#with both private psychiatrists and public ones

[unstablemotions]

people: you need to get an official diagnosis from a psychiatrist!!!

psychiatrists: *misdiagnosed me with different things like +4 times and filled me with unnecessary medicine*

[cinnamonest]

I'm not looking to start shit so I'm not linking it or anything, but you may have seen a recent anti-dark-content post circulating with a lot of notes making rounds in the x reader sphere and while I have nothing against people posting their feelings in their own private spaces, every time I see these kinds of posts there's a lot of misinformation that gets regurgitated in the reblogs/replies and I saw what looked like a battlezone in the replies, so.

I know posts like that can be very jarring and affects people like my readers, so to combat misinformation/shaming for anyone who saw it, I'm going to share some of my information on combatting fandom puritanism/misogyny/kinkshaming in its most common forms.

The most important fact, if you read nothing else, is this:

Most women have rape fantasies.

62% to be exact. I think the most pervasive myth on this content is that consumers are "weird" for it, when the numbers don't indicate that. You're in the majority!

The vast majority of people who have rape fantasies do not put them into practice in real life. A variety of factors can determine whether or not they do, particularly specific psychiatric disorders. (X)

To specifically address common harmful and pervasive myths:

the "go to therapy!" line

Generally any academic or professional resource will immediately tell you that consuming and engaging in "dark" fantasies is accepted and encouraged by mainstream psychiatry and part of the professional education for psychiatrists. (This also used to be pretty well-known until like the last 5 years or so, not sure why that changed.)

Here are some particularly insightful resources:

1) This article by Dr. David Wahl, in my opinion, hands-down does the best job of simply and thoroughly explaining why these fantasies occur and why couples practice CNC, as well as the fact that they are both harmless, psychologically beneficial to those with them, and not at all correlated to real-life rape.

2) Dr. Claudia Six has some of the best and most thorough material out there on the subject, specifically explaining why this is taught in mainstream academia psychology and how it is incredibly helpful to rape victims (X).

3) Lisa Diamond is a professional who focuses on this subject a lot, and was featured in the documentary "The Dilemma of Desire," in which she specifically focuses on how these fantasies are not correlated to real-life desires. (X)

4) Dr. Casey Lyle has specifically talked a lot on his socials about how fantasies, even in men/the perspective of the offender, do not correlate to actual risk of offending.

5) This article is not by a professional, but from the perspective of a survivor discussing how it is beneficial to survivors.

the "why would you want that?" line

The idea that fictional tastes = what you want to happen to you in real life is actually of misogynistic origin. I don't want to seek out or add links on this one, but if you're really curious, you can research about how the idea that "women read rape fiction, that means they secretly want rape!" was originally a classic "red pill"/MGTOW/4chan talking point that made its way into mainstream dialogue and thus the public mind in the last 15 years or so due to the incel epidemic popularizing those communities.

the "it's only valid for survivors then!" line

On one hand, yes it's very important to acknowledge that trauma victims use it to cope, however I feel that over-emphasizing that gives the impression that non-victims should be excluded from consumption of dark content, so to clarify, it's a very valid means for all women. Many women who have not personally experienced rape still fantasize about it, and that's fine.

The full explanation as to why this is true for many of them would be lengthy (and addressed in the aforementioned Dilemma of Desire documentary), but in the simplest terms, nonconsensual sex is the only context in which patriarchal society permits women to have sex at all without feeling guilt. For many women, particularly those in more heavily misogynistic or religious cultures, these fantasies are appealing because the idea of consensual sex may give them feelings of shame, guilt, "sin," etc. These fantasies allow them to experience the feeling of being desired without guilt of participation.

No society on earth is free of the psychological grip that cultural misogyny has on women, and shaming women for adapting to the conditions they are forced to exist under is as harmful as the misogyny that causes it itself.

ALL women experience a form of psychological trauma inherent to female childhood and female adolescence in a patriarchal world, and that is just as valid as coping with individual traumatic events.

Good resources on the subject of why women have these fantasies and how they are helpful in general:

(X) (X)

The "what you consume will make you do it in real life!" myth

Although the resources above already address this, it's important to establish why this myth is so prevalent and what its origins are.

The idea that consuming media with dark themes leads to or indicates desires to replicate those acts is a residual element of two major events:

1) Puritan revival culture, popularized in the US and UK in the 90s and 2000s (also known as "Satanic Panic"). A major facet of this movement was TV megachurch preachers making money off of exploiting well-meaning but paranoid parents into believing that your child playing Dungeons and Dragons or Pokemon would make them future serial killers and lure them into satanic cults. (X)

2) at the tail end of this, it was cemented in the public mind as a cultural ripple aftershock of the Columbine shooting, where this sentiment became popularized as the general public blamed violent video games like Doom and "dark" music like Marilyn Manson (whose life was temporarily completely upended by the events and took him years to recover/be safe from) for the 1999 shooting. This event had MASSIVE permanent and global effects in all sorts of ways that the public often underestimates the sheer scope of, notably that it solidified, prolonged, and, in the minds of many, "proved" the paranoias of the preexisting Satanic Panic. (X) This established a precedent, leading to virtually any major horrible event being blamed on the perpetrator's media consumption, including murder and sex crimes.

What this myth ignores in the cases it references (the slenderman stabbings, columbine, sasebo slashing, batman shooting, etc) is two crucial facts: that hundreds of millions of people consume the same media with no negative effects (helpful effects even), and that in every single case cited as "evidence" to the claim, the perpetrator had a preexisting psychiatric condition correlated to acts of violence (which usually went ignored, downplayed and even accelerated/worsened by those around them rather than the help they needed).

Sorry for the wall of text, but I feel an ethical obligation to combat this kind of misinformation, and I hope these resources are helpful for those who may be negatively affected by common misunderstandings.

You are not abnormal or wrong for the fictional content you consume or the fantasies you have!

[bloodmoonmary]

who is mary graham wintor?

mary mischa wintor graham, the granddaughter of legendary vogue editor anna wintor, has carved her name into the worlds of fashion and literature with the kind of effortless, incendiary brilliance that only a true nepobaby could—except mary isn’t just riding coattails. she’s setting them on fire. born in rome and raised between the us and japan, mary was a prodigy in every sense, writing poetry by ten, walking for prada at fourteen, and publishing her first critically acclaimed book while still in high school—a debut so sharp, so erotically charged and philosophically dense, that it immediately positioned her as the heir to a literary legacy that included virginia woolf, osamu dazai, and anais nin. her prose, a hypnotic blend of stream-of-consciousness intimacy and grotesque sensuality, pulls readers into the fractured psyche of her characters, where desire and despair coil together like smoke. haruki murakami, whom she met during her years at a japanese high school, became both mentor and surrogate grandfather, guiding her through the labyrinth of her own mind, while han kang and mieko kawakami lent their own brutal lyricism to her evolving voice.

but mary was never content with just the page. fashion was her second language, and she spoke it fluently, with a style that oscillated between aristocratic precision and deliberate vulgarity. she wore sheer gowns to galas, posed in lingerie for editorials, and once arrived at a chanel show in a dress made entirely of handwritten love letters—some hers, some stolen. her ambassadorship for houses like prada, elie saab, and alexander wang wasn’t just ceremonial; mary treated each campaign as a short story, her body the protagonist, the clothes the narrative. yet for all her public audacity, her private life remained fiercely guarded. the upper east side apartment she now occupies alone (save for frank, her mini pig and most loyal confidant) is a sanctuary of first editions, vintage margiela, and the occasional lover who knows better than to stay past dawn.

her romantic life, however, was never fully hers to control. at eighteen, she ignited tabloids by dating formula 1 star charles leclerc, a relationship that burned bright and messy before collapsing under the weight of lies—specifically, his alleged fake engagement to skip her birthday party. the fallout was nuclear, fueling her debut album, *love hangover*, a geffen records-produced indie-pop confessional that dissected their relationship with the same surgical precision as her prose. critics called it "a breakup album for the literary set," and fans devoured every reference, every venomous whisper hidden in the synth.

yet beneath the glamour, the controversy, the unapologetic sensuality, mary remains an enigma. she suffers, she creates, she destroys. she is depressive yet defiant, vulnerable yet viciously in control. her parties are rare but legendary, her presence a catalyst for chaos. she is, in every way, the modern femme fatale: a woman who wields beauty and brain like twin blades, leaving admirers and detractors alike bleeding in her wake. and at twenty-one, with the world at her feet, she’s only just begun.

family

mary wintor graham comes from a family as fascinating and complex as she is. as the granddaughter of legendary vogue editor anna wintor, fashion runs in her blood—but so does a legacy of sharp intellect and quiet power. her mother, a mysterious figure rarely seen in public, is whispered to be connected to the world of psychology, her mother, though mary never speaks of her. what is known is that will graham, the renowned criminal profiler, became a stepfather figure to mary during her teenage years, grounding her whirlwind life with his quiet, observant presence.

on the other side, mary's family is no less intriguing. her aunt, alana bloom, is a respected psychiatrist, while margot verger—another aunt—brings a touch of old-money elegance and steel-willed resilience to the family dynamic. mary's cousins, lorenzo, luke, and hugh, have made names for themselves in the modeling world, though none command the same magnetic chaos that she does. they share the same striking bone structure and effortless cool, but while they walk runways, mary redefines them.

despite her famous lineage, mary has always carved her own path—one part wintor poise, one part graham intensity, and entirely her own. her family is a tapestry of brilliance, secrets, and unspoken expectations, but mary wears their legacy like a secondhand coat: with deliberate irreverence. she doesn't hide from her name; she burns through it, leaving only her own in its place.

nationality: italian (city of rome, italy ), mother's side is japanese and father's side is english. will is the son of anna but never wanted to pursue in fashion and isolated himself from the rest of the family after the death of his father. will hesitantly introduced mary to his mother, hardly allowed his daughter to travel with her grandmother.

one year before their tragic deaths, martha and thomas wayne were named godparents to a baby girl—mary winter. the decision, made in secret among gotham's elite, was a gesture of trust between families; the waynes, with their philanthropic legacy, and the winters, a name that would soon be eclipsed by hannibal lecter's influence. the ceremony was private, attended only by those who understood the weight of such a bond. martha had cradled mary in her arms, whispering promises of a future filled with shared holidays and guidance, while thomas, ever the pragmatist, had already begun drafting a trust in her name.

their murders shattered those plans.

