#any therapist who claims they can fix whatever you think is wrong with you you should run far far away from

[traumasurvivorshelpingsurvivors]

Hi. Can't think of trigger warnings, maybe for crappy therapy and a bad therapist and some mentions of physical illness. Looking for advice. Nickname purple

I'm just wondering if you have any advice on how to get over a fear of/reluctance to seek therapy (and to am extent medical care in general). More and more often I'm starting to think I'll never be able to function normally without some help but I'm so scared to get it. In part I think this came from my mom's own mental illness and how whatever pills she took (no idea what they were or even what they were for besides that there were a lot) left her so out of it all the time and sometimes made her destructive on top of neglectful, and from my dad's distrust of the medical system as a whole, to the point of ignoring his doctors after a heart attack, not seeing care for cancer until it had progressed too far too fix, and generally being reluctant to get me any medical care and being mad at my mom if she took me to the doctor for anything, because it was babying me and would make me think it was okay to be weak and I should be stronger and trust God before 'weird medicine'. Between that and most people in my life growing up basically thinking mental Illness isn't real and anyone who claims to have it is faking maliciously or, especially if they claim to have significant past trauma, flat out delusional (and yes, they applied this to me, even when I was actively suicidal or had visible marks from abuse).

I got sent to a therapist when I was twelve, against my will in a whole court ordered thing, and while I don't remember many specifics of the first session I know I was reluctant to talk and he ended up screaming at me until I shut down. The few additional sessions there were went better, though only because I coasted through and just tried to give the most 'normal' responses to anything he said so I'd be allowed out of it all sooner.

Now, well into adulthood, my issues have only gotten worse and worse. It feels my mind is falling apart and I'm so frequently scared, my emotional regulation and memory are practically non-existent. I can't get away from self harm or disordered eating (though I often doubt a therapist would think those things are significant), can barely keep myself from falling back into substances. I can barely get a job or keep it and sometimes the only thing keeping me here is being scared to die though sometimes that doesn't even work (I'm not actively suicidal right now just to clarify). More than ever it feels like I'm barely real or even alive.

But I'm still scared to even try to schedule a therapy or psychiatrist appointment. I'm scared I won't even be able to talk when asked what's wrong since more and more now I've been having verbal shutdowns, especially in frightening enchantments or under the slightest stress, which I respond to worse than ever lately. I've been thinking of writing down a summary of what's going on but I don't know if they'll accept that, if they'll want me to talk normally. I'm scared they'll want me to go into past trauma but I just can't, not to a stranger or sometimes to anyone at all. I'm scared they'll think I'm just making everything up and turn me away. I'm scared they'll think I'm just a whiny child that can't handle normal life, or I'm just looking for some excuse to not participate in society or get drugs or something (funny, since I'm afraid to take meds and I'd probably just refuse if prescribed something controlled). I'm just scared and I know I won't be able to take it if I get even a fraction of the treatment I did at that therapist back then or most other times I've tried to bring up anything wrong with me to people in my life. I just don't know what to do I'm sorry I'm sorry

Hi Purple, I am so sorry for your experiences, and would like to start by validating your mental health struggles, and trauma history, and commend you for the self awareness it takes to want to develop new coping skills for a healthy functioning base line. We all deserve the space and time to explore what that means for us, and I hope you find yours as well. It makes all the sense in the world to me, that with both your background, and experiences, that the thought of seeking out therapy would feel the way it does for you. I deeply empathize with it, and know it is something that unfortunately does happen within the medical community. I had the opportunity to reply to a previous ask about something similar that I'll link here as well, but essentially, I'd like to copy over two core parts of it: This link about red flags in therapists (not to discourage!) but to help validate your experiences and not potentially self-gas light yourself as you navigate new medical professionals along your healing journey.

But also this part:

"Of course it’s very understandable that without feeling safe, the appointment could feel so jarring that even if you meet a kind one, it could be hard to convey what you’re looking for.  

My first advice would be to ask if someone can go with you, someone you feel comfortable with, and who you might even be able to practice a dialogue with beforehand.  

Even if they can, or cannot come, my second piece of advice is to have your questions written down as well.  Worst come to worst, if you feel unable to verbally share your concerns, perhaps you could slide them over so they can reply.  

My third piece of advice is to ask for a print out of the after visit summary, with clear instructions and follow up to what the next steps might be - something you can refer to in the future as well." Regardless of what you choose moving forward, I hope you find someone who helps you feel seen, heard, and encourages you along your healing path.

Mod Kat

[boldbrash-fandertrash]

Ignore me, unless I’m right in which case I fucking called it

So I was rewatching the episode for the fourth time and one I realized that Remus is much much smarter than we give him credit for and two I can generally predict how the rest of the story is gonna go.

We’re gonna have another aside video with Patton and Janus before the big season finale, and that aside is going to be one of the most important videos to the general progression of the plot.

I’m sure you’ve noticed the pattern so far, two sides who diametrically oppose each other being forced to work together on a problem they vastly disagree about, usually turning the small issue into something much messier than it ever would be and them learning something about themselves in the process.

Each pairing exists to point out to the viewer exactly what issues exist with each side that need some form of resolving, and the big unifying theme amongst them is “you’re not listening to me”. Roman and Virgil dragging Thomas across the cafeteria in favor of or agains him talking to Nico, Logan and Remus deliberately ignoring and working to undo the others work in an attempt to break Thomas out of the depressive funk he found himself in. Nobody is working together here. The only side to even remotely cooperate with the group was Virgil body checking Thomas into Nico, and it took him and Roman bullying each other and Thomas for an entire video to even get to that point.

Watching Logan and Remus interact, one, brought me immense joy and I will be chasing that high for weeks to come, and two, after an ounce of critical thinking was frankly painful to watch. Any critiques Logan offered to Remus were immediately discarded with absurdity and any critiques Remus offered to Logan were discounted as absurd.

During the obvious scene at the end with the Eyes™️, Logan claimed he wasn’t pretending Remus didn’t exist, but honestly, he kinda was.

The Dunce Cap Scene really accentuates this point. Logan pulls a holier than thou, why won’t you learn I’m always right, bullshit passive aggressive remark, Remus does his dramatic repenting student shtick, starts singing directly into Logan’s ear, and makes a kink joke. Literally the words Remus sings are “can’t fix this guy, all by yourself”. Remus is saying this inches from Logan’s personal face and even still the logical side ignores him outright, because of all the fluff around the message. Hell, in Remus’s introduction video, Logan likens him to a screaming baby on a plane, essentially saying “well eventually he’ll stop screaming so just bear with it for a while and you’ll be fine”. He’s ignoring Remus outright due to a preconceived notion and missing out on valuable information because of it.

The dunce cap scene indirectly calls back to learning new things about ourselves, where Logan is completely unreceptive to the puppet bit because of its perceived absurdity and absolutely refuses to acknowledge any potential the medium might have for learning until he physically cannot anymore.

Remus is capable of, and does often, make valid points and offers genuine critiques of shit happening in their lives. In Forbidden Fruit, almost every single line harkens back to some idea the other sides had been trying, and failing, to communicate to Thomas. “Good and bad is all made up nonsense”, “if you shared those musings with your friends i doubt they would forgive you”, “why deny yourself knowledge, say, knowledge of yourself” “people don’t like me much, Thomas, but that only just cause I’m honest”, “these sorts of things are only thought in the mind of a man who’s soul is truly rotten.”

Despite all of this, he is ignored outright because of his medium. Just like Logan is ignored due to his monotone cadence and large volume of content, just like Roman is due to his flair for the dramatic and artistic display of ideas, just like Patton is due to his playful and childlike nature, just like Janus is due to his perceived role as the Villain, just like Virgil /was/ due to his perceived role as the villain.

They all have become accustomed to being stepped on by the other sides because of who they are and how they communicate, and have in turn learned some less than ideal methods of being heard again. Logan yells and gets passive aggressive, Remus ups the fear factor for everyone around him, Roman shuts down anyone who tries to talk through bullying and raising his voice, Patton manipulates the others into feeling guilt and covers it up with a smile, Virgil whips out the tempest tongue and incites fear in Thomas, and Janus physically silences anyone in his way.

And here’s why I say the next asides episode is going to be the most important one developmentally. Patton and Janus are going to be forced to work together. Patton, who is in the midst of an identity crisis, and willing to listen to any new ideas provided they offer a valid solution to the shit he’s found himself in, and Janus, who knows a lot more than he’s willing to let on, who concerns himself exclusively with Thomas’s self preservation, and loves to talk when given the opportunity. Janus is gonna have a thing or two to say to Patton when they’re inevitably faced with their moral dilemma, and Patton is going to be in just the right mindset that he’s willing to listen. And Janus is going to end up being right, and the small issue they’re facing will be resolved, which will therefore strengthen Patton’s trust, and his openness to changing for the better.

Patton is goofy, and childish, and kinda ditzy sometimes, and because of that we as a fandom tend to overlook any of his moments that are anything but that, but we are not giving this man enough credit. When Patton sets his heart on something, he throws his whole self into it, and is willing to stand up for his beliefs in the face of extreme opposition, and would gladly do anything in his power to defend his family. Once Patton decides that he’s willing to grow, and if he believes that this growth will help put his family back together, nothing can stop him, and that will be absolutely crucial for the growth of all the other sides around him.

Whatever him and Janus discuss during their aside will absolutely give Patton the information he needs to help stitch together the rift between everyone.

I predict the next official Sanders Sides video is going to be the longest one yet, possibly over an hour long, because there’s a LOT of work that is going to need to be done, and Everyone is going to be in it. The big issue of “you’re not listening to me” won’t be resolved, but it will be acknowledged in a serious light by everyone. We won’t be getting any appearances from the Orange Side I don’t think, that would end up just complicating matters even more when each character is already incredibly shaky in their own identity.

Something less than ideal is gonna happen between Thomas and Nico, he’s gonna summon the initial three to deal with the matter but the other lads are gonna worm their way into the discussion, everyone’s gonna start screaming at each other, and Pattons gonna do something that stuns everyone else into silence (I’m guessing he’ll start crying, considering the start of season two was all about him repressing negative emotions and what better way to show character growth than to sob openly on camera).

Once everyone just fucking stops for ten seconds that’s when the apologies start. None of the sides are ever the first to apologize, we’ve seen that time and time again. Their desire to be in the right as well as their pride will always get in the way, however if someone starts the apology train everyone will eventually follow suit. We see that in Alone On Valentines Day, My Negative Thinking, Growing Up, Accepting Anxiety, Fitting In, Moving On, actually in pretty much every video where an apology actually takes place, once one person apologizes the other will immediately follow suit.

Patton is gonna be a goddamn mess, he’s gonna apologize to everyone in the room for anything he thinks he may have done to wrong them, and that’s gonna be what gets everyone to acknowledge all the shit they’ve put each other through, and the others are going to jump between trying to console him and trying to apologize to each other. They’re going to come to the unified decision that they need to work together more on future issues, the group is all going to offer up a solution and decide together on a remedy to whatever happened together between Thomas and Nico, and that will be that. Season three will be about them finding the balance between stepping on toes and being stepped over, while also working out how the orange side fits into everything.

Thus marking the end of my rant.

I started writing this at 2 and it’s now 4. I have to be up in three hours. I have an essay due at 3pm tomorrow that I haven’t started, but instead I typed up all this bullshit. I hope any of this made any sense, and I hope this is a suitable replacement for my emotions essay that’s completely untouched because chances are this is what I’m presenting to my therapist tomorrow. Wish me luck.

[jadedxrealityw]

-Jealousy- Draco Malfoy x Female Reader

      Kody: *Cries in out of ideas of stories*

     Summary: Even though you have feelings for Draco, he starts to get insufferably protective and jealous, which ends in a fight.

     Warning: Cursing, Draco being a jealous baby, Blaise being annoyed with life.

     House: Slytherin

     ♡~🐍~♡

     ♡~🐍~♡

     You had been friends with Draco since you both got sorted into the Slytherin house, you both shared similar problems like controlling parents. You listened to his problems and he listened to yours. Around your third year is when you developed feelings for the young Malfoy. You tried your damned hardest to shut them out, but they just got stronger with every soothing word, small touch, or warm embrace.

     At one point, you started to hate yourself. Why did it have to be your best friend? Someone who only had platonic feelings for you. You watched him go out with a bunch of girls, each taking a piece of your heart with them. Holding it above your head while you reached for it like a child. You always got it back, but it was tattered and torn. 

     The only person who knew about your crush was Blaise, only because he said it was so obvious that even Ron Weasley could of guessed it. He promised not to tell and would comfort you when Draco had a new girl around. Blaise started to develop a  slight hatred for his mate, only because he was dumb as hell for not noticing your feelings.

     Little did you and Blaise know was that Draco Malfoy was indeed just as in love with you as you were him. See noticed you differently when you two started your fourth year. The subtle changes to your face and body made his heart skip a beat. All he wanted was to wake up next you every morning, but you just never seemed interested in him romantically. So he tried to get rid of his feelings, go out with random girls for a couple weeks hoping his feelings would fade out, but they never did.

     Seventh year is when Draco started to become more possessive over You.  

     ♡~🐍~♡

     You were sitting in the great hall eating breakfast. You felt someone tap your shoulder making you turn your body to look behind you “Fred, George? Need something?” you ask. The twins nod in unison before George speaks up “Indeed Princess, we were wondering if you could help us move some boxes from the room of requirement later?” You shrug, thinking there was no problem since you didn’t have anything to do.

     “Yeah sure-” “Actually she’s helping me with my potions essay all afternoon, sorry not sorry Weasley’s” A low voice came from your left. You look at Draco confusingly “Oh i must have forgot?” You say, thinking you had genuinely forgotten about a meetup you two had planned. You tear your gaze from the blond Slytherin and towards the Weasley’s “Sorry guys, i’ll help you next time, K?” “Of course Princess” and with that they left to the Gryffindor table.

     “Sorry about our meetup Draco, it must have slipped my mind” You give him a nervous smile and he just shakes his head “It’s quite alright” he replies, giving you his warm smile. It makes your face flush and you turn back to your plate to continue eating.

    ♡~🐍~♡

     Walking out the courtyard you took a look around for Draco and Blaise, but they weren’t there yet. You didn’t mind and went to go sit on one of the benches, placing your bag next to you. You tapped your feet against the ground, when a quaffle hit your leg. You let out squeak and turned to see a group of Hufflepuff boys laughing. You rolled your eyes and leant down to pick up the Quaffle. You were about to throw it when one Hufflepuff pushed through them. Cedric.

     “Y/n!, I’m so sorry. These guys are idiots!” He gestured to his friends. You watched as his eyes trailed down to your leg to see the forming bruise from the Quaffle “Can i take a look? I won’t do anything weird, i promise” he smiles and you slowly put the quaffle down that you had been ready to throw and hesitantly nod. Cedric walks over to you and crouches down, he grabs your ankle and lifts your leg.

     You watch as he pulls out his wand, he points it towards your bruise “Episkey” and watch as it disappears. Cedric looks up at you with a smile “What the hell are you doing, Diggory?” a voice snapped from behind Cedric. He lets go of your leg and stands up straight “My friends hit her with a Quaffle, i was just helping-” “They what!?” Draco exclaimed and rushed towards you.

     Draco grabbed your face and examined it for any sign of harm. Your face turned a light shade of pink as your heartbeat quickened. “Are you okay?!” “Draco im fine, Cedric helped me” you explain and he sighs in relief. He puts a hand under your thighs and picks you up bridal style. “Draco i can walk!” You queak and hide your face in his chest out of embarrassment. “Can’t ever be too sure” he claims and starts to walk away with you.

     Cedric and Blaise watch Draco walk away with you “Do they like each other?” Cedric asked making Blaise nod “It’s obvious isn’t it?” he asked “Painfully” Cedric sighed as he went back over to his friends. 

     ♡~🐍~♡

      It went on like that for weeks. If you were near a guy, boom Draco was there to keep you away or shut them down. It was annoying. You were aloud to have guy friends. It started to piss you off and unfortunately for Draco, today was the last straw. You were in Blaise’s dorm laying on his bed and talking about how you were in love with him.

     Pansy Parkinson had been flirting with him at lunch and he seemed to not care and flirt back. It made you extremely upset so after lunch Blaise took you to his room to cheer you up. “Do you think i’m stupid?” You ask, making Blaise laugh in confusion “No, why do you ask that?” “Because i’m in love with a guy i can’t have” you reply.

     Blaise smiles sadly and pats your shoulder. Blaise wanted nothing more to tell you that Draco had came to him with the same problems, but he promised both of you not to tell. So he was stuck in the middle. You hold out your arms and he chuckles before hugging you tightly “Best big brother ever” “I’m not your brother” he chuckles “Your as good as one” “That’s true”

     You both heard the door open “Zabini, do you have my potions- What the bloody hell is this!” Blaise lets go of you and you sit up from the bed “Draco, calm down” Blaise rolls his eyes “Me, clam down?! Oh i see it now. I come to you for advice on Y/n, you tell me it’ll be fine so you can screw her?!” Your eyes widened at his words “Mate, there’s a lot wrong with what you just said” Blaise shakes his head then points to you “Me, screw Y/n? Ew man”

     You gag at the thought and make a face of disgust “I just called him my brother. I think i’m going to be sick” you cover your mouth. “Your a liar Zabini!” Draco yelled as he got in his face. Blaise shakes his head and stands up “I’ll leave you two to talk about your feelings, cause i’m tired of being a therapist to both of you” Blaise smiles and walks out the room, closing the door.

     You sat against the headboard of the bed. Draco looked at you before sitting down on the bed as well. You were fuming with anger, how could he think his best friend would betray him like that “You’ve been a real asshole lately” he looked at you in confusion “What?” “You heard me. What is with you?! Every guy im with, you lose your shit!” You snapped. Draco rolled his eyes “I’m your friend! You don’t need any other guy other than me!” he retorted.

     You laugh bitterly “Do you hear yourself Draco! Im allowed to have other guy friends than you!” you shout, taking a pillow from Blaises bed and throw it at him. He dodges it “Why do you always go to them?! Why can’t i be the one you go too. I used to be the only person you talk to!” You noticed the hurt in his eyes as he spoke “Draco, your not my father, boyfriend or whatever! I’ll talk to who i want when i want!” you stand up on the bed to look down at him.

     “Why are you acting like this, Draco?” You watched as his face softened “Because since fourth year i’ve been so hopelessly in love with you, that the thought of you with another guy makes me want to snap” You blink a couple times and in an angered state you grabbed a pillow and began hitting him with it “You. Idiot. That’s. No. Excuse!” Draco held his hands up “This is not what i was expecting! I thought you’d feel the same!” Draco yelled as he ran around blaises room.

     You chased him, still hitting him with the pillow “I do, but your such a fucking idiot! Being suffocating is not cute!” you said and he nodded vigorously “Okay!- Wait you love me?” You saw a smile form on his face, before you hit him again. He grabs the pillow and snatches it from you “Y/n, im sorry” he says out of breath from running. You pant as well before leaning your head against his chest “Me too- for beating you with a pillow”

     Draco laughed softly and reaches his hand up to your face, pulling your head from his chest so you were looking at him “Let me prove to you i can be better?” he asked. You could hear the pleading tone in his voice, you sigh and nod slowly “Okay, but i swear to god if Pansy tries to kiss you i’ll actually murder her” Draco grins as his other hand grips your waist “My lips belong to you my love” he said in a sultry tone, making a shiver run up your spine.

     You look away, hearing a low chuckle come from the Slytherin boy. “Only if you’ll have them of course” he teased. You grin to yourself before running a hand up his chest. You could hear him inhale sharply before you wrapped his tie around his hand, pulling him in for a kiss. Draco wasted no time to kiss you pulling at your clothes desperately to keep you near. 

     You both were so lost in the blissful of your heated exchange that you didn’t hear the door open “Oh what the hell, not in my room guys!” a very disgusted Blaise said from the doorway. You both pull away and break apart from each other. You both started fixing your clothes with flustered expressions “S-Sorry” You stuttered out. Draco adjusted his tie and reached over to grab your hand

      “Well, we’ll be going now” Draco rushes out the room and past Blaise. You laughed as you two ran out the common room and down the halls. You both stop in a random hallway. Both of you were laughing and it took a bit to calm down. “I have one thing to thank for today” Draco raised a brow “What?”

     “Your crazy Jealousy”

    ♡~🐍~♡

     Kody: End me right now i’m so tired

[writingsbychlo]

put her together again (05)

word count; 6603

summary; mitch takes you out on a little excursion upon your request, before making a not so pleasant discovery upon return to your home.

notes; just cute. that’s it. enjoy that, before it all goes shit.

warnings; none!

Despite Irene’s warnings to stay away, and her instructions to let you develop in your own home, Mitch just couldn't find it within himself to stay away. 

He missed you, he missed having company, and he’d ended up spending more than half of his time with you, or at least, that was how it seemed, as he became quickly familiar with how it felt to sleep on your couch, which was surprisingly more comfortable than his own. He wasn’t blind to the fact that you had been given an apartment that very purposefully didn’t have a guest room, discouraging him from wanting to stay, but he was used to tough-living on assignments, and as long as he wasn’t sleeping on the floor, a couch seemed like a dream. 

A blanket and a pillow from the storage cupboard had found a new home with permanent placement on the shelf under the coffee table, so on every night that he chose to stay over, there was easy access to what he needed. You had out sorted the clothing the had gifted to you into a new drawer, so that he always knew how to get to it when he needed a change of clothes the following morning, and he hadn't missed the level of trust that had been rolled out to him about being given access to your bedroom to get to it. 

That was your private space, that was somewhere that only the people that were most important to you should be allowed to enter, those whom you trusted with your life, and you’d granted that to him, and while you hadn't said the words, he didn’t miss their meaning.

Mitch had also put a great effort into encouraging you to go out in public, and learn where you were. While not being as fond of the idea of you wandering around on your own while everything was still a risk, he was aware that it was a witness protection area, and that you were still going to be safe going out and about here, and it did bring him a little reassurance when he was at his own home, and thinking about what you might be up to. 

You now had a gym membership, no longer having to work out at home, and you’d never been exposed to such equipment and that kind of environment, and the look of pure joyous shock that had been on your face had lived in the front of his mind for over a week, a smile on his face anytime he thought about yours. Occasionally, he ventured out to the spot with you, he wasn’t much of a fan of traditional workouts, or of doing it in front of other people, but you were thriving in that environment, and he was willing to make the sacrifice just to spend time with you. 

As much as he ever hated to admit that Irene was right about something, she hadn't been wrong in her conclusion here. 

Her claims that putting you alone and letting you flourish as your own being, developing your ideas and your personality, you really were breaking out of your shell. For as much progress as you’d made living with him, you were reaping that in tenfold here. You had a favourite spot in the little coffee shop, and the servers called you a regular, knowing your order by heart anytime you came through the door, the little bell overhead jingling. You had ventured as far as the row of old-style looking buildings on a little corner off of the high street, and he had noticed that sometimes your fingers had paint stains on and smears across your clothes when he arrived without warning, catching the canvases of all shapes and sizes stacked in your closet and the corners of your rooms. 

They reflected your moods, that much he could tell. Some were bright explosions of colours, yellows and greens and pale blue, everything joyous and fun and he liked those ones the most, always on bigger canvases as you illustrated your feelings. 

Some were darker, swirls of navy and purples, slightly wonky, done in the morning light after you woke up from nightmares on the days he wasn’t just a few metres away to hold you and soothe you through the anxiety until the sun finished rising and took it all away. 

