#I want him to be my close friend. a trusted friend. my psychiatrist perhaps. then perhaps he frames me for all of his murders or something.

[devilishdelights]

I’ve been… brainrotting, …..if youwill, with solomon the past few days……………. And lesson 14 is out it seems……………………hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

[deliciousangelfestival]

The Malicious Daughter Is Back! - 4

Character : Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Summary: It's just a business marriage. Bucky thought it would be easy until he encountered the stepsister of his fiancée. She turned his world upside down.

The Malicious Daughter Is Back! Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist || Support : Ko-fi 🙏🏻

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

Bucky was speechless after you kissed his hand, even though it was through the leather gloves.

You let go of his hand. "Was that too much? Sorry, I’m just overwhelmed by the offer you gave."

“I take that as a yes?” Bucky asked, still processing.

“Well yeah, didn’t I seal it by kissing your hand? I thought it was clear.” You smiled, a hint of playfulness in your eyes.

Bucky chuckled softly. "That's a new way to accept an offer, but joke aside, I’m grateful you accepted."

You lowered your guard, leaning back slightly. "So what happens next? I have to say, I won’t do anything that makes me a homewrecker."

“Oh gosh, nothing like that,” Bucky reassured you, his tone earnest.

“That’s a relief.” You let out a breath, feeling more at ease.

Suddenly, Bucky's phone rang. He picked it up and saw the caller ID: "Victoria." He bit the inside of his cheek, not wanting to talk to her at this moment. However, he didn't want to ignore the call either, as his fiancée would quickly learn that he had no feelings for her.

He excused himself to answer the call. "Hello?"

"Hello, my fiancé. I apologize for bothering you, but I heard something that doesn't sit quite right with me. I heard that you are with my older sister?" Victoria asked, her voice calm and cheerful, though her perfectly manicured fingers were crumpling a few papers nervously on the other end.

Bucky felt like he had just been caught cheating. "I am. I have something to discuss with her because of what happened last night."

"Oh, I see. Alright, I won’t bother you. See you soon." Victoria ended the call, smirking as she looked at her phone. She knew Bucky's reputation—quiet and calm but ruthless if disrespected. She remembered how you embarrassed him last night and thought perhaps he was giving you a warning.

Victoria felt a tickle of satisfaction, believing Bucky understood her without her needing to lift a finger. She felt lucky to have him as her fiancé.

Bucky, not entirely sure what had just transpired, felt relieved that Victoria didn't seem suspicious and quickly ended the call.

He returned to you and saw you chatting with the waitress and his secretary. In seconds, you had already become close to new people.

Unlike you, Bucky’s circle of friends all had to undergo background checks before he could trust them.

"Let’s talk in the car. I’ll drop you off," Bucky suggested.

"Sure," you agreed, thinking this would save you transportation money.

Inside the luxurious car, you felt like you were being enveloped by the comfortable seat. Even if you worked for 20 years on your teacher’s salary, you wouldn’t be able to afford this car.

Bucky wore his reading glasses and read a document. He spoke to you without lifting his head. "Tomorrow, after your school is over, I’ll pick you up, and we'll meet my psychiatrist."

You raised your eyebrows in surprise.

Bucky explained, "He knows my condition, and I hope bringing you to meet him will help us find a solution." His voice sounded serious, a little desperate.

"Have you had this disorder since you were little?" you asked.

He flinched, his hand stopping mid-motion as he was about to flip the paper. "It started when I was 12 years old," Bucky replied, his voice tinged with a hint of vulnerability.

His expression turned grieving. You knew this was the moment to stop asking questions; after all, you’d just met him for the second time. There’s a limit to how personal you can get with someone you barely know.

🥀🥀🥀🥀

The car stopped in front of a small house. It looked old but cozy, especially the garden with its many flowers. Bucky wondered if it was you who took care of all the roses.

You rolled your eyes, "It was my grandma who has the green thumb."

Bucky glanced at the flowers. "Pretty. I’m grateful for your cooperation, but I hope none of this gets leaked to outsiders."

So he was giving you a warning. You made a gesture of zipping your lips. "My lips are sealed." Then you closed the car door and headed to your house.

After he saw you enter the house, he told his driver to start the car.

You watched the car drive away from behind the curtain.

"Is that your boyfriend, my Ophelia?" The cheerful voice of an older woman startled you. You jumped, turning to see your grandma, Cassandra, standing beside you.

She smiled at you, happiness evident in her eyes, but you couldn't share her joy. To your grandmother, you were her daughter, Ophelia, your mother, who had passed away years ago.

Life had been cruel to her, taking away her only daughter, her son-in-law ignored her, and her business at the same time, which took a significant toll on her. The final blow was dementia.

She didn’t remember you at all. At 70 years old, her mind had regressed to when she was 40. Because of the striking resemblance between you and your mother, she thought you were Ophelia.

You sighed and put on a smile for her. "No, he's just a friend."

Cassandra giggled. "Really? Your father will be jealous when he hears this. Uhuk... uhuk..." She started coughing. You bring her to sit on her chair.

Your heart clenched each time you heard your grandma cough. It was getting worse.

She needed surgery, but you didn't have the money.

Having a rich father like Jonathan was useless because you didn't have access to your money. The reason was clear: Genevieve and Victoria.

She really hated you and wanted you to starve to death.

You quickly put a blanket on Cassandra lap and turned on the air humidifier to help ease her cough.

As you added the eucalyptus and lemongrass essential oil into the humidifier, your eyes caught the family photo on the wall. It was a picture of your family—your dad, your mom, and your grandparents—standing in front of your childhood home. Everyone was gathered to celebrate your birthday. But now, it was all just a memory.

You clenched your fist, feeling a surge of determination. Soon, you would get what was supposed to be yours.

💋💋💋💋

The next day after school, you went with Bucky to see the psychiatrist. But before that, the school was in an uproar because of the clothes you were wearing. You, who always dressed like a vampire hunter in jeans, combat boots, a grey shirt, and a black jacket, were now wearing a casual outfit with a vintage aesthetic.

You wore a cream-colored blouse tucked into a high-waisted plaid skirt paired with brown loafers and a light brown blazer with elbow patches. Your hair was styled in soft waves, and you carried a small leather satchel. The change in your appearance left everyone talking.

Jimmy couldn’t believe you were the same teacher who always yelled at him. “Who are you?”

You replied with a smirk, “Your worst nightmare.”

Everyone nodded in agreement. Despite your elegant outfit, you still commanded authority.

Bucky also noticed the change in your appearance. “You look different.”

You explained, “I don’t want your psychiatrist to think that I could be a bad influence on you.”

“Fair point,” he nodded in agreement.

After a while, both of you arrived at the destination, a fancy clinic. The receptionist, already accustomed to Bucky's appointments, greeted him warmly. “He’s waiting for you.”

Bucky led you to the room, which was bright and comfortable, conducive to a relaxed atmosphere. The walls were painted in calming colors and adorned with abstract art, and the furniture was modern yet inviting.

There was already someone sitting in the chair, holding a pen and a writing board. It was Dr. Javier, who had known Bucky for a long time.

Javier waited until both Bucky and you were seated. "You told me that you had a breakthrough. Is it her?" he inquired.

Bucky nodded, taking off his leather gloves and putting on a pulse oximeter on his finger. He then reached for your hand, and you placed yours in his.

Javier widened his eyes and adjusted his glasses. Bucky showed no signs of panic attacks, and his pulse appeared normal. "Wow. Incredible. How long has this been happening?" Javier asked.

Bucky replied, "Three days."

"After you touched her, you mentioned trying to shake somebody else's hand. Did the panic attacks suddenly reappear then?" Javier inquired further.

Bucky confirmed, "Yes."

Javier wondered what made you so special. Suddenly, he moved closer to you without warning.

You exclaimed, "What the-?"

“Interesting,” Javier nodded. “I can think of one reason: your body fragrance.”

You were taken aback. Did you really smell bad? You started sniffing your clothes. They were still new; you had only worn them three times, and they had been dry cleaned.

Then you remembered, “I am surrounded by buckets of sweat and cigarettes.”

Being around students who smoked and sweated a lot due to their frequent sports activities made you open all the classroom windows to get rid of the smell.

Bucky found it difficult to accept that his disorder could be triggered by your body odor.

Javier felt as though four eyes were judging him. He cleared his throat. “Ahem. Your case is one of a kind, Bucky. Perhaps her scent doesn’t trigger your trauma—” He didn’t continue when he felt someone glaring at him.

Trauma? Bucky’s trauma? You wondered what Javier meant.

Bucky crossed his arms and changed the subject. “So the solution to my disorder is the smell of a locker room?”

Javier raised both arms, trying to calm down his patient's anger. “I’m not saying it’s the solution, but it could be.”

Bucky sighed heavily. What kind of nonsense was this? But the way he met you was also out of the blue. His life is full of surprises now.

Author Note: Poor Cassandra. 🥺 Also the reader is a non-smoker.

Taglist:

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@scott-loki-barnes

@mostlymarvelgirl

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[bunnyprismatic]

I'm pretty sure I'm the anon you mentioned. If you still like this guy after he encouraged whirl to self harm, that says a lot about you

I still like Rung, and I will vehemently state he's a terrible psychiatrist, and did fucked up things before and during the Lost Light quest. He's a messed up old man robot, I have never denied that. It's perfectly fine if you don't like Rung, hate him even, that doesn't bother me, Anon. It's absurd to go into a fandom and think everyone is going to like my fave blorbo equally. I hold similar strong dislikes to some fandom faves, a few my close friends adore. Either they're just not compelling to me as characters, or, I find their actions and behaviours in the comics to be too egregious to look past. The way that they act, what they have done, or how they treat others is upsetting to me personally, and I just can't look past it.

However...

I understand the feelings I have about these characters are a me thing. Whether their actions are something too close to abuse from my past, or a personality trait that just rubs me wrong, my dislike is personal. I also know that most people who like problematic characters don't agree with their problematic traits. They know their faults, they know they're not good, but are able to separate fiction from reality. A person who likes a problematic character usually isn't agreeing, condoning, or have committed the same crimes that character has. When a modicum of media literacy is applied to MTMTE then I can understand how people find characters like these appealing. Because the thing is Anon, yes, Rung is a fucked up old robot, but so is everyone else on that ship, and that's what makes MTMTE and LL really good. While I like a well written Good Guys Good and Bad Guys Bad story, sometimes ya crave a little nuance, ya know? A pinch of the grey morality makes for a tasty comic. Not a single robot on that ship is good, and if we were to give human laws and sensibilities to every one of the main cast, well that's going to be a problem, isn't it? Not only for the actions of their past, but also how they behave during the quest. They're all fucking assholes to some degree :"D I would never forgive a real, human, psychiatrist, who has been trusted with someone's vulnerable state if they did the things Rung did. But when it's a several-million years old, amnesiac elder god, giant, transforming robot from the planet Cybertron, well it makes them a little more interesting. All in all anon, if you find morally ambiguous, selfish, mean, spiteful, harmful characters are upsetting to you, then perhaps MTMTE and Lost Light isn't the right fit. That's okay though, as there's plenty of other pieces of TF media more aligned to the Good Guys Good, Bad Guys Bad narrative. You're welcome to hate Rung, and dislike me, you're free to block me, put Rung in the filters (I make sure to tag my reblogs and posts with #Rung for people who don't want to see him), whatever it is you need to do to protect your peace and curate your dash, go for it. And if you think me liking a problematic character, despite me acknowledging he is a terrible, woeful, psychiatrist by human standards, makes me a terrible, evil person who allows or is complicit in vile things like this. Especially without actually knowing me or my story, well that says a lot about you.

