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smolstarthief · 4 years ago

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Persona 5/Persona 5 Strikers: Pro-Police or Anti-Police?

Hoo boy... So this honestly has been a LONG time coming on my end because I have seen so much of that debate on social media (Twitter namely) and I can see the points of BOTH sides but there have been moments where it just got out of hand... Especially whenever people tried to put in a more grey/nuanced take only to be slammed and taken out of context. Even repeatedly mentioning the interrogation at the beginning of P5 which, I will admit has gotten tiresome. At least for me, I do still feel for Joker and I wished the game acknowledged his trauma more but there's a thing called, "beating a dead horse" and this is one along with "Haru says ACAB" in Strikers (which was done THREE TIMES in the same arc and it got annoying fast, like shut up already! We get it!). So, let's dive in a little bit:

MAJOR SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT!!!

Persona 5/Persona 5 Royal

Now let me just say I know! Police in Japan are just as bad if not worse than the West and I STILL hate the idea of Makoto wanting to become a cop for such naive reasons (especially with what happened to Sae, her own sister!)... But there are at least some of form of nuances sometimes and by that I mean, I can see what they were trying to do? I do agree that P5/P5S backpedaled SEVERELY by deciding to sweep issues under the rug after addressing them and not continuing from such. In fact I feel like it could have been a hell of a lot better. But P5 did something different compared to previous games and addresses the issues DIRECTLY right at the beginning of said game! It was tense and horrifying, but needed. Of course... They then sweep it under the rug and act like nothing traumatic happened to our protag which is NOT a good look at all and I'm still pissed off about it. In the main game's case, it's portrayed as more black and white with only a SMALL amount of nuance like that cop that was trying to help Futaba when she went out by herself and got lost (which people ignore entirely by the way). So I CAN see where people got the "anti-police" message from... But that's only the tip of the iceberg as it's ACTUALLY more about Systematic Corruption, not exactly or JUST police corruption. Namely in politics with Shido and the Conspiracy (which is apparently still somewhat around in Strikers until Owada's downfall) controlling everything all the way to law enforcement. The force had been basically under his payroll (including the corrupt SIU Director before his death) whether by force or not (mostly not in this case though). Now honestly, the police depicted there are undoubtedly rotten to the core save for a VERY SMALL handful (the cop that was trying to help Futaba which, again, gets ignored by several). Look at the interrogators who ruthlessly beat and drug a minor without any second thought or remorse for example. But again, the black and white narrative the game kept unwittingly doing ended up being to its detriment in a way. I'm not defending those assholes AT ALL! They deserved every punishment given to them! But for a game that goes on about grey morality... It doesn't quite deliver on that. Still though, it does emphasize that it's more of the fault of the whole corrupt system, not just one part of it. There needs to be change and reform which is what our MCs were trying to do in a way (more like inspiring change but still). In the end, it's all about the following:

Corruption and abuse of power.

Again the police depicted in this game were incompetent at best, corrupt at worse with very few silver linings. But it's not just them but rather the one person responsible for the whole mess. Who had them under his payroll? Who controlled them and by extension all of Tokyo? Who was willing to dispose of anyone who "outlives their usefulness" or is perceived as a threat to what he wants (including his own family)?

SHIDO AND BY EXTENSION THE CONSPIRACY

Bottom line: They are definitely a problem but it's not just them.

"But, Joker and his trauma?"

I definitely understand that and still do. I fully believe he has and still has trauma with the police. Easy! But... I do feel like people go too far with it sometimes. It's hard to explain but there have been moments where people either use it as a justification/argument against someone trying to provide a more nuanced view of things or... Dare I say, depict him like a "uwu soft traumatized boi." Like I said, it's hard to explain on my end so feel free to ignore it. Everyone deals with trauma differently so there is STRONG chance that I'm overanalyzing it. I just remember moments where I just feel a little, I guess annoyed? I'm not sure exactly but final thing: I understand what he went through and I can't imagine how long it would take to recover but I hope he DOES overcome it.

"Sae? Akechi?"

Yep, even though their jobs are different, they are by and large members of law enforcement no matter how you spin it. Both were broken in a way. Akechi is pretty easy to explain with how Shido negatively impacted his life but not much about Sae, who dealt with sexism/misogyny at her workplace along with the trauma of her father's (also a cop) death. She no doubt had some idealism only to be hit with the fact that she's gonna have to use underhanded/downright illegal tactics to get by and even rise up the ranks. She, therefore ended up (well, nearly) corrupted herself before coming to her senses. That's honestly one of the BIGGEST REASONS why I felt like Makoto joining the force to become a police commissioner isn't a good, even a downright naïve, idea. I honestly would have been somewhat fine with it if it weren't for that fact among other things. Regardless of her willpower, it will go south fast.

Now... Onto Strikers!

Persona 5 Strikers

Since the game came out and I started playing it, I still feel like the system is still beyond saving, especially when attempting to do it from the inside. But I don't mind the added nuances that P5 didn't do much of. It's still continuing the critiques, just shows more of what does happen within said system and even has an ACTUAL officer (Zenkichi) say, "Yeah, my job sucks, everyone's corrupt, there are much better ways to do things and make a change but not this. I'm only staying because I have a daughter to take care of and it's all I know. I'm no different from them." Was it all handled well? I wouldn't say "yes" (Joker's trauma is BARELY addressed at all of course) but a little better than what P5's narrative did which only addressed the issues but not exactly follow up on them. Now to be fair... In the system, regardless of where you live, any one within it who remotely tries to do something or speak against it either lose their jobs or even go "missing" irl. Those have happened and it's more proof that yeah, it's rotten to the core. There's no denying it but regardless, that's NOT what the game is about at all. At least that's what I feel about it as it's only PART of the narrative. I think Zenkichi puts it best here:

Speaking of Zenkichi... Oh boy... Now I definitely understand some of the criticisms with him but honestly, he was the best written (PT) character I've ever encountered! He was honestly the perfect representation of those that genuinely want to help and do good, only to be held back by an extremely harsh reality. It was already hinted at with Sae but here? It 100 percent confirms just how harsh and even cutthroat it can be if it could break someone's idealism so badly. Even Kaburagi of all people thinks the same thing Zenkichi said:

Then there's his past and it's a tragic one! But let's look more at the decisions he ended up making:

While it was no doubt done to protect his daughter, he ended making a selfish decision along with a selfless one (which was brilliant!) with not only allowing the cover up of his wife's death and denying justice for her, but also ruining an innocent person and their family's lives.

It's horrible, but also... There's a grey area/nuance as with the rest of his character. It was both understandable, but also wrong as he, as Akane's Shadow puts it:

He sacrificed his values, his morals, all for the sake of having a peace of mind. Speaking of Akane, she's also an interesting case in a way that she more or less perfectly represents the more "black and white" views on justice in general. Namely the more toxic/biased kind. Her reasons are also understandable but she was also acting selfishly by only focusing on how SHE was effected by Aoi's death and not even considering those that were also grieving her death and/or that people grieve/handle grief differently than her. But back on topic.

Her own views and beliefs that law enforcement basically SHOULD be dismantled (mostly out of said childish bias and black & white views) and it's framed as WRONG and it's very much correct on that. Chaos and order are two sides of the same coin, one can't exist without the other. When I say ACAB, I'm calling for reform, defund, have the corrupt held accountable for EVERYTHING and even face jail time for their crimes! Defund the police, have the ones that arrest, harm, and even murder out of bias (race, gender, etc.), lose their badges/jobs and locked up, make improvements! It's saying that there IS still corruption out there and there's no denying it. But fully eliminating the law in general will just lead to more problems. Now granted, she's young and clearly doesn't fully understand why those views are ultimately wrong but still... It was a very interesting subject to tackle and I feel like they handled it well.

Now back to Zenkichi, he was at first in denial about his decisions ultimately being the wrong ones too and even tries to justify it. Of course, his Shadow said otherwise and that was when he finally admitted that he really did act no different from the criminals he despised. But it also doesn't mean he can't redeem himself and that's what ultimately leads to his new resolve:

That right there along with everything else! There's the nuance! And ultimately despite some hiccups, Strikers handled the grey morality and nuance beautifully! Especially regarding law enforcement! Dare I say, even better than the base game! It continues the critiques with no problem but also showing different sides and areas of it! There is good and evil, but what about in-between? What about the more greyer area? It still says that there IS corruption, sometimes even beyond saving but... Sometimes a small silver lining is hidden somewhere.

Now, the ultimate question:

Is P5 & P5S (namely the latter) Pro-Police or Anti-Police?

Personally, my answer is this: Neither.

Why? What theme do they both have in common?

JUSTICE

Someone puts it best on Twitter that the games are more pro-justice and I fully agree!

P5/P5S gives the idea about following your OWN justice, your OWN moral code and rules, paving your OWN path and not let others dictate it! That's what the MCs ultimately start to learn in both games. Therefore it's pro-justice. Again, do I agree that the system is beyond saving? Yeah. Do I at least acknowledge and understand what the narratives are trying to say and nuances regardless even if I don't agree with some writing decisions (ex: Makoto wanting to become a commissioner despite everything)? Also yes. But at the same time, don't judge a book by its cover for other people (not just law enforcement and politics mind you). Especially some that genuinely DO want to help at best. That there is nuance and greyness, just have to look closely. Some of the MCs are still TERRIBLY written and executed (even annoying) but the message was still somewhat there.

Final Thoughts

Now I fully understand how you all feel of course! I still believe in ACAB and even I agree that maybe I'm one to talk and have a lot more to learn about the world... This is just my own attempt at putting my own two cents in. If you disagree, that's fine! This is just what I've felt should be at least talked about more often. And I tried to phrase it as best as I can without coming off as insensitive or ignorant and if I did, I sincerely apologize for that! I'm not trying to say, come off as a "bootlicker" or any of the sort. I'm just trying show discuss more of the grey areas and nuances that are, more often than not, constantly overlooked. How one interprets both games is ultimately up to them. You, the player. And this is my own interpretation. Simple as that. I hope you all have a good day/afternoon/evening!

#starchild rambles #analysis #persona 5 #persona 5 royal #persona 5 strikers #p5 #p5r #p5s #p5s spoilers #p5r spoilers #p5 spoilers #long post

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doctenwho · 5 years ago

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Hardy’s Cure for Sadness

Hello! Sorry this took a while, I couldn’t figure out for the life of me how to start it! I loved the request, and it was so fun to write when I figured out where I was taking it! Thanks for the request! :D

I’m glad you like my work! I hope you like this one too!

Warnings: None

Word Count: 3,270

Summary: Check the prompt above!

(Gif doesn’t belong to me! Credit to the creator!)

The day had been long. You’d known when you got the job that it would be long hours and lots of dutiful work, but you’d never really thought a workplace could work you as ragged as the Wessex Police station did. You weren’t even an officer, instead a receptionist, which was quite possibly more work than being an actual officer.

Not only did you have to deal with moody citizens filing reports and asking to speak with officers, or detectives, but you also had to deal with the moody officer's upstairs who were always irritated when you phoned up for someone. They were always frustrated with you for disturbing them, when you were really just the middle man.

Then there was dealing with the media, and attempting to console people who came in upset, or angry. There was being the person who’s calls got ignored upstairs when people were busy, and you were left with antsy citizens.

And you understood it all, you couldn’t even imagine being an officer and have to deal with the gruesome parts of the job, like Danny Latimer’s murder for example.

You really couldn’t win being a receptionist at the station.

The officers barely noticed you, let alone spoke to you. A few did, a pleasant few, like Ellie Miller, who was friendly and cheerful with everyone, but the majority of the office barely glanced your way unless they needed something from you.

It was tiring to say the least.

You leaned back in your chair, glancing around briefly for anyone who may need you, before letting your head fall back against the office chair and rubbing at your tired eyes.

It was just one of those days where you felt sad, but didn’t know why. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, it hit you like freight truck. It wasn’t even that you were sad about anything in general—just... blah. The kind of feeling you had where you wanted nothing more than to leave the office and tuck yourself into bed at home.

And honestly, being stuck in the office really didn’t help those feelings.

You gave a tired sigh, pulling yourself back towards the desk and returning your aching eyes to the screen of documents you were going over before they could be sent up to be looked over by one of the officers. A glorified proof reader is what the guys upstairs thought you were.

It wasn’t even in your job description, but you were too nice to turn them away, and one always turned into two, and then three, and before you knew it, you were elbow deep in documents.

You didn’t hate your job here. Everyone was nice most of the time, and as much as you liked to complain, you had it pretty good. The pay was good, and it was worth it to stick around for the few people upstairs who respected you and held friendly conversation whenever you were around.

Plus, you always got to use the break room upstairs and take free coffee, or tea to have at your desk downstairs.

It had its share of pros and cons like any other occupation; some days were just harder than others. And for no reason. Nothing prompted your sadness today, it was just what it was.

It was getting quite late in the evening. You couldn’t really leave until the officers upstairs did, since you and your fellow receptionists were usually first to arrive, and last to leave. The three receptionists who swap out, the Chief Superintendents, the Detective Chief Inspector and the Detective Inspector were the only ones to have keys to the building.

It was both a blessing and a curse. You didn’t have to wait in your car for the building to be unlocked when you arrived early, but then again, at the end of the night when all the higher ups left at their usually time, but others were still busy with cases, you couldn’t leave until they did.

Thankfully though, it was usually DI Hardy and DS Miller who stayed later, so you could leave, so long as DI Hardy was around. He was usually good about staying behind late and locking up when he left (if he did leave for the night).

He’d been nothing but nice to you since he’d arrived. And that was a change of pace, since most of the higher ups tended to just breeze passed the reception desk to get to work. DI Hardy had been pleasant to you, at least in his own gruff kind of way.

But still, how most of the building talks about him, you’d never have imagined him to be as nice as he was to you. He usually stopped by for conversation, thought it was a bit awkward at times. You thought it was endearing though, since he always looked nervous, but still put in the effort to talk with you when he had the time.

Less could be said about anyone ranked higher than DI Hardy. The officers were usually friendly enough as they passed by, throwing quick greetings and friendly waves over their shoulders, but it was refreshing that Hardy too the time to check in from time to time. Especially since no one else considered a boss ever did.

You focused back onto your screen, eyes straying tiredly to anything that wasn’t bright and blinding in the evening hours. You liked to keep track of who came and went every day. You knew each member of staff by heart, so you could always keep track of when people were leaving.

If you were correct, that meant it was just Ellie and DI Hardy working away.

So, technically you could leave, but you did have more work to finish up before tomorrow, and you’d rather get it done now, instead of coming in early tomorrow to complete it.

You continued on, fingers flying over the keyboard with practiced ease.

You didn’t bother looking up from your document until Ellie appeared before you, smile bright, but tired. “You’re still here?” she asked kindly.

“Just finishing up,” you told her, hoping you’d returned the smile, “is DI Hardy still in the building?”

“He is,” Ellie gave a grimace, “sittin’ in his office staring at the files of Danny Latimer’s case.” She gave a tired sigh, rubbing her eyes. You knew the thought of the case exhausted anyone involved, Ellie and Hardy probably the most of anyone, since the two of them had been the most dedicated in getting justice for Danny. “You can leave now, if it was us who you were waiting for. Hardy will lock up when he’s on his way, that is if he even leaves.”

“That’s alright,” you gave her a small smile, “I’ve still got some work to finish up before I can head out.”

“Alright, well,” Ellie gave you another bright smile, “I’ll be off then, my boys are waiting for me.”

“Have a good night, Ellie,” you gave her a small wave as she moved towards the doors.

“You too,” Ellie grinned, “don’t let Hardy keep you here too late, alright?”

You returned a good-natured laugh as Ellie finally stepped out into the cool evening outside the office. You watched her retreating form for a moment, before it disappeared from sight, and you tiredly let your attention drop back to your computer screen.

You continued on working on your documents. It was a couple hours past the time the station usually closed. It made sense that the station closed relatively early, compared to stations in bigger, urban areas. In comparison, Broadchurch had very little crimes, and it was usually petty crimes such as trespassing, theft, and occasional breaking and entering.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been staring at your screen when Hardy finally made an appearance in the room. You’d just kind of given up on typing, and was instead just staring at the screen.

The man looked like deer caught in the headlight of a vehicle when he finally noticed you still sat at the lobby desk. He eyed you for a moment, blinking at your slouched form before clearing his throat, “(Y/N),” he bowed his head in a greeting, “what’re you still doing here? It’s late.”

“I could ask you the same thing,” you shrugged, fiddling with your fingers, “I was just finishing up a few things for tomorrow.”

The man looked you over from where he was standing across the room, eyeing your slouched position and looking all the way to your hands, which weren’t anywhere near the keyboard. You just now noticed you really didn’t look like you’d been working at all.

How long had you been staring off into space?

“Are... are you alright?”

You blinked at the man. He was still in the exact same spot he’d been when he noticed you, but he was close enough to catch a glimpse over the tall divider protecting the computers from onlookers when they were stood at the counter.

“Yeah, of course,” you cleared your throat, you’d hoped you could’ve just hidden away, or not been noticed like how Ellie had just walked by. But Hardy seemed a bit more observant. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You just... look sad.” The man frowned, then, he seemed to back track, “not that I mean anything by that... it was just... ah, never mind. You look lovely as always.”

“No, no,” you sighed, “you’re right. I’m... well, not really sad. Or, not sad for any reason, you know? Just... blah.”

“Ah,” Hardy gave a slight nod, looking towards you before looking away abruptly. “I was... just heading out to eat if you’d like to join me?” He paused, glancing at you, then looking down at back of the screen in front of you, “unless you’re still working, then disregard me.”

“You wanna go out to eat now?” you asked with a raised eyebrow. Hardy once again looked like a deer caught in the headlight, blinking nervously, “I mean, I’d love to, of course, but... isn’t everything closed?”

“The bar will be open,” the man shrugged, “I’m not much of a drinker, but there’s fairly good food there?”

“Are you sure?” you couldn’t help but ask.

You weren’t too sure what to think of this situation. Alec Hardy had been nice to you, he had since his arrival, of course. But the most interaction the two of you’d really had was when he’d occasionally bring you a tea from the breakroom; there were glances, and nods of acknowledgment, or a rare, tiny smile as he walked past. Conversations were short and sweet, and usually in passing.

But he’d never prompted anything like... eating out. You weren’t sure he’d suggested eating out with anyone in the office, other than maybe Ellie. And that was usually Ellie talking the man into it with her friendly hard-to-say-no-to charm. Hardy liked to keep to himself, which was why you were both unsure of the current interaction, but honored all the same.

“Sure,” Hardy have a dip of his head, looking out at the car park where your single car remained, “wouldn’t’ve offered if I wasn’t sure.”

He paused for a second, looking around before he continued in a soft voice, “I mean, I’d like if you came with me.”

And that sealed the deal for you.

“Alright,” you gave him a small smile. “I’d like to join you.”

You almost laughed at the surprise on Hardy’s face. It was funny as much as the look was sad. You could only imagine the previous rejection that would’ve curved that look. You couldn't understand why anyone would turn the man down—they should be happy at getting anything other than the stony, hard faced detective that was keeping Broadchurch safe.

“Right then,” Hardy cleared his throat, “shall we then?”

“Sure,” you replied, organizing your papers for the morning just a bit before standing and rounding to the other side of the desk. “To the Trader’s Hotel then?”

“Yes,” the man pushed the door open for you, and you stepped out quickly. You watched as Hardy locked the door behind himself after he’d joined you out in the chill of the ocean air. The two of you decided quickly between walking and taking your car.

The hotel wasn’t far, but Hardy seemed to be set on you not walking back to the station alone when the two of you were finished eating. It was a nice enough night that you’d be pushing to just stroll along, but you couldn’t deny that the thought of walking to your car with the person who killed Danny Latimer still out there, didn’t scare you.

You’d almost forgotten that Hardy still lived at the Trader’s Hotel, just because he’s been around for weeks already, and you barely ever remembered he wasn’t a native to Broadchruch.

The drive over to the hotel was nice. It was quiet, and there was next to no traffic since the whole of Broadchurch tended to shut down in the late evening. Neither of you said very much, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. You knew Hardy just wasn’t a talkative person, but him inviting you out to eat was nice gesture.

Hardy led you into the hotel, taking a turn and leading you into the small bar section. Becca Fisher gave the man a nod, before noticing you following behind him. She raised a confused eyebrow, but gave you a friendly wave anyways.

The two of you sat at a table, and Becca was quick to join you and take your orders.

Conversation flowed relatively easily while the two of you waited for your food and drinks. Neither of you had ordered any alcohol, since you still had to drive home, and Hardy had said he wasn’t much of a drinker. You’d ordered a meal off the menu you’d had once or twice, while Hardy seemed to order a usual, since Becca didn’t even ask him what he wanted.

The two of you talked about work. You talked of the office before Hardy’s arrival, and how much had changed since he’d come. And he told you bits and pieces of his past station and some of his memorable cases. The two of you talked about nothing relating to Danny Latimer’s case, or anything relevant happening at the station.

“I swear,” he told you, voice light as he sipped on his water, “that was the weirdest arrest I’ve ever had to make in all my years.”

“Well, you don’t forget something like that,” you snorted a laugh into your own water. You set your glass back on the table and took another forkful of your meal, smiling widely at Hardy. “That’s hilarious.”

Becca had brought your food out quite quickly since the bar was relatively dead at this time. You dove into your food, starving after staying later than you usually did and not having eaten since lunch. Hardy wasn’t as excited to receive his food, but Ellie often complained in good fun that her boss didn’t ever eat or sleep, as far as she knew.

He’d always seemed like a perfectly normal guy to you, just... a bit different. He was far more normal than the rest of the station thought him to be, but then again, everyone else was going off looks where you and Ellie were seeing him for more than his harsh speech and stiff mannerisms.

Alec watched you across the table, fondly dropping his gaze whenever you looked back at him.

“What?” you could help but ask, smile small as you evened yourself after laughing at his story.

“Nothing,” he shrugged, “you have a very nice smile is all. I missed it earlier when I saw you.”

“You missed it?” you asked in surprise, furrowing your eyebrows at the man across the table, “why?”

“I don’t know,” he replied honestly, “you’ve just been a very nice person since I arrived. I know I’m not well liked, but you never really treated me any differently than you treated anyone else. I got kinda used to your smile, I guess.”

You didn’t say anything, watching him as he pushed his food around his plate more than he ate it. He looked up at you again, giving you a small smile, “it was the first thing I noticed when I met you, and the first thing I noticed wasn’t here this evening.”

You weren't sure how to respond. How was Alec Hardy this sweet, but still nicknamed ‘shit-face’ by the others in the office. Not a single other person had noticed your droopy mood. You’d been blah all day, and no one said a thing. But the first time Hardy really sees you, he’s noticed and he’s trying to cheer you up.

“No one else noticed,” you mumbled, setting your fork down on your nearly empty plate.

“They’ll all have a long time to wait before they’re observant enough to be a detective then,” Hardy said. And it almost sounded like a joke. Hardy looked towards you, giving you another tiny smile. Hardy had made a joke.

You gave a surprised laugh, at both the joke itself, and the fact that Hardy had made a joke. You gave the man a smile, to which he returned a fond look, smiling at the smile gracing your lips.

“Are you finished eating?” Hardy asked softly, pushing his own plate away. He’d barely eaten anything, but you were not close enough to him to comment on it. Yet.

“Yeah,” you yawned, “it’s pretty late. I’m exhausted.”

“It is late,” Hardy nodded, waving Becca, who’d been watching the two of you almost the whole time you’d been sitting at the table, over for the cheque. She came over, handed him the cheque, then gathered the two plates and the glasses you’d both used for water.

“I’m glad you could join me,” Hardy continued to speak, pocketing the cheque before you could see and pay your half, “it was far better having you here to eat with me, than eating alone.”

“I’m glad you invited me,” you gave him another small smile, “thank you for the invite, I think it was just what I needed to cheer me up. I don’t feel as sad anymore.”

“Anything to get that smile back on your face,” he replied with what you’d almost assume was an uncharacteristically sweet voice. You were starting to think he was just a big, soft teddy bear underneath all that gruff Detective Inspector, “don’t worry about paying, I’ve got a tab that Becca has added to the room.”

“Are you sure?” You frowned, almost feeling bad about Hardy paying for you. Sure, you’d come because he invited you, but you should still pay for yourself.

“Yeh,” Hardy nodded, standing up and waiting by the table for you to stand as well, “it was my treat. I invited you. Now, you should get home. I look forward to seeing that smile of yours tomorrow.”

The man walked you out to your car, standing there until you drove away. You watched in your rearview mirror as the man turned to enter the hotel as you turned out of the parking lot. You couldn’t wipe the smile off your face if you tried. This super late meal was all you really needed, and Hardy was an absolute saint for providing it.

And if the smile on your face the following morning wasn’t as fond and bright as the evening before with Hardy, the coffee sat on your desk, made perfectly to your liking, when you walked into the office certainly would’ve made it.

<><><><>

Hope you enjoyed! As always, feel free to prompt again if it wasn’t what you were looking for! Wasn’t sure how to go about this, but I hope it’s alright!

#alec hardy #alec hardy x reader #broadchurch #reader insert #writing prompt #fanfiction #fanfic

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secret-rendezvous1d · 4 years ago

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“i need a hug”

hello, hi!

i definitely don’t think this is a one-off thing anymore and this blog may be on the way to merging into a harry styles + matthew gray gubler blog so i’d like to think that that is a new exciting venture people will . i’m really enjoying writing about a new scene, a new character and a new life to plan out and write about. the stories don’t essentially follow each other so they can be read anyhow and in any way but i’d like to think they all follow the same storyline/timeline so they link in that way.

like, reblog and give me some feedback. it’s greatly appreciated and it helps me work out what you want to see and what you are after.

thank you. enjoy.