mary, barely a year old, was brought to their funeral—a silent, unknowing mourner wrapped in black lace, held in the arms of a family servant. it was there, in the shadow of gotham's grief, that she first encountered bruce wayne, himself just a child, his small hand clutching the edge of his parents' caskets. two orphans, side by side, though only one would grow up knowing the other existed.

for hannibal lecter, the tragedy was less about loss and more about opportunity. the wayne murders had shaken gotham to its core, and the city's descent into chaos was inevitable. he had never intended to raise mary there—baltimore had always been the plan, a place where his own designs could flourish without the shadow of the wayne legacy. but the funeral, the whispers of a connection that could have been, only solidified his resolve to leave sooner. gotham was a sinking ship, and he refused to let mary drown in its undertow.

years later, bruce would hear whispers of a girl who had vanished from gotham's elite circles—a goddaughter his parents had never gotten the chance to guide. and mary, raised among books and blades, would only learn of the waynes in fragments—through newspaper clippings, through the occasional charity event bearing their name. a thread of fate, severed before it could be pulled taut.

friends

oscar piastri and lando norris

the f1 boys her partners in mischief monaco rooftop parties and sleep deprived post race debriefs mary met lando at a prada afterparty in 2022 where they bonded over a shared love of sarcasm and terrible karaoke their dynamic playful teasing and just chaotic enough to keep the tabloids guessing see that time they all wore matching i drive faster than my exs new gf shirts at silverstone oscar the quieter of the two became her late night confidant the one who actually listens when she rants about literature and bad dates rumor has it hes the only person she lets borrow her vintage margiela pieces without a lecture

daisy edgar jones

the anti-mary in the best way possible—where mary burns hot and fast, daisy is the steady flame that keeps her from burning out. they met during a vogue uk shoot where mary, bored between takes, convinced daisy to ditch the crew and go hunt down the best sticky toffee pudding in london (they found it at a pub so old charles dickens probably drank there). while mary thrives on chaos, daisy is the one who shows up with actual groceries after mary’s been living off espresso and cigarettes for three days. their dynamic works because daisy isn’t intimidated by mary’s sharp edges—she just ignores them when necessary. when mary was spiraling over a bad review of her second novel, daisy dragged her to the countryside for a weekend with no wifi, forcing her to watch terrible rom-coms and eat an entire tray of brownies. mary complained the whole time but secretly loved it.

v. trends

f1 channel helmet bags: tiny, glossy leather purses shaped like formula 1 driver helmets, worn crossbody or dangling from a finger like an afterthought. mary debuted hers at monaco grand prix, stuffed with nothing but a lipstick and a crumpled love note, sparking a wave of micro-bag mania.

extreme lazy outfits: the art of looking devastatingly chic while appearing to have rolled out of bed—think silk pajama sets with stiletto heels, cashmere socks paired with a slip dress, or a ratty vintage band tee tucked into a couture ball skirt. mary’s signature move? wearing a man’s dress shirt as a dress with nothing underneath but thigh-high stockings.

blue bra and stockings: a rejection of “nude is polite" dressing—mary made headlines when she wore a blue bra under a sheer blazer with matching stockings, no pants, just louboutins. suddenly, visible lingerie wasn’t slutty, it was editorial

vampdforever beanies: slouchy, oversized knit beanies with colorful anime cartoon pattern worn year-round, even in summer. mary popularized them after being photographed leaving a brooklyn dive bar at 3am in one, smudged eyeliner and all.

no bra marks: the antithesis of the "clean girl" aesthetic—mary embraced the faint red lines left by tight bras, wearing backless tops that showed the indents like a badge of honor. a silent protest against the tyranny of "perfect" skin.

hello kitty gcds top-bra: a hybrid between a crop top and a bra, screen-printed with hello kitty’s face stretched provocatively across the chest. mary wore hers with a tailored blazer and a cigarette, turning infantilized kitsch into high fashion.

lingerie/panties showing: whether it’s a lace balconette bra peeking out from a unbuttoned oxford shirt or silk panties deliberately riding above a low-slung skirt waistband, mary made exposed intimates look intentional, not accidental.

no shorts under skirts: a middle finger to modesty culture—mary’s sheer skirts and slip dresses are always worn without safety shorts, letting the world catch glimpses of thigh, hip, or the occasional miumiu shiny panties (another trend she spearheaded).

miumiu shiny panties: specifically, the brand’s high-waisted, satin-trimmed briefs worn as outerwear—with blazers, under cropped sweaters, or even peeking out of low-rise jeans. mary turned them into a status symbol, proving underwear could be the star of the outfit.

lacy outfits/pajamas in public: sleepwear as streetwear, but make it romantic gothic—mary’s been spotted in black lace negligees over bike shorts, or full-length vintage nightgowns with combat boots, blending boudoir with downtown edge.

sheepskin/fluffy ballerina slips: mary’s twist on the balletcore trend—ultra-feminine satin ballet flats, but lined with fluffy shearling or sheepskin, so they look like they’ve been stolen from a bougie toddler’s wardrobe. worn with everything from slip dresses to menswear trousers.

social media

[helionepho]

Love Is a Diagnosis (Chap. 4)

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ Ji Changmin Yandere AU Chapter 4 ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

pairing: psycho!changmin x psychiatrist!fem reader

genre: yandere, dark psychology, slow burn, hurt/comfort, psycho x psychiatrist au, suggestive, implied smut in later chapter (18+)

warnings: suggestive content, yandere!changmin, obsessive!changmin, possessive!changmin, psycho!changmin, mention of kiss, creepy behavior, manipulation, mental illness, Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD), domestic violence, delusional attachment, toxic family dynamic

summary: You’re his personal psychiatrist. On the surface, Changmin appears to be a well-mannered, ordinary young man with a spotless public image—but beneath that, lies something far more dangerous. Only you and his family know the truth.

wc: 5.4k

status: on going

chapter list: ➤ chapter 1 ➤ chapter 2 ➤ chapter 3 ➤ chapter 4 ➤ chapter 5 [smut]

author note: this work is a fictional story featuring dark psychological themes, including obsession, manipulation, and mental illness. please read only if you’re comfortable with these subjects. the characters and behaviors depicted are not meant to romanticize or accurately represent real-life mental health conditions. Fiction ≠ Reality. feel free to comment if you’d like to be added to the taglist! stay safe and take care! ❤︎

A sharp breath of evening chill hit you as you exited the car.

Lights glittered across the grand entrance of the 5-star hotel, elegant chandeliers spilling golden light through the tall glass doors. Valets moved quickly, guiding luxury cars to a separate line, while guests in tailored suits and jeweled gowns flowed inside like a river of power and wealth.

You barely had time to take it in before Changmin's hand brushed of your back. Guiding. As if to say stay close.

The lobby was just as breathtaking. Marble floors gleamed beneath your heels as Changmin led you toward a bank of elevators tucked behind a pair of velvet ropes. A uniformed attendant nodded as he pressed the button, recognizing him without a word.

The ride up was silent, except for the quiet hum of the elevator and the soft click of the numbers lighting up. Changmin didn’t let go of you, his hand still resting at your back, grounding and possessive.

When the elevator door opened, a pair of ornate double doors waited just down the hall, already cracked open.

Inside, the ballroom was alive with conversation, soft string music floating in the background beneath the hum of polite laughter and champagne glasses clinking.

You spotted him immediately.

Changmin’s father stood near the center of the room, surrounded by a small circle of polished men in designer suits, each with the air of practiced authority. A few elegant women stood beside them, sipping from delicate crystal flutes.

Mr. Ji turned as you both approached.

He smiled. Polished and precise.

“Ah,” he greeted, arms opening like a politician hosting a private party. “You made it. I wasn’t sure you would.” The warmth in his tone was measured, purposeful, as if every word had been weighed before it left his mouth.

Surprisingly, Changmin’s smile was perfect at him.

Polite. Cool. Effortlessly adult.

“Of course I did,” he said. “I know how important this night is to you, father.”

You blinked.

You knew this man. But right now—

He looked normal.

Like any other high-society heir. Straight-backed, soft-spoken, composed. So natural, it stopped you mid-thought. No one here would suspect what Changmin really was beneath that tailored suit and sweet smile.

Mr. Ji began to introduce him.

“This is my son, Ji Changmin,” he said proudly. “Freshly returned from his time away. You’ll find he’s matured quite well.”

Changmin bowed slightly, his expression pleasant, the curve of his lips soft and charming. “It’s an honor to meet all of you. Thank you for having me tonight.”

You stood just a step behind him, slightly to his side, the way you were meant to.

Suddenly, one of the older men in circle turned toward Changmin with a chuckle. “Still can’t believe you managed to close that Daeyang merger without ceding a single share of your equity. That was bold.”

Changmin offered a slow, almost lazy smile, but his gaze held the weight of someone who didn’t make moves. He orchestrated outcomes.

“They were the ones desperate. I just let them realize it on their own.”

A quiet chuckle escaped the older man as he absorbed Changmin’s words.

“Sharp. I’ve been in this business thirty years, and I still wouldn’t have seen that angle coming.”

Changmin’s smile lingered, just enough to be polite. But his next words cut cleaner than glass:

“That’s because you negotiate. I don’t.”

You blinked. Again.

That soft voice of Changmin, that unassuming tone. He made it sound so simple. But the subtle respect in the room said otherwise.

Then someone spoke. To you.

“Forgive my curiosity, but may I ask who this lovely young lady is?” He inquired with a gracious smile.

“Ah,” Changmin practically glowing as he looked at you. “This is my—”

“His personal manager,” Mr. Ji cut in smoothly before Changmin could finish.

The words landed like a slap.

Changmin’s smile faded, almost unnoticeably, but entirely. He turned his head just slightly toward his father.

And stared.

Eyes no longer warm, no longer sweet. Just dark. Quiet. Sharp. Not angry in the loud way.

Worse.

That kind of silence that only people who had truly known him might fear.

You quickly recovered with a small smile and a polite bow to them. “Thank you for having me.”

A woman in a sapphire gown leaned slightly toward you, holding her drink loosely between two fingers.

“My, you’re beautiful,” she remarked lightly. “I nearly thought you were engaged to him.”

Changmin’s smile brightened instantly at that. He didn’t say anything, but his posture straightened again, his chest rising ever so slightly.

The moment hung for just a second, until Mr. Ji laughed. But there was no joy in the sound.

“No, no. Changmin’s still single,” he said easily, gesturing to his son. “Though I’ve been telling him to start looking seriously. He has options.”