He didn’t like the others, the ones that were blacks and greys, mixed with splatters of reds, and he didn’t know what prompted them, he didn’t know when you painted those ones or why, but when he looked closely enough he could see the circular stains on the canvases from dropped tears that distorted the paints. There were no shapes on those ones, just drags of brushes in frantic and erratic directions, nothing that gave you any reassurance or made sense, it was a mess that you just splayed over the surface until the white material was replaced with layers of dark oil paints to express your pain. 

Painting was the best way you knew how to get out the feelings you had inside that you didn’t know how to process, something he’d learned had been introduced to you by your therapist, expanding on the simple drawings he’d had you doing while living with him.

You were making friends, sometimes you came home with a receipt from the coffee shop with two drinks, someone at the gym who you’d been spotting on the weights and going for a drink afterwards, or befriending the older lady who worked on putting books back in the library. You’d met a couple in your therapy waiting room, two men who were there for marriage counselling, and they had begun to go for lunch with you every Saturday at the local café after your sessions. 

He was happy for you, he truly was, listening to you talk to him about how people at the gym had begun to ask you for advice on their workouts, and the manager had even offered you a job as a personal trainer - one that you’d refused, not quite ready for that yet - but you were still happy just to be having other people to talk to. People who didn’t want anything from you, people had had no ulterior motives in being with you other than friendship, and that was definitely something that you deserved from the world, after everything you had been put through.

That was exactly how Mitch had found himself here, stirring his coffee slowly as he watched you buzz around your kitchen, teaspoon clinking against the edge of the mug as steam curled up into the air. You were making breakfast, sleep still crawling at your features, but you were now making double the quantities you had been planning on, his arrival unexpected but you never turned him away when he knocked at your door. 

There was bacon and eggs, he could smell it on the air, his stomach rumbling happily, and he was sure that he looked just as sleep-mussed as you did, he’d barely pulled on his shoes, not even bothering to change out of his pyjamas when he’d woken this morning, just wanting to get on the road and on his way to visit you. 

You were spinning the tale to him all about the group therapy session you’d had, giggling as you spoke about Edith, who had an incredible dark-humour, anger issues and a God complex, and always made you laugh when you saw her. Mitch was grinning as he raised his brows a little, bringing the edge of his cup to his lips to hide his expression. 

“Are you sure you should be telling me all these juicy details about your friends?”

You shrugged, turning to grin at him over your shoulder as you plated up the breakfast foods, and he almost groaned at the sights of it, stomach clenching angrily with hunger, before you were passing it over to him. Eggs, bacon, pancakes; he felt like he was in heaven, loving getting to know another person in this kind of intimate way, missing having someone to share the lazy mornings with before exhaustions had fully left his mind and he was still a little hazy in his post-sleep state. “Who else am I supposed to tell it to?”

“Fair point.” He sighed, taking the plate with a mumbled ‘thank you’ before he was grabbing for his cutlery, watching as you took the seat across from him and dug into your own food. 

“Besides, Mary from the library is lovely but she can't keep a secret for anything, and Elliot and Greg love to gossip, it’s how I find out half of my gossip, and the gym is where I find out pretty much all of the other half, so I can’t tell them, because they’re who I’m gossiping about!” You grinned, dragging a piece of bacon and pancake from your fork with your teeth, and chewing happily, and Mitch simply rolled his eyes in response, but couldn't stop the curl of his lips into a smile. 

“So, I’m just your Pandora’s Box of therapy tales and gym gossip about your friends?”

“Yes.” You smirked, watching as he gasped in fake offence, and he didn’t even both to cut any of his bacon, trying to force the entire strip into his mouth at once, and a droplet of grease gathered at the corner of his mouth, prompting him to lick it away as you scowled at his gross behaviour. “Despite that undignified display, you’re also my best friend. For whatever reason.”

“Does that mean you don’t gossip about me, then?”

“I would never!” It was your turn to mock him, and he grinned cheesily, repeating the action with the next piece of meat, and you groaned, tearing your eyes away from him and fixing them on your plate as you made a show of neatly cutting your food into pieces to eat. “So, are you busy today?”

“That depends on what you have planned. I’m not going to look at curtains with you again, I can still feel that old lady’s fingers on my ass.”

You snorted, almost choking on your food as you remembered the day he’d had his ass pinched by a rambunctious old woman in the curtains store, and he glanced across the room, looking at the hanging drapes he’d helped install, the entire memory tainted with that of the startling encounter. You were still snickering into your meal, smiling with every bite you took, and sipping at your coffee, the suspense killing him.

“C’mon, out with it. What kind of crap are you going to drag me through today?”

“Well, not today, technically. I was thinking more tonight.” He hummed, prompting you to go on with what you had to say, and the scraping of metal on ceramic was filling the silence as he waited for you. “Will you take me to this little jazz bar I saw?”

“A jazz bar?”

You were a little more timid now, eyes fixed on your food as you became embarrassed of your request, and he didn’t want you to feel like that, not with him. He just couldn't quite fathom why you’d want to go to a jazz bar of all places, but he was willing to do so if it made you happy.

“Sure, but if we’re going to a jazz bar then I want the full experience. I’ll be drinking aged whiskey from a tumbler with one of those balls of ice in it, and I’ll be hungover. I’m crashing on your couch, and you have to cook breakfast again in the morning.” He raised his brows at you, watching as you perked back up, nodding happily and motioning over your shoulder to the fridge. 

“I have those sausages that you like.”

“Then it’s a deal.”

You cheered happily, whooping to yourself, before a comfortable quiet took over the room and you were left to finish your meals while simply soaking up the comfort of being together. There was no plan for the rest of the day, but after a few showers, and cleaning up the kitchen together, a vague plan to run some errands had been formed. You’d offered him the chance to go home several times, and yet he always refused, just as happy to wander the library with you and put back your books as he was to grab coffee with you, and go to the store to pick up a week’s worth of groceries. 

If he was there when you went shopping, he got a say on the things you bought, and then he knew what there was for the days he came over to have a meal with you. 

After cleaning up, on your way out, you had swung by his place, changing into something more suitable for a day of chores with you, and letting you sit in the car and flick through the music CD’s he had laying around on the backseat, bringing a blazer back out with him and a bag of things he’d need for his overnight stay, before the two of you had been off and on your way. As decided, you’d gone to the library first, a pile of books in your arms as you pushed the door open with your back, greeting the woman behind the desk and checking your books back in, dropping the stack into the returns, before making your way through the aisles. 

His arms had been loaded with books, holding them all for you as you climbed up and down the steps and stools to reach the high shelves trailing from one end of the building to the other, and up and down the stairs, as this time, you curated a collection of everything from a space-travel fantasy book to a non-fiction about lions and their hunting patterns. 

You had shown him your coffee joint, one you’d taken him to a few times before, but had redecorated since he’d last been, and was promoting a new set of special blends on the chalkboard menu outside, and so the two of you had ordered a small-sized version of each one, sharing them amongst yourselves as you judged the options before you. Your favourite had been the roasted hazelnut americano, while his had been the caramel macchiato with marshmallow essence, his sweet tooth shining through.

Following that, he’d taken you to the store, pushing the cart around and bumping you with it when you took too long for his liking to compare certain products, and as punishment, he’d been forced to help you unpack all the purchases, hiding away the treats he’d slipped into the basket in the backs of your cupboards and in the drawers of the coffee table that you never went into. By the time dusk had rolled around, he was pulling his blazer up his arms, a mix between smart and casual that was appropriate for the journey, skinny jeans and a henley not being fitting alone for the place you were travelling to, and he was staring up at the ceiling as he waited for you to be done.

“You ready?”

He chuffed, a snippy comment on the tip of his tongue about how it had been you that had decided you wanted to shower before going out, despite being perfectly clean, but his mouth went a little dry as he sat up, eyes widening. “Where did you get that dress?”

You looked down at yourself then, your hands clasping in front of yourself nervously after smoothing down the skirt. Dark blue, a shade that complimented you beautifully, lace along the arms and up to your neck, in what was a mock turtleneck, flaring out at the waist in a loose skirt, and it was most definitely a cocktail dress, not exactly the kind of thing he’d expect Irene would have bought for you. “My friend gave it to me. We were challenged at therapy to clear out things that reminded us of a bad time, and to give them to someone else, to make something bad into something good again.”

“That’s sweet.” He caught his breath, eyes scanning along you once again, your legs bare, and he smirked a little bit as he watched you match the elegance with a pair of sneakers, making the whole outfit seem much more fitting to you. “What did you take?”

“I didn’t really have anything, but I took one of my paintings - y’know the one with the blue and the green? That one. - and gave it to one of the people I didn’t know, but they wanted to put it up on the wall in their restaurant.”

He just nodded, licking over his lips as you reached for your coat, folding it over your arms, and he shook his head, letting out a sound to dissuade you from that course of action. “No, sweetheart, you can’t put a coat over a dress like that.” You raised your brows, before shrugging it off and following his lead, hanging it back up on the coat hooks, and he searched for your keys, tucking them into his pocket. “Besides, I told you this would be the full experience, and how am I supposed to be a gentleman and give you my jacket when you get cold if you have a coat?”

You simply grinned at him, holding the front door open and switching on the latch as the two of you left, heading towards the elevator and surrounded by soft laughs. “You’re a dork.”

“Big words from the girl who rented ten books for one weeks worth of reading.”

You gasped, turning to shoot him a little glare, but he just beamed, letting you guide him in the direction of your location for the evening. It was only a short walk, just around the corner from your building, but he could hear the music coming out all the way from a street over, lights and noise spilling from the hole-in-the-wall establishment as the two of you approached. 

It was even louder inside, the sounds of trumpets and guitars sounding out, and it was mellowed out inside, low lights and leather booths with round tables in solid oak with old and chipping wood, the smell of candles and smoke hanging on the air with liquor, and it was exactly what he expected it to be. The aesthetic matched all the scenes that he had laid out in his head, what he figured a jazz bar would look like, and raucous clapping took up as the live band finished and the current song ended, a man was taking a seat at the sleek black piano in the middle of the room to keep the music going as the acts changed over.

“Drinks first, right?”

“Are you allowed to drink?” Your face screwed up for a second, before you were shaking your head, and he dropped an arm to loop around your waist, guiding you towards the bar and making sure that you kept close to him in the bustling crowds. “Well, when you’re all cleared for it, I’ll take you out for a real drink, okay?”

“Sounds good.”

“I’m still drinking though.” He flagged down the bartender, a whiskey for himself and a soda for you, ice clinking against the glasses as they were served to you. A short and stocky glass was slid over the wooden counter towards you both, followed by a taller one, fizzing and bubbling with pop as ice swirled in the liquids, and you picked it up, bringing the straw to your mouth to take a sip. “Let’s find a booth.”

There was one in the far corner, just evacuated by the previous inhabitants, and you were quick to slide into the seat, Mitch taking the opposite one, and he didn’t miss the dirty looks that were being shot your way from another pair across the room who had clearly also been intending to claim this seat as their own, but he decided that the pair of you deserved it more, so he had no guilt as he ignored them. 

A new band was taking up on the stage, setting themselves up and adjusting the microphone, a woman wearing a floor-length ball gown covered in sparkles and sequins, red painted lips and neatly pinned up hair was taking a seat on a wooden stool at the front of the stage, and waiting as her bandmates all got set up. 

“She looks great.” You were in awe, he could read it clearly on your face, and he couldn't help the smile he got as he watched you admire her, before your eyes were moving to scan over everybody else in the room, and he took a sip of his drink, heat flaring on his cheeks when he cleared his throat, forcing you to stop watching everyone else.

“You know, you look beautiful, too.”

You scoffed under your breath, but smiled, your head ducking as you reached for your glass to busy your idle fingers instead, and he reached his hand out over the surface, palm up in offering. His breath was held, only released with relief when you slipped your hand into his, holding on gently, and he grinned to himself, hiding it behind the rim of his glass. “I never said beautiful.”

“Maybe not, but I did.” He wasn’t sure where the words were coming from, it was a part of his personality that he was sure he’d lost a long time ago, but the squeeze of your hand in his with silent acknowledgement made his hand tighten around yours, and you fell back into a companionable silence together. “You wouldn’t look like you if you tried to be like them. I like who you are now.”

“I don’t even know who I am, Mitch. Not really, anyway.”

“Maybe not fully, but there’s a lot that makes you special, already.” You looked up at him now, meeting his eye and holding it, before you were standing up, rounding to his side of the booth and taking a seat beside him instead. Lifting his arm, he wrapped it over your shoulders, letting you curl into his side as you faced the stage, but he felt the hand dangling over your shoulder warm, the curling of your fingers around his once again making his nerves tingle as adrenaline rushed through his body, and he pulled you in a little closer. The lights began dimming, a spotlight taking up on the centre stage once again, and he could feel you tense up with excitement for it all. “Show’s starting, sweetheart. Are you excited?”

You only hummed, twisting into him a little bit, before even the messing of your fingers with his own stopped, and you were fixing every bit of your attention onto the stage.

Her voice was beautiful, one deep breath carrying the words as she sang out steadily, the instruments fading into the tune as it progressed. It had been her and her only singing to start, before the piano had come in slowly, picking up speed when a steady drumbeat joined it, and then came the chorus. It was catchy and upbeat, a difference from the beginning of the song, cheerful melodies made by trumpets and saxophones, and then the band came in to perform back up singing. 

The bass was vibrating through the wooden floors, the feeling replicating that of nerves and butterflies curling in his stomach but in the best of ways, and Mitch was tapping his foot on the floor as the music played, unable to resist the urge. The crowds were cheering now, the peak of the song approaching, claps sounding out loudly, and he almost missed the soft giggle you let out as you took in the atmosphere, before your hand was leaving his, and you were clapping too. 

This went on, for what felt like mere minutes but was hours by the time he noticed your excitement dwindling as you slumped into his body. You were tired now, your head lolling on his shoulder a little, and one peek through the windows showed him that the twilight you’d arrived in had faded out into the night, dark and glittering with stars, and once the current song ended, he nudged you up a little. 

You sighed, before shaking your head clear, sitting up yourself from where you’d been lounging with him, and all of those patches felt a little cold as you moved away from him, so used to having you pressed up to him now, and providing him with your warmth. 

“Ready to go?”

You only nodded, wiping at your eyes a little bit before getting to your feet, a little shaky in your exhaustion, and he followed after you, several empty glasses sitting on the table as the warm buzz of alcohol coursed through his veins, the two of you navigating through the crowds carefully, his hand sitting on your lower back until you were reaching the doorway, gasps of fresh air as you made it back out onto the streets. 

You tugged a little on his sleeve, the two of you falling into step in the direction of your apartment. 

“I hope you plan to make good on that promise to give me your jacket.” 

He beamed at you, shrugging it down his arms and ignoring the chill he got, before tucking it over your shoulders delicately. Your hand found his, your fingertips tickling so lightly across his palm he had to resist the urge to flinch, but then you were weaving your fingers with his, holding his hand and he wrapped his digits around you just as tightly. “Did you have fun?”

“Yes, but I wouldn’t want to go back.” He turned to look at you, your cheek pressing to his shoulder as you slipped somewhere between conscious and unconscious. “It was fun but it seems like it’d be a little boring after this. You have to do everything once, though, right?”

“I guess so, sweetheart.” You were so positive and optimistic, you had a sunny outlook on everything, a real feat for someone who came from your past, who was still in their first year of recovery from a lifetime of pain and trauma, and he was so proud of you for all the progress that you’d made. You were healing yourself, and he knew you were healing him, too. “Do you want to go and get some food? You must be hungry, you haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“I can’t,” you whispered the words, letting him wrap his arm around you instead, keeping your hands locked but it made it easier for him to guide you along as your tired feet began to drag along the floor. “I have a session in the morning.”

Mitch frowned, he was certain you’d already had your therapy this week, because you’d been telling him all about it over breakfast, and you hadn't told him about getting any more assigned sessions, but maybe that was why you’d been making such good progress. “I’ll make you coffee in the morning. C’mon, I know a diner with some great food that you’d love.” He grinned, squeezing you tightly and raising his other hand to tickle at your side. 

You grinned, huffing out a laugh, before shaking your head at him. “No food! Unit eight will not be at optimal performance efficiency without seven hours of rest per night.”

Just like that, the haze that had been your walk home was washed away, like ice water had been thrown over his head and his stomach clenched up angrily in a way that made him feel sick. You whined as he came to a full stop, his body rigid in his movements, and you raised your head to look at him, the awning of your building hanging overhead as you stood just outside of the doorway, but he couldn't help but stare at you, knowing that horror was flashing over his features.

“What?” You were looking at him now, curious with wide eyes, coming back to your senses as his abrupt halt had forced you to wake up a little more, and you were blinking at him, worry beginning to seep into your features. “Mitch, what’s wrong?”

“You don’t even know what you just said, do you?”

“Uh..” You thought on it, brows furrowing and shrugging your shoulders. “Not really, just something about how I need to get a good night’s sleep, I think.”

He shook his head, pulling you closer into his body as your hands were crushed between your bodies, resting on his chest as he pulled you close, and guided you through the door, a walk that was almost a shuffle as you went along, side by side. “You called yourself.. by your old title.”

It took you a minute to realise what you’d said, before you were paling a little, a look just as distraught as he’d felt flashing over your face. “You know, you’ve been making so much progress forwards, and I’ve seen you tired before, this has never happened. What’s going on?”

You looked up at him and shrugged, moving away to avoid his gaze and open your front door. The second the two of you were inside, you were kicking off your shoes hastily and leaving them in the middle of the floor, making your way to the kitchen to get away from him, and he could hear you filling up the kettle. He put your shoes and his on the shelf they belonged on, finding his blazer slung neatly over the back of the couch, and he came into the kitchen quietly, not wanting to startle you, and took a seat at the kitchen table.

His eyes flickered over the room, watching you move in your own space easily and swiftly, pulling two mugs from the cupboard. You dropped a tea bag into each, a scoop of honey following, and steam was beginning to leave the kettle as the water approached being ready. As the cutlery drawer slid closed, he saw it, he realised what was off. Your schedule was turned around, the blank paper facing upwards from the chart he’d seen you replicate and helped you make, the activities now facing inwards. 

He was on his feet before he could stop himself, taking off the magnet that had pinned it up, and twisting the sheet to face himself. The first thing that immediately jumped out was that you’d managed to progress from a daily chart that repeated every day, to a weekly one, the hours down the side being replaced with days of the week. 

His eyes immediately picked out the things that were expected, ‘trip to the library’, ‘grocery shopping’ and ‘dinner with Mitch’, smiley faces drawn beside them, and his lips flicked up at the corners. ‘Physical activity’ had been replaced with the word ‘gym’, and his suspicions were confirmed, the word ‘therapy’ being scrawled across the empty spots on a Tuesday, definitely not today. Then, he was studying the other things, grunting as his brows furrowed. 

‘Hypno with Irene’.

He looked up, finding you already facing him, leaning against the counter and staring into your drink, a frown on your face. You were clutching the mug with both hands, a sigh leaving you as he inched a little closer. It was on there three times, on Mondays, Thursdays and Saturdays, definitely a new addition because the ink colour was different to the rest, and it looked fresher, like it had only been added a month or so ago.

“Does ‘hypno’ mean hypnotherapy?” 

“Yes.” Your words were weak, and he let a little growl out, putting the paper back on the fridge and pinning the magnet over it, a little more aggression behind his actions that and you flinch, and he would’ve acknowledged his guilt from the action if it hadn't been for the anger clouding his mind. 

He patted his pockets down for his phone, finding it tucked away, and you watched him move, he could feel your stare lingering on him as he walked away towards the door, already pushing his thumb into the contact card on the screen, and he could hear it calling as he lifted it to his ear. The second he had, he was slamming the door shut behind himself, trying to take a deep breath to calm himself down, but the feeling of rage bubbled back up as he heard the line go through. 

“Do you not know what time it is, Rapp?”

“You’re taking her to fucking hypnotherapy? You’re digging around in her mind, before she even knows how to control what she gets back?” He was seething, fingers gripping his phone so tightly he worried that it might crack by his ear. “Are you fucking insane?”

“It would do you well to curb your tone, agent. Remember who you work for.”

Her tone had somehow managed to get even colder, and he knew she was right, so he bit down on his lip so aggressively that the taste of copper trickled over his tongue. “She isn’t ready for that yet.”

“That isn’t your call to make.”

“Maybe not, but there’s a pair of eyes in my fucking skull, and I can see that she’s still piecing herself back together.” It was taking everything he had to hold his tone steady and stop from shouting again, and he stopped his pacing, leaning back against the wall and working through his body methodically to try and ease his own tension. 

“She is the only lead we have on taking down an organization that has been doing this for decades. She is the key, and she’s been giving us more information in the last month than we have gained in at least thirty years.”

“You’re going to break her.” His voice cracked then, and just like that, there wasn’t any more clenched muscles or balled up fists anymore, there was just the exhaustion and ache in his body, and he felt like he might collapse to the floor if it wasn’t for the wall holding him up. “You’re going to ruin her.”

“I’m taking all the necessary precautions, Mitch.” 

Even Irene had eased up, and while he wouldn’t exactly call her tone soft, he certainly knew there was less venom and aggression behind it now. 

“She is making excellent progress, and we didn’t dive right in at the deep end. We worked it up, but there’s a point she can’t get past. She locks up, we just need her to break through it and we will have everything we need.”

“What point?” Mitch wasn’t sure he actually wanted the answer to this, but he needed to know, to be able to help you or stop it, he just needed to be aware of what you were facing so that you didn’t have to handle it alone.

“She tried to run when she was younger, and she made it out. If she can tell us what she saw, we can track it down. But, she stops as she approaches the door, her mind won’t let her get any further than that.”

“I want to come along. Tomorrow. I’m going to be there.” The hesitation from his boss was evident, a deep sigh, and the shuffling of some papers, and he knew that no matter how late the hour was, Irene was at home doing work anyway. 

“Fine. Eight sharp, at her apartment. If you’re late, we’re leaving without you.”

He smirked, glancing up at your door, but not letting on that he was already here with you, the line clicking off before he even had a chance to thank her, and his eyes rolled involuntarily at her actions, but he wasn’t at all surprised. The screen went black when he pulled it from his ear, and Mitch dragged a hand over his face, tucking the device into his pocket and opening the door up again, shutting it softly behind himself now instead of slamming it like he had done before.

Your head snapped up to him, eyes wide as you saw him come back in, and you were on your feet to meet him from the second he’d entered the room. “You came back.”

“Where did you think I was going?” His brows furrowed, your arms wrapping around yourself as he watched you, your mug almost empty, but he noticed his was now sitting face down in the sink, tipped away as you presumed him to have left. 

“I thought you were angry with me, and that you went home.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” He was padding across the room and cupping your face in two large hands before he’d even had to think about it, thumbs running over your cheekbones and you stared up at him through wide and glossy eyes. “I’m not mad at you, I promise. I’m mad at Irene, and the world, but I’m not mad at you.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.” He leaned in, pressing a long and slow kiss to your forehead, feeling you press back into the touch, and he grinned at the little noise you let out, sagging into his body as your arms circled his waist. He had enough space to pull away, peppering your cheeks and temples with little kisses too, until you were giggling under his hold, face screwing up, and he let you go, your face wiping against your shoulder as he watched you through his own entertainment. “Why didn’t you tell me, though?”

“Irene said it would make you upset, and I don’t want you to be upset with me.”

“I’m not upset with you, I’m just upset for you. I don’t want you to have to suffer anymore.” He sighed, trying to catch your gaze, and using two fingers to tip your chin up to find his sights. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. It isn’t fun, but Irene says it’s helping people. People like me, and I can save them. I have to save them, Mitch, like you saved me.” He smiled then, watching as you lit up enthusiastically, and while it was taking a toll on you, he could sense how much you cared, and he couldn't take that away from you. 