“i need a hug” spencer reid x female reader (reader insert imagine) word count; 1.7k.

summary; eventually, the emotions of working a case gets to yn and she needs an escape after a briefing in the form of her boyfriend, spencer.

There are moments in YN’s job as a secondary communications liaison that she loves.

She got to work alongside a team of agents who were funny and smart and trusting and kept her safe in situations out in the field and they brightened her mood whenever she felt a little down in the dumps from a long day, especially a case that was vigorous and vicious in its attacks; she got to work with a woman, who was a mother to the sweetest little boy she’d ever graced and held and loved in her life, who shared the same emotions as her when they read through case file after case file and took in some of the most heart-wrenching information from an unsub’s killing; she got to work in an office with her boyfriend, sitting opposite him as he worked on his reports or involuntarily played a game of Chess with whoever walked passed and saw a potential move, sharing secret glances and meeting in the kitchenette for a cuddle before work and Hotch had them back to their desks in a rush.

She loved her job and she loved what she did in the field.

Knowing she was saving lives and saving a town from a sadistic killer, protecting people from another unsolicited attack on the vulnerable and the innocent, putting someone behind bars because they deserved it. Feeling the sense of euphoria washing over her every time she managed to catch a killer, hairs raising when they finally admitted to what they’d done for years without ever getting caught, ending someone’s narcissistic trait because they could no longer show the ego they’d been growing by thinking they were subtle enough to hide from their crimes. The looks on the faces of the known unsub, when she bashed out fact after fact that they’d worked out by not only fishing on his background but by the evidence and the profile they gave to themselves with how and who they killed, made her feel proud to catch them; they could no longer do what they long to achieve.

But there were some moments of her job that she hated.

Having to read about the brutal killings of women her age or women who were tortured before they died was enough to have her head reeling in all kinds of situations and possibilities of it still happening somewhere in the world because they’d yet to find another serial killer to arrest, because these women had no safety in their death and they were tortured long before the incessant torturing came to an end; having to read over and see crime-scene pictures of innocent children and teenagers who had died in the crossfire of a criminal’s poor psychological behaviour, where they never thought about the consequences, and never had an inch of remorse or sympathy running through their veins because they were never given the love and the compassion from a parent as they grew older; having to read such heartbreaking backstories on why someone had turned from the purest of children to such a evil person who forced a vendetta upon anyone that passed them or did them wrong and learning that broken families weren’t always so well worked out.

“You can show emotion on the job, you know? You don’t have to hide behind a coffee cup,” Spencer suggested, standing beside YN as she leaned against the kitchenette counter, a warm mug of steaming coffee in her hands and held to her lips as if she were taking a lengthy sip. Partly so the rim could cover her eyes, because she was sure tears would escape any given minute, and partly so she could keep her hands warm on the chilly day it was outside. He followed her as soon as she left the briefing room, a wave of concern swallowing him as he watched her rush down the stairs and disappear, a finger swiping her cheek that she assumed went ignored. “You don’t think I’ve seen any of the team shed a tear over something brutal?”

“Rule number one, Spence; no crying on the job. Hotch’s suggestion,” she hummed, looking in the direction of the briefing room and seeing everyone packing up their belongings from the table and carrying their own case files under their arms as they walked back to their desks to prep for whenever the wheels were due up on the jet, “it never gets any easier, no matter how many times I give those briefings and read the notes and see the photos.”

By it, he assumed, was coming into a room full of people who were waiting for what next dreadful thing had come their way and having to speak about a murder that she had to think about, in depth, in order to gain some understanding as to what direction she needed to take the briefing into, so she could explain exactly what they were expecting to do upon their arrival to the scene, reliving the killings in her head like it was something she saw with her own eyes. That, alone, was enough to drive someone off a job that they loved if it was something they had to speak about on a daily basis, thinking about death as soon as they stepped foot out of their front door in the morning.

“Kids, Spencer. I can just about cope with the cases on murdered prostitutes and the drug addicts and the sex workers but kids,” she sighed in diselief and looked at him with forlorn eyes and felt her bottom lip quiver behind the white ceramic resting against her mouth, “there are children going missing every day and there’s someone doing that to them. A grown adult. Someone walks the street with the purpose of taking children from their families like they could treat them any better.”

Spencer ignored all protocol of ‘romance in the workplace’ and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close to his side and nuzzling his nose into her hairline, the baby hairs growing beneath her fringe tickling her nostrils but the smell of her shampoo made it all the much better; strawberry-scented and sweet and it smelt like home. Home was the smell of strawberry, the presence of his girlfriend and a bubble that only they were in. His palm resting on the curve of her shoulder, fingers rubbing up and down on the bare skin of her upper arm showing from the short-sleeved blouse she wore to work that day, lips pressed against her temple in a reassuring manner. He could feel the eyes of Prentiss and JJ watching them, no doubt cooing and guffawing over the sweet sight they rarely saw, but he chose to ignore them and instead let his cheeks flush a hot pink. Let them stare; he felt content and that’s all that mattered in the moment.

“Working a case and having a good outcome is great. To see that child when we solve the case, albeit seeing them beaten and dirty and naivety, it feels amazing to know they’re reunited with those who vow to keep them safe from that moment on and who never stopped looking for them, not an inch of hope given up,” YN sighed, tilting her head to the touch of his lips and closing her eyes, content with the bubble they’d blown around themselves in that moment, his eyes soft and scanning her features, “I don’t know how you throw yourself into it and not struggle with the aftermath or the before of it all.”

The silence lingered in the kitchenette and, even though there was a sense of being watched, neither of them cared. One day or another, Spencer knew there would be a specific case that tore his girlfriend to the ground and made her show her true feelings towards something she was expected to work on, a case that made her struggle to contain her emotions and that one day had come, much quicker than he expected but he knew it was . All he needed to do was reassure her that, no matter what happens, they’d do the best they can in situations that should have them panicked.

“I question that myself sometimes,” he admitted. Inhaling deeply, he got a proper scent of the coffee wafting from the cup still held into her hands, before he breathed out a sigh and felt a little weight lift from his shoulders. “You’ll be okay. You help us out more than you think you do in cases that mean a lot more to you.”

“Do I?”

“Of course,” he craned his body away from her so he could look down and give her the sweetest, warmest smile he could muster up, “I always feel so proud of you when you give us a huge lead over something we missed. Especially the leads that take us to the right place. They call me the genius but you,” he tapped her on the nose with his index finger and grinned, “you can be the genius better than me sometimes.”

She blushed and looked down at the milky contents of her coffee, the steam hitting her face and adding the heat of her face, a sheepish smile permanent on her lips that she tried to hide as she took a sip and swallowed the hot liquid and allowed it to burn her throat. Burning in a warming way rather than just to hurt herself.

“C’mon, wheels for the jet go up in thirty. I need to pack my desk up and you need to grab your go-bag,” he reminded her, pulling away from her and removing his arm from around her shoulders, taking a step towards the doorway and turning his back to her, “try not to let the briefing bother you until we touch ground. We’re not there yet so we can’t base any confirmations for anything on anything.”

He could hear her chug the rest of the coffee from her mug, shaking his head in disbelief because now she was bound to be bouncing off the walls in a tight-spaced jet for over an hour, making a mental note to keep her off the coffee on the plane and to have her drinking water. His hand touched the door handle and, as he pushed his weight down to open the door, she spoke up and gathered his attention.

“I need a hug,” she said before he left the room, Spencer spinning around on his heels to look at her, a coffee-stained mustache clinging to her upper lip that her tongue peeked out to collect and a bright spark behind her eyes, “before we get plunged into work and we can’t show romance or anything, I just- I need a hug.”

#spencer reid #spencer reid imagines #spencer reid x reader insert imagines #spencer reid x reader insert fic #spencer reid x yn imagines #spencer reid x yn fic #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds imagines #matthew gray gubler #matthew gray gubler x reader insert imagines #matthew gray gubler x yn fics #matthew gray gubler x yn imagines #matthew gray gubler imagines

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dameafterdark · 5 years ago

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Fanning the Flames [Roy Mustang x Black Femme Reader]

CW: workplace sex, oral sex, vaginal penetration, blow job, body worship, pubic hair, making out, light femdom, tickling, enthusiastic consent, boss/employee relationship, semi-public sex, porn with plot, BBW reader

WARNING! The contents of this fic are NSFW! Read at your own risk!

word count: 5769

summary: After transferring to Central Command, you’re determined not to let a certain smooth-talking colonel distract you from your job duties.

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You never could have imagined meeting a man like him when you walked through the doors of Central Command. But then again, trivial things like infatuation and love making were the last thing on your mind. Bright eyed and eager to impress, what mattered most to you were your ambitions. You didn’t have time to fool around with romance; a cushy job in Central was everything you could have hoped for as a fairly new recruit. And besides, the higher ups didn’t look too kindly upon fraternizing.

You had heard of the twenty-something aspiring general long before you sent in your letter of acceptance, but didn't think much of him. You learned long ago not to get involved with military gossip, especially the kind that involved sleazeballs like him. You know, the type of man that flirted with anything on two legs with a pretty face. You barely liked guys on a good day, so you were certain you’d have no trouble rejecting his advances. Lay low and work hard was the motto you repeated to yourself every morning as you ironed your uniform.

Unfortunately, your name was on everyone’s lips before you had the chance to introduce yourself. It couldn’t have been avoided, and you were naive to think it could. Being the only non-native Amestrian in the Central forces was mostly to blame, but you figured your looks also had something to do with your sudden popularity. After all, you were below average height, and your round curves rivaled the thin waifish figures of most Amestrian women. It definitely wasn’t the “ideal” body of a soldier, but that never stopped you in the past. Your brown skin, head full of tight curls, and full lips were impossible for others to ignore. You demanded attention whenever you entered a room, whether you wanted it or not.

And as soon as the two of you made acquaintances, you knew something was bound to happen eventually.

From the moment he uttered that first sultry “Hello” and took your gloved hand in his, kissing the back of it like he was some sort of prince out of a fairy tale, your heart decided on its feelings faster than your brain could process. He pushed the knife in deeper with a little coy smirk that made your breath hitch and your stomach tighten.

“(Y/N), at your service,” you stated, doing your best to hide the tremor in your voice. “It’s an honor to make your acquaintance, Colonel Mustang.”

“Please,” he said as he let go of your hand, his eyes never leaving your own. “Call me Roy.”

Those four little words sparked the first ember, and from then on you walked with fire in your chest and heat pressed against your cheeks. And no matter how often you dampened those flames, they always reignited into an inferno.

You weren't the one to give into your primal urges, though. You were a professional, for God’s sake, and after clawing your way up through the ranks you’d be damned to throw away years of hard work for a pair of bedroom eyes. Especially when so many others only saw your job offer as an Affirmative Action-esque handout.

It’s not worth it, you’d mumble under your breath while sorting through piles of paperwork, doing your best to avoid meeting the colonel’s gaze as he sat across the room from you. Knowing what might transpire if you did. For weeks you daydreamed about making that connection with those steely grey eyes that followed your shapely figure wherever you walked, most likely imagining what was underneath. Truthfully, you wanted him to want you. You desired to be desired by the man that tossed out flirtatious remarks right after another, remarks you pretended to hate yet secretly made you giddy. Steely eyed with a boyish charm, he was 100% your type. And you had no idea what to do about it.

At first, you resisted him under the pretense of “work professionalism” and your “commitment to duty”. Sure, you'd play with him a little every now and then just to watch him squirm. Pursing your lips in the shape of a kiss whenever you caught him staring, bending over with the right side showing after “accidentally” dropping something in front of him, giving him a peek at the black skin tight crop top you wore in lieu of a bra whenever you stretched your arms.

And he'd respond by taking every opportunity to get close to you. Like placing a hand on your waist whenever he moved past you and letting it linger a few seconds longer than it should have, or coming up behind you to whisper something in your ear until goosebumps lined your spine.

“Your uniform is looking pristine today, (Y/N),” he complimented you one day after you dropped off another pile of urgent documents on his desk. “But I know something that will look better on you.”

You rolled your eyes in response, but decided to humor him.

“And what would that be, sir?”

“Me.”

You couldn’t help but laugh as you made your leave. Sure, it was predictable, but it was earnest, and the more desperate he got the more it amused you.

It was all in good fun, at least in the beginning. But after the first couple months, you could sense his growing agitation as each day passed. His movements became strained, his eyes hungrier, his muscles more tense. One day, as you sat at the edge of his desk with your ass just inches away from his hand, you could visibly see him clench his fist as if fighting against an insatiable urge. The sight gave you a rush of power unlike any other.

By the end of your three month mark, the entire department was making bets on when the two of you would finally hook up. Which became a nuisance in the eyes of one person in particular.

That’s right, it wasn’t just your position you had to worry about. Although most of the other military members were quite welcoming to you on that first day, First Lieutenant Hawkeye was the exception. She gave meaning to the phrase “if looks could kill”. Sure, you pretended not to notice the daggers she shot in your direction every time you dared to banter with the roguishly handsome colonel, but that didn’t make it any less intimidating. However, you were no stranger to workplace rivalry, especially in the military. No blondie was going to run you out, not after you worked your ass off to get there.

All of your resolve, however, was put to the test one fateful Friday evening.

Central Command was nearly empty. The rest of the officers had gone home for the day (or were sent home, in Hawkeye’s case, but you didn’t find that out until much later). Apart from a few stragglers hanging around in the hallways, you were pretty much the only one left… apart from him, of course. You’d only been there for a few months, so you had taken every opportunity to build your reputation as a workaholic, refusing to go home unless ordered to. You were hoping it would show your diligence and dedication to the right people. You could practically taste the promotion, you just had to hang in there a little longer. If you could resist the colonel for another few months, you’d be a shoe in. You just knew it.

You headed towards his office to drop off one last pile of paperwork. One he was certain to ignore until the following week, but at least it would’ve been out of your hands and his responsibility. You gave the door a quiet, yet firm knock with the back of your knuckles and waited for permission to enter.

“Come in,” he crooned, his voice sounding more alluring than authoritative.

You opened the door slowly, clutching the thick pile against your chest before heading inside. When it closed behind you, you clicked your ankles together and gave your colonel a firm salute.

“At ease,” He said off-handedly, placing the file he had in hand onto his desk. You heard him crunching on something, most likely one of those peppermints he always kept by the phone. He focused his rigid eyes onto you, clasping his hands together to form a small tent for his chin to rest on.

“The paperwork you requested, sir,” You gave a staunch reply, hoping to hide the nervous butterflies that suddenly began to flutter about in your belly. Ah, what was it about that look in his eye that made you feel so skittish? It wasn’t so intimidating when there were people around, but now that you were finally alone...

“I told you, there’s no need for these formalities when it’s just the two of us.”

“With all due respect, this was how I was trained. Sir,” You put extra emphasis on that last title and flashed him a cheeky grin, knowing how much he loved hearing you call him that. It did something to you, seeing his breath hitch and his grip tighten. If he was attempting to hide his arousal, he was doing a pretty shoddy job.

“Were you also trained to put in 12 hour days without clearance?”

Welp. He got you there. So much for all that overtime pay. Not like it would've been approved by HR, anyway.

“...No, sir. But you asked to have these forms done by the end of the week, and I promised to follow through.”

The colonel raised an eyebrow in amusement, not bothering to show restraint as he looked you up and down. The way his eyes were devouring you was enough to make you question all your morals.

“Or maybe you were just looking for an excuse to get me alone.”

You felt your face heat up at his comment, which only got worse when he flashed that usual shit eating grin of his.

“And what if I was?”

“Then I’d forbid you from working so hard and offer to take you out instead.”

You blinked a few times in disbelief, unsure how to interpret his words.

“...What?”

“You’re still pretty new to Central, aren’t you? You’ve been working so much, I doubt you’ve gotten the chance to really explore the city. I could be your tour guide.”

“Are you…?”

“Asking you out? Affirmative.”

Your lips parted in shock, then formed into a grin as the corners of your lips crept up.

“Isn’t that a bit inappropriate, colonel?”

“It could be. But only if you wanted that.”

“Sir.”

“Please, (Y/N), I said call me Roy. We’re close enough now, aren’t we?”

“...Roy,” his first name was unfamiliar on your tongue, yet rolled off like smooth silk. It felt odd to call your superior out of his title, but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t excite you.

“Yes?”

“Your offer is tempting, but I’ll have to decline. I can’t risk losing my position.”

“Who has to know?”

“People talk, you know.”

“Then let's give them something to talk about.”

It was corny, but genuine. You could tell he was really trying, perhaps as an attempt to live up to his womanizer reputation. It made you wonder if that was all an act.

“What exactly did you have in mind?”

“Why don’t you come here and find out.”

Under normal circumstances, you wouldn’t have hesitated to obey a command from your superior. But hearing him toss aside the suggestive comments for a more direct method of flirting had taken your head for a spin. After months of playful teasing that usually led to nowhere, you suddenly found yourself on a direct course to somewhere.

It was foolish to fall for a man like him, but there wasn’t a single thing stopping you from taking the plunge. You were about to dive in headfirst without bothering to take a breath.

“Alright, then. I guess I’ll have to come to you.”

He stood up abruptly, pushing his chair back so he could come round the desk and make his way towards you. Your heartbeat steadily increased the closer he got, pounding against your rib cage until it felt like you’d explode. In just a few short seconds, the colonel’s face was inches away from your own and you could practically smell the peppermint candy he had been sucking on just moments ago. You didn’t realize that you’d backed up against the wall until his right arm was suddenly beside your head. He leaned in close until you could smell of his expensive cologne wafting in the air. It reminded you of your dad’s aftershave, with hints of sandalwood and bergamot.

You’d never been so close to the colonel before and hadn’t realized how much height he had on you. He wasn’t anywhere close to being six feet, but you had always been on the shorter side, and the confidence oozing from his aura was making you feel three inches tall.

“(Y/N),” he said with a stern tone. “I’m going to ask you something, and I need you to give me your honest answer.”

“Sure.”

“That’s an order.”

“... Yes, sir.”

He took a deep breath, his eyes boring holes into you as you waited with stalled breath for him to go on. A few moments passed; you noticed part of his face twitch before he took a big gulp.

Was Roy Mustang… nervous?

“Do you…” He finally spit out after several long seconds. “Do you… want this to go any further?”

You stood there quietly for a moment, wondering if you’d do permanent damage to his ego if you toyed with him any longer. You decided on a mix of genuine honesty and playful taunting, just to keep him on his toes.

“What kind of woman do you take me for, Roy?” you teased, crossing your arms while donning an amused smirk.

“A phenomenal one,” he half-whispered. “One I’d be honored to know more intimately.”

“And once you’ve known me?” you said, meeting his famished gaze. “What will happen?”

“Whatever you want. I could give you space. I could never give you space again. It’s your choice.”

“My superior has handed me the reins,” you goaded gleefully. “What will our colleagues think when they hear of this?”

“I’m serious, (Y/N),” he growled with an unfamiliar sense of urgency. “If you want this… whatever this is, to end here, just say the word and I’ll obey without question. This will never happen again, and everything will go back to the way it was.”

You fell silent, your smile fading away as the conversation began to fall out of your favor.

“But,” he continued, letting out a sharp exhale. “...If you’ll have me. We could m-”

You silenced him with a kiss on the lips, one that left him red faced and dazed. It was a risky move, but one you were more than willing to take. You pulled away after a few seconds and held back a chuckle when you saw his shocked expression; certainly, those long months spent building up tension had paid off. Armed with a silver tongued response, you let your words sink into him like teeth in supple skin. You leaned in close until your breath wisped across his ear.

“Does that answer your question?”

He stared at you with wide eyes and mouth agape for a few moments before pulling you into his embrace once more, kissing you deeply.

His kiss was ravenous, but his hands rivaled that hunger, taking in palmfuls of you as much as he could with all those layers of uniform covering your body. You felt his tongue against your own and relished the sweet peppermint flavor while strong hands slid under the fabric of your outerwear, causing your back to arch further into his grasp. You felt his hands on your back and then again on your hips, groping every curve until his appetite was satiated.

Desperate to get closer, he suddenly pushed you against the wall and grabbed the backs of your thighs as he prepared to lift you up. You let out a tiny yelp a little too late, a weak attempt to warn him of your weight, but your words failed to reach his ears and soon you found yourself in the arms of the Flame Alchemist. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist as his hands rested comfortably on your ass, cradling each cheek in his wide palms. You looked down, realizing that your concern for his strength was unfounded. It was as if he was carrying a basket of feathers; there wasn’t any sign of strain to be found in his expression. Your anxiety returned to passion while your hands found their way into the jet black fields of his hair. You found yourself grabbing fistfuls of it as you kissed him deeper and deeper, smiling against his lips every time he moaned from the action.

Abruptly, he pulled away, eyes soft with desire and longing. You opened your mouth to speak, but he silenced you with another wet kiss before carrying you towards the burgundy couch on the other side of the room.

He laid you down carefully on the velvet cushions, as if you were made of delicate porcelain. Your uniform was already in shambles; the hem of your top coat had ridden up, exposing your disheveled black undershirt and your lack of a bra, and your outer apron was practically on backwards. He took in the sight for a moment; his eyes lost in a lustful haze before finally doing something about it. He dug his fingers under the waistband of your pants in search of the buckle, causing you to let out a surprised squeal right before bursting into giggles.

“Stahahap!” You weakly batted his hands away. “It tickles!”

You were doomed as soon as the words escaped your lips. With the narrowing of his eyes and a mischievous grin, he placed his fingers in the same spot you just pushed him away from and dug into your belly with a gentle, yet maddening touch.

“Ticklish?” He asked, already knowing the answer. You would’ve spat back a retort had you not been laughing so hard. Feeling him wriggle around in such a sensitive area was more than you could handle at the moment.

“Aaaaah! Roy!! Nooohoho!”

“Ah, now she calls me Roy. Who knew all I had to do to get you to obey me was to tickle you.”

“Nonononono- AAAH!”

Your little outburst was due to him raking his nails down the length of your now-exposed sides, which made you arch your back and push yourself further into his grasp once again. He quit the unbearable wriggling, trading them for soft and gentle strokes, but even those were enough to make you squirm. Your laughs quieted down to muted giggles, ones you tried to mask by covering your mouth with both hands. He took care of that swiftly, taking both wrists into one of his big hands and pinning them above your head. You could feel the heat radiating from his palm, and it made you sweat even more.

“There will be none of that,” He said with an amused smile, looking you up and down as you laid there at his total mercy. Heat crept up your neck and into your cheeks, and you quietly thanked whatever deity was out there for giving you so much melanin.

“Aaahaha… pleeease…” You half-heartedly begged, not for his hands to leave your skin but to continue touching the rest of you.

His free hand trailed up your side, purposefully tickling your bronze skin every inch of the way up until it reached your chest. Now only protected by a thin layer of dark cotton, he began to caress one of your budding nipples as it poked through the fabric of your undershirt. You let out a small moan, unable to hold yourself back. He gave the same attention to your other nipple, flicking the swollen tip until you began to whine. The gentle stimulation was enough to drive you wild, despite the fact that he had barely touched you.

“Why don’t we remove this troublesome uniform so I can find your other sensitive spots?” He cooed, eager to continue his exploration of your body. He released your wrists momentarily and waited for you to undress. You rolled your eyes but obliged, pulling off your unbuttoned top coat and white gloves while he got to work on his own clothes. You scoffed at him as he fumbled around with his own gloves and pants; you assumed the colonel would be a pro by now, with all the “experience” he bragged about having with the ladies, but seeing him awkwardly stumble around like a preteen about to lose his virginity was enough to make you laugh out loud. He put an end to it quickly, however, with another scurry of fingers up your sides. You shrieked again, curling up into yourself to get away from those torturous touches.

“How dare you mock your superior,” he joked, finally managing to undo his belt buckle. His pants slid off unceremoniously; he kicked them across the room and flinched when they landed on an expensive vase, subsequently knocking it over and shattering into pieces. You covered your mouth again, failing to hide another laugh. However, one look at his dejected expression made you regret poking fun at him.

“This is not exactly how I imagined this going,” He mumbled, furrowing his brows in frustration.

“It’s alright. It’s cute.”

“How dare you call your superior officer cute. I should punish you for that.”

“You’re such a big baby. Stop whining and touch me already.”

“Look who’s giving orders now.”

“Shut up and do as you’re told.”

“As you wish, ma’am,” he teased as he leaned forward, pulling your pants down your thick legs and tossing them aside, this time with a bit more care so as not to break any other valuables in the room. All that was left were your black lace panties and matching undershirt.

He unbuttoned his top coat, removed his white undershirt, and placed both of them on the floor beside the couch, and finally it was your turn to admire his form. You knew the Flame Alchemist was strong after fighting in two different wars, but you had never gotten the chance to see his body in its full glory without the layers of his uniform hiding it away. The muscles in his arms bulged with every movement, complemented by thick veins that ran from the back of his hands to his forearms. He must have been committed to his core workouts as well; he had a well defined six pack that rose and fell with each haggard breath he took. It was enough to make you go feral. You couldn’t stop yourself from reaching out to caress his milky pale skin, which flinched at the sudden contact. It was warm beneath your fingertips, and after a taste you wanted more.

It would have to wait, though, for he was a gentleman and wouldn’t dare come before his lady.

He crouched down and planted a gentle kiss on your stomach as he began his worship of you. Your skin quivered from the tender gesture and you struggled to hold back another tittered reaction for fear of ruining the moment. Biting your lip failed to stifle the giggles bubbling in your throat as he kissed, licked, and sucked every inch of your exposed belly. He flittered his lips along your sides, moving from waist to navel until his tongue dipped into your belly button. Each subtle movement sent electric currents throughout your body, filling you with pleasure as he adored every centimeter of your seldom touched skin.

