#a very strange therapy session probably.

[thermodynamic-comedian]

the thing is that if jonathan sims and sydney sargent met, i do not think they'd get along. it'd be like epic rap battles autism vs. adhd. sydney would take one good look at jon and go "this man has zero sense of whimsy and fun i want him dead" and jon would take one good look at sydney and go "this man is dead. who did this. is he an avatar. i am scared get me out of this fucked up summer camp"

and if jonah magnus and elijah volkov met, it'd be a whole different kind of disaster. it would turn psychosexual before you can say sigmund freud. and they would both be hypocrites about it too just thinking "damn this bitch is crazy. i'm so glad i picked the correct religion, unlike her" about each other the whole time.

but if gertrude robinson and lucille bertuccelli met, it would be the best thing to ever happen to both of them. they would be best friends without ever expressing a single emotion towards each other. if they met, the world might go up in flames, though.

[copperbadge]

how did u psych urself up to go to therapy? my executive function has been awol for like 2 years and it's gotten to the point where it's wrecking my ability to do anything. i'm scared to waste a bunch of time and money going and getting told i'm just lazy or that the problem is just me

Happy to talk about that! But this is really two issues, so I gotta do a fly-by real first on "scared of getting told I'm just lazy". :D

It sounds to me like you're aware intellectually that laziness isn't the issue. You know this is an executive function issue and not a personal flaw, but I definitely get that it's hard to internalize that. So I'm going to drop links here to some discussion of "laziness":

How do you know you're not just lazy? (ask sent to me -- it's long, but you can skim for the laziness bits if you want.)

Lack of motivation means you are avoiding pain (second ask in response to the first)

Laziness Does Not Exist by Devon Price

These are essentially my proofs when I want to remind you that laziness is a label that stigmatizes an innate behavior -- inability to act is real, laziness is not. If a therapist tells you that you are lazy, and ESPECIALLY that you are the problem, you should fire that therapist. Don't even stay the rest of the session if you don't want to, just say "I see we are not compatible," and bounce. I don't think the odds are high that you'll encounter that, but on the off-chance that you do, that's a bright neon sign that they're a bad therapist.

In fact I would open with that pitch: "I'm struggling with executive function and the self-perception that I'm really just lazy. I need help with the actual executive function issues but also with how I view myself because of them." The therapist's response will tell you a lot about whether they'd be a good fit.

So with that out of the way...

I eased myself into therapy with the speed of a small child entering an extremely cold lake. It helped a lot that all of my therapy has been virtual via Zoom, so a lot of stuff that would have been a barrier, like going to the physical appointments, discomfort in a strange space, etc. were swept away.

I didn't even want to see a psychiatrist for my Adderall prescription, but I knew I needed help and medication seemed to be my best option, so with the assurances of several people that it wasn't therapy so much as mental health maintenance, I saw a psychiatrist. And he was lovely! (I just met with him yesterday to go over my next few months of scrip.) For a while that was all I did: talked every month to a kind person who asked specific and measurable questions about my mental health -- mood, sleep patterns, ability to work, hobbies -- without getting especially personal. I thought, okay, I can handle this, I can probably handle more, so I asked him for a recommendation for a therapist.

He looked at the network of independent practitioners he belonged to (Clarity Clinic Chicago, if you want an example of a good network) and found me a couple of options. I got extremely lucky to find someone I felt was appropriate for me right out of the gate, though some of that was also knowing what criteria I had: I wanted someone who explicitly stated they specialized in adult ADHD and disability, and who seemed like they were interested in addressing a whole person and not a single issue. When we met she seemed nice, wasn't pushy or judgey, was familiar with spoon theory and disability activism because she also has ADHD, and didn't blink (or ask overly invasive questions) when I said I was very uneasy about therapy because of past experience. She was comfortable with the ambiguity I brought -- I basically said "Look, I think this is something I need but I'm not entirely sure what my goals are yet, it's just I only recently found out I have ADHD and I am rethinking a lot of stuff," and she was like fine, let's rethink it together.

It still took me a long time to start talking about anything meaningful, but she handled the non-meaningful stuff as if it was serious and important, which helped. Admittedly I have really good insurance so I pay $20 a session for therapy, which also helps; it's pretty negligible in terms of health costs for me. I can afford to dawdle.

So, all that said...my path may not be an option for you, but I think it indicates the kinds of options you have. You don't have to jump into serious and heavily emotional processing first thing if you don't want to. You can shop around for therapists and you can drop any bad ones you encounter speedily, or if you find one you immediately like you can still spend time getting comfortable before dropping into the heavier stuff.

I would suggest that if you have a prescribing psych or doctor for any kind of mental health meds, ask them if they have a recommendation. If you don't have that, ask around people you know or believe have access to therapy and see what they think. If those aren't available to you or you're uncomfortable with that, I'd do a search for licensed therapist and your health insurance, or see if your workplace has an employee assistance program that can recommend you someone.

Good luck! I hope you get what you need. Lord knows I've been there.

[femalefemur]

18+ minors do not interact!

so i just watched the crow remake and it made me think what if simon and reader met in a psych ward. 

you were brought in against your will really. your parents had said that if you didn't start getting out of bed and actually doing things they would check you in, but no matter how hard you had tried you couldn't just couldn’t bring yourself to get up, to drag yourself somewhere that wasn’t your bed. it was hard, too hard and too much, it was all too much, so here you were, a psych ward. 

simon’s a long term resident, been there for almost five years, knows every nook and cranny of the ward, every staff member, every patient. he never says a word in group sessions though and barely says more than a hello in individual therapy, silent like a ghost haunting the halls of the ward. 

then you arrive, he watches through the window in his room door as you’re brought in and shown to your room. you’re perfect he thinks as you pass, like an angel sent from heaven just for him, for his calloused hands to hold gently and his scarred lips to worship until you’re praying his name. he sits with you at breakfast the next day, watches as your eyes widen as you take the width of him in, probably wondering how they even have clothes big enough to fit him. smiles at you as he introduces himself and sets his tray down, leaning closer to you over the table as you tell him your name. 

it’s strange, you think as the hulking mass of man sits opposite you and introduces himself as simon, it’s strange how you don’t feel threatened or intimidated by the man, sure you were surprised at how big he was but all you feel is comfort and for the first time in a long time you feel happy. you blatantly stare at him throughout breakfast, answering any questions he has as your eyes trail over the tattoos you can see on his neck, face, forearms and hands, it makes you wonder what others he has and what they mean. the haircut though almost makes you laugh, a mullet of all things, not very long but a mullet nonetheless, you ask him about it and he grins, leans close and says, 

“what? ya don’t think i look handsome like this?”

you do though, of course you do, he’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen and you can’t look away for even a second.

[mellowsadistic]

Couples Therapy - Part 1

After Angela cheats on her husband, she agrees to go to couples therapy with him, but each session with the therapist leaves her feeling less and less like a grown-up.

***

Angela tapped her foot impatiently while her husband spoke with the therapist privately, probably whining about how angry and betrayed he felt. They were both supposed to go in together in a moment, but for now she was stuck waiting in reception.

Really, she couldn’t understand why Eric was being so dramatic. It was only sex! It wasn’t as though she didn’t love him anymore. She just needed to have a little fun sometimes, that was all. They weren’t even thirty yet! He was twenty-eight and she was twenty-seven. Did he really expect her to settle down and stick to a single sexual partner when she was still so young?

But he’d insisted on seeing a marriage counsellor and she’d eventually agreed, albeit reluctantly. Their therapist was a man. How was he supposed to understand what it was like for a woman in her situation? And her first impressions of the office hadn’t been great either. The receptionist was a total bimbo!

Angela glanced over at her. She was dressed up like some bizarre fetish fantasy. Her long blonde hair was tied up in a pair of high pigtails, and her stripper-sized tits were crammed into a sparkly Disney princess top. Didn’t this place have a uniform? She looked like an overgrown six-year-old for goodness sake! And she’d been acting like one too when she’d tried to match their names to their booking. Her husband had been very patient with her stupid lisping voice and barely passable ability to read, but Angela had wanted to turn around and leave straight away. What kind of serious therapist’s office employed a woman like that?

At last the door opened, and the therapist stood in the doorway. He smiled kindly and gestured her to come inside.

“He’s weady for you now!” the bimbo receptionist chirped happily, looking up from what looked like a fashion magazine for tweens.

Angela rolled her eyes. “Thanks.”

She went into the office and the therapist closed the door behind her. Eric was lounged on a sofa facing a hard-backed wooden chair, looking perfectly relaxed. Angela sat down next to her husband, leaving a few inches of space in between them.

The therapist didn’t take a seat in the wooden chair, however. He took a tablet from his desk in the corner and stood in front of Angela.

“Here,” he said, handing it to her. She looked down at the screen in her lap in confusion. What was this for? Some sort of presentation?

“I find that girls always get a bit nervous in my office,” he said, talking to her in a light, overly friendly tone, as if he was talking to a nursery-schooler. “This will help you relax, okay sweetie?”

Angela scowled. She was about to launch into a furious tirade. She couldn’t stand being talked down to! Who the hell did this man think he was? If he assumed most women were like his ditzy receptionist then he had another thing coming. But before she could say a word, the tablet in her lap came to life. Brilliant pastel colours swirled and spiralled on the screen, sinking into a single spot in the centre, and her complaints died in her throat. She couldn’t take her eyes off it. It was just so pretty…

“There we go,” said the therapist in that same sweet tone. “That always takes care of fussy little girls.”

“Is there anything I have to do?” Eric asked.

Angela felt strange. She was vaguely aware of the men’s words, but it was as though they were coming to her from the end of a very long tunnel. Her attention was focused on the dazzling lights on the screen.

“Not a thing. Let me do all the talking. Did you hear that, Angela? We’re going to have a little talk, okay sweetie? Nothing to be nervous about. I’m a trained professional, after all. We need to have a little talk about how you betrayed your husband. About how he found out you were cheating on him. Because that wasn’t very clever of you, was it Angela? Getting caught.”

Angela shook her head, not taking her eyes off the screen. “Not clever,” she echoed. It was true. She shouldn’t have been caught. She should have been more careful not to let him find out. Because even though there was nothing wrong with what she’d done, even though she was completely in the right, Eric wouldn’t understand.

“That’s right, Angela,” said the therapist. “You’ve been a very dumb bitch, haven’t you?”

Angela frowned. That didn’t sound right. Dumb bitch. Was it okay for the therapist to call her that?

“Look at the pretty sparkles, sweetie,” he encouraged, and Angela sank back into the swirling lights. “That’s right. You’re just a dumb bitch, Angela. All women are, but you especially. That’s okay though. You don’t know any better – you’re just girls.”

Angela knew vaguely that there was something she didn’t like about what the man was saying, but she was too engrossed in the swirling colours to care. His words were like background noise. She could understand them if she concentrated, but it was so hard to focus with the wonderful patterns in front of her.

“Yes, you’re just a girl, Angela. Just a silly little girl. A big child. It doesn’t matter if you do something wrong, because you can’t be held accountable for your actions, can you? You’re sweet and innocent.”

Angela nodded eagerly, a dim smile spreading across her face. She hadn’t done anything wrong. If she wasn’t so distracted by her tablet, she’d have smirked at Eric. His stupid attempt to guilt-trip her with marriage counselling was backfiring on him. The therapist was on her side.

“Besides,” the therapist continued. “You didn’t cheat on your husband anyway, did you Angela?”

Angela was confused. She had cheated on Eric. Was the therapist going to help her cover it up? But Eric already knew, didn’t he? Surely that wouldn’t work! The lights on the screen grew brighter. They were so, so pretty…

“You didn’t,” the therapist said again. “In fact, it’s completely impossible for you to have cheated on your husband. You know why, I’m sure. It’s because of your embarrassing bedwetting habit.”