“I’m going to come with you, tomorrow.”

You grinned, leaning in enough to bump your forehead to his cheek, and you nodded against him, squeezing him tightly within your arms. When you backed away, there was a glint in your eyes, and you backed off enough to shuffle through your cupboards, pulling out a bag of dried pastas, and presenting the half-empty bag to him. “I learned how to make mac and cheese the other week, it makes me feel better after therapy, and you look like you could use a cheer up. You want some?”

“I thought you wanted to go to sleep?” He pressed, and you raised a single shoulder, dropping it back down, before turning to find a pan.

“You’re worth staying up for.”

Then, yes, I’d love some.” He was taking a seat at the table once again, and you hummed, beginning to serve up a portion for you both, fishing around in the fridge to gather all of the ingredients. 

He couldn't pretend that he wasn’t nervous, or that the idea of seeing you in that state didn’t frighten him, but he knew that he had to be there for you, to help you and protect you when you were vulnerable, and so everything else slipped away.

[yanderecandystore]

Reader is alone in their room throwing a rubber ball against the wall which at one point rolls away but is returned to them. Looking up they see a single eye ball, Buddy is slowly making themselves visible again. Buddy is covered in healed scars and wound. A soft whine and a wag of a tail. Black and Red pop in for the daily check up and see whats going on Remeber self care is best care :o - Cold Anon

Thanks for caring for me Cold, but like- You really do be breaking my heart with these beautiful angst concepts ;^;

TW/Tags: Feels (angst lol) // mentions of animal abuse // d r a m a (also a little different from what you originally thought off-) // cursing // plot twist that was pulled straight out of my ass- (I can't blame y'all if this seem boring or uninteresting lol, but it was the only plot twist that I felt like it was fitting).

🍭꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍮꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍰꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍮꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖🍭

Broken smile [Yandere!Among Us x Reader - Headcanon]:

Can you imagine your shock at seeing the familiar eyes looking at your own with nothing but relief and sorrow? Can you imagine seeing your little warrior walking inside your room slowly and clumsy due to his wounds.

You jump out of bed and go hug your best friend, despite knowing fully well that he hasn't recovered fully from whatever hell he clearly went through. He was anticipating the impact but it still hurts him despite his best efforts to hold it in-

You haven't come off of your bedroom that day, most of the crew was too busy to notice that you weren't doing your tasks, but of course they would notice before everyone else-

"- Babe, have you seen [Y/N] anywhere? I have a feeling we haven't talked much."

"- That's because we didn't. They haven't gotten out of their room ever since this morning-"

"- What?? Black, you should have told me sooner, come on, we need to see if they're okay- Wait!"

"- W-What is it??"

"- Where…. Black, where is M.Red?"

Instead of going straight to checking how you were they decided to search for their child since Mini Red just suddenly disappeared-

They eventually found him, and scolded the young child for giving both of his parents a heart attack, when asked where he was, M.Red said something quite surprising:

"- I was playing doctor with the doggie!"

You heard loud bagging on your door, you didn't really expect anyone to call you so late, they probably noticed you haven't attend to any of the tasks in the spaceship (although let's be honest, you're more surprised it took them 24 hours to notice that instead of realizing your lack of presence sooner-).

You recognized that friendly family that you have grown to appreciate over the past month, Red and Black has been nothing but sweet with you and M.Red is such a energetic kid-

You didn't want to get out of your room, so instead you welcomed them in, and as soon as their eyes looked at the medicines and the space canine laying on top of it all covered in wounds, they understood what happened.

He came back. The stupid dog came back, yet in their hearts there was nothing like hate or anger at the sight of the severely damaged dog.

No, on the contrary, there was pity inside them mixed with somewhat of a relief.

Well, don't get me wrong, they hate your dog still, he is nothing more than an immense rock in their path yet there is something so, well, "heartwarming" about seeing you reunited.

It's so fun to see their loved one so happy even if it's because of… That dog.

You didn't come out of your room at all that day, you just wanted to be with your friend and take care of him, you took first-aid kits on medbay to take care of his untreated wounds. Buddy came back all patched up yet whoever did it clearly didn't do a good job at it in the first place! You were glad someone at least tried to help, yet there was something very worrying about his condition-

If someone tried to fix him up, it was because he was hurt in the first place. Buddy is a smart boy yet he wouldn't be able to properly recover those wounds on his own.

So when you brought the topic to them, you didn't expect a small hand be raised in such a excited way- M.Red was so proud of his work despite the fact he doesn't know anything about treating a wounded space animal, and honestly he didn't care- He saw it all as a fun game, in his eyes finding the dog in such a small and convenient finding place was nothing but a fun game, he not only found a good hiding spot to play hide and seek with Black, but also the dog, which he only saw as a toy.

To put it promptly, Buddy was waiting to die by the hands of the gremlin child, yet he was delightfully surprised to see the child so excited about helping him get his wounds treated, despite the fact they did it for their own twisted little amusement. At least the kid liked him more than his parents did.

Both of his parents were hesitant in letting you know that their kid had found the dog before you did, since it could be considered kinda weird for their kid to be able to find your dog in a isolated tiny spot of the spaceship that was completely off the cameras view and only accessible by the ventilation system- They lied about their child randomly founding the dog walking around instead of actually founding the filthy thing's hiding place.

No one can go in the vents unless they were small or a shapeshifting monster, and their child just happened to be both at the same time-

Either way, after finally being reunited with your dog, everyone expected things to go back to normal, even Buddy seemed tired of this nonsense, yet things never did go back to the way they were.

It was interesting how much of an impact you had on your crew. People didn't give you that much attention, yet whenever you changed your behavior it seemed to take over the entire mood of the ship. You may be thinking I'm exaggerating, yet it's not hard to believe it, is it?

After all, think about it, your dog just came back hurt from something that has done a great deal of damage to him. Something or someone made him hide away from everyone else so he could catch a break.

Buddy was a brave boy yet he was careful enough to see when a fight wasn't worth fighting. Buddy ran away and managed to hide for so long, he must have seen something or someone that was capable of scaring him from even coming back unprepared.

You mentioned that at your meeting and everyone seemed shocked at your claims, and even more surprised by how you sounded so… Angry. You sounded like someone that was calm now, yet was holding enough anger to fight anyone if not everyone in the cafeteria if they gave you the smallest hints of being the one that has hurted your doggie.

Even though he was kinda weirded out by your demeanor, the poor thing thought that he had caused you so much pain that him coming back wasn't the best thing he should have done. You were the same person as when he ran away, yet you sounded so mad…

And you rightfully were. You have been beating yourself up and feeling depressed thinking your sweet boy has died and when he comes back he is wounded to the point of not being able to walk properly. You have every right to want to beat the shit of whoever did this, even if they weren't human to begin with.

You felt like you had every right to judge every single person sitting in front of you, anyone in this room could have hurted Buddy and you knew it. The arguing was so strong that you had to be calmed down by Red, Black and Buddy at the same time.

One person in particular seemed to be pointing you out as "obviously the killer" that has orchestrated this whole charade as a way to throw everyone off, you almost did slap a bitch that day-

Others seem to understand your condition. You literally just lost your dog and he came back all bloodied and wounded. You were hurt and pissed at whoever the culprit was, even if you weren't sure of who it was.

And there was a strong intuition indicating that maybe the culprit that hurted your dog, was also the monster going around killing your crewmates. But sadly, Buddy has also changed after the incident.

Buddy didn't seem to recognize who.was the culprit, and if he could have blamed Red and Black, he knew that it was neither of them that had attacked him. Someone else has taken him by surprise, and was smart enough to cover their scent and human disguise, so he wouldn't recognize them if he managed to get away. Which he is glad he did, yet he is afraid he won't be of any help this time around.

He could blame Red and Black, since clearly they were going around killing everyone, but he somehow knew that they weren't involved with his case. He felt like it would be unfair to put the blame on them for his case in particular, they should still be thrown off of the spaceship but not for him.

But for all the different people they killed along the way.

And also… Maybe he did feel pity for the child, maybe he just felt like he was in debt with the kid for helping him out- Maybe if the circumstances were different he could have been friends with the little rascal (if the child had also decent parents and a therapist-).

You seemed to have noticed how Buddy hasn't openly barked at anyone, how he hasn't pointed anyone out yet, which was a little disheartening since it meant that this would be a lot harder than expected, yet you hadn't given up yet, you were determined to make justice for your dog, for everyone that had died.

Some of your crew were with you, some weren't, yet you didn't care at all- You would make sure to take care of your boy with more love and affection, you won't let this happen to him ever again.

And while you had found some sort of hope from this situation, Red and Black were concerned if not freaked out at the idea that someone else had started a hunting spree, and apparently with you and your dog as their target.

Red had asked their son if he was the one to hurt the canine, yet he said that he found him like that, hurt and bleeding. Black was feeling anxious as he couldn't smell the scent of someone of his kind hiding in between them, I'd they were also disguising themselves, it meant that they were being extra careful by flooding themselves with extra scents to blend in with everyone else.

This was way more than concerning, it meant they were in danger, you were in danger! And the culprit was being one step ahead from everyone else, since they have probably already found out about Black being an alien that has also invaded the ship, and that Red and M.Red were involved with the killings.

There were apparently three imposters among your crewmates.

🍭꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍮꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍰꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍮꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖🍭

Okay sorry Cold, but now I noticed that although I tried to compile your both asks into one, it feels like I may have not done the best ;-; I'm sorry. I could totally redo it and make the Reader sick and all- If you wish boo

🍭꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍮꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍰꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍮꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖🍭

[exhaustedfander]

Man’s Best Friend [Dukexiety]

It's the first time I've written Dukexiety and ho boy, this one's a doozy. Technically, it's only implied, but still. I’d love to hear what you think!

Word Count: 2,651

a03 link

My Writing Masterpost

The winter night was harsh and unforgiving. Wind ripped through the trees as a deep unpleasantness hung stale in the cold air. Virgil could feel its weight buckling down on him, could sense that something was deeply wrong. It petrified him.

“How’ve you been this week, Virgil?” He sat stiffly on the sofa across from his therapist, anxiety gnawing at him; nothing new. Dr. Logan Sanders had been his therapist for the last three years now since his mother had insisted by all means that he see a specialist. He’d been so bad then, in such a deteriorated state both mentally and emotionally. Honestly, he wasn’t much better today.

“Y’ know, the same,” he muttered, voice gritty. Virgil’s gaze fixed on a spot on the tan carpet, avoiding the therapist’s eyes. They’d felt so hallow lately, so unforgivingly bitter. It always convinced him he’d done something wrong. Logan rested a hand on his chin, an exasperated sigh exiting his parted lips as he shut his eyes for a moment.

In the many years that Logan had been a practicing therapist, he’d always handled every situation with a calm rationale. He would never claim to have coddled his patients, as he wasn’t the type, he’d certainly been something akin to gentle, at least as gentle as he could manage. He’d never wanted to apply any unnecessary pressure to individuals in already fraught situations. Now, he wondered if he should’ve approached things differently with Virgil, if perhaps he should have been more direct, asked the harder questions. Maybe he would’ve gotten somewhere.

“The same?” He asked, sounding uncharacteristically impatient, “Have you been taking the medication I prescribed?”

“Yeah, I have,” Virgil mumbled uneasily, “I’ve done everything you’ve asked, doc. I dunno, I just… don’t feel good.”

“Could you elaborate on that, please?” His therapist requested, sounding like a broken record. He always asked that, but Virgil never could seem to deliver. He grumbled, running a hand through his frazzled purple hair and worried his bottom lip. Therapy sessions were supposed to make him feel less anxious, but lately, they’d only been elevating things.

“No… no, I don’t think so. It’s just like I said; I don’t really know what’s wrong, I – I guess? I don’t think I ever have, really.” Logan leaned forward in his chair, letting out a weary sigh and pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

For the first year or so of his sessions, he had such high expectations of what kind of solutions he could find with Virgil. Back then there had seemed like so much to delve into, an entire person teeming with possibility; someone he could help. Virgil appeared to suffer from a number of issues that his other patients did, which initially sparked hope in the therapist.

However, there was much more to Virgil than he’d previously assumed. It didn’t take long for Logan to uncover the deep-rooted paranoia, festering just beneath the surface.

He was constantly nervous, fidgeting, and unnerved. He told tales of monsters, and the one he mentioned had been present in his life for as long as he could remember. These weren’t the figurative kind but rather the large-as-life, straight-out-of-a-horror-movie kind of creatures. No logic nor science could deter him from his conviction that they were real, not to say that Logan hadn’t tried. Virgil didn’t bring it up often, but when he did there was a wide, childlike fear in his eyes. He sounded so sure of himself when he spoke of these monsters that he never cared to elaborate on. He wouldn’t describe their appearance or what they were, simply that they existed. Despite Logan’s questioning, Virgil didn’t budge.

The strangest thing was, Virgil didn’t seem frightened by the idea of these things existing, but rather no one believing him. “No one ever understands. They don’t even try,” he’d once said. The statement remained with Logan, even now, haunting him like a phantom. He still didn’t know what to do with it.

“But Virgil,” Logan countered, “You do know what’s wrong. At least partially. You know that you’re deeply unhappy and have a heightened level of anxiety. You’re on medication for that.”

Virgil squirmed in his chair, tapping his foot against the floor. Uneasiness squeezed his insides as panic swept over him in pounding, unrelenting waves. Something wasn’t right.

“Well… yeah. Of course, I know that. But… there’s more, y’ know? A lot of stuff I don’t understand. I want to, I just… don’t.” Logan exhaled sharply, lolling his head back for a moment before turning back to his patient. He’d never looked so fed-up until today and it set an uneasiness to the beat of Virgil’s heart.

“Perhaps we could attempt to explore something else? Maybe talk about the monsters you’ve mentioned before?” Though he tried, Logan couldn’t mask the condescension of his tone.

“No. I don’t think I’d like to talk about that very much,” Virgil said quickly, crossing his arms over his chest as if that could armor his vulnerability. Suddenly, after letting out a noise of frustration, Logan rose to his feet. Virgil’s heart clenched; they weren’t even halfway through with their session.

“Uh… Dr. Sanders…?”

“I’m sorry, Virgil. Truly I am,” the therapist began, combing a hand through his hair before marching solemnly over to his desk and throwing open a drawer.

“Dr. Sanders i-is everything okay? What’re you sorry for?” Virgil asked, desperation seeping into his voice. Logan walked back to his patient with several business cards in hand, looking them over before meeting the eye of an especially anxious Virgil.

“I don’t think this is working out.”

The statement was as sharp and cold as the wind outside, chilling Virgil down to the bone. 

“What? W-what do you mean?” The therapist sighed; defeat readable on his face.

“Listen, Virgil, you’re a good man. I sincerely wanted to help you. I tried my best, in every way that I know how. But… I’m afraid it didn’t work out.”

“Wait. You’re telling me that you’re – that you’re dropping me?! Just like that? T-that you’re not gonna see me anymore?” The pain and anger mingled in Virgil’s tone, mixing until they were almost the same.

“Please, I don’t want to upset you. I have a number of colleges who I think might be a better fit for you. Here,” he said, extending a handful of business cards to Virgil, “Here’s their contact information. They’re all wonderful specialist and –.”

Virgil grabbed the cards from his therapist’s hand, crumpling them and thrusting them to the ground. He stomped on them, the cards crunching underfoot.

“Now, Virgil –.”

“No!” He shouted, outraged, “How could you do this? I-I pay you, don’t I? You’re supposed to help me! You’re supposed to fix me!” The threat of tears spilling over became emanate as a tremor ran down his spine.

“Listen to me: I’ve done all that I can,” Logan said with a sigh, “I’m not saying that you’re beyond help. You’re merely not finding it with me. I know you pay for your sessions, but I haven’t seen progress in too long. I don’t want to be a hindrance to your mental health, and I fear I’ve become just that.”

Tears ran down Virgil’s face, the warmth on his cheeks burning and unwelcome. The coldness that stirred in his heart was a bold contrast.

“H-how could you?” He asked, a hallow, broken tint to his voice.

“As I said, I apologize. I really do wish I could’ve done more.”

“You didn’t even try,” Virgil snarled, accusation burning in his eyes. Logan let out a sound of exasperation, scrubbing a hand over his face and shutting his eyes.

“I did, Virgil. I tried with the very best of my ability; I assure you. And…” he paused, disappointment flickering on his face, “And you have been the only patient that I haven’t been able to help.”

Virgil’s blood ran cold as he stood, staring in disbelief at his therapist – scratch that, former therapist – tears tumbling down his cheeks. His hands clenched into tight fists as the ice of his heart began to melt in contrast to the building rage that burst into flames.

“F-fine. I’ll go. I’ll leave because… because you failed me.” A frown tugged at Logan’s lips as he set his arms at his sides, sighing deeply.

“I truly am sorry.”

“Sure. Whatever,” Virgil muttered, moving towards the door.

“I can still give you the information of one of my colleges if you’d like. I really do think they could be of great help to you.”

“Save it,” Virgil spoke through gritted teeth, “I… I don’t want to hear anything else you have to say to me.” Logan nodded somberly, turning to his patient one final time.

“Understood. Take care, Virgil. I hope you’re able to get the help that you need.”

“Goodbye, Dr. Sanders,” Virgil said, slamming the door as hard as he could manage.

The wind howled as Virgil stepped out of the office and into the street, leaves skittering about and the feeling of bitterness burrowing deeper inside of him.

The bus ride home was a silent one. Usually, no one spoke to him in public situations anyway; it wasn’t shocking that Virgil wasn’t a people-person. But today they stayed even further than usual. Maybe they didn’t trust that look in his eyes.

When he arrived at his apartment the tears had welled back in his eyes. He threw open the door to his small dwelling, not even bothering to turn the lights on before delivering a sharp kick to the nearest object, happening to be his wooden coffee table. He shouted through the silence as he collapsed to the ground, his head in his hands.

“I… I don’t understand. I tried to do a-as he said… make progress. And he left me. J-just like everyone else…” He sniveled, biting his lip hard enough to taste blood before rising to his feet and throwing his hands in the air.

“W-what am I supposed to do now? What kind of s-sick… twisted man is he? I-I thought he would help me…”

“He was just like the rest of them, Virgil,” A harsh, grating voice spoke.

“I… I guess…”

“It’s just like I told you. He wasn’t to be trusted. None of them are, don’t you get that?” The voice continued, and Virgil let out a pained exhale, walking from the living room and into the bedroom, the voice gaining in volume.

“I-I do now,” Virgil admitted, his bed groaning underneath him as he sat down, hunched and wounded.

“Good. It was about time you learned.” The handle on the closet door began to turn slowly, the door itself creaking as it opened without Virgil’s assistance – just as it had ever since he could remember. The figure emerged, the light flickering on and off above him.

Remus was pitch dark, the color of oil. He was a plume of smoke given life, wispy and shifting, besides two bright green pupilless eyes that gave off a haunting glow. The monster’s shape could change at will, but currently, it possessed that of a human man, a twisted silhouette. The figure floated towards Virgil, making the motion of walking, though he didn’t mimic it completely. He sat down beside his companion, the mattress failing to dip beneath him, for the creature had no weight. He pressed a hand to Virgil’s shoulder, wisps of smoke escaping a cavity that presently served as a mouth.

“All I’ve ever done is protect you. Don’t you see that, Virge?” The ghost of tears clung to Virgil’s pale face as he stared straight ahead, his eyes refusing to meet that of the beast. He wasn’t afraid – he just didn’t want to look. Didn’t want to be seen.

“Yeah… I mean, I guess I do. I-I just thought –.”

“Forget what you thought,” Remus interrupted pointedly, “Forget all of it. It doesn’t matter, never did, in fact. This world's had it out for you from the start.” Virgil laughed bitterly, rubbing his eyes.

“Y’ know, I told Dr. Sanders about you. Mentioned you a couple of times, actually.” Remus swiveled his head, a smoking hand touching Virgil’s face, causing almost no sensation. He shuddered anyway.

“You. Did. What?” The beast growled demandingly. The anger in Remus’s tone made it sound like he could if he so desired, tear him apart limb from limb. The idea didn’t scare Virgil like it should’ve. He was long past that point; Virgil hadn’t been afraid of Remus for years now.

“Fucking relax, dude. It doesn’t matter anyway. He didn’t believe me… thought I was crazy…”

“Isn’t that why your mom sent you to him in the first place? Because you’d gone crazy?” Virgil stuttered.

“I – I was never –.”

“Shh,” Remus cooed, though his voice was hardly capable of affection, “I know you aren’t. They don’t believe you, Virgil. They don’t know you like I do. Who are they to tell you what you need?”

“Y-yeah,” Virgil’s voice crackled in agreement.

“Do you want me to… take care of things? Right this wrong?” Virgil had been hoping Remus would suggest just the thing that could dull his pain.

“I mean, if you wanna,” he said as casually as he could manage, though he knew the creature was never one to turn down such an offer.

“Of course,” Remus said with a manic grin. He rose from the bed and turned to Virgil, his black hole of a mouth now boasting several rows of inky-black razor-sharp fangs. “You know I hate to skip out on a meal.”

Remus smiled, and Virgil smiled back, feeling the first bit of contentment in a long while.

“You want me to bring you back a trophy this time?” Remus asked giddily, “I know how much you like those.” Virgil thought about it for a moment, before shaking his head.

“Nah, I’m good.” He had enough of those as it was, considering how much Remus enjoyed giving “gifts” of that nature. At first, it had been a bit like a cat dropping a bird at his feet, but by now, Virgil had grown used to it enough for him to recognizes it as some sick token of affection. It didn’t gross him out like it used to, in fact, it was kind of sweet, in a twisted way.

“Suit yourself, emo,” he said with a shrug, “I’ll be back in a bit.” Remus pulled open the window, slinking outside into the night, becoming nearly invisible against the black sky.

“I know you will,” Virgil said, still smiling. Remus was already gone.

Virgil was a very troubled person and had been since childhood. He didn’t have many people he was close to, only one, actually, though no one believed him to be real. But Remus was unlike all of the other horrid people Virgil had left behind.

There was a time not long ago when Virgil had been terrified of Remus, fearing the sounds of his claws scratching against his bedpost, the sharpness of his fangs, the scent of his breath just after a kill. But with time, Remus’s strangeness became far less odd, and something Virgil found himself taking comfort in, against his will. He found solace in those emerald eyes, emotionless and bright. He found relief in embraces featherlight and inky black, and for the first time in so long, he found someone to trust.

When push came to shove, Remus would always be there for him. He was someone who could take away all the cruel, vicious individuals who’d been his tormenters for so long. His mother. His father. His therapist. Even strangers who’d been unkind to him on occasion. Virgil could count on Remus to make the pain subside, knowing he’d never find a better companion.

Virgil was unlike most. Instead of hiding from the monster in his closet, he had grown to embrace him.

=+= 

[drummergirl231-2]

Happy Autism Awareness/Acceptance Day 2020!

To me, true awareness and acceptance go hand-in-hand. I still don’t mind the word “awareness,” since most people, even people who think they’re spreading Autism awareness, aren’t totally aware of what it is or what it’s like. But I also love calling it Autism Acceptance Day, because that’s what we need more than anything. 

To spread some awareness, I’d like to address some misconceptions about Autism and share some other thoughts I wish people knew/understood.