Moving downwards, his lips grazed your thigh crease as they continued their descent, but when he went to spread your legs you grabbed his shoulders to stop him. He looked up, brows furrowed with worry at your tense expression.

“Wait,” you said as insecurity overcame you. “I don’t… like how I look down there.”

He said nothing, his gaze returning to the empty space between your thighs that he planned to fill himself. He rubbed the tops of your legs with the lightest pressure, making you writhe in place. He looked up at you again with puppy dog eyes, begging for you to let him in.

“May I?”

You hesitated, but nodded in response. He slowly pushed your legs apart, and suddenly you felt more exposed than ever before. The scars that dotted your pantyline were front and center, the ugly browns and bumpy red ridges garnering all the attention from your colonel. Your pubic hair was wild and unkempt, so much that he’d have to sift through the strands like a man on a safari. Surely, seeing these scars, along with the state of your pubic hair, had turned him off completely.

“It’s just… been a while,” you continued your lament. “A long while.”

Still saying nothing, he leaned forward and surprised you with more gentle pecks directly on the scarred skin you had spent years hiding away from the light. He added his tongue, pulling your thin lace panties to the side and carefully spreading your lips so he could begin to feast. That first lick sent your mind soaring to the heavens, causing your hands to clutch the stiff fabric of the couch for leverage. The space between your legs increased as you opened yourself to him, allowing him access to your seldom shared treasure. Your insecurities quickly faded into nothing, and you surrendered to him body and mind.

Admittedly, it took awhile for you to cum. Longer than you wished. But he was dedicated to your pleasure, keeping his face planted between your thighs through every guttural moan or sudden thrash. You made sure to let him know he was doing the job well, your moans growing louder whenever he licked your clit in just the right way. Alternating between sucking and flicking, he finally found the rhythm that suited you best after several long minutes of trial and error. He kept going, refusing to change his pattern until he heard those magic words.

“I’m gonna come,” you cry out in a breathy voice. “I’m gonna come I’m gonna come I’m gonna-”

An explosion of stars in your peripheral, plus the involuntary curling of your toes, told him all he needed to know. Waves of pleasure washed over your body as your mind went fuzzy, like television screens after a long day’s broadcast. Your chest rose and fell in rapid succession, and upon opening your eyes you were greeted by a victorious smirk from your baby-faced superior. He leaned his cheek against your thigh, lazily kissing along your path of scars until he reached your knees.

“You’re amazing,” he uttered in between smooches. His fingers traced constellations in your skin, making you flinch now and then from the ticklish sensations. You tried to grab his hands, but he was faster, and made sure to take advantage of your vulnerability and increased sensitivity by tickling your hips until you screamed.

“And you’re a menace!” You cried out, playfully slapping his cheeks while he laughed at your expense.

Once you regained logical thought, you pushed yourself up and faced your superior officer head on. He had given you a taste of pleasure, but you craved more. You wanted him inside you, and you wanted him your way. It was time for Roy Mustang to take orders.

“Lay down,” You commanded, a sudden authoritativeness washing over you. Roy seemed just as shocked as you, but followed your command willingly. He laid back on the couch across strewn cushions and scattered pillows, allowing you to take full reign over him. He wasn't moving fast enough to your liking, so you pushed him down and wrapped your hand around his throat with enough pressure to hold him in place without affecting his breathing. You kept your thumb and forefinger in the shape of a V, careful not to press down too hard too quickly. Your fingers rested comfortably on the sides of his neck as he looked at you with eyes full of affection.

“(Y/N), I never took you as an aggressive one,” He teased, showing no signs of fighting back.

“There are a lot of things you don’t know about me, Roy,” you ran your thumb over his bottom lip and caressed his freshly shaven face as he watched you, holding back from acting on his arousal.

“Well, I’d certainly love to find out.”

You released him from your grasp and carefully stood up on the unstable cushions, lifting your undershirt over your head and sliding your panties down until you were stark naked. Stark naked, in front of your superior officer, who was gaping at you like he’d just discovered the eighth wonder of the world. You crawled on top of him, seizing the waistband of his own briefs before yanking them off unceremoniously. They were discarded next to the couch with the rest of the wrinkled pieces of your uniforms.

Finally, you saw his member in all its glory. It was pale, with a hint of rosy hue, and exactly the right shape for your preferences. If you had to guess, it was at least 8 inches erect. He’d teased you with his dickprint for those long months, aware of how its size and girth demanded your attention every time you were lucky enough to sit next to him in a meeting. How long had you yearned to feel it for yourself?

You took his rock hard penis into your hand, gathering all of the saliva in your mouth before taking it in. You licked the tip with a flicker of your tongue, smiling to yourself when you saw him writhe where he laid. You wrapped your mouth around him as he cried out in pleasure, finally giving him the relief he desired. Your head began to bob up and down as your tongue licked the entirety of his member. You felt it twitch in your mouth every so often as he began to pulsate, grunting every time the tip hit the back of your throat. You suppressed the urge to gag, slowing down whenever that sick feeling arose, then returned to the same deliberate rhythm when the feeling passed. You could tell the ebb and flow was driving him mad. It was time to give him more.

“Do you have a condom?” You asked, ready to go all the way.

He nodded, reaching over the side of the couch in search of his pants. He fumbled around for a bit, letting out a frustrated curse every once in a while before he found what he was looking for. He ripped off the plastic wrapping and pinched the tip as he slid it down over his painfully erect penis.

When he was ready, you climbed on top and spread your legs.

“Do you want me?” you said, pressing the tip of his head into your vagina. He let out a groan and pushed his hips upward, desperate to get deeper inside of you.

“Yes,” he murmured.

“How badly do you want me?”

“I want you so bad,” his pleas became more urgent, almost turning to whimpers. “Please, let me feel you.”

You obliged, taking him into you. You were still quite wet from his masterful oral skills, so his member slid inside easily without much discomfort. The cry of pleasure that came from him almost caused you to stop in place. You lifted yourself up, then back down again, your cheeks making a smacking sound as they slammed against his thighs.

“Fuck,” he sighed with eyes closed, grunting with every long stroke. “You feel so good.”

You silently agree as your body rises and falls in a steady pattern. He feels so good, so unbelievably good inside you, and all you wanted in that moment was to make him feel as good as you did. You bounced around, testing out different angles to see which gave the best reactions, then settled on one and sped up your strokes.

“Tell me you love it,” you demanded, dripping with sweat, seeking affirmation of a job well done.

“I love it. I need it. Please, give me more.”

You could feel him getting close. He squeezed his eyes shut, clutching your hips for dear life as you rode him into dawn and let out more than a few moans of your own.

Finally, he reached his peak. You could feel his warm cum bursting inside you, protected only by the thin lubricated condom. You sat there for some time, delighting in the random pumps and twitches as he continued to burst inside you.

Exhaustion finally hit, and when he pulled you into an embrace you didn’t bother protesting. The two of you laid there for however long, lost in a world of ecstasy. One hand was wrapped around your shoulder while the other stroked your wild curls. You closed your eyes and melted into him, making sure to enjoy the moment as much as possible before it was over.

“Roy,” you spoke up after a long bout of silence. “What happens now?”

He didn’t answer for a moment, continuing to caress your frazzled curls and rubbing the back of your neck every now and then. Seemingly lost in thought.

“I told you,” he spoke up after some time. “You call the shots.”

You clenched your fist as it rested against his chest. You could feel his heart beating rapidly, unwilling to let the excitement go.

“I want more of this. I want more of you.”

He responded by cupping your cheek in one hand, pulling it towards his own face so he could address you properly. For once, you felt shy as you made eye contact with your colonel.

“What are you doing tomorrow night?”

“Uh, nothing. I have to tend to my garden, but that won’t take long.”

“Let’s do dinner at 7. Then I’ll tend to your garden afterward.”

He was truly something else. You scoffed at his ridiculous innuendo, gently backhanding him for daring to be so cheesy at such a time. He simply smiled back, pulling you in closer so he could kiss you again, and again, and again.

Work, promotions, envious colleagues… all of that could wait. Right now, you had everything you wanted. You’d figure the rest out later.

After all, you were a phenomenal woman.

#fullmetal alchimist brotherhood #fullmetal alchemist #roy mustang x reader #roy mustang #black reader #black femme reader #reader insert #n/s/f/w #please let me know if i forgot to tag anything!#my first smut #an asexual wrote this please be kind lolol #fmab

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lyta-roca · 5 years ago

Text

Fictober - Day 1: “No, come back”

Fictober- Day 1: “No, come back” // Fanfiction.

Fandom: Ducktales (2017)

Warnings/Tags: None

________________

“No, come back”

The fact that B.O.Y.D. visiting the lab from time to time was no problem for Gyro. In fact, it used to be somewhat reassuring to know that even though the little one legally had "fathers", he will still consider him a father figure. The visits consist only of talking about their new projects, a review to see that no B.O.Y.D. was failing and sometimes, (to everyone's surprise), he used to go out with the little one for a walk or two.

But what was a problem, is that it came just when he needed to be more focused on a new invention (which he hoped it would not turn evil), in addition to that he did not have the assistance of Manny (as he had decided to take the day free), nor Fenton's, since he was in the streets doing his daily patrol, and that he came accompanied by McPato's red nephew.

- So, Dr. Gearloose, what are you working on today? - Asked B.O.Y.D. politely, giving that look of curiosity and tenderness

- It's not something important, B.O.Y.D. - Gyro replied trying not to sound brusque, as he had been managing his attitude with other people. He had repeated to himself several times that he had made that decision on his own account and not because of Fenton's current insistence on doing so.

- Is everything okay, Dr. Gearloose?

- Yes, it seems that he is somewhat tired and in a bad mood (well, more than normal) - Huey added to the observation

- I just need to finish this project, that's all - he replied after a few seconds

- And you don't have someone to help you? - Huey spoke - Where's Manny?

- Unfortunately Manny's day off is today

- What about Dr. Crackshell-Cabrera? - B.O.Y.D's sweet and innocent voice felt like a dagger stabbing near his feathers as he asked that question.

- H-He's outside. So no, I don't have anyone to help me. And no, don't even think I'll let either of you get close to this - he commented when he saw in their eyes the characteristic glow of planning something. Obviously his comment was met with a pout from both of them.

The talk seemed to be over as no one else said anything in what seemed like perhaps ten minutes. But as is well known, a child (especially if it is a nephew of McPato and a creation of Gearloose) cannot go long without trying to find something to talk about or learn about.

- You like spending time with Dr. Crackshell-Cabrera, right?

Finally. The arrow had been fired and by no one else and no less than innocent little B.O.Y.D. I knew that from his little knowledge of this kind of thing and from the way in which he had asked the question, that he had not done it with any malicious intention, but that did not mean that it was something he did not want to talk about at that precise moment. .

But if, lately, it seemed that his relationship with Fenton (as they had agreed he would call it now), had been changing. It started with the fact that she would now call him by his name, just as Fenton would call him by his. This had only been a problem when Gyro forgot or when there were moments of sheer stress when he really just wanted to yell at the world and revert to the old habits of calling him only by his last names or simply "intern". His attitude around Fenton was also one of the things that changed. At first, why this had insisted that he should change his attitude with his "public relations", since it was more than obvious that the cards that McPato had given him were not serving any purpose. So they began (reluctantly by Gyro) to work together to change some aspects of how they act and treat others. Its progress had been somewhat slow but it looked promising (in Fenton's words). Which became more apparent when he responded to Fenton's jokes, even to Gyro, doing this was a very comfortable and comforting thing to do when he was around Fenton. It was something he didn't want to admit out loud, because he knew that once he did, there would be no going back and the truth was, he didn't want to screw things up.

Gyro inhaled deeply trying to accommodate the words he would use next. I knew kids were just trying to find a conversation piece, but I really didn't have time (and didn't want to) talk about it.

- He is a good colleague who has shown himself capable of several things

Gyro's own answer had come out perfect, but to both boys it had sounded somewhat forced. They both shared a knowing look.

"Yes, but I mean outside of the workplace, Dr. Gearloose," B.O.Y.D.

"Yes, you know how to talk, go out for walks with him, those things," Huey added in the most innocent way possible.

Both children may have been somewhat oblivious to some things that were going on around them, like McQuack's little affection that grew day by day with this Drake Mallard, but of course, Gyro must have assumed that the children would be more interested in his newfound discovery of feelings for Fenton.

Look, kids, I'm too busy to talk right now. - I knew that I should end this conversation once and for all, because if I continued it might end in something that I would later regret - So I will ask you both to withdraw. Go bother someone else.

- I don't think it's a bad thing to open up to your feelings, Dr. Gearloose - Huey commented - After all, every time he's with Fenton he seems more relaxed

- Yes, especially when they both take me to the park - added B.O.Y.D. remembering all those times Fenton had accompanied them on their outings. It was kind of comforting to see the usual tension in Gyro's shoulders disappear with Fenton's presence.

Gyro sighed with some irony and rage. Despite his attempts to ignore his recent feelings for Fenton, he knew there would be something that would push him to the limit.

- I just don't want to talk about it! - He exploded desperately - Besides, the fact that I am accepting Cabrera's company is simply because McPato ordered me to! Also, she didn't trust him to take good care of the armor on his own!

He looked at both children with some disgust and anger but quickly changed to confusion as soon as he saw that their expression was one of discomfort and fear, and that they were not looking at him.

Almost robotically he followed the children's gaze until he met Fenton's eyes of disappointment mixed with anger and sadness. Apparently he hadn't been there long, as he was still wearing parts of the suit, but it was clear that he had heard everything he had said.

Fenton just watched him, as if waiting for Gyro to say or do something. Gyro wanted to speak, to say that nothing he said had been true, that it had only been an outburst of the moment, but he couldn't get a word out.

So much for B.O.Y.D. as it was more than obvious to Huey that the place had been sucked into an atmosphere of discomfort. They felt like intruders.

Without saying a word, Fenton placed the suit in the bag and placed it on the desk where Gyro had been working and without doing or saying more took the elevator to leave the place.

The last thing Gyro saw before the metal doors closed were some treacherous tears streaming from Fenton's eyes.

He had really screwed it up.

_____________

By the time the day was done, Gyro was already running as fast as he could towards Fenton's direction. As much as he knew the project he was working on was important, he couldn't focus on it again, instead he had spent the rest of the day thinking about how he could fix everything he had said.

He would rather tell Fenton the truth a thousand times than for him to believe that all those things he had heard were true. He knew it was a risky move, but remembering the disappointment in his eyes, he could only think of fixing things.

When he reached the threshold of the door, his body abruptly stopped.

And what was I supposed to say?

He had been so desperate to try to explain what he had said but never stopped to think what he would say. He was good at many things but when it came to talking to people he was the worst, especially if it included a sentimental streak.

But there was no turning back. Determined, he finally knocked on the door and waited as patiently as he could for someone to answer.

For what seemed like hours to Gyro, the door was finally opened. He mentally thanked whoever was listening to his thoughts that it was Fenton who came to the door and not his mother, because if that had been the case, he knew things would end too badly for him.

It was a bit painful to see Fenton's characteristic expression of kindness change drastically to a mixture of hatred and sadness at the sight of him.

- Me...

- Whatever your intention of having come to my home, Dr. Gearloose, I do not want to know - he interrupted - I think he made it very clear that you are only forced to work with me by Mr. McPato

- I know what I said and it was wrong - he quickly admitted before Fenton said anything else - And yes, I deserve your hate, you have the right to yell at me and offend me all you want

- What good would that do? - He questioned - I could yell at you right now that you are a horrible person or I could just tell you all your flaws in order to (minimum) try to get out of my frustration but tell me, Ciro, what the hell would that do? I think that will give you more satisfaction than me knowing that your actions affect me, when it seems that nothing does

For the second time that day, Gyro was speechless.

- Now, if there is nothing more to discuss, have a good night Dr. Gearloose

Despite Fenton's determined action to close his door, Cyrus for once in his life acted without thinking. He stopped the door before it closed completely and entered the residence.

- Gyro! But what...

- Listens! - He spoke decisively - I know that all the things I said were wrong, but believe me when I tell you that none of that was serious. I just ... - never before in his life did he think that at some point he would find himself in this situation - He didn't want to lose what we had formed.

- What?

- I mean our routine. - He tried to explain in the best possible way - It is very easy for me to feel comfortable with you, and I never thought that one day I will be making and answering jokes with someone.

Without either of them noticing, they were both face to face and kept getting closer to the other. The angry expression had completely left Fenton, being changed by surprise.

- You were so friendly with everyone, and you always try to see a positive side in everything, even when it is more than obvious that it does not have it. - Noticing that he had left the subject under his eyes somewhat embarrassed - What I want to get to is that I think I have developed a much stronger feeling for you, and I was afraid to express it because I know that there is a risk that you do not feel it same for me. I said all those things because I refused to say it out loud.

After that explanation, the only thing that could be heard was the light breathing of both and some other noise from the street.

- Did you think I would not accept you? - Gyro looked up again and although it was not noticeable with the naked eye, there was some hope in his eyes - Gyro, regardless of what I had answered, you should have said how you felt. Hiding those kinds of things only leads to worse.

By this time, the two of them were only inches apart. And without a second thought, Fenton took Gyro by his cheeks and kissed him. At first Gyro was surprised at the new touch, but once he found himself enjoying it, he wrapped his arms around Fenton's waist. For his first kiss, he admitted that it was a very good thing (removing the discomfort at the difference in height between them).

By the time the kiss ended, the two of them saw each other directly. Gyro had heard around, that a look says more than a thousand words, he had never believed in that until now.

#fenro #gyro gearloose #fenton crackshell cabrera #fictober20 #ducktales #gyro x fenton #i cant believe im doing this #fictober 2020 #fanfiction

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suttttton · 4 years ago

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Elias Bouchard vs. Destiny

Febuwhump, Day 4 (alternate): Identity Reveal

***

Working at the Magnus Institute is… surprisingly normal.

At best, Elias expects to see his own terror reflected in his coworkers’ eyes. At worst, he fears they will all be like Wright, their eyes cold and monstrous and hungry. He expects to be brought into a world of darkness, to face true monsters that ordinary people never imagined existed.

Were you drawn here? Against your will?—

Instead, his job is just… paperwork. Spooky paperwork, sure, but still paperwork. He talks to a lot of people on the phone, most of whom admit that the statement they gave was just a prank or a dare or whatever. Even the people who genuinely believe their experiences were real seem… more than a little unhinged.

“It saw me through the pages, it’s coming”—

He avoids James Wright, of course. It isn’t difficult. Wright spends most of his time in his office on the third floor, only occasionally coming down to visit Research. When that happens, it’s easy enough for Elias to excuse himself for a smoke break, avoiding Wright’s eyes the entire way. Elias doesn’t understand why his coworkers don’t do the same, although he imagines it would get very crowded in the alley behind the Institute if all of Research tried to take a smoke break at once.

The first time he sees his line manager return from a meeting with Wright, Elias watches her very closely, looking for… unease. Fear. Anything to reflect the way he feels whenever he so much as catches a glimpse of Wright in the halls.

She notices him looking, and smiles at him. No sign of distress in her whatsoever.

Elias returns to his work, but the moment sticks with him. She’d just spent thirty minutes having a meeting with a monster, and she isn’t the slightest bit disturbed.

Have you ever had an experience that you would consider supernatural?—

They don’t know.

All of these people who work here, who interact with Wright every day, and none of them know. Elias is the only one who sees it. Elias is… different.

Elias doesn’t get much work done, that day.

***

Two months later, Elias’s line manager informs him that he has a performance review scheduled with Mr. Wright.

His mouth is dry. “But—I thought you did my performance reviews.” He tries for a smile, but it’s weak.

“Mr. Wright likes to do an in-person review with everyone at the end of every quarter,” she says. She notices the look on his face, and softens slightly. “It’s no big deal. They usually only take five minutes or so. He just goes over the reviews I submitted, and asks if there’s anything he can do to improve your experience here.” She rolls her eyes. “Standard management stuff.”

“Okay,” Elias says, his voice faint. He has to go into that office again? Sit across from the thing that looks out from behind James Wright’s eyes, and just—what? Pretend he isn’t terrified?

Allan’s lifeless body—

What did they do with his eyes?—

“He won’t fire you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” his line manager says. Her voice is gentle, very different from the thinly-veiled annoyance she usually addresses him with. “Wright hasn’t fired anyone the whole time I’ve been here, and your reviews are fine. You’ll be okay.”

“Right,” Elias manages.

The day of the review, Elias seriously considers going to work high.

He decides against it. Wright would know, and then he’d smile and ask Elias some question that he isn’t prepared for, that no one would be prepared for.

What are you afraid of? A very sensible fear—

Elias wonders what would happen if he just—skipped the review. It would be rescheduled, probably. He could skip it again, obviously, but he isn’t sure Wright would tolerate a farce like that for very long.

So, at 2:00pm, he climbs the stairs to Wright’s office. By now, his terror has faded to a blank numbness, an acceptance that he can’t stop whatever is about to happen. He almost feels like laughing.

“Do you enjoy your work here?” Wright asks, after he’s seated and the little introductions are complete.

“Yes,” Elias says, and it isn’t even a lie. He does enjoy the work. He enjoys the variety involved in followup, enjoys chatting with total strangers on the phone. He gets along with his coworkers, and even his line manager is more tolerable than other bosses he’s had. He’d be planning his career here, if not for James Wright’s unfortunate presence. As it is, he’s just trying to survive each day.

“Is there anything about working here that you… hate?”

Elias is not going to tell James Wright that he hates him. He’s not. That’s clearly what Wright wants, leering at him as he is, but Elias refuses to engage with these games.

“Uh—The commute,” Elias says. “It’s a bit far from my flat, and taking the tube every day isn’t exactly the height of luxury.”

“Yes, I’d imagine it would be difficult for you, dealing with the unwashed masses every day.” Wright is still smiling in that cold, slightly-bored way of his. Like what he’s just said is a normal sentence, and not—

“So many gifts, and you’ve squandered them all”—

“What?” Elias’s voice is soft now.

“Do you miss the luxury?” Wright asks, his smile curling up into something more vicious, and Elias—

“Enough! Your friend died in a tragic murder, and it’s well past time you accepted that!”—

No, no, Allan knew what was going to happen, he told me—

“You had a bad drug trip. That’s all.”—

It wasn’t—I didn’t imagine this, there was a book and—

Elias gasps, suddenly back in the present. Wright’s expression is exactly the same. Elias is trembling. This shouldn’t—Wright shouldn’t be able to—What do these questions have to do with his performance?

“Are we done here?” Elias manages, his voice soft to hide its shaking.

“Not quite,” Wright says brightly. “There’s still the matter of your past reviews.” Elias’ review forms are stacked on Wright’s desk, and Wright picks them up, flicking through them. “In general, Lydia’s feedback is very positive, but there are a few concerning things here. You chronically miss deadlines, and on a few of your cases you’ve neglected to follow very promising leads.”

“I’ll try to do better.” Elias’ voice is flat, toneless. The numbness is returning.

“See that you do,” Wright says. “I hope to see improvement by next quarter.”

Elias nods.

What are they doing to his eyes?—

Wright dismisses him, and he makes his way back downstairs. He should return to his desk, return to his caseload that he’s been largely ignoring in favor of panicking about his review.

But he—can’t.

He goes to the alley instead, lights a cigarette with trembling hands. His shaky legs won’t hold him, even when he leans against the wall, so he ends up sitting on the ground.

The first sob forces its way up his throat, and then—he’s crying.

Sobbing on the filthy ground in the alley behind his less-than-respectable workplace. Pathetic. What would Father say?

Probably, “Elias, I’ll be happy to talk to you once you get help for your drug addiction.” Christ.

While he cries, Elias tries to think of what to do. He could quit, he supposes. But he really does need this job. His bank account had been full when his parents first cut him off, and there were provisions in the trust to provide for his needs when he was still in school. Now, though, his money really is running concerningly low. He needs the paycheck.

His tears are just starting to slow when the door opens. Elias starts, turns his face away, trying to hide the fact that he’s crying while hiding from his job.

“Oh—sorry,” she says. Elias recognizes the voice, they work together in Research. He can’t quite remember her name—Megan, maybe? “I can go, if you want some privacy.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” he says, and his voice wobbles. If she didn’t already know he’d been crying, she definitely does now.

She sits down on the step just outside the door. “Um—are you okay?” she asks.

“I’m fine.”

“Right. Yeah, I also like to come out here and cry when I’m feeling fine,” she says, her voice light with humor.

Elias smiles slightly, and wipes some of the wetness from his face. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“I’m all ears,” she says. “Unless you really don’t want to talk about it, in which case, keep your secrets.”

Elias doesn’t respond to that. Doesn’t know how to reply, really. It would be nice, to talk to someone about it, but—It seems cruel, to force someone else into this mess. If she even believed him.

“I just—” She takes a deep breath. “Okay, this is going to sound really weird, but… We look after each other, in Research. A lot of the people who work here don’t really have support networks in our personal lives—ghost stories attract lonely people, I guess—so we try to support each other. So… if you need someone to talk to about this, you can talk to me.

Elias takes a breath. Might as well try. “Have you—noticed anything… off, about Wright?”

“Oh, you mean his whole mind-reading thing? Sure,” she says. She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t take a moment to consider.

“I—yes,” Elias says, a little unbalanced. She knew? “The way he—drags up all your worst memories.”

“Oh yeah, he’s like that,” she says, wincing. “Did you just have your first performance review? Those can be kind of intense.”

He nods, uncertainly. She’s talking about this as if it’s completely normal.

“You’ll get used to it eventually,” she says. “In research, we like to make jokes about it. She wiggles her fingers at him. “'Ooh, I know everything about you,’” she says mockingly, pitching her voice down.