[scullysflannel]

top 5 tv articles

this is not my all-time top five (aside from the first one) because my memory isn’t good enough for that. but these are five articles that are still on my mind

1. “In the Dark” - Brian Phillips, Grantland — THE definitive piece of X-Files journalism

“But The X-Files was there, in the background, for that year and for several years after it. In my memory of that time it seems to be running, muted, on every TV in every room I enter after dark. We are huddled around a phone trying to figure out whether there are such things as girls we might plausibly call, and in the other room we see the back of my friend’s mother’s head and Mulder’s and Scully’s faces staring out at us. Years later, when I watched the show in sequence, I never minded the incoherence of the main story line, which infuriated longtime fans, because I was already used to imagining the series as a montage of empty atmosphere, and in fact I had fallen half in love with it as such. The show’s cinematography, lush by today’s standards and astonishing in 1993, looked shadowed and moody, and because Scully’s expression was a striking combination of horror and numbness and bravery and trauma, none of which we had experienced and all of which we wanted to pretend we had experienced, nothing could have seemed more natural than that the show would move along the margins of our secret world. Although if you had asked me whether we were the border surrounding it or it was the border surrounding us, I would not have known the answer.”

2. “‘X’ Factor” - James Wolcott, The New Yorker — the fact that this was written after season 1 makes me lose my mind

“The X-Files is the product of yuppie morbidity, a creeping sense of personal mortality. (The sense of mortality in The Twilight Zone was the prospect of mass annihilation—We’re all gonna die!) It tries to cheat the big sleep by prying open so many doors into the beyond. Where middlebrow culture has begun to ponder angels again, pop culture courts immortality through soul migration or in hologram images or through the rejuvenation of cells or conversion into electrical charges. Nobody on The X-Files is ever dead dead. People die with a shudder, their souls removed like luggage, to be rerouted elsewhere. Perhaps the afterlife will be part of the information superhighway, a hub in cyberspace. What’s erotic about the show is its slow progression from reverie to revelation, stopping just short of rapture. It wants to swoon, but swooning would mean shutting its eyes, and there’s so much to see.”

3. “The Leftovers series finale: EW review” - Jeff Jensen, Entertainment Weekly — love the way this builds from theology to close reading to personal revelation

“The stories gave us people trying to move on (or not) and thrive anew (or not) by putting their trust in the darndest things — or refusing to believe in anything at all. The perspective on the characters took seriously the idea that we possess a God-shaped hole — we need to believe in something — but the perspective on epistemology was such that it distrusted anyone or anything that claimed to have certain truth. There was grace for people of faith, even silly faith, and deep anger on behalf of anyone burned by it. Concluding amid a pitched moment of worry and mournfulness (as I write these words, London is reeling from yet another terrorist attack), The Leftovers ends right when we need it most. Here was a series that aspired to be a cultural friend to us in our dismay and disorientation, offering outraged witness for our pain and invitation to reflect on our remedies for assuagement. Keep the show near you; it’s a keeper that will endure. The Leftovers was, and will remain, a show for a time of sitting in ashes.”

4. “Culture in the 2010s was obsessed with finding community — and building walls” - Emily VanDerWerff, Vox — this goes way beyond TV, but it’s incredible culture writing

“But Twin Peaks stands at the edge of something dark and old, hidden out in the woods. It’s an age-old conflict — though not between ‘good’ and ‘evil’ exactly. Instead, it’s closer to ‘connection’ versus ‘dissolution.’ We want community, but the more we seek it by looking back to the past, the more we spin into oblivion in the present. Twin Peaks: The Return underlines this notion magnificently. The point of any revival series is to revel in nostalgia, to bring back a TV show people loved and let them spend a few more hours surrounded by its charms. But Twin Peaks pushes back against fans’ desires at almost every turn. Instead of serving up easy nostalgia, it sends the characters searching for a place that made them happier in the past, then deprives them of it over and over again. The more that life in Twin Peaks stays the same, the scarier it gets.”

5. “I Couldn’t Imagine Being Happy. But I Could Imagine Being Carmela” - P.E. Moskowitz, Vulture — recency bias? maybe. but it’s fun

“When, midway through season three, a psychiatrist tells her she’ll never feel happy unless she leaves her husband, she willfully misunderstands him over and over again, softening his words, telling herself that she needs to set boundaries and internalize less conflict, and ignoring the doctor’s blunt warning. Carmela may be a mob boss’s wife, but she also is the embodiment of a womanhood that many, cis and trans, yearn for, against their better instincts: one that replicates the infantilized yet secure state of the suburban housewife, where we can be both victim and perpetrator, but mostly have our agency taken away from us.”

bonus:

“The Apocalypse According to The Leftovers” - Emily Nussbaum, The New Yorker

“Alena Smith’s Subversive Dickinson” - Katy Waldman, The New Yorker

“Killing Eve Says Out Loud What Buffy Never Could About Catastophic Queer Desire” - Lindsay King-Miller, TV Guide

[petitelepus]

Yo, LL manages to save their liason from the SG universe, what's the (rescue +) aftermath like? I want to see some angst with the bots as their liason is completely broken and traumatized and quite possibly a little bit insane and won't trust anything anymore.

WARNING: ABUSE, STOCKHOLMS SYNDROME.

"How's it going Brainstorm, Perceptor?" Rodimus asked as the two scientists worked their afts off in an attempt to save you from their evil counterparts.

"Just about done captain!" Brainstorm said while inputting codes into the supercomputer they had prepared for the occasion. The bright orange mech nodded, before looking and scowling at your counter version who had been tied in the strictest straitjacket after their attempt to sabotage the rescue.

"You're all wasting your time!" They shouted before cackling like a fucking drunk hyena. "There is no doubt that Rodimus, my Rodimus threw your little liaison to others to play with. You'll be lucky if liaison will be even able to talk after what others have done to them!"

"Shut up!" Rodimus was having trouble keeping his anger in check. Your evil version had been living with them who knows how long and honestly, every mech and femme in Lost Light felt fooled by your evil side's fake facade that they used to trick the crew.

The only one who saw through them was Whirl and no one believed him because it was Whirl. It took a long conversation with Cyclonus who appeared to be the only one who believed the empurata survivor and together they had tricked your evil side to show their true dark colors.

"Alright, I think we are done!" Brainstorm finally exclaimed and he joined Rodimus and Perceptor at the base of their universal portal gun.

"Are you sure it works?"

"Absolutely. Two of the greatest scientist made it after all." Perceptor nodded and Brainstorm beamed at being called genius but the situation demanded everyone's full attention. Rodimus nodded as he called everyone to come where he was. It didn't take long for the rescue party to get there.

Whirl and Cyclonus had been among the first ones who wanted to save you, followed by Megatron as he felt it was his fault that you had ended into this whole mess. If you hadn't become his guardian then you would never have ended in such a mess back on Earth. Drift was there also since you had been abducted while he was watching after you. He had to come. Ultra Magnus wanted to come, but someone had to look after the spaceship and he was honestly best suited for it at the moment.

Taking in all the mechs ready rescue you, Rodimus picked up your evil twin and nodded to Brainstorm and Perceptor. "Start it up."

The two scientists entered coordinates and the huge machine rumbled as it collected electricity all around itself until it reached its peak and shot out a beam that tore the line between the two universes apart. The Autobots looked at each other and lead by Rodimus they entered one by one into the other evil universe.

"Find them quickly, the longer the portal is open the more it might twist our realms!" Perceptor shouted. Rodimus looked at Megatron and Cyclonus. "You two stay here and watch that no one comes or crosses the universe!"

The two former Decepticons nodded and took their spots around the tear, protecting it the best way they could. Rodimus glanced at Drift and Whirl. "We will stay together since we don't know what we are against here."

"I tell you! Murderers, manipulators, and assholes, but mainly murderers!" The other you yelled and Whirl squinted his only optic at the evil human. "If it was left to me, you would be dead fleshie!"

"Oooh, I'm so scared! Don't you think my Whirl hasn't tried that before?" Other you grinned wickedly. "I can't wait to see what he has done to my better half."

"You little-!"

"Calm yourself Whirl!" Drift placed a hand on the blue mech's shoulder. "We must work together now. Don't let them get under your armor. Don't give them the upper hand."

The flyer glared at other you, but nodded and pulled back as the three of them ventured into the other Lost Light. Everything looked the same except for some occasional dent on the wall or suspicious-looking splat of energon. They had no idea where you could have been.

"Hey?" Drift said your other self and they shot a glare at the swordmech. "What?"

"You can make this easier and tell us where our liaison could be."

Your other half grinned maliciously. "Oh, there are way too many places! They could be a wet splatter of blood on a firing range where Deadlock likes to shoot anything that moves and has a heartbeat."

"Rung could have taken a liking to them, but where there is Rung there is Whirl close by. If not, he might have taken doctor's privileges to practice some lobotomy perhaps?"

"The best thing to them maybe if Tailgate got his hands on them first. He likes humans, has had a TON of them as pets. You know when you see something so cute you wanna squeeze the life out of it? Petite things we humans are, aren't we?"

"Fragger is enjoying this!" Whirl shouted in fury, but then they all heard something. Clapping. The three Autobots quickly looked at the source of the noise and saw a dark blue mech at the end of the hall, clapping his hands together as he emerged from the darkness.

"My, I see that you got yourself a nasty case of a disobeying human there."

"Rung?"

"Eyebrows?"

"No one has called me that and made the same mistake twice." The other Rung smiled and looked at the other you.

"Liason." He smiled, "My how I have dreamed of seeing you tied like that."

"Psych," Your evil version nodded towards evil Rung, but they didn't stop there. "And psycho."

Suddenly another mech emerged from the darkness, this one red and-! Empurata survivor. Whirl's only optic widened as he took in his counterpart. The red mech glared back at his blue version and tension rose. Rodimus cleared his intake to get the bad guys' attention and he lifted other you for them to see.

"Listen, we just want our liaison back and you can have yours back." The orange Autobot said and the blue Rung tilted his head. "Really now? Give us a reason to switch."

"Well... This one is yours and you have ours?"