1. Autists/Aspies do not lack empathy. 

I found this thing and it explains it super well so I’ll just leave it here:

Imagine a scenario where you say something totally innocent and it triggers the person you’re talking to. They start flying off the handle at you and you don’t know why. But because they’re angry, you are, too. But since you don’t know why they’re angry, you don’t know why you’re angry, either. It’s crazy overwhelming and confusing. And you want to fix whatever you did because you don’t want this other person to be angry or hurt, but you don’t know how, because their all-consuming rage makes it really hard to think and try to put yourself in their shoes. Also, you’re scared on top of it all.

That’s what having high affective and compassionate empathy and low cognitive empathy is like. It’s not that we don’t care. It’s that we care too much, and all the super specific nuances of socializing are things we have to learn one at a time, through either our mistakes or others’ mistakes. These things don’t come naturally to us, but it’s not like we can’t learn. If I were to compare math to socializing, it’s like you all have calculators or other doohickeys to do all the math for you and we just have paper and a pencil... and no eraser. 

2. Autism is not a mental illness to be “cured.”

Now don’t get me wrong, I am ALL FOR people finding ways to help us be able to deal with the world better, whether that’s a better diet, items to block out sensory stimuli or items that stimulate, or counselling that can help us navigate social situations and talk through anxiety and/or depression. But those things don’t “cure,” us because Autism isn’t a disease or something wrong with us. Autism gives us different challenges, sure, but neutotypicals have their own challenges. 

The symptoms typically associated with “low-functioning,” Autism don’t necessarily have to be a part of Autism. Many non-verbal kids grow up to be verbal. That doesn’t mean they stopped being autistic. There was a celebrity mom years ago who claimed to “cure” her son’s Autism with a gluten-free dairy-free diet. He’d been so trapped in his head, he couldn’t engage with the world around him. She altered his diet and one day he laughed at Spongebob, and that was a turning point. He became able to interact with people and react to things on TV. It was a huge breakthrough. But he was still autistic. If you were to have plopped me down on a rug as a toddler next to a toddler like this celebrity’s son before his altered diet, you wouldn’t think I was autistic at all by comparison. But I was, and I am.

Autism is a different neurological blueprint, and yes, brain-healthy diets and detoxes can do wonders for us because it seems like our brain type does make us more susceptible to negative effects from neurotoxins. But if you think someone has lost their Autism just because “the bad parts,” went away... no. That’s not how it works.

3. Not everyone is “a little autistic.” 

When I was newly diagnosed and trying to process it, someone told me something along the lines of, there there, we’re all a little autistic. But that’s not true. There are a lot of traits associated with this brain type, and yes, a neurotypical person can have a few of them. That doesn’t make them a little autistic. To be considered autistic at all, you’d have to have a large number of quirks plus social delays (not associated with excessive technology use), odd or repetitive behaviors, unusual and intense interests, communication struggles, and unusual sensory processing. Suppose you’re white. If you are white, this should be easy to imagine. Say an African American just told you about some of the challenges they’ve faced, whether it’s race-based bullying in school or racial profiling later on. Would it be appropriate to say, “There there, we’re all a little black?” NO. One, it’s false. Two, while all people struggle with stuff because to be human is to struggle sometimes, the struggles of different groups of people are totally different, and you can’t say you know exactly what it’s like or pretend everyone’s the same. We all have equal dignity and worth, but beyond that, everyone’s different. Don’t pretend differences don’t exist. Just value them.

4. Autism doesn’t have a “look.”

When I tell people I’m autistic, this is usually what I hear: “Wow! I wouldn’t have guessed! You don’t look autistic.”  ...What does that even mean??? Is it supposed to be a compliment? Because if it’s a compliment I “don’t look autistic,” then that’s kind of an insult to other autistic people. Or do they mean it like, “I don’t believe you’re really autistic because I have a preconceived idea of what an autistic person looks like and you don’t fit the bill so I’m not going to give you grace if you act weird?” I don’t know. Y’all say weird things too, sometimes, ya know? But Autism doesn’t have a look. There is a sort of distant intensity in our gaze sometimes... and I can legit see it when Jim Parsons plays Sheldon Cooper, but when I see an interview with him as himself, it’s gone. It’s not a fixed feature of our faces, and a talented NT could totally put it on.

5. Autism presents itself differently in boys and girls.

You know how not a lot of people know the symptoms of heart attacks in women because mainly people only talk about what a heart attack is like for men? It’s kinda like that with Autism, too. Typically when you hear about Autism, you’re hearing about the signs and symptoms in boys. Even most pediatricians only know to look for the way it presents in boys, which is how so many girls don’t get a diagnosis until later in life, if ever.  One difference is that, for whatever reason, girls tend to be better at nonverbal communication and taking hints. We’re mimics. Chameleons. We take on the mannerisms of those around us and who we see on TV as we force ourselves to adapt. Verbal boys might speak at unusual volumes or with an unusual voice, rhythm, or cadence, but verbal girls learn to mimic the speech patterns of others. Our special interests/obsessions aren’t typically seen as strange given our age and sex. For example, a six-year-old autistic boy might be fascinated by WWII. I was interested in fetal development. People thought, “What’s so weird about that? She’s a little girl who loves babies.” We often play with Barbies or other dolls long after our peers have stopped. It helps autistic girls process social situations. When I was shamed out of liking Barbies, I started writing stories in notebooks or in my head. Autistic boys usually struggle with social communication from an early age, but autistic girls usually don’t have any major communication struggles until adolescence, when relationships, platonic or romantic, get way more complicated.  Since little autistic girls can mimic their neurotypical peers, and since some doctors only know how to look for Autism in boys, we tend to fly under the radar, causing that huge gender gap in diagnoses.

6. Mental illness is common with Autism, but NOT part of it.

I read an article by an autist in the UK who struggles to get help for his anxiety or depression because therapists have brushed him off, saying “Well, that’s just part of being Autistic, so it can’t be helped.” NO! Just like neurotypicals can be mentally healthy or unhealthy, Autistic people can be mentally healthy or unhealthy. Just because something is common for us doesn’t mean it’s how it’s supposed to be, or that it’ll always be that way, or that it’s part of who we are and we need to embrace it. People with mental illnesses should be embraced (literally or figuratively, depending on what they’re comfortable with). Mental illnesses should not be embraced. Ever. Because autistic kids and adults often face abuse, bullying, discrimination, and are ostracized, anxiety (especially social anxiety) and depression are common for us. In more serious cases, especially in autistic teens and young adults, dissociative disorders can develop. What’s worse, it doesn’t take much looking to find the dark corners of the internet where people, autistic or not, are encouraged to embrace their developing dissociative thoughts and feelings. I once saw an interview with someone who found healing from a dissociative disorder, and she gets emails every day from others with the same disorder she had who regret some of the things they were talked into doing while living with the condition and  who want to find the healing she did. She said many of them are autistic and under the age of twenty-five. Autistic people with mental illnesses shouldn’t be talked into believing their mental illnesses are a part of them, or not mental illnesses at all, or something to celebrate and cling to. I reject the notion we should have to settle for being ill in any way. We deserve to be as healthy and whole as anyone else, and it makes me sick there are so many internet predators preying on us in this way, and that there are therapists who think Autism and mental illness has to be a packaged deal.

7. If LGBT people were treated the way autistic people are by the media, it’d lead to outrage. But it seems like no one is outraged on our behalf.

We’ve seen the news stories, haven’t we? A couple invites the news over to their house, upsetting their autistic child who then has a meltdown, the meltdown is filmed and aired, and the parents are just like, “This is what our life is like because of Autism. And it sucks. Pity us.”

There was one video I saw... I’m just so enraged by it, even after two years. A mother was praised for her open honesty as she vilified her autistic son and complained about how he ruined her life and how hard it is to go out and have people stare. I’m sorry, hard for WHO??? I don’t even want to go into the details. I know only sharing this much doesn’t make it sound like that bad of a video, it’s just... ugh. Guys. It’d be a whole separate post. I can’t deal with it right now. 

If parents went on the news after their kid came out to them as gay, and wept and begged for pity and said some of the things this woman said of her autistic son (wondering what she did wrong that made her deserve this or that led to this or saying she doesn’t believe in God but finds herself praying anyway that God’ll “fix him”), America would call them the worst parents ever. But parents of autistic kids who do this are praised for their openness and vulnerability as they publicly shame their child.

Another time, after a mass shooting carried out by a teenage boy, the news reported that he was autistic and that might have contributed to the attack (there they go, combining mental illness with Autism as one and the same again).

If a pedophile were arrested, and they said on the news, “And we just got word that he’s gay, so that may be why,” there’d be a riot. But the news can pin autists as mass murderers and no one bats an eye!

All of May last year working at a clothing store, I watched as various departments filled up with pride t-shirts to get ready for June, and I couldn’t help but think,

Where were the Autism acceptance t-shirts in March to get ready for April?

I probably shouldn’t be so surprised with the media painting us as life-ruiners and life-enders. 

I know it’s a vile and disgusting thing for me to be jealous of LGBT people in this way, especially since they have their own struggles, too. I just wish society had our backs and celebrated us instead of wanting us “fixed,” for their own convenience, ya know?

8. Almost all of us hate Autism Speaks, and those who don’t are probably just new. XD

I used to be all “Light it up blue!” as well (even though that seemed weird to me, given blue lights might be overwhelming to some people on the spectrum). But then I read something on their site that made me feel really betrayed, and down the line, I learned most autistic people hate them... some because they saw them say the opposite of what I saw they said. Basically we all have different opinions but Autism Speaks spouts whatever information their donors want them to (sellouts), and that donated money doesn’t go towards helping us, but toward more fundraising or research on how to prevent people with our brain type. I guess they’re not fond of the artistic and scientific advancements we bring to the table. They should change those puzzle pieces from blue or multi-colored to white with black specks because they want a world that’s vanilla. 

9. Some of us still like the puzzle pieces, even if we hate Autism Speaks.

I’ve talked about this in a fanfic, but I’d love it if we could redeem the puzzle pieces, because they’re still a good analogy if you assign a different meaning. Autists and NTs are puzzling to each other, no sense denying that, but the more time we spend together, the more we start to understand each other. Also, Autism does have a lot of pieces, and figuring out I was autistic was like solving the puzzle of my life. The missing pieces came together and things became clearer and made more sense. Also also, some autistic people are really good at puzzles. And then there are autists like me who aren’t necessarily good at puzzles, but get totally absorbed in working on them anyway (my parents have been doing some puzzles during the quarantine lol they’re traps! TRAPS I SAY!!!).

Nevertheless, I understand why other autistis don’t like the puzzle pieces and prefer the rainbow infinity symbol, and I quite like it, too. It’s very pretty, and the way the colors fade together is a nice symbol of how it’s a spectrum.

It’s a sign of the infinite possibilities in our lives when we’re empowered, because we can do and have done good and great things in the world.

[too-attached-to-fiction]

A Princess Doesn’t Cry | g.w.

Not a george weasley gif but still applies oop

Masterlist here

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

Warnings: implications of suicidal thoughts

Word count: 1585

Request: Can you write a George Weasley fic based off of the song Princesses Don't Cry by Aviva? Fluff or angst, or both? I love your writing so much!!!

A/N: of course, lovely! I live for stories like these, considering I’ve always wanted someone to do this for me… I hope you enjoy, and feel free to request again! This was the first time I listened to this song and it hits so hard...

ALSO TAKE CARE OF YOURSELVES OUT THERE!!!! MY MESSAGES ARE OPEN IF YOU NEED AN EAR, BUT I AM IN NO WAY A THERAPIST AND SHOULD NOT BE TREATED AS SUCH.

~~~

No, I'm fine, I'm lying on the floor again / Cracked door, I always wanna let you in / Even after all of this shit, I'm resilient / ‘Cause a princess doesn’t cry

~~~

You sat in the owlery, content all alone as the sun settled, sinking behind the mountains. You rarely got moments alone like this, and it had been hard enough to shake your friends off of your back to come up here. 

You took a deep breath, closing your eyes. You sat at the window sill precariously, your legs dangling above the ground hundreds of meters below. 

How did it all come to this?

As the only daughter and heir to the Armin family, great things were expected of you. You met every expectation, but it still wasn’t enough to please your mother and father. Both of them had been unkind and cold from the very beginning, leaving you to be a muted version of yourself. 

Your friends - well, the people you called friends - hardly noticed, using you as a status symbol more than anything. You were sick of it, and just wanted things to be over. You were tired of having the world on your shoulders. 

You looked down at the ground below you, thinking about how easy it would be to jump, to imagine you were flying with no broom before meeting what you longed for. And yet, you remained still on the windowsill, your ears finding comfort in the owls behind you and your eyes watching the sinking sun. 

“That’s quite dangerous, you know.” A voice behind you said. “I do hope you’ll be careful.” 

You turned around, swinging your legs over the sill and back to safety inside. “Don’t pretend to care.” You hissed, ready to walk out. So much for an evening of solitude. 

“Hold on. You’re (Y/N) Armin.” The boy, who had ginger hair, grasped your elbow, pulling you back. “I’m sorry if I interrupted, but I did want to make sure you were safe-” 

“Don’t worry about it. In fact, don’t care.” You said coldly, yanking your elbow from his grasp and walking away. 

He stared after you, wondering what he had done wrong. For a moment, a flash of vulnerability was in your eyes when you turned back to him, and the worry in his head grew. What had you been doing there, sitting on that window? You looked small enough to be knocked over by just a slight breeze. 