Angela wrinkled her nose and started trying to shake her head in disgust. She didn’t wet the bed! The therapist must be confused. He must be mixing her up with some little girl. Maybe one of his other clients was some silly little bedwetter who needed to be reassured that everyone had accidents now and again, but that certainly wasn’t her.

“Don’t… I don’t wet the bed…” she mumbled. Her words felt heavy in her mouth. It was hard to think. She just wanted to watch the pretty swirling lights.

“Look at the colours, sweetie,” the therapist told her. “That’s a good girl. You are a bedwetter, Angela. You wet the bed every night. You have done for quite a few weeks now. And what man would want to sleep with a woman who still pisses herself in her sleep like a dumb toddler? You’re very lucky your husband puts up with your babyish behaviour, young lady.”

Angela’s face slackened as the spirals spun faster and faster. Lucky. She was a lucky girl. She was lucky to have a husband who put up with her bedwetting. Another man might leave his wife if she started peeing herself every night. Especially if she’d cheated on him too. But Eric didn’t know about that. Did he? It was strange. For a while Angela had been sure he did. And the therapist didn’t seem to know either. In fact, he thought it was impossible for a bedwetter like her to cheat on her husband! She blushed even more brightly. How had she done it? Angela frowned slightly. She didn’t know. She couldn’t remember clearly. But the therapist was right – who’d want to have sex with some stupid, bedwetting baby-woman? Why would anyone sleep with her when it meant waking up in piss-soaked sheets, or next to someone in a sopping wet diaper. Her special protection. Her baby pants. Was the therapist still talking? She tried to pay attention.

“…because your husband puts up with you in other ways too, doesn’t he?” he was saying. “It’s not just the bedwetting. You actually have quite a few silly, childish behaviours that no adult woman should reasonably be expected to have. You…”

Angela tuned out again. She could feel his words entering her ears, but her attention was focused entirely on the lights in her lap. So pretty. Such pretty lights…

When she came to, the tablet was gone, Eric was standing up and putting his coat on, and the therapist was looking at her with a satisfied expression on his face. Had she fallen asleep?

“Ready to go home?” Eric asked her brightly.

Angela smiled back, a little hesitantly. She’d thought she was in trouble, but maybe she’d just been confused. She was such a silly girl sometimes. Such a dumb bitch.

Eric held out his hand, and she took it. It felt nice to be holding onto him. It felt reassuring. He held her hand all the way back to their house, and while he walked, she couldn’t help herself from skipping along beside him.

[spectral-snippets-and-drabbles]

Death Warrant!Au

When the rejuvenating, life-extending effects of ectoplasm to the dead and dying was discovered by planets across the stars, it triggered mass conflicts that left several systems obliterated beyond repair. Hundreds of Billions had migrated to the Realms in numbers that were never seen before by the residence of the dead. They had various forms of damage and disfigurement on their new forms as a result of the ectoplasm being weaponized and used on them. Their very beings were corrupted beyond repair with their minds significantly altered with highly specified obsessions.

• Peoples from the destroyed worlds being so afraid that they lashed out, ripping anything that saw them to pieces out of fear of being attacked.

A serpentine creature of the Realms eagerly stalking them and fed upon their cores to grow stronger.

• Soldiers of these races were hell-bent on continuing to fight and proceeded to attempt subjugate this dimension that was new to them. Their rage guiding them blindly as they left paths of destruction throughout the realm.

A beast, wrongly slaughtered in the early madness of an delicate fledgling world that happened to be rich with ectoplasm followed the warpath and basked in the rage.

Eventually, more creatures like them came to prominence as a result of these strange new victims. Being aspects of emotion that were born from the masses in the war.

The Ghost King during this time period could not sit idly by and watch these newly born ghosts run rampant and terrorize his kingdom. With a heavy heart and a weapon in hand, a call to arms was called and the purge of these beings began. It tooks thousands of years, but when the last corrupted ghost was destroyed, the King took to the realm of living and wiped away all traces of the Realms from the minds of the survivors with all recollections of this terrible war for ectoplasm erased from history.

As his rested his eyes one final time, before the Tyrant would cowardly claim his life, made a major, sacred declaration that all citizens was made:

• If any hostile, mutant ghosts were to be found, they were to captured and examined by the king's council to await judgement. If they are too dangerous to restrain and seek bloody violence, they are to be destroyed.

• Any scientists trying to use ectoplasm for endangering life were to be have their memories erased and put to the sword for their crimes.

• Anyone foolish enough to Defy Death using ectoplasm, the greatest violation of the laws in the infinite Realms, they were to be put to death as and immediately given their Second End.

~•~ ~•~ ~•~ ~•~ ~•~

When Pariah Dark, the Cowardly Tyrant King, is defeated and Danny fianlly takes the throne after a few centuries of training, the Observers hand him a compiled a list of names who violated these sacred laws.

They have him start with Earth and Danny's jaw hits the floor with what the charges he was seeing. He can already hear the chaos in the meeting room.

• Amanda Waller, Vandal Savage, Darkseid, Granny Goodness, a court of owls(?)...the list is long, and that's just Earth alone!

• Jack "The Goddamn Joker" Napier and a few of the more violent Rouges of Gotham are charged with Veil Destabilization.

Even Jason Peter Todd Wayne...the Red Hood!? Danny can probably work something with Jason, force him into therapy sessions (along with the whole damn family) with Jazz and a couple cleansing sessions and supplements from Frostbite...the others had to go...

The continued slaughter of the innocent, combined with the suffering they endured and the misery felt by Shades who couldn't move on was making the veil deteriorate at dangerous speeds. New pits would form across the city eventually as a result.

Lady Gotham has done everything she can to keep the madness from happening but she can't hold it back any longer. Her core is ready to shatter under the stress and is constantly in agony, but she won't abandon her knights, despite Danny's pleas to save herself.

There's a certain brigade of furry's who may or may not like this news but said brigade had no choice but to take it on the chin. They have children who Defied Death in their ranks and the Realms are not afraid to destroy anyone foolish enough to stop them.

• Lex Luther is charged with crimes against humanity. And several other violations in regards to unethical experimentation.

One sticks out to Danny.

Lex used Danny's stolen DNA from a stray core shard from the Guys in White, who he was was funding in secret, even after they were disbanded, to create a clone comprised of the Earth's resident Kryptonian, the bald bastard, and himself to kill and replace said Kryptonian...the guy who literally helps save the earth time and time again from doom.

...Yeah, Lex is undoubtedly, fucked beyond total comprehension. Anyone defending him was risking all-out war with the Infinite Realms.

But hey, at least Danny was finally having child of his own! The little tyke is only a few years old in the tube, Ellie's visits are far and in-between and Danny's status as a Halfa made him sterile and develop an embarrassingly strong case of baby fever.

He's sure the ghosts from Krypton would love to help out in raising Conner in case Kal-El wasn't really planning on being around the boy. After all, being cloned himself, Danny knows the emotional baggage that comes with being violated to this degree by your enemy.

He just hopes the guy can come around and accept the little guy...

[hollyhomburg]

Before I Leave You (Pt. 60)

(sneek peak)(Omegaverse au, Mafia au, Bts x Reader)

Summary: Life changes come in many many forms; courting gifts, leaving jobs, and...Murder

Tags: Slow burn getting warmer, Angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, Trans! Tae, Transphobia, gender thoughts, workplace discrimination, flashbacks, murder, graphic violence blood, suicidal actions

W/c: 11.5k

A/n: ah i'm hoping i'll finish this in time! if not T-T i'll be attending my cousins wedding at the time this is posted so! give me lots of love when you read it cuz i'm so nervous~ i've never been around so many fancy people before. also that photo of hobi? in the moodboard? tell me why it makes my heart FLUTTER!!!

Previous part ~ Masterlist

~-~

Chapter 60: Glass Slippers

Your breath goes just a little bit rapid, just a little, hitching when you think of it.

“Did Jin tell you anything?”

“He didn’t. Although my secretary did inform me that he filled out the paperwork for you.” The air in the therapist’s office is cold. Cold enough that it has you wrapping your sweater sleeves over your knuckles.

Your cheeks heat “My pack they- get a bit- protective.” Your fingers circle your wrist. You’re glad that Hobi convinced you to take one of his sweatshirts. He'd had a strange look on his face while he zipped it up, and you'd had to worry and wonder about it the whole morning. You'd worried more once he texted, just after he must have gotten to work.

“I have kind of a history of self-destructive behavior and I- I kind fell into bad habits a few days ago and blew up. It was all kind of triggered by this like- thing that happened with me and my other packmate.” It’s surprisingly easy to tell the truth.

You’re a right side better than you have been the last few weeks, now. A little bit more present, less foggy. The doctor just looks at her screen and not at you. What is it with her asking questions that make you not want to lie? Why does it feel like you should anyway?

Dr. Rima reads between the lines, what you're trying to say without saying it. “Is there a possibility of you hurting yourself again?” She clicks at the screen a little rapidly.

“No.”

The truth is you have no idea. It seems best to lie in this situation. But you consider it; one of your packmates making the call that you are too much to handle, that you need more help than they can offer. You imagine what it would be like to be in inpatient care. Grippy socks and group therapy and probably observed mealtimes. Maybe Iv's and feeding tubes if it came to that. Away from the pack and away from Yoongi.

He’s just downstairs, but that feels too far. There was no way that he was going to let you do this alone, you wouldn't be surprised if he never left the waiting room.

It’s just a therapy session. The very thing that you once refused. But now that you're here you might as well heal, you might as well work to stop this endless train of brief highs and endless lows. you'll give it a go, why not? What do you have to lose?

And yet, the texts from Hobi remain unanswered:

Ho-🐝 (9:48): Hey, I’m really proud of you.

Ho-🐝 (9:48): I’m really happy I get to be your packmate. In case you ever worry.

Ho-🐝 (9:49): And your best friend too <3

Ho-🐝 (9:51): Just so you knowwww

Coming Saturday September 23rd at 5pm EST (Time Zone Adjustment Below)

[defectivevillain]

this broken design, ch7

summary: “Dr. Lecter?” You blink a few times, convinced that you’re dreaming. The man’s gleaming eyes and concerned expression seem a bit too realistic to be conjured by your sleeping mind, though. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen him look worried. You quickly decide that you don’t like it.

“Hannibal, please,” the doctor responds nonchalantly. You stare at him in utter confusion. Just what is happening right now? You thought you were dreaming, but this feels a bit too vivid. “What are you doing out here?”

read from the beginning here! [this won’t make much sense, otherwise]

ao3 version [the formatting is much better over on ao3, thanks to better html]

i've also made a Spotify playlist if you like listening to music as you read :0

As you pull your car into a parking spot at Hannibal’s office, you are very stressed. After all, you went into work this morning under the assumption that it would be a perfectly normal day, only to find Franklyn Froideveaux’s corpse in your office. To make matters worse, you have an ugly feeling that his death is on your hands. You’ve grown to know the Ripper as you’ve grown to know Hannibal himself, and you have to wonder if the encounter at the opera house pushed him to kill Franklyn. In an ideal world, you probably wouldn’t be voluntarily going to a therapy session with the very same murderer who dumped a corpse in your office. Unfortunately, beggars can’t be choosers.