"Ah, you sound so juvenile captain Rodimus. Much like ours."

"Enough, where is our friend?" Drift stepped up and Rung smiled as he took a step aside and let red Whirld open his cockpit. The three good Autobots were shocked to see you there, sitting inside the evil mech's chest, unconscious but otherwise unharmed. There was a click and Whirl suddenly pulled his gun out before anyone could stop him and pointed them at the evil Rung and Whirl.

"Hand them over or I'll paint the walls with your energon!" The flyer shouted. Rung chuckled and gently picked your unconscious body from his partner's cockpit. "You wouldn't shoot us when we have your precious human on my arms?"

"Try me."

"Whirl, no!" Rodimus and Drift shouted and your evil twin laughed, "Yes, shoot them!"

The blue Autobot growled but in the end, he lowered his weapons. "Just... Give them back."

"Hah! You're just as stupid as you look!" The evil you laughed wickedly, "Like Hell these bastards would-!"

"You have a deal." Rung suddenly said and everyone froze as he picked you up. Your evil counterpart turned their wide gaze into their Rung. "What the fuck!? You're going to give up so easily!?"

The mechs ignored you as Rung approached the good Autobots and held you for them. "Take them. We want what's ours."

"You can't be serious!" Evil you shouted as they were handed to their own Rung. They glared at the psychiatrist and grinned viciously. "You will never break me...!"

The blue bot smiled maliciously right back at them. "Darling, you should know that I enjoy challenges." He glanced at your rescue party and smiled. "It was a pleasure working with you. Give my best regards to my counterpart. I'm sure he will enjoy his time with your liaison."

And just like that, the evil Autobots turned and took their leave, while your counterpart kept insults coming on everyone. Rodimus looked at you in his hands. You looked so weak and vulnerable, his spark ached. Whirl felt the same way, but he would never tell that.

"Roddy, we have to go now!" Drift pulled both bots out of their pity party and they all quickly returned to the portal, only to be surprised by the number of unconscious mechs lying around in Megatron's and Cyclonus' pedes.

"We got company so we took care of them," Megatron said and it was enough for them all. They all went through the portal back to your universe and as soon as they made it out, Perceptor shut the gap between your worlds. As soon as they were safe, Rodimus transformed and drove as fast as he could to the medbay where Ratchet was waiting for them.

"Please, heal them!" The captain cried and Ratchet took your body into his hands and laid you on the surgeon's table. He carefully took in your vitals and came to the conclusion that you were perfectly healthy. Some bumps and bruises, but no broken bones or serious like that.  At least with your body.

"I don't see anything wrong with them. No matter what happened, they kept our human in good shape." Ratchet said and Rodimus sighed in relief. The sensation was short-lived as you started to come by. Rodimus was beaming happily as he watched your pretty eyes flutter open and take in the surroundings.

"Wh- where...?" You stuttered weakly as your eyes fluttered open and you looked around but when your eyes fell on Ratchet and you suddenly screamed bloody murder.

"I'm sorry Ratchet, I'm sorry!" You cried in horror and quickly twisted your body so you were kneeling before the medic and to everyone's horror you started to bang your forehead against the hard solid metal bed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I don't know what came to me! I didn't mean to offend you!"

"H- hey, stop!" Rodimus shouted grabbing you before you could do any damage but you had managed to cut your forehead as blood dripped down your face. The moment your eyes landed on Rodimus and registered what you were sawing it was like a switch was clicked in your head.

"R- Rodimus!" You cried out before you suddenly hiccupped and your body went limp before suddenly jolting up like you had gotten an electric shock. "P- please captain...! Let me go...!" You whimpered like you were afraid for your life. Speechless Rodimus glanced at the medic and Ratchet nodded, already comming to Rung to quickly come to medbay.

"I'm here!" The orange mech exclaimed as he stepped inside the medbay and your eyes locked together. Rung's optics widened behind his glasses and you smiled coyly at him.

"Rung...! My beloved, where were you hiding all this time? Why did you leave me alone?" You looked at Rung like he was your own personal universe and this sent alarm bells ringing in the mech's head. You were friends but you never talked like that to anyone. You attempted to jump to him but Rodimus quickly caught you before you could break anything.

"How long have they acted like this?" The psychiatrist asked and Rodimus placed you into Rung's hands. "It was like they were a completely different person!"

The orange mech blinked at you as you winked at him. "Will we have fun with Whirl again, master Rung?"

Rung swallowed hard as he looked at you and smiled lightly. "It's okay, I'll take you to our room and change a couple of words with captains." He said and just like the switch was turned in you, you suddenly turned fearfully of everyone surrounding you. "Pl- please no! R- Rung, no, please, don't leave me alone!"

The psychiatrist tried to give you to someone else even for a second but the moment he tried that, you turned defensive, kicking and sending everything else flying instead of letting them touch you.

Not seeing any better way out of their situations, you were locked into your old habsuite while Rodius, Megatron, and Ultra Magnus went to Rung's private meeting.

"You won't like what I have to tell you." The orange mech warned and Rodimus scowled. "So just tell us! That's wrong in them!?"

"Well, captain... The liaison was exposed to extreme situations that their mind simply couldn't handle on their own so they resorted to finding shelter from my and Whirl's alternative universe versions. By the way she reacted, I think she was manipulated to believe those two sought only their best interest, making them ignore all the red flags and learning to appeal to other Rung's and Whirl's liking."

"So...? They fell for your twins?" Rodimus asked.

"It's called Stockholm Syndrome back in Earth. It means that the victim developed feelings like loyalty, sympathy or even love towards their captor." Rung explained and Megatron groaned. "I'm familiar with those cases."

"You had someone fall for you?!" Rodimus gasped and the grey mech gave them a small nod. "Not for me per se, but some war prisoners would switch after learning the truth of the Decepticon cause."

"How do we treat them Rung?" Ultra Magnus asked, "You're the only one with so much knowledge of this."

"I'm afraid there isn't some miracle pill that could heal them." Rung shook his head and corrected his glasses. "Therapy sessions as much as I can offer and light medication incase they developed a depression or anxiety. I also must treat them for post-traumatic stress disorder that they probably suffered from other evil counterparts' treatment."

The captains and Magnus shared a look and they all nodded, agreeing with their decision. Megatron looked at Rung and nodded. "Do whatever you can Rung."

[prurientpuddlejumper]

A Punchable Face That I Want to Kiss, Ch. 7 [NSFW]

<- Chapter 6 | Chapter 8 ->

Summary: The idiots have admitted they love each other, but are still figuring out how not to be assholes. Included in this chapter: a fancy dinner party that goes horribly, Chilton getting drunk, Frankenstein references, and a little smut

5,568 words

Trust was a difficult thing for Dr. Frederick Chilton. There were few people he had ever trusted, and one of them had been feeding him people at dinner parties.

Any show of weakness, he learned, would inevitably be turned against him, and clearly he could not count on himself to realize when he was being manipulated. Played. He had been played so many times.

When you said you loved him, how could he be certain?

The entire concept was abstract as it was. His parents had an icy relationship, and he had been raised more by nannies and boarding schools than them, so love was a thing he had observed hints of around him, and become aware of its existence through its absence in his own life. Love was a negative space drawing.

He distinctly remembered one of his childhood friends being picked up by his parents at the end of a school year, crying tears of joy as he leaped into the smiling couple’s arms. They held his hand, and asked about what friends he had made.

It made him feel so hollow.

Pity made sense. You had a basic empathy response to his woundedness, and it compelled you to nurture him to health. Pity he understood. But you said you loved him now.

Love was more. Love was many things, as he gathered it, defined in different ways. Neurologically, love was a release of chemicals such as oxytocin to form lasting bonds. Evolutionarily, it was a symbiotic partnership that benefited the survival of both parties and their children. Love was an intense feeling, and a deliberate commitment. It was mutual respect and care. It was more than he could imagine anyone feeling toward him.

Chilton eyed the Is Your Crush In Love With You? quiz advertised on the cover of a teen magazine at a newspaper stand and almost—almost!—considered buying it before his pride as a psychiatrist (and an adult man) stopped him.

It should be easy to diagnose love. Abnormal psychology was far more complex than this mundane tripe. He simply had to list out the evidence in a logical fashion. He scrawled down pro and con columns in a notebook.

Definitely Not Love:

1. Face too gross.

Before getting shot, he thought he had been reasonably handsome—not tall or athletic, but acceptable. Who would accept him now? Anyone in their right mind would be disgusted after seeing his face so mutilated. And yet…

Proof It’s Love:

1. Kisses my gross face.

You saw his face, and if you were disgusted, you hid it damned well. You had been alarmed, and worried… and then you kissed him. You kissed him on every horrible part as if you loved him even more for being broken—which, frankly, made you diagnosable, but reassured him that your bond was stronger than a mere act.

Or did it prove even more conclusively that it was an act? Anyone who wasn’t after something would have run away, but you didn’t care what he looked like, because it was all a performance!

Definitely Not Love:

2. Kisses my gross face. Fake.

It was as yet unclear what the something was that you were after, however. The more time that went by, the more it seemed you really didn’t care about his money. You tried to turn down a $900 Montblanc pen, proving yet again your utter lack of taste. Even when he was presumed deceased, you were so overwrought by his assassination that Jack Crawford insisted upon letting you in on it before you did something rash. You mourned him when there was nothing to gain.

Proof It’s Love:

2. Not in it for money

You were frequently rude to him. It was what he first loathed about you—that absolute disregard for manners and polite conversation. Maybe—maybe—he had done a few things which could be construed as dishonest or mishandled, but he was still an esteemed doctor. You would have shown the respect his station warranted if you desired him as a partner.

Definitely Not Love:

3. Calls me an idiot.

A poor strategy if you were pretending to love him, though. His most manipulative exes would certainly apply insults strategically to bend him to their will, but always started off with nothing but flattery and kindness in the wooing phase. Traps are usually baited with honey.

Your behavior was crass out of blunt honesty and an absence of diplomatic tact. You were rude when he was unethical or selfish, because he was those things. Hannibal was at his most friendly when he was at his worst, but you wanted him to be better. You wanted a partner.

If your relationship were an elaborate manipulation, you would have to be an intelligent psychopath, but that hypothesis simply did not hold up to scrutiny. Psychopaths chose their words carefully, and always maintained their cold, predatory calm. You once called him “ass-butt” when you were mad. No serial killer could be as clumsy and tactless.

You were the opposite of a psychopath: warm, nurturing, emotional, and an utter mess.

Proof It’s Love:

3. Calls me an idiot.

He leaned back in his office chair, staring down at the paper. There were dozens of things he could add to the love column, now that he thought about it. You laughed at his bad jokes. Listened to him talk about things that certainly bored you. Reminded him to take his medicine when he worked late and forgot. Spent time with him. Admired him. You never turned against him. Never tried to hurt him. He had to accept the evidence: you loved him. Entirely.

