#Fuck. it’s like. would I even be able to afford a therapist.

[re-lmayer]

i've found myself in a bad situation. the tl;dr is i have to move, but i can't afford to. i'm a disabled student and just do not have the funds required to rent a truck, hire movers, and cover deposits. so, i'm offering various services on my kofi, but if you don't need those you can also donate there or via paypal. my cashapp and venmo are both erinshelley91 if you'd like to donate on those platforms (i couldn't figure out how to link to those)

if you can't afford to commission me or to donate, reblogging this post and sharing my twitter thread is a free way to help me out and is so appreciated!

more context and stuff under the cut, i just don't want to make a long post on ppl's dashboards

my landlord has been cheating on his husband, and their relationship is rocky. he also has a massive spending addiction according to his husband. his spending addiction is making him not want to perform the actual duties of a landlord, because investment costs are cutting into his shopping spree funds

ex, he is illegally not fixing a leak in the shower of the upstairs tenants, and claims the costs are more than their rent. he told them to "figure it out, or get the fuck out." (verbatim.) he also told me it would be cheaper for him to not have tenants at all bc his utility bills would be smaller. he then left it to ME to inform another tenant to leave (then gaslit me and denied it in front of his husband when his husband questioned it)

in his words, we have 90 days to leave. i am disabled and a full time student and have been living on my fafsa returns, and the last job i had made one of my disabilities worse to the point i've had intensive physical therapy (several hours several times a week) and am likely going to have to undergo surgery

i'm also mi/nd, so even on a good day i'm not very well equipped to handle things, and the recent stress has also caused my therapist to see me several times a week in lieu of institutionalization

all that said, i'm not in a good spot physically or mentally, hence the best i can do right now is offer some of my skills on kofi

i'm currently working with my state's vocational rehab to try and find a suitable job until i can get my degree, but even then i simply would not be able to afford the costs of a sudden move in the timeframe i've got to work with

UPDATE MARCH 25, 2024: i want to invest in a scooter to do gig work like doordash. this will let me work at my own pace, and earn towards the move myself, then i'll have some more independence to continue doing that after as well

they require 50cc or under, which means i could get a scooter for under $1,000. i'd also need to cover fees to renew my license (i let it lapse since i haven't had a vehicle), get a helmet, and get insurance (roughly $100 annually)

i also made some amazon wishlists for folks who would like to help but prefer to know exactly where their money's going. i have one for housewarming stuff here, and one for necessities here

update as of april 5: my cat peed on my bed, and since it's a memory foam mattress it soaked all the way through and ruined it

update as of april 7: she did it again. this time there's blood in it

update as of april 14: i still haven't been able to take her to the vet, but i've been trying to do at home remedies

[highhhfiveee]

safety net, part three

part two: 🚿 | part four: 🏆

pairing: pornstar!mike schmidt x blackfem!reader summary: y/n gets a taste of mike's world and things begin to shift. wc: 3.1k tags: lots of mentions of porn, smut (descriptions of sex being filmed, featuring unprotected sex, dirty talk, clit rubbing, squirting, some workplace intimacy lmao), angst?, exposition! proofread many times but if there are still errors, idk what to say lmao

“wow."

"i know right," you say plainly, eyes wide at your best friend, claire, as you take a large gulp of your hot latte. claire cuts her gaze to you, puffing her cheeks out in a sigh. you were always so in awe by her, the feeling proved once again when she'd actually agreed wholeheartedly to view your boyfriend's porn.

"i still don't believe that you're dating him," she sputters with outrage as she points to your computer on the dining room table, open to a still of mike with dick in hand, coming on some dark-haired girl's keen face. "and i don't believe it even more so because you decided to wait six months before telling me. i thought we were best friends!"

you can tell her outrage is whimsical by the way she faints into your arms, and you reach forward to catch her. 

"yeah but, like, best friends from adolescence that don't see each other very often. last time i saw you was three months ago." 

"okay, but by then you'd been dating him for three months, and that's almost half a year!" 

"barely, claire." 

you couldn't even believe that you were dating him. you hadn't known how you two went from meeting outside an underwhelming, overpriced restaurant to making out and cuddling intimately in mike's bed four out of seven days a week. it'd felt like no time had passed at all; you'd just been living without thinking. mike took every worry off your shoulders, freeing you of anxiety in so many ways that you couldn't believe someone that caring and accommodating was real.

he paid for your sessions after you'd mindlessly rambled about not being able to afford this therapist you really liked. he sent you the credentials to his grocery delivery membership, encouraging you to get anything you wanted or needed. you could finally consistently get things that were good, and healthy. he paid your rent, and respected the fact that you didn't want to move in with him and wanted autonomy to work and pay for your other personal expenses.

"i just want you to be happy. you tell me what you want, and we'll make it happen."

he had you and it didn't feel real. you felt like you couldn't tell anyone about it, terrified that everything would crumble if you spoke even a word about him being your partner, so sweet and good and rewarding. you didn't want to hide him, but you didn't want things to collapse. not this time. 

you wouldn't be able to take it this time. 

you explain all this to claire, ending with, "i'm sorry it took so long. i just really want this to last." you'd told her about everything, even about dating simon briefly and how he led you to mike. 

claire nods, chewing on a wedge of pineapple speared by a fork. she's given up her fainting performance, once again munching on her breakfast and clicking the pad on your laptop. the video you two were watching resumes, and you watch her face for bit, eyes shifting around the screen in intrigue, before turning back to it as well.

"you deserve it, y/n. that simon guy sounded like a dickhead. an expired card, and the bathroom excuse? fucking lame." her voice doesn't chop through the amplified sound of both mike and the girl moaning, whiny and feral. they're absolutely gone, and you're really not thinking about simon anymore. fuck him. 

now, you thought of mike.

granted, you hadn't been like the people in mike's videos, up to a certain point. you'd done the kissing and the heavy petting, but you hadn't had sex at all, in any form, and he didn't pressure you into feeling like it was some sort of requirement. he agreed with taking it slow, placing emphasis on the romantic before the sexual. you knew there would be no issues with the sexual; why rush into it when you could have the slow burn, all the tension you wanted up until you were ready?

mike hadn't fought it, and yeah, you thought, you did deserve it. you deserved to be treated like this. 

"called me over for an art date, i guess you still painted," the girl mewls with a devilish smile, licking at mike's---sorry, chase cox's---come around her mouth. 

"mhm, baby. masterpiece, if i do say so myself." mike is so pretty on the screen; sweaty and flustered, but so confident at the same time, polite too. even when he's in an act, he's so attentive; he moves hair away from eyes and wipes spit off chins and cradles waists while he adjusts his hips to hit various angles, turning almost everyone he filmed with into a "braindead fucktoy"---claire's filthy words, not yours (though you didn't mind the idea). 

the video ends with a snippet of aftercare, the both of them wiping at each other's bodies with gentle motions. it's how they all end, and you think it's really nice, showing a crucial part of sex that most people forgo. you'd seen plenty of mike's videos by now, and knew that while some were vastly more kinky than others, they all followed the same formula of care, concern, and curtesy. 

you could tell mike lived by that, too. 

"well, i gotta scoot to work," claire murmurs, leaning down to grab for her bag. "but thank you for inviting me to breakfast so you could show and tell me that you've been dating a wildly handsome, generous, and charismatic sex worker. best videos i've seen by far, honestly. are you seeing him today?" 

you nod sheepishly, and claire laughs into the sky, doctored with comical bitterness. "well, let the record show that i am both extremely jealous and extraordinarily happy for you." she gives you a toothy smile, poking at your shoulder with both index fingers. "seriously. you deserve it all." 

you carry this thought with you as you ride in one of the company's chartered cars, traversing through the roads to their main studio, the biggest one in the city. there were only 4 throughout the metro area, but this one, a gigantic penthouse isolated at the top of a 275-foot tall apartment complex, had the most space and atmosphere of them all. you remember coming here to take your picture for the all-access card mike had given you. he was so happy to gift it to you a few months ago, finally getting through after bugging the execs to give him another card with unhindered access for months. 

"finally got the hard copy, just for you. got your name on it and everything," he'd smiled so wide, clipping it on one of his merch lanyards; white with black, serif text that read, "chase cox world domination". you'd fallen over in laughter, kissing at his cheeks while thanking him between giggles. 

you hadn't been here many times over the last three months, but when you were, you were able to slip through every door and security checkpoint without hassle. people knew who you were and attended to you, telling you exactly where mike was in the studio or offering to get you any refreshments or sundries you were after. you'd always declined, extending extreme gratitude to everyone servicing you, but today, you ask for a bottle of fancy artesian water. you deserve it. 

the few times you'd been here before were usually half-hours after mike had finished a scene, helping him pack up to head home for the day, but this time, you'd come early, wanting to catch a glimpse of him at work. 

you take the elevator to the top, stepping out into the concrete foyer of the industrial workspace. the gray of the material was accented with bright art and other pops of color in furniture and decor that conveyed the new age principles and ideology of the production company. it made sense why the videos were so honored, with the people behind them being young and progressive and on the right side of history (and design). 

there are eight rooms on the floor; three for shooting, three for aesthetics and dressing, one for an office, and one for storage. there were bathrooms in three of them and two down the main hallway that opened into the formal living room/break area and kitchen. you'd been told that mike was in the hunger room; this one set up for messier, more bodily fluid oriented videos, as opposed to the softer passion and kinkier desire shooting rooms. 

the rooms are all hidden behind frosted, sliding glass doors with the titles printed onto placards affixed next to them. you find hunger after walking a little, and gently pull on the handle. the door slides open soundlessly, and you're closing it behind you as you step inside, your eyes locked on the scene in front of you. 

mike and his partner are arranged on a leather couch in a living room set, his hips shoving into her in this perceptive way. he's reading her body language and reacting accordingly, and you can see why she's moaning so genuinely, feet dangling by the ankle over mike's shoulders. the couch is already drenched in liquid, wet and puddled under the girl's ass.

he grabs for the back of the couch to go deeper, leaning down to press kisses on her lips as the cameraman focuses in on where they're connected. the sound is so lewd, and it makes you press your thighs together as you watch alongside the small production crew. 

"feel good? happy to have a friend like me? someone who knows you, knows your body? someone who makes you feel better and come harder than your stupid fucking boyfriend?" his partner mewls out a broken, exasperated, "y-yyesssss" between gritted teeth as her moans get higher and higher pitched. suddenly, she's reaching at mike's back to scratch at his skin, screaming out as mike leans off to the side of her, massaging his fingertips over her clit and cooing, "yeah, just let go. know he's never made you feel like this, wasting this perfect pussy..."

his partner squirts against the camera with a screech, loud and raw but pretty. the lens is covered in a heavy spray of bodily fluid as she arches her back and grinds her mound into mike's hand, chest rising and falling at a rapid rate. "that's fucking it," he encourages, speaking in her ear as he looks down at the mess in his peripherals and rides her through it. "just the way you deserve." you swear he locks eyes with you when he says it, and he only confirms it with the small smirk he throws your way, managing to fit it into the ending of the shot. his eyes twinkle through the aftercare segment, and he talks with his spent coworker, calling, "she just wants to sit for a second" to a PA with a chuckle. 

"okay, ten minute break and then we're shooting the come shot."

her legs slowly straighten out as mike throws the towel he's handed around his waist and slides his feet into the slippers stored behind the couch. he grabs a water from an outstretched hand as he makes his way over to you, smelling like sweat and sex and glistening with this nearly angelic post-fuck glow. it's like he's coming down from the gates of porn heaven.

"hi, my love," he muses, pulling you into a tight hug before saying, "how much did you see?" 

"like right before the squirting. it's very..." you're not sure what to say, really. maybe, just maybe, you need to change your underwear, but you don't want to be weird about it. you're sure he's heard weird, and beyond weird, but you want to maintain composure in front of his coworkers. you give him a tight smile, resting your hand on his pulsing bicep. "just makes me think things." 

"maybe we should add 'thought-provoking' to the list of labels for the company," he jokes, taking a sip of water while winking at you. "you're a genius, baby." 

you're giggling along with him, opening your mouth to continue the joke when two tanned arms reach from behind him to cross in an X over his chest. a head peeks from behind him, and she's immediately unmistakable to you. 

it's his current scene partner, who is also the girl from the video you watched earlier today. the one eager for his come, whining for him to make a mess of her face while letting him beat his dick on her tongue. you think back to all of the videos you've seen her in where she's with mike. she always comes the hardest working with him, and vice versa. something about it makes you sick. 

she's smiling at his cheek, eyes focused on his as he turns his glance towards her. her arms get tighter around him and you notice how she gets closer, pressing her front tighter against his back. "caught your breath?" 

"you know i always do," she brags, licking at her canines as her stare moves to you, looking you up and down with snarky scrutiny. "casting department's starting to slack." 

you shrink, feeling so small that you don't feel like you're interrupting something anymore. you might as well just not be there, and you're about to sink into pitiful posture when mike snarls, "hey, watch yourself. y/n, this is amelie, and li, this is y/n, my girlfriend. i told you about her." the sound of mike saying the nickname turns to bile in your throat, searing you on the way down and keeping you from speaking.

amelie gives you a blank expression now, standing beside mike with no qualms at being fully naked in front of a stranger. "y/n, y/n...not ringing any bells," she places her hands on her hips, tossing her dark, sex-tousled hair over her collarbones. "sorry."

you don't know why you're daunted by her; you're usually daunted by no one, and able to speak up for yourself when people are acting catty. this time, you can't help but be unnerved by her perfection, or how close she is to it. perfect skin, perfect hair, perfect body, perfect boobs...

"i'm kidding," amelie's smooth, beguiling voice rips you from your thoughts, and you're gasping for something to say when she continues, "he's shown me endless pictures, and knows that i think you're gorgeous." her tone picks up the tiniest bit as she quips, "my eyes are up here, by the way." she's throwing you off, frustrating you in so many ways and you're just stammering with mike looking between the two of you.

