#I always forget y'all aren't actually in my head lmaooooo

[luci-cunt]

👀

jaks;dfj hi thank you

uhmmmmm, akldsf this was upsettingly hard to pick XD, I have so many unfinished drafts that never see the light of day, but here’s a snippet I wrote for the AFtG rewrite I was doing (and still am…? Kinda…? >.@laurensarah717 I’m sorry!!) 

FYI it is Andrew going to see Proust, nothing happens, he just meets him, but it’s still uncomfy as hell. 

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It was a whole day before Andrews new Psychologist introduced himself. The nurses and staff greeted him, showed him his room–which they ever so carefully called ‘mandatory dorms’ even though they just meant cell–the cafeteria, group therapy room, and the rest of the facilities. They explained the rules, how much time he was supposed to stay, and what the treatment would entail. 

So by the time Andrew was lead to the office of the main psychologist in charge of Andrew, he’d heard quite a bit about the man. Apparently he was good at his job, and Andrew shouldn’t worry.

Because Andrew hadn’t ever heard those words before.

The door was silent as it opened, and as soon as Andrew caught a glimpse of the room his stomach started clenching. It was set up so that the man’s desk was facing him, with a chair in front of it, obviously where Andrew was supposed to sit–with his back to the door. 

The man sitting behind the desk was thin, with a tweed suit on and a pointy nose that matched his angular features. The first thing that popped into Andrew’s head when he saw him was the food critic from Ratatouille. He smiled as he saw Andrew enter, closing the folder he’d been reading from and setting it on the desk. 

“Ah, welcome, feel free to sit down–AJ?” he said, Andrew’s fists clenched and he forced them to relax, but the man’s eyes had already flicked down to them. 

“No.” Andrew said. 

“Andy then?”

“You’ll call me by my name, Andrew, or Mr. Minyard, nothing else,” Andrew said. The man’s smile widened. 

“Well, AJ, I can’t do that, see–as your main psychologist I have to build a rapport between myself and the patient, hence the nickname,” he said slowly, as though Andrew was an animal he had cornered. “For example,” the man continued, still smiling, “My name is Proust, Arthur Proust, but you can call me whatever you like, my friends–for instance–call me Arty,” he said. Andrew’s stomach bottomed out and he fought to stay in one place as he realized exactly what was happening. 

“I won’t consent to exposure therapy, I’m here for rehab, nothing else,” Andrew said, it just made Proust’s smile widen. His eyes flicked down to the folder he’d been reading, and he pulled a paper out of it. 

“I must apologize, AJ,” Proust said, sounding far from apologetic, “but you don’t have much of a choice.” He slid the paper over. It looked like the paperwork he and Bee had signed, agreeing to the rehab and the treatments–that were not exposure therapy. “See, someone happened to be very interested in your mental health, and he made a very generous donation, paying in full for the extra treatment,” Proust continued, setting another paper on top of the first and smiling up at Andrew. “He figured that while you were here, you should make the most of it.”

Andrew’s mind went numb and empty, his fingers tingling from loss of circulation and he fought to keep his breathing steady. It was another contract, with his and Bee’s signatures on it, exactly like the other, but just from scanning it Andrew knew he’d never seen that paper until this moment. 

Slowly he raised his eyes back to Proust’s, which were practically glowing. 

“Riko Moriyama sends his best wishes, AJ.”

Send me an ask and I’ll post a snippet!