One thing George Weasley knew was that he was determined to find you again. 

~~~

“George? Georgie? Are you listening to us?” Fred asked, waving a hand in front of George’s face while his twin scanned the faces of the people at the Slytherin table. 

“What do you know about (Y/N) Armin?” He asked, not bothering to look away despite Fred’s annoyance. 

“Her reputation’s as bad as Malfoy’s, and that’s saying something.” Lee Jordan huffed, joining the conversation. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her smile.” 

“The Ice Queen of Slytherin, aye?” Fred asked, nudging George. He was still looking for her. “Why the sudden interest, oh brother of mine?” 

“Nothing. I ran into her at the owlery the other day…” As if in a daze, George recited the story perfectly and quickly, his eyes distracted. 

“D’you reckon she’s mental?” 

“I don’t know.”

After spending the next weekend asking around, George finally ended up on the seventh floor, pausing when he heard sniffles coming from a small door. 

“Are you okay?” George asked, knocking on the door. He only got more sniffles in response, and he opened the door, fully ready to pull out his wand in the case of an attack- 

When he saw you in the middle of the small room, curled up on the floor and shaking with almost noise-less sobs. 

“Armin?” He asked, stepping closer cautiously. “What are you doing here?” 

You looked up to see the boy from the owlery. “Get out.”

“I’m only trying to help-”

“Get. Out.” You repeated, this time growling at him. “Stay the hell away from me.”

He scrambled out of the room, only to hear the sobs begin again the moment he shut the door. 

“I’m worried about you.” He spoke in a loud voice. “Why won’t you let me help you?”

Your sobs slowed as the words came in from the other side. You spread yourself out on the floor, still sniffling, occasionally rubbing tears off your face. 

It was clear he had no intention of leaving, but why? Why care? He was only a Gryffindor boy, one who definitely shouldn’t be caring about a Slytherin.

The last time you had let someone comfort and listen, they had left. Your parents had never shown you any affection of any kind, claiming that emotions meant weakness. And weakness could not exist in the heir of the Armin family. 

“I can try to help from out here, but that won’t work well for either of us. See, I’d like to give you a hug, but I can’t exactly do that with a door and a wall between us.”

You stayed silent, hoping he’d give up and leave. It wouldn’t hurt as much if he would only do as you wished. 

“I want to know what happened that day at the owlery. I want to know if you need a friend. I consider myself an excellent friend, and I can’t promise anything, but I don’t want to hurt you. I only want to be by your side and listen to whatever’s going on in your head.” 

Please, just go. You begged in your head. It’ll be easier for both of us if you do. 

“It’s three o’clock right now. At least, I’d reckon that from the amount of chimes that the bell tower just chimed. I’m not leaving until you let me come in. If you really want to be left alone, you could tell the room to create an exit for you, away from me. Think really hard about it and it’ll come true.” He called out. “But I’d like to hope that you won’t. I’ll be here until dinner time, and if you’re still there when I get back from dinner, I’ll stay until curfew.”

Was it worth the risk to let him in? This boy, this stranger, who knew more of your status than your person or abilities, was asking for your trust. This was not a matter to be taken lightly. 

“I could give you a hug if you let me in. And you could maybe cry it out some more, and I could try to help fix the pain.” He offered. “Only an idea, really.”

You moved to the door, resting your palm against it. 

“I understand. It’s hard to cry in front of people. You don’t even know me. Well, for starters, I’m George Weasley. I think we both have reputations that proceed us. I’m not a jerk. Not all the time. Well, I like to think that.” 

You leaned your forehead against the door, closing your eyes to focus on his words. 

“There are some pretty nasty things I’ve probably said about Slytherins. But you don’t seem like those things to me. Again, I hardly know you, so it’s not exactly easy for me to judge your character based on a short exchange of words.”

He sighed. “You looked scared in the owlery. You looked like you weren’t used to having people care. Which is really quite unfair, because I believe everyone should have at least a few people who care very much about them.” 

“If I open up the door, what will you do?” You asked weakly. “Looking for a way to get into my pants, Weasley?”

“Merlin, no.” He laughed. “You have a wicked mind.”

“You didn’t answer the question.” 

“I’d tell you that one way or another, someone cares for you, somewhere. Maybe someone else, other than me, too. A life without people who care is a lonely and rather sad life.”

“I’m going to open the door.”

George scrambled to his feet immediately as you opened the door. He opened his mouth to say something that he imagined to be pitying, so he opted for a joke instead. “Ah, the ice queen finally melts.” He grinned, although it fell off his face when you glared at him. 

“I could shut the door again.” 

“You wound me, princess.” 

“Bloody hell, give me one good reason why you shouldn’t have the door slammed in your face.”

George’s face turned serious. “Sorry. All jokes aside, may I step inside and give you a hug?”

“Why?”

“Because in my experience, I’ve found that hugs make me feel better. Maybe they’ll do the same for you.”

You stepped back and he walked in. Once the door was shut, you shuffled forward, nearly collapsing into George as your strong facade faded and you were reminded of why you were crying in the first place. He enveloped you in his arms. 

“There, there.” He whispered, running a hand through your hair. “Don’t worry about my shirt, I’m due for washing soon anyways.” 

“I shouldn’t be doing this, this is stupid-” You broke out of his embrace. “You should go, it’ll be easier…” 

“Easier?” His eyebrows knitted together. “Easier how?”

“Easier,” You tried to steady your breathing, “when you leave and stop caring, if you never start.” 

“Oh, princess…” He stepped toward you. “I don’t think I can stop caring, even if I wanted to.” 

He held you tight once more. “I’d like to care about you as much as I can, if you’d let me.”

“Don’t leave.” You whimpered pitifully, clutching his sweater closer to you as you sobbed. 

“Wasn’t planning on it, princess.”

[dialux]

Oh man I just finished your Booker fic and it’s making me feel so many things, its so good!!! Also Booker having nightmares post-Quynh around the others after not having any for like a century? Oof

!!! That’s the good shit there, nonny! Top tier angst!! Sleep deprivation!!! All the things that make for the best stories!!!!

He startles awake, heart racing.

The details of the dream is already fading, but the after-effects are a fucking bitch and a half to manage: Booker’s wide awake, and jumpy enough to probably break the neck of the idiot that’s sneaking up behind him-

“It’s just me.”

“No just about it,” grumbles Booker, but his voice is thankfully low enough that the other three don’t wake. “Why’re you awake?”

“I don’t sleep well,” says Andy carelessly.

Booker swipes a hand over his eyes and gets up. Stumbles to the kitchen. He feels like such shit, and it’s almost beyond him not to dial into the shipping company and just… re-direct some of the downers to the shores of sunny Lima. Blitz out his locus coeruleus with enough norepinephrine that even his swift healing takes about four hours to fix it. Add another two hours of passing in and out of non-REM and Booker can claim to a proper six hours of sleep: it’s enough to survive. With the alcohol numbing him further, he can stretch that sleep out to eight hours on the really, really bad nights.

Absent the drugs, though, he needs other things to focus on. Their bodies can function on less sleep- the same way they can survive on less food- and Booker’s been experimenting with that for the past couple weeks.

It is not, as Joe’s told him multiple times, going well.

“Doesn’t mean you have to be the same.”

Booker pours out the coffee, mixes it with concentrate of yaupon holly, and then adds a shit-ton of sugar to the brew. Andy watches him with dark eyes, but he doesn’t offer it to her; the last thing they all need is a jumped-up six thousand year old warrior high on the strongest caffeine that Booker can, legally, get his hands on.

“What was the dream about?”

“Fuck if I know,” says Booker, and hisses out through his teeth as he drains half the cup. Christ but it tastes terrible, too bitter and too sweet in equal measure. Still, the trembling ache in his shoulders, tight about his ears, softens. “You know how it is. It’s not like I’ve got a paucity of nightmares. None of us do.”

“You’re the one waking up in the middle of the night.”

“And you’re the one not sleeping.”

“I’m used to it, though,” says Andy. 

Booker rolls his eyes. “Dream diaries don’t work. Talking about them doesn’t help. I have tried to literally rewire my brain and it isn’t happening. Turns out that being depressed and missing your family when you die makes it impossible for you to feel anything else.”

Andy rolls her eyes. “Just because you automatically accept the most depressing possible theory doesn’t mean that it’s the correct one, Book.”

“If I could go back in time,” Booker tells her, “I would seduce Nile’s mother and ensure that she remained heartbroken over the handsome French baker who disappeared into the clouds and therefore could not marry Nile’s father.”

“I assume there’s a point to that,” says Andy dryly.

“I liked you a hell of a lot better when you weren’t this fucking optimistic is the point,” says Booker. “And I know that it’s all Nile’s fucking influence. So.”

“So,” says Nile, grinning at him from the bedroom she’s just walked out of, “if I don’t exist, you’d be happier?”

“Your mother doesn’t know what she missed out on,” says Booker, and drains the rest of the brew.

…

A bridge of gold and laughter. A bridge as silver as his wife’s grey hair. A bridge, shining as a gun in broad daylight-

Booker wakes, gasping.

Coffee. Holly. Bitterness down his gullet. 

It’s not really new any longer, is it?

…

He takes a knife to the gut, and then sees another soldier sneaking up behind Andy. There’s no time; he’s still barely standing, much less able to voice a proper warning. Instead, Booker lets the intestines he’s clutching inside spill out in a dark, bloody slither. Stumbles. The soldier slips on the sudden viscera: Booker’s yanking his guts back into his own body, mouth open in a silent scream because it really, really hurts.

He wakes up, gasping.

…

He drowns, and drowns, and drowns.

He wakes up, gasping.

...

“Right,” says Nile. “You need help, Booker.”

“Fuck off,” says Booker. 

He’s on mile twenty-one of a marathon-esque circuit, and his body’s pretty much hitting the wall; he does not want to talk about his issues right now. Joe and Nicky have gotten tired enough of his grumpiness to escape to the city for the day, and Andy’s off on one of her personal missions that nobody knows any details about.

Booker hasn’t slept in about forty-one hours, and it’s not getting better.

It’s why he left the house and went on this run! It’s why he’s trying to drive his body into- well, not an early grave, but a grave nevertheless!

Booker regrets many things in life. Introducing Copley to Nile ranks high among them, especially after the little shit went and learned how to hack phones from a fucking CIA agent.

“I’m telling you this because you aren’t going to listen to anyone else,” says Nile. “And this seemed like a good time to make sure you listened. Look, Booker, there are things out there- therapists- courses, if you aren’t going to talk to anyone. You really, really-”

Booker rips out his headphones, takes the little molten sun that feels rather like something has ruptured in his chest, and pushes the energy into his legs. 

He sprints the rest of the way home. 

He’s pretty sure he’s ripped one of the muscles in his thighs with it, and the agony of that is enough for him to focus on something else apart from Nile. Who does not look impressed.

“You need help,” she says quietly, when he finally stops clutching at his own thigh and drops back into the mud and mulch of the garden.

Booker laughs. He laughs, and keeps on laughing, and only manages to stop by rolling over and suffocating himself in the roots of a fucking- plant. 

Probably a Cycus aculeata, which means that either Booker’s in the wrong hemisphere or Andy’s been introducing invasive species again because she misses her fucking girlfriend too much.

“Yeah,” he says, and sits up, already planning the lecture and the following plant-removal that he’ll have to do. Then he sees Nile’s face, and Booker pauses, reviewing what he’s just agreed to. “No,” he says. “I mean. Yes, I need help. That’s, like, the fucking- understatement of the century. Past two centuries. But. I’m not getting help from anyone else.”

Nile folds her arms over her chest. With the sun streaming right behind her, she looks like a goddess come to life: haloed, beautiful, the slightest bit unreal.

“That’s fine,” she says. “I’ll just ask Joe to become a therapist.”

“Sure,” snorts Booker. “And I’ll ask Andy to become a pacifist.”

Nile points a finger at him. “Don’t be mean.”

“Ask Nicky,” Booker advises her. “I mean, I don’t think you’ll get anywhere, but. You’re less likely to be laughed out of the room.” At her questioning look, he elaborates: “Idiot was a priest, back in the day. And, you know, all those people- well, priests were as close as you’d get to therapists before all of this psychology stuff came about.”

“Right,” says Nile warily. “So why do you think I’ll be laughed at? Nicky sounds like he’s good for the job.”

Booker stares at her. “What did the man do, the second he had a chance to leave?”

“Er. Leave?”

“He went on a fucking Crusade,” says Booker. “He killed people. He- well, you know, did the whole invader thing. Liked it, too. He only really stopped because he decided he liked Joe more, and Joe was, like, I’m not going to let you kill my people for fun anymore, and they worked out their excess energy by fucking in sand, because both of them are absolute idiots.”

Nile blinks at him. “So. Not a therapist.”

Booker grins at her, and knows it’s more of a baring of his teeth than anything comforting. “I guess your best bet is Andy, then.”

“I cannot believe I’m going to have to get a degree in fucking therapy because of you,” hisses Nile.

“I thank you for your sacrifice,” says Booker, and pats her on the shoulder gingerly.

He gets an armful of a furiously emotional Nile a moment later, hugging him so tight around the neck it feels like a throttling. Then she backs away, and goes into the house, leaving Booker in leaves and mulch and a burgeoning headache.

Fucking invasive species, he thinks, and wishes he’d never studied botany. Really. If he was just like Nicky and purposely uneducated in all the ecological implications, he could ignore it. But Booker had to go and study plants and try to synthesize his own compounds and get tangled up in ecology legislation in the 1980s, and so he knows, goddammit, and he’ll have to face Andy’s hangdog expression tonight when he serves up roasted cycad beside whatever Joe’s preparing for dinner.

Fuck my life, he thinks, but it isn’t half so sour as it might have been just a month earlier. Fuck my life, he thinks, and heads back into the house, whistling the whole goddamn way.

[ihavenoconsistentname]

Alright semi-important rant time to give you an overview of what it's about:

-Potential TW/CW for talking about manipulation via victim complex and guilt tripping

-It's about the Crater System so if you know them guess what you need to read this

-Also mentions/talks about victim blaming

-There are mentions of telling people to off themselves/wishing death upon them and spoiler alert those two people are both 14

So be aware of that and just for scrolling's sake I'll put it under a cut

Also, this is not a "callout post" by any fucking means, it's literally just making sure people are aware that this shit happened mainly if those people are associated in any way with the Crater System.

So first of all if you feel the need to see any screenshots as "proof" for any of this by all means feel free to message me for them.

For like at least like around a year the Crater System basically used me as their personal therapist for shit about their dad often just saying random things about it and full on venting without asking if I was in the right headspace to hear it or even asking anything, and even if they did ask I would have the inability to say no, and here's why:

-I am hyper empathetic, and that has prevented me from saying "no" or saying "stop venting to me".

-They constantly said self deprecating and guilt trippy things like "I deserve the bad things happening" or "I'm such a bad person" basically just to get me to pity them and try to convince them otherwise, which severely burned out my empathy constantly.

And guess what? They reacted angrily when I was rightfully upset and TOLD THEM I could never say no because of my empathy when it should have been common sense not to vent and trauma dump TO A CHILD.

I am 14. Everyone in their system with a couple exceptions is an adult. Their system's body is 22, that is 8 fucking years older than me. I'm a child, they're whole ass adults.

They would randomly say stuff about their dad or situation as if I could do something and I never knew how to respond because it was out of nowhere. There were times when they'd throw vent paragraphs at me out of nowhere.

They often complained about wanting a 50/50 friendship but when I've accepted their vent offers, which mind you only happened like once or twice maybe 3 times, very rarely- I got responses nowhere near the level of help I tried to offer them.

One good example? When Cub let Wels vent. Kni vented about the severe attachment/detachment issues kni experiences, and Cub replied saying, and I'm quoting:

"Just try to remind yourself that this is your hormones and unstable teenage mind working against you."

If you were to look up the symptoms of BPD, and I am in no way saying any of us have it, that list of symptoms would literally give you a general idea of everything kni's been going through. All of it.

And mind you, this is a DID system failing to separate alters from their host and from the body because Wels as an individual alter is in knight's 30's and not 14 like I am and like the body is. And even if the brain being that of a 14 year old influences alters? That shit was disregarded as a teenage problem. You know why? Because "we were your age when it happened to us so that's why we think it's a teenage thing", again, quoting that word for word, and once again, failure to separate alters from the body and host. Because "your age" would be saying "we were in our 30's". Wels is not 14. I am. Wels was the one speaking. Not me.

They have such a massive victim complex and that really shows when you see how fucking often they would not shut up about what happened with someone else my age. Aka someone they also manipulated. If you were here when that was going on on my blog you'll know what I'm talking about.

I will tell you right fucking now I do not claim to have not been in the wrong just because I was manipulated into taking their side. I was not correct in doing or saying what I did and said. I reacted so fucking awfully literally victim blaming because of blind trust and I completely blame myself for that. I am not excusing any of that just because they manipulated me.

Over and over they kept bringing up that shit being guilt trippy about how "they ruined a friendship" and saying they deserved whatever bad was happening and I was so tired of hearing about it because at one point I literally regretted every single moment I was defending them because I was starting to realize I was so wrong for that.

And guess what, they would literally wish for that person, another 14 year old they literally manipulated and hurt, to be dead.

One of their alters threw a temper tantrum and told me twice to kill myself telling me once that I didn't deserve to live, that same alter saying, and I'm quoting:

"That fucker that deserves to fucking die-[name, im keeping the name out just because]- can burn in hell for all I care. He used us."

^With worse grammar/spelling that I fixed.

So that's an alter throwing a tantrum telling one 14 year old to kill himself and saying another the same age deserves to die for being a victim. There's a prime fucking example of their massive victim complex. And, how fucking ironic! They say a victim of their manipulation used them while literally using someone the same age as the other victim.

Constantly they brought it up and would either talk about how sooo fucking horrible (/s) that person was or talk about how horrible they were, and to the first I gave half asses replies acting like I agreed just to get them to shut the fuck up about it. Whole ass adults not owning up to things properly and instead being guilt trippy for the pity of another minor they got to defend them wrongfully and making themselves out to be the victim.

So even if I was technically manipulated into being on their side? I still don't take it as an excuse for myself. It isn't one.

To recap:

-They manipulated a 14 year old and played victim constantly about it

-They manipulated another 14 year old using their massive victim complex saying guilt trippy things for pity then got upset when that 14 year old who shouldn't have been used as a therapist for an adult (or adults, plural, if you want to say it that way) expressed that they were tired of it

-They had an alter disregard very serious issues someone was having as "hormones and an unstable teenage mind"

-In doing so they also failed to treat/acknowledge an adult alter as separate from the body who is a minor and the host who is a minor despite literally being a system

-They had an alter tell a 14 year old to kill themself/that they should be dead while also saying another 14 year old deserves to die for being the one they manipulated (once again playing victim)

-They repeatedly vented completely out of pocket/without asking only asking a few times but being so guilt trippy with their words that the person they forced their problems into was unable to say no to them

-And they also failed to respect the boundaries of people they hurt/affected negatively. I didn't go over this but they would not fucking let things go and insisted on trying to "apologize" to people who were trying to let it go basically refusing to leave them alone even after being told several times not to insist on doing it

If you're associated with the Crater System and you follow me, and you're going to continue to associate with them at complete will or downright ignore any of this? Leave.

I highly suggest you don't associate with them. Especially if you're a minor. I don't know who all here might know them but they're not good people and I found that out the hard way. You're literally just going to get yourself used and manipulated.

P.S. If you do talk to them and you ever get a word out of their mouths about me? Tell me.

[normal-thoughts-official]

That thing about assumptions on whose more openly affectionate of malec being opposite is so true lol! Like you expect Magnus to be the teasing in public/PDA type but Alecs the one who grabs his ass and kisses him on the cheek and wraps an arm around his waist or shoulders, the one who initiates hand holding and kisses in public, the one who whispers dirty things in his ear?? And magnus adores every minute he just doesnt trust himself to initiate in case it's Too Much or hes being "clingy" :'[

ABSOLUTELY and i think it’s mostly because people don’t realize that magnus and alec’s outer appearance, demeanor-wise, is not only fake, but effectively a defense/coping mechanism

i mean i’ve already talked a lot about magnus many times and it’s been basically canonically established that magnus’ devil-may-care, playboy, detached attitude is the result of him trying to close himself off after too many experiences with abuse

and closing yourself off doesn’t just mean not allowing himself to feel, it also means not letting anyone get too close to you. but magnus can’t really do the “completely isolating yourself in a tower” thing, like Raphael does, because he craves contact and touch and attention and being alone with his thoughts is one of the worst things he can do to himself. 

also, he’s too much of a softie, he’s still there, trying to represent warlocks politically, taking people under his wing. there’s just too much he needs to do, wants to do, so isolating himself physically won’t work. ergo, he needs a facade. a ruse. something between his feelings and others, something to keep him safely isolated and away from people who will- could hurt him and this way he also helps them too, because who needs to have such a broken, despicable, whiny murderer of a friend who brings nothing but emotional baggage to the table?

so he builds this uncaring, detached, but fun persona; someone whose company you can enjoy a lot, who will take you on adventures, who can do a lot of stuff for you, but who’s not deserving FITTING for a deeper relationship, even if just friendship-wise. he’s shallow, he only cares about the Exorbitant Amounts Of Money™ that he’ll get from his “favors” (which is hysterical because I don’t think I’ve seen him being paid a single fucking time in the entire show, not even when fucking lilith showed up at his house claiming to be some warlock he’s never met and asked for a potion, he literally gave it to her for free because she mentioned ragnor. he’s too kind for his own good, honestly. and god the amount of unpaid work he did for these goddamn shadowhunters. unbelievable. he deserved so much better. but anyway, i digress), he’s impulsive and stubborn and listens to no one, he’s all about partying and fashion and sex. so how could he possibly be like in a relationship, if not the teasing one who’s all over the other, showing them off to people, grabbing their ass, gushing over them or whatever. the most surprising part, honestly, would be to see magnus getting in a relationship at all, considering what an unfixable lothario he is and his general disdain for complicated matters - at least in most people’s eyes

as for Alec, well, for many, he’s probably the picture of the Perfect Shadowhunter. clear mind, cool head, cold heart. a soldier so perfect he’s almost a machine, and has never learnt empathy, much less love

it’s obvious that none of this is true, once you take a look. he’s clearly suffering and in a constant battle with himself, not only who he is and who he’s attracted to, but also what he actually believes in - and look, i’m not saying he’s perfect or some kind of woke white savior or anything, cuz he did and said some shitty stuff both in s1 and after it. but he’s also the one who told magnus “take what you need” when magnus needed his strength, and the one who refused to let magnus use his magic to clean the loft when he could do it himself and allow him to rest. and that says a lot. when everyone else, including clary, who supposedly wasn’t even raised in racist shadowhunter culture, treated magnus like a tool, the means to an end, alec remembered magnus’ humanity

so, upon closer inspection, most people would think that he’s just Repressed™. sure, there’s a lot going on in there, that man is conflicted af, and it’s actually a pity. were he raised in another culture, one that wasn’t so set on stripping you of your humanity, he could’ve been a great man. he could have been happy, too. goes to show you how cruel shadowhunters are, even to their own kind. 

so for those people, alec is almost a pity case. he’s stuck in his oppression, helpless, confined. shadowhunter values have been drilled into him so deep that he can’t face his feelings anymore. he lies to himself and smothers any semblance of a “rebellious” thought before it even comes to mind. he’s all but brainwashed, basically

but that’s not exactly true, either

and look, don’t get me wrong, because of course i know that alec struggled like crazy to come to terms with his identity and his attraction. but alec is not brainwashed. if anything, he’s shockingly self-aware 

when he’s in shock after he finds out about his parents and the arranged marriage, he says, “i’ve done everything that they’ve asked, i’ve dedicated all of me to the clave”. he knows exactly what he was sacrificing for them, he knows that there’s a line between what he believes in and what he does because it’s what’s he supposed to, and he knows where it is, too. when he goes on his first date with magnus, he says “i always knew i couldn’t get what i wanted, until you came along”. knew, not thought. it’s not that alec never considered it, always thought it was out of his realm of possibility, couldn’t face the idea; it’s that he thought it over, came to the conclusion that it couldn’t happen, and resigned himself to it. in alec’s eyes, he was making a choice

now, don’t misquote me, because obviously it’s not really a choice when you’re between losing everything you’ve ever had, including your family, or being who you are. i’m not saying that alec chose to be in the closet, i’m saying that he saw it that way. that he was perfectly aware of who he was, and what he wanted, and what he thought, but he knew he couldn’t act on it. there’s a fundamental difference between the way alec acts, and lying or hiding from yourself

so alec is not repressed in the freudian sense of the word, where his desires are all subconscious and whatnot, but in the sense that he won’t act on them

i think alec was never quite good at lying to himself (or anyone, really, but specially not himself. he’s painfully logical and introspective, and he over analyzes everything, including himself. i’m also like this and believe me when i say that it’s almost impossible for me to lie to myself, even when i want to. my therapist and psychiatrist both think it’s appalling lol. lying to yourself is a survivorship skill that i think neither alec nor i ever had)

and then we have the third group of people, the people who realize that, who know that alec knows and actively and consciously represses his desires anyway, but who think that alec is too powerless, too weak, to break out of it. basically another pity case, the poor lightwood boy, so hurt and powerless to do anything about it. 

all of these people are wrong

alec is not weak, he’s- incredibly strong, really. like the shit he did when he came out, that was incredible. and before that, just heading out of the institute to go to magnus’ and help him heal luke when that went straight against clave’s orders? holy shit. straight up ignoring his mom’s calls? id literally die of anxiety before ever being able to do that. and after s1 too, he continuously chose magnus, continuously faced all sorts of enemies, he threatened maryse, who was always the monster under his bed, without batting an eye

alec’s always been strong, and brave, and self-aware. and that’s why his relationship with magnus was way less about figuring out what he wanted or learning how to express his feelings and desires, and way more about allowing himself to do exactly what he wanted. most people would think that alec would need time to adjust to being in a relationship, to being happy, to not looking over his shoulder after every touch or word. that alec would need help to figure out what he was into, what he liked, how to do things, how to feel and to love. but he didn’t, because alec knows himself way too well. once he decided that he could get what he wanted, he just did it and never looked back 