"i'm sorry---"

"it's really fine. millions of people have seen them, everyone's always thirsty for more of me and chase cox..." she drags the end of her sentence out as she runs the tips of her long, cherry red nails along the back of mike's neck, ending in a laugh.

"'mike schmidt' isn't a porn name, we already had this conversation." 

"neither is chase cox, if we're being real," they launch into a chitchat, and you once again feel like you're intruding. there's no denying that they have insane chemistry, but it still rips at you;  you're aware of them having an entire moment in front of you, complete with the body language and glances and suddenly, you don't care about their connection. mike was your boyfriend, and it didn't matter what she said or did. they'd made so many videos together, yet, every night he came home to you, and not her. 

"yeah, well you're still moaning chase when you come," 

"because i can't dox you like that--"

you clear your throat noisily, gaining their attention with an eyeroll, and amelie observes you and your curled lip with recognition of your game. she didn't expect you to have bite, not with the way you look now. you're not the assertive, 'take-no-shit' girl from the pictures mike showed her. she thinks you're merely a hint of that, and that it completely evaporates when someone lights a fire under your ass, but maybe she's wrong for once. "watched a bunch of your stuff. it was really good, you're talented." 

"thanks," her gratitude is dry and bitchy, and you're about to say more when a PA calls a two minute warning and she squints her eyes into slits at you. "hope you're ready to see a lot more of me." she uses mike's shoulder to pivot with a sly smirk, sauntering back to the now wiped down leather couch, ripples coursing through her ass with every step. 

you look to mike with astonishment, wondering where he's been during this whole thing, and who that girl is, and if she's genuine bad news or simply one of those callous girls that guys love to chase.

mike had defended you, sure, but he'd gotten captured too. what if she's indoctrinating him some--

"she's nice," you blurt, stopping yourself from the overthinking you'd resorted to. you needed to be nice to yourself. you deserved this, deserved everything you had with mike. nothing was taking that away from you, and you could feel secure in that. mike would reassure you.

he does, saying, "isn't she?" with a snicker. "don't worry about her, okay? it's her personality, and she does everyone like that, so she's not just targeting you. ignore her, and if you don't like the small jokes either, i can tell her to knock it off. whatever you want. also, lunch after i wrap?" 

you nod your head, about to say something again when the PA announces that it's time for shooting to start back up. mike gives you a fat kiss on the lips as he drops his towel into a director's chair next to you, and makes his way back over to amelie folded on the couch. her knees are by her chin at a filthy angle, and she's using a squeeze bottle with a tapered tip to squeeze shiny lube all over her clit and both holes. 

mike watches, rubbing his hand all through it to spread it around. amelie bites at her lip as he does, staring up at him with eyes that are filled with unadulterated lust, and he uses the leftover lube on his dick, stroking the slippery surface as he gets harder and harder in his hand. 

the director asks them if they're ready, and when they both answer yes, she says, "okay, we're gonna go insertion, sink in, wait five for the kiss, and go from there. alright...rolling...action." 

amelie flicks her eyes to you in a leer, winking at you like mike did earlier as he plunges into her sopping wet walls. her head falls back against the couch while she outstares you, open-mouthed moans transitioning into "cockdrunk" laughs that you know are calculated.  

you begin to chug your bottle of water, deliberately ogling her in return. you were down with playing a game for two, but not for long. 

lord. the hell i've gone through to get this up /: lmao i need to go to bed. things are about to heat up, so prepare yourselves for what's next to come!

faire's seedlings ✿

@leahdhopkins4321-@pyr0-kai-@angstywhore-@sunazroo-@nyxthoughtss-@mirophobic-@fayethor-@marixsimps-@regretfulme-@ithinkitszeph-@707xn-@cattt777-@violetta-ximena-@amnesia33-@topnerd03-@fastnights-@laprvphette-@savage-aespa-@mfdxz-@0-tatiana-0-@dusstory-@delwrites-@mikeschmidtgf

[gloomskulls]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚PRIMADONNA [tasm!harry osborn x sugarbaby!reader]

pairings: tasm!harry osborn x bratty sugar baby!reader

⇢ ˗ˏˋ SUMMARY ୨୧ to fall in love with Harry Osborn was destined to be thrilling, complemented by his riches and charm. But just as the world fell apart for him, this passion pushed deeper. But now locked up at Ravencroft, lost in madness, the living ghost of the man you thought you'd known.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ WARNING ୨୧ yandere themes, obsessive behavior, dark!harry osborn, daddy issues, slight violence, toxic relationship, the reader does not gaf about Harry lol, sugar baby/sugar daddy dynamics, death, lemme know if I missed any!

If you don't wanna see my dark stories in the future please block the tag #madi: dark content

I had a random surge of writing, now I have spent the last six hours making this and idk if it even good lol. Don't steal any of the shit I make, coz that would make you a shitty person and there's too many shitty people here so don be like them.

A normal, serene night in France saw all this happen: the kind of night when the air felt heavy with an energy only those who have learned to feed upon would notice. The VIP lounge stood, but not so crowded. You wore a red dress hugging all curves, a glass of champagne, and a smile that said everything and nothing all at once.

You always were the queen of the scene, the one who never needed anyone but yourself. You loved the attention, the whispers behind your back, the envy in the eyes of the women who wished they could be you.

Your life was something you didn't dream about, but after realizing how easy it was to earn money in the simplest way possible, without all the hard work and dedication bullshit your elders used to talk about, you immediately caved in to the lifestyle of being a primadonna (or some might say a sugar baby).

Your parents were everything but keen about your choice of occupation, I thought you were going to have a modest job, this isn't a job, it's prostitution! Your parents argued, but you didn't give a single flying fuck, reasoning to them that it was an actual job keeping these men satisfied and that it was the easiest way out of that shithole you call your hometown.

Though you have dreamed about being a doctor once, but would a doctor be able to afford a giant penthouse in just a month of doing their job? Your life was much more glamorous than not any job could provide for it. And you loved your simple but lavish lifestyle, even if it was rather scandalous.

Still, your gaze drifted across the room until you locked eyes with him: Harry Osborn.

Initially, you noticed the look in his eyes, not an excited gaze, but a kind of detachment, an emptiness in his creepy blue eyes that you recognized all too well. The style of the impeccably tailored suit did not match the black mood he had carried with him. His pale face, his strands of dark hair on his face, wore a permanent frown. You knew what he was.

A rich broken kid.

You took a seat on the chair opposite him, with a slight curved smirk on your lips. "Mind if I join?"

He gazed at you for a second, a flicker of surprise narrowing his features and softened after that into an almost shy smile. "Not at all."

And thus began the dance. He shared with you his father, a man with a big legacy, Norman Osborn and the heavy burden it carries. Most certainly heir to a vast empire, he is weighed down by the fate of having to live up to the extreme expectations. You don't pity him, though, nor anyone. Rather, you slip him that sort of detached humor that kept you afloat in a world full of disingenuousness.

"I'm sure your therapist would love to hear his," you said, swirling your drink, "but tell me, Harry, is it worth it having the Osborn fortune if it gives you personal vendetta as a side dish?"

His laughter came with a touch of bitterness. "You don't know the half of it."

“No, but I know a thing or two about men like you." You said as you took a long sip of your margarita "Spoiled, sad little princes who want the world, only end up stuck in their own castle.” You added, you leaned in, meeting his eyes with your own. “Tell me—what do you really want?”

He wasn't exactly the type to answer the question, but he did it. There was a moment of unexpected vulnerability, and Harry opened up about the pressure his father put on him to take control of Oscorp, the shadow of an illness that haunted every Osborn, and the utter confusion with which he approached what he really wanted. “I want out,” he whispered. “But I don’t know how."

“Find your own way out, Harry," you whispered in his ear, lifting your glass. "Stop living in your father's shadow. You live behind someone's shadow for too long, they go away, and suddenly you forget how bright the world is, and it will blind the living shit out of you"

There came a time, a few months hence, when you were no longer a mere fleeting distraction. Harry had become captive to you and not just by your beauty but also the fact that you did not fawn upon him as the others did. The incessant materialism of Oscorp—the parties and the great expectations—mattered not to you, nor did they matter to Harry. What mattered to you was you.

Soon enough, he was caught up in a blur of late-night dinners, designer frocks, and luxury getaways, and he learned to play your role as always cool, always sarcastic, and always available whenever he needed someone to fill in. His mansion became your playground. His penthouse, your fortress. But you had begun to realize how the cracks in his facade grew wider with every day. There was a tension that clung around his shoulders.

You see, Harry was fighting demons. Not the kind children find under their beds, but those of not just a father's shadow and inheritance, but a fatal disease that ran in the blood of his family. Genetic, a disease that slowly eroded the body's defenses against sickness in a nutshell. It was how his mother died. And though his father, while certainly more heartless than most, had lived just long enough for Harry to inherit the empire, it was clear Harry was on borrowed time. And you knew deep down the little time he had left to share in his life, he did not want to spend alone. In fact, he was searching for someone he might hold with, instead of mere love.

Harry had been told late last night that Norman Osborn was rapidly deteriorating, and that he should come home already. Of course, it was a better idea to simply agree with him, not because of his father, but because he looked actually frightened.

The flight to New York was so quiet, between two strangers not knowing what to say, it was the kind of silence that weighed almost like an invisible line hung between them.

As the jet came down, New York's skyline shone distantly, bright and impersonal. This city had molded Harry in ways with which he seldom cared to associate himself and now it seemed to gnaw his back.

"You okay," you asked gently, breaking the silence.

He was seated opposite you, hands clasped tightly together. He barely glanced up. "Fine," he muttered, but his voice betraying him.

You didn't push it. Harry was not the sort of man to let anyone else see him fall to pieces, not even you.

The Osborn estate—it was a mausoleum fashioned out of glass and steel, so cold and so unwelcoming. One would step inside and feel an air shift—heavy with history, expectation, and the unmistakable shadow of death. Everywhere a sterile hallway expanded toward a distant death, every hushed whisper of the staff bore witness to the obvious decline taking place in Norman Osborn.

"It's dark in there, your eyes would adjust" one of the staff informed as he led you to the door where Norman rested, "It's better this way" He added as he opened the door for Harry

Harry gave his coat to the staff as he held you, you both entered the dark room. It was filled with high-tech bullshit that you were certain you could only see in movies, guess anyone's willing to go to an extent to keep themselves alive.

Harry's dad was surrounded by machines, beeping rhythmically.

Harry's dad lay bedridden, reduced to nothing but a former shell of himself, what was left was the presence to this pale, gaunt remnant of him. You now have to stand aside while Harry makes his way toward his father, for even such distance cannot keep one from feeling the strain between them.

"This is not how I imagined I would die" Norman bitterly muttered as he looked at Harry up and down, "Looking at my son and seeing this stranger" He added

"Of such potential Harry, such fierce intelligence, and you throwing it all away for this girl" Norman than stared at you, with an unintelligible gaze.

You nervously shuffled in your position as you felt rather exposed to his cold and calculating gaze, it was as if he was stripping you with every clothing you had.

"Out of everyone, you chose a narcissistic gold digger" Norman chuckled. Harry jaw clenched.

"Don't call her that" snarled Harry. But Norman just chuckled as he spoke.

"You think I don't see shit? You think I don't see the news of you wasting your fortune to her when you should be training to take over me, because God knows when he'll take me out of here"

Harry seemed rather tense at the talk of inheritance. He called out your name, "Go back to the car" he instructed.

You didn't spare a single second before getting out the dark room. The moment you stepped out, if felt as if you saw a train running towards you, Norman's room was really that dark.

By the time you two came back to the condo with Harry, it was almost becoming morning. That lingering weight from the past twenty-four hours felt like a storm cloud over the two of you. Harry, who had hardly spoken since the two left the estate, seemed to be facing a complete collapse now.

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, he inhaled sharply and flung his jacket on the couch. He moved erratically, his high-strung behavior slowly coming undone with every step.

"I inherited it," he said suddenly, his voice hollow.

You froze at the moment, not sure if you heard him rightly. "Inherited what?"

"The disease and the fuckin' goddamn company" he snapped, turning around to face you. His blue irises were frantic, ringed red from sleep deprivation and a barely controlled fury. "Retroviral hyperplasia. It's genetic. My dad knew I was gonna get that, and he did not tell me till now. Like it's some fucking family tradition!" He shouted

You flinched, but you just remained there; sarcasm clogged at the back of your throat. Harry did not want your quips or indifference. He needed something, however, even you weren't sure what that something was.

“I don’t know what to say,” you finally admitted, your voice lower than usual.

“There's nothing to say,” he groaned, running a hand through his hair. “My father's dead. I have a ticking time bomb inside my DNA. And because of all that, I am supposed to take on Oscor like I'm the goddamn savior of the family name.”

He fell over onto the couch, his head in his hands. “I didn't want this,” he said quietly, his voice breaking. "I never wanted any of it."

You hesitated walking away, halfway between staying and going. These kinds of moments were not made for people like you-moments when comfort was called for. But there was something in the raw vulnerability of Harry's voice that stopped you.

"You don't have to work everything out right now," you said finally as you settled beside him. "It's okay to think that this is unfair. It is unfair. But you're even allowed to… I don't know… take a breath before you burn yourself completely out."

Harry looked at you then and searched your eyes. Maybe for hope. Maybe for reassurance.

"Why're you even here?" his tone was sharp, yet not unkind.

You tilted your head, your lips curving into a faint, tired smirk. "Because you'd be truly unbearable if I wasn't."

For an instant, the tension broke, and he emitted a dry, humorless kind of laugh. Not much really, but it was something.

You did not know what would come next. The disease. The inheritance. It was all too much for any human being to actually handle, including Harry. But for now, you both sat there together, silent and heavy with it all.

Harry knew that every passing day brought him closer to it. He was on the verge of spontaneously combusting, and that changed everything for him. His father's staff didn't respect him, he would always tell you.

"I'm not like him," Harry would consistently say in a hollow, dry voice, "I won't be a monster, but the world doesn't let you be anything else."