At the very least, he was certain he loved you. This novel rush of feelings that had been painting in the negative space of his soul since he first woke up to your smile could only be love. Your warmth radiated around him, enveloped him in its light, and he could no longer imagine how he’d lived without it. He was certain he loved you, because he had never cared about anyone more than himself before.

Love was an unusual thing for Dr. Frederick Chilton. It was weakness, and it was invulnerability. He was exposed. Raw. It made him feel safe with you, and more afraid than ever that you would be taken away.

It took four decades, but Frederick Chilton’s walls were coming down, and it opened up a Pandora’s box of feelings he was not equipped to cope with.

  *****

He loved you! It swam around your head in a sing-song voice, distracting you and making you hum subconsciously and sway to a secret rhythm while you were at work. That wonderful pompous jerk loved you. You were in a dream.

It made you dizzy how tender and uncertain he could be. He was not particularly comfortable with public displays of affection—there was a vulnerability when he was with you that he could not tolerate anyone else seeing—but he still managed to have his hands on you at nearly every moment. A light touch on the small of your back: restrained, but possessive. His finger grazing across the back of your knuckles under the table. Leaning close to see something you were looking at and putting his hands on your shoulders. He hated being far from you for long.

Since showing you his face and finding that the world did not end, he had been downright clingy.

“You know I’m out of town on a case,” you explained for the thousandth time to an increasingly sulky doctor.

“I see,” he pouted, “Well, perhaps I will call Vanessa and see if she wants to have dinner tonight.”

“Don’t be a dick.”

“Excuse me?” he feigned offense very seriously, as if he didn’t know you knew he was being a dick on purpose.

Early in your relationship you had both been very clear that it was just sex, and not at all anything that involved a monogamous commitment or, god forbid, feelings. You’d never explicitly updated this agreement to better reflect the love you were in and he was provoking you with it.

“Who is ‘Vanessa,’ anyway? Your cousin?”

“Aunt,” he admitted tersely. “I demand you come to my house this evening!”

You laughed into the receiver, imagining the way his cheeks were puffing out. “I miss you too, babe. I’ll be back in Baltimore tomorrow.”

There was a quiet sigh. “Please be careful.”

He loved you, but was he your boyfriend? Were you exclusive now? These were questions you’d been having, and were too afraid to ask for fear that the answers would be no. Even though he was just being a manipulative little brat, his casual implication of dating other people still hung in your brain, interrupting the pleasant birdsong.

  *****

“Are you embarrassed of me?”

Chilton paused mid-comparison of two ties from his closet and scoffed. One was blue and formal, while the other had splashes of bold purple, and he was trying to decide which gave off the better impression of staggering wealth and success.

“Yes,” he answered with impatience. “You do not know how to behave as a civilized adult.” He went back to sorting through his closet for an outfit.

Your impulse to punch him in the face was acutely returning. “Seriously? Because I didn’t know which fork was for the salad?”

“You have no etiquette, you dress like a tourist, your favorite wine comes from a box...” He would have continued but your cheeks were burning and you screamed with indignation.

“Wow, so I’m just your dirty secret then, is that it?”

“I thought you did not like ‘fancy’ occasions. This dinner party will be attended only by the foremost luminaries in the psychiatric field, and other professionals of note. You would find it tediously dull, I am sure.”

“You said it was an old friend. I don’t know any of your friends, and if we’re going to be together you can’t just… keep me in your closet for sex!”

“Do not be childish.”

That was the last straw. You stomped your foot (not necessarily disproving the ‘childish’ remark) and shouted, “You are unbelievable! You have no respect for me at all, do you? I thought that you—that we were… But really, I just let myself forget what a raging asshole you are!”

He called out your name from somewhere behind you as you stormed out, but you didn't listen, slamming the door.

  *****

Were you being unfair? If he wasn’t ready to introduce you to an old colleague, could you fault him for wanting to take things slow? But no—he expressly admitted to being embarrassed of you. He didn’t think you would fit in with these people so he was hiding you in shame—and he was probably right.

How could you ever hope to really be with someone like him? You were kidding yourself.

You were crying and watching Aliens (you needed to watch people getting ripped apart and exploding to calm down) when there was a knock at your door. Chilton stood on the other side with a purple tie, and some flowers that were definitely yanked from your neighbor’s garden. He handed them to you indifferently.

“Come on, then,” he said.

You grunted in confusion.

“Come to dinner. Be my plus one.”

“Are you kidding?” you retracted the spoon of Chinese takeout from your mouth. “Why would I want to go anywhere with you and your snobby friends where I’ll just embarrass everybody by being a pleb?”

His shoulders sank and he looked like a man half his size—which was already fairly small. He looked like a folding chair you could tuck under your arm and carry away. You worried you might forgive him immediately.

“Because I want you to be there. Because I love you.”

Your arms crossed over your chest, unyielding.

An uncomfortable groan rumbled his throat, and his eyes rolled up to the ceiling as they always did when he admitted to being wrong. “I apologize. For my rude behavior.”

Your arms considered the apology, and reluctantly uncrossed themselves.

“I am sorry. I love you.” He pouted, meeting your gaze with those irresistible puppy dog eyes, and took your hand. “Now just… come, we are going to be late.”

“Jerk.” You kissed him. His breath tasted like mint, and his spicy aftershave was fresh and strong.

“I know.”

“Big jerk.” You kissed him again, this time letting your lips linger at the edge of his when you pulled back, his nose brushing against yours.

“The worst,” he breathed.

“Poopyfacejerkbuttpants,” you declared.

“You are a child!” He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “Why do I love you?”

“I’m very sexy,” you grinned, wagging your eyebrows.

His chest puffed with a short laugh. “You are very sexy. And patient, and wise, and most likely smarter than me. Well,” he changed his mind on the last point, “close, anyway.” He looked down over the teriyaki-stained sweatpants you were wearing. “Now put on real clothing, and try not to appear homeless.”

  *****

What he had described as an annual dinner party with an old friend from his Harvard years was actually a pissing contest carefully couched in the trappings of polite high society.

Nobody mocked Chilton’s dietary restrictions or recent arrest under suspicion of being the Chesapeake Ripper (that would be rude), but they did express their sincerest worry for him, observing how such trauma must have explained why it had been so long since he last published.

Everyone was dressed so elegantly you felt like a Good Will clearance sale rack, and they were so accomplished and interesting you felt like a Good Will clearance sale rack. A woman named Linnea was visiting from Norway with hair like the sun’s rays and eyeliner sharp enough to cut diamonds. She spoke five languages and had sequenced the genes of a plant that might one day cure cancer. When Chilton smiled his best used-car-salesman trying-to-impress-you smile at her, your skull nearly burst open.

Not that you were jealous, you just—OK! Of course you were jealous! She was a goddess who seemed more his type than you ever were, and he was being nice. He was never that nice!

The host, his “friend” Victor, had walked off the cover of a GQ magazine. Where Chilton always seemed to be trying too hard, Victor emanated confidence and power as naturally as breathing, a trait infused in his blood from generations of old money—though there was something unnaturally macabre in his sallow complexion.

He had four children stashed away somewhere with the au pair in one of the guest houses. You knew, because he brought it up, putting his hand around the shoulder of his equally magnificent golden-haired wife, as a point of pride. Emphasis on point. The purpose of dinner was clearly for them to take stock of each other’s lives and achievements and determine who was winning.

No wonder Chilton didn’t want you there.

It was the kind of environment that made you want to slam your fist down on the table, scream, “CUT THE CRAP!” and tell them to suck a bag of dicks. But Chilton clearly wanted to ingratiate himself with them, and you had promised not to be too embarrassing.

However out of place you felt at that stately solid oak table, it was thrilling to watch Chilton at the peak of his game.

“It’s always an honor to treat someone who has been in space, you know?” Victor humbly recounted working as a therapist for NASA. “What those men get to see up there among the stars is beyond anything I can understand as a mere doctor. You can imagine the challenge.”

Chilton nodded amicably. “Not every psychiatrist is cut out to deal with the difficult cases. The psychopathic mind is dangerous territory, but I have always sought to delve into the most inaccessible parts of the human psyche, at the frontier of our understanding of the brain. That is where the greatest discoveries are to be made.”

He just made his job sound cooler than astronauts. Point, swish! You wished you had popcorn instead of whatever fermented mollusk nightmare was on your plate.

“I’m just sorry for the horror stories this one must have to endure when you get home!” Victor’s wife laughed a friendly, teasing high-pitched trill, gesturing to you sympathetically. Oh no, you thought. They hunt in packs.

Chilton’s amicable smile tightened. Besides the obvious snub toward the grim nature of his work, they knew the two of you weren’t married or even living together, and therefore his house was desolately empty when he got home. Point to Blondie.

Counteroffensive: You took Chilton’s hand and pet it in the most sickeningly saccharine gesture of affection you could think of, and swooned about how dearly you appreciated the wonderful, important work he did. The danger really spiced things up in bed, too!

He choked on his wine. So did Victor. You wondered if anyone had food in their mouths and how many points you’d win for fatalities.

A roaring laugh echoed through the dining room, shaking the table. A man who shared Victor’s features, but younger and with a bigger smile, air high-fived you from across the expanse. You ended up being surprisingly popular after that little ice-breaker, lightening the mood by telling hilarious crime scene stories about dumb criminals and weird accidents. They thought you were a breath of fresh air.

You and Ernest—the host’s younger brother—especially hit it off. He’d joined the military as soon as he turned 18 as a rebellion against all the “hoity-toity nonsense” in his family, and had some stories that made even your toes curl. After dinner you hung out in the garden looking for bugs while everyone inside chatted about opera, wine, and what important doctors they were. The Norwegian goddess joined you for awhile, too, rattling off plant species in the landscaping. She was actually pretty cool. If Frederick were going to cheat on you, she’d be your top choice for sure.

  *****

Chilton stared sideways out the panoramic glass wall overlooking the gardens. There, under the faded yellow glow of string lights and cradled by a lush border of foliage, you were still talking with that meathead. He tried to use his peripheral vision so the others couldn’t see him staring after you like a lost, lovelorn fawn, but was not doing a good job.

You were going to leave him. He knew it would happen if he brought you (though he thought it would be Victor who seduced you away from him), and he couldn’t stand it. It burned like hot coals in his chest.

He drank.

He drank a lot.

He drank until he got up the courage to stagger outside on his cane to grab you and say, “We’re leaving!”

“Excuse me?” you said, startled by the abruptness of his demand. Pulling your wrist back out of his grasp you were surprised at how unbalanced he was. You had never seen him drunk, and a tiny voice tempted you to poke him in the chest and see how far he wobbled.

He hissed in your ear, “Do not talk with him, he is trying to steal you from me!” not as privately as he thought he was being.

“Hey. Watch it, pal,” said Ernest.