“Options?” another man chimed in. “With a face and a brain like that, I’m sure half the daughters in this room would line up.”

Laughter again.

“You should meet my niece,” a woman added. “Or my daughter. She's just returned from studying in the States. Very bright. Very elegant.”

You felt Changmin still beside you. You glanced up at him. He was still smiling. Still perfectly composed. But his eyes… behind those dark-rimmed glasses, they were frozen.

Unblinking.

And then you felt it.

His hand slipped into yours.

And squeezed.

Hard.

His palm was cold and tight against your skin, his grip tense. Not enough to hurt, but enough to speak, as if saying: Take me out of here.

You looked at him again and gave him the smallest nod. Turning to the group, you spoke lightly, with a sweet, professional tone.

“Excuse us,” you said politely. “We’ll just be looking for something to drink.”

They smiled, waved you off.

And as you walked away, Changmin followed silently beside you, still holding your hand. Still smiling. But as you led him through the crowd and away from their eyes…

You could feel it in the way his fingers dug just slightly deeper into yours.

He wasn’t angry that they wanted him to meet someone. He was angry because they didn’t realize—

he’d already chosen.

And she was walking beside him, in a short white dress he couldn’t take his eyes off.

***

He didn’t say a word as you led him down a quieter hall, hand still locked in yours like he was afraid to let go.

You both passed the glowing exit signs, past a velvet rope and a quiet corridor that curved off the ballroom’s edge. Until finally, you both stopped in front of a tall set of double glass doors.

He pushed one open with ease.

The balcony was dimly lit, high above the city, overlooking a blur of traffic lights and glowing towers. You stepped out with him, the air crisp against your skin. And strangely… it was quiet. The music and voices from inside faded into a low hum, barely reaching your ears.

You turned toward him, about to ask if he was alright.

But before you could speak, he took both your hands in his.

“Why do they do that?” he whispered, eyes searching yours. “Why does he talk like I’m available? Like I’m something to be auctioned off—like I’m for sale?”

His grip on your hands tightened. Not rough. But urgent. Desperate.

“I hate them,” he breathed. “All of them. The way they look at me like I’m just a prize. The way they talk about who deserves me.” His jaw clenched. “As if someone else—someone from a rich family—should be standing beside me instead of you.”

You just listened to him like his words carried more weight than you expected.

“I hate that I couldn’t say it,” he said. His voice cracked just slightly at the edges. “I hate that I had to bite my tongue while he introduced you like you were just another name on his payroll.”

Your breath caught. Something tender stirring in your chest.

His thumbs rubbed circles over your knuckles, his breath shaky.

“I wanted to tell them,” he said, leaning closer. His forehead nearly touching yours. “That you’re not my manager or my psychiatrist. You’re not just some pretty girl I brought to dinner.”

He closed his eyes.

“I wanted to tell them I already belong to you.”

Changmin leaned in, his lips brushing your cheek in a kiss that lingered. Soft and trembling. He pulled back only enough to look at you, and when he did, his gaze was heavy. Intimate. Unblinking.

His hand rose, brushing lightly against your cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip with excruciating gentleness.

And the strange thing was—you didn’t pull away.

Your heart pounded, your pulse rising in your throat, but you didn’t stop him. Not even when he leaned in again, slowly, lips nearly brushing yours.

A noise cut through the quiet.

The door to the balcony creaked open.

“Ah—sorry,” a young man said, backing up quickly. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

He was gone just as fast, slipping back into the ballroom and pulling the door shut behind him.

You jumped slightly, startled. And out of reflex, pushed Changmin back, hands on his chest.

His expression shifted.

The kiss never happened. But the rejection did.

He looked at you, lips parting, eyes suddenly dim. Not angry. Not cold. Just… wounded.

“You’re still scared of me, Noona…” he said softly. “Aren’t you?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came at first.

Then,

“No,” you said gently, reaching for his hand. “I’m not scared of you, Changmin. I just—” You swallowed. “You surprised me. That’s all.”

His gaze didn’t move, as if he didn’t quite believe you. Like he was preparing to be abandoned again.

You took a step closer and wrapped both hands around his.

“You don’t have to fight so hard to prove anything tonight. Not to them. Not to me.”

He stared at you. Your thumbs brushed gently over his knuckles.

“Because you know it yourself, don’t you? That I’m with you.”

Something flickered in his expression, something cracked and raw and painfully soft. As if what you said had reached someplace deep.

He looked at your hands, still holding his.

“You always say the exact thing I need to hear, Noona.” He whispered. “Even when I don’t deserve it.”

You gave him a faint smile. “Come on. Let’s go back inside. Dinner’s probably starting.”

You turned, still holding his hand, and led him back toward the doors. His fingers stayed wrapped in yours the entire way. Tight. Like he was afraid if he let go, the night would take you from him.

And when you stepped back into the warmth and noise of the ballroom…

Changmin didn’t look at anyone else. Not the businessmen. Not the daughters.

Only you.

As if every move you made reminded him—he belonged to you, and no one else.

***

By the time the ballroom lights dimmed and the emcee welcomed everyone to the gala, you were already seated beside Changmin at one of the long, elegant tables draped in ivory linen.

Glasses clinked softly. Silver cutlery gleamed. The low hum of polite conversation settled as the brief welcome speech began, the speaker standing proudly at the podium to thank the generous donors and distinguished guests.

But you could barely focus.

Because Changmin hadn’t let go of your hand. Not once.

Underneath the tablecloth, his fingers were threaded tightly through yours. His palm warm, his thumb brushing lazy, rhythmic circles over your skin like it was second nature.

You glanced at him once.

He wasn’t looking at the stage.

He was looking at you.

Soft smile. Dimple showing faintly. His eyes held no trace of the storm you'd seen on the balcony earlier. No bitterness. No tension.

Just a kind of silent devotion.

“You’re not even listening,” you whispered.

He leaned toward you slightly, voice low and casual. “I don’t care what they’re saying.”

You arched a brow. “It’s your family’s foundation.”

He smiled faintly. “Noona, you think I came here for them?”

You looked down at your joined hands.

Dinner service began soon after. Waiters moved quietly, setting down delicate plates—appetizers arranged like art. A quiet clatter of silverware filled the air as the guests began to eat.

But Changmin didn’t touch his food. Not until he saw you pick up your fork.

“Is it good?” he asked softly.

You looked up. His expression was gentle, earnest. His chin tilted just slightly in your direction.

You nodded. “Surprisingly, yes.”

“I would’ve had the kitchen redo it if you said no.”

You laughed under your breath, unsure whether he was joking. With him, it was always hard to tell.

The entertainment portion of the evening began soon after. Musicians performing near the stage, followed by a short video presentation and the start of the fundraising activities.

Applause. Laughter. Conversations picking up around you.

But Changmin… stayed exactly where he was.

He didn’t glance at the performers. He didn’t look at the auction list handed to each guest. He just kept smiling at you, like nothing else in the world mattered.

“Do you want dessert, Noona?” He asked at one point, his hand now resting gently on your thigh beneath the table, thumb stroking absent-minded patterns there. “I can have them bring more.”

“I’m fine,” you whispered. “You’ve barely eaten.”

He tilted his head slightly. “I’m already full.”

“You just eat one bite…”

He gave a small smile. “I’m full just looking at you.”

The words should’ve sounded cheesy. Ridiculous, even. But the way he said it—quietly, sincerely, eyes heavy with something more than affection—made it hard to breathe.

He was being so gentle tonight. So sweet. So perfectly attentive.

Like a man in love.

And he is.

But you couldn’t shake the feeling that every soft word, every lingering glance, every fingertip resting on your skin… was his way of silently warning the room: She’s taken.

His fingers tightened briefly around yours again beneath the table, like he could read your thoughts. You looked at him. He was still smiling.

And for a moment—just a moment—you forgot that the boy beside you was dangerous.

He looked like someone who could give you the world.

And break it in half if anyone tried to take you away.

***

The ballroom had grown warmer, louder, buzzing with alcohol and shallow laughter as the fundraising auction picked up. Guests mingled between tables, glasses of champagne in hand, voices rising over the soft jazz playing in the background.

You were mid-sentence, politely thanking one of the foundation representatives who had stopped by to greet you both, when you realized Changmin’s grip on your hand had changed.

Tighter.

Still smiling on the surface, but his jaw had clenched.

You followed his line of sight.

It was an old man speaking to you—mid-40s, a silver sponsor for the event. He looked half-tipsy as he sat down beside you and leaned in slightly, complimenting your dress, your poise, even made some joking comment about how “Mr. Ji’s son must be lucky to have such radiant company.”

You didn’t laugh.

But Changmin did.

Quietly.

Low and sharp.

The kind of laugh that made your stomach twist.

You looked over at him. He was no longer smiling. Not really. His eyes were fixed on the man like he was already imagining peeling him apart.

“Excuse me,” Changmin said suddenly, voice cool. “Would you mind repeating that?”

The man blinked. “Sorry?”

Changmin tilted his head, still holding your hand, but his other was now gripping the stem of his wine glass too tightly. “The part where you called her radiant company. Or was that your way of trying to flirt in front of me?”

“Changmin,” you said softly, nudging him, “It’s fine.”

He didn’t look at you. Not yet.

“Because if that’s what you were doing,” he continued, voice still calm—too calm, “I think it’s best you walk away before I break this glass and show you what happens to people who forget their place.”

The man laughed awkwardly and raised his hands. “Just a compliment. My apologies.”

You offering a tight smile at the old man. “You’ll have to excuse him,” you said, politely. “It might be the wine affecting his mood.”

The man gave a stiff nod as he stood and stepped away quickly.

Changmin’s eyes stayed locked on his back even as he disappeared into the crowd.

You turned to him, your heart picking up. “Changmin,” you whispered, “hey… look at me.”

He didn’t respond.

“Look at me.”

Finally, he blinked, like snapping out of something. His gaze flicked down to your face. His hand loosened around yours. He exhaled slowly.

“…Sorry, Noona.” He muttered, jaw clenched. “I just—he looked at you like some desperate old fuck trying to buy a night with someone younger. Like you were up for auction too.”

“Changmin,” you said quietly but firmly, your hand reaching to touch his under the table again. “You can’t say things like that. Not here. Not like this.”

“He doesn’t get to look at you like that,” he snapped, but his voice had lowered. “No one does.”

You squeezed his hand tighter.

“Hey…” you whispered. “I'm right here with you. I’m not going anywhere.”