The more Harry delved deep into his father's empire, the more you saw its darkness spreading within him. Torment began twisting into anger, obsession, and paranoia from vulnerability. Then came that his suffocating need for validation, his need for control.

Your sarcasm was not enough to hide your discomfort anymore. All the questioning, demanding, and simplicity came all that weighed you down. He had changed; not for the better.

Harry became obsessed with Oscorp and the disease reached its peak, to the point when he asked his best friend Peter to get a blood sample from Spiderman, to which it backfired by the way he was stomping inside your shared condo.

He became more manic, desperate. When things started not to go his way, he would lock himself in his office for days, brooding over the future of the company, and then he would lash out at people. You would try to keep your distance, but he wouldn't allow it since he needed you as his tether, anchor to the world that was sliding out of his fingers.

Amidst these many nights just as quiet, suffocating, and heavy with tension, so had all fallen into shadow. You would be found in the corner of Harry's penthouse. Scrolling on your phone, pretending not to see, while Harry was pacing in an erratic fashion, filling the room with energy that could have probably made it unbearable. He'd been on this particular circuit for weeks: gearing up with one battle after another with all those sharks in the boardroom who hungered for some blood due to Oscorp's spiraling controversies and his desperate attempts to outmaneuver them.

That wasn't just for the company though. It was really for the disease.

Earlier that day, Harry had come back from a consultation held by Oscorp's private medical team, and though he hadn't even uttered a word to you about it, the reading was all written on his face. He was running out of time. And he was scared.

"Do you even care?" he snapped suddenly; his voice sharp enough to cut through the tension like a knife.

Calm as always, you looked up and met his eyes with just the detached indifference that you knew would annoy him even more. "Care about what, Harry?"

"About me," he spat, his fists curling at his sides. "About what I'm going through. Or am I just some… some project for you? Something to laugh at when I'm not looking?"

The accusation hit harder than you expected, but you were not about to show it. Instead, you leaned back in your chair and crossed your legs, tipping your head like you were bored by the whole affair.

“Harry,” you said, dripping with sarcasm, “you��re spiraling, and I’m the one who’s supposed to care? Maybe take a look around. You’ve got a billion-dollar company, a penthouse, a name everyone respects or fears— and you've got all that to worry, but you worry about whether I give a damn? Honestly, it’s a little pathetic.”

You did not picture him laughing, but he did. A cold, hollow sound that sent chills running down your spine.

"Are you assuming that this is all regarding money?" he stepped towards you, eyes burning with an amalgam of fury and something darker, something unhinged. "Do you think I care about anything when I'm at death's door?"

For the first time, what he said came out raw and real, stripped of whatever charm or bravado he usually wore around like armor. It was just Harry—the boy who had lost his mother, who had spent his entire life trying to live up to a father who never gave him anything but pressure and pain, and who was now staring down the barrel at a disease that would take everything from him piece by piece.

But empathy was exactly what you weren't in the mood for these days.

"I get it," you said, standing up and meeting him eye to eye. "Harry, you've got a raw deal. But guess what? Everybody's dealing with their own shit. You're not special just because your dad was an egomaniac, and you've got bad genes. Just because your life is falling apart doesn't mean you've got the right to use me as an emotional punching bag."

The words were harsh, and you were aware of it. But you were tired just tired of the moods, the demands, and the inability to see you as anything other than a reflection of his misery.

His face contorted with rage as he clenched his jaw while looking fixedly at you. “You really don’t understand,” he said in an almost dangerously low voice, “You think this is all for me? I have fought for my life since the day I was born. I’m not going to allow anyone—anyone—leave me now. Not you. Not the board. No one.”

“Then fight your own battle,” you retorted, voice now oscillating. “I’m not here to save you, Harry. I never was.”

For a moment, the silence in the room fell like a tomb. The lights from the city outside cast long shadows across his face, making him look almost ghostly. And then, he moved.

One stride did it: he passed the distance between you, almost wrenching your wrist off and bringing his face inches from yours while his breath was hot and shallow. “You don’t get to leave,” he said, almost choking back the words as they came out, “Not now. Not after everything.”

Harry found himself staring at you, unblinking, wild-eyed with fury. "I can do nothing without you." He whispered with tears welling up his eyes. "You're the only thing I can control." "The only thing that makes sense," he said, gripping at your arms to try and pull you nearer.

For a moment, you realized that he was not a spoiled rich kid, but was actually someone truly broken, someone who tied his whole identity into the inheritance that he would receive from the empire he was about to inherit, and the disease that would eventually take his life. He had desperation in him, and for the first time, he made you begin to question everything.

"I'm not your savior, Harry," you said, pulling away from the hug. "And I'm not going to stand nearby while you destroy yourself." You sighed as you stepped away from him, "And don't call this love, since it isn't that"

Anger was flashing in his eyes. "You think I'm weak, don't you?" he hissed. "You think I'm a monster in a suit."

You stood there, cold and drained. "Perhaps I don't think anything anymore."

Harry Osborn wasn't your prince. He was a king with no kingdom, and you weren't about to be his queen.

He looked away from you and said, "Then go." The once harrowing voice was now a soft weapon. "Get out of here. But know that you cannot outrun me. You belong to me, and what belongs to me, comes back to me"

Your heart raced in your chest, but you were not going to let him see your fear. You tilted your head slightly and smiled at him defiantly. “Watch me,” you stated, voice calm even as the energy between you crackled like electricity.

You didn’t say anything after that. You just turned around, feeling Harry's eyes glaring daggers at you. You grabbed your bag, your keys, and walked out without looking back.

The adrenaline dissipated as you drove through the rain-soaked streets of the city, as it always happens. Cold and hollow at the pit of your stomach, you knew from the start that Harry Osborn was dangerous—not in an overt way, the ways some men were, but in that sly, insidious way that made you question your own reality.

He was a man not just in pain. He was a man unraveling and you caught in the middle.

And so, you told yourself that it was over, that you would never again return. But the headlights blurred in the rain and the city stretched infinitely before you; you could not shake the feeling that Harry's words were not an empty threat.

You belong to me

It echoed in your mind both promise and threat at once. Harry Osborn wasn't just an overindulged brat with daddy issues. He was a predator.

And you are his prey.

You never meant to return. You swore never to set foot in that penthouse again. Harry's world had become something you wanted no part of, and when you left, you knew that was it—an escape from a man that could never truly be yours and never truly let you go.

But there had been a slip, a mistake. You'd left some things behind in the chaos—clothing, a piece of jewelry, some documents that you couldn't quite remember. And whenever that phone buzzed with a message from the unknown number, an uneasy pang settled in your gut. It was from Felicia Hardy, Harry's assistant.

"I think you should come by. It's about Harry."

You hesitated for a moment. You weren't curious about Harry anymore—not about him, not about Oscorp, not about the empty promises he had made. But something pulled at you—an instinct, maybe. A feeling that you had never let fully shake the grip he had on you. You hadn't been back to the condo in months, but something told you that, whatever Felicia had to say, it wasn't good.

The walk up to the penthouse felt like an eternity. You stood outside the door for a long while, before finally ringing the bell. The door opened swiftly, and Felicia Hardy greeted you with a tight, strained smile.

"You should come in," she said, stepping aside.

The calm demeanor she usually exuded had disappeared. Her frame was rigid. The apartment was at variance too—empty, almost ghost-like—filled with shadows of memories you once shared with Harry lingering in the corners.

"You've kept a low profile," you said as you step in.

"I've been busy," Felicia replied in a curt tone, "There's a lot of things you don't know. Anyway, you have to hear this."

You raised your eyebrows. "What happened? You sound like you've encountered a ghost"

Felicia hesitated, then gestured toward the living room, where she sat down, fingers gripping the arms of the chair tightly, "Harry… he's not the same. After you left, he started changing—more than usual. He got reckless. The whole thing spiraled out of control."

You didn't reply instantly. Harry had always been a very chaotic person whose life was that of extremes, and yet you never imagined he would be broken so bad. You have seen his anger and desperation, but you didn't know to imagine the depth of it.

Felicia rambled on, barely audible above a whisper: "It's his disease. He… he was...desperate" she spoke barely above a whisper "Harry broke a patient from Ravencroft and an ex-staff in Oscorp, Max Dillon"

"He went there with a plan," Felicia continued, voice trembling. "He knew about the mutant cells—Araneus Oscorpeus—those experimental spiders Oscorp had been working on, the ones that could heal—it was supposed to be a part of some new treatment for his condition."

You nodded slowly as the pieces clicked into place. The condition—the disease that had tormented Harry all through his life and shaped his body and mind into something he couldn't fight. He had never been able to outrun his father's legacy—the bloodline that gave him everything and yet all at once, nothing.

Felicia leaned closer, lowering her voice as if to say that the truth might be huge to handle. "But that's not the worst of it."

She looked at you. "He tried curing himself—he believed he could cure his self—but it didn't quite work out. The serum, the cells—it made him insane, operated Harry worse than before. Way worse."

The pieces begin to put together a very dark picture and exceedingly puzzling. In Harry's desperate attempt at saving his soul, he meddled with the ways of God—and the results led to an uncontrollable calamity. He dragged Max Dillon into this insanity and now they were both spiraling out of control. But what after that?

"And then what happened?" you asked, feeling your heart race against your chest.

"Harry's in Ravencroft Asylum."

You blinked, trying to process the words. The name of the infamous facility sent a cold shiver down your spine. Ravencroft wasn't just a place—it was a symbol of the irreversible, the broken.

"What?" you managed to croak, your voice hoarse.

Felicia stepped forward, face red. "He snapped. Completely. After everything that happened, they pretty much had to put him away: he's not the same."

Although Felicia's eyes softened for a second, she didn't spare a moment for pity. "You know Gwen Stacy, right?"

The punch to the gut hit your insides, she was the girl you went to high school with before your parents moved to France, lovely studious girl, everyone loved her as far as you remember. "What about her?"

"She's dead," Felicia said, in her predictable, icy monotone, as if she were using a knife to cut through air. "Caught up in it all. Harry—fuckin spiderman—they're all responsible."

The statements barely made sense to the mind. Gwen, dead? You remembered just talking to her months ago back: bright and smiling, too pure for all the muck Harry had created in his life.

"Harry killed her?" you whispered, unable to push more words past your throat.

Felicia did not flinch. "He didn't mean it that way. But he lost control of himself, he only wanted Spiderman but, something snapped, and he took Gwen… Harry lost it. There were others—civilians, people who got in the way—but Gwen's the one who didn't survive. It was ugly, pretty darn ugly."

Felicia made her stare stone hard. "He's at Ravencroft. They keep him mostly sedated the time. Not a person anymore, not really. His disease…it's totally taking control of him. In the doctors' words, it's irreversible. They can't help him."

Felicia took a deep breath, as if steeling herself for something she was still unsure she wanted to say. "He asked about you though. Every time I go there, it's all he talks about. You. Like you're some kind of cure for whatever's broken inside him."

You swallowed, head still swimming. Harry was consumed by the need for control, power, and validation. And now, to know that he was obsessed with you—even now—seemed a bitter pill to swallow.

"Didn't come here to tell you this to make you feel guilty," Felicia said, her voice severing through your thoughts. "I came because you ought to know what happened. Not that you can fix them. Harry's gone. And whatever was left of him is now caged in Ravencroft."

She paused for a moment, giving the full weight to her words. "But you should know this is not just on him, the Goblin disease? That's something passed on by his father. He was born into this, and nobody ever gave him a goddam chance to get free. It's too late now."

"I'm sad to say this," Felicia continued, her voice softening almost to a sympathetic tone "but that's reality. You move on."

Though you nodded slowly, you knew that there was no reason to believe in it. Moving on from someone like Harry Osborn seemed impossible, even if that someone was no longer even a shell of the person that he had once been. He was no longer someone whom you could love; nor could he be said to be someone whom you could save.

As you walked away from the penthouse, the waves of finality crashed down on you. What were you expecting? That he would be better? That he would have changed? But now, the truth was more apparent than ever before: the Harry you knew was dead. And what was left? A monster who destroyed everything he once cared about, including Gwen Stacy - and now, you.

Ravencroft Asylum was a cage indeed. And Harry Osborn lay trapped inside it - a casualty to his own legacy.

And you? You were another casualty in the wreckage.

@gloomskulls 2024. DON'T COPY, TRANSLATE OR USE ANY OF MY WORKS HERE OR ANY OTHER WEBSITES. Photos don't belong to me

[yaseraphine]

RANT ABOUT THERAPY AND WHY IT'S NOT MY CUP OF TEA 🤡

+ trying to guess the therapist's rising and our synastry and ranting about it cause I am tired man (and too sensitive lol)

Really messy post btw just a disclaimer lol

(Update 23/11/24 : I might have slightly overreacted 🤡😀😁 lol plus maybe the therapist was actually a Taurus rising lol idk man I am confused as fuck about everything bye 😝🤪🫡)

Just had my first therapist appointment since 2021 and what can I say....it was REALLY awkward. I don't know how people are able to spill their deepest traumas like that bro she just sat down and told me to talk 💀 like what I thought she would interview me or start the first appointment with pre-made questions to make a profile, regarding my background, family relationships,etc .. It was really messy and I was so confused throughout the whole thing.

I understand it's a privilege to afford therapy (it was 60euros for 45 minutes lol of course it is) but it is much more complex than just spilling your guts to a random with a degree.

Something about me is that I always thought i didn't really need therapy, no matter how painful a situation was for me. And it wasn't only therapy, it was also opening up to my own friends 💀 i could take care of myself like i always did anyways so whats the point of paying for it ? I understood people who needed it and felt helped by it. But it just wasn't for me. I have realizations on my own consistantly thanks to my self-awareness and trained and developped intuition.

What pushed me to go back to therapy even though i was , and still am, very skeptical in its effectiveness on me, is that this year, I realized asking for help won't actually kill me and that i have my limits as a human being.

I fear this appointment just unfortunately kind of validated my initial more negative feelings towards therapy and the idea that I don't really need it.