Chilton lurched and caught himself on you, wrapping his arms protectively around you until he was draped on your shoulders like a human Superman cape, dropping his cane on the floor. “Don’t... do not leave me,” he slurred. “I love you. I love you.”

Cool. He was a goofy drunk. A sad, goofy, koala drunk.

You spun in his arms to face him, and pressed your cool palms against the flushed sides of his red face. He was trying very hard to look serious, and you were certain he thought he was doing a great job at it, in much the same way a kindergartner thinks they are being very serious and grown-up demanding a second juice box. “Oh, honey… you really can’t drink like that with one kidney. It’s not good for you.”

“Please don’t leave?” he begged.

“Frederick...” So this was what being a parent to a toddler was like.

“I knew… you would...” His eyelids drooped, and more of his weight shifted onto you.

“OK, I think it is time to leave,” you strained to hold him up.

Ernest very kindly helped you get him and his cane to the front of the house and called for the valet to bring the car around. Judging eyes watched from inside while he vomited into a topiary. Eventually the hosts came to the door to inquire if everything was all right, and you politely apologized for Chilton being such a lightweight since his very tragic, very brave recovery from being maimed. Hopefully that would save him some face.

Thanking Ernest one last time, you grumbled as you slid behind the wheel. Chilton had, naturally, driven his impractical vintage penis-substitute car, and now you had to figure out how to drive the thing back.

  *****

Chilton groaned, slowly rolled his shoulder, and woke up slumped and contorted into the passenger seat. He groaned louder.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Like someone drove a brick through my skull. No—like I was shot in the head again.” He massaged his temples blearily as he recovered consciousness. His eyes flew open. “What happened? Why are we in the car?”

“Well, uh...” you adjusted your grip on the steering wheel. “Let’s just say one of us was embarrassing and leave it at that?”

“Merciful god.” He remembered the fourth glass of wine. And the scotch.

He remembered that guy you were talking to.

“You were flirting with another man,” he accused.

“I was not flirting. He was married. All he could talk about was getting back to his husband in Colorado Springs—he’s only visiting here for a week.”

Chilton paused. “That does not preclude flirting.”

“And what about you? I saw how you looked at Linnea. You were so nice to her—to all of them—like you were trying so hard to impress those people.”

“It is called having manners.”

“You never look at me like that. Why aren’t you ever that polite with me?”

You knew the answer—because you weren’t good enough. You weren’t some high-class snob he needed to impress, you were just a nobody. But he took a long time to reply, as if the question had come as a shock.

“I never thought you wanted that,” he finally said. He grew quiet and serious, talking in a soft voice. “We have always been forthright with each other. You detest false kindness, and that personality is a construction. You know me too well—you know I am a miserable, misanthropic, autocratic, petulant egoist… but you still want to be with me. The flawed fool. That is why I love you, why I could never bear to start over without you. You are the only one who sees me, and still wanted to...” He drifted off and lost his train of thought. “Perhaps I could be kinder. I do not want to lose you. I do not want to drive you away. Sometimes I forget… I forget how to be kind to one I care for most.” Words would not stop spilling from his mouth. He was being unusually candid, a sign that he was still very drunk. “I knew if you came, you would find someone better. You might leave. Maybe not tonight, but you would see what was out there, and eventually...”

“I thought you were embarrassed of me.”

“That too.”

”Ah.”

A sleepy, squinty-eyed smile lit his face as he thought he about it. “You are so very unrefined, and yet irresistibly appealing. Do you realize you could charm anyone? That you would choose to stay with me is...” He sighed and swung his head loosely until it came to rest against the side window with a dull thunk. He frowned. “Victor and I are the same age, and he has a wife, and children… he treats space men. I can never measure up to his accomplishments.”

“Well that’s a dumb way to look at life, you ding-dong.”

His hangover growled and glared at you through heavily squinted eyelids.

“Life isn’t measured in the number of achievements you’ve tallied up.” You risked taking your hand off the fiddly antique gearstick to reach for him, and he hummed with affection as your fingers interlocked. “I’m not going to trade you in for a better model. I love my misanthropic, petulant Frederick. I’ll take him as-is. I don’t know why you think I’m going to leave you, but I won’t. I love you.”

  *****

You drove him back to your apartment at his request, because, quote: I love and respect the fuck out of you, baby. He would later vehemently deny phrasing it that way. Then he dropped off into sleep again with his head against the window for the remainder of the drive.

His car stuck out like a sore thumb in your neighborhood, as did he in his thousand-dollar suit, but it was sweet that he wanted to stay on your turf for a change.

He whined, stretching out cramped muscles as he settled into the pillows. You spread out on the blankets next to him, admiring his restraint in not complaining about the thread count. You had to confess, your own bed felt stiflingly small compared to what you were now used to.

Quiet, murmured conversation filled the dark long into the night, talking about your fears and jealousy. You confessed how inadequate you felt in his world, how it much stung when he smiled at that beautiful woman. He didn’t tease you like you thought he would, but comforted you honestly that you had nothing to fear—he would never.

“She seemed more your type than me,” you mumbled into a pillow, remembering the glamorous woman.

“Linnea? Don’t be ridiculous—you know my type. You.”

You emitted an incoherent trill of bird and chipmunk noises as your cheeks went red. He wrapped a strong arm around your waist and pulled you against him, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. A question had been nagging at your mind for weeks whose answer seemed obvious now, but you still had to ask it.

“Frederick… are we a couple?”

The gentle rise and fall of his chest stopped abruptly. “What would you like us to be?” he carefully asked after a few tense seconds.

You swallowed. He was putting it all on you, then. It would destroy you if he said you’re too demanding, clingy, or moving too fast, but it gave you encouragement that he was literally clinging to your body like a tipsy koala.

“I want you to be my boyfriend. I don’t want to be with anyone else. And I don’t want you running off on random dates with random Vanessas to make me jealous.”

“How old-fashioned,” he quipped, trying to sound nonchalant while a wide smile beamed quietly across his face, cheeks red with an alcohol-assisted flush. “You want to be mine, then?” he nuzzled his nose against you.

“Yes, I do,” you breathed, fireworks going off in your stomach.

He melted at the confession, and spent the rest of the night curled around you possessively, dreaming of sweet visions that were, for once, uninterrupted by nightmares.

  *****

His hips jerked rhythmically up into you as you rode him, his fingers searching, clawing up your back. His hungry mouth left dark bruises as he nipped and sucked his way up your throat, snarling against your skin. “Frederick!” You gasped and moaned with each bite. You knew he was leaving marks above your collar that you’d have to creatively hide, or make excuses for (or just deal with everyone at work knowing), and that he was doing it on purpose, but you didn’t care. It was exciting having him claim you.

As his nips and kisses crested the outline of your jaw, you dipped your chin down and took his mouth. His lips were soft and yielding to you, but burning with heat and hunger and already wet from the sloppy work he made of your neck, and he moaned your name with needy satisfaction as you kissed him, his eyes closing. His tongue slipped between your lips, tracing the inside flesh and the outline of your teeth without interrupting the rhythm of his thrusting hips that worked you open and built up a sensational throb.

Your breath and sweat mingled as you rocked together, intertwined. His helpless, pleading noises drove you crazy as he whined and growled, making you buck against him harder just to draw more sounds from him and watch his face as he lost himself completely. The throbbing between your legs roared to a frenzy as he arched beneath you and his pace became erratic, each thrust driving deeper, hips snapping against you roughly as his cock buried its full length deep inside.

The warmth of his seed flooded you, but he pulled out quickly before he was completely finished, flipped you onto your back and kneeled over you. His hand frenetically stroked his cock until long lines of hot cum drizzled your stomach.

He leaned over you and kissed you ferociously, a clashing of teeth and tongues, while you curled your fingers through his hair and continued rocking your hips against his leg chasing your unfulfilled release. “Mine,” he smiled against your lips.

He sat up, breathless and content.

You looked down at the sticky mess he made of your torso. “Marking your territory?”

“You make me sound like a dog lifting his leg.” He raised an eyebrow skeptically.

“Aren’t you, essentially...?” you began to tease, but gave up with a shake of your head. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, but you grabbed his arm before he could leave. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Work, my dear.”

“I don’t think so.” You pulled him back into bed, pressed him down on his back and climbed on top of him, angling your hips into his mouth. “You still have a job to do here.”

“You’re sticky!” he complained, squirming under you.

“I know. You made such a mess, doctor. Help me?”

He glared up petulantly between your thighs, but a coy pout spread over his lips, and one of his long fingers traced the length of your leg. He does ever so love it when you call him doctor.

“Very well,” he conceded as you grabbed the back of his head and rode his face into the pillow.

  *****

Hannibal the Cannibal was finally captured, and Frederick Chilton wrote the definitive book on him. And by “definitive,” you meant full of lies, sleaze, and enough half-truths that nobody would know the difference.

How could you complain? It worked.

He got a bestseller, and the next three years were a whirlwind of book tours, press releases, panels, and all the fame and respect he ever wanted. It was a good thing you were there to make sure it didn’t go to his head! (In reality, the mild-but-constant aching of his left cheek was enough to keep him as humble as Chilton-ly possible—which was, admittedly, extremely arrogant.)

He stepped away from the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, leaving it under the care of Dr. Alana Bloom. According to Dr. Chilton, it was to focus on writing and speaking engagements for which he was hotly in demand, however the decision came just weeks after you warned him to stay away from Hannibal Lecter.

“I am writing a book about him. Stay away?” he mocked. “Do you know how long I have waited to have him in captivity? In my facility?”

“Don’t be an idiot! Trying to get revenge by being his jailer is just poking the bear.”

“The ‘bear’ will be spending the rest of his days rotting behind bars,” he replied in a honeyed voice dripping with sarcasm. “You cannot deny me the pleasure of watching him grow old and infirm, slowly forgotten by the world as his teeth one by one fall out.”

“You always do this—you always think you’re above danger, and then it comes back to bite you! Hannibal will find a way to hurt you if you piss him off.”

“You give the man far too much credit,” he scoffed.

“Stop trying to get revenge.” You stepped close, tapping the chest of his tattersall dress shirt. “Focus on what you still have instead of everything you’ve lost.”

“You mean you?” he quirked a brow, scoffing. “I did not think you so trite.”

“I mean your other eye, asshole! I mean your life!”

Tempers flared as you snarled in each other’s faces, and twenty minutes and several broken pieces of office decor later, you rolled off of each other feeling much calmer.

“Stay away from him,” you started again, softer this time, your hand buried under the unbuttoned opening of his shirt. “I don’t want him in your head. Everyone changes when they’re around him for too long, and I don’t want you to turn into someone else. I don’t want to lose you. Just walk away this time. Please?”

And he did. And for three entire years, he wasn’t brutally maimed.

[thisselflovecamebacktome]

Dancing With The Devil Part 3 Thoughts:

(I’m going to put this under a read more but trigger warnings for self harm, sexual violence, anon hate, suicide, drug use and eating disorders)

I don’t really have as much to say on each topic as I did with the first two parts, so I’m not going to put it into specific categories, just dotpoint it all.