Elias doesn’t laugh. Just stares. “Aren’t you afraid of him?”

She laughs, really laughs, like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. “What’s he gonna do, fire me? No. Why would I be afraid of him?” Then she sobers. “Are you afraid of him?”

Something sinks in Elias’s chest. He’d assumed that they didn’t know, that Elias was unique in being able to see Wright’s monstrous nature.

Turns out he’s just unique in being frightened by it.

He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Just—had a bad performance review.”

She nods in commiseration, and he excuses himself not long after. Returns to his desk, his heart loud in his ears. He looks around at his co-workers, all of them so happy, so careless. Why aren’t they afraid?

Why did you heed the call?—

He doesn’t know.

He can’t trust them.

***

He asks to be transferred to Artifact Storage, and his request is accepted, albeit with some strange looks. No one requests to go to Artifact Storage.

For him, it’s infinitely preferable to Research. The monsters in Artifact Storage are acknowledged, for one. Feared, treated with caution. Not allowed to run a so-called research institute. Not joked about. For two, the turnover rate is so high that he won’t have to deal with pretend camaraderie. He knows, now, that he can’t trust any of these people. He’s on his own.

For four years, he does his work, cataloging dangerous artifacts, sending the more junior assistants to do the more dangerous tasks. He doesn’t try to be good at his job, he doesn’t want to be good at his job, but after years of working in Artifact Storage, he is by far the most senior member of the staff. He starts to pick up a few tricks. He becomes knowledgeable. People respect him.

His line manager says he’s looking to transfer to the Library, and asks if Elias would like to be recommended for the promotion. Does he want to be Head of Artifact Storage?

He should say no, but some part of him that never quite managed to kill its ambition answers for him. “I’d be honored,” he says.

***

Meetings with Wright never get easier. In four years, he manages to drag up everything Elias would rather keep hidden, everything he doesn’t want to think about. Allan is a popular subject, as are his parents. And there’s always—

He cannot move. He cannot scream. What are they doing to his eyes?—

Elias doesn’t get used to it, and when Wright schedules a meeting with him to discuss his forthcoming promotion, Elias dreads it just as much as that very first performance review.

“I am very impressed with your progress,” Wright says, steepling his fingers over his desk.

“Thank you,” Elias says.

“Nearly five years in Artifact Storage,” Wright says. “I wouldn’t have guessed it, but perhaps I should have. You’re not a brave man by any means, but what does that matter, when you’re running from the most frightening thing you can imagine?”

What are they doing to his eyes?—

Elias swallows. There’s something heavy in the air. He always feels watched, in the Institute, in Wright’s office, but this is—different, somehow. Closer.

“If you were more curious, you actually might have guessed it. If you’d looked into the history of the Institute, investigated the men who preceded me in this position. You might have noticed certain similarities. You’re smart enough to have put the pieces together, but alas.”

—squandered—

“You never were the curious sort, were you? You were more interested in self-preservation than answers. Keeping your distance from anyone who might drag you away from your… destiny.”

Wright stands, and Elias flinches. “I-I don’t—” This is wrong. Something is wrong.

This is the place I know I should be—

But—

“What did you imagine was calling you here?” Wright says, and now he’s close, too close, towering over him. Elias wants to stand, want to retreat, but he doesn’t—He can’t move—

Wright places his hands on the two arms of Jonah’s chair, trapping him. Elias shrinks back, as far as he can get. “Did you think it was something noble, that you were destined to be a hero of light, to put an end to the sickness of this place? You would drive a knife into my eyes, killing the monster and setting everyone free?”

He doesn’t know what he thought. He thought he was destined for something better, to be something more than other people.

“You will be,” Wright says, leaning over him, too close. “Have you figured it out yet?”

He shakes his head wordlessly, a sob gasping from his throat.

Wright smiles. “James Wright didn’t either.”

***

When the thing that now controls his body takes over the Magnus Institute, they all think, nepotism at its finest.

Elias understands why he’s here, now. Understands the thing that called him here. Understands the many paths he could have taken, to reach a different end. Too late.

Elias’ eyes are carved out of his still-breathing body, and the Eye feasts on latent terror, cultivated so perfectly, for so long.

Elias is replaced, and no one misses him. He himself ensured that no one who worked with him knew anything about him. And everyone else is dead already.

James Wright is discarded. Elias Bouchard is taken.

Jonah Magnus lives on.

#tma #tma fic #tma spoilers #mag 193 #hey i wrote an episode fic! exciting!#febuwhump #febuwhumpday4 #scopophobia cw #manipulation cw #parents cw #my fic #fun fact! i had to write the first ~1500 words of this TWICE because my computer crashed and lost everything

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samgwrites · 5 years ago

Text

Locked Doors

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Chapter 2 of 2 What happens when your who is returned to your what.

Read on AO3

Michael didn’t want to go to a hospital, and Jon agreed that it would probably be best to not deal with doctors obsessing over someone who had been presumed dead for seven years. Luckily, Tim apparently knew a good amount of wilderness first aid, so after a slightly hectic few minutes trying to find the emergency kit, the current assistant was setting the former assistant’s hand in gauze while Jon had run off to inform the rest of the staff about the current situation. Couldn’t have someone accost the stranger wandering the institute, not again, even if Michael insisted that he would prefer to be out of everyone’s hair as soon as possible.

He would prefer to just be done with the Magnus Institute.

He peered down at Tim as the other man wrapped his hand. Tim was frowning, but the anger from earlier seemed to have vanished from his expression, replaced with a stern focus. Not exactly an approachable look, but that had never stopped Michael before.

“Can I ask you a question?” He said, leaning forward and hiss slightly as Tim tugged a bit too hard on his hand.

“What?” Tim responded, not looking up. Michael sighed.

“It’s sort of a weird request but… can you tell me what I look like?” This did catch Tim’s attention, and he looked up at Michael quizzically.

“What?” Michael glanced aware under the gaze, grinning nervously.

“I haven’t exactly been able to use a proper mirror in a while… it’s been awhile since I’ve seen myself without the distortion ruining the image,” He thought for a moment. “I can’t even remember what it looked like to be honest. I mostly just remember enough neon to be nauseating,” Tim hummed, before dropping Michael’s hand and standing up. Michael frowned, realizing he might be asking too much. “It’s fine if you don’t want to tell me, I know it’s weird-” Tim waved his own hand, running the other one over his face and through his hair.

“It’s… it’s fine. I can tell you. You’re pretty average looking, I guess? You got this blond mop of hair, you’re pretty pale, greyish eyes. I knew about ten guys that could practically be your double from when I was at uni. The weirdest bit is that you don’t even look that different?

“Your hand’s normal, far as I can tell, and your voice doesn’t give me a migraine anymore. You just look like a normal guy. The sweater is a little weird, but it’s not as flashy as I think it was,” Michael looked down at what he was wearing. They were the same clothes from his journey into the mountains, but they were definitely different. They did look older, to start. His jeans were ripped where they hadn’t been. His sweater was worn at the wrists and he figured the coat he’d attempted to lend Gertrude was frozen on a cliff somewhere. He looked back at Tim, and was startled to find the assistant staring intently at him with an odd look that he couldn’t place. Tim turned away.

“Your hand should be fine for now, it’s not a bad break. Try not to use it for awhile if you can.”

“Thank you,”

“Are you really Michael?”

“What?”

“Are you really Michael Shelley? Or is this just some weird trick to lure us into a false sense of security. Those fucking clowns are up to something, woudn’t be that surprised if you were working together,

“The circus? No, I hate the circus-” He cut himself off. Did he hate the circus? He hadn’t actually known about the unknowing before Gertrude decided to feed him to delusion incarnate. Did he hate the Stranger, or was it simply remnants of a thing lodged into him?

No. No he hated it. He could remember that much. The distortion had wanted him to interfere, but so had he. It was a ritual, like the ones Gertrude had been after. If he could throw a wrench in its workings, then perhaps no one else would receive his fate. But that isn’t exactly how that small thought buried in his mind had been realized. His face hardened.

“I hate the Stranger and the Spiral and every other so-called god. My name is Michael Shelley, and if that isn’t who I am then I would prefer someone to let me know now before I get any hope back. Now,” He stood, moving towards the door, “thank you so much for the first aid, but I’d really like to get out of here as soon as possible.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Tim said, voice unsure, glancing between Michael and the door.

“It’s a wonderful idea,” Michael ground out, and left the room. He did not slam the door behind him, but the thought crossed his mind. He had never been one for slamming doors. Perhaps now was the time to start.

Seeing Elias Bouchard in the Hallway before the elevator back up to the library was a bit of a shock.

Well, not a shock. It wasn’t that surprising to see the head of an institute standing in a commonly walked area of said institute. But Michael was not prepared for it in the least. He stumbled and felt himself pale slightly at the sight of the man standing so nonchalantly. This man was a murderer. A direct conduit of the eye.

Michael had met Elias when he’d first started at the institute. The older man had been alright, if a little bit unpleasant to be around. He was intimidating but only in the way that a university student who drinks and parties on weekends is intimidating to someone in secondary school. Which is to say, not that intimidating once you realize how much of an idiot the man is.

The Elias standing in front of him wasn’t an idiot. He’d grown a lot around the time he became the head of the institute. He looked sharp despite his age, and his eyes bore into Michael. After a moment he smiled, and his grin was nearly reflective.

“Mr.Shelley! How wonderful of you come back to us! We’ve missed you,” Michael had seen a hunter before. The distortion had enjoyed trapping one or two in its mazes, giggling as they would chase each other or his other prey around, not noticing that they were being devoured themselves. The expression on the other man was far more predatory than any he’d ever seen on those animalistic creatures. Michael felt his mouth go dry, but it shifted into his usual friendly workplace smile anyway.

“Hello Mr.Bouchard,” He said, “I was actually just leaving. Wouldn’t want to be in your way,” But neither of them moved. The hallway was small, and while Michael was lanky enough that he could have definitely fit on either side of Elias, it felt as if any attempt would end poorly for him. Though he was probably just paranoid. When Elias just continued to look at him, he continued. “Actually, I did want to talk to Jon before I left, have you seen him?”

“Oh, yes, he’s talking to Martin right now. Explaining everything so the poor man doesn’t jump out of his skin when he sees you. Wouldn’t want a repeat of what happened with Tim no would we?” The man’s tone was far too light for how sick Michael was starting to feel. “Especially now that you’ll be working together,”

“What?”

“Oh, well of course! I don’t blame you for not thinking of work, I’m sure your head’s still a little fuzzy, but you never actually resigned. And you’ll need work anyway to get back on your feet. The archival assistant position has actually gotten a higher salary since you’ve been gone. Now, if you could just come up to my office and sign some paperwork…” His voice turned to static in Michael’s ears. What a cruel joke. To still be trapped somewhere after finally escaping hell… but the more he thought about it, the more he sensed a lie.

He remembered thinking about quitting back before Gertrude had started pretending to value him. He had thought a lot about finding a less high stress archiving job, maybe with more people his age, but he’d never been able to bring himself to do it. The spiral had known how the eye trapped people, not terribly unlike how it trapped people in their own broken minds. He didn’t feel that now. There was no reluctance, no hesitation. The sick feeling in his stomach was simply because this man had far too much blood on his hands for anyone to be comfortable talking to him. The eye didn’t have hold on him anymore.

Perhaps he could thank Gertrude for something after all. He grinned back.

“Actually, I’m afraid I won’t be returning to work. Seven years is quite the long vacation, and I’m afraid I’ve forgotten most of what my position entailed aside from being condescended to, and I don’t miss it. Besides, you wouldn’t want any lingering distortion to mix up your carefully organized files, right?” He leveled a stare at Elias, trying to ignore the slight way his unbandaged hand was twitching. “I’d like to find Jon now, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Try the kitchen,” And then Elias walked away, leaving Michael alone once more.

Jon was not in the kitchen. There was, however, a woman that he’d never seen before making tea, who jumped slightly when he opened the door. She seemed a bit younger than him, or maybe just much smaller, with brightly dyed hair wearing a graphic tea. He’d say the spiral had influenced her fashion choices, but she looked far too serious for that to be the case.

“Ah, um, hello,” She started, “Uh… who are you? I don’t think you’re supposed to be down here,” She spoke with an unsure amount of authority.

“I’m Michael. Michael Shelley,” He waited for the flinch or gasp of some sort, but it didn’t come. She just continued to look at him with a sort of sneering disinterest. There was something in her eye that almost seemed familiar, but he chose to ignore it. So Jon hadn’t gotten to explain things to her yet. Well. He’d love a conversation with someone who wasn’t familiar with the monster, and it wasn’t like he was lying. Not completely.

“I know Jon,” He said, trying to sound appeasing, “I needed his help with something so I thought I’d stop by,” She didn’t look convinced.

“Not to be rude mate, but you look like you just got hit by a bus,” Michael laughed in response.

“Honestly I feel like I might have been. I uh, had a bit of an accident this morning,” He held up his wrapped hand, “A regular one of your institute scary stories I think,” Michael could see when she closed off. They stood in silence for a moment, him smiling nervously while moving on the balls of his feet, and her holding her fresh cup of tea looking like she’d lash out if he made any sudden movements. In the end she just shook her head and sighed.

“I think there’s a cot in the store room if you need a place to crash for a bit. Doubt anyone would try to stop you.” She said finally, before taking a long sip of tea and walking out. She might’ve mumbled something rude under her breath, but Michael just nodded absently and stood there for a minute, before turning.

Michael didn’t care about talking to Jon now. He really needed to get out of this institute.

Two days later, they sat across from each other at a coffee shop, both of their reflections looking perfectly natural in the well cleaned window. They had gotten chances to talk in the past couple of days, mainly right outside the institute, so it was nice to just sit in a peaceful environment. Jon had gotten himself the blackest tea that Michael had personally ever seen, and he’d gotten Michael a hot chocolate and a sandwich. Michael stared at the spiral shape of the whipped cream before breaking it with his spoon. They talked for a while, mainly pleasantries, both obviously unsure where to start the serious conversation. Jon broke the peace first.

“Elias is sending me abroad,” Jon said and a small part of Michael panicked.

“I’m not coming,” The words burst out of him before he could think about any other reason Jon might be telling him this.

“What? No, I didn’t mean… I wouldn’t ask you to come. I’m not that dense, I don’t expect you to come, of course not. I just…” Jon trailed off for a moment “I know you’ve been sleeping outside these past few nights.” It wasn’t Michael’s fault he didn’t have enough cash for anything more than a park bench. At least it’s spring, he’d thought. But it wasn’t like he wanted Jon to know that, even if the knowing was unavoidable.

“I-”

“Michael,” The blond man sighed and looked down.

“Yeah. Yeah.”

“I didn’t want to push you, because I know this is hard,” Michael couldn’t stop the slight chuckle that escaped him. Jon smiled at him softly and continued. “You are probably going to have to reenter society eventually? Basira still has some pull with the police, I really don’t think you’ll experience too much trouble in that department. What I wanted to talk to you about is if you’d want to stay at my flat for awhile?”

“It’s fine if you don’t, I know you’re not exactly comfortable with… me… yet,” Jon held up a hand when Michael began to protest and continued, “but I’ll probably be out of the house for a month or so anyway and I’d really appreciate it if you could keep an eye on things,” They both knew that wasn’t the reason. Michael could tell that Jon simply wanted him somewhere safe and to be able to check in, and for him to feel like he was at least somewhat in control of his new normal. Perhaps not all archivists were good liars after all. “And Michael?” Jon reached over and gently touched Michael’s injured hand with his own recently scarred one. “I’d like to be friends,” Michael froze. Those words sounded so familiar. Like they were his in a distant, broken way. They felt safe. They felt true. Michael smiled, perhaps the first purely genuine smile he’d shown in the past few days. In the past few years. And he knew his answer wasn’t a lie.

“I’d love to.”

#the magnus archives #Michael Shelley #michael tma #tma #jonathan sims #my writing #my fanfiction

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aroworlds · 6 years ago

Text

The Vampire Conundrum, Part Two

When Rowan Ross is pressured into placing an aromantic pride mug on his desk, he doesn't know how to react when his co-workers don't notice it. Don't they realise he spent a weekend rehearsing answers for questions unasked? Then again, if nobody knows what aromanticism is, can't he display a growing collection of pride merch without a repeat of his coming out as trans? Be visible with impunity through their ignorance?

He can endure their thinking him a fan of archery, comic-book superheroes and glittery vampire movies. It's not like anyone in the office is an archer. (Are they?) But when a patch on his bag results in a massive misconception, correcting it means doing the one thing he most fears: making a scene.

After all, his name isn't Aro.

Contains: One trans, bisexual frayromantic alongside an office of well-meaning cis co-workers who think they're being supportive and inclusive.

Content Advisory: This story hinges on the way most cishet alloromantic people know nothing about aromanticism and the ways many trans-accepting cis people fail to best communicate their acceptance. In other words, expect a series of queer, trans and aro microaggressions. There are no depictions or mentions of sexual attraction beyond the words "allosexual" and "bisexual", but there are non-detailed references to Rowan's previous experiences with romance.

Length: 3, 737 words (part two of two).

Note: Posted for @aggressivelyarospec‘s AggressivelyArospectacular 2019.

Romance, too, feels like one of the mechanisms by which a dangerous trans body can be rendered more acceptable to cis folks.

“His name’s Aro,” Melanie says after lunch, showing a new volunteer around the office. She pats Rowan on the shoulder as she walks behind his chair, startling him enough that the clipping path he’s making around a photo of Damien’s head goes veering off to the side. “He does our website, our flyers and the information guides we send out. Aro like from the Twilight movies!”

Introductions once only encompassed Melanie’s habit of overly-stressing pronouns when referencing him—a dysphoria-triggering reminder that she doesn’t think him masculine enough for people to assume it. Isn’t that bad enough without her also getting his name wrong?

He sighs, frustrated. Complaining about this, when trans people are in desperate want of a working environment free of outright antagonism and discrimination, feels unreasonable. Hell, Rowan knows aromantics who’ll revel in being named “Aro”, so isn’t his hurt just pettiness? Isn’t this why he’s no longer welcome at home, a man too intolerant of his family’s mistakes? How many times did they tell him that his harping on about little things demonstrates a concerning lack of gratitude for their acceptance?

His co-workers do seem to believe in Rowan’s masculinity; he shouldn’t take that for granted.

Instead, he feels like he’s failing at being both transgender and aromantic.

After a fair amount of editing, he places Damien’s image in the brochure mock-up and exports to PDF. The office will make suggestions, some useful, some ignorant and some so absurd that Rowan will laugh with his friends later on, but that’s fine. He can’t expect otherwise in a workplace where everyone considers him possessed of unknowable ability with computers. They’re good people, in the main, and they care about their work.

It’s just complicated, and Rowan hates the feeling that complicated is the best cis people will let him get to a normalised acceptance.

“Aro? An Arrow fan called Aro? Really? Do you like comics or are you one of those people only into DC TV?”

Rowan looks up from attaching his PDF to an email to find the volunteer sitting on a creaking office chair and crab-walking it over to Rowan’s desk. “Comics?”

“Oh, good.” The volunteer sighs as if in relief. “I mean, the TV show? It isn’t terrible—better than most of DC’s movies, at least—but I’m so tired of people who call themselves fans but have never touched a comic book.”

Rowan glances at his journal cover, ponders its possible similarity to the show’s motif and nearly bursts out laughing. He’s never read a comic and doesn’t plan on doing so. He prefers indie podcasts and audiobooks on account of increased representation and greater ability to sew and cook while listening. “I’m not an Arrow fan. Sorry.”

Another show about cis people possessed of everyone-should-pair-up amatonormativity?

Hard pass.

“You’re not?” The volunteer gapes, waving his hand towards Rowan’s cluster of pride mugs. Three, now. Only one contains coffee, which feels like a terrible oversight. “Is this a joke, then? Are they getting you arrow stuff because of your name? Like some office thing?”

Aro.

His name is not Aro.

Rowan once thought the concept of snapping a mere storytelling device, something as ludicrous or impossible as “glittering eyes” or “romantic interest that lasts after getting to know someone”. At best an experience had by people without a brain that doesn’t devote most of its time to screaming alerts at the prospect of anything dangerous. Absurd, irrational, void of any real-life relevance.

Not even with his family has he felt this chilling, all-encompassing moment of enough.

He looks back at his computer, attaches a second PDF file to his email and, before he considers pesky things like consequences, clicks send. Then Rowan climbs up on his office chair, steps up onto the desk and whistles like a country boy who owned a border collie prone to sneaking off the property and rounding up the neighbour’s sheep.

Everyone in the office gapes up at him with a motley assortment of parted lips, unblinking eyes and, in Melanie’s case, the pointing of a long, vermillion-polished fingernail.

Up high, the room reeks of nesting rodents and the popcorn ceiling desperately wants refinishing.

Now Rowan’s brain tells his limbs to shake and his chest to heave; of course, he thinks as he shoves his hands behind his back, anxiety kicks in after he’s neck-deep in it! “My … my name is Rowan. I chose it.” He looks at the vent on the opposite wall, fighting to sound collected. Is that black mould? “Dad told me if I rejected my deadname, I was rejecting them. That I was being cruel and selfish. I earnt my name!” He stops, gasping for breath like a hooked fish—which, given his terror, feels far too appropriate a simile. “My identity is aro, short for aromantic, like being queer—one way of my being queer. So ... there’s a PDF booklet in your inbox about aromanticism. Read it! I’m proud of being aro, but you need to call me by the name I chose! It’s Rowan!”

He jumps down off the desk. The creaking laminate and the thud of his dress shoes, a little too large for Rowan’s feet, sound abominably loud in the sepulchrally-quiet room. Heading past giddy into faint, but pushed on by a heedlessness of the “this can’t possibly get worse because I’m going to be fired” variety, Rowan snatches up his satchel and reaches into the side pocket to pull out his handful of print leaflets. He drops one in the lap of the gaping volunteer, tosses the rest on an empty desk for luddites who prefer paper, and returns to his chair.

Seven sets of speechless eyes bore holes through his skull, shoulders and spine.

Rowan jams on his headphones, opens his no-romance metal playlist and turns his music up to a volume just short of deafening before queuing new posts to the project’s website.

When he invented the God of Trans Men as flippant rhetoric to cope with Melanie’s questions, is it right to pray to him?

***

Two hours later, doing his best to radiate an aura of do not disturb on pain of your bloody death, Rowan fights to pay attention to the last event write-up. Leaving early means asking permission and walking down the row of desks, risking stares and comments; he instead corrects Melanie’s idiosyncratic punctuation. Didn’t Melanie go to school at a time when they taught more than English comprehension? How doesn’t she know when not to use an apostrophe?

There’ll be consequences. Warnings? A formal discussion in the private office the supervisors only use for interviews? A request that he undergo counselling? A strong recommendation for psychiatric assessment? Firing? It isn’t like they can’t throw a rock and hit thousands of people under the age of forty with general computer skills and design ability who aren’t prone to standing on desks to make unwanted announcements.

No. Focus on the damn comma splices.

Should he ask his psychiatrist for the soonest possible appointment? New meds?

A tap on the shoulder makes Rowan’s head threaten to brush the probably-asbestos-riddled ceiling; he gasps and yanks off his headphones, trembling.

Melanie stands beside his chair, holding out her phone in its glossy pink case. “Those words that are underlined? Can I click on them to find out what they mean, like on a website? Like ... al-lo-sexual?”

“Hyperlinks in an interactive PDF—the file on your phone—work the same way as on a website,” Rowan says without thinking: in the last three months, he’s been asked this ten times. “If you click on those links, they’ll take you to a glossary at the end of the document with definitions.”

Damien sits facing his usual computer, his head tilted as if watching out the corner of his eye.

Melanie smiles the expression of a woman in an alternate dimension where Rowan doesn’t engage in embarrassing outbursts. “You’re so good at all this stuff, Rowan.” She stresses his name just enough that he can pretend she didn’t. “Where did you learn it all?”

He once tried to explain his philosophy of clicking on things only to realise that while the concept of generational divides requires excessive generalisation, a difference exists in terms of his willingness to fearless experimentation with electronic devices and programs. “School. Uni.”

“You’re so lucky. School was nothing like that when I was a girl. You have so many more opportunities now. And identities.” Melanie sighs and pushes a wisp of grey hair back from her eyebrows. “It’s good, it really is.”

Rowan blinks, startled into silence by a rare glimpse of validation stripped of performance and demonstration.

He hadn’t thought anyone here capable of it.

“It says that some people feel repulsed by romance? Are you like that? Should we do something? Do we need to not talk about romance in the office? Like, if I describe my daughter dating her boyfriend, not that I want to, is that bad? Do we need to hold a meeting? Damien—Damien—”

Damien turns, wearing the blinded look of a rabbit frozen in a spotlight. “Yes...?”

For how long has Damien worked with Melanie? For how long has the office rolled with Melanie’s interruptions and proclamations, her meetings called about the slightest of issues? For how long has the office accepted Shelby’s incessant reminding and Damien’s inability to surrender event photography to someone who knows how to modify their flash settings? Isn’t there a chance that they’ll tolerate Rowan’s occasional moments of desk-blathering?

A trans aro should be able to sew a patch on his bag reading “aro” without provoking cis weirdness. Since when does someone read a new word on his bag and assume that’s now his name? Isn’t that another over-the-top demonstration made by awkward cis people trying to prove their acceptance, something that’s never made Rowan feel safe?

Even when he’s aromantic, he never gets to avoid cissexism.

He slides his hands between the seat and his legs, aware of Melanie’s once again drawing the office’s unbroken attention. “I, personally, don’t care if people talk about their romances,” he says, certain that Damien needn’t answer Melanie about meetings, “but I do care when people assume I must want one. I do care when Sh … some of you just keep asking if I’m dating anyone.”