As you walk up the steps and into the waiting room, you can’t shake the thought that Hannibal’s sudden availability is somewhat unusual. You were under the assumption that the man was fully booked throughout the day. Perhaps he set aside time for you? You quickly stop that thought before it turns into the slippery slope of a logical fallacy you know it to be. As you hover awkwardly in the waiting room, you notice that the space is empty—per usual. However, there’s a strange, unsettling aura clinging to the shadows that the chairs cast on the wall behind them. You frown and fidget restlessly, waiting to be allowed inside. You’re sure Hannibal has given you explicit permission to enter when you please, but you still feel as if the door to his office is an insurmountable obstacle.

“Please, come in.” Hannibal’s voice breaks you out of your thoughts. He’s lingering at the door and holding it open for you. Ever the gentleman, you scoff internally. Per request, you pass through the door, ignoring the strange shiver that goes down your spine as you brush shoulders with him.

As you walk into the space, you’re immediately struck by the feeling that something is different—it doesn’t take you long to realize what it is. The chairs are pushed even closer together than last time. You try not to read into that too much, despite the undeniable knowledge that the distance between them has been shrinking each session. You can’t pinpoint a logical reason for Hannibal to push the chairs. You can think of several illogical explanations, but they’re too far-fetched.

“Is this about Franklyn’s murder?” Hannibal is perceptive, as always. Although, you suppose that's a rather obvious conclusion. Anyone would be startled at the notion of a man turning up dead in their office. Your brief encounter with Franklyn a few days ago continues to run through your mind. Should you have done things differently?

It takes you several moments to make sense of your thoughts. Hannibal graciously waits for you to continue; meanwhile, you spend an immeasurable time pacing around the office restlessly. You can’t sit today—you feel like you’re on the precipice of a big discovery. You walk around in circles over and over again, ignoring Hannibal’s heated gaze. You can feel him staring throughout the entire time you’re pacing.

“Something’s missing,” you choke out, your voice raspy from lack of use. You clear your throat and continue. “I tried to see it through the Ripper’s eyes, but… things were missing. I felt his disgust, contempt, and irritation easily enough. But, there was something else… Something lurking beneath the surface. I tried to get at it, but I couldn’t do it. That’s never happened before.”

“Jack seemed to think the murder was committed out of love.” You must react rather ostentatiously at that, because Hannibal raises a brow. “You seem surprised.” He remarks. There’s a trace of amusement flickering from under his carefully crafted mask.

“He never told me anything along those lines…” You sigh. Hannibal has an intriguing expression on his face, as if he expects you to display more of a reaction. It almost seems as if Hannibal is deliberately trying to cause strife and discord between you and your coworkers. You feel rather uneasy about that realization and you instead decide to dissect Jack’s theory. “And… love? I don’t understand.” The clock on the wall ticks loudly, creating an uneasy monotony.

“I imagine the Ripper feels as if no one understands him,” Hannibal murmurs, leveling you with an intent gaze. It feels as if he’s looking directly into your soul. Vulnerable to his dissecting stare, you take a shuddering breath in. The world around you blurs and all you can see is Hannibal.. “No one… except, perhaps, you.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” you say instinctively. Admittedly, your heart is roaring in your ears. The fireplace against the wall is crackling. You pace around a little more, before finding yourself at Hannibal’s desk. You look down at the surface, unsurprised to find that it’s neatly organized. There’s a piece of parchment with a graphite pencil resting on top of it; you look down and realize that it’s a sketch of Achilles lamenting the death of Patroclus. The more you look at the sketch, the more you’re struck with a strange feeling of familiarity. Those figures don’t look like Achilles and Patroclus… They look like Hannibal and you. Unnerved, you look back at Hannibal and try to find the conversation again. “I mean, I’ve just been making deductions about the Ripper.”

Hannibal looks relaxed, despite the attentive manner in which his eyes follow you around the room. After a few more moments spent pacing about, you give in and take a seat at your designated chair. Hannibal’s eyes are glittering when you look over at him. “Your deductions have been correct so far.” You suppose that’s true.

“Even so, that’s not love; that’s just… understanding.” You trail off. Love is a rather large leap in logic, in your opinion. Surely, the Ripper doesn’t love you.

“To the Ripper, understanding is love,” Hannibal asserts, his lips quirking up at the sides. You’re not sure where he’s finding humor in this situation. Perhaps he’s trying to toy with you. Unfortunately for him, you know that he’s the Ripper. Regardless, it appears as if Hannibal enjoys stringing you along like this. You inhale slowly, trying not to fidget and reveal how restless you truly feel. “You are the first person to see through his facade, through the layers of his mask.”

“Oh,” you remark, suddenly feeling as if you were dumped in a vat of cold water. A shiver rolls down your spine and your skin prickles in the brisk air of the office. You suddenly understand what he’s insinuating. You scramble to find something else to latch on to—a diversion that will take you away from the turn this session has taken. The conversation has turned far too meta for your comfort, and you’re unsure how to tread these tumultuous waters.

“I fear the ordinary mind wouldn’t be able to handle his love,” you find yourself saying, breaking through the tense silence that momentarily descended on the space. Hannibal looks up and stares at you with an inexplicable expression on his face. His mask seems to be fastened to his skin rather tightly today. You, on the other hand, aren’t as composed; you’re currently combatting several different emotions at once. You know you’re on the crux of an important, potentially earth-shattering realization… but you’re too apprehensive to accept it. Instead, you decide to indulge Hannibal. You’ll play his verbal games, dodge the truth for long enough that the falsehoods take life and become reality.

“You’re far from ordinary,” Hannibal murmurs inexplicably. You instinctively stiffen, your shoulders tightening. The remark isn’t exactly unwelcome, but it feels like a diversion from the current conversation. You have to grit your teeth and remind yourself not to snap at him.

“That’s not quite relevant, is it?” You frown, feeling your hackles rising. You subconsciously straighten your posture, if only to take advantage of the few inches of distance it gives you from him. Hannibal leans forward in his chair in response. You feel bolted down to your chair, frozen under a predator’s watchful eye.

“Who can say?” Hannibal asks infuriatingly. That habit of his—answering a question with another question—is really grating on your nerves.

“Do you always have to be so cryptic?” You roll your eyes, trying to pretend as if this is just a playful conversation. There are no stakes here. You’re not risking anything by sitting in this office, across from a practiced killer. “I’m horrible with ambiguity; you’re going to have to be clearer.”

“This killer wrote you a poem,” Hannibal declares. After that remark, you can’t help but think back to Franklyn’s corpse—the grotesque mutilation juxtaposing the bloody tears artfully falling down his face. You loathe the fact that you can see the poetic beauty hidden beneath the gore. “You shouldn’t let his love go to waste.”

“You’re being cryptic again,” you sigh, resisting the urge to grab Hannibal by the collar and just shake him. “Besides, I’d argue that his love has already been wasted on me.” You can’t even let yourself entertain the thought of the Ripper—and, by extension, Hannibal— being in love with you. It’s a cruel joke and nothing more.

“Evidently, he does not think so.” You rub your eyes roughly, feeling the sudden overwhelming urge to cry. You wait a few moments before chancing a glance at Hannibal, only to find that he has a perceptive look on his face. “You are not, nor have you ever been, a waste,” Hannibal remarks, as if sensing the sudden negative turn your thoughts are taking.

“That’s nice of you to say,” you laugh sardonically. The laugh is broken and jagged, and it hurts your throat. You’re unable to get rid of the hysterical grin that is inexplicably tearing at your cheeks. Everything stings and burns. You feel horribly inadequate and vulnerable.

“As your psychiatrist, I’m limited to formalities,” Hannibal admits, clasping his hands and leaning forward. His lips are pulled taut and he almost looks concerned. You have to remind yourself of his caring mask. “As your friend, however, I must say that I care for you deeply and that you are absolutely worth loving.”

“Thanks,” you remark after too many moments of silence. There’s an unshakeable confidence in his voice and you really wish you could replicate it. You wish you could see yourself as anything but a burden. You place your hands over your eyes, feeling incredibly overwhelmed. You feel like you’re slipping, like your grip on reality is slowly slackening. What’s wrong with me?  You don’t realize that you’ve spoken aloud until you catch the troubled pull to Hannibal’s lips.

“This world has a lot of wrongs in it, but you are not one of them,” Hannibal asserts quietly. There’s a buzzing sound reverberating through your skull. Your head is pounding, as if you had just delved into your criminal profiling abilities and seen the world through Hannibal’s eyes. You put your hands over your eyes and relish in the brief solace the darkness provides you.

“I’m required to inquire about your wellbeing and safety,” Hannibal remarks. The ensuing silence hits you like a punch to the gut. You keep hoping, waiting for something to happen… but it never does. Why do you still hope? Furthermore, what are you even hoping for? Your doubts are clouding your thoughts, leaving you in a tormented haze of regret, shame, guilt, and grief. Hannibal is required to inquire about your wellbeing and safety—he would not, otherwise. The realization hits you hard, robbing you of breath.

“I’m fine,” you say, repeating the sentiment over and over in your head. Unfortunately, the repetition doesn’t make the feeling any more believable. You pinch the bridge of your nose and take a deep breath. It feels as if the world is crumbling around you. Hannibal’s gaze has yet to leave your face and for the first time, you feel significantly unnerved by the thought. You push yourself to your feet and stand in front of him. Looking down on him doesn’t give you a surge of power in the way you hope it will.

“Pray forgive the discourtesy, but that doesn’t seem to be the case,” Hannibal says, not unkindly. His kindness feels patronizing. You clench your fists at your sides and take a deep breath. Ultimately, you let your guard down too much in front of the psychiatrist. Hannibal is not your friend—he is a working professional who is required to inquire after your wellbeing. No matter how much he may pretend to care, no matter how many opera outings you may share, he is your psychiatrist. It had been easy to forget that in the wake of Hannibal’s constant presence.

“I believe our session is over?” You ask, raising an eyebrow at him and manifesting a sense of confidence that you certainly don’t feel at the moment. Hannibal’s eyes fall down to his wrist and he stares at his watch with furrowed brows.

“Apologies,” he responds. His hand falls to rest on the arm of the chair. Now that the watch has fulfilled its purpose, Hannibal’s gaze is fixated on you again. “I find the time to simply… slip away in your presence.”

You know that if you stay for even a second longer, you’ll give into your foolish hopes. You’ll fall for the cleverly crafted allure that Hannibal has cloaked around himself. You’ll read into every single minute detail, every chivalrous gesture and every warm smile that hides sharpened teeth.

Before you can even begin to contemplate how to dismiss yourself in a socially acceptable manner, your body is moving to leave. You faintly recognize Hannibal asking after you, but you’re exiting the office and closing the door behind you before you can process what he’s saying.

The car ride home passes by in a timeless blur. When you pull your car into your driveway, there’s something that immediately makes itself known to you. There appears to be something taped to your front door. You make sure to exit the car and lock it up before focusing your attention on the piece of paper on your door. Frowning, you take it off and read it.

TattleCrime

The Mark of a Killer: How the FBI’s “Best” Criminal Profiler Killed Franklyn Froideveaux

By Freddie Lounds

A corpse was recently discovered in the office of the FBI’s most prolific criminal profiler; the body was found to be mutilated nearly beyond recognition. The FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit later confirmed the body to be that of Franklyn Froideveaux—who had been presumed missing after a friend reached out to the police in concern.

Froideveaux was dead for several hours upon discovery. Current working theories attribute the murder to the Chesapeake Ripper, and the FBI is insistent on the notion that the Chesapeake Ripper—the dangerous serial killer that mutilates his victims by removing their organs and presumably feasting on them—has returned. However, the victim’s body was found in the office of the same agent that has been consistently embroiled in these murders. Perhaps the consistent practice of “slipping into the mind of a killer” (1) has caused more harm than good. Jack Crawford, head of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit, maintains that his profiler did not commit this murder. However, the sudden appearance of Froideveaux’s corpse brings up many unanswered questions (2). Furthermore, inside sources claim that there was little to no evidence left at the crime scene.