- I understand that Demi was going through a lot of trauma, but god do I wish that her or her team or somebody came out with a statement about the hate towards Dani earlier. Even just a “guys, you have the wrong idea about Dani. You don’t know what happened so don’t point fingers until I’m ready to say.” because jesus 5000 hate messages a day for someone else’s choice? It’s a wonder she’s still alive too to be honest. And obviously Demi’s silence doesn’t excuse fans sending hate, and the fact they still haven’t learned from that by trying to pinpoint her childhood rapist when she doesn’t want us to know, is horrific, but Dani’s case could have been mitigated and it’s sad that it wasn’t.

- I also find it very interesting (and paralleling to what Matt said in the first parts) that Demi has once again said that a lot of the control her old team had over her was out of love, but ultimately it just wasn’t helpful in the end. Likewise, it was good to hear that she made the choice to leave, not that her old team forced her out. In saying that, and connected to the Dani stuff, perhaps it’s another sign that fans jumped the gun with blasting the Jonas Brothers, and particularly Nick, for that situation. I’m not saying that they’re on good terms because I don’t know. But this mixed with Ain’t No Friend sounding more like it’s about her ex drug dealer than anyone else given the new information we have, perhaps pointing fingers without the full story didn’t help the Jonas Brothers anymore than it did Dani.

- Alternatively, I find it interesting that Sirah seems to feel it was the old label’s choice for Demi to get clean the first time thanks to the ultimatum when Demi spoke in the first two parts about not seeing her sister being the major reason.

- I had to laugh at her case worker pretty much being like “Well if you’re paying for this and don’t want to be here, you can leave” and the implication of how deep down Demi did want to be there but was scared because that reminds me of my psychiatrist so much and definitely gives me good vibes.

- I agree with others that Scooter’s role in this documentary seems very PR. I also find it very interesting that despite them saying that Ariana was the main reason Demi was signed with Scooter up until now, her role in all of this was completely erased. I mean it’s not like what they said on the documentary negated anything they’ve previously said, but yeah, again, feels weird that even a mention of “Demi is good friends with Ariana and she helped me reconsider signing Demi when I was gonna say no” is nowhere to be found. Anyway, as much as I don’t trust Scooter as far as I could kick him, I really hope for Demi’s sake everything they said here was true.

- Her sister’s comment that she wanted to give up on Demi but you never truly give up on someone you love really resonated with me and is probably the answer I would have given to that question.

- The way Demi talked about her self harm, drug and eating disorders came from the unresolved issues with her first rape and how the plan to wait until marriage to have sex just for that to happened really messed with her is unfortunately super relatable to me. While technically my issues started with witnessing the suicide of a close friend earlier in the same year, being a “good Christian” girl who got gang raped at 15 had a similar effect on me. But I was incredibly lucky and privileged to find the people most helpful to be around within two years of that which by the sounds of it, Demi did not until recently. I touched on this with the first two episodes in regards to the overdose rape, but it does really make me sad to know she tried that whole “I’m going to take the power back by having sex with you” twice, and I’m glad she’s seemed to have learned that that doesn’t work.

- I am also really glad to hear that her and Max stayed with her mother and stepfather during quarantine. Like with her partial blindness and the sketchy rumours about him, I’m just super glad she had that extra support.

In general, this documentary, and particularly this part, has been far less scandalous than I thought it would be, and I’m really glad about that. It would have been so easy to make cheap shots at her old team or the Jonas Brothers or whoever else and made them seem like evil people Demi escaped from. But by giving them one liners of “Demi needs to be around new people” and “She wanted a new management team” and “They meant well but were very misinformed” and leaving it at that for the most part, it allows the focus to be on Demi like it should be. 

With this in mind, it will be interesting to see just how much of the final part is going to be centred around Max given that relationship was used as the preview. Personally I’m hoping they’ll take the same approach and only use his name to contextualise Demi’s sexuality revelations and the rest will be focused on how having to stop with the pandemic has somewhat forced upon/given her the time to heal. 

Likewise, as I mentioned in the first two parts, I still find it interesting that the album is coming out before the last part. Does it mean that the story of the album “ends” before the documentary? Or was the album initially meant to be listened to afterwards but was moved to hype up the last part of the documentary?

I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.

[hatsukeii]

Another song inspired scenario!

Okay this time it’s haikyuu.

And it’s gonna be angsty. Fr this time.

Heather// Tsukishima Kei

Word count: 1830

Trigger warning: Suicide, implications of self harm, little to no swearing

Summary: Tsukishima writes down three final notes.

Another day. This was just another day for Tsukishima. 

His life had been exceptionally shitty these months. Who knew it was this easy to get so depressed? Who would’ve predicted the death of his perfectly healthy dad, days after his parents divorced? Did anyone eventually figure out why he stopped wearing short sleeved shirts? Why he came to practice with a bottle of pills? Why he started falling asleep in class? Why the counsellor had to constantly pull him out of class? Why he started skipping practice without coach Ukai or Takeda sensei questioning it? Or perhaps why he started wearing his sports wristband everywhere?

The biggest question of all, how did you succeed in shattering his cold and measly little heart to pieces? The scene replayed like a broken record in his head, looping everything that hurt him. The way you were pulled away by Kageyama. How he held your hand. It looked perfect, engulfing yours easily. The way you ran up to him trying to apologise for your indirect rejection every single day, failing to do so every time as he walked away from you, not even sparing a glance. The time when Kageyama kissed you in front of the crowd during the win against Seijoh as he watched, Yamaguchi comforting him from behind. Millions of irritatingly negative voices swarmed around his head constantly, buzzing like flies, refusing to let him forget about you for even a second.

This was just another day.

Just another day, as Tsukishima walked past the crowded hallways, squeezing his way into his classroom. Just another day, where he would see you and Kageyama act all lovey dovey and shit in front of your locker. He walked into the classroom, seemingly unbothered as you cuddled the raven haired boy. How he wished he was the one that held you. All he wanted was to be the one that made you feel special. That possibility was long gone. He regret everything. He regret befriending you. He regret opening up, trusting you with his life, only to be disappointed again. He hated all of it. If he could, he’d just burn it all. Burn all his problems to the ground. Burn your image. Burn the memories. That way maybe he wouldn’t have to think about it. Maybe he forgot the part where he’d have to get rid of the ashes too. Because no matter how hard he tried to convince himself life was going to be okay, it always found a new way to screw him over again. Of course it did, what was he expecting anyways? For life to become instantly easier because of one traumatic event he had to go through?

This was just another normal day. Going to lunch with Yamaguchi like usual, his mom’s leftover strawberry shortcake sitting there in his lunch container. “Tsukki, you feeling any better?” There were two options in front of him. Tell Yamaguchi the truth, and disappoint him, or lie, and let him think that he was doing something in helping to mellow out his depression. What did he have to lose anyways? “Yeah, I’m doing a bit better I guess.” His freckled friend gave him a tiny grin, playfully punching his side as the blond forced a smile on his face. “Nice Tsukki! I’ll help you get better, as will your brother and your mom, so don’t worry too much!” Get better? So what if it gets better? Doesn’t life and luck just find a way to let things “get better,” then rip it all away from him anyways? 

“Tsukishima!” 

Ah of course. Just like any other day, you somehow found a way to get to him. His heart clenched at your voice as he turned around. “Go talk to her Tsukishima. Please.” Yamaguchi urged him on. Behind you was Kageyama, grumpy expression plastered on his face as always. The two boys glanced at each other, Tsukishima’s bored ones meeting an icy cold glare. A glare that said one too many words. “She’s mine.” “Don’t you try taking her away from me.” “You don’t stand a chance.” A sigh emitted from the blond’s mouth. “No.” Yamaguchi visibly frowned. “But Tsukki! You have to talk to her one way or another!” Tsukishima scoffed. “Who said I was obligated to do that? I can do whatever my heart damn well pleases.” Before Yamaguchi could even protest, his friend had already turned around, and walked away, headphones already on his head. He had once again walked away from help. Once again pushed everyone that cared away. That was what he wanted to do.  Push everyone away. That way no one could hurt you more than you hurt yourself. That was what he constantly told himself and believed.

What annoyed Tsukishima the most, was that he couldn’t bring himself to hate Kageyama fully. He just couldn’t. He didn’t know why, nor did he know how. The setter managed to kill out the last bit of hope he had with one single move. The second he saw your hands and Kageyama’s intertwined, that little ounce of hope leaked right out of his broken little heart. He was stupid. To think he ever stood a chance against the raven haired boy. To think that by getting close to you, he may have had a chance. That was his fault, not Kageyama’s. As long as you were happy, Tsukishima wasn’t going to complain. If Kageyama were to hurt you, however, he would be the first to act up. At the same time, he wouldn’t mind punching his face in once in a while either. The satisfaction that would bring him, damn.

Just like any other regular school day, he skipped practice and went straight home, as instructed by both his psychiatrist and counsellor. He opened the doors to his home, and was welcomed by none other than nobody. He hastily made his way to his room, throwing his bag down onto the ground, locking the door behind him. He peeled off the wristband, wincing in pain, before throwing it onto the floor. Teachers set him significantly less homework compared to the other students, meaning he had finished it all prior to the end of school. With hours on hand, he would usually just clean up, change, and go to sleep. No food, no nothing. 

But he had other plans for tonight.

Instead of heading to the shower, he grabbed his notebook, ripped out a few pages, grabbed a pen, and began to write. He wrote until tears started to stream down his face, until his hand cramped up and his wrist felt like death. His salty tears dropped onto the lined paper, spreading some of the ink out. When he finally finished, he re-read the three letters, before folding them and placing them neatly into three envelopes, letting them sit on his desk.

He sat in the water filled bathtub, uniform still on, an unopened bottle of rat poison he found from the bathroom cabinet in hand. Was he really about to do this? Was this what he wanted? His hand shakily reached up to the cap of the bottle, twisting it open aggravatingly slowly. He let his eyes flutter shut, placing the rim of the bottle to his lips. What would people think of him after this? What would happen to Karasuno’s volleyball team? Shaking the thoughts out of his head, he tipped the bottle and let the gross, bitter liquid flow into his mouth and down his throat. It tasted disgusting, as it should, but he kept going. He kept going until he couldn’t taste any more. He let the last drop of the poison fall into his mouth, before throwing the bottle onto the hard, porcelain floor of his bathroom, shattering it to pieces. He waited in the tub, letting the water go cold as he felt his breathing become shallow, his vision becoming hazy. Finally feeling the effects of the poison, he let his head into the water, shutting his eyes as he took his last breath, the corners of his mouth turning upwards to resemble a grin.