(because he knows how strong he is, too, and there’s an advantage in being trained to be a soldier and diplomat - he’s very aware of his own strengths and how to use them) 

so yeah, there is the reason everyone is wrong and shocked: people assumed that magnus knew what he wanted and was comfortable in his own skin, while alec didn’t. but it’s actually the other way around

if you look at their relationship, the “insecure one” (obviously there’s no such thing as “the insecure one”, everyone has their insecurities, but you know what i mean) was magnus. alec was ready for sex before him, and it seemed that it never occured to alec that he could have fears surrounding that. magnus was the one who was always worried that something would be the Last Straw, make alec leave him. magnus was hesitant to make big gestures of love or just be sappy and romantic, and alec was like “we’ve been dating for 3 months, i think it’s appropriate to propose to magnus”. magnus was scared and insecure, and alec gave zero (0) shits

(not with everything, obviously. i’m not trying to say magnus was the helpless uwu one who needed fixing. just that when it comes to their relationship, magnus was more hesitant than alec was)

because magnus was the one who had been repressing what he wanted. he was the one who couldn’t face the idea of falling in love, of allowing himself to be vulnerable, of being with someone else. after camille, after all the hurt and abuse, he wasn’t ready, and he needed time not only to allow himself to feel, but also to figure out how he feels - to get rid of this deep conviction that he’s worthless, that he should accept crumbs and not look back because it’s the best he’ll ever had. i’ve said that before, but that scene in s2 when magnus gets mad at alec for being a rude bitch, that’s so significant. the magnus from a few years before wouldn’t have said anything, would have just let alec treat him and make excuses for him. “oh he’s new to this,” “oh he was stressed,” “well there’s his brother”, “i was being annoying,” “it’s not his fault”. because that’s what you do when you’ve been through abuse. magnus got into their relationship unwilling to accept being only given crumbs, and unwilling to be anyone’s punchbag. not that alec would do him like that, but it’s important that magnus wouldn’t let him. especially because alec is kind of a dumb bitch who believes people when they say “it’s ok” way too often, so he might not have realized he was hurting magnus, had they met when magnus was in a different headspace

anyway, what i was talking about before i went on yet another big tangent about magnus and his abuse recovery? ah yes, repression

basically what i’m trying to say is: while both magnus and alec struggled with coming to terms with who they are, who they love, and loving and respecting themselves, by the time they got together magnus was the one who needed to be eased into things. he needed time and space to relearn how to be in a relationship, and to be happy in it. while alec needed to jump headfirst into what he wanted and not look back

and look, not to be a disgusting malec stan, but that’s one of the many reasons why they are literal soulmates work so well together. because magnus has been needing someone who loves him so deeply and expresses it so fearlessly, because he’s unused to it, because he’s way too insecure and convinced that he won’t get or doesn’t deserve it. and alec also needs to be able to express his love with abandon, he needs to be affectionate, to tell magnus that he’s beautiful and that every day they’re together is a dream and to give him gifts and to take him to the lock thing and make a romantic dinner with ten dozen red roses because for so long he didn’t allow himself. obviously they both love and are loved, and they both love each other equally and fiercely, and magnus also always expresses it, it’s not a one-way thing. but to alec, being able to express his love and affection for magnus is a wonder, it’s something that he’s still in awe of, realizing that he gets to have this, to be in love and let the whole world see. to say exactly what he feels. i think that’s one of the reasons why alec never beats around the bush, just goes straight into “it’s moments like this, when i’m staring into the eyes of the man that i love,” and his constant Wedding Vowing, because he’s basically bursting with everything he feels, and just how much, and he fucking wants to express it god damn. why the fuck would he be chill? HE GETS TO HAVE THIS, after denying himself for so long

and magnus, well. magnus really needs it. really needs to be convinced that he’s lovable, and that he deserves not only to be loved but to be loved in a fulfilling, caring way. to be happy in a relationship, not just part of it. that he doesn’t have to constantly sacrifice himself for others

and that’s just one of the many ways in which they suit each other so perfectly. because what they need to say is what the other needs to hear, and what they have is so strong it can calm the storm that’s been inside of them for so long. they have the kind of love where they’re sad together, happy together, silly together, angry together, where they get to be competitive dorks and say dumb shit, and also to have slow and calm mornings, and also to feel juts as intensely as they desire. they have it all they are soulmates they have a one in a million kind of connection they are so perfect for each other and in this essay i will

[sweetcinnamcn]

Family Dinner || Self-Para

Summary - Ian and his three older siblings come home for a family dinner after which his mother gives him a talking to plus a little something something for the upcoming Bachelor Auction.

WC: 2,630

Without Tommy there to back him up, Ian slips into old habits too easily. It’s hard for him to not let his brothers’ joshing get to him, and each quip at his expense makes Ian’s smile that much more strained. Everything from “Hey Schoolboy!” to bets on how much cum he’s been guzzling seems to be on the table tonight, and since they’re drinking they’re a bit more abrasive about it too. Ian really doesn’t like being around his brothers when they’re drinking.

“Huh, buddy?” Ian had retreated inwards and completely zoned out of the conversation. It wasn’t until Harrison clapped him on the back that he even realized all three of his siblings were looking at him. His mouth falls agape as he tries to think of something—anything—to say, but Donovan’s snort beats him to the chase.

“Space cadet strikes again. How’s the view from the clouds Lieutenant Dumbass?” he chortles, both his brothers laughing boisterously now. Ian laughs along with obviously less zeal.

Annette only shakes her head, moderately eye-rolling at her brothers. “Please don’t mess with him like that. Ian’s no fun when he starts to turtle up.” While he’s sure she means well, comments like that only ever get his big brothers laughing at him harder. This is why Ian doesn’t enjoy family dinners without his younger in attendance.

“What’s wrong, Annie? Junior too busy to be his white knight so you’ve got to fill the vacancy?”

“Not that he needs it. He’s a grown man and we’re just kidding around. Ian knows it. Look at him! Life of the party!” Harrison points right to the smile glued to Ian’s face. That gets a smile out of Annette which she attempts to hide by taking a sip from her wine glass. Harrison and Donovan never hide when they’re laughing at him. This is why he needs his little brother. Ian always feels invisible, pushed aside, belittled, and a bunch of other things he’s not good at vocalizing whenever he’s at home. Tommy always knew how to save him.

“Have you guys spoken to him recently? I know he’s super busy, but I can’t ever get him on the phone anymore—”

“Time zones, buddy. We’ve been over this. England is a few hours ahead of us, so you can’t just call him whenever.” So what if Ian has to count on his fingers to get an idea of what time it is for Tommy, it’s not like he forgets he has to! Though … he doesn’t say anything to reject the implication about his understanding of time zones either.

“Nah, he’s been dodging me too! He goes and claims a princess and suddenly “His Highness” is too good for us.”

“His Grace. Tommy is only going to be a duke by marriage and—”

“Yeah ok, we get that you’re jealous of his royal assent, but seriously Annie couldn’t you at least try to not sound bitter whenever he comes up?”

That’s how things have always been between his siblings. They have a brash, witty sense of humor and even Annette’s found a way to navigate those waters effectively. She can take it and dish it out without sacrificing the austerity she places in her classification. Ian was never as good as her. All he could ever do was smile through it all. As they continue to bicker amongst themselves and Ian starts to wish that Mother let him at least have a glass of wine like Annette got, he sees his father come into the room. He can’t help his sigh of relief.

“Boys, mind the volume. Really, I don’t know why she lets you drink on empty stomachs. You both get so belligerent!” It’s only a gentle scolding on his part, no hints of genuine irritation are found on his face. His brothers know this as well and both take a large swallow of their beers in response. Walter McCallister, the perfect claim for a woman like Clarice, the perfect father to both wrangle and console the children she bore as they needed. Ian’s always felt closer to his father, and for more reasons than their shared classification. He was hoping to get a chance to speak with him privately at some point before dinner was over, but hasn’t gotten to yet. “Dinner is about to be served. Why don’t you all wash up and come take a seat? Your mother is hungry and she is not in a patient mood tonight,” Walter informs before Ian can get a chance to say something. All buzzed except Ian, the McCallister children file out of the room. Ian starts to perk up a bit after his father gives him a gentle shoulder pat on his way out.

Dinner was delicious, and in typical McCallister fashion, it ends as they always do. As soon as Clarice puts her utensil down, Ian, Annette, and Walter all get up from their spots to clear the table. The Dominants will continue to sit and chat for a while. They’ll drink and have fun waiting for the others to bring dessert and coffee if desired. Those three only get dessert as an occasional reward, so none for them tonight much to Ian’s disappointment. There’s a delicious-looking lemon cake in the kitchen just calling his name. He’s even so bold as to try and finger swipe some icing off of it, but Annette slaps his hand away before he gets a chance. Ian is mid pout when a single command makes him go rigid.

“Ian, darling,” Clarice calls out from the dining room. “I’ll be taking my dessert in my study. Be a dear and bring it up to me.” The tension in the kitchen is palpable. Annette and Walter keep cleaning, but even Ian knows they’ve each got a nervously watchful eye on him. Being alone with Mother in her study only means one thing: prepared to get chewed out. 

“Yes Ma’am,” he responds, dejectedly cutting a suitable piece of cake for Mother and bringing it up. He has to suffer the typical “Ooo you’re in trouble”’s from his lounging brothers as he walks by. It’s not like they’re kids anymore so he doesn’t understand why they get such a kick out of it, but much like when they were, Ian shrugs away from their scrutiny so hard that it looks like he’s trying to make his head disappear. ‘Turtling’ as Annette so aptly put it, warranting even more joshing at his expense while he hurries to Mother’s study.

A deep sigh at the door and then a knock, Ian’s typical ritual. He can’t remember a time in his life when he left this room feeling good. He enters once prompted and sets the cake down in front of her, then steps back from her desk and stands there, waiting patiently. This is a common routine and Ian’s had plenty of practice, though he does think that her having him watch her eat it is a bit much. It feels like a punishment. Then again, so have their last few chats.

“Mm! That was absolutely divine. I swear, your father’s skills in the kitchen have never once diminished over the years. I do wish you could’ve enjoyed some…” Her voice and expression are cheery, but her eyes seem very cold. Even the way Clarice cleans the fork intimidates Ian. She’s quite skilled at making him feel naked in a not-fun way. “…then again, you haven’t been a very good boy, have you?” 

“No Ma’am, I have not,” he says without hesitation. Confessing it out loud hurts so much. In a single sentence, weeks of “good boys” have been erased. Until he gets claimed, there’s only one Dominant who gets to dictate how well Ian’s behaving, and Clarice McCallister’s margins for grading are very clear.

“Huh,” is her only response, those cold eyes of hers repeating every scathing critique she’s voiced recently. There’s no need to rehash them, Ian knows full and well how he’s failed and why he’s failed. “Ian, I’ve been very patient with you. Men in our family attending Lowell has been a great honor for generations. You are the very first to turn that honor into an embarrassment. You should feel embarrassed by your inability to get claimed. It’s no one’s fault but your own.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Ma’am.”

“If I had a dollar for every time I heard that, I’d be able to reimburse myself for nine years of tuition.”

“I know. I’m—” A single quirk of Clarice’s eyebrow is all it takes for the words to die on Ian’s tongue. He looks down at his feet, unable to handle her disapproving gaze. He feels choked up like a hot coal is burning through his throat. The ground below starts to look blurry as well. Ian is doing his best not to cry. He knows Mother hates seeing that. “I’m trying really hard. I help out and I talk to a lot of Dominants. I have a lot of friends! But I … I don’t know why no Dominant wants me. I do everything you suggest and it—”

“Maybe you should spend less time screwing around with taken locals and put your energies towards getting serious about getting claimed.” He visibly winces at that interruption, because in his heart he knows there’s a lot of truth to it. “At this point, I’m not sure which is more humiliating. The fact that you’ve been there for nearly a decade, or the fact that your highest accolade is getting labeled as the school slut.” That one hurts even more, but he has a tool to use. Luckily, in his increasingly stressed frame of mind, he remembers to take it out of the toolbox his therapist has been helping him build.

“Dr. Addams says—”

“I’m the one paying for your little headcase pow wows with Dr. Addams. The last thing I want thrown in my face right now is whatever Freudian bullshit he told you to spout at me.”

“I-I just—”

“Would you quit mumbling like an idiot? Don’t slouch like that. Stand up straight, hold your head up high. If you have something to say, use your voice, Ian. How many times do I have to tell you this? Appearance is everything. Fix yourself, now!” He lifts his head but has to sniffle. Ian is full-on crying by the end of that and he just couldn’t hold his tears back any longer. Clarice’s eye-roll in response only makes him feel worse. “My sensitive little boy, what are we going to do with you?” she sighs, shaking her head. Ian stands perfectly still, trying to compose himself even though he knows he’s failing. The night has been a lot for him and he’s feeling raw from it all, but he knows what’s coming when Mother stands and walks around her desk. He’s thankful for it.

For all her talk about hating hysterics, she’s very good at dealing with Ian’s. She tenderly grasps the back of his head and brings his face into her neck, embracing her son. Ian wraps his large frame around her in turn, sobbing uncontrollably now that he’s been given the all-clear. He’s incoherent, inconsolable, but Clarice’s soothing touches calm Ian down. When she feels he’s gotten enough of it out of his system, she pushes him back gently by his shoulders. One hand goes to cup his pitiful face, stroking his cheek with her thumb as he whimpers out the last of his outpouring. “Ian, it’s just you. Even Tommy’s grown up and done it now. Not to mention he’s taken our ‘marrying up’ speeches seriously. I mean, he’s claimed into royalty! It’s bad for my image to have you still at Lowell with not even a prospect while all your other siblings have done so well. We need to change that, right?”

“Y-Yes Ma’am. I’ll try harder.” Eventually, she smiles and he smiles through his teary eyes in return. He must’ve finally said the right thing.

“Good boy.” There it is, the two words that uplift him more than everything else. A single phrase is capable of washing away all the cold pricklies and replacing them with warm fuzzies. He’s feeling better already. “But what am I always telling you?”

“My looks are my most important asset?” 

“Exactly!” she praises. “You’re such a beautiful boy. Though, you could probably benefit from shedding some weight. Did you have to get so bulky?” Ian’s used to criticism being attached to Mother’s compliments. Her standards are extremely high. “I don’t expect you to be able to come up with a solution, which is why I’m going to help you. When Harrison was at Lowell, I did something for him before the Bachelor Auction. I’ve decided I’m going to do the same for you.”

He starts to wipe his face and continues to compose himself when Clarice turns around to her desk. He can’t see what she’s scribbling out, but after hearing some paper tear he figures what she’s doing. “Now, I know I’ve expressed my hesitation about doing this before, but Ian the auction has only ever resulted in you being a glorified whore for a night. How many times were you purchased by someone who had actual intentions of claiming you?” Out of eight times, the answer is none, and the pause it takes for him to mull this over is long enough for the rhetorical nature of Clarice’s question to be apparent. “My point exactly. This year, you’re taking matters into your own hands.”

Ian looks at the check, amazed at the amount. He’s never held that much money in his life, and it means the world to him that Mother has faith in his ability to do this.

“But Ma’am—”

“No buts, just promise me you’ll spend it wisely. Don’t waste this opportunity. Choose a Dominant carefully, one you have a shot with. It’s okay to think of a game plan too. In fact, you should ask Annie for tips. I’ve never seen anyone wrap a Dominant around their finger quite like her.”

Ian nods, sniffling still but smiling nonetheless. “Thank you, Mother. I won’t let you down. I’m gonna get a great date and I’ll get claimed. This will be my last year at Lowell, I promise.” Clarice smiles and dismisses Ian with a nod. He holds the check to his chest, feeling like he’s living a dream. Mother is right, this year he’s not leaving anything to chance. He’s going to make the right choice and finally get claimed.

The next couple of days on campus, Ian tried to keep his ear to the ground and figure out who he’d focus his bidding efforts on. Annie gave him some tips for how to plan the date in a way that’ll keep a Dominant interested, but that doesn’t help him choose. It’s not until he gets some alone time in the game room that he makes up his mind. Feeling the green of the pool table reminds Ian of a memory he hasn’t visited recently, only because he failed to find the need. But now … it’s giving him inspiration. “It’s settled then. I know what I’m going to do,” he says to himself, resolute in a way that’s almost uncharacteristic. Ian isn’t sure if he’s going to be able to live up to his promises by going for who he’s thinking, but he’s sure that it’s the best option given his predicament. “The Bachelor Auction is just around the corner. I have to make sure I’m ready. I’m going to land a Dominant, bring him home, and Mother will be so proud she’ll call me a good boy a whole bunch. I’m sure of it.”

[bellatrixobsessed1]

The Art Of Remembrance (Part 40)

Honestly, can’t believe I’m at chapter 40. Anyways, I guess this is gonna be one of my final updates for now. Today just so happened to be my designated fic typing day. So I’m gonna post this as well. Of course future chapters will be on Ao3 and Fanfic for while I’m gone. Thanks to everyone who has supported the fic up to this point.

Sokka had expected to take it much harder, but the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that he might just be happier without her. She is no longer there to argue with him over ridiculous things. And he no longer has to face her problems for her. Perhaps with her is a more truthful statement, but he isn’t ready to embrace the whole truth yet. He isn’t ready to look at things without a degree of resentment. Indeed he thinks that he is better off.

Yet, in the back of his mind he goes back to that night under the auroras. That night where she’d come to him and offered to do something he enjoyed. To the day in the swamp where she’d sat with him and comforted him.

It has been several days since she had fled. The first had been the worst, the most hectic. In a moment of panic Zuko had assumed that she’d simply taken flight again; ran off into the streets. In telling him that she’d mentioned going back to Fire Lake he’d replied with a swift, “what if she decided not to wait for the ship?”

He’d only be settled when Dr. Phang confirmed that she’d left on the ship. Even then he’d found a new thing to fret over, “what if that was a trap? What if she’s on her way back to another Vine Research Facility compound?” He relaxed completely the following day when he’d received a messenger hawk from her.

For Sokka the first day had been nothing but regret. Regret that he’d written her off so quickly. Regret that he’d let anger and hurt and feelings of betrayal overpower love. Regret that he hadn’t come to check on her sooner, before she’d left.

That first day he’d paced about and vented to Katara, to Aang, to Toph, to Zuko, to Appa and Momo, to anyone who would listen really. And soon that regret and hurt turned back into anger and venting became ranting. Rambling about how she is selfish and how she’d stabbed him in the back. How she is a hypocrite for stabbing him in the back when she knows too well how terrible the feeling is.

Now he reclines on a chair in the palace gardens awaiting further news about Long Feng’s whereabouts. So far the man has been keeping his head down, but he doesn’t doubt that once he gets word of Azula’s vulnerability, he will make his move. Whether she knows it or not, she is bait. That hadn’t been his intention. It certainly wasn’t Zuko’s. But she’d probably admire how cunningly and swiftly he was planning on taking advantage of the situation.

Despite it all he still has a touch of worry for the princess. Raava forbid that they actually capture her again. For as much teeth as she is showing, for as much of the old her is back, he can’t imagine her faring well against rekindled traumas.

Sokka’s mind wanders to the night at the compound. The small on his chest. Holding her has she cried softly.

She doesn’t cry anymore, he reminds himself. He catches himself before he accuses her of being unfeeling. Unexpressive is more befitting. He pushes the thoughts out of his head. He doesn’t know why he is having them now after several days of either celebrating Azula’s absence or not thinking of her at all.

He misses her and he is angry that he does. He tells himself that it is for the best. That she isn’t right for him and that she isn’t healthy for him. That she has just been difficult and a pain in the ass from the start; he thinks of her bundled up and shivering, finger freshly claimed by the cold. Alright, maybe not from the start…

.oOo.

It feels terribly odd to be sitting in Dr. Yu-Kang’s office on her own accord. She feels rather awkward. Awkward and almost ashamed to admit that she can’t handle things on her own. That she can’t get a grip on her own thoughts.

“Dr. Phang told me that you asked him to erase your memories again?”

Azula nods. Dr. Yu-Kang waits for her to elaborate. She doesn’t

“Why is that?”

Azula inhales sharply. She has come here to talk so she better talk.

“Do you want to address something different to begin with?”

Azula shakes her head. “I want to talk about this.”

“Whenever you’re ready.” Dr. Yu-Kang offers. “Would you like something to drink.”

She shakes her head again. “I asked him to take my memories again because it’s...they make things feel wrong.”

“Wrong?”

“Like I shouldn’t be talking to Zu-Zu or Mai and Tylee. Like I shouldn’t...love Sokka.”

Dr. Yu-Kang nods. “Well why does this feel wrong to you?”

She shrugs. “Because, before I left they’d have nothing to do with me. If I didn’t lose my memories they wouldn’t have let me in. I don’t think I would have wanted to be let in.”

“But you did lose them.” Dr. Yu-Kang replies. “The universe has a balance. If you weren’t meant to have lost your memories, you wouldn’t have. And if you weren’t meant to be found by Sokka then it wouldn’t have happened.”

“A coincidence, I assure you.” Azula replies.

“You don’t believe in fate?”

“Do I come off to you as the type who would?” She links her hands and rests them atop her knee.

Dr Yu-Kang chuckles. “I suppose that you don’t. You are in charge of your own fate. You like to be in charge of your own fate.”

“Yes, that’s correct.” Azula agrees.

“Then choose it. You can cling to your past and your old memories or you can acknowledge them, leave them in the past, and continue with the life your new memories have begun.” She takes a drink. “That is your choice. That is what you control.”

Azula swallows. “Yes well, that  still doesn’t change that that person wasn't even me. They, Sokka, Zuko, all of them...they like a false version of me.”

Dr. Yu-Kang looks into her teacup for the longest time. Azula is certain that she has outwitted the woman, even if that wasn’t the goal. In fact it is exactly what she had dreaded, that her therapist wouldn’t even have any advice to offer. At last she looks up. “Have you considered that, that simply isn’t true?”

Azula tilts her head.

“I know that you don’t like to be. But you are wrong, princess.”

“Excuse me?” She half sputters, half grumbles.

Again Dr. Yu-Kang gives a slight chuckle. “I know that you have had this discussion before, princess; you lost your memories, you didn’t lose you. Whatever you said and did without your memories, is something within the realm of possibility for you to have done with them. It is nearly impossible to erase a person’s nature entirely. One would have to do a lot of damage to achieve that.” She lets that settle in. “I have spoken with you enough to know that you require proof so I will offer it.”

Azula shifts, switching which leg overlaps the other.

“When we were discussing Yion’s crimes and my…” she coughs “negligence and incompetence, it felt as though you had never lost your memories at all. Your ability to resume firebending with such expertise, your authoritative and intimidating presence, your inclinations to have control, and your intelligence. The things that defined the old you were still there. You had simply acquired new perspectives and sides of yourself.” She pauses again. “That is what this is; there is no new and old you. There is the old you with new goals, desires, and personality facets.”

“New facets…” Azula repeats more to herself.

“Your older personality traits and your new ones aren’t incompatible. And these new feelings and relationships have just as much value as your old ones. I would say that they have more value.”

Her face falls, “I’ve already made a mess of those.”

Dr. Yu-Kang quirks a brow. “This is the first time you’ve been in a relationship, isn’t it?”

Azula’s face colors. Enough so that Dr. Yu-Kang is confident in continuing her line of thought. “Romantic partnership is like any other kind of partnership. There will be fights, I think that you know this. There will be bad fights. But that doesn’t mean that the relationship is over, even if it seems like it is.”

She feels like a fool for not being able to grasp something so simple. She quietly vocalizes as much before she can stop herself.

“Inexperience is different from incompetence. I know enough of your history to know that you haven’t been particularly exposed to love nor a healthy relationship. I don’t think that this will be a problem for you, you are a fast learner.”

Azula swallows. “Yes, I suppose, but I still don’t know how to fix things.”

“I think that you do, you just don’t want to.”

“I do…”

“Then you are going to have to put your pride aside for the moment. And you’re going to have to deal with some discomfort.”

She shifts again, she supposes she already feels plenty uncomfortable, she is almost dizzy with it. “What if Sokka doesn’t want to talk.”

“We can talk about that if it happens. I am not his therapist, but he is around you enough for me to get a little sense of him. He doesn’t strike me as the type to give up on someone.”

Azula flexes her fingers. “Alright.”

“Though I suggest that you ask him why he is upset with you.” She pauses. “It is easy to only think of oneself in an argument. Don’t you think that you might have hurt him too? Usually people don’t lash out if they aren’t hurt in some way.”

“I’ll…” she hesitates. “Keep that in mind.” Empathy,  sympathy, compassion...they had never come easily to her. To the old her… To the person who hadn’t acquired new viewpoints. She thinks, she hopes, that she is able to feel them now. She supposes that she must, if she is even considering apologizing. She practically cringes at the thought of an apology. There is almost nothing she likes less than being wrong.

“Is there anything else you’d like to speak with me about?”

She gathers that she probably shouldn’t resume speaking with Sokka by unloading her anxieties onto him. “I am concerned about Long Feng. I feel like he is going to come for me at any moment and I’m just as alone now as…”

“I don’t mean to cut you off, but you are not alone anymore. And I think that you are perfectly capable of handling him, especially now that you know more or less, what you are facing.”

“Yes, right.” She agrees.

.oOo.

Sokka finds himself looking at the ocean. His feet have carried him to the docks and he can’t say why. The wind tosses his hair as he looks in the general direction of Lake Fire institute.

“You’re thinking about my sister again, aren’t you?” Zuko laughs.

He jumps. “No!” He says too quickly.

He laughs again, “she has this way of just making you dwell upon her even if you don’t want to.”

“Yeah, well I don’t know what to do about her. I just know that she makes me so angry and I don’t even know if she feels bad about it.” He backtracks. “Bad enough to put herself aside, anyways.”

“Yeah, that’s Azula. She is tricky. But at least now she’s trying.”

Sokka rubs the back of his head. He supposes that she wouldn’t have taken herself to Lake Fire if she wasn't trying. At least now she has the sense to admit that she needs help. He runs his fingers through his hairline, feeling as though he should be helping. But it isn’t his job to fix her, he reminds himself.

“How about this?” Zuko offers. “See what she says to you when she comes home and go from there.”

“Do you have my back?”

Zuko hesitates. “I’ll have your back, but I don’t want to give up on her myself.”

He doesn’t want to give up on her either.

[wardencommanderrodimiss]

Witches, Chapter 23: a long overdue reunion, and reckoning. 

[Seelie of Kurain Chapter Masterlist] [ao3]

[Witches Chapter Masterlist] [ao3]

----