Crawford is currently heading an investigation into the murder of Froideveaux, alongside the Behavior Analysis Unit—consisting of Beverly Katz, Jimmy Prize, Brian Zeller, and the aforementioned profiler. The FBI is remaining characteristically tight-lipped about the investigation, which naturally prompts many questions surrounding the nature of the murder and the crime scene’s discovery.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” an anonymous source (3) responds in regards to the culpability of the criminal profiler whose office serves as the scene of the crime. “Jack always had his favorites.” The inside source refused to elaborate further or answer any more questions.

The FBI’s silence has only shed more light onto the possibility that the murder was an inside-job. After all, the headquarters in Quantico are known to be heavily fortified and extremely secure—with tedious security checks and a fully staffed security team. The Chesapeake Ripper seems to be a convenient suspect—he had been presumed inactive for months. However, it’s hard to fathom that the Ripper snuck through the FBI’s headquarters and dumped a body in an agent’s office. An employee or agent, on the other hand, would have the security clearance to roam about the building with relative ease.

For some, the murder of Franklyn Froideveaux comes hand-in-hand with the return of the infamous serial killer, the Chesapeake Ripper; for others, Froideveaux’s murder is yet another secret that the FBI intended to keep hidden from the public eye.

Quote attributed to Jack Crawford, the head of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit.  

The FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit—which houses the aforesaid criminal profiler—did not respond to TattleCrime’s request for further information.

This source elected to remain anonymous.

For inquiries, reach out to generalinquiry@tattlecrime.org.

If you have more information surrounding the murder of Franklyn Froideveaux or the killer widely known as the Chesapeake Ripper, reach out to freddie@tattlecrime.org.

You can’t help but let out a disbelieving laugh. A million thoughts are running through your mind simultaneously. Unfortunately, this is far from the first time that you’ve been featured in a TattleCrime piece—especially when the writer is Freddie Lounds (she seems to have a strange vendetta against you). As is typical of TattleCrime, there is hardly anything in the piece that provides hard evidence of your supposed role in Franklyn’s murder. Finally, you have to wonder how Freddie Lounds got all this information. Jack made sure to keep the discovery an internal affair—or, at least, that’s what you thought. It appears there’s a leak somewhere in the bureau. You think back to the look in Zeller’s eyes when he confronted you earlier. He was likely the “anonymous source” that Lounds procured.

Shaking your head, you walk into your house and take off your shoes. While the article alone isn’t enough to irritate you, the events of the day had already left you in a sour mood. Now, this TattleCrime piece is enough to send you over the edge. You crumple the paper up angrily and throw it into the fireplace. Within a few moments, the fireplace roars to life. The article dissipates and burns to ash, but your doubts still remain.

next chapter

[elaineas-elysian]

|| 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐚𝐤𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐈𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐲 ||

SCENARIO : The Sakamaki Brother’s are attending Therapy Sessions. Somehow, they got dragged into this situation, and Karlheinz had no other choice but to send his son's to a psychological therapist for reasons that are not specified. They did not agree to this at all, of course, but they had no choice nor options. (This post was heavily Inspired by @mikalara-dracula !)

Shu thought having a therapist was absolutely a drag. He does not want to get up everyday to see a Therapist, so he had to somehow negotiate a schedule that seems fair to them both. In conclusion, he has to see them once a week. Most of the time, he DOES NOT attend his sessions by all means nessairy, he finds it too much work and energy wasted to either go to the Therapist himself, or the Therapist visit’s him at the Manor. Shu barely has interactions with his Therapist, and sleeps through most of the sessions listening to music through his ear buds. Most of the time, the sessions goes something like this:

??? : Shu? Shu can you hear me?

Shu : Zzz. . .

??? : Shu, can you please just attempt to listen to what I have to say beforehand, let's discuss some thing's you find enjoyable in life, or your perspective of the world and how you perceive it.

Shu : Zzzzz. . .

Reiji absolutely thinks that having a therapist is certainly unessasairy for him, he's convinced that his Brother’s need way more help then he actually does, but that doesn't mean that he hasn't had an interaction with his Therapist before. They will speak about small things here and there, but when the Therapist request Group Sessions with the brothers, that's when the Chaos truly happens. Reiji is slightly more open about what bothers him than his other brother's, but doesn't make it obvious, almost like a puzzle in a sense that you have to collect the piece’s and put them all together to get the gist of things. Reiji is most definitely annoyed with how a Therapist tries to really figure out your Mentality as a individual, earning them the Title: “Know It All’s”

Ayato literally finds the Therapist so Ignorant, yet proceeds to Ramble and Complain about the smallest things that bother him, basically like a dump tool. Since Ayato is very prideful, he tells himself that he doesn't need to depend on a Therapist, yet complains how nobody listens to him although having a Narcissistic personality therefore, led him in result to Therapy sessions. He's the type of person to deny everything that their saying, and probably Diagnose himself with something out of the ordinary.

Kanato has no concern of whatsoever for even the concept of Therapeutic help. Being their alone for him by force already agravated him enough, and having a persuasive person telling you to open up about your thoughts and emotions is even more worse for him. He will most definitely avoid the Therapist at all cause, and if the Therapist is constantly reminding him about his sessions, he will probably grow hatred and despair for the Therapist, (And also Threaten to kill them if they don't leave him alone in general.) Trying to open up a locked door with a key, take Kanato for example, it will definitely be hardly difficult to conquer.

Laito will find it oddly strange knowing that there’s a person trying to discover his backstory, and more about who he really is emotionally. If the Therapist was a Female, he will definitely try to Manipulate and Seduce her in any way possible. He wouldn't really think too much about Therapy, but it will properly keep lurking thoughts upon him.

Subaru grows more irritated at the concept of being in Therapy. Being a loner, the thought of him opening up to another individual terrifies him, he believes if anybody gets involved with him, he will only get into their way. Like his other brother's, this leads to Avoidance with the Therapist which causes him to barely show up to his Therapy Sessions. He wants no part of what a Therapist has to offer for their patients and prefers to stay away at all cost, claiming that if they get to close to him, he might Mentally or Psychically “Destroy and Break Them.” He preferably tends to stay quiet during Group Sessions.

[haveyouseenthisskeleton]

Hello!

Can I request something the Horror Group and both sets of dance bros?

My request is this, when S/O was younger they were a professional dancer but after an accident to their legs s/o could never dance again without strong pain.

S/O told there skeleton lover but it’s obvious they miss dancing

Thank you!

Horrortale Sans - He understands. There are a lot of things he used to do he can't do now, all because one person he thought was a friend turned out was not. That's ok though. With time, you learn to cope even if it's still bitter. Oak is nice to you all day after that, just making sure you feel like you're not alone.

Horrortale Papyrus - Welp. Same. He tells you he used to jog every morning before Undyne fucked up his back so bad he almost stayed paralyzed. He missed being able to be his energetic self like before and running around to annoy people. Now he just feels nostalgic and sad :( But that's ok, you can be sad with him, it will probably reverse the sadness around.

Horrorswap Sans - He stays strangely silent, just staring at his missing arm Then he suddenly leaves the room. Sorry, he doesn't like to talk about his disability. It's still too recent and he struggles a lot with accepting he can't do things the way he did anymore.

Horrorswap Papyrus - He gently hugs you to comfort you. Or to comfort himself, he's not sure anymore. It just feels like a situation where you hug people. Honey tells you that with how science evolves, he hopes someone will find a way for you to dance again.

Horrorfell Sans - That's fine. You can't move your booty like before, but he assures you that you don't need to dance to have the best booty in the whole world. You don't even know what to say to this. Sorry, Copper is not the best at comforting people, he doesn't have the social skills to do so. Forgive him, he tried.

Horrorfell Papyrus - He's sorry for you, he knows the feeling. But that's ok, there are many ways you can practice without hurting too much, like underwater. He has therapy sessions to help him with his legs every week in a pool, he could take you one time to see if you like it. He's sure you can find some way to have fun. He also wants someone so badly to have fun with him. It feels lonely sometimes facing his disability all alone.

Dancetale Sans - Welp, he's your man for this. What if he has some ways to help you with this? He's a dance instructor and he actually has a specialization for people with disabilities. He will gladly help you to have your moves back and with caution so you don't overdo yourself.

Dancetale Papyrus - He's very encouraging and tries to push you so you can know his brother a little better. He wants you to join Rambo special classes, he's sure 100% that you will find what you need there. Unfortunately, he's a bit too energetic to join. He's too scared he might accidentally hurt you if he goes a little too far. But Rambo knows the tricks and he's sure you'll dance again eventually, trust him.

Dancefell Sans - He completely stops to dance because he loves you and he knows it might hurt you to see him practicing. He doesn't miss it that much, he just doesn't want to hurt you more. You two can find another sports activity that you can do, and he'll gladly join. He's not difficult, as long as he's with you, he's very fine!

Dancefell Papyrus - Tango is probably not the best match as he's way too energetic and has a hard time to focus on things. He often accidentally outpasses your boundaries, even if he means well, and he might hurt you eventually, despite having the best intentions. He would try to be better, but he can't really change how energic he is and he would just feel guilty and frustrated looking at you gets sad because he has to dance to feel better sometimes, which he really doesn't want. He want the best for you, he's just too clumsy to really be helpful.

[elfqueen006]

Human Moonpie Headcanons

CW/Tags: AU, parenting, religious bashing, slight horror elements, implied possession, etc.

• Full name is Miranda Durand-Cofer. Is 8-10 years old. Likes cats and princess movies.

• She's still blind but Shaun makes sure she's properly accommodated while not making her feel left out or "othered" from her peers.

• She loves to explore and color. Her favorite colors are purple and pink!

• Very chatty, but says the cutest (and sometimes weirdest) things.

• Wants to be a fashion designer when she grows up!

• Now, I used to have an idea that Shaun had a one night stand with a girl in college and they now co-parent. But after hearing of Olivia and their implied history, this could be applied to them but she mainly resides with Shaun.

• I feel like not only would Shaun be a good dad, but he probably had it in mind when starting his career. He'd have to settle down at some point, right? Though balancing work life and a child can be tricky, especially with the subject matter he portays in his films.

• I feel that now that a child is added to the mix, his uncle, Abraham Cofer, comes down on him much harder. Badgering him about introducing Miranda to "devilment" and "horror porn". Which Shaun rightfully goes off about this, seeing as he would never put his daughter in a position where she would experience anything inappropriate.

• There are times he tries to at least give Abraham updates on her, just to have some semblance of normalcy. And I think Abraham would want to be involved in Miranda's life, but he is an old man who is stubborn and stuck in his ways and probably thinks being involved means Shaun should see things his way about, well, everything.

• If Miranda has the clairvoyance that Shaun is implied to have in the Character Reveal Trailer, there's a chance she'd have the ability to see Sunny Day Jack without watching the tape.

• If we have a co-parenting situation with you and Shaun. Maybe the events likely to happen in the game with go a bit differently. It would still be horror, but with a different approach.

• Kids are not an uncommon factor in horror. They can range from being victims, killers, and even mediators of sorts between the dead and the living.

• Jack loves children! And I think if ever encountering Miranda and she was able to see him, he'd adore being like a big brother figure of sorts. Like Shaun, he wouldn't dare put her in a scenario that would harm her. Still, keeping in mind that he's a yandere, I don't think he'd be above using her innocence to his advantage; planting ideas in her mind that her environment might not be so safe.

• Shaun isn't fit to be a parent, in Jacks' eyes. He's too career oriented, makes indecent material, and is overall too lax in his parenting! If Jack had it his way, Miranda would be under his care 24/7...