“Have you seen Tsukki?” Yamaguchi was fully panicking. Tsukishima never skipped school. Never. “Maybe he’s sick? I don’t know.” Everyone in your class was confused. Tsukishima Kei was absent. For once. Your form teacher walked into the classroom solemnly. She headed to her table, placing down her documents, her mascara messed up, a stained and crumpled up tissue in hand. “Don’t tell me…” Yamaguchi covered his mouth, feeling the tears start to gather around his eyelids as a knot formed in his throat. “Everyone, we will be having an emergency assembly in five minutes. Please get to the hall in an orderly manner.” The class shared a few confused murmurs, before heading to the hall. “Yamaguchi? Why are you crying?” You were beyond confused at this point. All Yamaguchi could muster up was a strained sob, followed by a few shakes of his head.

“We have gathered you here this morning, to tell you the terrible news we received from Mrs. Tsukishima.” What? What the hell happened to Kei? Was this why Yamaguchi was bawling his eyes out? “We are terribly sorry to announce that Tsukishima Kei was found dead last night by his brother, who is Tsukishima Akiteru, an alumnus of Karasuno High. The cause of his death will not be revealed as of now. Kageyama Tobio, Yamaguchi Tadashi, and Y/f/n please meet me backstage right now, everyone else, you may leave for your respective classes. Please refrain from disturbing these three students about the situation.” 

No.

This can’t be.

There was no way he would’ve done that.

This has to be a joke. 

Yamaguchi was hunched over next to you, now sobbing uncontrollably after reading his letter. 

“Why? Tsukki, you said you were doing better? Was it all a lie? Why would you lie to me like that? What were you thinking?”

Kageyama’s head hung low, his eyebrows furrowed as he re-read the letter to make sure he wasn’t seeing things.

A copy of a letter was handed to you by the principal.

To:  Y/n

By the time you read this, I’d have gone out the same way my old man did. I don’t know what you’re doing, nor do I know how you’re feeling, but I just want to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not letting you apologise all those months. I regret not acting quicker than Kageyama. If you’re crying right now (which you probably aren’t), I want you to stop. Wipe those tears from that pretty face of yours, and forget about me. Forget I ever existed. But please just remember,

I love you.

From: Kei

Your tears stained the paper as you dropped it, a knot seemingly making its way into your throat as you fell to the floor, whimpering and sobbing like a madwoman.

Why? Why did this happen?

Perhaps it was because yesterday wasn’t just any other day.

References:

Heather- Conan Gray

1 SIDED LOVE- Blackbear

Suicidal thoughts- The Notorious B.I.G.

Lyrics to all three of the songs

A lot of worrying google searches

Hi yes I love making you sad and I love making people depressed.

I’m sorry.

Not.

Tags:

@poppirocks @caxsthetic @burnt-tomato @writeiolite @atsumus-squeling-pig @just-another-bored-writer @for-ests @bokutokoutarou @artsamber @thirstyvolleyballhoe

[writers-block246]

Bucky Barnes x Reader - The Light Amidst my Darkness

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 5

Warning: Mentions of mental illness. I tried to present Bucky’s challenges as accurately as possible. However, if anyone has some suggestions as to better portray his illness and resulting therapy, please lmk! (I researched to depict his struggle with mental illness and the type of therapy he would recieve as accurately as I could). Curse words are also included.

Notes: Italics are thoughts and emphasis. Set before Infinity War and Endgame. Slow burn. Mentions of suicide, heavy angst (unresolved), and cursing are in this chapter, specifically.

——————————————————————————

Chapter 4:

It was like a dam had broke.

Since your session where he actually revealed a part of himself to you, he had become more open; more willing to talk about his feelings and past experiences. Once you had showed him that, while you had never gone through something as traumatic as he did, you could still understand where he was coming from. You could still empathize with him. Not to mention, when you told him that you, too, desired to become a better person, he appeared to become more comfortable with you. Perhaps, because you could relate to him, at least in some small way. He probably never felt like he could relate to anybody. The fact that he held on to such a small connection between you two proved how desperate he was for human interaction and bonding. It made your heart ache. You also noted that your honesty seemed to be very important to him, as he was fed up with the lies he had been fed by so many others in his life. He yearned for the truth, to not be treated like a fragile child.

In short, over the past few conclaves, he had, slowly but surely, let you in; let you see some of his emotions. At least, to some extent. You had a feeling you had only scraped the surface of his psychological trauma.

And, by God, had he been through so much.

The past few weeks allowed for you to gain a better comprehension of just what he had experienced. Everything he told you made your heart weep for him. Your past session, especially:

“I’m a monster.”

That was the first he said to you when he sat down.

Schooling your expression, you replied: “Why do you think that?”

“I think it’s pretty fucking obvious. Do you know how many people I’ve killed?” he said angrily.

“Yes,” you stated calmly.

He seemed to become more outraged by your impassive expression.

“How can you just sit there and act like I’m not utterly horrible? Like I haven’t killed? Like I haven’t destroyed?”

The pain in his voice was evident, and you could tell he was close to a complete breakdown. It hurt to see him like this.

I need to calm him, and soon—before this gets out of hand.

“Because you’re not. That wasn’t you, James. You weren’t in control of your actions. That was Hydra.”

“But I still did it. I could’ve tried harder to escape. I could’ve just killed myself. Anything to make the destruction stop.” He was practically seething, self-loathing clouding his eyes.

“Think rationally, James. You tried to escape, didn’t you? Multiple times?”

He looked conflicted. “Yes, but—“

You didn’t let him continue. “But nothing. You tried, and that alone proves that you didn’t want to commit those acts. Not to mention all the times you could’ve killed Steve, and yet you held yourself back. You’re a good man, James. The real you, is a good man. Not what Hydra made you think you are. And killing yourself? What good would that have done? Hydra would never have let you get away with it. And even if they did, who would be here to help the people today? Because of your experience, you provide a key insight into the minds and methods of the enemy. No one else could help in that way like you.”

He had fallen silent, and you had sworn you saw a tear fall down his cheek.

You didn’t comment on it.

The silence continued on, and finally, he spoke. “You mean that, don’t you?”

“I meant every word, James. You know I wouldn’t lie.”

He settled back into his seat, taking in your words. The rest of the time was spent in quietude.

That session stayed with you. You couldn’t quite forget the look on his face when you vehemently disagreed with him. And you didn’t think you ever would.

It was like he couldn’t believe I saw him as anything else other than a monster.

You so desperately wanted to help this poor man. And by the looks of it, you were. He was talking more, delving deeper into his feelings.

The more he opened up, though, the more you realized that you liked the man behind the mask. He was charming, funny, a little shy, and very intelligent. The worse part, though, was that he didn’t even know how good he was. He couldn’t see it, but you did. He had been through so much, and he was still trying to help others. He had fought longer than a man should ever be expected to, and yet, he was still willing to fight some more. You soon found yourself looking forward to sessions with him, as you could learn more about the soldier.

Images of the smiles and laughs you shared during your time together flashed before your eyes. You grinned.

Of course, there were good days, and there were bad.

Today was one of the bad ones.

He was five minutes late to your session. Which, in hindsight, should’ve made you more prepared for the outburst to come. But, you were hopeful, telling yourself that he was just running a little behind. Maybe something had come up?

The angry knock at your door told you something different.

You called for him to enter, and the door burst open. He stalked to his chair, settling down heavily.

You raised an eyebrow. “Is something the matter, James?”

He ignored you.

You coughed to get his attention, and repeated your question: “Is something bothering you?”

“You’re a liar.”

You startled. What?

“Come again?”

“You heard me. You’re a fucking liar.”

You tried to keep your voice from giving away your true emotions. Steeling yourself, you said: “Why do you think that, James?”

“You told me that I wasn’t a monster. That I was a good man. That the past was in the past. But you fucking lied. Something you said you’d never do”

“In no way did I ever lie to you, James.”

“The fuck you didn’t.”

You tried to keep a soothing tone of voice. “Let’s just calm down and talk this out. How are you feeling right now?”

He only became more enraged at that. “Don’t tell me to calm down. And don’t pull that fucking stereotypical psychiatrist shit on me.” He stood up, tossing his chair to the floor in his frustration.

Okay, bad choice of words.

You remained sitting, hoping to show him that you weren’t afraid of him. That you trusted him.

But it didn’t seem to register with him. He only became angrier, more caught up in his own head. You knew, logically, that his hatred was directed at himself, and he was just taking it out on you. But still, his words hurt, and you worried that he was regressing.

He kept raging, throwing insults your way. He tossed your papers across the room, destroying like he believed he was meant to.

All the while, you remained seated and silent. Until finally, his anger turned cold. Those intense eyes that you loved (that stopped you in the middle of the hallway all those months ago, just like they floored you now), settled on you once more.

He uttered one word. One word. One word that had you holding back tears: “Liar.” So much hatred, anger, and self-loathing coated the word. Enough, in fact, to make your insides curl.

I feel like I’m about to puke.

With that, he turned and strode out of your office. The walls shook with the force of the slamming door.

Left in silence, a stark contrast to the hurricane that rampaged through your office minutes ago, you sat frozen in your chair.

What the hell just happened?

He was pissed. You lied. The person he trusted the most, other than Steve, had lied. All the time you spent together, those past few months, claiming that he wasn’t a monster. That his past was just that— the past. You lied. You were wrong. He had put so much faith in you, had opened up to you (like he had with no one else, not even with Steve), and you had had taken his trust, his feelings, and just stomped them into the dirt.

Those sessions didn’t mean shit. They were a waste of time. He didn’t progress. He didn’t get any better. You must’ve lied about that, too.

Why? Why does this have to happen? Why couldn’t you have just told the truth? Told me what I already know? What everyone already knows?

He was just a monster. That was all he was, all he ever would be.

I though I could trust you. That you were different. I thought you were my friend.

Hours later, you still remained in your office, sitting in the exact position James had left you in hours ago. You were still in shock due to the day’s events.

What if he never comes back? What if he refuses to see me again?

He was your friend, and you feared you might’ve lost him forever.

No.

You wouldn’t let that happen. You didn’t put your blood, sweat, and tears into this, into him, to just let it all go down the drain.

You were determined to bring him back. To keep working with him, even if he had regressed. There were good days, and bad days, you knew that. And before it got better, it would get worse. You reminded yourself that his outburst was normal, expected, even. You weren’t going to give up on him. You had made a promise.

After all, this was your job. And you were damn good at your job.

But above all, he was your friend. And you were going to stand by him—through thick and thin.

It was then that your phone chimed. A message from Steve.

A cup of coffee had been thrown on James early this morning, in his favorite coffee shop (his only happy place, other than your office). And with it, the offender had yelled a single word: ‘monster.’

-Admin Cheyenne

More chapters are on the way!

[lassieposting]

Tell us about Lucifer’s depression, suicidal ideation, self-harm, and past abuse. I mean I can see the self harm, both the obvious In cutting off his wings and the like as well as the unhealthy self medicating, and the abuse - which honestly comes across as a murky gray area, like some verges on abuse but isn’t quite- but the other things... I need them pointed out to me.