Phoenix wakes with his phone buzzing beneath his pillow like someone is calling and letting it ring to eternity, but when he brings it, still vibrating, into sight, there is only a location printed on the small screen. He punches the keyboard to text back K and rolls out of bed. How does texting the fae work anyway, he wonders. He’s wondered it for years and never asked. Does the text float up in her mind visually, or does she hear his voice in her head? And what voice would she hear if it was someone else texting from his phone? His or theirs? 

As he blinks to ease the heaviness of sleep from his eyes, the red lights of his bedside clock tell him it’s not even 5:30. 

Damn it all, Maya.

She’s left him with no indication of what this is about, how long it will be - if he’ll have time to make it back here before work to change into his suit. After a few seconds more thought he puts on jeans and a t-shirt, in case she shoves him in a lake, and if he’s late to the office then he’s late. He leaves a note for Trucy on the table so she’s not surprised when she gets up for school, and he slips out of the apartment into the dark Los Angeles morning, with no idea what awaits him. 

It could be a conversation about Thalassa. After he saw her he called Pearl and told her everything that had happened that he thought could help, and she promised that she would tell Maya everything. And then he told Pearl plenty more that he knew wasn’t related to magic much at all. He has no one else to talk to about Thalassa, no human he can ask for advice. Maybe the reverse is creating a serious problem, too - that Thalassa has no one at all, besides Phoenix, and she doesn’t want to divulge too much in case it leads him to do something reckless. Is “therapist specialized in magic people” too niche of an occupation to make a living out of? Even if it’s not, the only person he has to float that idea by is Athena, and - like hell he would. That’s a can of worms he isn’t unpacking. 

It’s been a week since then. Maya could’ve called him if she had thoughts on Thalassa - or more than likely, relayed a message to Pearl to get back to Phoenix. He’s spoken more with them in these past eleven months than they had for the last five years, but it’s always Phoenix reaching out with a new quandary that goes through one of the others. For Maya to reach back, stretch her hand out across the gulf - he’d expect it to take more than this. 

Unless she’s figured something out. And even then she could have called.

Or she’s figured something out and wants to push him in a lake. No one ever said she’s not capable of holding two thoughts in her head at the same time.

The years have not been kind to Gourd Lake. It was a nice park in the springs and summers, when the trees flowered and the grass covered the ground in full, and even when the winters turned the lakeside sparse and gray, there were enough people who passed through to give it some sort of life. But it collected its share of incidents, all after Larry broke the seal and released an actual lake monster in the course of trying to set up a hot dog stand, and some time after the (phony!) president of Zheng Fa was nearly assassinated there, the cold, unlucky heart of the lake pooled outward, and whether people consciously decided it had too much of a reputation or made the decision without really knowing why, they started to find other places for summer picnics.

It was always a gross lake that no one would go swimming in, anyway. Far too much mud and weeds.

Around the lake it gets chilly sooner in the year than other parts of the city, and the still morning air turns crisp as Phoenix walks up the main path, through the trees whose leaves yellow and flutter down onto the patchy grass below. Nature overtook the old boathouse years ago, and no one ever tried to repossess the boats for other things; Gourd Lake is now a BYOB (bring your own boat) lake, and algae and rot and nesting wild geese laid claim to Yanni Yogi’s fleet. Trucy says the rumor at school is that said boathouse is a certifiably haunted structure and that her classmates dare each other all the time to break in and never do, as afraid of the geese as they are of ghosts.

If those investigation days with Maya, both of them stressed to hell and Edgeworth’s life on the line, hadn’t carved the full map of Gourd Lake in his mind, he wouldn’t know where to push through the bushes to find the old boathouse. The woods had almost a life of their own the way they swallowed it up so thoroughly, almost like the park itself wanted to erase it. He bats aside branches and knocks leaves from them, and after wading into the thicket finds a bit of a thin path where the foliage hasn’t been trampled down but has moved aside, as though of its own accord. Like the branches are all tied back with invisible strings. 

With the boathouse in view, he starts to notice frost on the ground, as patchy as the withering grass. All of the colors of the woods seem desaturated and muted, overlaid by a brown filter - everything except a few scattered flowers caught up in the bushes like someone carelessly plucked them from a bouquet and tossed them to land wherever. He recognizes these flowers; couldn’t for the life of him name them, but their thin red petals and spindly spidery red thin - whatever they are that pop up from the center of the flower, are pretty distinct. His grandparents told him that they were flowers that back in Japan meant death. They had them at their funerals, and even if they weren’t all that, they’re, well - Maya’s flower. The ones that show up in a ring when she shows up, unbidden by everyone but herself.

(He’s not sure what to think about the “death” connotation, especially when the fae of the Winter Court came to LA by way of Japan, too.)

And there she is, sitting cross-legged on the dock that is collapsed half into the lake. Paying no mind to the edge of her long ivory-colored skirt trailing into the lake, or the ends of her sash slipping through the gaps in the dock, she holds her hands stretched out in front of her, palms flat over the water about a foot above the surface. Her hair is a billowing, insubstantial cloud of smoke around her head; six orbs like pearls float around her face, the arc of the two sets of three meeting in the center at her magatama that pulses with a soft rainbow of light. The water freezes in a thin sheet of ice that cracks apart and melts and refreezes beneath her hands and the sharp white claws at her fingertips. Her mouth, moving silently, has the shape of any human’s mouth, a normal one, until she lets out an audible scream of frustration. All of her red eyes snapp open bright against her pastel purple skin, and her mouth splits across her face in a wide slash of teeth. The ice breaks apart for the last time and the water goes still; Maya’s hair coalesces into a sheet of inky black, tumbling back down around her shoulders, solid and subject again to gravity.

“What were you trying to do?” Phoenix asks, standing at the water’s edge where the dock meets the shore, unsure if the old wood will also take his weight. 

“Maybe it’s the water,” Maya mumbles, reaching into one of her sleeves and producing a small scroll which she unravels and passes her hand over the scribblings on it. The mixture of English and Japanese and some other symbols that Phoenix can’t ascribe to any known language changes beneath her fingers into new sloppy marks. Even her magical writing can’t fix her atrocious handwriting. “Because the way it translates could either be a specific kind of water that isn’t named because it was assumed everyone would know it, or water, general, any…” She drums her claws on the scroll and more words and characters appear in the margins around what was already written. 

“Maya?” he asks, again, now considering that she’s ignoring him on purpose.

“There’s this new spell I’m trying - new old spell, it’s absolutely ancient and that’s why I’m having issues with what the components are.” She shuffles the scroll back into a roll and slides it back up her sleeve. “The language it’s written in is imprecise so at this point I have to experiment and hope that it doesn’t go catastrophically wrong.”

“Is this spell what you called me out here to talk about?” Phoenix asks. “Or just something you’re working on while you waited for me, which is why we’re—” He gestures around at the lake, at the boathouse, at the boats half sunken into the murky brown water. He’s not sure this location is haunted-haunted the way people generally refer to such - there’s no ghost, a floating white translucent figure, in the boathouse, but there are ghosts, memories with cold teeth, all around them. 

He doesn’t really want to be out here. He can hear it in the breeze: don’t forget DL-6. 

She pops up onto her feet in one quick motion, swinging her skirt out of the water; the cloth has no muddy stain like it should. The purple drains from her skin, her mouth shrinking, and her extra eyes close up and the two that remain gain whites and dark centers. “Hi, Nick, long time no see!” she says, and the cheery chirp of her voice doesn’t sound right. Sarcasm sours every word. “I’m doing all right! How are you? See, isn’t it nice to take the time to catch up with someone you haven’t talked to ages, rather than just trying to get right down to the point as though we’re merely business associates and not friends? That’s pretty rude, don’t you think?”

“Hi, Maya,” he says, and if he does ask her how she is now, she’s just going to go in for another round of mocking. The only good choice would have been, as she says, starting with the friendly greeting. But she also woke him up hours early and dragged him all the way out here, and being terse is somewhat justified. Isn’t it?

“I realized something, the other day, when Pearly caught me up on what’s going on with your siren.” Maya clasps her hands behind her back, turning away from Phoenix to look out over the water. “Memories are, in no small part, connected to the mitamah, which is why our changed child in question has the trouble that she does. Time, distance, whatever, that part isn’t super important right now. I mean, this isn’t actually about her, what I’m working on right now. I’ll get back to her. But this is important - Nick this is a revelation!” She spins around, robes and hair all swirling wide, red excitement beaming through her dark eyes. “I finally understand! I was looking in the wrong places - I kept trying to understand ghosts, like Sis, or if there was - necromancy, such a thing, or a way to channel and commune with the dead - but it wasn’t ever really about that! It’s not - it’s not an active conversation like I thought it must have been. It’s about memory!”

“What is?” Phoenix asks. He has honestly never quite understood how it works, when they talk about studying and learning new magic. He pictures like a vast library full of very ancient archival texts, but that has always seemed too accessible, for a society as hierarchal and stratified as the fae. Knowledge is power, and anyone else gaining power is greater odds of a knife in the back. And for all Maya is willing to go on and on like this about what she’s learned, she never ends up saying how. 

“What my mother did! During the DL-6 investigation!”

The breeze skims across the surface of the water, sending ripples to the shore where they break against the old wooden boats. 

Phoenix steps out onto the dock. Ice clings to the edges of it, over the algae. The question has puzzled them for years: the official police reports, the ones Redd White leaked, said that the fae that helped them “spoke” with the victim to gain insight that Yanni Yogi was the killer. But Phoenix and Maya can’t even speak with Mia - well, she can’t speak with them - and contacting the human dead is far beyond any magic any of them have ever known. It had seemed one last part of the case would never be solved.

“I haven’t been able to duplicate it.” Maya covers her mouth with her hand. Her fingers still have claws. “But there’s a spell, a very old bit of magic, that can call up the last memories of a dead person, human or fae. That must be what my mother did! She must have known this, and known what the key was - water is the important physical component, but—”

“You don’t know what kind,” Phoenix says, recalling her earlier mutterings. 

“Right. I’ve tried ocean water, water from the falls in the mountains, water from the cave under Mount Mitama which is technically ocean water - none of it worked. I came out here to see if water with some sort of connection to the victim was the answer - it was Gourd Lake, or fill a bowl up with tap water and go sit in the courthouse elevator.”

“I’m sure the courthouse has seen weirder,” Phoenix says, “but it’s probably better that you didn’t.”

Maya joins him on the part of the dock that still stands above the lake and she sits leaning up against the boathouse, patting the spot next to her. He still doubts its stability, but if he keeps standing, he’s that much more liable to be pushed into the lake, and after weighing those odds, he sits down next to her. For a moment they’re both sitting cross-legged on the office floor, leaning up against the couch that’s piled high with case notes and takeout containers, formulating a trial plan as the television spouts some news neither of them pay attention to.

“This is magic ancient enough that it would have come with us from the Summer Court when we left,” Maya explains. “Which could be another reason I’m having trouble with it. The water might be from their waterfalls, or something special - it raises the question of how my mother knew, it’ll be something else to look into once we find the Summer Court.”

“There’s no records about where they’re located?” Phoenix asks.

“It’s active erasure - they didn’t allow us to know. There’s - from the seat of the Winter Court, I can sense the Vernal and Autumn Courts, if we” - she gestures between Phoenix and herself - “didn’t already know by family history where they’re at, but there’s just a bit fat block shutting us away from the Summer Court. And if I were to start pushing up against that wall, they’ll respond in kind - I’ll do it, of course, but I’m waiting for the solstice when we’re strongest and they’re weakest to try.”

“I guess, with the Winter Court being the Winter Court’s own worst enemies, I should have expected that you’d be on bad terms with the others.”

“Fae are fae’s worst enemies.” Maya brushes her hair back behind her shoulder. “And I kind of - um, intentionally obfuscate the history, when I say we left the Summer Court. It was a lot more like an exile. My branch of the family went to war for the throne and lost and there’s a legend that when we were thrown out we lost the ability to use certain kinds of magic but I’ve got no idea what those might be or if that part of the tale got twisted after all this time. I’m sure we could figure out all the nuances of what to do with mitamahs if we had more than me and my two cousins who are trying anything more than just grabbing it with brute force to be stronger.” She picks at a loose splinter on the dock. “Speaking of powers and exile, by the way, we must have seriously underestimated how powerful Magnifi was, all this time.”

“What do you mean?” Phoenix asks. “When did you find this out?”

Maya waves a hand dismissively. “A while ago, but you haven’t been in touch. It occurred to me, with the way the siren is still alive and walking around - having your soul taken doesn’t just make you immortal. Your heart stops working, you’re still stuck. When she was shot, someone had to heal her - Magnifi would have had to heal her, patch her up just enough. But healing magic is - Pearly barely knows a little, and she’s the best of us at it. It’s hard. And Magnifi should’ve lost most of his power on exile, but no, he could just…” She makes another dismissive hand gesture. 

“He healed her and then just - sent her away?” Phoenix asks. Maya shrugs. Maybe once he realized her memory was unstable, he decided that her death as blackmail was more valuable than her life. “Could having hold of her soul have given him enough strength to do that sort of thing? The healing, the—”

“Could be. Then there’s the little pocket dimension he had set up for the Gramarye hideaway - that’s another real tricky thing. And then, your daughter, he bound a wisp to her for her to be able to control, gave her a blessing - a blessing to the siren, too, because I can’t imagine he would’ve thought Truth was useful before they entered the human world, sure it sometimes helps when someone’s hiding something but only sometimes - anyway. Good thing he’s been dead as long as we’ve known of him, else us underestimating him could’ve gone badly.”

And now he’s just another man causing problems for them long after his death.

“It was real brave of your daughter to reject her family’s legacy of so much hurt,” Maya adds, “but it’s unfortunate that it’s made this all so much more difficult.”

“What do you mean?” She’s never not jumped between different thoughts like this, but with so much to catch up on, it’s harder to follow than ever.

“Ownership of that mitamah should’ve gone to her. I mean, that was how it was supposed to work - Magnifi’s power gets passed down to chosen successors, that’s the plan. And if your little magician had accepted it - not to say she should have, just had she - then that soul would belong to her and she could do what she wanted with it, like give it back. Instead she rejected it, and Magnifi has no other heir by the legal standard he chose to set an heir by, so we’re left with - a mitamah is always supposed to have an owner.”

“But it’s just floating loose?”

“Exactly. And that’s why none of us know how to put it back. If someone owned it, they could set that term to give it back, but no one owns it and it isn’t naturally returning, either.”

He’s going to do his damndest to keep Trucy from learning this particular fact. She doesn’t need to feel worse about her family, doesn’t need to know that turning away from its legacy of pain still ends up continuing another kind of pain. “You’ve been busy, huh. Getting all this figured out.”

It’s treacherous ground he approaches, that yawning chasm of eight years between them. How much did she learn in that time, only to wait until now to catch him up on it? Even just what she must have discovered in the past year—

“I’ve wondered all this time why my mother helped the police with their investigation of DL-6,” Maya says, her eyes vacant and her claws tearing up new splinters from the dock. “Simply assuming that she was nearest to their summons never felt like an answer. I knew whatever she did was magic beyond my wildest imaginings, and she used it in the course of a human’s murder investigation. What could the police have offered her?” A small slice of wood snaps. She tosses it into the water where it floats in the midst of a tangle of reeds and matted fallen leaves. “She knew him, beforehand, Gregory Edgeworth. I found that out, asking around - the office that still uses his name, you know.”

“Mr Shields?” Phoenix asks, too confused about why Maya is going down this path to protest it. Ray’s never said, exactly, that he’s had close brushes with the fae before, but even if Phoenix didn’t have the Sight it would be obvious by the way he acts when the topic comes up.

“He mentioned - and I realized that was my mother. I know her only well enough to recognize her ghost.” Maya spits the last sentence like it’s a bitter taste, and when she pulls her hand away from the dock to rest it in her lap, the deep scratches of her claws in the old wood show her agitation. “And now when I’ve realized about what kind of magic she used, when I started trying it myself” - she gestures out at the water, and a faint trail of frost follows along the surface after the movement of her hand - “that left me another big question about that entire affair. What did she see, that the answer she gave to the police was, Yanni Yogi is the killer.”

Phoenix wishes he had even a clue where she’s taking this conversation.

Maya holds her hand up and starts ticking off the facts of the case on her fingers as she speaks. “Lawyer and bailiff were arguing and because of that, the son throws a gun. It makes impact with the ground and misfires. Gunshot, scream, he passes out. The other two must have moments later, else Yogi could have testified to who really committed the murder, or my mother viewing Gregory’s last moments would have seen von Karma. Is there really no difference between watching a man fall unconscious through his eyes, and watching him die, that she could have thought that first gunshot killed him? Wouldn’t she have known the scream was not his?”

Maya’s hands sink back into her lap. “She did not know any objective truth of the crime. She should not have been able to lay blame.”

“But she did,” Phoenix says.

“What were her words? Did she tell them it ‘most likely’ would have been Yogi? The police could have figured that for themselves - would they have accepted a vague answer from her? Or did she speak with certainty because she refused to entertain the idea that the son had killed his father?”

Maya’s mother left the Court long before DL-6 happened; her abandonment of her daughters was a refusal to play the Court’s game that time and again saw parent pit against child for a sliver more of power and status. She refused to consider the prospect of having to kill her daughters. (And Mia, down the line, forfeit the throne to her sister rather than worry that she might try to take it by force, rather than consider killing her now to prevent it and keep it for herself.) 

There in the human realm, with a crime scene photograph and a dead man, did Maya’s mother again reject that concept, that possibility of patricide? Was it to save someone else’s son from that fate the way she tried to spare her daughters?

(Maya hadn’t thought much of her mother until she realized that, unlike most fae parents, her mother truly loved her, and then she like Mia wanted to find her, and then it was too late.)

“As she knew Gregory Edgeworth prior, she must have known how he loved his son,” Maya says. Phoenix’s throat tightens. He remembers - well, he remembers very little, is the tragedy. He better remembers von Karma’s steamroller objections, the furious wounded scream of a man finally beaten, the photograph of the  inside of the elevator. “And I keep thinking, when I wonder what the police offered her, I am not sure that they did. Offer anything, I mean. I think she did this for - I think she must have respected him enough, or—”

She shakes her head, clears her throat, and it sounds rather like a growl. “She used magic that no one else in the Winter Court could have dreamed of. However she learned it, whenever she did, magic that powerful you don’t do on a whim. What’s equal payment for that? What could the cops have bargained with? Dignity doesn’t fetch a high price these days - they lost that on their own, my mother was involved in why, certainly, but not to blame - and the LAPD has never quite had a good name that they could sell.” She frowns, her eyes flashing. “And all they had was professional pride at stake, and people do nasty shit for that, but none of them are gonna be personally selling their souls or names for it, right?”

Manfred von Karma, Matt Engarde, Blaise Debeste, Kristoph Gavin - all monsters for their pride, to uphold their names and reputations, but none of them sold their souls for it. Maya’s right. Someone seeking out the fae for a matter they have little emotional investment in will draw a much firmer line than the frantic and desperate with personal problems they hope magic can solve, the kind of person who gets tangled in lopsided bargains and dangerous debts.

“So why would she do it?” Maya presses a contemplative finger to her mouth. 

It seems only like supposition, that Maya is building a case on, a theory that there wasn’t an offer, or a good offer, made. That her mother wasn’t the kind to help for the sake of helping. (Mia saved Phoenix’s life but he could help her convict Dahlia in return. Mia was already a lawyer then. Before Elise became Elise, the artist, what was she? How did she care for humans?) But the fae know things and Maya, sometimes, knows things she doesn’t know how. This is her mother, the last queen, and maybe it’s more than supposition. Maybe she knows and doesn’t know she knows. 

“But if it was me,” she continues, “when would I do that, for chump change? If it was you - you asking me, or you were the one that died - if I knew that magic, and it was you, then I would. So I think, why my mother ever got involved in DL-6, like I said, it was about Gregory Edgeworth. That she must have respected him enough, or loved him enough, that she would—” Maya sighs. She leans her chin on her hand. “I think damned doomed defense attorneys just have a draw for my family, whether to befriend them or become them.”

Or be the one who damns them, but besides Dahlia, Maya’s formula fits. And even if he presumes that she has given thought to this again because of the relevance of the memory matter, there’s still a reason she’s telling him this, and now. Of course he’d like to know, and she’d know that: they can never fully lay DL-6 truly to rest. It will always matter to them. But that can’t be all she’s thinking, because even with Maya it’s never just the surface level. There’s a moral to the story buried in its timing, or simply in that last sentence. 

“Hey, Nick,” she says, her voice softer and less confident than before. “You remember when you were arrested for my sis’ murder, and that got me out of jail - and you told me you knew who did it, and you told me who. And I could’ve done anything that night you spend in jail. I knew what monster had killed my sister and tried to blame me and then blame you when you were the only person in the world on my side. I could have killed him. I really thought about it.” Maya pulls her knees in close to herself. “I really wanted to. But it wasn’t what Sis would’ve done. She could’ve killed him for everything she knew he did, but instead she spent years trying to bring him to justice through human courts. And if I killed him, then your name would never be cleared.”

Has that honestly ever occurred to him? He didn’t know Maya well enough to worry what she would do; and then once he did know her, he didn’t look back. Not to that. Not to ever notice it was weird that all she did, knowing the identity of the man putting them through hell, was go home to Mia’s office and put together the last pieces of the case, that list of names, on Phoenix’s behalf, because Mia wrote a note that asked her to. 

“You told me you didn’t want me to,” Maya says, staring at her hands, fingers hooked together in front of her knees hugged up to her chest. “You said you wanted to know why he did it. I wouldn’t have killed Kristoph Gavin, not as long as you live and have a name that needed clearing. I’m fae, not a monster! All you had to do was trust me! That would’ve been easier than binding and banishing me to stay away!” She doesn’t stand up but she unfolds herself so that she is kneeling on the dock, her hands balled up in the fabric of her robes in her lap. 

“I kept everyone out of it,” Phoenix says. It isn’t difficult to meet her eyes, even as smouldering red simmers up from their depths. This is a conversation he’s had before, justification he’s made to others and himself time and again. “It wasn’t just you. I didn’t want Kristoph to feel like he was being investigated like he would if all my friends started coming to him if I told them something was up. I didn’t want to tip my hand too soon.

More threatening than her glittering glare is her silence, because this is Maya, and Maya isn’t silent. He keeps talking even through his awareness that the longer he goes on justifying himself to her uncharacteristically stern face, the higher his chances of saying something regrettable. “And you especially - Kristoph hates the Court. You getting involved at all would just have been ugly.”

(When an orca tried to help her people, with those big teeth of hers, it looked like she was doing more harm. It saved no one, and made a more complicated mess of the truth in the end. But she wanted to help. She was an orca. What else could an orca do to help?)

“And you could think of nowhere else in your life that your friends are welcome - it’s help you investigate or nothing? No room for us otherwise? Not unless we’re usable by you?”

“That’s not at all what this was! And you know it, and you know you’re deliberately misinterpreting it.” This is what he’s been waiting for - the confrontation, the fight, about the years of distance between them. When she left him a message he expected that she was finally tired of him calling her and her family up for favors from a distance, that she was finally ready to indict him for it, and her restraint so far has been surprising. “I was afraid something would happen to you! Like I was afraid for Edgeworth! And I had to figure out how to raise a daughter! And you had a kingdom to rule! To reform its treatment of humans from the ground up, didn’t you tell me you were going to do that? When the hell were you planning time to watch kids’ shows at my office in the midst of all that!” 

She bares her teeth at him but doesn’t make a verbal response more than a hiss. 

“Besides,” he adds, furious but not at her, and rather furious that she’s tricked him into anger, “you can’t blame me for not trusting that you would leave Kristoph alone! You tried to talk me out of looking for the reason why he did what he did! You can’t blame me for thinking that the reason you wanted me to give up was so I would be fine with you killing him!”

“So what was his reason?” she demands. Her teeth have lengthened to points, her second small set of red eyes opening up at the outer corner of her main ones. “How about those locks, Nick, did you break them, did you find out why!” 

He doesn’t even know why the locks were black. “I cleared my name,” he says. “I’m a lawyer again.”

“Yeah, would’ve loved to hear that from you.” Maya jabs a finger that lacks a claw into his chest, the spot where his lapel would be, where his badge would go. 

“I…” He has no good answer to this one. It didn’t sink in, it didn’t sink in, and then he was busy on a case with no other thoughts to spare. He didn’t tell Larry. Edgeworth did. He didn’t tell Maya. Pearl did. And then they knew and there was no point to calling. Right?

She prods him several times more in the same spot, for emphasis, and then she yanks her hand away and furiously rubs at her eyes. Shit, is she crying? Before he can really tell, she is on her feet, staggering clumsily, her claws tearing rifts in the boathouse wall when she steadies her wobbling. Standing with her back to him, the movements of her arms tell him she is still wiping her eyes. Shit, she is crying. “You left me alone!” Her voice rings shrill out through the predawn silence. “You sent me away and left me alone! Like my mother left me! Like Sis did! You were supposed to be different! You could be different! Because you’re human!”

He’s a lawyer. He always tries to have a counterargument. He always tries to have anything to say, anything except the admission of wrongdoing, because that’s an admission that there is something that should be repaid. The fae don’t apologize. Humans don’t apologize to fae. Those become debts.

“Maya…”

“You were the one who wasn’t supposed to go away! You were the one - you’re my friend!” Maya’s hands drop to her sides. When she turns around, her skin is purple again, much harder to tell if her face was starting to redden and go blotchy. “I love Pearly with my whole heart but she’ll never be my friend, not really. She cares too much about our tradition and our hierarchy and thrones to ever look at me as an equal.”