As a really introspective and painfully self-aware person who has a hard time asking for help (but is actively working on it), I really don't know what kind of therapy could help me, really. I know I probably have a few blind spots, but it's so out of my comfort zone to open up like that. I kind of hate it.

I want to keep an open mind, and probably try another therapist but damn if I don't f*ck with any, it just feels forced .. I trust divine timing for that because I don't really want to put myself in such a situation again.

Right now, I feel dirty knowing a random woman knows about my deepest traumas in a really messy and all over the place way. She has fragments of my soul, and despite me having somewhat giving my consent for it, it was too fast. Maybe it's my 8th house moon conjunct Lilith (1181) in Leo that is speaking but I feel literally violated. Strong words but this how uncomfortable it was for me.

Guessing the therapist's rising sign and ranting about 12th house synastry...

Random but I think the therapist in question had a Virgo or Leo rising... I already said it's the most common rising signs (especially virgo) and I am losing patience. We probably had a 12th house synastry that's why our exchange was really weird and scattered. She kept on making weird faces while I was talking telling me she didn't understand what I was trying to say.... I know it all too well because EVERY single person I knew or had interacted with that had a leo rising, my interactions with them were like this. I was saying stuff and it felt like it went in one ear and got out in the other. Like they could hear me but not listen and understand what i was trying to say. This kind of reminds me of Willy Wonka's relationship with Mike TV or wth his name is, in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory Tim Burton's movie. Wonka always said stuff to him whenever he opened his mouth like "I cannot hear a single thing you say because you're speaking gibberish"or whatever. (Me being Mike TV and Leo risings being Willy Wonka).

This is how every single one of my interactions with Leo risings went, no matter their gender or age. It was always like that.

[atlantis-just-drowned]

A/N: Hello and thank you to my best friend for once again beta-reading 3.9k of hurt/comfort with a character he doesn't even know. Also yes I did send a request to a fellow writer for this exact scenario a few days ago, what can I say I'm obsessed with this idea. Fun fact: I wrote the part with the MC breaking down and crying just before an important exam lmao.

CW: Blood and injury, emotionally constipated gn!reader, flashbacks, reader and Damien being extremely distressed, reader has a mental breakdown, dissociation, reader used to go to therapy (for comedic purposes), lmk if I forgot anything!

Some breaking down and some healing

Please reblog to show support! Likes make posts die! :(

Masterlist

You were shaking. The aftershock of everything you had just witnessed threatened to make you crumble. And maybe you would have crumbled, if it wasn’t for one thing.

Resting his weight on your shoulders, Damien groaned in pain as your fingers spasmed and gripped his side a little too tightly.

“Whoever is pulling the strings now… it’s one of us.”

As the sun rose slowly, the revelation sat heavy in your chest, constricting your throat and adding to the sensation of chocking you were fighting against.

Breathe through it. You told yourself, trying to focus on the air getting in and out of your lungs, more shallowly than you wished for, as you kept walking toward the camp. Just breathe through it.

You would fall on your knees and cry your eyes out later. In your adrenaline-induced mind, the panic was still sitting firmly at the idea of the young man bleeding out from his gash. You hadn’t even been able to check its severity. What if organs had been touched? You barely even knew how to suture a wound. Calling a hospital wasn’t an option, it was sink or swim.

You wouldn’t forgive yourself if he sunk.

“Hey.”

Too caught in your own horrible thoughts, you didn’t realise Damien was trying to talk to you, until you heard him call your name.

“What? Did I hurt you?!” You almost shouted back instantly. Your shoulders tensed up further.

“I- No.” His tone held a concern that you couldn’t afford to notice in that moment. There was a bit of silence as he let out a sigh before stating. “You need a pause.”

“I don’t.” You lied.

“You do.”

You did, really. Every step you took felt like you were battling against your entire body, alarms going off in your brain one after the other as you kept pushing, your will power looking more and more like a rusty and thrashed engine rumbling in agony behind your ribcage.

“Shut up. Keep walking.”

You knew if you stopped now, you wouldn’t be able to get up again. You couldn’t let it happen, not now, not before you were certain the dark-haired man was safe.

To your great displeasure, said man didn’t seem to know what “shutting up” meant, as a tense grin appeared on his face.

“My therapists would have hated you.”

“Yeah?” You answered mechanically, still trying to focus on putting a foot in front of the other to drag his exhausted and injured self to the cabins. “Mine certainly did.”

He tried to let out a chuckle that almost immediately turned into a pained whine, sending a new wave of stress in your already overwhelmed brain.

You needed to get him to safety. Now.

Not only because you feared the gravity of his wound might be greater than he was letting appear, but your vision was starting to turn blurry from the amount of pressure you were under – and your shallow breathing did nothing to help your legs carry the weight of the both of you.

So when you heard Nico calling out your name, relief flooded your mind for a brief instant. You could make out their form as they ran toward you, until they were close enough that you could see the expression of terror plastered on their face. Their eyes glanced between you and Damien, looking at the blood slowly gorging his hoodie and smeared all over his hands.

“What the fuck! What happened?!”

You didn’t even know how to answer. You hadn’t processed anything of what had happened. Everything was just tears and fear and red.

“Damien got attacked.”

Your voice was cold, dripping with exhausted determination, like how your parents sounded when they had to fix one too many of your stupidities.

When you glanced back at Nico again, you realised their eyes were filled with something different than before.

It was guilt, you understood.

You didn’t really know what happened to you then. It was like your brain had been rewired, and nothing but the life of your goth friend mattered. All bounds and emotions had been thrown out the window, and the only thing you could care about was finding safety.

Nico had been the first one to accuse Damien.

They were your best friend since forever. The one you should have been able to trust. Above anyone else.

But you knew you couldn’t bring yourself to let them alone with him. Not now.

So when they reached for the young man, you steeled your grip around him instead of letting go; trying to hide the accusatory frown on your features.

“Let me help you.”

“It’s fine.” You groaned back, your tone more hostile than you would have liked it to be as you kept walking, letting Nico follow along. You couldn’t afford to let tensions rise between you and the only normal human beings in this entire forest. “I need you to get me a first aid kit. Can you do that for me please?”

Despite the culpability still written all over their face, Nico seemed to perk up at that, as if they had found back some of their determination.

“Yeah, of course.”

“Thanks. Bring it to the rec room, we’ll get installed there.”

Quite honestly, you had picked the closest room possible. You knew Riley and Jaxon were probably in there and you had no idea how you’d deal with them, but right now, all that mattered was to finally sit down before your body would entirely give out and spasm to the floor pathetically.

“You could have used some help, you know?” His black and red bangs stopped you from seeing your friend’s eyes, but you could still clearly tell he was exhausted too. After all, he was the one who had almost died tonight.

“You’re the one who told me the murderous maniac who started all of this was one of us, remember?”

“You think it might be Nico?” His tone wasn’t even afraid as he asked. He sounded like he was getting in his own world again, theorising and imagining endless amount of possibilities with the same investment as a scientist dissecting the corpse of a never-seen-before specimen. It only made you frown further. You hated that he sounded so casual about it, and you hated that he even asked you this question.

“I think I’m turning into a paranoid asshole.” was all you hissed between your teeth, before slamming open the door of the rec room and hobbling inside with him.

Just as you had expected, Riley and Jaxon both spun around to stare at the two of you upon hearing the front door open so violently. In a couple of seconds, their expressions went from ones of surprise to utter shock, only to settle on absolute horror in the brunette’s case, and exasperation for the blonde

“Why are you-”

“I knew it!” Jaxon shouted, cutting Riley’s disdainful tone. “It’s not him! You guys almost killed an innocent!”

“Jaxon…” You sighed. As thankful as you were for his support, his screeching was going to give you a headache very soon. “Please calm down and help me install him so we can take care of this wound.”

You designated Damien with a movement of your head, and the brown-haired man regained his composure so fast it almost scared you.

Acting skills, you supposed.

He gave you a nod, before carefully approaching the two of you and hooking the goth man’s free arm around his shoulders.

Instantly, you let out a sigh of relief. Having a weight literally lifted from your shoulders did wonders to your spine.

Riley was still looking at your friend with a disgusted frown, as you and Jaxon started to carry him toward the nearest couch.

“You’re putting blood everywhere.”

“Thanks for reminding me.” Damien groaned back. As you looked up at him, you realised he was grimacing, and looking almost… nauseous.

He’s not going to faint… Is he?? Did he lose too much blood?!

You were panicking. Again. But before the thoughts could get to you, Nico came in, brandishing a first-aid kit.

“I found it!”

Without a word, the brown-haired man took it from them, and helped you sitting Damien down on the couch. Your friend let out a grunt of pain as he fell into the cushion, and you almost immediately lowered yourself in front of him.

The kit was set down on the table behind you as Jaxon walked back to the two other counsellors, fuming.

“I told you guys!” You heard him spit out as you started to rummage through the box, looking for disinfectant. “We should have stuck together instead of… of letting him run off like that!”

“Yeah, well sorry for pointing out the fact that he’s weird AF-”

“We couldn’t have known, okay?” Nico cut Riley’s disdainful ramblings.

“Exactly! You had no proof of anything and you just jumped at his throat like-”

“Can you guys go argue somewhere else?!” you snapped. Hearing their attempts to justify themselves was too much for you right now, and as grateful as you were toward Jaxon, you needed to focus.

They all looked at you like scolded kids, before exiting the room in silence. You would have almost felt bad for them, if you weren’t still worried to death for the goth man slumped on the couch in front of you, who was busy looking away with the face of someone who was going to get sick.

“Is now a good time to confess I have hematophobia?” you heard him mumble, making you stop on your tracks to look at him with disbelief.

“What?”

His face reddened in embarrassment for a second as he repeated barely above a whisper. “I’m scared of blood.”

You stared at him in silence.

“I-I know it’s stupid I just…” He swallowed a lump in his throat. That’s when you noticed his bloodied hands were gripping both of his thighs, trembling.

He is genuinely distressed.

Your heart only tightened further as you heard his tone turn anguished.

“I… I can’t really help it-”

He cut himself off when he felt you reaching out for his hands.

“Damien, it’s okay.” You tried to keep a calm tone despite the situation, as you searched for something to wipe away the blood on his hands that could be discarded quickly.

Might as well kill two birds with one stone, I guess.

“Can you take off your hoodie, please?”

Still without looking your way, he took a deep, shaky breath and gave you a nod, before doing as you asked.

You took the piece of clothing from his hand, leaving his upper half bare as you started to rub the fabric against his palms, then his fingers, until they weren’t drenched in red anymore.

“There.” You announced as you hid the hoodie away. “They’re clean. You can look now.”

Damien’s gaze finally fell on you, and you felt his hands giving yours a small squeeze as he gulped again.

“Thanks.” he mumbled, tone still shaky.

“No problem.” You squeezed his hands back.

For a moment, you looked at each other in silence, both of your gazes filled with worry and uncertainty. Your hands hadn’t stopped trembling slightly since you came back from 1980, and your throat was still tight. But you needed to stay strong, to hold on just a little longer.

You were the one to break eye contact when you spun around to grab the bottle of disinfectant, pouring a few drops on a wipe before turning back to face the goth man’s injury.

His wound went all the way from the front to the back of his waist, tracing a long, clear line on his side. Blood had started to coagulate around it, taking this dark tint that only made the cut appear more profound.

You froze, gauze still in hand.

Everything was mixing in your head like the scattered pieces of a terrifyingly gore and violent puzzle. Damien’s frenzied expression as he pointed a gun at you. The panic in his eyes when Jay lunged. Mike holding him up. The sickening vision of blood dripping down your friend’s side. The feeling of utter helplessness. The predatory gaze looking toward you like you were nothing but a disobedient toy thinking you could save anyone. Knife penetrating flesh as you stared in horror at how close the goth man has been to die a slow and painful death.

Damien called out your name gently.

Your breathing was fast and shallow, your hands shaking more than before as you registered his fingers locked around your wrist, thumb rubbing against your skin softly.

“I’m right here. You’re okay.” he tried to soothe you, his deep voice boring through your panicked state to wrap around your heart, slowly guiding you back to the present. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not.” You choked out, cursing yourself for how broken your tone was and the way your vision clouded from the tears in your eyes. “I need to treat that wound.”

You tried to pull your hand away from his grip, but he only held you tighter.

“No, you need to calm down first.”

You pulled on your arm again. His fingers remained locked around your wrist and you trembled in his grasp.

You were reaching you breaking point.

No matter how much you tried to hold on and keep your emotions in check, he just kept breaking your walls down and you hated it. You hated that you could feel the tears well up and threaten to spill down you cheeks. You hated that the air didn’t seem to reach your lungs no matter how much you tried to breathe. You hated how easily he could disarm you and make you crumble when you knew it wasn’t the right moment.

“Not now Damien, please, we don’t have time for this.” You tried to reason him through a tight throat. You were on the edge of sobbing, and you wanted to hide away. It felt humiliating, somehow. Like you were failing to fulfil some sort of mission.

“But we do.” his tone was firmer as he said your name again, and for a second, you mistook the concern in his eyes for pity. “We have all the time you need, so just…”

You snapped.

“Oh my god Damien, you’re not going to start pretending you care about my dumbass emotions or whatever!” Unable to hold it all in any longer, you didn’t even realise you had raised your voice. “You almost got yourself killed right in front of me, for fuck’s sake!”

He looked at you in shock, and you realised his hand had released you.

Regret hit you almost instantly, and you felt the first, small tear rolling down your cheek, before the floodgates opened.

Quite frankly, you couldn’t remember the last time you had sobbed your eyes out so hard; especially in front of someone else. The worst part was that you couldn’t bring yourself to care about Damien seeing you like that. You were feeling too broken and in pain to even process the shame.

Your body quivered as you hid your face in your palms.

“I-I-I’m s-s-sorry…” you cried. What you were sorry about, you couldn’t really tell. Maybe it was for shouting at him. Maybe it was for almost letting him die. You weren’t sure anymore, and everything was getting entangled in your head. All you knew was that on top of everything else, you were deeply, horribly, infinitely sorry.

