you regret ever starting this." It wasn't a threat. It was just something inevitable. It happened all the time.

The hero stared at them like they were taking that as a challenge. That felt like a threat. Later the villain found themselves trapped against the wall and keening like an animal because the hero was being too gentle with them, kissing them too gently, holding them too gently. The fact that they were doing something new so soon scared the villain—they wanted to hold onto this as long as possible. They wanted to stay warmed by the hero's fire as long as possible before the novelty wore off. They missed their rough kisses. They were made for that. They were not made to be held like a fragile thing, because they were far from fragile.

Later the villain killed someone. They held the body close to their own and tried to breathe through the panic because this would be the dealbreaker. They'd gone months smothering all the ugly, disgusting parts of themselves, and that had bottled up and burst and turned into this.

It's not like the villain wasn't a killer. It was just that no one knew. This felt like infidelity. It was the only way the villain could describe the feeling. A betrayal. An unfaithfulness toward an unspoken agreement. A catalyst thrusting them into destruction.

When the hero saw them, the villain watched the revulsion flicker through their face like a flame in the breeze. The villain was prepared for handcuffs and a death sentence. The hero took the body and helped them bury it and the two didn't speak a word, didn't say anything. The hero took them home and washed them and scrubbed the dirt and blood and tears out of their face and the villain was too tired to bear the emotional weight of what would happen if they asked why this was being done. The hero ignored the way the villain looked at the hero's clothing when it was held out to them to wear (because they couldn't wear their clothes, surely not after doing something so horrible��forcing the hero to do something so horrific and irreversible and sinful). The soft fibre felt suffocating and more incriminating than their bloody, ruined clothes.

Afterwards the hero towelled the villain's hair dry and they grew more exhausted, trying to figure out why the hero was doing this, the silence wrapping around their own throat and dared them to break it. They laid down on the hero's bed with the villain staring at the ceiling too sad to go to sleep and the hero's warm arm over their chest, their face against their neck.

"You're right," the hero's words were soft, but the way they shattered the silence with no warning made the villain flinch. The hero's grip turned unforgivably harsh. "You are ruining me."

The villain knew that something would give, soon. Something had to.

The hero kind of, sort of rationed their affection when the villain said too much. Gave away just enough to sustain for a little, but not enough to really survive on it.

"I'll ruin you," the villain said once. "I'll hurt you and it won't be fair."

The hero kissed them and bit their lip until it bled for that. Then they drew back and looked their fill and decided they weren't anywhere near done, so they leaned back in and kissed the villain until they were coming up breathless and pushing against the hero for air.

One night, the hero came home bloody.

They stood at the door, arms shaking, staring into nothing. They'd left a bloody, muddy trail. The doorbell had their bloody fingerprint. The villain had thought that their whole world had crumbled.

The villain had held them, whispered into their hair that they'd take care of it, to freshen up. They burned the body, scrubbed the blood clean, scrubbed the floors and the welcome mat and any dirty thing their eyes landed on and took up as much time as possible removing all the evidence. They sat on a bench outside, curled up, stared into the night and thought, something was going to give. Something was going to happen. The villain was going to do something, and the hero was going to kill them for it. They were going to die a hundred times, one death for each time they forced the hero to chip off a little bit of their conscience, until they were something else entirely.

Is this how God had felt, seeing his prettiest, loveliest, most perfect angel commit sin? Is this how Achilles had felt, hearing of Patroclus' death? This blood, after all, was just the villain's armour, wasn't it? Some type of shield? And wasn't that death in the hero's eyes? Hadn't they died along with their victim that night? Hadn't the villain killed them?

They came back exhausted. The hero had made a cup of warm hot chocolate for themselves. The villain stood at the door and stared. Nobody said anything for a long time.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay," the hero said.

"Do you think I'm a parasite?" the villain asked, when they were in bed.

"No." But the hesitation before their answer was telling.

There was no love to share, that night.