Rowan long set aside the need to bother with romance. He isn’t aromantic in the way most people first think of the word, as he does fall in love, but it describes his frayromanticism nonetheless. Why put himself through the inevitable messy, angry break-up when his partners don’t understand why what started as romance ends up to him as a friendship? When dating isn’t without trans-related challenges, why force himself into a type of relationship that he knows won’t last?

Romance, too, feels like one of the mechanisms by which a dangerous trans body can be rendered more acceptable to cis folks, in the same way it sanitises his equally-threatening bisexuality. If queers are holding hands and exchanging rings, just like cis and heterosexual couples, they’re safe.

He wants to be normal, but not that normal.

Melanie surprises him again by nodding. Opaque red only colours the corners of her lips; the worn centres reveal the brownish-pink beneath. “Like how we now don’t assume everyone’s—what’s the fancy word you use for not being you?”

“Cis. Yeah.”

“At my first job, I never dared yeah my elders. Can I ask what’s this a-sexual thing? Not-sexual? That’s a thing that can go with your a-ro-manti-cism? Am I saying it right? Is that something people can be?” Melanie grabs the volunteer’s vacated chair and wheels herself up to Rowan’s desk. “Tell me about this. Please.”

Damien gives a theatrically deep sigh, winks at Rowan and turns back to his keyboard.

Rowan’s tangle of feelings bewilders him too much to be simple relief, but he doesn’t appear to be at immediate risk of losing his job.

***

“We need to have a meeting!” Melanie announces ten days later, striding up to where Damien peers over Rowan’s shoulder to approve the touch-ups on a series of scanned photos. Rowan grasps the want to have a section on the website showcasing past events, but surely Damien’s film-camera predecessors weren’t all unable to take decent pictures? “Today. Perhaps before lunch?”

“Do we?” Damien doesn’t bother to turn his head. “What’s the number on the urgency scale, remembering that whiteboard markers aren’t a five?”

“I’m aro-ace.” Melanie stresses the words, beaming with the confidence of a child presenting a new finger-painted masterpiece. “I didn’t know, but I definitely am. I’m aromantic and asexual.”

“I’m glad for you.” Now Damien faces her, scratching his shock of unruly brown hair. “I don’t know why this needs a meeting? Do you want something addressed?”

Rowan leans back in his chair, too startled to do anything but watch. Melanie’s interrogation of him about all things a-spec over the last few days left him certain that she was questioning, but he didn’t expect this announcement—or Damien’s reaction to it.

“I’ve been reading, and I sent around a list of links everyone else should read, too. We must do something about our website. And, of course, everyone should know I’m aro-ace, and then let people ask any questions. Then we should consider changes to our submission forms, and then...”

Already, Melanie has done more to integrate her identity into the office and its projects than Rowan ever dared risk. Why, then, does he feel as though he’s being pressed inside a metal suit three sizes too small? Shouldn’t the end result be worth enduring a staff meeting in which she announces she’s aro-ace? Melanie being Melanie, she’ll gladly answer questions about aromanticism. Doesn’t that give Rowan everything he wanted—ability to be out as aromantic but someone else’s dealing with allo nonsense?

Matt’s right.

Rowan’s just a coward.

Damien nods at Rowan. “What do you think about that?”

“Uh...” Rowan draws a delaying breath, fighting against a brain too bewildered to be useful in forming comprehensible speech. “Uh … you’d have to run form changes past someone higher up, wouldn’t you? We have to ask about everything else? But...”

He doesn’t name Melanie a friend, but fellow aromantics aren’t common enough that Rowan will reject a companion—even if they’re cis and have subjected him to half a year’s discomfort, anxiety and alienation. He slides his restless hands under his legs, biting his lip against the sickening realisation. Melanie’s enthusiastic fearlessness may make this office and program better for him as an aro, but how can it answer all the attitudes that made Rowan fear coming out in the first place?

If he’s a coward, doesn’t he have reason?

“We do need a meeting,” he says slowly, his heart pounding in his chest like blast beats in death metal. “On better integrating marginalised people into our office. Because the way you emphasise my pronouns, Melanie, or the way Shelby reassures me five times that I can correct her … that doesn’t make me feel safe. It makes me feel reminded. Different. Too visible. And that’s why...”

“You ended up standing on a desk?” Damien asks with the gruffness of a middle-aged cis man trying to sound gentle.

“Yeah,” Rowan mutters. “That.”

Melanie clasps her fingers to her lips. “Oh! I didn’t mean anything by it! I just wanted people to get it right!”

How many times has he suffered through well-meaning people explaining that in response to his saying that they made him uncomfortable? How many times has he heard people justify their actions as though good intent always mitigates bad impact?

“You’re … you’re still making this about you! The only answer I want or need from you is thanks for telling me, Rowan, I won’t do it again! That’s all! Not your reasoning, not this effort to justify! I want to know that you hear me, that you’ll acknowledge that your intent however good still made me come home crying from dysphoria, and that you’ll stop because I don’t want to put up with it anymore! That’s all!”

For the second time in less than a fortnight, a chilling silence envelops the office.

“We need a meeting,” Rowan says breathlessly, reminding himself that at least this time he isn’t standing on his desk, “discussing how to include marginalised people in our office. Discussing all the microaggressions. Maybe you need to find … educators, trainers who come in and do this. I don’t know. I’m just so tired of never feeling safe or normal, never feeling like I can say anything because this isn’t hate and at least you’re not my parents! Like I don’t ever get to have anything better!”

He stands up, unsure what to do past fetching himself a distracting cup of coffee.

Maybe, then, he’ll be able to survive the way Melanie looks at him—as though he just ran over her puppy.

She just came out, and he did run right over it.

“I’m sorry.” Rowan sags onto his chair, leaning forwards to grab his satchel despite the unpleasant giddiness. “I’m sorry. It’s wonderful, Melanie, that you now know who you are and that you can come out. And it’s amazing that you’re doing things already, when I needed like six months just to get used to my knowing I’m aro. I just...” He reaches inside the satchel and pulls out a rough oblong shape wrapped in white tissue paper. “Here. I’m sorry.”

He, an allo-aro man, screwed up an aro-ace woman’s coming out. Shouldn’t he know better? He wants to laugh, wants to cry, wants to curl up in a ball and hide under his desk. Even now, when he’s trying to get what he needs as a trans man, he’s being the worst kind of aromantic!

Her lips pinched, Melanie takes the present in her hands, worrying at the top piece of tape with her long, pink nails.

“We’ll have a meeting.” Damien runs his hand through his hair as though he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. “I’ll talk to the heads about … sensitivity training, I suppose this also is. Would you be willing to write me an email outlining some of these behaviours and any ways we can make this office safer for you? Is that an appropriate thing to ask of you?”

“I don’t mind,” Rowan says. As long as he doesn’t go ignored, he’ll send a few emails—and he already has a few blog posts on which to draw. “Thank you.”

“Do you … want anything, now? To talk privately to me or anyone else? Or to a senior supervisor? Or someone with the government body? Can I do or arrange anything else?”

“Coffee. Please. And … and then to go back to fixing photos as though absolutely nothing happened because I don’t … do this sort of thing.” Rowan heaves a shaking sigh, pushing aside the thought that nobody can have failed to observe this. “Thank—thank you. I’m sorry. Thank you.”

He notices Damien gesturing at Melanie, notices that Rowan’s aro flag mug leaves with both and returns a few minutes later—now distracting from the office’s musty odour with its rich bitterness. He takes a few sips, but only by throwing himself into his work can he survive the gibbering, chattering thoughts building into a crushing tsunami of what the hell. Why did he do that? Why—no. Photos.

The soft clunk of crockery hitting laminate makes him look up.

Melanie leans against the edge of Rowan’s desk, her hand resting atop her new orange, yellow, white and blue aro-ace flag mug. “I’m sorry. Thanks for telling me.” She draws a deep breath, tapping her nails against the rim. “I didn’t know I could … that there’s an explanation, until I read your booklet. It described me. Things I didn’t realise about me! Things I’d been feeling! But … I’ve been learning about things like micro-aggressions. I didn’t know I’d been doing them myself. I’m sorry. I’ll keep learning. And thank you for my cup.”

“I know,” Rowan says softly, thinking back to the day when he realised the words “aromantic” and “frayromantic” describe him. A belated voicing of confusion and alienation; the naming of a constant sense of difference from the world. Revelation, understanding, explanation. “I know. I’m sorry, too. I don’t like … scenes. Or asking people things. I’m an anxious coward. So it just...”

He waves his hands, trying to mime an explosion.

Melanie, wide-eyed, jerks her head. “I couldn’t have said anything if you hadn’t done it first—and I wouldn’t have known to say anything if you hadn’t! And you’re asking us to do things knowing that we don’t understand, which must be frightening at least. You’re brave. And you shouldn’t be sorry.”

Rowan stares at her, unsure what to say in response. Never has anyone in his life freely offered such a sentiment. Never has anyone offered him something so generous without subsequent critique of Rowan’s intolerance for and impatience with their struggles to deal with him, praise softening the following reproval.

Brave.

His throat tightens and his eyes blur.

“Would you work with me on a proposal to put together for the submission forms? Damien insisted that I work with you, if you want to.”

“Uh … yeah?”

Melanie grabs a stack of papers from her desk and a chair. “I’ve gone through the old forms and highlighted passages. Do you want to read through and see if there’s anything I’ve missed or anything that should be left?”

He nods and takes the papers. Is this an alternate universe, the world flung upside down? Or, if people possess a minimum of decency, can he make needed change by addressing his problems instead of letting everyone talk over him? Can he build a world where he doesn’t endure cis or allo microaggressions by believing that their inconveniences aren’t worth more than his discomfort?

If his co-workers doesn’t object to correction, if they’re willing to make changes and investigate training, is the problem one of Rowan’s overreaction?

Does that mean he can talk to Matt the way he spoke to Melanie and Damien?

“Is something wrong?” Melanie asks, frowning.

Rowan shakes his head and plucks a pen from his frayro mug. “No.”

For the first time in a long time, that’s mostly true.

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redsdesktop · 7 years ago

Text

DBH: Deviant Dynamics

Chapter 30

Masterlist

Warnings: None

Guys. This is the last chapter...

Connor looked past the one sided glass into the interrogation room, within, a lone android sat cuffed to the table. The android didn't appear to be the type to kill out of cold blood, but out of fear and desperation. So what did this android fear? Connor frowned a bit, this whole case was a mess . As requested, Connor had called Markus in, since the older RK model was the one leading this reform of android society, he wanted to know down to the very detail on how it was going. Of course, Markus' presence wasn't exactly welcomed by Conrad and Collin, Collin was more on the fence about Markus since he didn't personally know the android. However, after gaining information from their meshing systems, he know what Kamski had stated, that Connor was on the side designed to be Markus' omega.

Despite the obvious scent of Simon on Markus, the two were hovering closer to Connor than usual. Conrad stood directly behind Connor, busy rubbing his cheek and neck against Connor's shoulder and neck, which Connor ignored completely despite the alpha's attempts to gain his attention. This was the workplace, Connor was busy working and wouldn't indulge in Conrad's need to show off who Connor belonged to. Even though he was an omega, he was the one who decided who he wanted as a partner and he was confident in his choices. At the same time, he knew how much those alpha instincts demanded Conrad touch and leave his scent on Connor when he felt there was a rival around, Connor wanted to simply skip through the tension by allowing Conrad to do as he pleased within reason.

Collin was more reserved about his actions, occasionally brushing his inner wrist against Connor every so often to leave his own mark, not wanting his scent to be snuffed out by Conrad's insistent marking. The worst part of it all, Markus was looking far too entertained watching Connor try to work normally with the two showing basic possessive natures around him without batting an eye. Connor shifted his dark brown gaze over to Markus who was leaning against one of the walls with a grin on his face, making a spike of annoyance run through Connor. "You think its funny, but I've heard from Simon how you get as well." Connor tossed out there, Simon often talked with Connor whenever the RK unit came in to get a check up on the bites and thirium loss, just to make sure he wasn't getting anything that was damage him too much.

"Okay, okay, let's get this over with now that everyone is here." Markus held up his hands in surrender, though he didn't look very apologetic. Connor shook his head and then looked over to Collin.

"Bring up the video." He instructed, Collin obeyed only because this was a serious case, otherwise Connor probably at least would've received some reluctance. Collin moved up to the one sided window and placed his hand on it, skin receding to reveal the white plating as he connected to the glass and used it to display the information. A image flickered onto the glass, the one sided pan only showing this on their side as it revealed the bus stop. One android was standing under the roof of the bus stop, appearing to be waiting for the bus. The rain made the image slightly blurry but not enough to hide the person standing under the lighted stop. Coming from the right, a person was walking along, android since they didn't seem too bothered by the downpour.

It was the android they had in custody at the moment, though when he walked past the bus stop, it was the man standing under the bus stop who reached out. It all happened in an instant, the moment that hand connected with the other android's, their bodies seized. However, the omega who had been under the bus stop was the one to collapse. Suddenly, the android still up seemed to startle, turning to look down the street before taking off running. Collin stopped the video there as that had been when Conrad and Connor had entered the scene.

"Rewind it until they make contact." Connor instructed, Collin rewinding the film and stopping it when the man from under the bus reached out to grab the man in the rain.

"That doesn't make sense." Markus stated as he walked up closer to the video as if getting closer would reveal more details."The body you found was the omega, correct?"

"Yes, all the casualties have been omega. Which leads me to believe this omega decided to change bodies." Connor stared past the video into the interrogation room where the android was shifting nervously, making him wait was all part of the game. "I am not completely certain, but I would take a guess that this is the culprit of all the murders. One's first conclusion is that an omega, not wanting to be a dynamic that has a reputation of being weak, decided that changing bodies would allow them to gain the dynamic they want. However, seeing that only betas and omegas are known dynamics for civilians, they have to settle with betas." Connor unknowingly reached into his pocket, retrieving a coin Conrad had managed to swipe from Hank again, allowing Connor to play with it while he went through his thoughts.

"So, one would assume, once they jumped bodies that would be the end of it. They would have the dynamic they wanted, at least until alphas were implemented into the deviancy virus." Connor flicked the coin to his other hand, letting it weave over his knuckles. "But, deviancy doesn't work like that, its embedded in our core programming, our AI if you will. The body is just like a suit, no matter how many times you change clothes, you'll always be the same person." Connor flicked the coin again, this time sending it vertical before catching it quickly on the tip of his finger, allowing it to spin there. "So once his systems began to adjust to the new AI, they began changing the body's dynamic, the scent changing just like it original did so the android would smell like the dynamic they were programmed for."

Connor tossed the coin up and caught it between his pinky and rink finger. "That's why he needed to change bodies every so often, they kept deviating to the omega dynamic, I suppose this didn't occur to him at first but then he simply just got desperate after so many failures. Hoping for a body that wouldn't change dynamics." Connor finished his briefing and tucked the coin back into the inside pocket of his jacket. Markus was busy rubbing his brow as he absorbed all the information he just received, looking as if he had a headache from it all. If androids could get headaches, Connor would likely have one all the time, instead he was stuck with Conrad and Collin, the personifications of a headache.

"So what do you think we should do?" Markus asked for Connor's advice, though Connor knew he had no real final say in the matter. Markus was a leader, whatever decision he made, the effects would land heavily on his shoulders.

"He has destroyed nine AI cores to date that we know of, in human terms, that would be considered murder. With it being intentional and multiple times, they would likely be sentenced to the death penalty. Seeing how we have no formal laws for androids still, this will be the case that sets the rules on how we handle such cases. Though, we do have a court of law enabled with android staffing to handle all the android cases. Its just nothing has ever been this serious before." Connor frowned again, not knowing he was leaning back against Conrad, subconsciously seeking the comfort of his steady presence to keep his mind thinking. "Its a pretty clean cut case though, with video evidence, there isn't any way he can prove he's innocent in this matter. I just need to get him to confirm that he commuted the other acts of murder as well."

Markus sighed and ran his hand over his face, Connor knew the man hated killing, especially his own kind. Sometimes it was necessary, if androids wanted to live like humans, they needed to follow laws like them as well. Without order, the humans would see the android's existence as a threat and a few bad apples would end up ruining the entire basket.

"I know this is a big decision to make, Markus. But if others find out that they're capable of doing this, it will be a disaster. The consequences for this need to be a statement and a warning to keep androids from killing each other just because they're dissatisfied." Connor didn't like the idea of forcing someone to accept their dynamic for what they were forcibly given but they couldn't just let androids kill each other for a task that wouldn't work. After dealing with Gavin, who had been born an Omega and then was masquerading as an alpha, he had seen the struggles and how that could effect someone.

"I would also announce that there is a plan to make modifications, similar to human medication, so that in the future one can change their dynamic that way. However, they will have to be patient a little while longer since we're still in the process of getting the factories building extra parts back up and running. Eventually, everyone will be able to customize themselves on who they want to be in the future." Markus hummed out in thought, Connor knowing he was putting more on Markus' shoulders but hopefully, the other supporters of Jericho would help him out in matters like this. Connor wasn't much of a leader, he provided facts and solved problems.

"I'll talk it over with my advisors, in the meantime, keep him secured until we reach a decision." Markus stated as he began to move out to the door. Markus paused though when he came in front of Connor, amusement hidden in those green and blue eyes. "I'm glad you finally look happy, Connor." Markus gave him a small nod before continuing out, knowing better than to touch Connor with the pairs of silver and golden brown eyes watching him in the dim observation room. Connor sighed out and shook his head, he couldn't deny it. It all started with Hank, a man who quickly became his friend and father figure, the first person to ever view him as something more than a machine.

Now he had an entire family, of course there were rough patches, but the fact they could get over them was confirmation that every good thing required effort. He closed his eyes and relaxed back against Conrad. The alpha nuzzled his nose against one ear, able to hear the faint rumble of a purr. Soon after there was a warmth against his side, feeling Collin lean in to nuzzle his face against the other either, his own purr striking up. Everything inside him warmed as the sound of the two androids he loved were happy and content. With a case wrapped up, Connor couldn't help but to let himself relax and breathe. A little lopsided smile quirked on one side of his lips as his own gentle purr joined in on the symphony of their happiness.

[ RESTART ] || [ LOAD GAME ]

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jopok-krp · 5 years ago

Photo

Welcome to Jopok! Please follow the admin twitter within 48 hours of acceptance, or your faceclaim will be freed up

Personality:

anxiety-ridden yet forcibly optimistic are two wonderful ways to describe minju. he knows the world is unforgiving and lives that reality each and every day, but he searches deeply within himself to find different reasons — no matter how small — to stay hopeful and keep going. he tries to remain a sunshine in a world full of clouds threatening to overshadow him and finds solace whenever his dumb antics are able to bring even the slightest of smiles to others’ faces.

minju is someone who may be considered an enigma. he trusts too easily or not at all, smiles and laughs one minute and cries and shakes the next. outwardly, he displays a lawfully neutral attitude with a bit of chaos here and there (caused mostly by bad decisions, but that’s okay), and he’s far more confident around those he knows well or when hiding behind a screen. embarrassing situations make him become shy and quiet — sometimes even anxious, in which case he either shuts his mouth entirely or rambles on while running his words together.

Background:

𝐥𝐞𝐞 𝐡𝐲𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐜𝐲𝐧𝐢𝐜.

born to an unfortunate family in gimpo near its borders with incheon, hyeseong was the middle child of two others — an older brother and a younger sister. he was a bright child that loved to visit the han river and wobble as close to the bank as possible, all smiles and giggles: a naturally born optimist, really. even when he had to look to his brother for reassurance rather than his mother or father, he forced his tears away in favor of accepting his sibling’s kind words — and then, he would pass them down to his sister. far too young to understand his reality, he passed his time thinking of these circumstances as normal.

the few times he saw his parents, they were either getting ready to leave for their daily one hour trip to seoul (“we have to go to work, honey. we love you.”) or just arriving home during the latest hours of the night from a draining day at their office job (“go to sleep, hyeseong. it’s late.”). and again, he was far too young to understand that desk work didn’t produce these kinds of issues — nor did they leave an odd smell on clothing, nor did they make adults so cold to their children, and nor did they have to be stationed in seoul rather than gimpo or even incheon.

fast forward to age six, and a whole new level of excitement occurred: moving to seoul. his parents told him it was necessary to be closer to their workplace, that it would give them time to actually bond with him and his siblings. although brimming with anticipation, he could see the frown on his brother’s face; it confused him, but he chalked it up to a bad mood (a continuous one, at that) and helped his cute kid sister pack all of her broken and stitched stuffies without a single complaint.

they didn’t spend more time with him, but that was okay.

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐟-𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥, 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐟-𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐲.

the shortage brought about its own set of issues. hyeseong was ten when it began, and the change was anything but subtle. suddenly, resources were scarce for everyone around him — and yet, somehow, his family seemed to be doing okay. maybe they were richer than he thought, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on the looks in his family’s eyes: his brother, questioning; his sister, confused; his father, determined; his mother, cold.

cold became a recurring theme as time dragged on, and the han river was but a distant memory. the world was ruining his life, yet he managed to smile through it. he could tell that his brother didn’t fare as well, at least on the outside. the silence was suffocating, but it was far more suffocating every time his brother spoke; everything was pessimistic, hateful, biting. because of this, he became the rock. it was him that had to look carefree and pretend everything was okay, and that wasn’t easy — not at thirteen years old, not for someone so inwardly sensitive, and certainly not whenever his parents were actually home. instead of him staying up to await their return, it became his brother; hyeseong knew this only because of the loud, heated arguments he could hear occurring in the earliest hours of the morning. he tried to hide from it — bury his head under the pillow and blankets, let his sister come to his bed and cover her ears as well. unfortunate, then, that he could still hear mostly everything. these harsh words were never directed at him, but they stung all the same (“stupid fucks, you’re taking all of our lives away!”).

he was sixteen when everything finally clicked for him — or maybe, he just stopped denying it. his sleep schedule hardly existed, and the things he heard throughout the night were far from peaceful silence. hushed whispers of casinos, of drugs, of gambling — all of it pointed to obvious illegal activity, and with the world in such disarray… well, he knew what that meant. he only prayed his sister didn’t know, and, in many ways, he was grateful to his brother for not telling him. finally, he fully understood the phrase ‘ignorance is bliss’.

hyeseong tried to pretend everything was normal — really, he did. he offered his sister the same bright, reassuring smiles and attended high school just as he had before. it was nothing short of difficult, especially after his brother graduated high school and immediately left the nest; that made him the oldest, the one that had to be even more responsible than before — and with that came the decision to talk to his parents. maybe, just maybe, he could make them stop all of this that way or, at the very least, gain an understanding of why.

he bid his sister goodnight around eleven and waited around in the living room until he heard the tell-tale click of the lock announcing his guardians’ arrival. it was four in the morning when he sat at the kitchen table across from them with cold stares boring into him. the conversation, as one could imagine, didn’t seem to go well.

( you’re in a gang.

okay.

why?

okay.

do you care at all?

okay.

please.

a pause, and then— it’s for protection. we help them, and they help us.

so, those people you—

are in one, too. yes.

—and—

we can’t leave gemini, hyeseong. we would be without everything.

but i don’t— care about that. we— i don’t even know your personalities, and you’re my parents. i want to see you! i want to know that we live normally! i want—

goodnight. )

hyeseong went to bed with wet cheeks and teary eyes.

𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐤 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬.

little by little, things were getting better. it was strange seeing his parents home more often — even stranger, then, that they would try to actively seek him and his sister out just to ‘hang out’ with them. over the course of two years, it became a routine to see them home and waiting with welcoming arms (and smiles that told both a happy and stressed tale; eyes that contained a million little puzzle pieces hyeseong could never dream of putting together; movements that were somewhat stiff and uncertain).

( it was subtle at first. his mother and father came home four days out of the week rather than three, and then the hours changed. four in the morning to three, three to twelve, and then— home during daylight hours. )

both hyeseong and his sister couldn’t have been happier with the change. their resources grew thinner, but neither of them cared; what mattered most was the beautiful reality of finally feeling like a real family. if only their eldest brother was there to see it.

the attractiveness of their new situation lasted throughout those two years and screeched to a startling halt within a few months of hyeseong turning eighteen. he was in his last few months of high school at that time, and the best part of his day was easily coming home to see his sister (who was growing up so well; he couldn’t have been more fond of someone even if he tried) and parents doing mundane things — cooking, cleaning, or watching tv, usually.

he knocked on the door just like any other day to announce his arrival and waited.

and waited.

nothing.

so, he tried to push the door open himself— and it worked. he thought it odd, considering his parents were always sticklers about keeping it locked ‘just in case’.

it hit him in steps.

first: the smell— not drugs, but blood. he scrunched his nose as soon as the door slowly swung open, nostrils flaring and eyebrows knitting together in a shocked state of confusion.

second: the feeling— not some kind of odd substance leftover from possible cooking, but again: blood. the lights were off, and his vision was far from good enough to see anything other than two feet in front of him. he turned on the light switch to the right side of the door and felt a somewhat wet, sticky sensation on his finger. his confusion doubled into alarm.

third: the sight— not a happy family sitting together, but corpses stained red. his eyes darted from his mother to his father, forced to take all of it in. he could see their bodies full of holes and deep cuts that tore through the skin— especially on their arms. far too crisply was the word “traitor” engraved; it tore through the dermis all the way to bone in some areas. he closed his eyes as soon as he regained control of himself, violent shakes passing through him each and every second until he fell to his knees and sobbed.

this wasn’t what he wanted when he talked to them that night.

he didn’t want to clumsily navigate through a house tainted red (it was so much— so much, everywhere), didn’t want to find his sister on the other end of the house slowly bleeding out and immobile from her injuries, didn’t want to hold her knowing her heartbeat was already so slow that there was no hope— and most of all, he didn’t want to have to figure out what to do after the fact.

his mind went far too many miles per minute for him to figure out what would be best. instead, he did the first thing his fight or flight response came up with: he ran.

he put his bloodied jacket over his sister’s corpse and ran until he couldn’t anymore.

it was lucky for him, then, that his steps took him to a restaurant his parents mentioned multiple times in the past. he was out of options; he couldn’t leave seoul without any means to long-term, couldn’t call the police because he was certain his fingerprints were everywhere and his mental state wouldn’t allow him to explain anything, couldn’t pretend it didn’t happen and just continue on — so, of course, his mind led him to that place to see the one man he thought could help him in some way.

that meeting wasn’t an easy one, and hyeseong hadn’t realized at the time that he’d sold his soul away in pursuit of a life he would never receive.