“I know,” Phoenix says, not really to that, but to everything, to the fact that she’s more right than she is wrong and he’s the one who’s made a mess with almost everyone he’s loved in the past eight years. “But times change. We change.” The fae might hate change, strive to stop it from happening, but they still do. “We’ve both got all sorts of other responsibilities. Even if - it was never going to be the same way it was, when it was just the two of us and the office.”

“No,” she agrees, “but the problem wasn’t that we were different. It was that we” - she gestures back and forth between them - “were nothing at all.”

“Yeah. I…” He sighs. “I know I’ve not been a good friend.” He can’t even stick the lately qualifier on it. Eight years is not lately. “Not to you.” Or to Larry either, if he’s already thinking about this. He and Larry both know that they’re each closer to Edgeworth than they are each other. They knew that years ago. Maybe ever since Larry admitted that he was the one who had stolen Edgeworth’s lunch money, and all those years never told Phoenix that.

“You definitely have not.” Even if he said it, her echo of it hurts more than he expected. Maya sighs, equally heavy to his, and she sinks back to the dock next to him, leaning one shoulder against the side of the boathouse. “At least you figured out how to be a good father, Pearly says.”

Maya can’t say, really, because Maya hasn’t seen him, and him and Trucy, enough to know. Whether it’s that she’s thinking about, or something else, she goes quiet for a while, and they watch the sky slowly lighten from the faint but unerring approach of the sun up from beneath the horizon. Yellow autumn leaves fall with the breeze, landing in the water and casting ripples out from the impact. Maya reaches out and snags a leaf from the air, her claws puncturing its fragile surface. 

“I’m sorry,” Phoenix says. It feels like a deeper debt he’s leaving open if he doesn’t say it; she couldn’t collect on silence, but his guilt would still be there and that’s a hell of a thing, guilt. For some things he’s said today, and some things he’s said eight years ago, and for some silence over eight years. 

“I am too,” she says. “That you’re a jerk and that you didn’t trust me and that any of this happened and that we're both too petty to ever try and talk it out since. I kept wanting to hate you and I never could and I just got too tired to be angry.”

He had expected that anger, had wanted to wait for her to reach out, afraid that if he tried, she would be furious with him anew and tear him apart - this lack of yelling this morning was not the expectation. Maybe she’s matured - somehow, as queen in the pettiest, cruelest environment of them all, she’s grown up. Enough that she acknowledged her own failings there too, a little, even if she put the onus more on him. Deserve it as he might.

She catches another leaf and rips it apart and drops the pieces one by one in the lake. “I tried to do a lot of hating of you guys over the years. Sure I was mad at you, but it - it was more than that, considering when it was, you know? Just after - just not that long after…” She clears her throat. “I tried to hate them too, my mother and Sis, for leaving me to the throne, for making me be queen because if not me then it’s Pearly and I can’t make her do that. But I just kept thinking instead that I never knew either of them really. That you got more time with Sis than I did.”

And that time - and still, what would Phoenix do for more time with Mia? Real, actual time to learn from her, to speak to her and hear her voice in return, to share the office with someone more than a ghost. He had more time with her than Maya and now it still feels like nothing at all. 

“There’s something I wanted to ask you, because I’ve said everything else, because I kept thinking about her,” Maya says, and the pace of her voice picks up, faster and faster, the frantic way of someone who expects to be rejected in what they are saying. “And you don’t need to answer me now, you can think about it and get back to me, and whatever questions you have we can figure out, but—” She inhales sharply. “But um, whenever you die - whenever that’s gonna be, in another hundred years or whatever—”

What’s a human lifespan, anyway, and why would she have bothered to figure it out in the decade she’s been friends with humans. Maya’s relationship with the passage of time is like Edgeworth’s with money: barely an inkling that they, and not the rest of the world, are the odd ones out. I said a month, and it’s been two days; what do you mean you thought it’s been more than a month already? - What do you mean, a private jet?

“—Whenever that happens, can I have your heart?”

Phoenix knew that whatever she was asking was going to be bad, messy, ugly, and a bit terrifying, when the question started with “whenever you die”, but somehow this exceeds his worst expectations. He pictures her holding it bloody in her claws, or maybe, less messy but no less morbid, the Mary Shelley route, with a calcified heart instead. (Iris read Frankenstein in one of her literature courses, and thought the story of Shelley keeping the supposed remains of her dead husband’s heart was as romantic as anything could be. Phoenix had not agreed, exactly, though he also hadn’t argued, exactly, either; his aversion to the gothic horror of carrying around a loved one’s heart had wilted in the face of his infatuation and the giddy glee that she might like him enough to want a memento of him if something happened. Ironically back when his heart was still soft enough that it would burn up on a pyre, not like he is now, a hard rock that could survive the flames.)

“What?” he asks. “My heart?” 

“I mean,” she says, quickly, hurrying to get the words out but weirdly casual all the whole, “I’m not gonna ask you for your soul. Even if that’s where your memories are and memories are be the best way to know Sis - that’s your soul. I can’t just take that.”

Now there’s a statement that he would never expect one of the fae to make. Maya, always surprising him. 

“You’d just be worried that I’d make a mess with it after your death and end up bringing you back because your soul’s still kicking around,” she adds. “But your heart - all the feelings in there, even separated from memories, those still - you don’t ever truly forget some things. Some people.” Thalassa might disagree. Then again - Thalassa, devoid of memory, separated from her children, taking Machi under her wing and making him an inseparable part of herself, mothering an orphan even if she didn’t remember she was a mother herself. Kay, no idea at all who she was, but concerned enough about Edgeworth’s well-being that she would gladly be arrested if it caused less trouble for him. Phoenix himself, defending Maggey, not knowing he was a lawyer but still knowing that if he didn’t help her than no one else would do it right.

So then maybe Maya’s correct enough. “And I could figure enough out from your heart,” she continues. “And it wouldn’t - if you’re gone, you not having it wouldn’t be an issue, and I can’t cause trouble with it. There’s a reason that we never make deals with people asking them to sell their hearts.”

“There’s no power in that?” 

“Nah. I’ve never figured out what you would do with someone else’s heart, besides sentimentality. Y’know, like this thing I’m doing. Or will be, if you…” She looks down at her hands. “You don’t have to answer me now. Just think about it. And maybe help me workshop how to pitch this same idea, but about my mother, to Laurice without it sounding so weird.”

“I think it’s going to be very hard to make this sound less weird.” He forgets, sometimes, that he knew Mia just about as well as Maya did, but he’s never forgotten that Maya never knew her mother at all - she met her as a stranger, saw her die as a stranger, and learned the truth days later. He thinks about it when he thinks about Thalassa, and how Trucy has no memory of her, and god damn if he’s going to let her die a stranger to her daughter.

“Then we’ll just have to take some time to work at it,” Maya says. She glances sideways at him, from the corner of her eyes, a mischievous glint alight in them and a grin on her face. “Like, over breakfast?” She had begun to push herself up onto her feet, but she stops while waiting for an answer and stays squatting there, her hands on the ground in front of her to keep her balance, staring at him. She looks like she’s ready to pounce.

She’ll eat until his wallet is flat, she’ll eat until she drives him into credit card debt, and she’ll eat until it’s noon and he has an office to run. He’s got to get back to Apollo and Athena. He—

Maya waits, her smile starting to fall off at the edges. Phoenix can say anything but he knows the truth really is that he didn’t trust her, and could have; he did stop her from getting involved with the Kristoph situation and no matter how she pulled back out of frustration with what he did, he pushed her away too. She could have acted better, but so could he. 

“We are going to have to negotiate a limit to the amount you are allowed to order,” Phoenix says. “I can’t afford for you to order the whole menu.” Her smile blossoms back into full, her glamour holding but not quite, her mouth just a little too wide and teeth too sharp, too excited to contain herself. “The office isn’t exactly brimming with clients lately, and I’ve got a daughter too—”

Maya springs up. “Nick, Nick, come on, you’ve never had that many clients, and you can’t keep using the daughter excuse forever!” She hops over his legs, putting herself between him and the place where the dock meets the shore. “She’s got to be old enough to be getting money herself too, right?”

“She’s sixteen,” Phoenix says, knowing as he does that it’s a meaningless number to her. “So, no, not really, not yet. She’s working on it, been trying to get herself up on stage as a bona fide stage magician, but she’s still trying to find an in.” 

The Gramarye name carries some local power and status - they did stage tricks of their own, in between the real magic and shady deals, or it was more like the shady deals and real magic happened backstage after the stage performances were over. But it’s hard to chance on a sixteen-year-old, so Trucy’s been searching for someone to share the spotlight with her, make her less of a gamble. Someone who isn’t Valant. That ship sailed. 

“She’s reached out to some stage magician who ran with the Gramaryes a long time ago, though he didn’t take the name” - she doesn’t actually remember him herself, but there’s a lot of information still lying around in the Gramarye basement - “so depending on how that goes I might be checking with Pearls or you to vet him additionally and make sure he’s not—”

“Not a monster?” Maya finishes. “Not sold his soul or gone off to be a bastard like the rest of that coven? Yeah, you meet the guy and don’t like what you see, then we’ll talk on that one.” 

Apparently he’s been taking too long to stand up, because Maya grabs him by the forearms and yanks him back up onto his feet. He staggers, but she has a steely grip on him and keeps him upright. She doesn’t release him immediately, but stares at him, and he expects that she’s going to say something else about the Gramaryes and this guy whose stage name Phoenix can’t quite remember but he’d swear it’s literally just Mysterious because that’s just what performers do sometimes, shitty names - but she just stays silent another moment, and then another.

And she lets go of his arms to step forward and throw hers again around his shoulders, pulling him in against her and giving him a forceful snake’s squeeze. In his shock, it takes him a few stunned seconds to bring his arms up. “Missed you, Nick.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I missed you, too.”

[charismastaticarchive]

HC: dr. maruki takuto | mental health practioner representation

when i first finished persona 5 royal, i had the thought to myself that the game was almost comically anti-therapy. here is the one of the only pieces of media i have ever seen with an active, important counselor character, and.... to be honest, to begin with, it honestly feels like his social link is more you (a high school student) counseling HIM about his academic research paper. couple that with him ‘just wanting everyone to be happy and ignore reality’ and his boss fight where, instead of talking him down (bc who needs to talk about their problems, right), u fight him literally just fist fighting ur therapist in a denny’s parking lot basically (paralleling the fight with jose the actualization eggboy where instead of talking to jose about his feelings, u fight so u can both ‘vent your frustrations’), it seemed clear to me that SOMEBODY on the team had a problem with their therapist, or their guidance counselor, or both, and they had no intention of showing mental health practioners in a positive light

but then. i remembered something. while therapy CAN be a healing experience----therapists are still fallible people with personal problems, that make bad ethical calls that negatively effect their clients all the time. they are given a position of authority over another person’s very mental state, their thoughts and feelings, and their job to their client is to treat their innermost desires and feelings with not just care and kindness---but a clinical, ethical, standard-practice tried-and-true treatment. and the reality of mental health practices is that it is a constantly evolving field in which fallible mental health practioners with busy lives outside of their clients can fall prey to pop psych theories and their own emotions and experiences instead of doing their actual job, maintaining boundaries and ethical standards. and for the history of mental health services----mental health practioners have largely done a lot of harm to their patients.

one specific example i would like to use because it parallels kasumi and dr. maruki perfectly is the case of ‘sybil’---or, the two people in reality and not just the fictionalized account of it---dr. cornelia b. wilbur and shirley ardell mason, who popularized the ‘multiple personality disorder’ diagnosis.

shirley ardell mason was a woman who had been abused in her past, who had depression, and anxiety, and was very clearly mentally ill, and desperate for any kind of approval. dr. wilbur was her psychiatrist---who basically saw symptoms within shirley that COULD be multiple personality disorder, and suggested it to her patient so strongly that shirley started to act out the multiple personalities in order to make her doctor happy. she later was so scared of telling dr. wilbur that it was all an act that she left a note at her office explaining----dr. wilbur said that the note was merely written by one of her alternate personalities, and continued treatment. together, dr. wilbur and shirley went through a process of ‘reintegrating’ the personalities that would supposedly cure shirley of all the trauma, anxiety and depression that plagued her pretty much he whole life, a process that you can just see on tumblr that is widely hated for people with actual dissociative identity disorder, that they want no part in, and in the process of doing so, shirley became basically a ‘professsional patient’ as she had no means of paying dr. wilbur for their sessions other than sleeping on her psychiatrist’s couch and selling her life story as ‘sybil,’ which later became a tv movie that like 60% of every household in america saw. she became completely financially and emotionally dependent on dr. wilbur.

this is a real thing that happened and that led to further misdiagnoses as more and more people were coaxed into the diagnosis in the same way as shirley was, and is not any less real than any positive experience i’ve ever had with a therapist. and i’ve certainly had negative experiences with psychiatrists and guidance counselors and nurses and therapists alike.

dr. maruki literally takes whatever ideas he has or wants from people, and warps their realities to his desire for them. does ryuji really want to be on the track team? by the end of his social link, it seems that yeah, it’d be nice in another life, but it’s not the end of the world if he’s not on it. dr. maruki takes his own ideas about other people and amplifies them, changes them, pretty much preys on them to further his own ideals for an impossible ‘true’ world where no one suffers, when a lot of humanity had already accepted their suffering and were dealing with it in the healthiest manner they possibly could. but more damning than that instead of being a guidance counselor and guiding people towards their own ACTUAL goals instead of just what dr. maruki thinks would be their best possible life----dr. maruki abuses his position as a doctor and an authority figure in everyone’s lives to use them to make his own paradise in a way that affirms his worst fears and doubts about himself (that he doesn’t deserve to be a human being with feelings and has to be a completely selfless martyr of a being, that he doesn’t deserve to be happy with other people and that he must always remain outside of them, that he doesn’t deserve love in that respect, and that he can never have a true equal or a partner or even a real friend), without taking other people’s wishes into account as he claims to, and then making them completely reliant on him. he makes himself a god, he warps people into forgetting themselves and their actual goals so they can be ‘happy’, and in doing so---he has to continue this role of ‘god’ and ‘happy person’ forever, to the point where it’s very obvious no person in his world can be indepdent or make thei own actual decisions.

and yes, he does it out of kindness. maybe dr. wilbur really thought she was helping shirley. after all---it has to be appealing, as a pyschiatrist, to be able to diagnose someone with a disorder as multiple personality disorder was thought of at the time, in which you can ‘fix’ for them, reintegrate them, make them whole and happy and cured. but reality isn’t so simple. trauma isn’t so simple. being a mental health practitioner is a lot harder work than being a god---it’s being a human person, with their own human opinions, who has to constantly go to conferences and seminars and read books to stay up to date on on the latest information, it’s long hours of dealing with people in crisis who may never get out of crisis, when you still have to go home at the end of the day to rest and recharge yourself. it’s work, and it doesn’t pay well, and it doesn’t always seem to matter in the long run how much work you put in---but recognizing yourself as a fallible human being is the first step to getting better at being a mental health practioner. it’s how you can make sure you’re not doing stuff that harms your clients, or yourself. and it’s also how you become a better and more fulfilled person like, in general.

so. the final verdict on persona 5 royal’s representation of therapists is. it’s actually very realistic. and i hope people are not dissuaded by it to not to go to therapy. but that they know that some therapists, and some people, will be kind but ultimately misguided and wrong. and it’s always best to like. ya know. shop around when going to therapy for the first time. maybe don’t go to the first person that offers you snacks. like maybe see if they can tell you the framework in which they operate and if they say ‘fruedian’ or ‘cognitive pscience’ just uh. get the hell out of there lol

[the-sarcastic-trashmouth]

Would you stay if I’m sick? (Request)

Prompt: I saw you were asking for writing prompts for the IT fandom and I have read and loved all of your fics on Ao3 and would love to see you write something about Stanley’s OCD perhaps stozier or stanpat! Love your work!! ❤️--Anonymous

Summary: “You might want to visit a doctor. Are you aware that you show signs of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder?” She asked, causing Stan to blink a few times.

“Wait, wait--You think Stan the man has OCD?” Richie raised his hand before asking.

“It’s possible. I’m not saying that’s what you have. I’m saying that it’s something to look into.” She explains. 

“Is… Is something wrong with me?” Stan asked worriedly.

Pairing: Richie Tozier x Stanley Uris

Warning: Talks of OCD, ADHD, and getting help for those illnesses. I don’t have OCD and I don’t claim to understand half of what they go through. Please read with caution.

Stanley was someone who had a very precise routine from the time he woke up to the time he went to sleep. He liked order and things been done in a very specific way or his brain would replay the scene over and over in his head until he’d fix it. It was something he physically couldn’t help.

A lot of people looked at him weirdly because of how Stan did every task that he was given. It really wasn’t his fault that he was wired this way… It was like his brain had to obsess over every little detail in his life. If he didn’t… his brain would never turn off and it would make it almost impossible to function.

Some days were harder than others.

Once in a while, Stan’s brain would battle him to the point where eating wasn’t an option because he had missed three questions on his math test. He studied and studied for days to make sure that he would ace that damn thing, but somehow, he had missed three questions. It made knots form in his stomach as his mind chanted how he wasn’t good enough and that his parents are going to be upset with him.

“Stan?” It was Ben’s voice that finally knocked him from his spiraling anxiety riddle brain. “You okay? You haven’t touched your lunch yet.” He points out as Richie glanced away from Bev to look at Stan.

“I… I’m not… I’m not really hungry right now.” Stan explains calmly. He knew that if he ate something… his stomach would regurgitate it back up and that would only make things worse.

“Stanley.” Richie’s voice was soft as he nudged him so Stan would look at him. “What’s going on?” He asked quietly.

“I…” His hands were shaking hard as he winced, trying to stop them. “I just… I’m fine.” His eyes snapped open as he looked to Richie who was watching him with a worried expression.

“Stan--” He’s cut off when Stan looks to him.

“It’s stupid okay! Just fucking leave it alone.” He huffed before looking away with angered tears forming in his eyes.

“Okay, well now, I’m really worried. Whatever it is… I’m sure it’s not stupid.” Richie points out.

“Richie’s right… For once.” Bev snorts as Richie flips her the bird.

“Stan, please tell us?” Eddie asked, glancing at him with a frown.

“That… That math test we took today… I fucking missed three questions.” He then proceeded to slam his head down onto the table with a groan.

“What?” Bev busted out laughing. “That’s it?” She questioned as Richie frowns at her.

“Hey, it’s okay. I know you studied really hard for that test. You did your best.” Richie explains instead.

“And look what it got me. Fucking three missed questions. Even my best isn’t good enough. I’m such a failure. My dad is right… I’m a failure.” Stan whispered before he started to tug at his curls.

“Hey, hey whoa!” Richie yanks his hands out of his hair as he blinked at him. “Alright, let’s just calm down before you make yourself go bald. I love you and your curls thanks.” He comments as Stanley’s breathing started to pick up.

“He looks like he’s going to throw up.” Eddie pointed out warily before moving away from beside Stan. “Is he?” He asked worriedly.

“No, Jesus, Eddie. He’s not gonna fucking puke!” Richie huffed. “And if he does I’m turning him towards you!” He smirks at Eddie’s glare. “Stan, okay. How about we fix this?” He asked.

“How? How are we going to fix this? Huh?” Stan was getting angry because he just wanted his brain to shut up for a few seconds.

“Let’s talk to Mrs. Vivan. Maybe she can let you retake the test?” Richie offers quietly. “I mean you can tell her you weren’t feeling well. She likes you and she’ll definitely let her favorite student retake the test.” He explains.

“You… You think she would?” Stan asked quietly as Richie nods.

“After school today we can go talk to her. I’m sure she’ll be happy to help you.” He assures with a gentle smile.

“Okay… Thanks. I just… My head hurts.” Stan sighs, shoulders slumping as Richie took his hand in his own and squeezed it gently.

“Yeah, that big brain of yours is always racing.” He snorts as Stan’s face flushes before he looked away.

True to his word, Richie took Stan to see Mrs. Vivan after school to talk about the test. Stan was trying not to freak out, but it was so hard because… what if she said no? What if she told him he was a failure, too? What if Richie makes fun of him like the others because he can’t control his emotions when it comes to good grades.

That’s the one thing that he’s always been proud of. His ability to learn information in such a short amount of time impressed a lot of teachers and even his parents. To have this taken away from him… was like taking away the very foundation that made him Stan.

“Oh, hello Stanley, Richie,” She nods to them before smiling. “What brings you here? Something we need to discuss?” She asked, taking off her glasses before standing up from her desk.

“Yeah, about the test we took today. We were wondering if Stan could retake it.” Richie explains as Mrs. Vivan frowns softly before glancing at him.

“Why? You did excellent on that test. My highest score exactly.” She comments before sitting on top of her desk as she gestures for the boys to sit down.

“But I missed three questions. I can’t… You don’t understand.” Stan whispered softly. “I studied for this test really hard.” He felt tears flooding his eyes as he tried not to break down.

Richie’s eyes widened before he glanced at Mrs. Vivan who held the same shocked expression.

“Stanley, those… those three questions you missed were bonus points. They were for the next lesson we are going to learn. It just helps me to know what level everyone is at. Honestly, you had the right system, just came to the wrong conclusion.” She explains softly.

“But--” Stan bit his lip harshly before finally thumping down in his chair.

“Stanley, can I ask if you are taking any sort of medication?” She questioned as Richie and Stan both frowned.

“No, do I need to?” He resorted when she tilts her head.

“You might want to visit a doctor. Are you aware that you show signs of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder?” She asked, causing Stan to blink a few times.

“Wait, wait--You think Stan the man has OCD?” Richie raised his hand before asking.

“It’s possible. I’m not saying that’s what you have. I’m saying that it’s something to look into.” She explains.

“Is… Is something wrong with me?” Stan asked worriedly.

“No, not in the way you are thinking. Sometimes an illness can affect you mentally. This disorder in a sense is your brain battling you for many reasons. It could be something simple like checking to make sure you turned off a light in your room to something as complex as making sure every book is color-coded along with being in alphabetically order.” She gestures with her hands.

“You know… That kinda sounds like you, Stanny. I mean… I’m not saying it’s a bad thing… I just… You do have little quirks that you do a lot. I never really thought about it because that’s just who you are. Just like I have ADHD.” He points out.

“Okay, say I have this… illness. What is talking to my doctor going to do?” Stan turned his attention back to Mrs. Vivan.

“Well, they could recommend you to a therapist who could help you talk through these issues or even some medication that can help ease your mind. You can’t always control how your brain works despite many people thinking that you can. Your brain is wired differently than another student who doesn’t deal with the issues you face.” She comments before sitting up.

“Why… Why am I like this then?” Stan asked quietly, not meeting her gaze.

“Most people who have this illness either get it genetically or through their environment. In some cases, both of those things can play a role. Does that mean that you have it? No, it’s just something to think about. Some people just like order. Others need that order to function properly.” She explains as Richie glances at Stan who swallowed thickly.

“Thanks, Mrs. Vee.” Richie snags Stan’s arm before tugging him towards the door.

“Uh--If you want to retake the test still, Stanley. Just come on Monday and ask!” She calls as Richie waves to her in thanks.

“You okay?” Richie asked as they started for the exit of the school.

“No, what the fuck… Do you… Do you think I’m crazy?” Stan croaked out around a tightening throat.

“What? No! Jesus, dude! I would never think that. Look, like she said. It’s possible you don’t have it. That being said, it… it wouldn’t hurt. Maybe they can help you so you aren’t as stressed anymore. I’m worried one day that stress is going to kill you…” Richie laughs, but it sounds forced.

“Rich… You know I’m not… I’m sorry that I’ve been worrying you so much.” Stan whispered when he felt Richie’s fingers course through his hair.

“Of course I’m gonna worry about you, dipshit. I’m your boyfriend. That’s what boyfriend’s do. They worry and love each other. Look, if you don’t wanna talk about it anymore then we won’t. I’m here for you and you alone. But… Don’t think that if you do have OCD… that I’m not gonna love you or something. I loved you before… and I’ll love you after.” He explains when Stan looked to him with a wobbly smile.

“I love you too… You don’t think I’m broken? I mean… Look at my fucking family.” He laughs when Richie grins gently.

“Can’t be any worse than mine, baby bird. Besides, you think I’m broken because I have ADHD?” He questioned, causing Stan to look at him like he grew two heads.

“Are you an idiot? Of fucking course, not!” Stan huffed.

“Then why are you any different?” Richie asked as Stan swallowed softly before their foreheads touch.

“Thank you… I really don’t know what I’d do without you.” He whispered when Richie grins.

“I think you’d manage, but since I’m here. I make your entire life so much easier!” Richie placed a hand on his chest like he was some knight.

“More like you are the reason I’m stressed all the time.” Stan resorts back with a quirk of his brow.

“Blasphemy! By my own boyfriend of all things!” He cried in a high-pitch voice, making Stan laugh before he pushed Stan away. “Ah! Assault!” He dramatically flopped to the ground when Stan glanced around the roads to make sure no one was around.

“You’re a little gremlin,” Stan comments as Richie looks up to him with a grin. “But you’re my little gremlin.” He snorts and leans down before kissing Richie who immediately kissed him back.

“You’re goddamn right I am! The best fucking gremlin that this world will ever know!” Richie exclaims before standing up and dusting himself off.

“No, no touching me. We’re going to your place to get you some new clothes.” Stan comments, putting out a hand to stop Richie who pouts.

“Maybe we can look at some comics. I heard the others were going to the Quarry today, but I’d rather hang out with you.” He grins as Stan smiles.

“Okay, maybe… maybe you can convince me to talk to my parents about everything.” Stan whispered when Richie snorts.

“Ah, my darling dear Staniel… I can try my best, but your head is as thick as fucking iron. So it’ll take me a few tries.” He chuckles, causing Stan to push him back onto the ground. “Ah! Wait! Stan!” Richie cried as Stan started to walk away. “Wait! You ass! Stan!” He scrambled to stand up when Stan finally glanced back at Richie.

Stan offers him a warm smile that was saved for only Richie. Maybe tomorrow he would face this… maybe it wouldn’t be for another few months if not years… But one thing was certain. As long as he had Richie… Even if he did have OCD or even if he didn’t. He knew that he was going to be okay because Richie loved him for being him.