• Strange occurrences start happening with Shaun soon. He has more nightmares, calls with his uncle distress him more than normal. It begins to scare you and Miranda so you take her to your parents for a short amount of time so he can calm down.

• After about a month or so of missed calls and frantic texting, Shaun is... completely fine! He'd been attending some therapy sessions and taking some time off work to get his head straight. In fact, he might just go into a different career path.

• He's eager to have Miranda in his arms again, and he reassures you and her that he'll always be here to spend time together... <3

[soaps-mohawk]

wait, were we talking abt shit we used to do as kids? am i too late? too bad im adding something

i used to swallow coins. like full on just swallow coins. my oldest sister would make me spit them out sometimes but i was a very sneaky kid.

Idk if they like. digest in ur stomach juice but if they haven’t then i have a good 30 cent sitting in there. probably part of the reason i have so many stomach problems.

swallowed coins as a 7 year old but cant swallow pills as a 19 year old. crazy.

-📿

Add away!! I love how this blog has turned into a little group therapy session about eating strange things 😂 Share away!!

Daaaang coins? That's a new one. I know kids stick them up their nose, but full on eating them?? You were a hardcore kid.

According to Google, depending on the coin, they either do dissolve or just pass right through. So unfortunately, no coins still in your stomach, but you never know. It might be the cause. The human body is just so strange and inefficient 😂

I feel you sooo hard on that once. I couldn't swallow pills until I was like 15 and even now over a decade later, I struggle if they're too big. Omega 3 pills and some vitamins?? Absolutely not, I've literally choked on those. Anything bigger than like ibuprofen, it's not happening. Thankfully the meds I do have to take daily are small enough it's not usually a struggle.

[satureja13]

Ji Ho's Therapy Game - Part 3 It starts -> here

It was late when the Queen and Princess Jihovere returned to the castle after their day with the horses. The Queen took the Princess to the Castle's kitchen to have a late night tea. The Queen: "You are doing very well. I just checked the Royal Social Bunny and the subjects just love you! We can surely need some good publicity here ^^' "

The Queen: "You look worried, though. It must be hard for you to be so far from home in a small country all on your own."

The Princess: "Oh it's not that! I feel very welcome here. It's such a beautiful place and the Castle and everything is amazing. I'm very grateful and honored to be chosen to marry the heir of the throne."

The Queen: "Oh - I guess you're worried about your alone time with the Prince then? Fear not. For I, the Queen will also teach you how to fulfill your marital duties and satisfy the designated King's needs in any conceivable way!" This sounds like they assume the Princess is still a virgin ö.Ö' Uh well, Ji Ho grew up next to a brothel so he's quite sure he can fake that too...

After tea, the Princess retreated to her room in the tower. Before logging out, Ji Ho passed the events of the day in review. All in all his Therapy Game was a very promising experience so far.

All of the NPCs were very friendly and he's positive that he's able to learn and prosper a lot here. Just sitting here in peace to stitch or play piano alone helps him so much to sort his thoughts and focus on the important goals he is striving to achieve in his therapy. And to be able to take a break from their mad reality is also worth it. He should tell this the others too so they can make it a habit. Maybe they could set an appointment once a week? He and Jack already made a good start with their meditation and yoga practice each day to relieve his pain and Jeb already manages to go jogging almost every morning. But there are also other things they should talk about - and things they shouldn't probably mention when it interferes with the therapy experience of the others...

After a few hours, Ji Ho felt so calm and ready to go back. He stepped at the balcony for a last look around before logging out. And on an opposing balcony, he spotted Prince Caleb! Is he hissing?

Ji Ho and the Prince haven't met during this whole Session. Strange. But Jack already saw NPC Jihovere together with him at the Arena. Prince Caleb is glancing longing into the velvety darkness...

Ji Ho can't wait for his next session to find out more! (I started a master post with links to all the ingame related stuff. For example links to each of the Boys' Therapy Games in chronological order and all the locations we visited so far. You can find it -> here)

From the Beginning  ~  Underwater Love ~  Latest 🕹️ 'Therapy Game' from the beginning ▶️ here 📚 Previous Chapters: Chapters: 1-6 ~ 7-12 ~ 13-16 ~ 17-22 ~ 23-28

[takemebacktowheniwassane]

I would kill to have you overanalyze everything about Falsettos. Hope that didn't sound too threatening, I was joking, I'm just really into your analysis of the chess game :3

omg! I would love to analyze anything for you, man! 💗 I've pretty much picked everything out of a lot of the songs─ lil surprised I don't have my own corkboard with red twine commemorating my insanity on this musical lol

Looking through the album, the first option that came to mind might've been The Thrill of First Love but I think I'll take a break from toxic gays for just one moment and give you a strangely written analysis on Marvin at the Psychiatrist: A Three-Part Mini Opera, because of the different character pov's (i.e., Mendel, Jason, somewhat Whizzer, and of course, Marvin─ and I know Whizzer only announces each section of the song but hear me out, the theories are crazy and I'm obsessed with them and this song definitely factors into them aswell).

Basically, we'll start off with a quick look over Jason's lines, as he is the first character to speak/sing in the song. Right off the bat, we have him showing a HUGE disdain for love because of his father pretty much ruining his home life with the illusion of it. Well, maybe disdain is strong, but you get what I mean─ he's very reluctant to accept romance as an option for himself at all at this point because the wound is still very fresh from Marvin blowing up their family life, but yeah, also, he's a little preteen boy so it also makes sense for him to object to liking anyone just because of immaturity.

As we progress, Jason does a joint-therapy session with Marvin and they talk about outings and father/son bonding time gone badly wrong. He lets us in on his hyper-observance with his reaction to Marvin saying the pitcher they saw at a baseball game was handsome, and makes sure the audience is well aware he has some pretty conflicting emotions about his dad and his dad's sexuality. Especially given My Father's a Homo comes directly after this song, and in turn, also directly after this moment, so we know his feelings over Marvin and Whizzer (being that he enjoys Whizzer's company, seeing as Whizzer is the only adult who actually treats him like a kid and not like a victim or a baby or an average adult, like- but still) and their messy relationship.

It really makes me wonder on how it is when he's meant to go over to their apartment, since it's canonical that they live together and that Jason sees him regularly. And if they act terribly in front of him still. I assume Whizzer wouldn't allow that, another trait that gives Jason reason to side with him, because he seems like he really just doesn't want to completely, for lack of better words, fuck up Jason's whole childhood experience by being a part of it.

Now! Mendel isn't a complicated perspective, per say, just very eccentric. Especially assuming he asks MANY intrusive questions to a man who just openly came out as gay about his ex-wife and her sexual habits and such. This is where we tell him to go to horny jail.

(That's not the whole analysation, I swear─)

Mendel to me seems like he probably takes the initiative to not relay any of his clients actual info to other family members, but this song pretty much just proves he's incapable of brain-thought when he's horny. Which, yeah, that's hilarious that the only straight man is just thirsting over a woman to this gay guy. William Finn, you've done it again.

Anyhow, Mendel is pretty vital in this song. We get to see his psychiatry techniques, and with that, understand exactly what kind of situation Marvin's been, in taking therapy from him this whole time. The first part of the song is probably the best way of analyzing, since he's actually intelligible and giving Marvin advice. Well, that advice consists of telling him to ignore Whizzer's flaws and love him regardless, you can actually sorta see that at work in some aspects of the musical, even if he's constantly condescending to Whizzer throughout act one.

But generally, Marvin tends to take the exact opposite path that Mendel gives him, and basically just uses him as a venting device. Then again, Mendel is not to great at giving advice, as a neurotic little man who has like four mental breakdowns in the course of act one and two.

Next, Whizzer, of course. Short but sweet, or.. angsty? I've heard a few people theorize that Whizzer narrates the story ("Marvin at the psychiatrist, a three part mini opera, part one." "Part two." "Part three." "Psychiatrist, returning, returning! Five sessions later..." "A day in Falsettoland─ Doctor Mendel at work.") because after he dies, it sort of becomes his story of finding a true family and lover and son and being actually happy and knowing he lived well before he died really, tragically young, at least.

I'd like to take it a different direction, because I hate angst, and only sometimes tolerate it.

I've realized that Whizzer only actually narrates Mendel's shenanigans, which makes me think, especially with how he still does in act two, he gets to HEAR about the sessions. Whether it be from Marvin, or Jason, or Trina. Or even Mendel himself (this one's more act two based). It may introduce a new side because Whizzer doesn't go to therapy (shocker), but the people he's around all see this one guy so maybe he hears about the sessions and can relay them because he knows this one person's aspect of the story each time.

It wouldn't make a lot of sense for him to hear anything from Mendel in act one assuming they weren't close (at least not in the revival), and he doesn't marry Trina until Marvin and Whizzer are broken up, basically. But it would make more sense for him to get it from his boyfriend who absolutely loves to complain about any minor inconvenience in his life. I just think this could be an interesting perspective, because I've only ever seen that first theory and although somewhat fitting, I need less angst and more cool little headcanons in this fanbase please and thank you.

Finally, we go to Marvin. The star of the show, our princess with several disorders (we all know who our real queens are *stares directly at Trina and Whizzer*).

Throughout the entirety of this song, we see him barely entertaining Mendel with information. He's very vague, which probably stems from a life of secrecy and sneaking around. Although I presume he told Mendel about the affair while it was happening, or a few months in? Or Mendel just knew? Just by the general air of it, and how it seemed well-known by that point even though him and Trina only just divorced.

Marvin definitely keeps to himself, and waits for Mendel to butt in with something. Not so he can take his advice, but moreso so that he can kinda just. Have it, on hand? Or maybe so he can prove to himself that therapy is a hoax, because that certainly sounds like a Marvin thing to do.

Even while going through events with his son, he only states that eventually their interactions just go back to being stale and that they SHOULD be closer, without ever trying to actually make an effort (he assumes making an effort is taking Jason on outings even though they both prefer to stay inside, on their own. This definitely comes from his parents not doing anything with him as a kid, it's internalized so he pushes going out in public and doing what would be father/son outings onto Jason. It's something he never got to have, so he thinks that means he's fathering Jason better than average).

Not much to be said about that middle factor, besides the point of Marvin not knowing Trina was withholding love from him, which is interesting. Her character and lines definitely prevail that she was fed up with Marvin, but it could have just come out as indifference during their marriage. In I'm Breaking Down, she does make a point to state that she only wants a man to love her, so that could've been an overwhelming point in their marriage that Marvin remembers more vividly then her drifting away.

He did seem genuinely surprised when Mendel brought it up, so there is something there for sure.

But now, my dear silly, it's time for me to say adieu, because it's semi-late and I gotta update a fic draft :) but thank you sm for asking! made my day, it was so sweet. my inbox is always open for any suggestions, I'm really glad you like these little rants lol.

I'll try to post more soon 🫶

Goodnight!

[lollystocks]

Therapy for the Dead and Buried

A Danny Phantom x The Bright Sessions Crossover

DP Crossover Angst Week Day 6 - Runaway

Summary: Alone and in hiding, Danny is sent to mandatory therapy. It's a bit... strange. And unusual.

Notes: First chapter of a multific! Should be relatively friendly to those unfamiliar with The Bright Sessions, as it's mostly Danny's POV.

AO3

“New patient. Session one. Male, seventeen, no known history of psychological counseling. Referred by school for ‘antisocial behavior’, but no examples given, and strong comments were made about his, quote… ‘unsettling vibes.’ Condition unknown.”

-

It was a very ordinary-looking room.

Danny wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but "boring" hadn't really occurred to him.