𝐤𝐰𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐣𝐮 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚 𝐜𝐲𝐧𝐢𝐜.

lee hyeseong does not exist any longer — at least, he doesn’t to those who don’t know the name from past associations. he left that name along with his worries, or so that’s what he hoped; instead, the past haunts him every passing day. it doesn’t matter that he eventually picked himself up enough to get an apartment, and nor does it matter that he landed a job at a local cafe just to feel some semblance of normality.

the man that saved him is the very one that keeps him trapped. minju’s existence quickly devolved into one of servitude (do this, do that, don’t get caught, speak my name and your life is over), and sometimes he swears he can feel eyes piercing through him at the weirdest times. he knows now that he was mistaken to believe anyone associated with his parents in the past would have an ounce of kindness in their heart.

kwon minju is just a boy that was eaten by the world and spat back out as a flickering flame.

#JOPOK : acceptance

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ahoforhavoc · 8 years ago

Text

Miserable

These days, you weren't sure which was worse. The constantly nagging gray area of pain and numbness that radiated in your chest, or the nonstop pitiful glances from everyone in your life.

It had been a few short weeks since Jimmy had left you. Your relationship hadn't been the longest, not by any means. But, for as short as it was? It was passionate. It was quick, and it was overwhelming. Your relationship with him had not been unlike the man himself. It was too soon to start tossing around the "L" word before it ended, but you could see yourself falling for The King of the Goths somewhere down the line... it was too bad you'd already begun to when he ended it all.

The worst part was probably never being told what you did wrong. You thought everything was fine. Then, the next thing you know, he told you that he would no longer do this. No kiss goodbye - it would hurt too much. Just the realization that you felt things for someone who didn't feel them back.

That was devastating.

Word got around quickly. Jim Smallman had told you to avoid him on your first day as part of the PROGRESS roster, and you regretfully ignored his warning. He was captivating: cold, distant, and a little cruel. Your goal had never been so much to change him, as much as it was to examine him; to see why he was how he was. To be alone, together.

You always thought you were a little much for him to digest. Truthfully, Jimmy could be moody. He could be sour. He could be outright toxic when he wanted to be. And there you were, akin to this little ray of sunlight that seemed destined to break through the cloudy existence he was so accustomed to living in. You entered his life with a smile and open arms and those things were foreign to the man who had made a name for himself on his willingness to pick others apart. But, when he let you stay as long as he had? You thought maybe he made an exception to the rule for you.

As you later found out, you were wrong.

Dahlia Black had become one of your closest friends on the PROGRESS roster and she was definitely upset to find out that Jimmy had disposed of you the way that he had - not for him, but for you. She'd quickly arranged a girl's day to make you feel better. Her hands were on your shoulders, pushing you in slow steps as you navigated the Electric Ballroom.

"Don't be so glum, Y/N." Dahlia smiled, aware that it was too little, too late, but nevertheless persistent. "You and I are going to go out there and we're going to take out all of this on Toni and Kay Lee Ray. And then, we're going to come back here and we're going to-"

You stopped in your tracks. Your eyes darted to the floor at the sight at the end of the hallway: Jimmy Havoc.

God, even looking at him just made a cold shiver run up your spine and that feeling of your heart sinking into the lowest, deepest pit of your stomach returned. Dahlia's gaze tightened, more sternly.

"Hey, hey no!" She urged, snaking herself around you and taking hold of one of your hands. "We didn't come this far to turn back now."

"I... I can't do this."

You managed to croak out as he approached. The look on his face was complete indifference. You could tell, even as half of it was covered with that spiked mask. He looked right through you. Like a doe, you fled, darting away from him. Dahlia took a moment to glare daggers at Havoc, who only rolls his eyes in response. Then she chased after you, leaving Havoc in his usual scowling state.

"Fuckin' dramatics..." He quipped, removing his mask and brushing his slip of dark hair into place.

"Can you blame her?" Jim Smallman asked, turning a corner and leaning on the wall with a smirk at the look of contempt on his former rival's face. "She adored you, far more than you deserved, and you fuckin' tore her heart to pieces."

"It's none of your concern," Havoc fired back. "It's none of anybody's fuckin' concern what goes on around here between me, and her, or anybody else."

That was part of the reason that he left. Y/N was a social butterfly. She had been able to make friends with anyone and everyone on the roster, from Zack Sabre Jr to even Mr. and Mrs. Haskins. People liked to talk, and he hated to surround himself with such trivialities.

"Actually... she's on my roster. And you're on my roster. So, it's very much so my concern, I would think."

"Wouldn't be the first time you were wrong either, mate, now would it?" That usual scowl crept over his face. "I couldn't give two shits what Dahlia Black thinks of me, nor what I do in my spare time. What MY concern is, where that falls? It's in regaining the World Championship from that sodding dickhead, Travis Banks. Having Y/N around... it complicated that."

"Oh, why's that?" Smallman pried. "Because you weren't such a miserable little whinger the entire time she was around?"

"Miserable, yeah." The Camden native scoffed. "Miserable is havin' everyone around here thinkin' you lost a step when you're still the most violent, brutal motherfucker in the back. Miserable is havin' a weak spot. I don't have that. All I have is the PROGRESS World Championship in mind and not a single distraction from that goal."

"Nobody doubted the depths you're willin' to sink to, Jimmy. I've seen first hand just what kind of a man you can be when things aren't headed your way. It's where you're willin' to rise to that people wanted to see."

Havoc rolled his eyes, before he turned his icy blue gaze in the direction that Y/N and Dahlia had gone off to, just for a moment.

"Not just professionally, but completely. You know, the Mrs. and I actually spent a lot of time wonderin' how ya' even landed a proper bird like Y/N. But, you threw a good thing away."

"Well, fortunately, as I said earlier... it's none of your fuckin' business what I do." He fired back, anger building in his voice and in his eyes at the "comedian's" joke.

"Relax, bub. You're right. It's not my job to hold your hand and babysit you and help ya' make decisions. You're grown, you're right about that. But, it's my job to provide a happy workplace, so if ya' ever need an ear... yadda yadda..." Smallman pushed further.

"I'M NOT HER!" Jimmy raised his voice, repeating further. "I'm NOT Y/N! I don't need ANY-fuckin'-BODY! The ONLY thing I NEED is to regain my World Championship. I don't need the sidetracking, I don't need the cutesy little text messages, I don't need someone tryin' to look out for me. I've NEVER needed that."

He snapped, while Smallman glanced at him. Tentatively, he fired back, a single hand rising to protect himself if need be from the volatile man who stood before him.

"Seems like you're still pretty fuckin' miserable, Havoc."

Smallman tried to edge back a little further, even with his back to the wall, anything to create some distance if it came to it, even if it was in vain. Havoc shot a dead, annoyed look in the direction of the man who he'd spent two years tormenting.

"And," Smallman added further, having already dug himself this deep. "Did ya' ever stop to think she maybe did those things because she cares about you?"

"Of fuckin' course she cares about me." He resigned, his eyebrows furrowing and his eyes slicing. "I knew that when she first woke up next to me-"

"I don't need to know that, Jimmy..."

"It was fuckin' ungodly early. Half-six, I think." He continued to reflect, as if Smallman hadn't said anything. "She asked me if I was awake. I told her no. She pouted, and she stayed there. I'd been drinking -" A cold glare from Havoc told Jim to keep his "witty" comment to himself. "And she stayed with me until I was ready to wake around noon. Kept Aspirins on the table nearby, just in case I was hungover."

"Guess Y/N didn't know who she was dealing with..."

"I thought I hated it. I thought I hated the hangover care, I thought I hated the way she kissed every little cut or scrape I got, I thought I hated the way she would fuckin' turn pennies that she found around the house heads up to 'bring me good luck,' I thought I hated the way she'd giggle at every little fuckin' thing on her phone on social media and turn it to me to show me. It was so... saccharine and annoying. It pissed me off, quite honestly. THAT'S what made me miserable. Havin' to deal with fuckin' sunshine and rainbows every single minute of every single day."

"So ya' sought to bring Y/N down with you?" Jim asked, for clarity, a disturbed look on his face.

"Not quite." Jimmy lamented. "I thought I was miserable havin' someone care about me like that. It felt like I was goin' soft. Like I wasn't me. Now... I'm not me, but I'm lonely. I could handle lonely. I changed because of her and now I miss each and every one of those little things. In the end, I got what I wanted, but now, I'm miserable without her."

That was a revelation that Smallman was not at all prepared for. Vulnerability like that from this man? It was never something he thought he would see. Now? It was alarming. Havoc grit his teeth, being exposed like this not at all something he was used to - he was hardened and jaded. He carried himself in a way that always put his career and the progression of it first.

"I let Y/N stick around a little too long. She got her talons a little too deep." Jimmy hung his head, slumping his shoulders. "I cut her loose to get me back, but it was too late."

"So tell her!" Jim said, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. "You're brooding, she's hurting. Fuckin' fix it. Doesn't seem that tough."

"And tell her I was wrong? Mate, you should know me much better than that through the years we've spent together. That's not me."

That was the prideful Jimmy that Jim knew. The man who'd be willing to allow himself to be unhappy than to admit he was wrong, because being unhappy was familiar territory. It was something he knew. Being with Y/N was unfamiliar. It was frightening to let himself feel things like that, and not have the worry of losing his edge.

"It just seems unnecessarily cruel to me that you'd bring her down with you when the girl did nothing but pick the wrong person to give a damn about." Smallman sighed, more than aware that he wasn't going to break through to Havoc.

"That's the me that ya' know and love, right?" Havoc found a half-grin but any sense of luster in his eyes had burned out. "She'll bounce back. I'll get my title. Everything will be just chummy once again."

"And what if I tell her?"

Jim asked, as Havoc took a moment or so to collect his thoughts, before his cruel gaze fixated on Jim's. A smirk crossed the face of the former World Champion as his calloused, rough hand patted the cheek of Jim Smallman.

"You know what kind of hell I can bring to your life, Jim. You wouldn't want that to happen again, would you? The same hatchet we buried, I can easily dig up and cleave you to pieces with." He gave his face a few more pats with his fingers, smirking. "I didn't think so."

Havoc took a step back, readjusting his mask in place. As he slunk away, Jim could breathe a sigh of relief. Jimmy had been a menace he'd only recently gotten to a point where he was manageable. Keeping PROGRESS safe as a whole at the hands of one crazed man seemed like it was a higher priority than bringing Y/N back to the fun-loving, sweet girl she was. But, was it a secret he could keep? Only time would tell.

#fanfic #jimmy havoc #progress wrestling #possible one shot

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sage-nebula · 8 years ago

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Hello! I want to get into watching the Office because it seems really good and I loved Parks and Rec, but everytime I start watching I can't make myself continue. The first few episodes are just like... the punchline that everyone is racist just happens too often for me to swallow. Is there a point where I can start watching where the writers kind of leaned away from this or should I just tough it out?

Hi! So, this is going to be a long answer, and I hope that’s all right, haha. As someone who loves both The Office and Parks and Recreation (though I actually like The Office a bit more, even though I think Parks & Rec is more consistent across the seasons in terms of quality), I have a lot of thoughts on both.

So, here’s the thing:

Although The Office and Parks and Recreation were created/produced by the same guy (guys? I know that Michael Schur for sure worked on both, though I think there was one other person working on both as well), they’re very different in tone. Whereas Parks and Recreation tends to be more optimistic and idealistic (in that even when things go wrong for the cast in the short-term, in the long-term they’re almost guaranteed to succeed, and even when there’s squabbling and bickering, for the most part the characters tend to be optimistic, and idealism---particularly Leslie’s idealism---is rewarded), The Office tends to be more caustic and cynical. Things very often don’t succeed for these characters in the short-term (long-term projects don’t happen as often, and even then there are a few big long-term failures), and they’re much, much more prone to being snarky and cynical. Additionally, whereas snark and cynicism are often “punished” on Parks and Recreation (in that the cynics are usually proven wrong/converted to idealism, again, usually by Leslie), this isn’t the case on The Office. Not only is The Office a world of snark, but since things don’t tend to magically work themselves out on The Office due to it arguably being a more realistic setting (I mean, Pawnee, Indiana isn’t even an actual city that exists, whereas The Office takes place in the very real Scranton, Pennsylvania), cynicism isn’t punished here because having a more idealistic outlook---particularly without the experience or power necessary to back it up---is more likely to backfire than it is to succeed. (i.e., although Michael very often wants everything to magically work out . . . it usually doesn’t.) And that’s not to say that The Office is a depressing show where everyone always loses, because that’s not true, but it is to say that while the antagonists on Parks and Recreation are caricatures of people rather than opponents that actually exist (and as such our idealistic protagonists can more easily overcome them), the problems and antagonists on The Office are more grounded in reality and, as such, reality tends to ensue.

So with that said, I first want to address something you said about the early episodes, which is here:

“The first few episodes are just like... the punchline that everyone is racist just happens too often for me to swallow.”

I actually find it interesting that this is your viewpoint, because my opinion is that The Office, as a whole, actually tends to show this attitude in a negative light!

The episode I think you’re mainly thinking of happens in season one, and it’s episode two (I believe)---“Diversity Day.” In it, corporate has sent an ethics counselor to the Scranton branch of Dunder-Mifflin (where our main cast is employed) to give a diversity seminar because Michael, the boss, imitated a Chris Rock routine and was rather ignorantly racist while doing so. Michael, of course, hates the idea that anyone but him could be in charge (and is also too ignorant to realize exactly how and why he was being racist), and as such he not only ruins the seminar, but then proceeds to make everything more offensive by having “diversity activities” throughout the day. This culminates in him being slapped for real by Mindy Kaling, who was playing Kelly Kapoor.

Now, with that being said, I can understand why that would be hard to swallow! It’s not easy to see a character acting like that. But the thing about The Office is that we’re not supposed to be laughing with Michael, or sympathizing with him; it’s very intentionally framed (in my view, anyway) that he is in the wrong when he does things like this. We see this via the more heroic characters in The Office finding what he’s doing wrong, offensive, awful, and very often calling him on it (especially as the series goes on). For instance, in “Diversity Day,” it’s clear that no one there really approves of what he’s doing. They’re all going along with it because they have to, but while there are some characters who do hold bigoted viewpoints as well (e.g. Dwight and Angela, who are also not shown in a heroic light, especially at that point in the show), the characters that we’re meant to sympathize with (e.g. Jim, Pam, Oscar) don’t agree with what’s going on, and usually say so. (e.g. Pam says, “Based on stereotypes which are not true and that I do not agree with . . .) So in this case, it’s not, “haha, racism is funny!” but more, “my god, this guy is such an ignorant ass, and yet there are people like him out there, and people like these office workers who have to suffer through it.”

And that’s the thing: Parks and Recreation has a lot less of that (once they stop trying to have Leslie be Michael near the end of S2---because she made quite a few ignorant/racist comments toward Tom in the first two seasons), but it was also more of an idealistic show. The Office shows that people have prejudices, bigotry, et cetera, but always in a negative light. We’re never supposed to sympathize with Michael when he makes comments like that, and we’re certainly not meant to sympathize with disgusting characters like Todd Packer (who I believe is introduced in S2, but he might make an appearance in S1). Granted, Packer’s scenes are never funny to me regardless, but he is important to show Michael’s growth later on, so. Regardless, although The Office does include things like that, they’re never meant to be the punchline. It’s not, “laugh at the racism!” but rather “isn’t this awful? and isn’t it awful when things like this happen in your workplace? because we know they do, we’re sure of it, even if we’re exaggerating it a tad for comedic effect.” Especially later on, that sort of behavior is always framed as wrong.

WITH ALL OF THAT SAID! (I told you this was going to be a long response, haha, I have a lot of feelings.)

Just like how Parks and Recreation’s first season was so horrible that even the cast denounces it (“Don’t bring up those shitty episodes!” said Aziz Ansari during a cast panel), it’s pretty much agreed upon that the first season of The Office is the weakest season as well, due largely in part to the producers trying to create the British original. In fact, the first episode is pretty much a shot-for-shot remake of the British original. In season two, however, they break away from the U.K. formula and become their own thing, and from then on it’s pretty much unanimously decided that the U.S. The Office surpasses that of the British original. The characters become fleshed out, the storylines become deeper, and overall the show vastly improves.

So, with all of that said?

I do still recommend toughing it out through the first season since it’s only six episodes long, and there are some great little subplots in the first season as well (such as Jim and Dwight’s alliance). Plus, there are a few nuggets of plot in the first season that continue into the second (such as Jim’s temporary girlfriend, Katy). But if you’re having trouble with the first season (and I don’t blame you!), then I would recommend skipping the first two episodes (“Pilot” and “Diversity Day”). That leaves you with:

“Health Care”

“The Alliance”

“Basketball”

“Hot Girl”

The most important episode here is “Hot Girl” (which is the last episode of season one), due to the fact that Katy is introduced in it, and she makes reappearances in season two. That said, I think the others are worth watching as well. “Health Care” has some great shenanigans in it, shows how ineffectual Michael is as a boss/how desperate he is to be liked, and is good for Jim/Pam content; “The Alliance” has the hilarious subplot of Jim and Dwight’s alliance, which, trust me, is more hilarious than it sounds; “Basketball” does have more of Michael’s ignorance (he’s ignorant a lot, it’s a marked character flaw, but he’s never rewarded for it and he develops through it as time goes on), but I feel that it’s still important for Jim/Pam content; and “Hot Girl” is necessary for reasons started above.

All of that said, again: There is a noticeable quality jump from the very first episode in season two, “The Dundies,” which is where some of the most notable quotes from the show come from (e.g. “I feel God in this Chili’s tonight”). So if you really want to you can skip straight to that, but I recommend at least watching “Hot Girl” first, as well as the others noted in the bullet list.

Again, sorry this is so long, but please feel free to ask for further clarification! The Office is definitely one of those shows, I think, that has a certain tone to it that can be a bit hard to get used to---but I also think it’s really worth it, and it does have its successes and moments of idealism as well. (In fact, the series ends with one of the most hopeful quotes imaginable (“There’s a lot of beauty in ordinary things. Isn’t that kind of the point?”), so there is definitely some hope there. There’s just also a lot of, well . . . snark, too, haha.)

#chinonshou

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brentrogers · 5 years ago

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Podcast: Medical Model Errors and Omissions in Treating Mental Illness

From lobotomies to pharmaceutical advertising to forced treatment, let’s discuss some of the more taboo topics in the history of psychiatry. While some of these approaches are obviously terrible (especially in hindsight) others are in the gray area. Should pharmaceutical companies be able to advertise directly to the patient? Is it OK to force psychiatric treatment in certain cases?

What do you think? Tune in to today’s Not Crazy episode for a great discussion on the more controversial topics in the field of psychiatry.

(Transcript Available Below)

Please Subscribe to Our Show: And We Love Written Reviews!

About The Not Crazy podcast Hosts

Gabe Howard is an award-winning writer and speaker who lives with bipolar disorder. He is the author of the popular book, Mental Illness is an Asshole and other Observations, available from Amazon; signed copies are also available directly from Gabe Howard. To learn more, please visit his website, gabehoward.com.

Lisa is the producer of the Psych Central podcast, Not Crazy. She is the recipient of The National Alliance on Mental Illness’s “Above and Beyond” award, has worked extensively with the Ohio Peer Supporter Certification program, and is a workplace suicide prevention trainer. Lisa has battled depression her entire life and has worked alongside Gabe in mental health advocacy for over a decade. She lives in Columbus, Ohio, with her husband; enjoys international travel; and orders 12 pairs of shoes online, picks the best one, and sends the other 11 back.

Computer Generated Transcript for “Mental Illness Medical Model” Episode

Editor’s Note: Please be mindful that this transcript has been computer generated and therefore may contain inaccuracies and grammar errors. Thank you.

Lisa: You’re listening to Not Crazy, a psych central podcast hosted by my ex-husband, who has bipolar disorder. Together, we created the mental health podcast for people who hate mental health podcasts.

Gabe: Hey, everyone, and welcome to the Not Crazy podcast, I’m your host Gabe Howard, and with me, as always, is my delightful, I’m going to go with delightful, delightful co-host Lisa Kiner. Lisa?

Lisa: Hey, everyone. Today’s quote is, this is how betrayal starts, not with big lies, but with small secrets. And that’s by Shalini Joshi.

Gabe: Ok, so we got a lot

Lisa: A lot.

Gabe: A lot of e-mails about the anti-psychiatry episode that we did a few weeks back.

Lisa: I love the emails because most people agreed with me, so keep those emails coming, folks, and said that you, Gabe, were unnecessarily harsh.

Gabe: Who’s saw, who saw that coming?

Lisa: Yeah.

Gabe: I mean, like you radiate negativity.

Lisa: Hostility and anger. I know. Yeah, who saw that I’d be the reasonable one? Yay me.

Gabe: I did not.

Lisa: Nobody saw that coming, yeah. One email even said they were afraid you might, quote, stroke out.

Gabe: That was my favorite one. That was my favorite. Yeah.

Lisa: So tell us, why were you so angry?

Gabe: Because having a point doesn’t give you the right to lie, and for me it makes it worse because this is so personal for me and some of the points of the psychiatric survivor and the anti-psychiatry movement are so valid and they deserve attention. But now the point is so much more easily ignored and it’s making life harder for people like me and other people with severe and persistent mental illness.

Lisa: Well, I feel like we said that in the episode, though.

Gabe: I feel like we did, too, I feel like we tried to discuss it and keep a middle ground, but clearly we did not.

Lisa: The email would, in fact, indicate that. Yes.

Gabe: So we decided that this episode, we’re going to dedicate the entire episode to some of the very real issues that the psychiatric survivor community is legitimately raising.

Lisa: Things like lobotomy, forced treatment, pharmaceutical advertising.

Gabe: They make a lot of very valid points,

Lisa: Yes, they do.

Gabe: And again, as I feel like we said in the original episode, they go so far to make it easy to ignore.

Lisa: That is a problem.

Gabe: Let’s talk about lobotomies.

Lisa: OK.

Gabe: That . . . I . . . Lobotomies are bad. If lobotomies were still going on,

Lisa: Right.

Gabe: We could all agree lobotomies are bad. Never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever. I feel like we need some more evers, do lobotomies.

Lisa: Lobotomies actually are still going on, but in different ways and for different things.

Gabe: What?

Lisa: No, that’s actually true, yeah. It can be a treatment for epilepsy these days. For severe epilepsy, that doesn’t respond to other things.

Gabe: Really, but is it an actual lobotomy?

Lisa: Well, what do you define as lobotomy? The word just means removing part of the brain or severing connections between the brain.

Gabe: I think what we’re talking about, a psychiatric lobotomy, we.

Lisa: Well, yeah, we all know what we’re talking about, you’re right, that was off topic.

Gabe: I understand what you’re talking about, that things do evolve and potentially become beneficial, I guess, but when we talk about a psychiatric lobotomy, I mean, we’re literally talking about the ice pick through the eye.

Lisa: Yeah, yeah.

Gabe: We’re talking about removing the frontal lobe for no other reason than to control people’s or to make them more docile. I’m really not sure I.

Lisa: You know, Gabe, I don’t know if this matters to you, but they didn’t actually remove the lobe of the brain, they just damaged it or severed some of the connections.

Gabe: I, which?

Lisa: With an ice pick through the eye. Yeah.

Gabe: You are right.

Lisa: You are right. That does not make it better. That is not a meaningful distinction.

Gabe: I think that my way seemed more kind, your way is, like, we just poke at it until we get the desired behavior.

Lisa: Yes, and often done blind. Ugh, do not start reading about, well, one old timey surgical techniques or two, lobotomies. It’s just lots of bleah.

Gabe: I think we can all agree that lobotomies are bad, they’re not good, and they really served no purpose.

Lisa: And were quite damaging.

Gabe: We were surprised to find out where lobotomies came from. And we’re just going to give you a brief little history lesson just so that you can be as shocked as we were.

Lisa: Spoiler alert, it’s even worse than you think.

Gabe: Yeah, it is. I’m on the edge of my seat, Lisa.

Lisa: And to also just twist the knife on how incredibly horrifying it is, the guy who, he didn’t necessarily invent it, but he did popularize the lobotomy, won the Nobel Prize in medicine for this work. Yeah,

Gabe: Ok, but

Lisa: Bleah.

Gabe: That. But wait, there’s more. And that’s not the worst part.

Lisa: As I was doing research for the show, I started to wonder, why was this a thing? Why were lobotomies used so much? Why were people doing this? And I found an interesting quote, and this is by Jason Brice, who is a famous neurosurgeon and worked back in the day in the 50s alongside one of the originators of the procedure. And he said, When I visited mental hospitals, you saw straightjackets, padded cells, and it was patently apparent that some of the patients were, I’m sorry to say, subjected to physical violence. And then why did you like lobotomies? We hoped it would offer a way out. We hoped it would help. So you specifically are saying that these people are being abused. So, hey, a lobotomy is a better option. You’re not evaluating it on its own merits. You’re just saying, you know, this would definitely be better than the abuse they’re currently receiving, the abuse that’s being done by your profession. That is so messed up.