That finally made him look at you fully.

You cupped the back of his hand and guided it under the table again.

“You don’t have to fight for me, Changmin,” you whispered, your thumb brushing gently over his knuckles. “You already have me.”

He swallowed hard, like your voice was the only thing tethering him to the room.

Just then, someone else approached from behind.

Mr. Ji.

His expression was unreadable as he leaned down discreetly to your ear.

“He needs to go home,” he said simply. “Now. Before he ruins the reputation I built.”

You glanced at Changmin.

His face was perfectly composed again. His lips curled back into that soft, obedient smile. But you could feel the tension still humming just beneath the surface.

You nodded slowly.

“Understood.”

***

The drive back to the mansion was steeped in silence. Not the uncomfortable kind, not exactly. But the kind that throbbed with tension just beneath the surface, like the air before a summer storm.

Changmin sat beside you in the dark leather backseat, one hand resting on yours, unmoving. His jaw was clenched, his eyes fixed out the window, but you could feel his thoughts roiling.

He didn’t speak a word the entire ride home.

When the car finally rolled up the circular driveway and the grand iron gates closed behind, the mansion stood tall and shadowed under the moonlight. The front doors opened before the car even came to a full stop. The staff had been waiting.

The maids greeted you both with soft bows and hushed voices, their eyes flicking to Changmin’s face with caution. He didn’t acknowledge them, just kept walking, hand in yours, straight past the foyer like he was holding his breath.

You led him upstairs, to his room.

The room was quiet, but the air felt thick and cold.

You sat with him on the velvet couch, though it felt like sitting beside a live wire.

His knuckles were pale against his thighs, clenched too hard.

“I thought about kissing you in the car,” he murmured, voice low, trembling with restraint. “I still want to.”

You felt your heart thud once—before your psychiatrist instincts kicked in.

“Let me go get your meds, okay?” you said softly.

His head snapped toward you. “Don’t,” he warned, the sweetness from earlier gone like a snapped thread. “Don’t say that. Not right now.”

“I’m saying it because I care,” you said, steady, though your pulse had started to race. “You’re spiraling. I can see it in your eyes.”

His jaw clenched, teeth grinding. “You don’t understand what it’s like, Noona. You sit there acting calm, so in control, but you don’t know what it does to me when someone else even glances at you.”

He leaned closer, his breath warm against your cheek. “I still can hear that old man voice in my head. I see his eyes on you. And all I want is to erase him.”

Your breath hitched.

“Changmin—”

His hand shot out, gripping your wrist.

“I just want one thing tonight, Noona…” He rasped, voice raw and low. “One thing...”

You barely had time to breathe before he leaned in—and kissed you.

Not soft. Not sweet.

It was heat and hunger.

Changmin's mouth crashed onto yours with the kind of desperation that made your spine arch and your breath catch in your throat.

His hand on your wrist held tight, grounding and overwhelming all at once, while his other slid behind your neck, fingers threading into your hair, holding you there like you might vanish.

You felt the press of his chest against yours, too solid, too warm. His scent—clean linen and something darker beneath, sharp like leather and musk—filled your senses as his lips parted against yours, tasting, claiming.

He kissed you like he was starved for it. Like this was the only way to quiet the storm in his head.

Your pulse thundered.

A small, helpless sound escaped you, and he groaned softly in response, deepening the kiss. His tongue brushing yours, coaxing, unrelenting. It was messy. Hot. Too much.

And yet… you didn’t pull away.

Not at first.

Your hands were on his chest before you even realized it, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, heart pounding so hard you swore he could feel it.

There was a flicker of want inside you, shamefully human, dangerously tempted.

Right before you could lose yourself—

Your palms pressed firmer against him.

“Stop.”

He froze.

His eyes opened, wild and glassy with something unspoken. Panic? Guilt? Longing?

You were breathless, your lips tingling, your entire body still wound tight from the heat of it.

“You’re not thinking clearly,” you said, steady but low. “That was panic. And I won’t let you spiral like this.”

His hand slowly released your wrist, his fingers dragging away like it physically hurt him to let go.

A breath slipped past your lips.

“I’ll go get your meds,” you whispered. “We’ll talk again tomorrow. When your head’s quiet.”

He looked shattered. But he didn’t fight you.

He just leaned back to the couch, silent, staring at the ceiling.

But then… he smiled.

Soft. Dangerous. Like something in him had tasted what it wanted—and would never forget.

***

Morning came gently, as if the house itself was holding its breath.

After everything that happened the night before—after his spiraling words, the force of his kiss, and the storm that nearly broke through—you’d finally managed to calm him. It had taken a quiet voice, steady hands… and his nightly dose of medication slipped into warm tea. Only then did Changmin fall asleep, like the monster in him had curled back into something small. Tamed.

The kitchen had long since filled with the gentle sounds of morning.

Soft chopping, clinks of porcelain, and the low simmer of broth on the stove. You kept your movements quiet and focused, plating the breakfast just as the sun began filtering through the tall windows of the dining room.

Just as you were placing down the second bowl, footsteps padded in from the hallway.

Changmin.

He looked sleep-rumpled and soft, dressed in an oversized white tee and gray sweats, hair tousled like he’d just rolled out of bed. His eyes were half-lidded, but the moment he saw you, his expression brightened.

Beamed.

It stopped you for a second, how he lit up like that. Like he’d just walked into a dream.

“Morning, Noona,” he said sweetly, walking straight up to you.

Before you could respond, his arms were around your waist, pulling you into a warm, lingering hug. His cheek pressed into your shoulder.

You stood still, heart skipping, not because of the gesture, but because of how normal it felt. Too normal. Too easy.

As if last night hadn’t happened.

But then, he whispered.

Low, breath brushing the shell of your ear.

“We kissed,” he murmured, voice dreamy, reverent. “We finally shared our first kiss last night…”

Your stomach twisted.

“I kept thinking about it,” he went on softly, still holding you. “Over and over. How perfect it felt. How soft your lips were. How right it was.”

You froze in place.

“I love you, Noona,” he breathed. Unshakeable.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes.

They were clear. Awake now. Not groggy at all.

Deliriously convinced.

***

The living room was quiet.

After breakfast, Changmin had followed you without question, until the two of you ended up on the wide sofa near the sun-drenched windows. The soft click of the clock on the wall was the only sound, accompanied by the distant breeze from the half-open curtains.

No maids. No staff. Just you and him.

Changmin was lying on the sofa, his head resting gently on your lap.

His eyes were open, soft and warm, gazing up at you with a peace you hadn’t seen in days. As if he’d never raised his voice. Never kissed you like a man possessed.

You gently combed your fingers through his hair, brushing back the soft strands from his forehead. It calmed him. You knew that. He always relaxed more when you touched his hair like this.

His lashes fluttered a little under your gaze.

“I like this,” he murmured. “When you pet my head like that.”

Your fingers didn’t stop. But your voice was quiet when you spoke.

“Changmin…”

He blinked slowly. “Hm?”

“…you shouldn’t do that again,” you said softly.

He stilled.

The air between you shifted. Not cold, but no longer light.

“You shouldn’t force a kiss on someone,” you continued gently, your fingertips still brushing through his hair. “Even if you think they want it. Even if it’s out of love. That’s not okay.”

He didn’t look away. His voice was quiet. Careful.

“…I know.”

You looked down at him.

He was still watching you. Vulnerable. But not defensive.

“I knew it the second you pulled away,” he added. “And when you didn’t slap me… when you just looked at me with those eyes, like I’d broken something precious—I hated myself for it.”

You paused. A little surprised by his answer.

“I didn’t want to scare you,” he whispered. “I just… You were too close, and I didn’t know how to hold it in anymore. I’m sorry.”

He reached for your hand, barely brushing your wrist with his fingers.

“I’ll never do that again, Noona. I swear. Not unless you giving me permission. Not unless you want me to.”

Your fingers curled gently in his hair. You watched him, searching for the lie, but there was none. Just a boy who was trying. Just a heart too full of you.

“I meant what I said,” he added. “But still… that kiss meant everything to me, even if it was a little forceful, Noona.”

You didn’t answer right away. Because you knew, he meant every words.

The sunlight spilled slowly across the room, warm on your skin, softening the sharp edges of the morning.

But now… he was quiet.

Now… he was warm.

Now… he was just a boy in your lap, eyes steady and head leaning into every pass of your hand like it was the only comfort in the world.

So you said nothing.

You just let out a quiet breath… and kept brushing his hair.

And he smiled.

A small, relieved smile.

***

Hours passed in a quiet blur, the sun slipping below the horizon until darkness settled fully over the estate.

That night, the air in the mansion felt unusually heavy. The kind of quiet that meant something was about to happen.

You were in the hallway when one of the maids came to you, eyes nervous.

“Miss (Y/N)… Mr. Ji is here again. He asked to see Master Changmin in the study.”

Your chest tightened.

Changmin was calm when he walked past you, flashing a small smile like he didn’t want you to worry. But there was a flicker of something dark in his eyes. You watched as he disappeared behind the double doors at the far end of the corridor.

The grand study.

The one place in the mansion that always felt more like a courtroom than a room for reading.

You waited outside, pacing slightly, heart racing.

Five minutes passed. Seven. Ten.

And suddenly, CRASH.

Something slammed. Something broke. A loud, heavy thud. The sound of something solid thrown.

Your breath hitched.

Without thinking, you rushed toward the study door and pushed it open.

The sight stopped you cold.

“Changmin?!”

Mr. Ji stood in the center of the study, one hand gripping a wooden bat—yes, a bat—mid-swing. Papers littered the floor, a gouge tore through the mahogany desk, shards of a shattered glass decanter glittered underfoot.

And Changmin—your patient—your Changmin—crouched by the bookcase, one arm shielding his head, glasses skewed, lips pressed thin in the effort not to react. A fresh red line streaked across his forearm where the bat must have glanced.

Your heart dropped.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing, Mr. Ji?!” you screamed, rushing to Changmin’s side, your hands shaking. You were supposed to maintain distance. Clinical objectivity. Instead, you were on your knees, shielding him from his own father. “Have you lost your mind?”

Changmin didn’t speak. He just pressed closer to your side, fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeve like he was afraid you’d leave.

Mr. Ji slowly lowered the bat, his jaw clenched tight.