The office of Dr. Bright was reasonably spacious, with pure white walls and a thick baby blue carpet. A single sash window overlooked the park, and before it sat a laminate desk - almost certainly IKEA - with precisely organized trays of papers and stationery. No photos or trinkets adorned it. Not even a Newton's cradle, disappointingly.

Towards the center of the room sat two small sofas - firm looking, upholstered in dark blue vinyl. The hospital type, designed for ease of cleaning up bodily fluids. Plump-looking cushions softened their corners. A low coffee table sat between them, sporting a small succulent and a large box of tissues.

Danny had chosen the sofa which faced the window and door, with his back to the blank wall. He got the impression that he'd made the wrong choice, somehow. He didn't give a shit.

The doctor was looking at him, one manicured eyebrow just a micrometer higher than the other. The silence stretched on, awkwardly.

"Um. Sorry. Could you repeat the question, please?"

"Of course. I asked if you knew why you were here, James?"

Danny stared out of the window, into the cloudy sky. There were many ways to answer that question. Classic shrink tactic, probably, to suss out his brain. Most of the answers that came to mind were smartassery - because this is where your office is. Because the bus brought me here. Because of human evolution. Because I'd get kicked out of my school if I didn't come.

What impression did he want to give her? Who did Danny James want to be now? What was most useful to him?

He looked at the doctor's face. "Because people are unsettled by me. I can't help it, but they are. And they want me to stop. Unsettling them, that is. And you're meant to teach me, like, body language techniques or something."

Doctor Bright settled into the sofa a little, like a question had been answered, or a data point obtained. She smoothed the creaseless paper in her lap.

"And what makes you think that?"

"The whole, 'James, there's clearly something deeply fucking wrong with you, and it's freaking out your classmates. Get help,' thing kinda clued me in, Doc."

"I assume you're paraphrasing."

"I'm not, actually. F-bomb and everything. Scout's honor."

"I'm surprised that your principal would use such language with you, James. That must have been disconcerting."

Danny stared at her. That was an unexpected response. "You saying you believe me? That he said that?"

"I do, James. My job here isn't to be a skeptic, or to 'find out the truth'. I'm here to listen, offer advice, and help you learn some skills and techniques to redirect your own behavior and mentality as you wish." The doctor adjusted her glasses. "So yes, James, I believe you. And as your therapist, I will believe whatever you tell me in this room, no matter how... outlandish, you may feel it is. That is my job here."

Danny couldn't help but smile at that, just a little. "That's a sweet sentiment Doctor, genuinely, but you can't mean that seriously. You must get all sorts of compulsive liars or straight-up crazies through here, there's no way you just decide to believe them all."

"Let me rephrase, then. While it's true that many of my patients will tell me things that they know not to be true, I find it best to start from a place of belief. If I decide, after getting to know them, that they are in fact serially lying to me, or are mistaken, I adjust accordingly. But until I can know that? I believe them."

"So if a crackhead told you they could fly. You'd just believe them?"

"I would, yes. Up and until I come to the irrefutable conclusion that they are lying or mistaken. Does that surprise you?"

Danny scoffed. "Yeah, that surprises me. It's nuts. There's no way you can do your job properly like that."

Doctor Bright smiled. "I've found it works best. For one thing, any patients I get through this door will come to learn that, no matter how strange or unusual it may be, they can tell me. I will not judge them, or turn them away, or have them committed."

There was a pause.

"So. You want me to tell you how ' strange and unusual' I am."

"No, James. I want you to tell me whatever you wish to tell me. This is an introductory session, I just want to get to know you."

"Specifically, you want me to tell you outlandish things about myself. Things no one else would believe. Things that make others scared of me."

"James, I merely-"

"Nope. Bye. Tell Principal Khan I failed at therapy, I guess."

He grabbed his backpack, and left.

-

“End of session one. Patient left abruptly.”

Chapter 2 here

Masterpost here

[seizethedre]

(In the Land of Gods and Monsters)

Chapter Eight: Like a Groupie Incognito

The natural progression of information is questions yield answers. in the case of Lucifer finally getting to the bottom of Alastor's antics, all he gets are even more questions.

Much has been said about the devil throughout his time as supreme ruler of Hell. In the beginning, he was fearsome and cruel beyond compare; a demon of pitch black, inky darkness and terror incarnate. Then, there were those who called him treacherous and cunning, a snake lying in the tall, tall grass waiting to strike against the unsuspecting. Many considered him to be a tragic figure, a cautionary tale. The predecessor of one Icarus, fallen beloved son of the great inventor Daedalus, brought down by his own hubris. The blueprint from which all evil and temptation gave rise and poisoned humanity. A snuffer of light despite himself being once known as The Lightbringer. 

These days, the devil was very much a mystery to all save a select few. Still powerful, still fearsome, but strangely absent.

To be honest, Lucifer felt no pressure to create a spectacle to remind all of Hell just who he was, not when there were much more productive things he could be doing with his time. Besides, although he was always aware of how his subjects considered him, he had given up caring about his image a long time ago. What was there to prove? Who was there to prove himself to? Heaven had made it clear a long time ago what they thought about him. So had Lilith, to be quite frank. And although some wounds still festered, he lived, generally, unbothered by the opinions of others.

The only opinion he did care for was Charlie’s, and despite the time he’d lost and the mistakes he’d made with her, he knew that deep down there was next to nothing that would ever get her to cast him away from her good graces. She was too kind, too forgiving to give up on him.

Which was exactly why he needed to keep her safe, regardless of where the threats were coming from. And right now, the most immediate threat to her well-being seemed to be coming from in-house, and Lucifer was determined to put an end to it before it escalated into really dangerous territory. 

Dinner had ended a few hours ago, and as the clock ticked its way on over towards midnight, Lucifer knew that now would probably be the best time to make a move if he was really wanting to get some answers tonight. 

A plan had been brewing in the angel’s mind all night, ever since he had made up his mind to confront Alastor about the things he’d felt that day outside of the bakery. Holy power was hard to come by in a place like Hell, especially in as concentrated a dose as the one that the demon’s staff had. 

There were some demons, like Carmilla Carmine, who had access to angelic weapons, which could do some serious damage in the right hands, but even an Exorcist’s blade was child’s play when compared to the power of someone much higher up in the Heavenly ranks. Take him, for example: angelic steel would be harmless against him, even in the odd chance that someone could manage to get a good hit in. Seraphim’s were as close to indestructible as a being could get. 

But that energy that Lucifer had felt from Alastor definitely came from something much stronger than your average Exorcist, and that thought alone was enough to set the angel’s nerves on edge. Rightfully so, too, especially when something capable of so much destruction was placed in the hands of someone as unreliable as the Radio Demon, who’d been acting more suspicious than usual as of late.

Lucifer’s attempts to retreat to his rooms right after plates had been stacked and the crew had started to file out were thwarted when he was all but cornered by his daughter the second the others were out of ear shot. Once she got started, he could only hope that there would someday be an end to Charlie’s infinite stream of questions about how his first art therapy session had gone, as well as her promises to pop in and participate someday soon. He always had time for Charlie, nothing but endless love and patience for that dazzling girl of his, but today he felt that patience wearing just a bit thin as anticipation gnawed on his better judgment. He was anxious to get things sorted, to rid himself of the nagging feeling in the back of his mind, to unravel the tension that had begun to knot itself in the pit of his stomach. 

When he finally did manage to satiate the barrage of whos, whats, wheres, whens, and hows, Lucifer only waited long enough for her to round the corner with Vaggie before snapping open a portal upstairs. If he was going to deal with this tonight, he had to do it soon and do it carefully.

Usually, the act of dealing with demons was pretty cut and dry: flash his scary red eyes, bust out the big wings if the occasion called for it, and maybe spit a bit of fire to really set the intimidation factor to max. But this was Alastor and whether he wanted to admit it or not, he was not your average demon.

Hell, Lucifer was almost certain that he hadn’t been your average man when he was alive either.

He was smart. That much was obvious, scarily so, even. There was so much going on beneath his exterior and it was unnerving for the King of Hell to get such a difficult read on someone. His status as seraphim had endowed him with a certain affinity for reading souls, and it was about as close as one could get to literally and metaphysically reading another person as possible. 

In Heaven, this power had been used by the First Orders to delegate tasks according to the strengths and weaknesses of each individual angel in their charge. Down here in Hell, it meant that Lucifer always knew who and what he was dealing with. 

Most souls were harmless enough, just giant stains on white carpets. However, there was the occasional soul every few millennia that left him stumped. Instead of stains on carpets they were these massive voids or tangles of thorns. It was as though their very essence had a built-in security system, an arsenal, and in order for Lucifer to catch a real glimpse of what was on the other side, he had to take more invasive measures, which essentially meant he had to get his hands on them and literally pull the tethers of their being apart, slowly unwinding until he could see the whole picture.

It was a messy practice, and unsavory at best. Lucifer tended to avoid doing it at all costs if only for the simple reason that it felt wrong and dirty . Souls were such delicate little things, especially mortal ones. To become uncoiled completely was dangerous and it always resulted in some things becoming irreparably damaged. Nothing ever quite settled back in the way it used to be, the way it was supposed to be. The best alternative to performing a spiritual lobotomy was to keep a close eye on them and hope their more nefarious tendencies didn’t rear their ugly heads.

Yeah, he didn’t come across them very often, but they gave him the heebie-jeebies every single time. 

Alastor was no exception.

The layers to the man were astounding, and clearly put up with the intention of keeping others out. To try and venture into the workings of Alastor’s mind was like signing your life away to the most demented corn maze in the entire history of the universe, and even the angel could admit that he wasn’t keen on trying to wander through and decipher the signs without so much as a map and some rope.

To attempt to understand the inner workings of the demon’s mind would be like Lucifer trying to regain his post in Heaven: impossible and maybe a little insane to even consider. However, he did know the guy well enough to understand when something was off.

The demon had been oddly quiet during their meal, and while it was true that he couldn’t be considered a particularly chatty fellow to begin with, he was always quick with a witty remark or a well-aimed insult when the occasion called for it, and equipped himself well with a silver tongue that could give the Father of Temptation a run for his money. 

The fact of the matter was that Alastor had hardly even acknowledged a single soul the entire meal, red flags waving high and alarm bells definitely ringing when he didn’t so much as twitch an ear the entirety of Niffty’s impromptu roach puppet parade at dessert. This could only mean that the guy was clearly and uncharacteristically distracted. That conclusion, of course, did nothing to settle neither Lucifer’s nerves nor his suspicions. 

Determined and spurred completely into action now, Lucifer slipped from his rooms without so much as a whisper of noise. 

Alstor’s quarters were clear across the hotel from Lucifer’s, separated by a long length of hallway. Under normal circumstances, the king was grateful for the distance as it meant the odds of running into the demon before he was good and ready were slim, or he could even avoid him entirely if he wanted to, but tonight the walk towards his gloomy doorway was long and every step filled him with more apprehension.

Logically, he knew his nerves were unjustified; Alastor was just a mortal soul underneath the static and the theatrics. And yet, he couldn't stop the prickling sensation that crept its way from the base of his skull and down his arms, nor could he even begin to explain the tightening in his chest as he neared the dark alcove that signaled he was getting closer and closer to the belly of the beast. This little slice of the hotel was dark, the lights of the hallway seeming to have burnt out save for a few odd flickers. It must have been a purposeful design choice seeing as all of the lights in the building ran on sorcery, so the demon was clearly going for something a bit more dramatic and morose. 