The hero was not the same after that. Their kisses came the same way someone's fingers would scrabble for purchase at the edges of a waterfall. The villain still burned for it. This was grief, they thought. This was the burning sort of pain, the torturous asphyxia, people got when they changed too quickly and too greatly, when their previous self slipped out of them too quickly for them to catch.

The self is the only thing that keeps one sane. It is a shame that, for us creatures who are so afraid of change, it shifts and transforms as easily as water.

Sometimes the villain thought of death. The pains of this world were neverending. They'd wake up earlier than the hero, watch them sleeping on the bed. The hero was so upset all the time, always worried, always grieving, always in pain. The villain had made them that way. But when they were asleep, they were the closest thing to an angel this world had to offer. In their sleep, they looked as though not even the most world-ending kind of suffering could touch them. How free they looked, from the pain, that the villain always wished they could keep them sleeping forever.

Maybe they were more parasitic than they'd assumed, though, because when the kettle finally burst, it was the hero who attempted on both of their lives.

The villain didn't understand, despite all those months they'd spent slowly ruining the hero. They threw up all the poison they'd been given (put into their dinner, of course, the dinner the hero had been lovingly making them all these months) and the hero pressed into the walls of their home, watching them, wide-eyed. The villain saw the regret, the revulsion, in their eyes. The way they changed. They didn’t understand. But they knew the hero had changed for the worst.

It was a metamorphosis. They were completely broken now. It was all the villain’s fault. All their doing.

After that, the hero cleaned their vomit, rubbed their back. Curled fingers into their hair. Soft. Gentle.

There was no love to share. There was just this pain, this constant echo of I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to kill you, and maybe it didn’t even matter. The villain had killed the hero in their own special, fire-to-matchstick way, and the hero had killed them in their own, let-death-make-us-unpartable way.

The villain looked at the hero.

The hero looked back at them.

They couldn’t go to bed like this.

Looking at the hero made the villain feel sick. Still, they looked. They forced themself to do it. They had to see. They ought to. It was the least they could do. It was their handiwork, after all.

They still couldn’t go to bed like this.

They walked the streets of the city the villain plagued and the hero disinfected. They’d done that the first day that they’d made it official, when the dread plagued the villain severely, when the hero had been drunk on love and their own twisted sort of affection. They’d walked the streets in silence, in the soft hush of the night, their hearts beating red and burning against their ribs.

“Is this it?” asked the hero, so blankly that they seemed as though they would’ve been perfectly fine with any answer.

“No,” the villain said, but the silence before their answer said on the contrary.

They sat on the grass together. The streetlamps in their city had nightshades over them, so that no light pollution hid the beauty of the stars. The villain cradled the hero’s face in their hand, a pretty, gorgeous painting ruined. They were like a corrupted, twisted version of Joan of Arc and the archangel Micheal. Micheal (the villain — here to corrupt, here to be a parasite, here to captivate and charm and ruin), whispering into the ear of Joan (the hero — innocent, wide-eyed, mulish and too loving).

The hero wrapped one arm around the villain, the other holding their hand positioned at their sides, like they were going to dance, but it was just that neither of them wanted to let go. They pushed the villain down onto the grass, buried their face into the crook of their neck. Their breath hitched, then broke, and the villain felt the tears hit their skin long, long before the sobs came to wreck through the hero’s spent body.

“I’d warned you.” It was a horrible thing to say, but the villain had nothing else to tell them. I’m sorry. I love you. I’d warned you. It all boiled down to those three phrases.

They expected the hero to say horrible things in anger, sadness. You’re horrible. I wanted you to die. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you so much. But the hero didn’t say any of those things. They took in deep, hitching breaths, until they broke, until the villain felt the tears land on their skin. Then, in waves, came the sobs, wrecking through their body. The villain wrapped an arm around the hero and rubbed circles into their back, soothing, whispering soft things into their hair.