“You should know better than anyone, Doctor. This boy is unstable. He’s dangerous. If I don’t discipline him, he’ll ruin everything. Our name, our company, our legacy—”

“He’s your son,” you snapped, one hand braced on Changmin’s shoulder. You could feel the tremor running through him. “Not a project. Not a brand.”

Mr. Ji's eyes were cold as ice. “And you're the one who's supposed to be keeping him under control.”

“I am,” you seethed, trying not to cry. “But you don’t get to hurt him like this. Not ever.”

For a second, no one spoke. Just harsh, ragged breathing between the three of you. Changmin was still silent, head bowed like he was trying to disappear.

“I’ll handle him. You don’t get to touch him again.” You said, voice steel.

Silence stretched thick between you.

Then, finally, Mr. Ji turned toward the door. But just before leaving, he said with a final glance back:

“Then I suggest you do handle him, Doctor.”

And with that, the door slammed behind him.

For a moment, all you could hear was the echo of it. The way it sounded so final. Like something shutting closed for good.

You stared at the space he’d just left, heart pounding. It hit you then—this was where it all came from. The obsession. The need to control everything, everyone. It wasn’t just inherited… it was taught. Imposed. Carved into Changmin from the inside out.

“Shh… You’re safe now. I promise,” you whispered. Changmin was still in your arms, both of you still on the floor.

He hadn’t said a word. Just trembled silently against you, his face buried in your shoulder, like moving or speaking might shatter him completely. So you held him tighter, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other wrapped around his back, steadying the way his body kept shaking.

Mr. Ji’s obsession toward his legacy and empire was worse. Because he had power. Because he believed it was righteous. Because he believed love was earned through obedience and he made his son believe that, too.

And that was the part that broke you.

Now you understood why Changmin clung to you so desperately. Like you were air. Like you were his salvation.

In that moment, you understood: you weren’t just helping him heal now. This wasn’t just about therapy anymore.

And for the first time, you saw your role not just as his psychiatrist, but as someone who will show him love and shield him from the one who inflicted the wound in the first place.

***

Chap. 5 [smut]

[wolfertinger]

Hey sorry I know I said I'd stay away but I'm sure we've all seen the coke rants Wis has returned to make. All of it the same shit as usual. Now, I'm gonna submit this and go but?? WIS???

That last part. What the fuck are you talking about? Now you're accusing my partner of abusing someone/over stepping boundaries? GIRL WHO??? WHAT??? LOL???

The fuck??? WHAT are you on about? Has she finally snapped cuz this is new to me man. Anyway. I'll be taking my leave once again.

And Wis girl? In order for me to "spiral" over you, you'd have to matter to me. Good job projecting again. Idgaf about you. Pls ACTUALLY nuke your acct and see a psychiatrist. That's not abeIist to say. I mean that. Because this is getting weirder.

"I know my ask may be discarded because I'm bringing up the art Lulu drew for Majora of their ocs and I'm not trying to bring her up but I finally saw the screen shots of said art rom the sonadow blog and that's it? That's the art Majora tried to claim Lulu made of "her" getting assaulted [it clearly isn't]? That's the art Majora has been freaking the fuck out over and trying to use against them? THAT? And it was even meant to be private and not publicized so who even cares? It's not even that bad. Also wasn't it stated that Majora liked that art when they were friends and she even tried to ask Lulu to draw something like that for her? Okay. Upon all the lies she's already told this just seals it for me. What a joke. Hope it was worth it for you to defend a total loser like that Wis. Could never be me."

nah, do not be sorry, as you are the one being dragged back into this, despite having said multiple times, you want to stay out.

wis continuing to attack YOU of all people, shows me she truly does not care, about what sawyer actually did. she is simply attacking the both of you, because you verbally speak against their narrative. it is inappropriate, stupid, and wrong of her, to continue dragging you into a situation, both YOU and MAJORA have proven is abuse on MAJORAS end. i am so sick, of her trying to ruin the careers of others, because she cannot stand seeing success, when she is failing.

[verdemoun]

okay hi hello again im still obsessed with the timewarp au thank you for feeding this new obsession of mine <33

im kinda curious as to what you think would happen if any/all of the timewarpers were found out. like it could be by the history-buff fans of the VDLG or just by some randos on the internet, or even the government (that one would be wild, but i digress lmao). like what does the gang even do at that point??

anyway tysm this is such a fun au !

dutch would be the most likely to found out, since he lives in a psych ward and constantly has medical staff on both public and private payroll trying to figure out what his deal is. ironically, this is the best and worst scenario because imagine fbi trying to interrorgate 1911 dutch about how he time travelled and instead getting dutch's anti-government rhetoric.

the psychologist the gang frequent has figured it out and coped by drinking. she frankly struggles more with the sheer number of issues the gang have in general and as a result of time travel opposed to the fact she has over a dozen patients that are proof time travel exists. imagine trying to unpack the psychological horror that is bill williamson and then add the fact he's a time traveller? wild.

one history buff fan that figured it out is Johnathan Pearson, the grandson of Simon Pearson and father of Isaac's friend Sam Pearson. Isaac has a strange habit of making friends with the few surviving gang's descendants. Johnathan originally fainted upon realising Arthur Morgan was THE Arthur Morgan, but after attending a single barbeque with most of the gang present and getting the fangirling and questions out of his system, he realised most of them were just... lame. Dutch needed psychiatrist drugs, Hosea is an old man who tells stories more fiction than fact. Arthur is an awkward disaster when he isn't murdering people. The infamous John Marston would rather play tea party with his daughter than explain his life story, which is in all reality boring: orphan adopted by narcissistic, escapes, has family, doesn't escape, dies. Micah couldn't explain why be betrayed the gang, and refused to talk about Amos. Bill gave the easy answer of internalised homophobia and deep routed psychological issues stemming from childhood.

They weren't actually that interesting. There was no genius. No criminal mastermind. Dutch was charismatic and mentally ill. The gang members were vulnerable people who needed a leader. Now they host bbqs and have to beg the youth for help them connect their phones to the wireless speaker. Johnathan Pearson proceeded to get over it, and was nearly outcast from his forums for calling the gang losers. Never meet your heroes.

[hcgossips]

To Cavill, With Love

If Viscuso had for you, at least, 10% of the respect you had for her or if she had at least, 10% of the hunger she has for the spotlight to really help you, and also some self-pride, this circus would have never happened.

Cavill, not even your promiscuous PR respects you. If she did or if she cared for you, she would have never allowed you to go through all that, because of spotlight. You don’t need a fanbase. You need a psychiatrist,  a new manager and new agent teams. You are emotionally ill and has been terribly and maliciously advised and guided.

Pretending nothing happened, relying on old photos and videos with the help of fake fan pages, actually kept and fed by your teams, while, on the other hand, you still support this circus, playing both ways, is dubious and doesn’t help you at all, maybe because you have two teams of agents, one in the UK, the other in the US. So, which one messed up and why?

To regain the trust, respect and admiration of your fandom, it’s necessary to be honest, grow up and stop gaslighting and hiding. It’s necessary to stop the immoral, malicious damage control. Now, it’s our turn to tell you, that it’s time for you to stop! Stop and make a soul-searching.

Was it worth it? What did you gain? Did you manage to save the rep of your promiscuous and convince people she is who she’s not? Do you really want to continue measuring swords with your fans? Are you ready to continue losing fans and likes?  To be successful, an actor depends on fans and on how he’s seen.

Meanwhile, your videos and posts remind me of those ASMR videos: nice to watch, good to hear, but all of them, role play. It’s time to be more genuine, because your late appearances and posts (on your fictional IG) scream fake and that’s terrible to your image.

I really don’t understand why the insistence in keeping a circus that everyone knows it’s a lie, that exposes your promiscuous to public execration and you to a pitiful situation, just to tease fans for gossip on social media. It's degrading and only discredits you more and more. Give up!

No one will believe this woman is a respectful professional in Hollywood. And having an affair with the promiscuous or not, leave that private (real private). Don’t bring that circus to your promotional life. Don’t bring that circus at all! Because, all your “Godsent” did was to destroy your rep.

This woman wasn’t sent by God. At least, not by the spiritual God. She was sent by the Devil! If you insist considering her a “Godsent”, I would like to know and, once again ask: Who is the Godfather?

[merryandbright]

Canon • AU version of Noelle Kringle

Penned by: Hcneyeyes

face claim: Anna Kendrick

Noelle Kringle is the daughter of Kris Kringle, aka Santa Claus. As a little girl, her father would surprise her every Christmas Eve by giving her the full Christmas experience like any other normal girl would get. Kris would often tell Noelle how she was a beacon of Christmas spirit, and that when she got older, would support her brother Nick Kringle in his training to become the next Santa Claus.

After her father dies many years later, when she’s now older, Nick is training for his first Christmas out as the new Santa, as Noelle writes Christmas Cards and supports the North Pole with a bounty of Christmas spirit. Nick confides in Noelle that he doesn’t feel ready to be Santa, so Noelle encourages him to take a weekend vacation. When he doesn’t return, Noelle is blamed and her cousin Gabriel Kringle is chosen to become the new Santa instead. Noelle becomes scorned around the North Pole, pushing her to take the sleigh out and track Nick down at Phoenix, Arizona, as clued in by a magazine Nick had sent home to Noelle. Her childhood nanny Polly, accidentally gets caught on the sleigh trying to pull Noelle off, and they both crash land at a Phoenix, Arizona mall. The mall’s manager, Helen Rojas, initially tries to get Noelle and her reindeer off the property as quick as possible, but the reindeer attract customers so Helen reluctantly allows her to stay.

To search for Nick, Noelle recruits the help of private detective Jake Hapman, who is initially unwelcoming of Noelle’s strange appearance and perceived insanity of her statements. Noelle’s kindness and naivety charms him though, and they’re able to track down Nick to his new yoga studio. Nick refuses to come home to the North Pole, and Noelle reluctantly leaves him be. During this time, Noelle discovers strange abilities she wasn’t aware she possessed, like the judging of who is naughty or nice and suddenly knowing sign language.

Noelle hears about the severity of the situation back home from her pet reindeer Snowcone, who helps track Nick down one more time at a Yoga Retreat, where he reluctantly agrees to once again try and be Santa. Noelle has him pose as the mall’s Santa, but things go horribly wrong as Nick is unable to communicate with the kids effectively, and the real mall Santa appears, leading to a fight breaking out as Noelle inadvertently assaults an officer.