He paused in front of the doorway, oddly unsure of what to do next. Knocking seemed like the most logical answer, but too civil for Lucifer’s intentions. He supposed he had every right to just barge right in and demand answers, proverbial guns blazing and all that, but he also didn’t want to interrupt the demon’s nighttime routine. Did he even have a nighttime routine? Had he truly never considered Alastor outside the contexts of gloating rivalry and radio static? Oh father, what if he was already sleeping and Lucifer just looked like a creep who liked to spy on poor, innocent Radio Demons for fun?

Nope, definitely not sleeping. Think with your head, Lucifer . 

A quick look downwards revealed a soft yellow glow of light flickering under the door. Broadening his hearing, he could make out the sound of music that always seemed to accompany the demon in his quieter moments. If he strained just a little bit more, he could make out the barely audible footfalls of someone walking around on the other side of the door.

Alright then, so he is awake, there’s that debate settled. Which leads him back to square one: how to get in without making this monumentally worse for himself than it inevitably will be. Quick and to the point seemed like the most ideal option here, as well as the least likely to result in property damage, so he steeled his nerves, squared his shoulders, and took a deep breath. He brought a hand up to hover a few inches from the door with the full intention of giving it a few sturdy knocks when it swung open all on its own. 

Huh, he was pretty sure that he hadn’t been the cause of that.

Nonetheless, he was immediately greeted with a wall of warmth and light. Giving the room a good visual sweep, he didn’t immediately see a seething monster twelve feet tall and glowing green, so he could only hope he was being welcomed in. He stepped in tentatively, wings ready to unfurl and carry him away from harm at a moment’s notice. 

He had never been in Alastor’s room, never even cared to imagine what it would look like, but if he had to guess, it definitely wouldn’t be this .

The walls were red, a few shades deeper than the walls of the hotel, and decorated with a wide array of animal skeletons. Okay, morbid, but not surprising, I suppose. To the left of the door was a single hook from which a familiar coat hung, long, pin-striped and seemingly freshly pressed. On the floor beneath them were a pair of shoes, laces untied and tucked up neatly against the wall. The sight of Alastor’s clothes separated from his being made the angel nervous, his heartbeat quickening in his chest as he braced himself for something unfamiliar.

He ventured further into the room, but there was still no sign of the deer. He noticed, however, that the source of the light and warmth was a crackling fire burning in a small fireplace. The walls on either side were made up of two large bookcases, one filled with books of all shapes and sizes, even a few different languages, while the other boasted an impressive collection of vinyl records. He realized with mild surprise that the music he was hearing came from a small turntable that sat on a low table in front of the fireplace and in between two large and admittedly comfy looking armchairs.

He glanced around the room again, wary at the sensation of being watched himself as he stepped away from the safety of the wall and the light.

 In another corner of the room, he could make out a looming wrought-iron staircase that spiraled up into another room. Lucifer assumed it was the sinner’s radio tower. He was going to take another step in that direction to prove his theory when a light suddenly turned on, revealing a new hallway. The feathers at his back bristled. He followed it.

About halfway across, the light blinked out, but in its place rose a softer, paler light. No, not a light, a glow. The further he walked, the stronger it got and the more his confusion grew. The air around him grew humid, damp almost, and it smelled like earth if not something a little muggier. Perhaps this is where Niffty’s bug problem had been originating from, too, because he could hear a lot of them chirping away like a tiny chorus. 

The light stopped at the end of the hall in a solid-ish glowing wall. Like a doorway, almost, except when Lucifer put a hand to it to push it aside, he fell right through, nearly tumbling past the threshold in surprise. When he looked up, he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

Laid out before him was a massive recreation of one of earth’s swamplands. A pocket dimension no doubt, he concluded. The blue glow he had seen was a result of the imitation moonlight that cast the entire room in a silvery sheen. Large trees reached up to the sky, their branches and leaves intertwining, heavy drapes of moss strung across them like tattered old curtains. The bugs sang louder now, the noise bordering on a soothing humming noise as lightning bugs blipped in and out of existence. Although he couldn’t see it, Lucifer could hear running water somewhere nearby, and curiously he wondered just how deep the pocket dimension went. 

The king was no stranger to pocket dimensions. Where do you think he stashed his wings when he wasn’t using them, after all. But to create one was tricky and required a lot of concentration and power. To stray from one’s desired outcome puts the very fabric of space at risk, endangering dimensions and the stability of their current universe. To create one so large and seemingly so stable was, admittedly, impressive. Yeah, Lucifer was impressed and he wasn’t too proud to say so either.

Who the fuck was this guy?

Or, more importantly at the moment: where the fuck was this guy? Yeah, Lucifer had more than a few questions for him now.

He sucked in a breath, fully intending to use it to call out for Alastor when a blur of movement in his peripheral caught his attention. He pivoted, coming face to face with the Radio Demon

“Uh, hi,” came his intelligent response.

Alastor regarded him coldly, probably colder than Lucifer had ever seen him before. Usually when they interacted there was life to it. Anger, irritation, heat . The look he was giving the angel now brought the temperature of the entire room down. In their little swamp, the crickets cut themselves off and the lightning bugs extinguished themselves. Even the blue glow of faux moonlight seemed to shrink away, as though a cloud had passed over it.

Lucifer gulped, suddenly getting the sense that he had seen too much, had crossed a line that he shouldn’t have.

“Alastor?” He tried. The sinner’s eyes narrowed dangerously in his direction.

“Your Majesty.”

“You know why I’m here.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement, and the moment the words left his mouth, Lucifer knew that Alastor knew it to be true, too. 

“Hm, not exactly,” he mused, finally setting his gaze elsewhere. Lucifer visibly relaxed, relieved. But they weren’t out of the woods yet. “But I do have an idea. You are quite–- persistent- –after all. The word ‘no’ means nothing to you, does it?”

And Lucifer realized just how right he had been. He wasn’t just stuck in the middle of the damn woods, he was being fucking hunted for sport. But the King of Hell was far from helpless, and definitely not one to be chased down like cowering prey. Lucifer got angry.

“I’ll accept your refusals when, and only when, I know they won’t bring any harm to my daughter or this hotel.” The angel glared up at the taller demon, looking him squarely in the eye as he continued. “Let’s get one thing clear here, Alastor. You can taunt me and shit-talk me all you want, but I draw the line at Charlie’s safety and well-being. The only reason why you’re still here is because she wants you to be, but if you ever get so much as the thought of wreaking any kind of havoc, if you move so much as one hair on her head–- you’re dead . And I’ll make sure you stay dead this time, got it?”

Smoke curled between the two men as they faced-off, stony faced and seething. Defeat was not a term either one of them was familiar with, considering that pride is what defined them both at their core. The heat between them intensified, literally, as Lucifer’s frame shook with fury and static rolled over the two in waves. Their staring contest could have lasted an eternity, and Lucifer would have been just fine with that because at least it would mean that the cocky bastard in front of him would be accounted for at all times, but he didn’t come here tonight to make threats. He allowed it to go on a few moments longer before Lucifer took a deep breath, blinking hard as he forced his appearance back into its typical fashion.

“Where is it then?” he asked curtly. 

Alastor was slow to relent, wise enough to understand where his cards fell and not at all happy about it, but conjured up his microphone in a wisp of green fire. He passed it to the angel with no further exchange, just the flat and steady sound of static.

Holding it in both hands, Lucifer shivered as energy jolted from his palms all the way to the crown of his head and down to the hooves of his feet. He shuddered as his own grace combated the foreign power, wincing at the stinging sensation that pulsed  from where he made contact with the staff.

He frowned, closing his eyes and concentrating on feeling past the physical effects of the energy, reaching out with his own to meet it, identify it. The deeper he pushed, the more the energy seemed to push back, as though warding him off, wanting to repel him. Which was odd, considering that most angelic power, even those of higher ranking angels, should be able to fend off a seraphim, fallen or otherwise.

The mental tug of war he was playing was finally giving way to a breakthrough, and if he pushed just a little further he should be able to catch a glimpse of the essence…

Lucifer dropped the microphone with a gasp.

He stared after it as it rolled away a few feet. It glowed white-hot and steamed in the aftermath of Lucifer’s assault.

“Your Majesty?”

Something akin to dread, but so much heavier began to settle over him. It bittered his tongue and curdled his stomach.

“Your Majesty!”

The world was far away and all he could feel was the burning in his palms, in his chest, in his eyes

“Lucifer!” Somehow the word rang through the padded haze he was losing himself in. The devil looked up, eyes blank, gaze glazed over and far away, searching for something that wasn’t there.

Alastor had his hands on his shoulders. They felt cold against the burning under his skin and he wanted to squirm away. Instead, he spoke the only words that kept ringing around his head.

“Where did you get it?”

The frown line between Alastor’s eyes deepened as he looked over the little king with concern and uncertainty, looking back and forth between his eyes for any sign of his usual character.

“It’s not mine,” he said, finally. He let go of the angel’s shoulders, slowly, arms held up cautiously, as though ready to catch him if he so much as swayed. Lucifer remained upright and the demon took a small step backwards. He cleared his throat. “It’s not mine.”

“I know,” Lucifer whispered.

“You know?” Alastor asked, skeptical, quizzical, relieved.

“It’s not you. It couldn’t be. It doesn’t feel like you . Where did you get it? ”

“Extermination Day. Before you arrived, I was fighting with Adam. It was going well. I was doing well, but he got the better of me. He blasted me with something, nearly split me in half. He probably would have finished me off, too, if not for my staff. It took the brunt of the impact and broke in the process. I managed to escape a few minutes before you arrived.”

“Adam hurt you,” Lucifer murmured, tasting the words on his lips, digesting them, blinking up at him with more clarity. “Adam hurt you?” There was something frantic creeping into his tone now. “Adam, he–you said he nearly split you in half? He hit you with something, he broke your staff, he–he–” Halfway to hysteria, he sank to his knees, mind reeling from the information being processed, the revelations and the implications of it all.

Alastor stood in front of him, shifting uneasily, unsure of what to do. His instincts kicked in and the soothing sound of piano keys melted away at the tension in the atmosphere.

“I am relatively unharmed, if that makes any difference,” he offered into the silence. The king sniffed from where he sat with his head between his knees.

“Of course it matters.” He looked up, eyes glistening as they burned into Alastor. “You have no idea what you’ve done, Alastor, do you?”

“I let the hotel fall to holy arms. I’m aware of my failure, Your Majesty. I don’t need it spelled out for me.”

“You saved the hotel. You saved Husk and Angel, you saved Charlie , you saved me .”

“I’m afraid I’m not following.” Alastor wasn’t one to lack confidence. Hell, even after losing to Adam he had managed one last quick snark before phasing out. But this, now, in front of the King of Hell, hearing him praises , Alastor felt small, felt mocked despite the sincerity on the angel’s face. His ears flattened against his head, his smile twisting into something sour. Lucifer stood back up, wiping his cheeks before gesturing to the forgotten microphone.

“Whatever Adam hit you with, it wasn’t his power. Not exactly anyway. And I don’t think you were its intended target. Angels, we–we have this ability to identify one another by our power, our grace. It’s like a signature almost, or an aura. It’s hard to explain, but no two are alike.” Lucifer took a shuddering breath, gathering his thoughts before continuing.

“When I felt it the first time, that day we went to the bakery, I knew it couldn't have been you. I would’ve felt it before then. And just now, when I reached out to it with my grace, it fought back, I don’t know, it shouldn’t have been able to do that, not with me, not unless it came from someone much more powerful than Adam.” Alastor didn’t speak, waiting for the angel to continue.

“It wouldn’t let me see it. Not all of it at least.” He sighed, looking down at the singed and festering skin of his palms. “I don’t know who it came from, I just know that whoever gave it to Adam didn’t do so with good intentions.”