Gabe: Yeah, it’s messed up and once again, notice it put the onus on the patient. It was the patient’s responsibility to fix what the staff was doing. So the group with no power.

Lisa: And his whole thing is and that’s why we promoted lobotomies. Why are you not saying and that’s why we really cleaned up asylums and made sure that the staff wasn’t abusing the patients? What is wrong with you?

Gabe: This gentleman and his little team came up with the idea to do lobotomies by walking through mental hospitals and seeing that the staff was abusing the patients and they thought to themselves, how do we stop patient abuse? I know. We’ll damage their frontal lobe so that they will be more docile and then the staff won’t want to abuse them.

Lisa: Well, it was more of, oh, the goal is to get these people out of the hospital and then they won’t be abused. Oh, perfect. The goal isn’t to make them better or to improve their functioning or to help them. No, the goal is just to take them out of the abusive situation, the abusive situation that you caused and are working for.

Gabe: And the way that we get them out of that is to just ultimately abuse them.

Lisa: In a different way.

Gabe: The reason that that I’m bringing all of this up is because I, as a 43 year old man, tend to think of this as it’s the past, right? This is something that happened in a world that has now gone. But I really didn’t consider the idea that people are alive.

Lisa: A surprising number.

Gabe: First off, people who received lobotomies in the 1950s are still alive.

Lisa: Well, lobotomies continued to be performed well into the 80s.

Gabe: Yeah, yeah, that was a, that was a.

Lisa: So lots of people are walking around who had this done to them, and of course, plenty of people are walking around with knowledge that this was done.

Gabe: Like their friends and relatives and, you know, we didn’t really consider the generational trauma of all of this. That this is, the best example that I have, Lisa, is, you know, when you took me to the emergency room and I was ultimately admitted to the psychiatric ward. We called my grandmother. My grandmother was born in 1936. And when I called her and I said, hey, I’m being admitted to the psychiatric ward, she said, I’m sending a lawyer. I’m sending a lawyer right now. We’re going to get you out of there.

Lisa: Don’t worry.

Gabe: Yeah. Yeah, don’t worry. I’m getting you a lawyer. What? I don’t, I don’t need a lawyer, Grandma. I need medical care. And for the longest time, I thought this was proof that she was a nutty old woman. Who sends a lawyer to a hospital, you crazy lady? Like, sincerely, right? But no, my grandmother remembers her neighbor who was committed against her will because her husband said that she wasn’t following the rules of the marriage. And boom, 12 weeks in a mental hospital. This is the trauma that my grandmother is, this is her experience.

Lisa: And what you’re referring to is that at one time, husbands, fathers, pretty much any man in control of a woman, could have her declared insane or crazy and forcibly admitted to an asylum.

Gabe: And you’re thinking, well, but they needed a reason, but that reason

Lisa: No.

Gabe: Could be refuses to have dinner on the table, back talks, wants to get a job, likes sex, doesn’t like sex. I mean, it’s just, you didn’t really need a quality reason. And most importantly, the woman had no say. She could be as calm, as rational and reasonable as the day is long. And that’s assuming that they even talked to her at all. They did all of their talking to, as Lisa pointed out, the nearest man. And I tend to think of that as something, well, that doesn’t exist anymore and that doesn’t happen anymore. But my grandma? She was alive when that was happening.

Lisa: And remembers some incidents of it quite vividly.

Gabe: Yeah, so.

Lisa: And this influences, so when you called her and said, hey, I’m going to go to a psychiatric hospital, this is her opinion of psychiatric hospitals and what happens there.

Gabe: Yeah, so when I say, why don’t you trust the medical establishment? Why do you have such a low opinion of them? My grandma’s natural response is, look, I couldn’t trust them in the 50s. I couldn’t trust them in the 60s. Why should I trust them now? And she’s passed that on to the people around her. She passed it on to me. Luckily I got better information, updated information, and I was able to get the help that I needed. And none of those things happened to me, not a single one. But that I should just tell my grandmother what? The medical establishment has moved on since that? They haven’t really done anything to make up for it. I mean, they’ve acknowledged that it was wrong and they shouldn’t do it, I think.

Lisa: Have they? Have they?

Gabe: We could not find a formal statement from any significant large medical organization, the American Medical Association, the American Psychiatric Association, the American Psychological Association, we could not find any documentation from a president, a board of directors that said we were unequivocally wrong and we were apologizing. We found a lot of information that said, well, those were the times. You know, what were we supposed to do? We were doing research. As soon as we realized it was wrong, we stopped. But they didn’t stop until they were defunded. So I’m. I’m not.

Lisa: It doesn’t seem like a sincere apology, is what you’re saying,

Gabe: It doesn’t.

Lisa: And again, I couldn’t trust you back then, you were doing all this bad stuff at the time. You’re apparently not that sorry for it. You haven’t really apologized, but. Oh, no, you’ve changed. You’re different now. The bad days are behind us.

Gabe: And this is what’s a little bit rough, right? I personally do believe that the bad days are behind us.

Lisa: You are wrong.

Gabe: Well, they’re no longer forcibly doing lobotomies and they’re no longer admitting wives based on their husbands’ say so. A lot of these things can’t be done any more. No matter how hard I try, I cannot have Kendall committed because she won’t make dinner. My wife, I can’t just have her committed because I want to, but I might be able to get her committed if I say the right words. So it’s no longer the slam dunk that it was. I need you to commit my wife because she won’t obey my commands. That won’t work anymore. But maybe you could say, look, she’s crazy. Here’s what I have observed as her caregiver or patient advocate. I mean, we’re doing a lot to remove HIPPA laws, for example, and people think that’s reasonable. To take the medical privacy rights away from people with mental illness for their own good. This is a big advocacy point and one that we well should fight back against because all kinds of negatives can come out of that.

Lisa: There’s a lot of for your own good type things when it comes to modern psychiatry. Medication, hospitalization, all sorts of things. Paternalism is still very much there and it’s very much about infantilizing the patient.

Gabe: As your quote said, Lisa, there’s just like death by a thousand paper cuts.

Lisa: Well, some would argue these aren’t papercuts, these are stab wounds.

Gabe: But let’s go with that they’re paper cuts. They’re little, right? See when I think of medical malpractice, I’m thinking of the forced lobotomy, the your husband can have you committed, the people who spent literally years in an institution, despite, frankly, being smarter than both of us combined. They just were poor or impoverished or a minority or a woman, which is just rooted in racism and misogyny. But all of the things that I’m talking about now, they seem small in comparison. Now that that could be a false equivalency. I completely understand that, but I do feel like we’ve improved because these are smaller, but I do feel that they erode trust and faith in the system, which erodes faith in the outcome. Is that how you see it, Lisa?

Lisa: Yes, 100%. When you say they’ve improved. Well, so what? Oh, it’s better now. Well, it still ain’t good is it? And if you’re the person suffering right now, the fact that, oh, hey, your suffering could have been way worse 30 years ago. That is not comforting. You don’t want it to be way better, you want it to be gone.

Gabe: You’re not wrong. You know, I’m struggling to find words here because.

Lisa: When you say it could be worse, you’re saying that this person, the hypothetical psychiatric patient we’re talking about, should just shut up and be grateful. How condescending and dehumanizing is that?

Gabe: We see a lot on social media where people watched a YouTube video and declare themselves experts and start demanding things from their doctor. And to a lesser extent, I think the pharmaceutical companies are playing on this. Because replace YouTube video with recent commercial.

Lisa: Right.

Gabe: So now we’ve got a doctor, went to medical school, researched this, studied this, passed the boards, seen hundreds, thousands of patients and one of their patients comes in and says, I want Xikal. Well, why do you want Xikal? Because last night, when I was depressed, I saw an ad that had cute little bubbles or a lady jogging in the, it’s always power walking now, I don’t know why, in the mountains who made up with her mother, sister, boyfriend, whatever. You know, she’s now connected with her children and she took Ziklakal, or whatever fake name I made up earlier. And based on the strength of that commercial, they now know more than the doctor. And the pharmaceutical company argues, no, no, no, no, no. We’re just making them aware.

Lisa: And they even say things like talk to your doctor. Uh huh.

Gabe: And they hide.

Lisa: Yeah.

Gabe: They hide behind the idea that, no, no, no, this is between you and your doctor, but your doctor doesn’t have a multimillion dollar advertising budget to prove that they’re the expert and the pharmaceutical company is not. And the pharmaceutical companies know this.

Lisa: America is the only place that has direct to consumer pharmaceutical advertising, and it’s also the place where drugs are the most expensive. Almost like that’s not a coincidence.

Gabe: Lisa, in the interest of full disclosure, it’s important to mention that PsychCentral.com does take pharmaceutical advertising. I have contracted with many pharmaceutical companies and hopefully will continue to contract with pharmaceutical companies. So I just wanted to give a quick conflict of interest statement that both PsychCentral.com, Gabe Howard, Lisa Kiner, the entire enterprise, if you will, has absolutely taken money from pharmaceutical companies, hospitals, medical companies, conferences, etc.

Lisa: Yes, transparency matters, and we just wanted you to know.

Gabe: Yup. I feel like pharmaceutical companies know what they’re doing. I don’t think that they’re completely misleading the public. I think it’s more sinister than that. Right?

Lisa: I think this is a for profit company and their goal is to sell product and if their product happens to be medication, well, their goal is to sell it. It’s just capitalism. There’s not ethics or morality involved, it’s just economic. And not for nothing, if my goal is to sell my product, then I have a vested interest in as many people as possible needing my product. So saying that, oh, hey, this drug used to be for this, oh, it turns out you can use it for that too. Or, oh, well, you know, we didn’t used to medicate people that were at this level. Well, but wouldn’t they be better off if they were? The goal of a pharmaceutical company is to have everybody in America have mental illness and therefore need said medication.

Gabe: And see, I don’t like that. I don’t think that’s true. I think you’ve gone too far the other way

Lisa: How is that not true?

Gabe: To say that the pharmaceutical company is all sitting in a meeting saying, how can we trick everybody who doesn’t need this medication to take a medication they don’t need? I think that sounds very, what’s the word? Conspiracy theory.

Lisa: Well, it does sound that way, and that’s not what I’m saying. You don’t have pharmaceutical employees and executives sitting around diving into a pile of gold like Scrooge McDuck. No, that’s not what’s happening here. The point is that money changes things. And whenever you put money into any given situation, people start to have bias. And maybe it’s just a tiny little bit, but it’s still there.

Gabe: That’s what I mean by little things that start eroding. I personally don’t like the idea of direct to consumer advertising because I think that you should tell your doctor your symptoms, have a partnership with your doctor, explain what’s happening, and your doctor should decide the best medicine for you.

Lisa: Well, but not your doctor should decide, you and your doctor should decide together.

Gabe: Yes, yes, completely agree, but this gets problematic as well, because I know many patient advocates, hundreds at this point over a 10 year career, that tell me that the way that they found the treatment that worked for them was it was recommended by another patient.

Lisa: Oh, OK.

Gabe: Well, now this gets tough, right? Because when another patient is like, hey, look, I took Xeniklein, I keep changing the name, but at least it always starts with Xen. And then they talk to their doctor about it and they get it. Like, I feel that there’s like a personal empowerment there, right?

Lisa: Maybe.

Gabe: When somebody says I have the same illness as you and this is a treatment that worked for me, why don’t you go talk to your doctor? I think that it’s pure, but for some reason, when the pharmaceutical company advertises, hey, use this medicine and you’ll be able to make up with your mother, who you’ve been fighting with for 15 years, and go for power walks through the mountains or connect with your children and do water colors. That’s another like common theme, water color, I don’t understand this at all,

Lisa: It’s always raining at the beginning and then it’s not necessarily super bright and sunny, but it’s definitely not overcast by the end.

Gabe: And the people they get to play depression on these things, they’re so depressed, they’ve made their pets depressed.

Lisa: I love that.

Gabe: Yeah, the dog is miserable.

Lisa: Yeah.

Gabe: This is where it’s very, very difficult. On one hand, I think that patients having information is a good thing. And you can argue that all the pharmaceutical companies are doing is giving the patient information. But I don’t think they’re sticking to facts. I really don’t.

Lisa: But where’s the line? It’s not necessarily straight up lying, but it’s advertising.

Gabe: It’s puffery.

Lisa: There’s an element of puffery, right. You know, world’s best coffee. Is your coffee really? Really? How did you determine that? But no one has a problem with that statement in an ad.

Gabe: It’s not a small house, it’s a cozy house.

Lisa: Well, just we all understand that’s what advertising is. So that’s true with drugs as well.

Gabe: I want to challenge that exact statement right there. You said that people understand advertising, that they understand that it’s puffery and they understand. Like that’s the base premise, of Americans understand advertising. But

Lisa: No, they don’t.

Gabe: You literally just said Americans understand it’s puffery.

Lisa: Well, I should have phrased that differently because obviously, if everybody understood that advertising was bullshit, then we wouldn’t have advertising. The point is that we all understand there’s some element of that, but we don’t think it all the way through to its natural conclusion.

Gabe: That’s the specific part that I want to sort of address here. When you are sick and desperate, are you less likely to acknowledge that the advertisement is puffery? Or are you more likely? For me, when I watch the sports car commercial, the guy in the suit with no tie next to the beautiful woman and the top is down. Vroom, vroom. Yeah, look, I know that if I buy that car. Yeah, yeah. I’m still going to be this. I get it. But let’s say that I was really desperate. I’m sick. I’m not thinking right. I have mental illness and I see an ad that promises me that if I buy that car, it will cure my depression, bipolar, psychosis, schizophrenia. Does that mean I’m more likely to buy the car just because at this point I’ll just do anything?

Lisa: Yes, yes, it does. That’s what advertising is.

Gabe: Is that wrong? Is it wrong to manipulate sick people in this way?

Lisa: Well, but nobody works for free, you know?

Gabe: You keep talking about capitalism, advertising, nobody works for free, but listen to my exact words. This particular advertising is essentially misleading desperate and sick people. It’s a subtle mislead. Because, you know, it’s got the thing at the end. Talk to your doctor. Your results may

Lisa: It’s preying on your insecurity.

Gabe: It’s praying hard on your insecurities and your desperation, and in the case of mental illness, it’s praying desperately on the part of your brain that’s not working.

Lisa: Yeah, that’s fair.

Gabe: Let’s pick apart the ad where it shows you depressed. It doesn’t, I’m not picking on any pharmaceutical company, they’re all the same.

Lisa: They’re all the same.

Gabe: It starts off, you’re depressed, your dog is sad. It’s raining. It’s not so bright.

Lisa: The dog is laying on the couch looking sad, he puts his little nose down.

Gabe: It’s a mess, and the specific point I want everybody to zero in on is by the end, you have connected with your significant other, your family, your friend, your children. And the reason that I want to specifically address that is because, one, it makes it sound like the medication did that all by itself. It also takes everything away from the other people. How are they coming to terms with your change? It makes it sound like as soon as you take this medication. Let’s say that it works like gangbusters, your depression lifts immediately. You are perfect. Like. Like what? You don’t have to do anything else? No therapy. You don’t have to make amends. You don’t have to apologize. It’s just like that. Just perfect. You take the pill and you’re back in everybody’s lives. What about those people? Your illness impacted them in some way. They just immediately forgive you because of magic pill? That part, in my opinion, is frankly just a lie.

Lisa: Well, it also biases the public against a non pharmaceutical treatment, right? It says things like only your doctor can diagnose depression, talk to your doctor, the underlying medical cause of depression. All of these things imply that I should go to a medical doctor for treatment of this problem. It never says things like, hey, have you considered therapy?

Gabe: Oh, I see what you’re saying.

Lisa: Maybe some CBT would help you out? Maybe there are some other interventions that are not drugs that might be useful to you.

Gabe: It paints depression in this very narrow and again, we’re sort of talking about antidepressants at this point,

Lisa: Well, they’re the ones with the best ads.

Gabe: But it sort of paints depression in this very narrow way. So you could be suffering from grief.

Lisa: Right.

Gabe: And it looks a lot like the way that they describe depression. And I know they have all these, it may be depression. Only you and your doctor, like you said, they don’t recommend therapy first. They don’t say two or more weeks. They just, you’re right. It really, and it’s pummeled, pummeled by money. I can’t watch anything on TV without seeing these ads and this very narrow view of something that is significantly more complicated.

Lisa: Well, speaking of more complicated, they always say things, like it’s a chemical imbalance, or they have little diagrams that is supposed to be like the serotonin in your brain and here comes the drug and it knocks it aside. And that’s not real. None of that is real. That is not an accurate representation of how these drugs work. And doctors and scientists know this, but this is the popular perception and that perception comes through advertising. These ads all heavily promote the whole chemical imbalance theory of mental illness. When we know that in real life, it’s way more complicated than that. There are lots of other factors.

Gabe: Actually, what we know in real life is that we don’t know

Lisa: Well, that’s fair.

Gabe: That’s the reality. Any pharmaceutical company, any psychiatrist, any doctor will say we don’t know how they work. We just know through studies that they do.

Lisa: We think this might be how.

Gabe: I want to be very, very clear, I don’t want everybody listening this to stop taking their antidepressants. They know that they work through rigorous testing and through rigorous studies. And of course, if you are taking them and they are working for you, then that’s enough. If your life is improved because of it, then you have done their part. I don’t want anybody listening to this to think, aha, it’s all bullshit, I’m done. That is not the message. Just because you don’t understand how something works, doesn’t mean it doesn’t work. Remember in the Middle Ages we didn’t know how gravity worked, but gravity still worked. Not understanding something is not the same as it’s bullshit.

Lisa: We’ll be right back after these messages.

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Lisa: And we’re back with more of Gabe and me being Not Crazy.

Gabe: I want to pivot just ever so slightly, Lisa, and talk about the fact that hundreds of millions of dollars in advertising has also created this false narrative in the public’s mind. If you have a mental illness, take a pill and you’ll be fine.

Lisa: Yeah.

Gabe: So whenever anybody like me with serious and persistent mental illness has a problem, the knee jerk reaction, because of all this advertising, is take your meds.

Lisa: Yeah.

Gabe: Why don’t you take your meds? Why isn’t he just med compliant? There is literally a multibillion dollar advertising campaign that’s gone on for, what, a dozen years?

Lisa: That’s an interesting point.

Gabe: That has promoted the idea that medication is all that people with mental illness need and they’ll be fine.

Lisa: And that it works 100% of the time, always.

Gabe: And it reinforces this if things go well, you have a great doctor. If things go poorly, you have failed as a patient. Isn’t that awesome?

Lisa: Yeah.

Gabe: Every bad thing is your fault. And every good thing we owe to the medical establishment. We never get credit for our hard work and they’re never held accountable for failure.

Lisa: That is an excellent point that I hadn’t considered, because obviously the point of an ad is to convince you that the product works, and it must work extremely well, and it must work extremely perfectly, and it must work extremely easily because otherwise, why would I want it? In real life, psychiatric medication doesn’t work like that. You’re right. That is putting in people’s minds this idea that, hey, this stuff works. Swallow your pill, you’ll be good.

Gabe: And in some ways, it’s even worse than that, I hate throwing pharmaceutical companies under the bus because, listen, without my medication, without them, I would be dead, and, Lisa, without them, you would be dead.

Lisa: We both do take psychiatric medication and we both believe that it works very strongly.

Gabe: Forget about psychiatric medication, look at all the advances in all the other illnesses. We’re sitting there, you know, trashing them, but I guarantee if you need surgery tomorrow, you’re going to want anesthesia. Who developed that?

Lisa: Right.

Gabe: Are you going to be OK dying of? I mean, what about antibiotics?

Lisa: Yeah.

Gabe: Just stupid pharmaceutical companies and their stupid antibiotics. I want to get scratched on a fence post and die like 100 years ago.

Lisa: Right, that’s fair.

Gabe: Come on. They’re funding research that that is allowing us to live for, you know, my grandfather’s 90 years old. That’s because of medical science and the hard work of the pharmaceutical industry. So they’re not all bad. And to pretend that they are is disingenuous at best. But again, it doesn’t mean they don’t have problems.

Lisa: Right.

Gabe: And one of the problems is they need a certain narrative, and we’ve already discussed how that narrative is pushed in their advertising, prime time advertising, multimillion dollar advertising. But that narrative is also pushed in the organizations that they support. Pharmaceutical companies support by far more family member organizations and caregiver organizations. And their top spokespeople are not people living with mental illness. Their top spokespeople are family members of people living with mental illness. There’s a stigma and discrimination in their funding. They want to make sure that they’re funding their narrative, and accuracy kind of takes a back seat. Their narrative is true, it’s just, it’s not 100%. Family members, they have a vital, vital message to deliver. The problem is, is that their message is so well-funded, the patient message is drowned out simply because of financing.

Lisa: Ok, Gabe, well, what would you like to see them do instead?

Gabe: The easy answer is I’d like to see them not be allowed to advertise on television. I’d like to see them engage the patient voice more. I’d like to see them give equal funding to patient advocacy groups, as they do to other advocacy groups that have like peer council seats or consumer council seats. Because the entire board is made up of people without the illness, and then they have to have a token non-voting chair for people with mental illness as an advisory role, because after all, one person with mental illness in a group of 20 that’s not allowed to vote, that’s going to affect real change. And for the record, ladies and gentlemen, I’m not just pulling that out of my ass. That happened to me at a national mental health charity.

Lisa: That’s happened to you several times, you’ve been asked to be the token.

Gabe: That, they can do that. They can start putting their resources behind that. If their goal is just to sell more drugs, than business as usual.

Lisa: Well, of course, their goal is to sell more drugs. That’s what companies’ goals are.

Gabe: Yeah, and that’s why they need to be held accountable. The pharmaceutical companies, the medical establishment should, in fact, be held accountable for the fact that their decisions, their resources, their money and their time is making life harder on the people whose backs they’re making money on. That’s not OK. They are looked upon by society as heroes who are saving people with mental illness. And that’s where we get phrases like just take your meds, be med compliant. Well, if they’d only take their meds. Oh, my God, why are we seeing this person again? Just drug him. The drugs are looked at as magic cures created by a benevolent company that only hugs and loves and cares.

Lisa: It’s also telling you again that there is an underlying biological cause that is the main reason. It’s not about trauma or environment or anything else. The main reason you’re having this problem is because there’s something underlying wrong with your body. And therefore, why wouldn’t you take the drugs? If you just do things like therapy or DBT or those types of things, you’re not addressing that root cause that they have convinced you exists.

Gabe: Yes, it would be nice if they would also fund wraparound services, because I got to tell you, if you’re committed to a psychiatric ward, if you live in a group home, if you are homeless, if you don’t know where your next meal is coming from, the very fact that people are pushing medication on you? It . . . that’s just not, that’s not what the person is. The person is cold and hungry and, and just.

Lisa: Well, but if it makes you feel better, they’re not pushing medication on that person because that person is not that profitable. These advertisements are not geared toward people who are poor, they are geared to the middle class.

Gabe: The medical establishment is looked at as the savior of all the people with mental illness. And as you just pointed out, they ain’t focusing in on the sickest of the sick, are they?

Lisa: No, because those people don’t pay well.

Gabe: And that alone goes back to our theme of it erodes trust and faith in the system, which erodes faith in the outcome. It also goes back to the look, we couldn’t trust you to look out for our best interests then. Why should we trust you to look out for our best interests now? Maybe my grandma is right.

Lisa: Ok, your grandmother was not right about let’s get you out of the psychiatric hospital on the day where you desperately needed hospitalization. She was not right about that. And we both agree on that, we both agree that you needed to be there.

Gabe: She was wrong, completely wrong. She just wasn’t crazy.

Lisa: Yeah, she wasn’t unreasonable, she was just wrong. And when you say maybe she’s right, you mean right about the fact where you can’t blindly trust doctors or other institutions? Yes, she’s right about that. Is that a debate? Are we debating that?

Gabe: I used to debate that.

Lisa: Oh, that’s so sad.

Gabe: Lisa, I think we’ve picked on pharmaceutical companies enough, so let’s go ahead and piss off doctors and hospitals and let’s just throw in politicians while we’re at it. And I’m thinking specifically of forced treatment, and forced treatment looks a lot of different ways in different states. And you may be familiar with like AOT, which is Assisted Outpatient Treatment. There’s Laura’s Law, there’s court ordered treatment, there’s community treatment, there’s forced medication, there’s pink slipping, there’s being committed. There’s involuntary compulsory treatment. Some of these involve community based, meaning you’re required to take medication and show up for therapy, but you’re allowed to move about your home and community. And then others are the traditional commitment method that we all think of, which you’re in a hospital and you’re locked behind closed doors. The bottom line is, it’s against your will. You have not agreed to this. And you are being ordered by the justice system, by the courts, by the government to do something about your health.

Lisa: Under penalty of arrest or jail. When you say that it’s required, it’s required literally by law. With punishment, if not done.

Gabe: There’s a bit of a nuance here, and I want to break it down a little bit. One, if you are a danger to yourself or others, if you’re going to hurt yourself or hurt somebody else, Gabe and Lisa are 100% in favor of forced treatment, commitment, et cetera.

Lisa: Absolutely.

Gabe: If you have committed a crime, diversion programs, mental health courts, all of these things. I understand that if you cannot follow the rules of society that something has to happen. We can’t just let people commit crimes and say, oh, mental illness and walk on. So all of that makes sense. The specific forced treatment that I am speaking of is you have broken no laws, you have done nothing wrong. But somebody has decided that for your own good, the following things need to happen because you will be better off for it. And then you are adjudicated. Literally, you go before a judge and the government orders you, against your will without your feedback, to do something under penalty of law.

Lisa: Yeah, and often without a lawyer.