Their fingers intertwined. The hero wailed, and cried, and held close. The villain could hear every sort of pain in their voice. The unwillingness to face that this was the end. The regret of coming to the villain in the first place. The indescribable pain, of knowing that the love was there, it really was, it was so evident in its presence that it hurt that it couldn’t work out. The what if’s. The maybe’s.

When the hero got the energy to get up on their elbows, face the villain again, it had been hours and the sky was a dull, greyish blue. They’d aged decades. They would never be the same.

The villain ached to hold on. They pushed the hero’s hair out of their face, tenderly tucked it behind their ear.

The hero kissed them. The villain kissed back, carded their fingers through their hair, swallowed their cries. They whispered a hundred different variations of the same thing against their mouth. I’m sorry. I love you. They did not burn for it. The hero did not bite them. There was nothing either of them would gain from this, except for a memory to hold on to, a phantom touch against their lips. A remedy to soothe their unbearable pain.

They kissed until they couldn’t breathe, kissed until they grew faint with it, kissed until the last second, until their visions flickered. Only then did they pull apart, gasping, foreheads pressed together, eyes closed. The hero’s tears fell to the villain’s cheeks. How poignant, the villain thought. Your grief is mine to be shared with. The shape of our pain is identical.

They stayed like that for a long time. Lips close together. Breathing each other’s air. In utter pain. Like two statues of wailing angels in a cemetery.

When the hero pulled away, they let go of the villain’s hand, and it was impossible to cope with that. It was horrible to know that this was the end. It was unbearable to know that the hero was going to walk out of this park, and that the villain would never feel their love again. But it was better than whatever they’d become if they stayed together. It was better. Any option without the villain was always better.

“The sky,” the villain said softly, “is gorgeous, isn’t it?”

The hero did not respond, but the villain had become so accustomed to their presence that they knew that they were there.

They walked away, cold grass crunching beneath the soles of their shoes. The villain felt the thread connecting them stretch at the distance, pulled taut, until finally it broke; this was it. This was pain. This was suffering. This was every unbearable thing the world had to give. And the villain would take it and move on, without the hero. Without their love.

They didn’t see each other again.

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pastorpresent · 2 years

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Dean isn't supposed to be awake. He's supposed to be in his bed opposite Sammy's, snoring softly after a long day of being stuck in the impala while they made the seven hour drive to uncle Bobby's house.

He definitely isn't supposed to be eavesdropping, peeking through the doorway into the living room where his dad and Bobby were sat on the old couch, both with matching bottles of beer.

He isn't supposed to be listening, but as much as dad liked to praise his ability to follow orders - he was never quite as good as following rules.

He had heard Sam's name. If he hadn't, he probably would've just grabbed a glass of water and headed back to bed.

"It's getting harder to keep things from him. I told Dean about this stuff when he was five, and Sam's almost 10. He's going to catch on soon and... I need to do this before then," dad sounded stressed, more so than usual, and Dean watched him take a long drink.

Bobby sighed and ran a hand over his face.

"You sure this is even what you want? He's your son, John."

Dean felt something curl low in his stomach. It was that same sickly feeling he got whenever he saw a kid push his Sammy, or when one of the things they were hunting got a little too close to the motel. A feeling he had grown accustom to ever since that night in a burning house, running onto the damp grass with Sam pressed against his chest, his only thoughts being a mantra of protectyourbrother.

"That's why I need to do it. He'll grow up normal. The family seems nice enough, and anythings better than his life now. He'd be better off," dad sounded almost remorseful, and the conversation seemed to be frantically joining up in Dean's head to create a horrifying conclusion.

"You think he's gonna be happy gettin' shipped off to live with a buncha' strangers?"

Dad huffed a sigh, rolling his eyes, "don't, Bobby-"

"I get wantin' him to have a normal life, I do. But you're not thinkin' about what the boy wants. Hell, what about Dean? He doesn't like letting the kid out of his sight, he'll never talk to you again."