Slowly, he reached out for you again. One of his hands caught your wrist for the second time, while the other gripped your opposite arm. You almost didn’t register the way he gently pulled you to him, but once you did, you clung to him almost instantly.

You were so scared to hurt him that you didn’t dare to wrap your arms around his torso. Instead, your passed an arm around his neck and buried your other hand in his coloured hair, hiding your face in his shoulder as he held you tight.

Any logical thoughts you may have had seemed to have vanished. All you could think about was the fact that he was here, he was alive and safe. He was with you, he was holding you, he was okay.

All of the feelings you had tried to keep at bay – for both of your sakes – were swirling around in your brain now. There was terror, despair, powerlessness, incomprehension, injustice; and there was relief, thankfulness, and a strangely growing sense of affection.

“It’s okay.” Damien kept whispering to your trembling frame reassuringly. “You’re okay. We’re okay. We’re alive.”

“You’re alive.” you sobbed back, trying to convince your whirling mind more than anything else.

“I am.” The calmness of his tone was beyond admirable given the circumstances, but you didn’t have the energy to question it. “I’m alive. I’m right here with you. Do you think you can try to take a deep breath for me?”

His hand ran up and down your back soothingly as you tried to do as he asked. It took you several minutes before you were finally able to stop the tears from flooding down your cheeks.

“You’re doing so good,” the goth man kept whispering encouragements and praises in your ear, your name falling out of his lips with a gentleness you couldn’t even comprehend. “You’re amazing, alright? Don’t ever doubt that. You’ve been braver than any of us could ever be. You can let go now, you deserve a break.”

It took you a little while longer before you finally emerged from the crook of his neck with one last sniffle. Your eyes were most definitely red and puffy by now, and your cheeks were starting to turn red too from the embarrassment, as you slowly realised your injured friend has been snuggling your crying self against his shirtless chest.

“Thank you, Damien.” you muttered as you tried to keep your eyes on him. You could have sworn his face reddened the same colour than the tips of his hair, but it might as well have been an hallucination of your wrecked mind.

“You’re welcome.” he mumbled back, and without really thinking, you swiftly gave his cheek a little kiss before detaching yourself from him to return to your task.

Your head was clearer this time as you took the disinfectant again, pouring it on the gauze before turning toward his wound again. All the while, your goth friend stayed silent aside from a small cough.

You tried to not linger on the uneasiness you felt when you looked at the long cut on his side again, instead, you quickly approached the small tissue and started cleaning it as gently as you could.

Damien hissed, his body jumping slightly at the sudden sting before he gripped your shoulders. He wasn’t looking at you, probably to avoid accidentally seeing his own blood.

“Is… Is it alright if I hold onto you?”

You nodded. “Yeah, of course.”

The grip of his hands was tight as you went back to the task. The only sounds that could be heard for a while were the black-and-red-haired man’s occasional hisses and groans.

Once the cleaning part was over, you finally got to examining the wound more closely, and your shoulders loosened a bit as you sighed.

The cut wasn’t as deep as you feared. A few wound-closing strips and a bandage would be necessary, but it seemed Jay’s machete hadn’t hurt your friend too badly.

“So? What are you thinking doc?” Damien teased you, although his face remained focused, probably on trying to block the pain.

“I’m thinking you’ll be alright.” You replied with an amused smirk, making the goth man smile in turn.

“See? Told you so.”

Still, he did seem a little relieved too.

The next 10-or-so minutes were once again filled with his grunts and whines as you dressed the wound until he was enveloped properly, and he let out a sigh of relief when you finally let go of him.

For a moment, he rested his head back against the backrest and closed his eyes. You realised he was with no doubt exhausted from all the panic, running around and getting chased. This, and the blood loss.

“You should probably try to sleep a little.” you advised. He answered you with a grunt, resting an arm across his stomach to touch the gauze, but quickly withdrawing it, probably after touching the injury beneath it.

“Yeah. Probably.” was all he groaned out, before letting himself fall on his good side against the cushion.

“No way,” you jested. “You? Actually following a command? You must have lost a lot more blood than I thought.”

Damien frowned, nose wrinkling up.

“Let’s not talk about blood anymore, okay?” Oh, you had almost forgotten about that. “Believe it or not, but I’m more tired than I’ve probably ever been, so your command just oh-so happens to be on board with my needs.”

This time, you couldn’t repress a chuckle, and you decided to mess with his hair in retaliation. His cheeks reddened once again.

“Have you maybe considered the fact that I’m simply taking your needs into account because I care?”

He tried to hide his face into the pillow he was resting on, clearly affected by the comment.

“Now that you mention it, sounds a little obvious, uh?”

You only smiled fondly. For a moment, you didn’t even register your hand was still in his hair, playing absent-mindedly with the red and black strands that covered his eyes. You hesitated once you realised, but he hadn’t complained, did he?

“Go to sleep.” You pressed him once again. “I’ll go scold the others while you rest.”

The joke effectively made him smile, although tiredly. He was already starting to get drowsy from the soothing motion of your fingers on his scalp.

“How considerate.” he replied barely above a whisper. The room fell silent for a few minutes, and just as you were starting to think he was finally sleeping, he mumbled. “Thank you, by the way. For everything.”

“You already said thanks.” you smiled. It was alarming how easily his silliness grew onto you.

“Well, I wanted to say it again. Thank you.”

You could tell this wasn’t just about taking care of his wound. But you didn’t know what else he was referring to exactly. You couldn’t pretend to be the one who saved his life, because you most definitely weren’t. So what else was he thanking you for?

He had fallen asleep when you got out of your thoughts. For a moment, you simply kept looking at him, a hand still running through his hair, and you allowed yourself to finally process everything.

He’s alive. He’s going to be alright. He is… He looks so peaceful.

You lowered yourself gently, letting your head rest on the sofa next to his chest. Close, but not quite touching. From here, you could hear the air get in and out of his lungs evenly. The hand that was in his hair went to take one of his hands in yours.

You fell asleep without even realising it.

When you woke up next, the goth man was still deep in sleep on the couch, and your neck was sore. Nico was shaking you softly and pressing you to get up and eat something.

You both left him behind as you exited the rec room together. You still didn’t know how to deal with the conflicting feelings this whole disaster has awakened in you toward your best friend, but you hopped this could be resolved with a sandwich and a good talk.

[peculiarly-paige]

okay but consider sebalex but they move to zuzu city together

like, sebastian has decided he's moving out, he's going to the big city, he's finally doing it. but he's gotta be prepared, ya know? so robin is helping him find a place and preparing him to live alone and talking about it to EVERYONE in town, of course, and ya know who heard about it and immediately starts Thinking? that's right, Evelyn Mullner.

evelyn loves having alex around, she really, truly does, but she knows he isn't happy, that he's always dreamed for more than what pelican town can give him, so she approaches him one night with a plate of cookies and an idea.

"honey, you know sebastian, don't you? robin's son? yeah, the two of you are about the same age, right? well, robin was just talking about how he's moving to the city, and he's looking for a roommate, but he's not having much luck. well, i know i'd prefer my boy to be living with someone i know to be trustworthy, and i know that you've been looking to get out of this sleepy little town for a while now..."

sebastian has no fucking clue how he ended up moving into an apartment with alex of all fucking people. it wasn't that he hated the guy, per se, but he knew what george mullner thought about stoners and fags, and sebastian had never exactly been quiet about being either of those things, and he couldn't help but be nervous that alex would share his granddad's sentiments. but, hey, at least he knew he'd be able to afford rent.

and a couple of weeks go by and they barely see each other. sebastian is working for a game studio, and while he could do a lot of it from home, he feels like he's finally found his people and finds himself spending a lot of time at the office. alex is working some part-time job or another while interning with a physical therapist, so he finds his weekdays to be rather packed full, and he spends the weekends partying with some old gridball friends. but one weekend, alex's friends are busy and sebastian is in between projects, and they find themselves at home at the same time for an extended period of time, and they actually talk? and realize they actually like each other's company?

and they spend more and more time together, and then one night they get high and seb confesses in a rush of words that alex was the first boy he ever had a crush on. and alex laughed and said the first boy he ever had a crush on was shane. and seb laughed even harder than alex had.

"you like guys too? i hadn't realized."

"ah, well, i haven't told many people."

"your grandparents?"

"grandma evelyn was very supportive. grandpa george, well... he eventually came around. i think cuz grandma told him she'd leave him if he didn't make things right with me. she's always been my biggest supporter. with everything."

"she seems like a real nice lady. i wish my mom was more like her."

"robin seems nice?"

"she's nice, sure. definitely loves me. but it's hard sometimes. i think she still sees my sperm donor when she looks at me. and he wasn't a good man. so i can't really blame her. but i'd wish she'd realize that i'm NOT him."

"i feel ya. my mom struggled with that too, i think. but grandma knows i'm not my dad. only sees her darling grandson. and she helps me to see myself differently, too."

the silence that followed wasn't awkward. it was nice.

"have you ever kissed a boy, seb?"

"yeah. sam and i, a few times. it never really meant anything though. and i've had a few sloppy experiences here in zuzu. none of those really meant anything, either... what about you?"

"oh, uh, nah. almost, once. you remember that old man who owned the rundown farm west of town?"

"him?!"

"yoba, NO. his grandson. do you remember that summer he came to pelican town? we must've been, i don't know, thirteen, fourteen?"

"um... yeah. yeah, i think i do."

"well, he and i got pretty close that summer. and at the dance of the moonlight jellies, he pulled me aside and hugged me real tight, saying that he'd always remember that summer we had. and when he pulled away, he looked so beautiful that i almost forgot where we were, WHO we were. and i found myself leaning in, and then HE was leaning in, and then i came crashing back down to reality, and then i... ran away. and i haven't seen him since."

sebastian was awfully quiet for several moments. eventually, he responded.

"damn, dude. that poor kid."

"yeah, yeah, i know, i'm an asshole."

"nah, man. i meant you."

until then, the two had been staring up at the ceiling. now, sebastian found himself staring into two rather frightened green eyes.

"you were just a kid, man. a scared kid in a small town. you can't blame yourself for that. i doubt the farmer's grandson does either."

"i... i guess. i wish i had kissed him. wish i was brave enough for that."

they found themselves growing closer.

"are you feeling brave tonight?"

"i... i think i am."

and the small town emo and the small town jock found themselves making out on the couch they found by a dumpster in their shared apartment in the big city that their maternal figures nagged them into getting. and everything was right with the world.

[lilyfaewood]

A Long Vent

Been sitting on this one for a while so just. Trying to get this out. Gonna be basically a soft life story so, please, don't read if you don't want to. I just need to vent while I wait to get back on the schedule with my psychiatrist. TW: Family/work issues, abuse, manipulation, trauma, lasting things, emotional uncertainty, CPTSD, mention of SH

I have been out of therapy for about 4 months at this point and it honestly kinda came at a really bad time. Before getting too deep, I'm working to reschedule my next appointment, but scheduling is difficult after my therapist had personal biz of their own crop up.

Before the election, I felt like things were moving well, like I was getting into the groove of finally beginning to understand myself. But that crumbled pretty quickly afterwards and I don't think I've really been able to recover. The truth is a lot of my issues and problems come from a CPTSD setting where just ideas were constantly pushed into me at a young age. So I wanna dive into the origin of that.

All of that started with puberty really, something started firing in my brain and I started to struggle in school and personal life. The idea that I was *lazy* or *didn't care* became just self-evident truths. I spent like all my days playing video games and escaping to communities that I felt more comfortable in (thank you World of Warcraft). And my parents fucking hated it. Thought I was burning away my life. Every time I struggled, and I struggled EVERY SEMESTER failing at least one class, the video games were at fault.

So everything that I cared about was a distraction, something that would push me away from being successful. So when I went to college and nearly failed out freshman year chasing my musical passion I was sure that there was nothing left for me. I came back in sophomore year, and struggled my way through college, always having at least something that I couldn't hold up. At least one class a semester that I failed. But I made it through.

I ended up getting a job in esports. Working for a T1 organization and built teams that won world championships. Suddenly the tune changed. The video games worked out, I was successful and it was because of my passion and everything that my parents hated. But they didn't hate it anymore! They were advocates even saying how it was a legitimate business and one that was a viable career.

I felt that validation. Finally. I was working on something that I was passionate about. My parents were finally proud of me and talked well about me to their friends. I wasn't wasting my life anymore!

Then the abuse set in. 80 hour work weeks for minimum wage, working day and night shifts every day, Just keep up the grind. Keep it up and you'll get that raise, you'll get that shiny new *general manager* position. Suddenly I couldn't keep up.

But wait! This is what I'm good at! This is my passion! I can just burn the candle at both ends. I can make it work. Oh I found a new job with more promise! This will be a great way to REALLY make a difference. Why am I failing again? Why am I told I'm not doing enough, I'm working more hours. I'm working for equity not wages. Well let me just cut out food. I can survive on gas station snacks. Oh my coworkers can't afford their homes anymore while they work here and now just moved in the office so they can work more. That carrot's in front of them! It's in front of me too, why can't I push myself harder...

Why can't I push myself harder...

And then I burned out. My passion, my love, everything that I did in my life built to it. And I couldn't do it. My boss hated me and thought I was a nepo-baby because I had a family that financially supported my home during this time. I was just. a tool to use and to discard. Just like the players he told were better off killing themselves than leaving the company. Was I better off that way too?

I was so fractured. I retreated into a shell, one that only my now husband really could help with.

I did eventually get back on my feet, and found my current job that I've been at for five and a half years. But those fears. Those horrible lessons were burned into my brain. That even in something that I care about. It would NEVER be enough. So I slip up. Often. But at least now, I'm not pushed as hard, and I finally have supports that understand this part of me.

Now back to the beginning of this post. I was getting better. And I still think I have some of that figured out, but the stress of this world and for people like me has been eating at me and I feel like my armor is so weak. The work I put into myself to make it so that I could start to get some semblance of self-confidence back has faded a bit. I just. Want to feel safe. And that's really hard right now.