Noelle is arrested and placed under psychiatric evaluation. Polly, Nick, and Jake stage a rescue however, with the former two flying the sleigh to the psychiatrist’s office, causing her to faint and giving time for Noelle to escape. Jake finally believes Noelle had been telling the truth the whole time thanks to this as well. They fly back to the North Pole, where Nick admits that Noelle should be the new Santa thanks to her emerging powers. The elf council agrees to this, and Noelle heads out, but has several mishaps, including kids spotting her and almost being attacked by a dog. However, by visiting a deaf girl she had met earlier, the Christmas spirit given off gives Noelle the confidence she needs to truly become Santa. Noelle finishes out the night and even drops off Jake at his ex-wife’s house with his son. Noelle is again highly respected at the North Pole and now leads the entire Christmas operation, proud to continue her father’s legacy.

Appearance

Noelle Kringle dresses in a highly girly, whimsical style that heavily shows off her love and passion for Christmas. As she has never left the North Pole, Noelle finds it common to dress warmly and appropriately for the weather there, but the heat of Arizona eventually gets to her. In public, she most commonly wears a combination of skirt, tights/yoga pants (which she mistakenly calls “yogurt pants”), snow boots, and either a vest or winter jacket. She typically enjoys the color red or green. At home in her bedroom, Noelle wears pajamas with prints such as reindeer antlers. In passing, Noelle mentions her “partridge in a pear tree” underwear, complimenting her childlike fashion sense. Interestingly, though very similar to her typical garb, Noelle dislikes dressing up as an elf.

Personality

Noelle is generally a highly cheerful young woman always willing to expound Christmas spirit to anyone she meets. She almost always has a smile on her face and is cordial to everyone. In the North Pole, she has a childlike spirit and demeanor, and though an adult, is still pampered by her nanny Polly, who does Noelle’s laundry, prepares her meals, and keeps her safe and comforted. This has led to Noelle being sheltered, naive, spoiled, and irresponsible; when Nick abandons the North Pole, Noelle is quickly blamed and expects the town to treat her the same, and instead of accepting it, Noelle hides out in her room and pouts in a somewhat depressive state. Polly snaps her out of it, and instead Noelle becomes determined to find Nick and set things straight. While in Arizona, Noelle’s naivety is even more noticeable, understandably having never been to the real world before. Noelle does take the task of tracking her brother down very seriously however, and learns a few social cues from being around the more world-weary Jake. She eventually grows into a more mature person while still keeping her childlike enthusiasm and kindness towards others. Surprisingly, Noelle can have a bit of a feisty streak at times, and particularly dislikes any naughty people or people who disrespect Christmas as a whole.

[fairycosmos]

sorry for the #UKthings rant but ive gone private for mental health stuff but are trying to get my foot in the door with public stuff because i cant afford mental health over stuff like, having food to eat, but ohhhh my god. nhs please. next week will be week five of an eight week deal (maybe some kind of assessment? i'm not sure what the exact point is) where i have a meeting with a mental health nurse and there is nothing more demoralizing on my journey to more stable mental health than hearing from her that all it seems i do is push people away and reject help. i'm sorry that saying that i dont think downloading an app is going to help me!! especially since i've already got one that i have been using. lol. i've tried to determine what it is she can actually do to help me because i feel like this whole thing is wasting both of our times but all i really get is "well i'm a mental health nurse not a psychiatrist so i can't help with that" OKAY !!!!! what CAN you do!!!! god. god . chloe do you know what a mental health nurse's role is? do any of your followers know??? how am i meant to work with her best rn i really dont know...

omg no honestly i could go on about this FOREVER!!!! but for ur sanity i won't. i'm so so sorry they're messing you around like this when it comes to something as serious as your health - i've had very similiar experiences and honestly at this point i see our healthcare system as nothing but a cardboard charade rather than a system that seeks to provide genuine support to people but that's a whole other thing. i'm on like a million waiting lists for various different things and i think if i do end up getting through to someone it is very much going to mirror your experience i.e dull platitudes and empty promises. they expect you to download a mediation app and get over severe mental illness and the fact that you're struggling with that is truly reflective of them and the state of the country - not you or your ability to heal/get over things/whatever other bullshit expectation they force onto us. i haven't worked with a mental health nurse since i was like 17 for this exact reason like they do not offer the consistent, in-depth and intensive help a lot of us need and their answer to everything is to try yoga or drink more water and it's like, how are you even SUPPOSED to work with that?? one thing i will say is that venting to these people and just letting that be their position in your life - to let you get off some steam - is somewhat helpful but obviously doesn't confront the underlying issues. through this she may come to understand that you showing up to these frustrating sessions and talking IS you trying, is proof of you not "rejecting help." it's wild she would even imply that honestly. i genuinely hope you find a treatment plan that actually does delve into why you feel this way and what you can proactively do about it - which you do deserve, but i know it's not super realistic to think that the nhs in its current state is going to provide you with. it sucks and it feels so fucking hopeless, i've never even entertained the idea of getting serious help for yrs because of this and i totally get it. if you need a friend or someone to talk to about this, please don't hesitate to send me a message fr. i feel like we're in super similar positions rn and it truly is its own type of hell. x

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"The patients’ responses to Abrahams’s groups varied. Some toed the line:

Dr. Abrahams who works with us here in the Hall is someone to whom we are all very grateful for helping us solve our problems and finding out what brought us here. . . . Let us all pull together, and take our place in society together.

Others were less sure of the value of group therapy:

They [groups] are interesting, from the stand-point of applied therapeutics, but do they accomplish anything? . . . The main difficulty, as seen by Your Reporter, thus far, is that the Group seems to wander—they digress—and nothing seems to be done to correct this situation. Why?

And some were more directly critical:

Yet I was hostile to group therapy at first. It seemed to me a cut-rate modification of individual psychotherapy, an ersatz, prostituted, watered down system evolved out of necessity, embellished with a new name, and a few flourishes of theory to make it appear respectable.

Ward staff was another matter; nurses and attendants were more uniformly reticent to accept the changes. Once quiet wards were now more lively; one began to hear the “more normal sounds” of conversation on the wards. Some of the attendants, moreover, feared that leniency would lead to difficulties in maintaining control and might even provoke rioting. The facts that rioting did not happen, and that ward staff were either moved out of the hall or retrained in group psychotherapy, helped overcome, or at least contain, that friction.

Once assembled as a group, the Black patients would use the session to discuss problems on the ward—privileges, visiting hours, food preparation—in addition to their psychiatric maladies. One of the first patient requests was to the Red Cross for reading material and for opportunities for recreation. When these requests were granted, patients in the white wards took note and asked for group therapy in their section of Howard Hall.

Where in early 1946 there were virtually no therapeutic activities, now, by early 1947, the hall became host to recreational therapy, occupational therapy, and psychodrama, along with a variety of others. Patients noticed the change. One, for example, commented that

many old time patients of Howard Hall are saying that the Hall is a much better place to live in than it was a few years ago. Many improvements have been noticed in the last year [1947] or so.

...

The role of the psychiatrist in group sessions was to prevent epistemic closure. The consensus reality of the group included the psychiatrist, who stood in for an outside vision of reality. The physician’s presence in the group stood in for a reality that was authoritative but not definitive; his perspective was included in the deliberative process but didn’t determine the outcome. In this vision of community, the ambition of guardianship was to ensure the translatability of group decisions to both the hospital (administrators, psychiatrists, other patients) and, in principle, the wider (sane) public. The ambition was to make both madness and wider hospital needs and interests mutually recognizable—to turn private claims into appreciably public ones.

This kind of consensus building is a twist on the traditional image of able-minded dialogue partners that underpins most visions of collective deliberation. In Howard Hall, we have a vision of reason, of deliberation, without a traditional reasoner. Rationality (at least in theory) was an emergent property of patients working in concert, and deliberation was put in service of a shared, world-building project."

- Christopher D. Berk, Democracy in Captivity: Prisoners, Patients, and the Limits of Self-Government. Oakland: University of California Press, 2023. p. 31-32, 34.

[iobsessoverfictionalmen]

The Taste of Revenge (7)

Warnings: canon typical violence, cursing, mentions of non-consensual drugging, descriptions of character death, mentions and descriptions of jail, car crashes, descriptions of drowning, lying, manipulation, guns, yandere themes, cursing, mafia AU, mafia Rafael Barba (trust me, he needs the warning), spoilers for Hannibal, references to Leverage, past Frederick Chilton/Rafael Barba, NSFW moments and angst.

Spanish translation

Cariño - Sweetheart.

Chapter 7

“You’re not wearing the bracelet I sent you.”  Barba observed as he noticed the box on your dining table where you had left it.

“I had other things on my mind, one of which was making a cake,” you revealed brusquely, turning on the lights.  “We all know how that turned out.”

You missed the glare on Barba’s face that was directed at Doctor Chilton.

“Sterling surprised us both by having you in the car.”

You frowned at the mafia boss, “Sterling is a bastard as evidenced by how he has treated my team and how he treated Doctor Ch-”

“Frederick,” the doctor interjected.  “Call me Frederick.”

Puzzled by the sudden permission he gave you to use his first name, you took a few seconds to recover your train of thought.  “And how he treated Frederick but are you seriously suggesting that Sterling arranged for me to be in the same car as him because he thought that would make you rethink pursuing him?”

“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

“Did you seriously just quote Sherlock Holmes, Rafael?”

The mafia leader inclined his head in Frederick’s direction, “The benefits of a private education.”

You rolled your eyes again, “Tim knows that quote too and he went to many public schools.”

Both men were silent as you gave them a tour of the house.  Your gaze fell on the clock in the kitchen as Frederick unpacked his many bags that you had collected from the hotel he was staying at.  You groaned when you saw the LED lights displaying the late hour; you didn’t get your eggs back and you had no desire to cook anything for the three of you to eat because then you would have to do the dishes and you had no energy to do that.

“I’m ordering pizza.  What do you want?”  You called down the hallway.

“Vegetarian!”

“Meat lovers!”

“I knew this wouldn’t end well but I had to ask.”

“What about half and half?”

“No.  I can’t eat anything with meat.”

“I won’t touch the meat lovers pizza if it touches the vegetarian slices.”

Your head fell into your hands and you let out a muffled scream.  There was no other explanation for your actions.  You were insane.

“Well, it’s not like you don’t know a psychiatrist.”

“How did the two of you ever become friends when you can’t agree on something simple like pizza?  The pizza place has individual pizzas that have four large slices.  Do you want to do that?  That way everyone gets what they want.”

“Please say yes.  Please say yes.  Please say yes.”  You begged in your thoughts.