It was true. He wouldn't even try to deny it. It was selfish, probably. What dad was saying made sense, and maybe Sam would find a way to be happier. He could picture him with a nice family in a nice house, complete with a damn picket fence and puppy. The picture of suburbia, instead of questionable motel bed spreads and days sleeping in cars.

It didn't matter. He couldn't let it happen. He couldn't let Sam go, and that's all that mattered.

"I'm calling them, Bobby-"

"Don't!"

Dean came out from around the doorframe, and two sets of eyes immediately fell to him.

"You're supposed to be in bed!" Dad hissed, but it didn't hold the usual edge.

Bobby didn't say anything, busying himself with a drink from his beer.

"You can't send him away, dad."

"It's for the best-"

"Is it hell!" Dean yelled.

"It's bullshit, is what it is," Bobby mumbled from his seat, earning a brief glare from John.

"He stays with us. If you send him anywhere else I swear to god I'll leave too, or I'll go long enough to find him and bring him back," he growled, and he damn meant it.

Silence filled the room, and dad glanced over to the phone.

"I won't," he finally said after a moment, and Bobby seemed to deflate a little in relief.

Dean held his stance, arms folded over his chest, eyes locked on his father.

"You swear?"

He nodded, sagging back into the couch cushions, "I swear."

"Good," Dean affirmed, turning on his heel and heading back upstairs.

And so what if he spent a little while listening to Sam sleeping? He needed to know he was there.

#this is a mess and im tired sorry for the inevitable mistakes #sam winchester #dean winchester #spn #sam and dean #supernatural #wincest #if u wanna read it that way #or just #codependancy #gencest #samdean #spn drabble #mywriting

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plumbus-central · 2 years

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i hc that the sofa in the den is a fold out and thats where they put minnie for the time being.

And since neither of them can stand being alone while the other sleeps across the hall, rick and minnie both end up sleeping in there together more often than not.

#rick sanchez #beth smith #art #my art #rick #beth #minnie/rick #its the #CODEPENDANCY #innit

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crones-trash · 9 months

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Y'all know I have a fascination w books in the hands of people I follow on IG. The other day in her Insta feed, Aarika presented an open book.

Naturally, I zoomed in to see what I could be read.

Naturally, I felt sad about the sweet beauty not having found someone worthy of having an affair w/ her.

Then today Google proved its worth when I searched for "book with chapter title "A Love Affair with Yourself" & got the answer.

CODEPENDENT NO MORE

A couple of quotes from the blurb on the site stood out to me: "...codependency—the concept of losing oneself in the name of helping another..." Damn. I've done that. Also, "Is someone else's problem your problem? If, like so many others, you've lost sight of your own life in the drama of tending to a loved one’s self-destructive behavior, you may be codependent."

After the disaster that was my second marriage, I didn't date anyone again for 6 years! Despite having a couple of years of therapy, it took that long for me to feel like risking my heart again.

Anyway, spin this new insight into Aarika's state of mind any way you please.

#Aarika Wolf #codependancy #A Love Affair w Yourself

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risingfire17-the-weeb-trash · 10 months

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40 Day Anime Challenge Day 10- A character you despise with all your heart and soul: Almost everyone in Welcome to the NHK (2006)

I was excited to watch this. It had great reviews, and fans raved that it was a realistic and positive portrayal of people with mental health issues. As someone with these myself, of course I was excited.

But here are my thoughts after watching the anime:

1) It is not a realistic portrayal of people with mental illness, because the characters are not given much characterization beyond the problematic behaviors of their disorders, no redeeming qualities, and very little character development that was rushed at the end.

2) It is not a positive portrayal of people with mental illness at all. Once again, they are almost entirely reduced to stereotypes, and they’re pretty terrible people. If this is the representation people like me, who has put in a lifetime of therapy and self-reflection to continue overcoming my issues and have healthy relationships, then I fear what those without mental illness would think of me based on what they see in these individuals.

So let’s get to why I despise the characters, yeah? (Spoilers ahead)

Tatsuhiro Sato, our protagonist.