So that's my vent. Just. Wishing I could feel safe enough to have the spoons to prevent these old issues from coming back and rearing their head. I want to do better, I just don't feel like I have the ability to help myself

[starkstruck27]

My next fill for @metalsandwichbingo !! This might be the first time I've ever done two withing 24 hours without having them pre-written. Also, as much as I love Steve and Billy, in this one, I went with the idea that when they met, instead of going 'I can fix him', I went with 'I can make him worse'. Anyway, I hope everyone enjoys, and title comes from the song MUD by Dorothy. Title: You Ain't Living Life til You're Down in the Mud Square + Prompt: A2, On his knees, Mouth open Rating: Explicit Word Count: 4774 Words Major Tags: Chose Not to Use* Additional Tags: Crushes, Extremely Dubious Consent, Consensual non-consent, Bullying, Billy Hargrove being an asshole, Steve Harrington being an asshole, Face-fucking, Hair-pulling, Choking, Restraints, Marking, Eddie Munson has a piss kink, Wet & messy, Dacryphilia, Name-calling, Dirty talk, Humiliation Kink, Consensual but not Safe or Sane Summary: Eddie Munson is seriously fucked up. It's fitting that everyone calls him a freak. He doesn't exactly know why he has a crush on the two guys who have made his life a living hell for the past month, but here he is. As long as no one finds out about it, though, he should be fine. But one day, after Billy trips him in the hall, he loses his journal, the one where he writes down every disgusting, filthy thing he wishes they would do to him. And unfortunately, he can't find it anywhere. Also on: Ao3 *TW for this one, I didn't use any major tags because none of them really apply, but when I say things like "extremely dubious consent" and "consensual non-consent" I mean them. Consent is not explicitly given for most of the story, but it is there. If these or any other tags bother you, please don't read. Stay safe and sane out there, lovelies!!

It had only been a month since Billy Hargrove moved to Hawkins, a month since he met up with Steve Harrington and become his best friend, a month of nothing but torment and suffering for Eddie Munson. He didn’t know why, but Steve and Billy had decided to make him their own special project, picking on him relentlessly and making his life a living hell, as if it weren’t already bad enough being the super-senior who’s dad was in jail and who’s mom was dead, so he had to live with his uncle who was always working just so they could afford to live. Add on the claims that he worshiped the devil and the fact that he hung out with losers and freaks, and you’ve got the recipe for the easiest target in the history of American high school. 

And of course, it didn’t help that Eddie knew he had a fucked up life, so when he started to develop a sick form of attraction to the people who constantly bullied him, he almost didn’t question it. It still kinda freaked him out a little, but at this point, he’d just accepted it as another thing that was happening in his stupid, fucked little head. Besides, he knew there was absolutely no way anything would ever happen there, so he figured, if his brain was gonna make him think that was what he wanted, he would rather just enjoy it instead of working himself up about it.

So he did what any person would do when they had no one to talk to about this sort of stuff, he wrote it down. He kept a journal anyway, so why not put down his fantasies and when he could one day afford a therapist, scar them for life with it so they could figure out what exactly was wrong with him? He never wanted anyone else to find it though, so he always kept it on his person, and when he went home at night, put it in the very back of the drawer in his nightstand. If anyone else ever got ahold of it, he wouldn’t even be run out of town, they’d probably just kill him on the spot, and that was unideal to say the least, so it was safer just to keep it with him at all times. 

It was a relatively small journal, one that he could fit in his back pocket, and that’s just where it was that day when the bell finally rang and he was able to head to his last class of the day. So far he’d been able to avoid Steve and Billy enough that there were no major incidents, and he was so close to going a whole day without having to endure their shit, but just as that thought entered his head, he rounded the corner only to run smack into Billy. He then found himself face-planting into the linoleum, his stuff flying everywhere and everyone around them laughing. 

Eddie sighed as he picked himself up, less upset about being tripped than he was about having to gather up all his shit. He’d had all kinds of notes for his next campaign with the guys, and now they were all over the hallway, getting stepped on and ignored by his peers. Except for two nice girls, nobody helped him to get his stuff, and instead they went about their days as if nothing had happened. 

“Billy’s such a jerk,” the one girl said as she handed Eddie his notebook stuffed with papers. She was wearing a cheer outfit and had a nice smile. “He’s always making rude comments to us when we practice. I swear, one day, I’m gonna tell him off.”

“All five foot three of you?” The other girl asked, smirking at her before helping Eddie up. She had a flannel shirt on and glasses and her hair was a fiery red. “But seriously, she’s right. Don’t let him get you down.”

“I never do,” Eddie replied, dusting himself off and smiling, “Thanks for the help, ladies.”

The two girls walked off and Eddie let his smile fall. He’d really been hoping for just one day without anything happening, but that was out the window now. Still, there was only one class left in the day, so he just had to sit through that, and then he could go home.

It wasn’t until he got home that day that he realized his journal wasn’t in his pocket. A cold shock hit him square in the chest as he ran out to his van, praying that it had just fallen out onto the seat. He searched the entire car, but there was no trace of it, so he went back inside and tore the place apart trying to find it. He was close to crying as he realized it was nowhere to be found, and he had to splash cold water on his face to get himself to calm down enough to think rationally. He remembered being tripped earlier in the day and figured that must’ve been when he’d lost it, since that was the last time he remembered having it. And as he got in his van and sped back to the school, he prayed that it had just slid under some lockers and he could go and get it with little to no resistance.

When he got to the school, he ran through the halls until he got to the one where Billy had tripped him, and he got down on his hands and knees to check under each locker, but he came up with nothing. He felt like the world was closing in around him, and he started to cry as he sank down and curled into a ball against the lockers. He sat there for a while, but finally he realized there was nothing he could do about it, so he made a plan to check the office tomorrow and see if anyone turned it in, and if not, he’d figure out his next steps later.

Meanwhile, across town, Steve and Billy were hanging out at his house, enjoying his heated pool and more than a few beers. They were fucking around and shootin’ the shit when eventually, they started talking about Eddie.

“He’s getting pretty good at avoiding us,” Steve said, “I didn’t even see him hardly at all today, and when I did, he was too far away to do anything.”

“Yeah, he’s a slippery little fucker,” Billy agreed, shaking water from his hair, “But I managed to trip him earlier today, so not all hope is lost. Oh! And I almost forgot,” Billy hoisted himself out of the pool and went over to his bag, drying his hands quickly before rooting around and pulling out a small green notebook. “This fell out of his pocket earlier today. Whattaya say? Wanna read the freak’s diary? I took a quick peek earlier and there is some fucked up shit in there.”

“Like what?” Steve asked, sitting up on the edge of the pool as Billy tossed the notebook to him. He caught it and waited for Billy to come sit next to him, and then the two of them started to read. It started out tame enough, mostly just a lot of questioning as to why his life was so messed up, and a lot of insecure thoughts. But just when they were getting bored and were about to stop reading, it got interesting. 

They read all about how Eddie was somehow fixated on them, how he had wet dreams sometimes about the two of them and how he hated that, but as they kept reading, how he finally just accepted it. He detailed everything he ever thought about them doing to him, from choking him and making him cry to forcing him and marking him like a dog. It was a treasure trove of everything he’d ever fantasized about, and it was all pure gold. There were so many new possibilities, now. Blackmail, humiliation, exposure, and the list just went on from there. By the time they finished reading, though, they’d come up with something far more rewarding than anything else, and they couldn’t wait to put their plan into action.

The next day was bright and sunny, although still a little chilly for the beginning of November. The weather was the last thing on Eddie’s mind though as he got to school, heading straight to the principal’s office before going to homeroom. He talked to the front desk lady and asked if he could look through the lost and found, but after ten minutes of going through every item in there, he had nothing. The pit in his stomach sank down deeper, but he thanked the receptionist and trudged off to class, shoving his palms in his eyes to try and keep from crying again.

The day went surprisingly well after that, all things considered. He got a math test back that he didn’t fail, and Billy and Steve seemed too concerned with the big basketball game tomorrow to be bothered with him, so as long as he kept to himself, Eddie managed to get through the day fairly easily. He still felt anxious, though, and every time he saw Cheer girl or Flannel girl in the hall, he hoped they’d come up and say they got his notebook by mistake and give it back to him, but no such luck. There were no whispers in the halls or anybody coming up to humiliate him with it either, though, so he had hope that maybe nobody had found it yet and he still had time to get it before anyone did.

That was still the only thing on his mind at the end of the day when he went back to his locker to get his stuff, and it only went away when he saw a post-it note sitting on top of his jacket. He picked it up and read the message, and sighed as he crumpled it up and stuck it in his pocket. It only had one word on it, ‘picnic’, and anybody who was in the know at Hawkins high could tell you what that meant. As much as Eddie just wanted to go home and relax for the night, he also needed the money, so he grabbed his lunch box and started making his way to the table just beyond the treeline where he always went to sell. 

When he got there, though, there was no one else in sight. He couldn’t hear leaves or sticks crunching, so he figured maybe in the time that they’d left the note and now, whoever wanted to buy from him had chickened out. He decided to wait for a few minutes just in case, but when nobody came after five, he cut his losses and started making his way back to the parking lot. 

He only got halfway there when someone grabbed him by the jacket sleeve and yanked him backwards, using one hand to hold onto him and the other to cover his mouth. He tried to struggle, but it was no use, whoever this was was a hell of a lot stronger than he was, and they were holding him at just the right angle to keep him from getting a solid footing. He had a pretty good idea of who was behind this, and a sense of dread crept up his spine and into his throat as he stopped struggling and tried to think of an escape plan.

“Here?” He heard Billy say, and tears sprang to his eyes.

“No, I heard the track team is running this trail today, one of them could see us. I know another place, c’mon,” Steve answered him, and Eddie could feel him talking from where he held him against his chest. At that point, any sense of wanting to escape had left him, and was replaced with a sense of panic so strong, he couldn’t think straight. He wasn’t even in control of himself, really, and when Steve started dragging him back to the parking lot with Billy in tow, Eddie didn’t even put up a fight. He didn’t like this, he wanted to run away, but his mind was so frantic it couldn’t send the signal down to his legs, and so he just let Steve manhandle him, all the way into the back of Billy’s car.

“Wh-what are you doing?” He finally got the nerve to ask as Steve climbed in the back with him and Billy started to drive. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere nobody will find us,” Steve said, a wicked grin on his face.

“What are you gonna d-do to me?” Eddie asked, hardly noticing that Steve was taking his jacket off of him as he heard Billy laugh in the front seat. He held up Eddie’s missing notebook and his eyes went wide as he tried to lunge for it. He didn’t even get halfway there before Steve grabbed his arms and wrestled them behind his back, tying them together a little too tightly with an old shoelace.

“Give that back!” He tried, but it only made the other two laugh.

“Listen, Freak, it doesn’t matter anyway, we already read it,” Steve said, “So if you want us to keep this between us and not plaster the pages all over the school, I suggest you shut up and do what we say, capisce? Now drink this.”

Eddie was too stunned to do anything but comply. He opened his mouth as Steve held a water bottle for him, and he made him drink the whole thing plus a second one while he gave Billy directions. By the time he was halfway through the third bottle, the car finally stopped, and Steve let him stop drinking so they could get out of the car. They were at the top of the cliffs surrounding the quarry, one of the most secluded places in all of Hawkins, nobody would think to look for any of them up here. That was all Eddie could think about as he was helped out of the car, and it did nothing to help his nerves, or his bladder. He felt like he was about to burst, he’d already kinda had to pee before any of this started, but now with two and a half bottles of water in him, he was desperate. Still, his hands were tied. Literally. 

“Get on your knees, Freak,” Steve spat, pushing Eddie down on the rocky ground and smiling as he winced.

“Why are you doing this to me?” He asked, his heart racing and his body starting to feel restless. It kinda felt good, now that he’d gotten used to it, but he had no idea what was gonna happen, and that was the only thing that made him nervous.

“We read your little diary,” Billy said, “And we thought, we could do a lot of fun things with this, but we decided this was the best idea we had. So here’s the deal, you do what we tell you and keep your mouth shut, and we give you exactly what you want.”

“And,” Steve chimed in, “If you behave and act like a good little slut, we won’t accidentally leave this open in the library for someone else to find. Sound fair?”

Eddie wasn’t sure how to respond for a minute, he still had no idea what Billy meant when he said they’d give him ‘exactly what he wanted’, but if he were being honest, he’d rather do what they said and maybe get his journal back rather than refusing and it getting out to everyone. Besides, the morbidly curious part of his brain wanted to go through with it, so finally he nodded.

“Wh-whatever you say,” he said, and Billy and Steve both smiled.

“Good choice,” Steve said, then walked over and grabbed Eddie by the hair, making his mouth fly open from the painful grip and making the pressure in his groin build. “That’s a good slut, you like it when I pull your hair? I bet you like it whenever I do anything to you, huh? Is that why you’ve been avoiding me lately? Afraid you’re gonna pop a boner if I hit you hard enough?”

Eddie couldn’t deny that this was starting to feel better than it should have. The names, the insults, the pain, the desperation, it was all strangely provocative, and his head was starting to get a little foggy as Billy came over to add fuel to the fire.

“That must’ve been why you scurried away so fast last week when I pinned you to the lockers,” he said, wrapping a hand around Eddie’s throat, but only adding enough pressure to make sure Eddie could feel it. “You’re such a dirty little freak, getting off on fucked up shit like this. Did you touch yourself after last week? Did you jerk off or shove a couple fingers up your ass, or maybe both? I bet it was both, and I bet you wished it was one of us that was fucking you instead of just your hand, isn’t that right?”

“Y-yes,” Eddie mumbled, but it mustn’t have been good enough, because next thing he knew Billy was digging the toe of his boot into his stomach, right where his bladder would be. Eddie started to breathe heavier, his eyes starting to feel wet again as he did everything he could to keep his composure. He had to go so bad, and the other two just laughed as he started to whine like a toddler. “Yes, okay?! You’re right! I was horny and I fucked myself in the school bathroom and I wished it was you, okay?!”