Twenty minutes later, the three of you were eating your pizzas.  There was a sense of contentment in the air in spite of the lack of conversation, and after checking that all the doors and entry points were locked; you crawled into your bed and fell asleep.

You slept peacefully until there was a knock at your door, “Breakfast is ready, cariño.”

You shook your head and burrowed your face into your pillow, “If I don’t leave my bed…”  Your thoughts trailed off as your nose picked up the smell of food and your traitorous stomach grumbled in response to the smell.

“Are you ready for today’s Spanish lesson, cariño?” Barba asked once you were seated at the table and you had a mouthful of food.  You shot him a look that questioned his ability to choose the right moment while also informing him that now was not a good time.

Frederick’s fork froze halfway to his mouth and he stared at Barba, “Why are you teaching her Spanish?”

“I gave her information about the current case with Interpol in Spanish and told her that I’m the only person who can help her decode the message otherwise I wipe the tape recorder,” Rafael replied nonchalantly.

Frederick’s fork fell onto his plate with a clatter, “What are you thinking Rafael?  A language shouldn’t be learned out of necessity or coercion, it should stem from passion.”

“Perhaps in an ideal world, your argument would hold value Frederick but we aren’t living in an ideal world.”

You resumed feeding yourself when the two men began to bicker.  They were still going when you finished all the food on your plate.  Your phone beeped and the men didn’t notice you picking up your phone to read the message on your screen from Tim.

They did notice when you stood up, “Oh, am I interrupting?  Feel free to continue your bickering while I go to work and try and solve the case that you both had a hand in roping me into.”

“Which you need to learn Spanish for.”  Barba reminded you.

“As if I could forget that.  Don’t burn down the house in my absence.”

The day passed slowly at the NCIS base.  Towards the end of the day, your gaze fell on the heavy dictionary that sat behind Tim’s desk in his bookcase.  An idea appeared in your mind and after wondering why you didn’t think of this option sooner, you grinned.

“How’s the Spanish coming?”  Ziva asked while stretching and rolling her neck.

“It’s about to become a whole lot easier,” you answered her as you grabbed your keys and stood up.

That night you sat in the lounge room.  In front of you sat a notepad with a pen ready to take notes and on your left sat your brand-new Spanish dictionary.  You had carefully placed the recorder on the table in front of you between the notepad and the edge of the table.

You pressed the play button on the recorder and as soon as Barba’s voice sounded, you began scribbling down what you heard.  Your writing was messy and you knew that you weren’t spelling the Spanish words correctly but none of that mattered.  If you could get the gist of what he was telling you, then this whole mess could be over in a matter of days.  Sterling’s name was repeated multiple times so you wrote that down once and then added a small cross before writing the number of times that you heard his name and underlining it.

You were so engrossed in your task that you didn’t hear the footsteps signalling Barba’s arrival in the lounge room.

“What are you doing?”  His voice was low and dangerous.

“Translating your information.”  You replied, pulling the dictionary towards you, and beginning your search.

“Without me?  I warned you about using outside help to translate my words.”

“What you forbid me from doing was asking someone else to translate it for me.  I bought the dictionary and I’m translating it by myself.  I fail to see your problem.”

“Where did you buy it from?” Barba seethed.

You knew you were pushing your luck, but it felt so good to beat him at his own game, “I can’t remember the name of the store.”

“Try.  Check the receipt.”

“Can’t do that.  I shredded the receipt at work and to answer your next question, I paid in cash.”

The next things you heard were the slamming of the door that belonged to the room that Barba was occupying during his stay at your house and some vehement, angry Spanish cursing.  Pride and amusement bubbled up inside you and you replayed the audio on the recorder.

[small-bizz-press]

Dual Diagnosis Treatment in MA: Supporting Mental Health and Addiction Recovery Together

Recovery isn't one-size-fits-all. Many individuals battling addiction also experience underlying mental health conditions like anxiety, depression, PTSD, or bipolar disorder. This overlap is known as a dual diagnosis or co-occurring disorder. In Massachusetts, the need for integrated treatment is increasingly recognized and addressed by a growing number of specialized rehab centers.

If you're searching for a drug detox in MA or rehabs near me, and also dealing with mental health challenges, this guide will help you understand what to look for and where to turn for compassionate, effective care.

What Is Dual Diagnosis?

Dual diagnosis refers to the presence of both a substance use disorder and a mental health condition. These conditions often fuel each other, creating a cycle that’s difficult to break without proper treatment. For example:

Someone with untreated anxiety may use alcohol to self-medicate

Depression may make it harder to stay sober after detox

PTSD may trigger drug cravings during stressful life events

In Massachusetts, dual diagnosis treatment programs are designed to address both issues simultaneously. This coordinated approach leads to better outcomes and a lower risk of relapse.

Why Choose a Dual Diagnosis Program in MA?

Massachusetts is home to some of the best drug rehab in MA, many of which offer integrated treatment for dual diagnosis clients. Benefits include:

Access to board-certified psychiatrists and mental health professionals

Medication management combined with therapy

Holistic treatments like recreational therapy, yoga, or mindfulness

Personalized treatment plans tailored to your diagnosis

From Boston to Northampton to Cape Cod, providers throughout the state are equipped to deliver high-quality care for individuals with co-occurring disorders.

Signs You May Need Dual Diagnosis Treatment

If any of the following statements resonate, a dual diagnosis program might be the right fit:

"I use substances to manage my emotions or thoughts."

"I’ve tried rehab before but relapsed due to mental health triggers."

"I’ve been diagnosed with depression, anxiety, or PTSD."

"I want to understand the root causes of my addiction."

Massachusetts facilities offering dual diagnosis care will assess your mental health during intake and create a plan that includes therapy near you, medication (if needed), and peer support.

What to Expect in a Dual Diagnosis Program

A well-structured dual diagnosis program typically includes:

Comprehensive Evaluation: Includes psychiatric assessments and substance use history.

Integrated Care Plan: Addresses both addiction and mental health needs.

Detox Services: If necessary, facilities provide drug detox in MA with 24/7 medical supervision.

Therapeutic Services:

Individual therapy (CBT, DBT)

Group therapy

Trauma-focused therapy

Medication-assisted treatment (MAT)

Aftercare Planning: Includes referrals for outpatient therapy, sober living, or alcohol rehab in MA for continued care.

Local Cities with Strong Dual Diagnosis Programs

Several cities in Massachusetts stand out for their comprehensive treatment options:

Boston: World-renowned hospitals like Mass General and McLean offer dual diagnosis services.

Worcester: A hub for mental health innovation with numerous public and private programs.

Lowell & Lawrence: Community-based organizations offer bilingual services and cultural inclusivity.

Pittsfield & the Berkshires: Ideal for those seeking a serene environment for trauma and addiction recovery.

Searching for “Therapy Near Me” After Rehab

Ongoing therapy is vital for dual diagnosis recovery. Fortunately, Massachusetts offers a robust outpatient network, including:

Private practice therapists

Nonprofit mental health centers

Virtual therapy and telehealth services

When searching for therapy near me, be sure to find someone with experience treating both addiction and mental health conditions. Your aftercare plan should also include local support groups, wellness activities, and relapse prevention tools.

Does Insurance Cover Dual Diagnosis Treatment?

Yes, most insurance providers in MA, including MassHealth, cover dual diagnosis treatment. Coverage often includes:

Initial detox

Residential or outpatient care

Psychiatric evaluations

Medication

Ongoing therapy

Always verify your benefits before starting treatment. Many facilities will help you understand your plan and estimate any out-of-pocket costs.

What Makes Massachusetts a Leader in Integrated Recovery?

Massachusetts continues to lead the nation in behavioral healthcare innovation due to:

Strong state policies supporting addiction and mental health parity

Access to teaching hospitals and mental health research institutions

Community education programs that reduce stigma

A focus on evidence-based and person-centered care

Whether you live in Cambridge, Framingham, or a rural town in Western MA, there are providers nearby who specialize in treating dual diagnosis.

Final Thoughts

If you’ve been searching for "detox near me" or "rehabs near me" and are also struggling with mental health symptoms, don’t settle for a one-dimensional approach. Dual diagnosis treatment in Massachusetts offers the depth and compassion needed for long-term healing.

With access to some of the best detox in MA, innovative therapy models, and licensed professionals who understand co-occurring disorders, your path to recovery can begin today.

You don’t have to choose between treating your mind or your body. In Massachusetts, you can treat both — and rebuild a healthy, fulfilling life.

[financeadvisorsuk]

The Benefits of Private Health Insurance in the UK

The UK is globally renowned for its publicly funded healthcare system, the NHS (National Health Service), which provides comprehensive medical care free at the point of use. However, increasing pressure on NHS resources, longer waiting times, and evolving healthcare needs have led many people to consider the benefits of private health insurance as a complementary option.

If you're weighing up whether to invest in private health insurance in the UK, here are some key advantages to consider:

1. Faster Access to Treatment

One of the most cited benefits of private health insurance is quicker access to medical care. NHS waiting times can be long, particularly for non-urgent treatments. With private cover, you can often bypass the queue and receive consultations, diagnostics, and surgery much faster — which can make a significant difference in both outcomes and peace of mind.

2. Greater Choice of Specialists and Hospitals

Private health insurance offers the flexibility to choose from a wider pool of consultants and healthcare providers. You’re not limited to local NHS trusts, and can often select a specialist or private hospital that suits your needs — sometimes with access to leading experts or centres of excellence that might not be available through the NHS.

3. Access to Private Hospital Rooms

Comfort can play a key role in your recovery. Unlike NHS hospitals where you may share a ward, private healthcare facilities typically offer private, en-suite rooms, with more privacy, quieter surroundings, and sometimes even hotel-like amenities. This can make the overall experience significantly more pleasant.

4. Advanced Treatment Options

Some private health insurance policies cover drugs and treatments that may not be available on the NHS due to cost restrictions. This includes newer medications, experimental therapies, or innovative procedures not yet approved for public funding. This can be especially relevant for those seeking cutting-edge cancer treatments or rare disease therapies.

5. Shorter Waiting Lists for Mental Health Services

Mental health services in the UK are in high demand, with significant NHS backlogs. Private health insurance often includes access to mental health professionals, such as therapists, psychiatrists, and counselling services, with much shorter waiting times. This early intervention can be vital in managing mental health effectively.