I don’t have a problem with the fact that he is a NEET. I have a problem with the fact that he never got professional help. I have a problem with the fact that he lied to his parents to keep getting their money, and cursed them when they finally cut him off. I have a problem with the way he treated his friends, yelling, name calling, throwing things, and then guilting them into letting him mooch off of them. I have a problem with his attraction to Misaki. First, because she is a teenager, and instead of staying away from her so he doesn’t act on this, he continues to spend time with her, has her pretend to be his girlfriend at one point, uses her as a cook and housekeeper, and ultimately confesses his love and starts dating her. The second reason is that until a rushed confession in the last episode that may not even be genuine because he said it to literally talk her off the ledge, he was only attracted to her physically and because she would do anything he wanted. He told her multiple times that she was a nuisance, a nag, had a terrible personality, etc. He belittled and bullied her through most of the series.

Misaki Nakahara, our wannabe hero.

Clearly, she’s a struggling teen and needs help. What she does not need to do is berate and enable a grown man that she only latches on to because looking down on him helps her feel good about herself (which she admitted to halfway through the series and never worked at changing afterward) She coerces him to go along with her “treatment plan” rather than encouraging him to seek actual professional help. She nags at him, bursts into his home, and often pushes him farther out of his comfort zone than he can handle at the time. She enables his codependency when she starts cooking and cleaning for him, all the while scolding him for not doing it himself, so he learns that he is incompetent and should just let her do everything and accept her criticism when he does. I’ll give her a bit more of a pass than the other characters, because unlike the other characters behaving like children, she is literally a child. But she is still a toxic and manipulative person and her problematic behavior needs to be addressed by her guardians (and a licensed therapist)

Hitomi Kashiwa.

This girl was the catalyst for Sato having a breakdown, always talking about conspiracies. When she comes back into his life, she asks him to join a group she is part of for a trip, not telling him that they are all there to commit suicide! She takes her vulnerable junior, who, despite all his flaws, is at least trying to get himself together, and exposes him to a group exacerbate his depression and he almost gets killed because of it. I haven’t read the manga, but I am told she tries to have an affair with Sato after she is married with a kid. (And the person she is married to, Akira Jogasaki, is so sweet and supportive, he’s the only character I like in this show, so it really hurts to see her betray him like that.)

Kauru Yamazaki, Sato’s best friend, giving otakus everywhere a bad name.

This guy is supposed to be the “functional” one of the group, being the only one who has a job and is in school to pursue a meaningful career. That’s great and all, but he has a shit personality. His life revolves around perving on 2D women, and complaining that real women can never compare because of the imperfections that make them human, like having their own personalities, motives, and goals. He voices this in a way that is very misogynistic, painting women as manipulative. When he finally starts to fall for a human girl, he pursues her after being rejected, gets mad at her for interacting with other males, and has Sato videotape his confession to her without her knowledge for reference for their game. After moving home, he dates a girl who looks just like her, implying that he does not love this girl, but just sees her as a stand-in. And this is the guy Sato goes to for advice, ugh.

Finally, Megumi Kobayashi.

After finding out about Sato’s issues, she lies to him and manipulates him into joining a toxic MLM scheme. Even when he tries to get out, she tricks him multiple times into buying her stuff. Look, I feel sorry for her circumstances, but that doesn’t excuse her behavior.

This show was painful to watch. (Even with Akira Jogasaki carrying the whole show on his back) I don’t know if the manga did any better and never will because I’m never touching this series again. I hate these people. Time to search for an anime that is actually a realistic and positive portrayal of people with mental illness.

#anime #40 day anime challenge #welcome to the nhk #anime review #bad anime #poor portrayal of mental illness #terrible people #tatsuhiro satou #misaki nakahara #hitomi kashiwa #kaoru yamazaki #megumi kobayashi #codependancy #unlicensed therapy #manipulation #toxic people #mental illness does not excuse being a terrible person #shows i hate #not sorry

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