“Good job, slut,” Billy smiled, finally letting up and taking a step back. Steve followed and stood next to him, and the two seemed to tower over him as they stared him down.

“Piss yourself,” Steve said, and Eddie almost cried.

“What?” He asked, his voice small and pathetic.

“You heard me, now do it. Piss yourself,” he repeated.

“You can’t be serious,” Eddie whined, a couple of tears escaping. This was so humiliating.

“I’m dead serious, now fucking do it,” Steve demanded, getting in Eddie’s face and grabbing his hair again, pulling hard. Eddie let out a cry of pain and Steve let up, stepping back again and watching as Eddie cried.

He couldn’t believe this was happening. It felt so good to be used like this, but it was also the most mortifying ordeal he’d ever been through in his life. He couldn’t believe they wanted him to do this, but finally, he just couldn’t hold it anymore. He started crying harder as he started to go, sobbing a bit as he soaked his jeans. He suddenly regretted wearing the blue ones today, since the black ones would’ve made it harder to see, but with the blue, it was easy to tell what he was doing. He knew the other two could tell, he could hear them laughing and mocking him, and as much as it hurt, it also heightened the thrill a little bit. And when he finally finished, his jeans soaked through and his face red from crying, they made their way back over, grinning widely.

“Can’t believe you actually did it,” Billy said, licking his lips. “Now, sit up and open your mouth.”

Eddie nodded and sniffed a little, leaning his head to the side to try and wipe his face on his shoulder, but then he did as he was told. He sat up and opened his mouth, and then he waited, watching as the two of them unzipped their jeans and got their own dicks out. Then, without any more warning, Billy grabbed him by his hair, shoving his dick into Eddie’s mouth, and holding his head down until he started to choke.

“Does that feel good, slut?” He asked as he let him up, barely giving him enough time to take a breath, much less answer, before pushing him back down. He fucked his throat hard, already reducing him to tears again and barely giving him any breaks except to breathe. Steve egged him on, encouraging his buddy to hold him down longer, to really give it to him, and if Eddie whimpered or made a noise, he’d mock him, making him feel even more ashamed and making him enjoy it more and more with each insult hurled his way.

Eddie was crying harder as Billy kept it up, until finally, he stopped. He pulled out of his mouth before finishing, and as Eddie coughed and finally managed to catch his breath, he just stood there, watching and laughing. It sent a wave of embarrassed excitement shoot through Eddie, and if he hadn’t been hard before, he certainly was now. He could feel the ache against his wet jeans, which were cooling rapidly and making him shiver, which didn’t help his desperation to come right then and there. But before he could get himself composed enough to do it, Steve noticed, and he grabbed Eddie by the face this time as he spoke to him.

“You better not even think about coming until I say you can. Otherwise I’ll leave you here tied up and by the time you find a way to get back home, the entire town will have read your little diary, understand me?” He asked, and as much as it pained him, Eddie nodded. “Good. Now open your fucking mouth again.”

Eddie once again did as he was told, and Steve wasted no time in giving him the same treatment that Billy had. He fucked his throat mercilessly and Eddie just took it. It wasn’t as hard this time, he’d gotten kinda used to it, and even though it was still rough, he was starting to like it that way. This was what he’d been fantasizing about for over a month now, anyway, and it was being presented to him on a silver platter. He might as well enjoy it, right?

Once he’d gotten used to the intrusion in his throat, it didn’t seem to take quite as long, and before he knew it, Steve was pulling out of his mouth, too, he and Billy standing over him and stroking their cocks, and finally, coming all over him. He let them take their time, his clothes were already ruined and his face was a mess, so they couldn’t do much more damage now than they already had. When they were done, he waited patiently for their next orders, a twinge of fear still twisting in his gut as Steve smirked at him. He didn’t do anything, though, just traced his fingers over his ruined shirt and then lifted his hand, shoving his fingers into Eddie’s mouth, covered in come. 

“Swallow it,” he commanded, and Eddie did, his throat burning a bit from being used so harshly.

“Good slut,” Billy said, grinning widely. “Now, that little book of yours said that if you were ever in a situation like this with the two of us, you’d want us to mark you like a dog, isn’t that right?”

“Y-yeah,” Eddie swallowed, his voice thick. “P-please.”

“Aww, look at that, the bitch is begging,” Steve laughed meanly, then looked at Billy, “What do you think, Bill? Is the little freak worth claiming as ours?”

“Fuck yeah, why not? Not like he can do much about it, and I like the idea of being able to fuck him up like this any time I want, don’t you?” Billy replied, grabbing his now limp dick and winking at his friend as he started to piss all over Eddie. Steve nodded and did the same, the two of them covering him from head to toe. Eddie couldn’t help but make a noise of pleasure as they did, the warmth of their piss almost a comfort in the chilly November evening. Not only that, but it was unbelievably erotic to be claimed by someone like this, animalistic instincts taking over and making them act so filthily, and Eddie couldn’t get enough of it. He was so close, and this just added another layer of desperation that he liked, but he was so ready to toss that feeling aside and let himself blow.

When they were finally done, Steve and Billy tucked themselves away and straightened themselves out, making sure they looked normal, and completely ignoring Eddie for a minute until they were satisfied with themselves. Then they turned their attention back to a squirming, whining Eddie, ready to leave him with one last indignity.

“You wanna come now, bitch?” Billy asked, licking his lips again as Eddie nodded vigorously. “Then you’re gonna have to work for it like the fucking dog you are, come here.”

Eddie listened easily and shuffled forward on his knees until he was at Billy’s feet, and once he was, he looked up for further directions. Billy didn’t give any, instead he just stuck his leg out, and Eddie got the hint right away.

“You s-sure?” He asked, still a little nervous to make a wrong move. 

“Yeah, go on. Be a good fucking dog and get yourself off,” Billy said, and Steve nodded along, clearly holding back a laugh. Eddie didn’t care if they laughed anymore though, he was too wound up to give a shit, so he didn’t let himself even think about it as he settled Billy’s leg between both of his and started to hump it like a dog. It felt so damn good, the humiliation mixed with the actual physical sensations feeling like the most perfect blend in the universe. He knew it had been less than a minute before he finally came with a moan, even thirty seconds was being generous, but it was the best orgasm he’d ever had, and as concerning that probably should’ve been to him, he just didn’t care right then. 

Once he’d ridden out his orgasm as long as he could, Eddie fell over on his side. His knees were throbbing from him kneeling on the gravel for so long, and his arms and hands were tired from being in the same position for so long. His throat felt like it was on fire, and his eyes were burning, too, from crying so much. He was tired and dirty and getting cold, and he could hear the other two laughing at him, but he was too blissed out to care about any of it. 

After a minute or so, Steve came up behind him again and untied the shoelace from his wrists. He must’ve gone back to the car at some point as Eddie had laid there, because he tossed his jacket and the unfinished water bottle from earlier down next to him. Eddie finally found the strength to sit up and was about to thank him, but before he could, Steve spoke first. 

“Remember our deal, Freak. This stays between us, or we show that book to everyone, understand?” He asked, and Eddie nodded.

“Yeah, I hear ya,” he rasped, a goofy smile on his face. These two really weren’t so scary, now that he thought about it.

“Good. And maybe if you keep yourself in line like a good little bitch, we can really ruin you, just like you want,” Billy added, grabbing Eddie by the hair one last time and staring him down. “Remember, you’re ours now. We own you.”

Eddie felt a strange tingle in his stomach when he heard that, and he looked back and forth between the other two for a moment before nodding. They nodded back and then let him go, the both of them going back to the car and climbing in, leaving Eddie there without even a glance back in his direction. 

Eddie sighed as he watched them drive off. He should’ve known that they weren’t going to start being nice to him, even after all this, so it shouldn’t have surprised him when they left him to find his own way home. He drank the rest of the water they’d left him with and tossed the bottle off the cliff, then braced himself to stand up. He cringed in pain as his knees straightened out after so long, and his feet were still kinda numb, but he’d have to walk it out eventually, so he might as well get a move on before it got really dark. He could worry about picking his van up tomorrow. At least Forest Hills wasn’t too far from here.

[atalana]

god i wish medical trauma was more recognised as a Thing, especially among people who are frequently the cause of it

like, i've been chronically ill for 9 years. been seeing doctors about it all that time, because if i don't check in at least every three months to make sure the ball is rolling on a 'solution' i don't qualify for disability benefits anymore (and i definitely can't work even really part time)

the last specialist i got sent to to find a solution was not only extremely unhelpful in general, but got frustrated at the fact that they couldn't get an accurate reading of my heart rate bc whenever i'm in a hospital it shoots way up and there's nothing i can do about that (a doctor in the past tried leaving me alone for an hour to 'calm down', did not work)

and currently im nearing the end of a deadline my government caseworker has assigned me to find a therapist, bc while she's slowly coming round on the idea that there is nothing medically to be done at this point (wish my gp would do the same), i still have to be shown to be 'making progress', or they're legally not allowed to continue my payments

and her reason for why therapist is i have started crying at least once in most of our sessions, so clearly i can't be happy

except like. in order for me not to have to pay out of pocket for a therapist, which i definitely can't afford, i have to be able to prove the therapy is medically necessary (ie related to my disability)

and i've also had bad experiences with therapists in the past who when i've said i don't know why i'm here (bc i genuinely didn't, i just knew something was wrong), have responded with "well if you won't work with me i can't help you"

and i'm scared of that happening again bc i don't know if there's anything we can work on, because i know the answer to all of these problems

which is "if you spend nine years having to give complete strangers full access to your body to do whatever they like on a regular basis, plus once a year you have your entire livelihood scrutinised to make sure you 'deserve' the money you need to live, and if you refuse any of that you can't afford rent or groceries, you might find that a little upsetting"

(and even though i could maybe find a therapist specialising in that kind of trauma, i also know enough about human brains to know if there's anything that can be done to heal trauma while the trauma is still happening, i have probably figured it out in the decade i've had to become an expert on this)

but i don't know whose egos i'm going to trample if i can ever find the courage to say that out loud to the people causing these problems, so i can't really afford to take that risk

and it's just like. if you really wanted to solve my 'happiness' the solution is to leave me the fuck alone

[lifeafterpsychiatry]

I am a diagnosed schizophrenic and been living unmedicated for almost two years due to not having insurance last year and have been so/so with being able to stay calm about what I go through and experience in my reality. For some reason, I’ve been declining more and more recently, and have been trying to get back on meds for months. However, my insurance came back two months after the initial medication request saying my primary care provider cannot prescribe the medication and I will need to see a psychiatrist. Originally, I had an appointment to see a psychiatrist and was on a waiting list to see my primary care provider, and my pcp called me saying they had an availability and would be able to prescribe me my medication before my psychiatry appt so I cancelled the appt with my psychiatrist. I was able to schedule a new appt December 4th (their soonest) On Monsay, I hallucinated a car was trying to drive me off the road when in *actual* reality I was the only one on the road, and my therapist told me for the safety of others I shouldn’t drive anymore. Is getting medicated difficult where you live or is it just the US insurance and health system fucking me over?

🪦 (I hope this emoji isn’t taken I don’t remember if previous anons I’ve used I used it)

Here it is mainly a challenge to get on controlled medications, like stimulants or benzos. Even though there might be waiting times, seeing a psychiatrist is covered by our universal health care and the process often gets sped up in emergencies. I've had a mostly opposite problem actually, where me NOT desiring antipsychotics hasn't ever been treated like a valid option. In Denmark, accessing therapy is generally much, much harder than accessing psychiatric medication, because therapy usually isn't a part of the universal health care package while seeing a psychiatrist about medication is covered. Most of us do have to pay some money out of pocket for the meds, but it's usually quite affordable, and there are some additional options if it isn't.

[mourningd0ves]

Update:

Crazy realization, but apparently, having a job you love doesn't actually make it easier to get out of bed and get dressed, show up, feel good, shower, or leave your house. Apparently, my depression isn't circumstantial and is actually just mental illness. Wild. I thought I was cured. I jfc. (Sarcasm)

I leave work SO HAPPY and it feels great, but I still take hours to get dressed and prepared. I still dread getting dressed and leaving my home and being perceived in any possible manner. Really thought this would solve my problems and make life easier for some reason. Lol

I need to see my therapist so badly. I'm venting on Tumblr again. What is it? 2018? Not being able to be on your legal guardian insurance after 26 / getting kicked off is criminal. I can't afford insurance.

And I'm starting to think I need to go on disability bc I can actually only work part-time. I really thought doing something I loved would fix this.

I am crushingly terrified of being perceived as stupid or incompetent. And even though my job comes so naturally it's easy for me, my chest still fucking aches like a motherfucker before every shift.

I'm terrified of my co-workers who have done nothing but be welcoming, patient, and appreciative toward me. I am constantly aware (whether true or false) that their 'patience' is going to run out very soon. That they'll realize that I simply can not do anything, and that I am a useless person.

Which is insane because I KNOW I'm amazing at this work, im exactly what I need to be for the position, and it's so natural to me.

Tumblr psychologists what is this? Lmfao

Social anxiety? Abandonment issues? CPTSD? Narcissistic parental figures? ADHD? Hyper awareness/anxiety from learning disabilities? Uuhhh? (It's probably all of the above)

[greenbirdtrash]

Life's been..really rough, lately.

At this point I'm sure i'm not dealing with just my chronic health problems and a few exhausting and painful conditions on top of that, i feel like I've lost something really important, a part of me, and the things only started to get worse since i got back home from my trip. I'm very stressed, frustrated, overwhelmed and drained by everything around me and i keep struggling with anger issues and suicidal thoughts that started to come back recently. I haven't had that in many years, i used to think i was in a state of remission and that sudden shift concerns me a lot. I no longer feel like myself nor i have any motivation to do things that used to excite me, i keep clinging to the few ones that still do, but they are pretty scarce, and i'm so scared to be left alone with my thoughts while not being able to properly initiate social interactions myself, even with the people i love, as for now i'm trying to avoid them or just cannot find the strength or words to respond to unread messages, which keep piling up... I've lost track of time completely, it just feels so painful and "undeserved" to be cared about. I know i deserve good things and such, but.. I don't really believe in that right now.