The two stayed in the silence for a few minutes, both too preoccupied with their own thoughts and the implications of this grand revelation to quip at the other. Lucifer felt the events of the day catch up to him. Between the anxiety of waiting for his first art therapy session, to worrying about Alastor and the shady shit he was tangled up in, all the fighting, the questions yet to be answered. And now this, a message from Heaven, loud and clear: something has shifted.

Lucifer dug his claws into the damp earth beneath him, feeling its coolness sooth his tender skin. They were safe, for now at least. It was clear that this wasn’t going to be resolved tonight, he just needed to remain extra vigilant, take every precaution to ensure his loved ones remained safe. 

His gaze flickered to Alastor. The demon was still standing in front of him, shoeless and coatless, his red hair blowing from the light wind. His smile was small, smaller than Lucifer had ever seen it and it was clear that the sinner was sitting in the gravity of their shared situation. His ears weren’t in their usual perky state, though not flattened either, seemingly in a wilted state, the only indication of his own exhaustion. His arms were crossed over his chest, hands clenched into a tight fist. He didn’t look in Lucifer’s direction.

The angel blinked, looking from the deer’s hands to his own. And then it clicked.

“Alastor, have you been living with the residual energy this entire time?”

“Obviously,” he replied sharply, shifting away from the angel as his eyes narrowed and ears flattened in suspicion.

“That’s why you only use it in public,” he mumbled to himself. Then, louder, “You’re hurt, aren’t you?”

“It’s nothing. I’m fine.” The deer shifted in place, ears still firmly hugged to his skull. 

“Let me see,” the king demanded, already reaching out to touch him. Alastor pulled back, quick as a snake and bared his teeth.

“Don’t touch me!” He snarled, curling away from the angel, the shadows at his feet intensifying as though ready to whisk him away. “I said I’m fine, didn’t I?” He snapped.

“Alastor,” Lucifer tried, speaking lowly and slowly, palms up and on display. “I’m not going to hurt you. You see this,” he gestured at his own hands, raw and blistered where they should have been healed up by now. “This is what happens when you’re exposed to high levels of angelic power, especially of that caliber. Alastor, your body wasn’t made to handle it. Hell, it’s a miracle you’re still alive. That’s why you haven’t been using your microphone here at the hotel, isn’t it? Because it hurts?” The demon didn’t respond, but his smile dropped a fraction.

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” he hissed. He stood up straighter after that, sending clear signals that he was done with the conversation as he turned back towards the glowing doorway that led out of the pocket dimension and back to the hallway. Lucifer let out an exasperated breath. He scrambled up after him.

Oh this guy…  

“Let me help you, Alastor, please.” Lucifer wracked his brain, trying to think of a way to get the sinner into accepting his help without sacrificing his dignity.

“Listen, you helped Charlie, right? You defended the hotel just long enough for heaven to break their end of the treaty. That means I owe you, right?” Hello, that got his attention, didn’t it. The sinner paused just shy of the doorway, without uttering a word he was letting Lucifer know he was listening to what he had to say.

“Let me take a look at it at least, let me see how bad it is. You’re smart enough to know that if it hasn’t healed on its own by now, then it’s not ever going to heal.” There, a logical argument, one that the demon would surely appreciate. Lucifer stared at the retreating figure as he stood stiff as marble.

Alastor remained infuriatingly silent, of course he chose now to have nothing to say. But he was considering it, that much Lucifer was certain of. Although he couldn’t see the expression on his face, he could see the flexing tension of his shoulders, the twitching of his ears, and how he seemed to be looking down at his own hands. The man was thinking, long and hard.

When he finally did turn back around, his face was clear of any emotion, eyes wary as he cradled his fists close to his chest.

“You will look and only look,” he warned. Lucifer nodded obediently to the man’s terms. “With your eyes only , Lucifer.”

“Mhm, yeah, got it, scout’s honor. Eyes only. No touching, guaranteed.” Alastor still didn’t seem too convinced, but stepped closer to the angel nonetheless.

“Very well,” he spoke, reaching out a tentative hand. “You may proceed.”

“Mind if we do it somewhere else?” Lucifer asked, smiling up absently at the taller demon.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Yeah, can we do this in front of the fireplace?” He winced as feedback split the air. Alastor’s eyes darkened briefly as his smile tightened.

“I mean, not that I don’t love what you’ve got going on in here with the trees and the bugs and all, but I think we’d both be a little comfier if we didn’t do this here, you know?” Lucifer didn’t think he was being unreasonable in saying this. Sure it was a pretty little pocket dimension swampy thing, but it was kinda dark and if Lucifer was going to try and help, he had to know exactly what he was working with.

“So, what d’ya say, Al?”

“My name is Alastor ,” he ground out through gritted teeth.

“I thought your friends got to call you Al though?” Heavens, was the King of Hell truly pouting like an infant just now? “Charlie calls you Al all the time.”

“ Charlie can’t be convinced otherwise. Believe me, I’ve tried. Please, correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t believe that one civil conversation with another man hardly constitutes grounds for friendship.”

“But we bonded? Shared trauma and made important discoveries together. Surely there are friendships that have been founded on less.”

“You threatened to kill me less than an hour ago.” And yeah, okay, that look he was giving him was definitely not amused, but it was a little funny wasn’t it and why couldn’t Alastor just let the past remain in the past?

“In my defense, I threatened to kill you while I was under the impression that you were harboring the angelic equivalent of a nuclear bomb inside the walls of my daughter's hotel. You can hardly blame me for taking drastic measures.” Alastor hummed, unimpressed.

“Well then, are we going to get this over with? Some of us do have important things to do in the morning.” Alastor turned away from him again, walking towards the doorway. Lucifer’s eyes gleamed with the promise of mischief. He twirled his fingers and in an instant they were both in the front room, the one with the fireplace and cozy-looking chairs. The music had stopped playing a while ago and the record was spinning aimlessly on the turntable. Beside him, Alastor stumbled, a hand pressing to his stomach.

“Could you refrain from doing that without warning me first next time?”

“Who said anything about there being a next time,” Lucifer snorted before he caught a glimpse of the sinner’s pale, kinda green looking face. Oops. “My bad.”

“Indeed,”  Alastor grunted. He slowly lowered himself into one of the armchairs, hoofy feet scraping against the carpet. Taking a deep breath, he held out one of his closed fists towards the angel. Lucifer dropped all pretenses of amusement and moved to kneel in front of him.

Slowly, Alastor uncurled his fingers, revealing the red, angry skin of his hand. Lucifer’s eyes widened in surprise at the state of them. They looked far worse than his own, all blistered and chapped as if someone had been branding his palms with a hot iron on a daily basis. Despite how much he wanted to reach out and touch, he kept true to his word and looked at the demon’s hands only.

“They’ve been like this since the fight? Your other hand too?” He inquired, quietly, softly.

“Yes.”

“Can I try something? I promise I won’t touch it.”

“Very well.”

Lucifer rested his own hand in the space above Alastor’s, not touching, but close enough to feel its heat. He concentrated, closing his eyes as he channeled his grace, using it to reach out towards the wounds on the sinner’s palm. It took some effort, sifting through the pieces of Alastor bit by bit until he could pick up the offending traces of holy energy, but once he caught it, he followed the threads, pulling and separating them from the demon as carefully as he could. He couldn’t be sure how long it had taken him, but by the time he had finished healing the other hand, his own were trembling with fatigue.

“There,” he sighed out, sagging back against the frame of the chair. “There’s one problem dealt with.” Lucifer leaned his head back against the soft fabric, basking in the warmth of the fire. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from where it started to cling to his damp forehead. Above him, Alastor stared at his open palms, unmarred and whole.

“What exactly did you do?” He asked, a trace of something reverent in his tone.

“Pulled the angel stuff out of you,” Lucifer replied, opening a lazy eye to look up at him. “Once that was out of your system, your body was able to patch itself up just fine.”

“Yes, but how did you pull it out?”

“Remember what I told you about grace being able to recognize other grace? I used my own as a sort of magnet. Once I found what was left inside of you, I simply absorbed it into myself.” The angel shrugged, unbothered, but Alastor was shaking his head.

“But you were hurt by it too, won’t absorbing foreign grace affect you?” Lucifer waved him off.

“Eh, maybe a little bit. My body is definitely resistant to someone else’s grace, kind of like loading up a body with an incompatible blood type, but it’s resilient enough to know how to flush it out of my system. God really made sure to think out all the little kinks in his soldiers before creating us. Look, see?” He thrust his hands up towards the demon, waving them in front of his face. They were perfectly healed. “All better,” he murmured, promptly dropping them back down into his lap.

Alastor marveled at the feat. Lucifer truly was a powerful entity, formidable and practically untouchable. Still, he was not without weakness. He had seen it on his face earlier in the bayou, how fear had crossed his features, clouded the brightness of his eyes and stolen the smile from his lips. Down here he was supreme, but there were forces out there in the celestial realm that were just as powerful, just as capable of destroying him, as they had narrowly avoided proving during the last Exorcism.

And Alastor was privy to the information.

How fascinating .

He looked down at the King of Hell who seemed as though a breath away from never waking up again. Alastor supposed this would be about the time that he returned the favor. Summoning his tendrils, he lifted the king into the adjacent armchair before calling on another to drape a blanket over him. For a moment he considered removing the other’s shoes-–Alastor detested walking around his rooms with his shoes on–-but thought better of it. He’d done his due diligence and to provide more would only fuel the angel’s silly little notion that the pair of them were chummy now. How preposterous. 

Still, he replaced the needle on the record, quiet music filling the room as he disappeared up into the familiar space of his radio tower. 

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[cha-melodius]

Which fic are you most proud of and what inspired you to write it?

Hello and thanks so much for this lovely ask! I'm gonna give a slightly more complex answer than just "pick one", because I've talked a lot about the first fic (although that was mostly back when I had less than half the number of tumblr followers I have now, which is kind of crazy to think about), and the others are more recent.

So, the fic I'm most proud of remains Love is a Losing Game (napollya, E, 101k), which I wrote back in 2021! Hard to believe it's been that long. This is a whole-ass novel, and I still think it's my most original and well-developed work. It's a Cold War competitive chess AU, and was inspired by @eavos dropping the idea of a competitve chess AU in the tmfu discord chat one day because he'd watched The Queen's Gambit. Once I finally watched QG too, the concept completely took over my brain. It ultimately shares pretty much nothing with QG other than the competitive chess setting, but it turned out to be the perfect setting for these two. Also includes my favorite ever OC (Zaytsev). It's also a fic that is late in a fandom and is kind of a strange concept—college coffee shop AUs people jump on, but competitve chess? Definitely not going to draw people in as much. So it's certainly not my highest kudosed or most popular fic, but I've gotten some effusive comments that really show how much people who have read it loved it.

But that was also 2021, and I don't want to discount my more recent work. So, among those, I'm probably most proud of Please Don't Let Me Be So Understood (firstprince, E, 20k). This was a work that took it's basic concept from another fic I happened across in a different fandom that I'm not even part of lol. I thought it would make a great firstprince story, but writing it was very daunting because it's almost entirely a bunch of therapy. I've said it before but I'll say it again that this fic never would have gotten written without @celeritas2997, who gave me the confidence to pull it off and helped me make sure the therapy sessions were realistic and sensitive without losing our boys. This was maybe the most challenging fic I've ever written, even though it's not that long, and for that reason I'm very proud of it.

Honorable mentions to my spy novels Nova, Baby (firstprince, E, 66k) and A Good Man is Hard to Find (lokius, M, 81k). I absolutely love both of these stories and am super proud of how I built these stories and how they played out.

I've definitely yammered on long enough about this, but thank you again!