Gabe: And in some states or cities, often without them.

Lisa: Without the judge part, yeah.

Gabe: Well, I was going to say paying for it, but you’re right, sometimes there’s not even a judge and now you are in this bureaucratic nightmare. It’s very clear in a lot of these laws how to become enmeshed in this system. They know how to force you into treatment, but it becomes extraordinarily murky on how to get out.

Lisa: Well, don’t you think that’s going to be today’s lobotomy? We look back and say, oh my God, look at all these things they did to psychiatric patients in the 50s. Look at all the damage. Look at all the generational trauma. Don’t you think in another 50 years we’re going to be going back on this?

Gabe: I personally do. I get a lot of pushback on this. What? It’s OK to leave people who are sick just wandering around? No, that’s not OK, but picking them up and having a judge order them to get better. Listen, doesn’t that sound like nonsense? I mean, seriously.

Lisa: Also, really? You don’t think that’s going to turn out badly? Really? You found a way that someone can be compelled to do something because other people think it’s a good idea. Again, they haven’t committed a crime. They’re not dangerous. And you don’t think that’s going to be used on the most vulnerable people in society? That’s not going to turn out well. How could you possibly ever think that’s not going to be a mess?

Gabe: I agree with everything you said, but I’m going to go a completely different way. Lisa, I hate the length of your hair. How many times have I said you are a, I’m pretty sure you’re going to beep out whatever age I say. So you are a woman of a certain age and you have long ass hair down to your butt.

Lisa: It looks fantastic,

Gabe: And I hate it.

Lisa: It’s golden and beautiful.

Gabe: So let’s say that we live in some, I don’t know, world where I want you to cut your hair. You don’t want to cut your hair. And for reasons unknown, I can take you to court. All right, fine. So we go to court. We’re going to say that you have all the money that you have now. So you actually have a real lawyer, which most of the time, if you get a lawyer at all, it’s a public defender who’s overwhelmed with other things. But just forget all of that. We go in front of a judge and the judge agrees with me. The judge actually says to you, hey, Lisa, you are required by law to cut your hair. Now, you are a law abiding citizen. You think, well, maybe Gabe has my best interests in mind. And you cut your hair. Now you comply. The judge says you’ve complied. You keep that haircut for as long as you’re in the system, we’ll say that’s two years. Then you get out of the system. Now you are completely out of the system. It is over. What is the first thing that you do?

Lisa: Grow it out.

Gabe: Right, and what’s the second thing that you do?

Lisa: Make sure that I never, ever come near you again.

Gabe: Yeah, so maybe for two years I got my way. For two years, Lisa’s hair was exactly how Gabe Howard likes it. But after that, it’s over, and you’re probably going to get worse. Before you only grew it down to your butt. Yeah, now you’re stepping on it. You’re getting bangs. Yeah. You don’t care. You’re going nuts.

Lisa: Yeah, absolutely, there are plenty of harmful behaviors or things that I don’t like or that we think other people shouldn’t be doing for their own good that you don’t get to court order them not to do. Smoking, ridiculously dangerous. I can’t take my grandfather to court and demand that he quit, that a judge enforce what is best for him. And quitting smoking is, in fact, best for him.

Gabe: We can’t line up all our overweight relatives and drag them in.

Lisa: Yeah, we cannot enforce these rules on other people for behaviors we don’t like or that are, in fact, bad for you. Where’s that going to end? Once again, why does no one see the potential for abuse in this system? Who thought this was a good idea?

Gabe: I’m fascinated by mental health charities that loathe bureaucracy in the mental health system.

Lisa: Good point.

Gabe: The mental health safety net is filled with holes and the bureaucracy is stopping people. And we pay more people to watch it than we do to help people. And then they advocate for more bureaucracy. They advocate for the government to get involved in our health care. We can’t even get the government to give us health care, but they’re going to spend money to order us to get health care.

Lisa: That’s actually become a debate in many states. That if you are ordered into treatment, does the state have to pay for it?

Gabe: That is probably one of the final points that I want to make on this topic, just because you are ordered into treatment doesn’t mean that they’ll pay for it, and it doesn’t mean that you will get good treatment. You very well could be ordered into substandard treatment, literal garbage.

Lisa: Or not be able to find a place at all. And then the question becomes, what happens now? If there isn’t a place available in the program, is that person still court ordered to get in there somehow? That has also happened.

Gabe: There’s also studies that point out, of course, that while we’re forcing people into treatment, people who are ready, willing, and able, people who want treatment, are being bumped off the list because after all, the court ordered, people by law have to go first. So Gabe is court ordered and he doesn’t want it. Lisa wants it. Gabe gets in. My odds of being successful are relatively low because I am not participating in my own care. Your odds of being successful are higher because you are willing to participate in your own care. You’re bumped, I’m in.

Lisa: Right.

Gabe: What kind of a garbage system is this?

Lisa: Yes, and as you pointed out, it makes you distrust the system. People who are forced into treatment are not feeling positively about doctors and medication and therapy and things that could potentially be extremely helpful to them, and are probably not going to continue it and are not going to be interested in trying in the future.

Gabe: In my opinion, that’s the real loss. When they are ready, when you now try to pivot and partner with your loved one or your patient or whomever it is, when you want to try a different route, they’re so traumatized from, frankly, the nuclear option, that they don’t trust you anymore. You have now lost that rapport. I think that there are better ways to work with the seriously mentally ill. I am not advocating doing nothing. But, my God, wouldn’t it be great if we could just go pick up mentally ill people, have a judge, order them to get better and poof, they were better? That sounds like nonsense, but these are the advocacy points that we’re dealing with. And people get caught up in this system forever and adjacent to all that, they have the same problem that we have with the pharmaceutical advertising. The pharmaceutical advertising creates this idea that medication is magical and that all people with mental illness will be better if they only just take their meds. And that’s problematic for the way that society treats and responds to us. And it creates, in my mind, just tons of discrimination and stigma opportunities. Move that aside. Now we have to have special laws for people with mental illness. So when Gabe Howard goes to get a job, they’re thinking, wow, this guy has to have a special set of laws because he has bipolar disorder. I’ve seen it on the news. I’ve read it in the paper. So now there is this massive, I don’t want to call it an advertising campaign because nobody’s actually advertising it. But there’s a massive conversation going on about what to do about the mental illness problem. And one of the ways that we need to do it is to what? Make it illegal? We need to involve the government and the court system. And now just regular people are reading in the paper, oh, hey, people like Gabe, people with bipolar, are so dangerous, we need a special set of laws for them. I’m starting to think that I wouldn’t hire me.

Lisa: That’s a good point. It defines this group as problematic.

Gabe: It does. It creates this idea that we suck and that gets airtime, so much airtime.

Lisa: It reinforces the idea that everyone with mental illness is dangerous and needs to be handled specially.

Gabe: Study after study after study shows that this does little good. It costs money, it takes resources away from people who need it

Lisa: And want it.

Gabe: And want it. And frankly, it just hasn’t shown to do any good. But, people cling to this as if it will save lives. I want to be clear, it doesn’t work. And it’s certainly not the best that we can do. Not by a long shot.

Lisa: And don’t forget that even when forced treatment is necessary, and we both agree that sometimes it is, there is an extreme amount of trauma involved in this. Being forcibly committed is traumatic.

Gabe: It’s very fascinating to me because this is how we treat people with mental illness. It’s for your own good. This is what you need to do. And we don’t have this in physical health. Lisa, when n you were a kid, you had a lot of surgery. Could you imagine if when you were 16 years old, and you were in the hospital waiting on your surgery and you would have been scared. Mom, I’m scared. I’m scared. And your mother would have looked you in the eyes and said, this is for your own good. You shut up.

Lisa: Yeah.

Gabe: Like, people would have thought that she was the worst mother on the planet.

Lisa: And of course, that’s not what she did. She reassured me, she told me it would be OK. She bought me a special teddy bear, on and on and on. So this is not how we treat other medical problems.

Gabe: You guys had rituals even around the recovery.

Lisa: We did.

Gabe: That’s an awful lot of kindness, love and support that they gave you over something that was for your own good.

Lisa: Well, it wasn’t just my parents, everybody did. Our extended family, friends and family, doctors and nurses give you a lot of support and love and positivity that this is all going to be OK.

Gabe: And we don’t have this often.

Lisa: No, we really don’t.

Gabe: I have read so many articles called Mental Illness is Not a Casserole Illness. Nobody sends you cards, nobody bakes you food, nobody offers to clean your house. People constantly tell you, well, this is where you need to be. This is for your own good. You better do it. You need to get your shit together.

Lisa: There’s an element of shame.

Gabe: There’s no support whatsoever. I want to be clear, in this scenario, Gabe and Lisa 100% agree that this person needs to be committed against their will. We are positive. They are a danger to themselves or others. They need it. It is important that laws like this exist, but the laws are mostly already on the books. We’re just not using them.

Lisa: But the whole process is still very punitive. It’s always seen as you’re bad and we need to do this. You’re bad, you’re bad, you’re bad. That is just completely reinforced over and over and over again. It’s never meant to be a supportive, loving thing.

Gabe: The best that we can do is get our shit together. We’re either actively sick, and therefore a problem, or we got our shit together, we got cleaned up, we got it together. There’s no positive on the other side. I would love it if we talked about mental illness using the same language that we talk about fighting other illnesses. I really wish that people would see that people are sick and that we’re doing the best I can and that address some of this stuff. It is traumatizing. It is traumatizing to be put somewhere against your will when you are sick and have doors locked behind you and told what to do. And the fact that that is very seldom addressed, I don’t even have words. And we have just scratched the surface of what society could do better, of what hospitals could do better, of what the medical community could do better.

Lisa: So the bad old days are certainly still here. They did not go away.

Gabe: They’re just different.

Lisa: Yeah, it’s different, but it’s not gone.

Gabe: Lisa, it’s fascinating. Now that we’re at the end of this show, people are thinking, oh, my God, we can’t trust the medical community, we can’t trust doctors. I mean, even politicians are out to get us. People with mental illness that have nowhere to go. And if you go over and listen to the anti psychiatry side, you’re like, oh, they’re using false data. They’re twisting their numbers. They think that people will magically get better through, will, light and hope. That’s not a good message either. And that’s why I believe, I believe so strongly, that the truth lies in the middle. We need to be aiming for that middle road and fight for that middle ground. It’s difficult to be in the middle. You know, when I got started, I thought all the people in the middle, they got loved by both sides. It turns out that all the people in the middle, they just get hated on by both sides. I can only imagine the emails that we’re going to get about this episode saying, oh, my God, how can you attack doctors? How can you blame doctors for stuff that happened in 1935?

Lisa: Because they’re still doing the same stuff, whatever mechanism it is they use to decide that was a good idea back then, they’re still using to decide.

Gabe: Lisa, I can’t wait to see the emails about this episode just barreling down on us, but listen, we want the emails and we do, in fact, read them all and we reply to as many as we can. Our email address is [email protected]. Listen, the majority of the emails that we got, they were very kind. People wrote to us and said, you know, Gabe and Lisa, we respect you very much, but you got this so wrong. People told us of trauma that they experienced. People told us of situations that happened to them. And they asked very kindly why they should support a system that allows this to happen, that continues to do this. We answered as many as we could. We apologize if we didn’t get to yours. Thank you. Thank you for being open and honest and honestly respectful, because we did get some emails that said you guys are dipshit morons. We like those less.

Lisa: Most of them were good, though.

Gabe: Most of most of them were very kind.

Lisa: And again, most of them did agree with me, so I also enjoyed that aspect of it. But even if you did not agree with me this time, although I don’t see why you wouldn’t, you definitely want to email us and tell us what you think at [email protected].

Gabe: When did you become the rational one?

Lisa: I know it’s so exciting, so many interesting changes happening here.

Gabe: And one of the changes that’s happening is that Not Crazy is growing exponentially, and that’s all because of your hard work. Thank you so much for rating us, ranking us, sharing us, emailing about us. Just leave us a review. Use your words and as many stars as you feel appropriate. And remember, if you stay tuned after the credits, there is a really cool outtake that’s been curated by the great Lisa Kiner.

Lisa: And we’ll see you next Tuesday.

Announcer: You’ve been listening to the Not Crazy Podcast from Psych Central. For free mental health resources and online support groups, visit PsychCentral.com. Not Crazy’s official website is PsychCentral.com/NotCrazy. To work with Gabe, go to gabehoward.com. Want to see Gabe and me in person? Not Crazy travels well. Have us record an episode live at your next event. E-mail [email protected] for details.

Gabe: Hey Not Crazy Fans! We are so cool our outtakes have sponsors! We want to give a shout out to Seattle Pain Relief — learn more about them at https://www.seattlepainrelief.com/ and Southern Cross University. Learn about mental health risk factors in older people at https://online.scu.edu.au/blog/risk-factors-mental-illness-older-people/. Check them both out and tell them Not Crazy sent you!

Podcast: Medical Model Errors and Omissions in Treating Mental Illness syndicated from

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whorchataaa · 5 years ago

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Podcast: Medical Model Errors and Omissions in Treating Mental Illness

What do you think? Tune in to today’s Not Crazy episode for a great discussion on the more controversial topics in the field of psychiatry.

(Transcript Available Below)

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Computer Generated Transcript for “Mental Illness Medical Model” Episode

Editor’s Note: Please be mindful that this transcript has been computer generated and therefore may contain inaccuracies and grammar errors. Thank you.

Lisa: Hey, everyone. Today’s quote is, this is how betrayal starts, not with big lies, but with small secrets. And that’s by Shalini Joshi.

Gabe: Ok, so we got a lot

Lisa: A lot.

Gabe: A lot of e-mails about the anti-psychiatry episode that we did a few weeks back.

Lisa: I love the emails because most people agreed with me, so keep those emails coming, folks, and said that you, Gabe, were unnecessarily harsh.

Gabe: Who’s saw, who saw that coming?

Lisa: Yeah.

Gabe: I mean, like you radiate negativity.

Lisa: Hostility and anger. I know. Yeah, who saw that I’d be the reasonable one? Yay me.

Gabe: I did not.

Lisa: Nobody saw that coming, yeah. One email even said they were afraid you might, quote, stroke out.

Gabe: That was my favorite one. That was my favorite. Yeah.

Lisa: So tell us, why were you so angry?

Lisa: Well, I feel like we said that in the episode, though.

Gabe: I feel like we did, too, I feel like we tried to discuss it and keep a middle ground, but clearly we did not.

Lisa: The email would, in fact, indicate that. Yes.

Gabe: So we decided that this episode, we’re going to dedicate the entire episode to some of the very real issues that the psychiatric survivor community is legitimately raising.

Lisa: Things like lobotomy, forced treatment, pharmaceutical advertising.

Gabe: They make a lot of very valid points,

Lisa: Yes, they do.

Gabe: And again, as I feel like we said in the original episode, they go so far to make it easy to ignore.

Lisa: That is a problem.

Gabe: Let’s talk about lobotomies.

Lisa: OK.

Gabe: That . . . I . . . Lobotomies are bad. If lobotomies were still going on,

Lisa: Right.

Gabe: We could all agree lobotomies are bad. Never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever. I feel like we need some more evers, do lobotomies.

Lisa: Lobotomies actually are still going on, but in different ways and for different things.

Gabe: What?

Lisa: No, that’s actually true, yeah. It can be a treatment for epilepsy these days. For severe epilepsy, that doesn’t respond to other things.

Gabe: Really, but is it an actual lobotomy?

Lisa: Well, what do you define as lobotomy? The word just means removing part of the brain or severing connections between the brain.

Gabe: I think what we’re talking about, a psychiatric lobotomy, we.

Lisa: Well, yeah, we all know what we’re talking about, you’re right, that was off topic.

Lisa: Yeah, yeah.

Gabe: We’re talking about removing the frontal lobe for no other reason than to control people’s or to make them more docile. I’m really not sure I.

Lisa: You know, Gabe, I don’t know if this matters to you, but they didn’t actually remove the lobe of the brain, they just damaged it or severed some of the connections.

Gabe: I, which?

Lisa: With an ice pick through the eye. Yeah.

Gabe: You are right.

Lisa: You are right. That does not make it better. That is not a meaningful distinction.

Gabe: I think that my way seemed more kind, your way is, like, we just poke at it until we get the desired behavior.

Lisa: Yes, and often done blind. Ugh, do not start reading about, well, one old timey surgical techniques or two, lobotomies. It’s just lots of bleah.

Gabe: I think we can all agree that lobotomies are bad, they’re not good, and they really served no purpose.

Lisa: And were quite damaging.

Gabe: We were surprised to find out where lobotomies came from. And we’re just going to give you a brief little history lesson just so that you can be as shocked as we were.

Lisa: Spoiler alert, it’s even worse than you think.

Gabe: Yeah, it is. I’m on the edge of my seat, Lisa.

Gabe: Ok, but

Lisa: Bleah.

Gabe: That. But wait, there’s more. And that’s not the worst part.

Gabe: Yeah, it’s messed up and once again, notice it put the onus on the patient. It was the patient’s responsibility to fix what the staff was doing. So the group with no power.

Gabe: And the way that we get them out of that is to just ultimately abuse them.

Lisa: In a different way.

Lisa: A surprising number.

Gabe: First off, people who received lobotomies in the 1950s are still alive.

Lisa: Well, lobotomies continued to be performed well into the 80s.

Gabe: Yeah, yeah, that was a, that was a.

Lisa: So lots of people are walking around who had this done to them, and of course, plenty of people are walking around with knowledge that this was done.

Lisa: Don’t worry.

Lisa: And what you’re referring to is that at one time, husbands, fathers, pretty much any man in control of a woman, could have her declared insane or crazy and forcibly admitted to an asylum.

Gabe: And you’re thinking, well, but they needed a reason, but that reason

Lisa: No.

Lisa: And remembers some incidents of it quite vividly.

Gabe: Yeah, so.

Lisa: And this influences, so when you called her and said, hey, I’m going to go to a psychiatric hospital, this is her opinion of psychiatric hospitals and what happens there.

Lisa: Have they? Have they?

Lisa: It doesn’t seem like a sincere apology, is what you’re saying,

Gabe: It doesn’t.

Gabe: And this is what’s a little bit rough, right? I personally do believe that the bad days are behind us.

Lisa: You are wrong.

Gabe: As your quote said, Lisa, there’s just like death by a thousand paper cuts.

Lisa: Well, some would argue these aren’t papercuts, these are stab wounds.

Gabe: You’re not wrong. You know, I’m struggling to find words here because.

Lisa: Right.

Lisa: And they even say things like talk to your doctor. Uh huh.

Gabe: And they hide.

Lisa: Yeah.

Lisa: America is the only place that has direct to consumer pharmaceutical advertising, and it’s also the place where drugs are the most expensive. Almost like that’s not a coincidence.

Lisa: Yes, transparency matters, and we just wanted you to know.

Gabe: Yup. I feel like pharmaceutical companies know what they’re doing. I don’t think that they’re completely misleading the public. I think it’s more sinister than that. Right?

Gabe: And see, I don’t like that. I don’t think that’s true. I think you’ve gone too far the other way

Lisa: How is that not true?

Lisa: Well, but not your doctor should decide, you and your doctor should decide together.

Lisa: Oh, OK.

Lisa: Maybe.

Lisa: It’s always raining at the beginning and then it’s not necessarily super bright and sunny, but it’s definitely not overcast by the end.

Gabe: And the people they get to play depression on these things, they’re so depressed, they’ve made their pets depressed.

Lisa: I love that.

Gabe: Yeah, the dog is miserable.

Lisa: Yeah.

Lisa: But where’s the line? It’s not necessarily straight up lying, but it’s advertising.

Gabe: It’s puffery.

Lisa: There’s an element of puffery, right. You know, world’s best coffee. Is your coffee really? Really? How did you determine that? But no one has a problem with that statement in an ad.

Gabe: It’s not a small house, it’s a cozy house.

Lisa: Well, just we all understand that’s what advertising is. So that’s true with drugs as well.

Lisa: No, they don’t.

Gabe: You literally just said Americans understand it’s puffery.

Lisa: Yes, yes, it does. That’s what advertising is.

Gabe: Is that wrong? Is it wrong to manipulate sick people in this way?

Lisa: Well, but nobody works for free, you know?

Lisa: It’s preying on your insecurity.

Gabe: It’s praying hard on your insecurities and your desperation, and in the case of mental illness, it’s praying desperately on the part of your brain that’s not working.

Lisa: Yeah, that’s fair.

Gabe: Let’s pick apart the ad where it shows you depressed. It doesn’t, I’m not picking on any pharmaceutical company, they’re all the same.

Lisa: They’re all the same.

Gabe: It starts off, you’re depressed, your dog is sad. It’s raining. It’s not so bright.

Lisa: The dog is laying on the couch looking sad, he puts his little nose down.

Gabe: Oh, I see what you’re saying.

Lisa: Maybe some CBT would help you out? Maybe there are some other interventions that are not drugs that might be useful to you.

Gabe: It paints depression in this very narrow and again, we’re sort of talking about antidepressants at this point,

Lisa: Well, they’re the ones with the best ads.

Gabe: But it sort of paints depression in this very narrow way. So you could be suffering from grief.

Lisa: Right.

Gabe: Actually, what we know in real life is that we don’t know

Lisa: Well, that’s fair.

Gabe: That’s the reality. Any pharmaceutical company, any psychiatrist, any doctor will say we don’t know how they work. We just know through studies that they do.

Lisa: We think this might be how.

Lisa: We’ll be right back after these messages.

Lisa: And we’re back with more of Gabe and me being Not Crazy.

Lisa: Yeah.

Gabe: So whenever anybody like me with serious and persistent mental illness has a problem, the knee jerk reaction, because of all this advertising, is take your meds.

Lisa: Yeah.

Gabe: Why don’t you take your meds? Why isn’t he just med compliant? There is literally a multibillion dollar advertising campaign that’s gone on for, what, a dozen years?

Lisa: That’s an interesting point.

Gabe: That has promoted the idea that medication is all that people with mental illness need and they’ll be fine.

Lisa: And that it works 100% of the time, always.

Gabe: And it reinforces this if things go well, you have a great doctor. If things go poorly, you have failed as a patient. Isn’t that awesome?

Lisa: Yeah.

Gabe: Every bad thing is your fault. And every good thing we owe to the medical establishment. We never get credit for our hard work and they’re never held accountable for failure.

Lisa: We both do take psychiatric medication and we both believe that it works very strongly.

Lisa: Right.

Gabe: Are you going to be OK dying of? I mean, what about antibiotics?

Lisa: Yeah.

Gabe: Just stupid pharmaceutical companies and their stupid antibiotics. I want to get scratched on a fence post and die like 100 years ago.

Lisa: Right, that’s fair.

Lisa: Right.

Lisa: Ok, Gabe, well, what would you like to see them do instead?

Lisa: That’s happened to you several times, you’ve been asked to be the token.

Gabe: That, they can do that. They can start putting their resources behind that. If their goal is just to sell more drugs, than business as usual.

Lisa: Well, of course, their goal is to sell more drugs. That’s what companies’ goals are.

Gabe: The medical establishment is looked at as the savior of all the people with mental illness. And as you just pointed out, they ain’t focusing in on the sickest of the sick, are they?

Lisa: No, because those people don’t pay well.

Gabe: She was wrong, completely wrong. She just wasn’t crazy.

Gabe: I used to debate that.

Lisa: Oh, that’s so sad.

Lisa: Under penalty of arrest or jail. When you say that it’s required, it’s required literally by law. With punishment, if not done.

Lisa: Absolutely.

Lisa: Yeah, and often without a lawyer.

Gabe: And in some states or cities, often without them.

Lisa: Without the judge part, yeah.

Lisa: It looks fantastic,

Gabe: And I hate it.

Lisa: It’s golden and beautiful.

Lisa: Grow it out.

Gabe: Right, and what’s the second thing that you do?

Lisa: Make sure that I never, ever come near you again.

Gabe: We can’t line up all our overweight relatives and drag them in.

Gabe: I’m fascinated by mental health charities that loathe bureaucracy in the mental health system.

Lisa: Good point.

Lisa: That’s actually become a debate in many states. That if you are ordered into treatment, does the state have to pay for it?

Lisa: Right.

Gabe: What kind of a garbage system is this?

Lisa: That’s a good point. It defines this group as problematic.

Gabe: It does. It creates this idea that we suck and that gets airtime, so much airtime.

Lisa: It reinforces the idea that everyone with mental illness is dangerous and needs to be handled specially.

Gabe: Study after study after study shows that this does little good. It costs money, it takes resources away from people who need it

Lisa: And want it.

Lisa: Yeah.

Gabe: Like, people would have thought that she was the worst mother on the planet.

Lisa: And of course, that’s not what she did. She reassured me, she told me it would be OK. She bought me a special teddy bear, on and on and on. So this is not how we treat other medical problems.

Gabe: You guys had rituals even around the recovery.

Lisa: We did.

Gabe: That’s an awful lot of kindness, love and support that they gave you over something that was for your own good.

Lisa: Well, it wasn’t just my parents, everybody did. Our extended family, friends and family, doctors and nurses give you a lot of support and love and positivity that this is all going to be OK.

Gabe: And we don’t have this often.

Lisa: No, we really don’t.

Lisa: There’s an element of shame.

Lisa: So the bad old days are certainly still here. They did not go away.

Gabe: They’re just different.

Lisa: Yeah, it’s different, but it’s not gone.

Lisa: Because they’re still doing the same stuff, whatever mechanism it is they use to decide that was a good idea back then, they’re still using to decide.

Lisa: Most of them were good, though.

Gabe: Most of most of them were very kind.

Gabe: When did you become the rational one?

Lisa: I know it’s so exciting, so many interesting changes happening here.

Lisa: And we’ll see you next Tuesday.

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