They sure have noticed all the changes and they are worried and concerned, but i just can't allow myself to be vulnerable with them or "burden" them with whatever I'm going through, whatever they say, i cannot process it at this point. I do feel like they understand that, yet they are probably tired to hear and see the same things all over again, at least that's how it looks like to me... Fuck it, i keep punishing myself for wanting company, craving to share whatever still gives me a tiny serotonin spark in fear of being rejected again due to being..well, annoying. It's not healthy, I'm pretty sure. It feels like my whole process in therapy is reverting and decreasing rapidly

I also haven't been able to draw for such a long time and even the thought of opening my drawing app or looking at my previous artworks makes me sick. I don't know why. I feel such amount of sudden disgust it fucking hurts to think about it, I'm not even talking about trying. I cried so many times trying to sketch anything in the last two weeks, only ending up deleting everything and i even started to think i might quit drawing altogether if it doesn't get any better. My art just doesn't feel like my art anymore. Like it wasn't even me who did all of it. I cannot express my feelings and emotions, i can't do anything about it and resting doesn't help, i already tried... I've also lost a big part of my income as it was heavily dependent on drawing commissions and making adopts, and it's slowly becoming a problem, too. I just cannot afford myself loafing around in this fucking economy even if i need rest to recover. I'm stagnating, and if i keep stagnating, i will struggle even more, not just with whatever is going on with my mental health, but also with fucking bills. I cannot properly sustain myself and pay my usual part of rent at the same time working minimum wage when the entire country is at war and in a fucking chaos, and i can't find anything better with my current limitations. I can only focus on one thing at once, no one is forcing me to leave the house, thank god, but it still feels like the part I'm willingly doing for the family, it's never enough. I know we heard a lot about moving towards inclusive workplaces, but in our reality and from my experience, ableism still has a strong influence.

I don't know how long I haven't slept properly, most of the times i pass out from exhaustion around the very morning, and it doesn't really work well with my job. My therapist only suggested i get off the fluoxetin and things haven't got much better since then. I'm out of edibles, too. And every night i lay in bed for hours, exhausted, unable to rest, thinking about whether i could survive another day or not and why would i even want to...The constant air raid sirens and shahed drones passing by certainly don't make it any better. My days are a fucking blur.

It makes me hate myself even more. I don't know what is wrong with me. Perhaps I'm just screaming into the void

[philsmeatylegss]

Ayyee childhood mental illness gang. I had clinical depression as an 8yo😌 I can not remember a childhood memory in which I laughed. Its weird remembering your childhood when you were mentally ill right??

Woo hoo! Exclusive gang🤞🏻I do believe mental illnesses, specifically anxiety and depression (which includes all types of anxiety and depressive disorders) are way more common in children, but both parents and doctors are very hesitant to give that label. I partially also think that’s because the way anxiety and depression manifest in children is different than adults so a lot of adults wouldn’t even recognize it as well. Like the thing that specifically made my parents realize something was wrong with me wasn’t just an observation of my tendency of extreme hyper vigilance, it was actually just something really fucking random. It really was only when my therapist who spent years studying both child and adult psychology was able to connect that the really weird things i was doing to being a symptom of some severe anxiety.

Uhm a lot of emo ranting below I didn’t realize that would happen also I refuse to reread it good luck

And agree for the childhood memories part. A lot of my memories are of unpleasant events that caused me a lot of anxiety. I was just a super super hyper vigilant kid and when I remember the situations, I can remember the hyper vigilance I felt. Anxiety for more physically manifests in a weird feeling in my chest, and I remember feeling that feeling.

I do recognize how much privilege I do have that I had parents who believed and were willing to send me to a therapist who could both diagnosis me and help me and also had parents who could afford for me to see this therapist up until this day.

Being the kind of anxious I was as a kid manifested in me being super well behaved. Like going out of my way to be so well behaved. And it’s interesting to think about how so many teachers praised it, praised how I always came in with a smile and participated and followed the rules. In reality, I wasn’t naturally that preoccupied with the rules, my anxiety made me fucking terrified of getting in trouble. And actually more importantly in situations like this, being “good” gave me a lot of validation and self esteem so I felt I had to be a perfect student to get that praise, but that’s a whole other conversation

Mental illness in childhood is so unique because it’s so different from mental illness in teens and adults. Like how my anxiety manifests now and how it manifested as a child is so different and it really does shape you so much as a person. And that’s where I get all emo and doom in gloom because I feel like it is now engrained in my personality anxiety. Anxiety being present in my childhood, formative years, and the process of developing my identity, which is ongoing, has already solidified that anxiety will always be a part of me. And it fucking sucks. Like it’s just such a normal part of my life that I never really consider how much is fucking sucks and how much I’ve missed out on life because of it. I didn’t make a single friend in college because of anxiety. That is so fucking depressing. But funny enough I was super social as a child, once again, childhood mental illness and adult manifests so different.

Just sucks that I will always have that feeling in my chest. That my natural state is anxious. My natural go to is hyper vigilance. Observing, looking for problems. There’s no denial that it’s so deeply engrained into me that it has become part of my identity. And it just sucks that that is a thing. Anxiety has become so disregarded. And that includes all anxiety disorders, ocd, specific phobias, social anxiety, all that. I think people think about it as mental illness lite. Like not the worst one. And it’s true. The pain I experienced when I was depressed and the pain I deal with now from my restrictive ed is worse than my anxiety. But like, I couldn’t sit one on one with a teacher all of high school for help because of anxiety. I had practically a two hour phone call break down with my mom because I had to work with a girl who wasn’t my friend for a project because of anxiety. I also think my anxiety is very severe but whatever I’m rambling.

I think if there was some machine that looked at every moment of your life and everything about it and was able to come up with words that were the most common or prominent, anxiety would show up first. If that makes sense. Childhood mental illness makes it so much harder to not let mental illness be your identity. Because usually it is part of your identity. As I said, who I am as a person does include heightened anxiety, heightened sensitivity, some hyper vigilance. That has been stamped into who I am as a person and it just feels so looming.

I just hate that it’s something about me that I’ll have to manage. When I ultimately talk about this with the same therapist who I saw when I was 8 for severe anxiety, he will present me with solutions for management. Because it’s far past getting rid of. A mental illness in childhood just feels like you’re doomed to have it follow you forever

[anarcho-vixen]

I want to start using this more. I need an outlet.

So, to update folks on my life:

1. My dad has kidney cancer, and they keep finding reasons to push back his surgery date (btw, this is the “delay” part of “delay, deny, defend,” which is the phrase used by insurance companies regarding the process of letting people die for profit - the phrase that inspired the Brian Thompson’s (UHC CEO) assassin’s (allegedly Luigi Mangioni - I’m far from convinced, but he’s a comrade either way).

2. My dad just moved in around the corner - a very short walk from my current apartment… and I am moving away. Not far away - an hour and a half’s drive, maybe - but I’m… moving away. When he has cancer. And this is the first time we have been this close in years. And I’m leaving. I don’t want to. I don’t want to, but I have to, which brings me to…

3. I live in a state that is rapidly shitting out anti-trans bills, and I have a very, like, once in a lifetime opportunity to get out of this disgusting slum. It hurts to leave behind so many trans comrades who don’t have the privilege I do of getting or, or worse yet, the ones staying because they refuse to stop fighting back. I’ve been trying to comfort myself into saying “you’ll be living right on the border of the two states, you can still do be an advocate” but man… with that being said, we come to:

4: My mental health is… in shambles. I’m drinking as much as one can afford on a fixed income, I’m smoking so, so much fucking weed just to feel something even resembling “normal” - between the pain, and the trauma, and the depression, I rely on it so heavily. I do have a medical card in my state, but one, their prices are ridiculous, and two, the restrictions on amounts you can get allow me half of what I would need for a month, but that has to last 3 months. So… yeah. I don’t fucking buy from them, because why tf would I? But I digress. My mental health is falling apart, and I am leaving behind a REALLY FUCKING GOOD medical care team. But I live in a sanctuary city, and the state has decided to cut finding (among other things) to sanctuary cities, so like… how does one feel anything but hopeless under those circumstances? I have a good support network in the state that’s trying to kill me, and pert near nil support networks in the state that is trying to protect me.

5. I don’t know how my treatment is gonna go after moving. I rely on both Medicare and Medicaid, and Medicare is federal, so I do t have to change it, but might have to change my advantage plan; then there is switching Medicaid from one state to the other (not to mention EBT, which the state I’m in cut me off from). I got ketamine treatment here l, and it’s been life-changing - now I have no idea if I’ll be able to get access to it in the area I’m moving to, because only one kind (esketamine, the nasal spray Spravato) is covered by insurance, and the IV infusions are way easier to find. And that’s just one of so many carer-patient relationships I h d built over my time here. I need a new therapist, a new psychiatrist, a new GP, a new mental health case manager and supported community living staff, new transition/HRT healthcare, all while hoping my insurance covers it all.

This is all… really fucking hard. And really fucking scary. Housing insecurity trauma makes the entire moving process absolutely miserable for me.

I’m tired.

We’re tired,

[foolishfalls]

up too late and in a lot of pain because i overdid it today. i know i should be resting but i’m depressed and in that early PEM feeling wired mode.

i also keep thinking about how insulting it was to try to see a new therapist, to get assigned someone who doesn’t seem to meet my needs at all, who spent the whole first session talking over me to explain the stop skill and the stages of grief (all of which i am already tooo familiar with and like!! i am here again after 3 years of dbt and 8 years of therapy overall because those frameworks are not working well for me anymore!! i need to try different approaches and modalities)

like it just felt so insulting to be read basic day 1 therapy shit. it’s like she didn’t even look at my file which included all that info from my intake.

it doesn’t help that my old therapist was a perfect match for me on so many fronts (prioritized somatic modalities and met me where i was at, understood chronic illness/covid risk/masking, he knew how to approach and understand both my religious and sexual trauma, he was good w talking about my autism and was neurodivergent himself, was queer and could understand that end of things, etc) and he recommended somatic therapy and especially EMDR. i can’t find anyone who does EMDR who takes my insurance though.

i’m probably just going to call to cancel my next session with this current therapist. i MAY ask for a reassignment but i’ve never had to do that before so of course i’m nervous. and i have little faith in this place considering they snubbed my needs and the details of my intake so much already.

i also hate this silly gender essentialist approach they take when they ask you about your preferences. like, “would you prefer a male or female therapist” like i literally could not care less about that! i care more about their chosen modalities and values aligning well with mine! but a place like this doesn’t GAF about that they just want to be like :) hey we listened to you haha here’s a woman therapist don’t you feel seen :)

i think the thing that bothered me the most though was that after she responded to my story about my chronic illness and my recent experience of grief, she basically just dangled the possibility of recovery in my face. like okay cool. you didn’t even take a moment to consider that maybe i have a progressive illness and that recovery is not a possibility or narrative i can rely on. that really upset me.

i don’t know. i just feel helpless. being forced to move back home and leave my old life behind already set me back so much and took so much from me. but i really miss my old therapist even more than all the vapid friendships i lost to my chronic illness and to covid denialism. the kicker here is he was a peer support worker who wasn’t gonna be able to work w me long term anyway. but i felt like i just had access to better everything there. and ofc they only just recently opened an actual DECENT long covid clinic in my city RIGHT as i had no choice but to fucking move out!!

i just feel like i made the wrong choice sometimes but i was backed into a corner. i couldn’t work and couldn’t pay my rent anymore. i applied for tons of housing lotteries and got nothing. and was forced to move back home to an area where decent healthcare, welfare programs, etc are more limited and even harder to access. i had to run up my credit card almost 2k just to be able to afford the cost of moving back home.

i don’t know. i just feel devastated. i feel like this is somehow all my fault and i know thats ridiculous and just the CPTSD/BPD talking and shit. but nothing outside of me in the world works for me. it only works against me. even my body works against me. how can i not give into feeling/thinking that way, even if it only provides the illusion of comfort or control?

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for possibly condemning my mother to homelessness by moving out?

I (m, late 20's) have been living with my mom (f, 60) for all my life because we're poor. She's only ever been a waitress and only works 3-4 days a week because her chronic back pain prevents her from working more. She absolutely detests her job (highly toxic work environment) but won't quit or get a different job because she doesn't like change and believes she won't make as much money anywhere else (she would make more actually).

Since my mom has very little money on the daily and spends most of what she earns on lottery, alcohol, and nicotine, she tends to lean on me for support. To the point where she's often short on rent, or this bill, or that expense, and I pay a majority of everything. I begrudgingly do it because, duh, she's my mom, and I want to make sure she's okay.

But living with her fuckin sucks. She's nice and does care a lot, but she doesn't have a concept of boundaries. She'll just bang her fist on the wall and scream my name to get my attention no matter how many times I've told her to just text me/call me instead. She doesn't talk *to* me, just *at* me, to where I could sit there and listen to her complain about work for 3 hours and say nothing but "yeah" and "mhm." Treats everything like it's an emergency. She's a hoarder as well so the house has too much junk in it. The house itself is fucked but that's a different story.

Some time ago my landlord told me he's selling our house by next year and we need to find another place ASAP.

So, my partner (male, early 20's) and I have found a very nice but expensive place that he and I could move in together, and we are due to do so next month. Looking forward to it even though it will be the tightest of financial struggles.

But it's also incredibly likely that my mom will need financial support that I just will not be able to give. And she needs to find a place to live, too. And she's shown zero effort in doing so. I don't know anybody that would allow her to move in with them, and I don't know anywhere that she could move to that she could afford. A couple weeks ago she made a joke about killing herself.

I want to make sure she's alright but I also need to make my mental health a priority. I cannot continue to live with her, as my therapist said, it's enmeshment/codependency. The longer I live with my mom the more miserable I will be.

So yeah. AITA?

What are these acronyms?