6. Continuity of Care

Private insurance can offer greater continuity with the same consultant or medical team throughout diagnosis and treatment. This can lead to a more personalised and coordinated care experience, helping patients feel more reassured and in control of their healthcare journey.

7. Support for Physiotherapy and Specialist Therapies

Many policies include outpatient treatments like physiotherapy, osteopathy, or chiropractic care. These can often be difficult to access promptly through the NHS unless your condition is severe. Insurance can make it easier to start and continue with the treatment you need.

Is Private Health Insurance Right for You?

Private health insurance isn’t a replacement for the NHS — which continues to be a safety net for all UK residents — but rather a supplement that can enhance your access and experience of healthcare. If you value shorter waiting times, more choice, and added comfort, it could be a worthwhile investment.

Before purchasing, consider factors such as:

Your current health and any pre-existing conditions

The level of cover you need (basic, mid-tier, or comprehensive)

Premium costs vs. out-of-pocket affordability

Whether your employer offers it as a benefit

Final Thoughts

In an ideal world, the NHS would meet all healthcare needs swiftly and comfortably. But in the real world, where resources are stretched, private health insurance provides a valuable safety net. Whether for peace of mind, faster service, or more personalised care, it's an option worth exploring — especially as healthcare challenges continue to evolve in the UK.

[jamesh2025smith]

7 Books I Want to Read Every Year Until the Day I Die

There are books you read once, enjoy, and shelve. Then there are books that shape your worldview, comfort you in times of chaos, challenge you to grow, and whisper truths that age alongside you. These are the books that demand re-reading—not because you forget what they say, but because each reading uncovers a different layer of meaning, reflecting where you are in life at that moment.

This is my list of seven such books. These are the companions I want with me for as long as I have years to read.

“Meditations” by Marcus Aurelius If there's one book that grounds me whenever life becomes overwhelming, it’s Meditations. Written almost two thousand years ago by the Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius, this work wasn’t intended for publication—it was essentially a private journal of his philosophical reflections.

Each time I read Meditations, I find new solace in its raw humanity. Marcus speaks to the struggle of staying calm amidst adversity, the importance of self-discipline, and the fleeting nature of life. One year, a quote about anger might strike me deeply; another year, a reminder about mortality might feel especially poignant. This book evolves with me, offering timeless Stoic wisdom that never loses relevance.

Reading it annually is like checking my compass—making sure I’m headed toward integrity, resilience, and peace.

“To Kill a Mockingbird” by Harper Lee I first read To Kill a Mockingbird in high school, but it wasn’t until adulthood that its moral gravity fully registered. The story of Atticus Finch, his daughter Scout, and the injustice they witness in a racially divided American South is both devastating and hopeful.

Every time I revisit this novel, I’m reminded of the power of empathy, the courage it takes to do what’s right, and the innocence we often lose with age. Atticus remains my ideal of quiet strength and moral clarity. Scout’s perspective reminds me to stay curious and question everything.

This is not just a novel about racism or childhood—it’s about the essence of humanity, and it keeps teaching me something new every year.

“The Prophet” by Kahlil Gibran No book makes me feel quite like The Prophet. With poetic prose and profound spiritual insights, Kahlil Gibran touches on every element of life—love, work, freedom, pain, and death. Each chapter is a meditation in itself.

I return to this book every year like someone returning to a temple. It doesn’t preach; it whispers. And it feels deeply personal. Some years I dwell on his musings on marriage, other years on sorrow or giving. Gibran’s words meet me exactly where I am, like a mirror for my soul.

In a world of noise, The Prophet is my annual reset—a ritual to reconnect with what truly matters.

“Man’s Search for Meaning” by Viktor E. Frankl Few books have moved me more than Man’s Search for Meaning. Viktor Frankl, a psychiatrist and Holocaust survivor, chronicles his experiences in Nazi concentration camps and uses them to explore the psychology of survival and purpose.

What sets this book apart is its deep empathy and unshakeable belief in the human spirit. Frankl’s argument—that our deepest drive is not pleasure but meaning��reverberates through my consciousness every time I read it.

This is the book I turn to in difficult years. When life feels directionless or painful, Frankl reminds me that meaning can be found even in suffering. Reading this book annually is my way of not forgetting what resilience, purpose, and dignity truly mean.

“The Little Prince” by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry On the surface, The Little Prince is a children’s story. But anyone who’s read it knows it speaks more deeply to grown-ups who’ve forgotten how to see the world with wonder.

Each reading is a different experience. As a younger adult, I focused on the sadness of the Prince’s travels and his loneliness. In later years, I found myself meditating on the lessons of love, responsibility, and the invisible threads that connect us.

This book is a reminder to stay soft in a hard world. To value what is invisible. To ask the simple questions with the seriousness they deserve. It’s a short read, but its impact lingers, making it a yearly ritual I cherish.

“Letters to a Young Poet” by Rainer Maria Rilke Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet is a book of correspondence between the poet and a young aspiring writer. But these letters are far more than career advice—they’re spiritual instructions on how to live deeply, patiently, and authentically.

Rilke encourages solitude, embraces uncertainty, and views suffering as essential to creativity. His prose is lush, lyrical, and endlessly quotable. I return to this book every year because it’s like checking in with a wise mentor who always insists I trust the slow work of becoming.

Some years, his lines help me stay devoted to creative work. Other years, they guide me through confusion or change. Rilke’s gentle insistence that we must “live the questions” feels truer with each passing year.

“The Bhagavad Gita” (translation by Eknath Easwaran) No matter how much the world changes, The Bhagavad Gita remains eternally relevant. This sacred Hindu scripture, a dialogue between the warrior Arjuna and the god Krishna on the battlefield, is a manual for life, duty, and spiritual clarity.

I prefer the translation by Eknath Easwaran for its accessible yet profound rendering. The Gita speaks to action without attachment, the importance of self-knowledge, and the peace that comes from surrendering to a higher purpose.

Each reading reveals new dimensions. When I'm struggling with a decision, the Gita offers wisdom. When I'm feeling overwhelmed, it reminds me to act, but with detachment. It’s a spiritual compass I want beside me as I grow older—and ultimately, as I face death.

Why Re-read These Books? You might ask: Why read the same books every year when there are so many others out there? It’s a fair question. Here’s why:

They grow with me. Each re-reading reflects who I am at that moment in time. What I notice, what moves me, and what I question—all shift with age and experience.

They keep me grounded. In a world of constant change, these books are my anchors. They bring me back to core values, clarity, and calm.

They’re timeless. Trends come and go, but these books speak to fundamental aspects of being human—love, death, duty, meaning, beauty, morality.

They remind me of who I want to be. When I stray from the path, these works gently guide me back. They remind me to be brave, kind, curious, and humble.

They comfort and challenge me. Sometimes they offer peace, sometimes they stir unrest. But they always help me grow.

Making It a Tradition Reading these books annually is more than a habit—it’s a ritual. I schedule one each month or two, often aligning them with seasons or life events. Meditations in January, when I need resolve. The Little Prince in spring, when wonder returns. The Gita in December, as I reflect on the year.

I don’t rush through them. I underline, journal, reread passages. Sometimes I read them aloud. Over the years, they’ve become part of my inner architecture.

Final Thoughts Books can be more than entertainment—they can be lifelong companions. These seven have shaped my heart and mind in enduring ways. I hope to read them every year until the day I die, not just to remember who I’ve been, but to keep becoming who I hope to be.

Perhaps you have your own list. If not, maybe one of these will make its way onto your shelf—and your soul.

[abbsabroad]

the fairytale castle

yes, i visited THE castle. the one that inspired every fairytale castle you’ve ever seen, including the disney one: neuschwanstein.

we took a two-hour bus ride from munich through the bavarian countryside to get there, led by our very interesting tour guide, thomas. and thomas talked for all two hours there and back. apparently, he’s a portrait photographer, opera singer, phd in methodology, former physicist, professoral storyteller, and self-proclaimed “global citizen.” i couldn’t tell if he was eccentric or just extremely committed to the bit, but he definitely made the bus ride entertaining!

before we even got to the castle, thomas gave us the full backstory. neuschwanstein was built by king ludwig II of bavaria, aka “the fairytale king.” he was wildly popular, but hated public life. instead of ruling, he spent most of his time hiding away in nature, sleeping all day, building castles, and obsessing over richard wagner, his favorite opera composer. neuschwanstein was meant to be his private mountain retreat which was basically a giant love letter to wagner and german myth.

but the story takes a dark turn. ludwig refused to marry or produce an heir (he was gay, though not publicly out), and his government was not happy about the fact that their king was ignoring state affairs in favor of castle-building and opera. so they plotted to declare him insane. they even got a psychiatrist to diagnose him without ever meeting him (very legit, obviously). shortly after being deposed, he was sent to another castle under surveillance, and just two days later, both he and the psychiatrist were found dead in a nearby lake.

officially, they said it was a murder-suicide. but the story doesn’t add up... especially because there was no water in ludwig’s lungs. most bavarians (even still today!) believe he was trying to escape by boat to his cousin's castle when a guard shot him twice in the back. no one really knows what happened and it’s still a huge mystery.

then we finally arrived at the castle itself. it was perched up in the mountains and it really does look just like all the pictures! i couldn’t take photos inside, but the interiors were more impressive than the outside. everything was richly decorated with murals and carvings, inspired by german and celtic legends. unlike most castles, which show off family trees and war victories, ludwig filled his with scenes from old operas and myths. there was not a single portrait of him!

his favorite story was lohengrin, which wagner turned into an opera. it’s painted across his living room walls. the story is about a mysterious knight sent on a boat pulled by a swan to save a princess, but she breaks his trust and questions his identity so he leaves her behind and sails away. thomas said ludwig really connected with this story: the idea of being misunderstood, needing to hide who you are, and ultimately being alone because of it. it was kind of heartbreaking :(

walking through the castle, knowing that single story made it all feel way more alive. i wanted to stop in every room and learn every myth. it also made me so sad that the castle was never finished. ludwig only lived there for 172 days before he died. his throne was never built. his grand ballroom never hosted a single ball.

from the balcony, we could see the mountains, the green valleys, the village below, and even hohenschwangau, his childhood home. i couldn't imagine waking up every morning to that view.

on the way back down, we took a horse-drawn carriage! the horses were these massive creatures called kaltblut horses, which literally means “cold-blooded.”

now that i’ve seen the castle, i feel like i’ve officially checked off the one thing everyone associates with germany. i can cross it off the bucket list—i’m officially a german tourist now!