GLADLY, ANON

okay so, to cover my ass: this is just my personal take as someone with trauma & suicidal ideation who self-harms. other people with different trauma and different relationships with self-harm/suicidal ideation might see this whole thing completely differently. This post could be triggering, please pay attention to the triggers in the tags. I am not a professional psychiatrist, and if you are struggling please seek professional help. 

i’m gonna break this down into sections bc, surprise surprise, it got rly long

THE ABUSE:

Now, you’re absolutely right that this is kind of a murky grey area, because at this point we really only have one side of the story: Lucifer’s. And obviously, he’s biased. 

the family dynamics:

But let’s take a look at the family dynamics we see in-show. We’ve only seen a fraction of Lucifer’s family, but it’s still fairly obvious that the ways they interact with one another are unhealthy and tend towards abusive, especially when aimed at Lucifer. 

We have Amenadiel, who: 

Is obedient to his Dad on an almost brainwashed level until he falls. 

Blames everything - including his own actions/failures (i.e. saying Malcolm killing humans is Lucifer’s fault, even though Amenadiel himself raised Malcolm from Hell) on Lucifer.

Does not know how to respond to affection or praise, even though he clearly appreciates and enjoys them (i.e. when Trixie hugs him and says she thinks he’s good). This is the son who’s in God’s good books. And he still clearly doesn’t receive affection or praise often. 

Openly competes with Lucifer for Dad’s attention/love, to the point of rubbing it in his face when he discovers he’s the favourite

Is complicit in Lucifer’s abuse - taking him back to Hell (thereby isolating him), threatening him when he doesn’t want to go, and cutting off any attempt Lucifer makes at reaching out to connect with humanity - for billions of years to try and win his Dad’s approval. 

Straight up tries to have Lucifer killed.

Says he’d love to go to war (with Lucifer, and presumably with Hell as a whole). 

We have Uriel, who:

Takes it upon himself to enforce what he believes is his Dad’s will; he had no instructions from God when he came to Earth. 

Delights in getting the opportunity to beat up Amenadiel, and gloats about it. 

Threatens - and harms - the first good thing Lucifer has had in his life in eons as a way of bullying him into doing what Uriel wants.

When Lucifer complies, Uriel decides to kill both Goddess and Chloe, purely out of spite because Lucifer was “being difficult”.

(There is an interesting meta here on Uriel’s potential motivations that I really like, but this is looking purely at his actions.)

And we have Goddess, their mother, easily the most manipulative and emotionally abusive of the lot. She:

Admits to destroying things God cared about - attacking humanity with plagues and floods etc - out of malice and to get his attention. 

Happily releases Azrael’s blade into human hands, hoping for widespread human deaths, to get her ex to get back in touch. 

Plays Lucifer and Amenadiel off against one another like a pro for her approval. 

Only ever touches her children when she’s trying to manipulate them - there’s a good meta on that here. The one exception to this that I personally believe to be a genuine attempt to comfort (both him and herself) is when she hugs Lucifer after he’s just killed Uriel. 

Doesn’t actually care about what Lucifer wants - he’s told her outright that Earth is the only place where he feels wanted and respected, and she knows he has a life he enjoys and a woman he’s falling in love with, but she expects him to abandon Earth and go back to the Silver City with her regardless - to the point that she actively tries to dismantle his human life and kill his loved ones to leave him with no ties to Earth. 

The picture this paints to me is of two incredibly narcissistic parents who see their children as extensions of themselves rather than as people in their own right. If you compare Lucifer - who’s an asshole, but fundamentally a good man - to his siblings here, you can see that the two who stayed in Heaven have caught fleas from their parents - and part of Amenadiel’s redemption arc is him realising how toxic and damaging his family is, giving himself a damn good flea bath, and doing his best to be a better big brother to Lucifer and a better son to his mom (and, later, a better father to Charlie than his Dad was to him). 

angel life cycle

So apparently in canon, angels were created as adults. My personal headcanon is fuck that, baby angels, but we’ll go with the canon explanation for this, because honestly it still lines up with my theory. 

Even if you’re “born” with a mature adult body and adult-level speech ability etc, you still won’t have an adult’s wealth of life experience, or maturity, or social skills. You’re still going to have to grow and learn and experience situations to learn how to cope with them. 

Now, Tom Ellis has said in the past that he plays Lucifer as essentially having the emotional maturity level of a teenager, which I think is honestly perfect. For an immortal being - or at least a being with a lifespan of many, many billions of years - it’s actually fairly believable that the angels are (depending on the age gap between them) either still in the “adolescent” life stage or emerging into the “young adult” one. 

Lucifer says that he’s spent “most of his life” in Hell. If he’s only a young adult now, at ~11 billion years old, that means he’d have been a juvenile (in terms of life experience/emotional development, even if he was “born” with a fully mature adult body) when he was sent to Hell, and the reason he was sent to Hell is because he wanted free will and started “acting out”. 

Even if your 12-year-old is the most unpleasant, rebellious little shithead on the planet, you don’t kick him out of the house and spent the next decade sabotaging every attempt he makes to connect with people or improve his life. Because, you know. That’s your kid. You signed up to have him, that’s normal shitty teenager behaviour, and the chances are he’ll improve with age. God and Goddess went scorched earth on Lucifer because he was behaving in a completely normal way for a kid beginning to mature into a grownup. 

lasting trauma

Lucifer’s parents’ treatment has left some crazy deep scars. 

He uses a neglectful broken home as an analogy for his celestial family. And he does so incredibly smoothly; this is clearly an analogy he’s thought about before. Chances are he’s seen this dynamic on TV and identified very strongly with it. 

He talks about his mother abandoning him as his “lowest point”.  Not his Fall. Not any of the horrific things he’s seen in Hell. The point where he realised his mom doesn’t love him enough to protect him. 

He doesn’t understand what he did wrong. God punished Lucifer harshly for wanting to control his own life, because narcs often see their children’s developing independence as a threat to their own control over their kids’ lives. Obviously He wouldn’t see it like that, but he’s clearly never explained to Lucifer why what he did was “wrong”. This family has a chronic communication problem. 

He’s paranoid as fuck. He constantly suspects God of having a hand in the events happening around him, and any time it seems He is involved, Lucifer immediately sees whatever’s happening as an attempted manipulation. It never occurs to him that creating Chloe - someone immune to his powers who can really love him without any kind of supernatural influence - could be an olive branch or an attempt to give him what he actually needs. He doesn’t believe his Dad would ever do something positive to/for him. 

He’s so badly traumatized by his childhood that he reacts like this to being called by the name his Dad gave him. And he’s clearly doing well in therapy - he might not know the word for it, but he knows he’s being (unintentionally) gaslit here. He doesn’t handle it well, but he doesn’t put up with it either, refuses to accept being told to see his Dad’s abuse as a sign of love. 

He believes he’s unloveable. When Linda gently suggests that maybe Chloe kissed him purely because she likes him, he tells her that’s impossible and reminds her his powers don’t work on Chloe. He doesn’t think there’s any way someone could love him for who he is, unless he’s either giving them something or using his mojo on them. And it’s his family that’s conditioned him to think that way - look at Amenadiel alone, how many times he tells Lucifer he’s evil throughout the show, as casually as if he were telling him that his hair is brown. This is just a fact of the universe in that family: water is wet, leaves are green, Lucifer is irredeemable garbage. 

He doesn’t for a second hesitate to believe that his Dad wanted to kill him. Or that he would kill him given the opportunity. He even thinks Chloe is his dad’s attempt to get him killed for a bit. 

THE SELF HARM

the wings: 

The blatantly obvious one - and the most deliberate - is when he cuts off his wings. Now when Lucifer talks about this, he frames it as him taking back agency over his own life, freeing himself from his Father’s control, and making a statement about his intention to stay on Earth. 

But when you look at him, he doesn’t look victorious, or like he’s looking forward to starting a new life. Physical pain aside - and an amateur amputation would be agonizing - he looks almost like he’s grieving, gritting his teeth through something he feels he has no choice but to do. 

Someone did a fantastic meta that I thought I’d reblogged at some point that says something like “this isn’t the devil in his moment of triumph against god; this is an abused boy mutilating himself to spite his father”. I wanted to link it, but I haven’t been able to find it again (if anyone finds it, please let me know so I can add a link).  

the self-medicating:

I don’t think he realises this is a form of self-harm, and I don’t think he does it to hurt himself deliberately. But he comes to Earth to overindulge in all the things he can’t have in Hell, all the things he’s been cut off from. 

Touch and affection, which he gets through sex. Oblivion, which he gets by drinking. Euphoria, which he gets from drugs. Socialisation, which he gets from being surrounded by people at all times and partying it up 24/7.

It doesn’t matter to him that the touch is from a stranger, it doesn’t matter that the affection only lasts one night, it’s something and that’s more than he’s getting in Hell. He buries himself in those things to forget that he has to go back. He can bury himself in the next line or the next shot or the next attractive body and, just for a little bit, he can forget who he is.

Sending Lucifer to Hell in and of itself is cruel. Angels are clearly social creatures, and he’s been in solitary isolation for billions of years - it’s a miracle he hasn’t gone insane. Yes, he has the demons, but they don’t interact with him by choice and he’s not safe with them. Hell denies Lucifer everything a young person needs to grow into a stable, healthy adult. 

the self-sabotage:

We also see that he’s got a tendency to sabotage himself when he’s on a downward spiral. This usually comes out one of two ways - either:  

He tries to chase away the people who care about him. This comes from being so terrified of being abandoned and rejected again that he’d rather run them off himself than wait for them to inevitably (in his mind) decide that he’s Not Worth It and leave him. For example: 

He tries to push Linda away when he’s grieving after killing Uriel. 

He punches Dan in the face and gets himself thrown off the case by Chloe - she’s already warned him she would bench him if he didn’t pull himself together. 

He throws Chloe’s initial rejection in her face when he’s on his self-hatred bender in S4. 

He’s absolutely vicious to Amenadiel in this scene, when Amenadiel is trying to communicate that he loves Luci and wants to support him. 

Or he talks shit about himself. You can always tell when he’s having a bad time; he’ll start coming out with shit like, “I’m the devil, remember, I’m evil.” His real view of himself will slip out from under the mask of confidence and vanity. Chloe cuts right to the heart of this in S4; he’s been told so many times that he’s responsible for all evil that he now believes it. He blames himself, even as he vehemently denies having ever made anyone do anything. 

THE SUICIDAL IDEATION:

Jesus fuck, it’s a good thing Lucifer is in therapy. 

The first time we see him actively attempt suicide is in 1x13 when he’s being framed for shooting the street preacher. It’s a case of “the straw that broke the camel’s back” here - he’s been having a really rough time lately:

Groups of zealots are cornering him in the street accusing him of murders he didn’t commit 

Being accused of things he didn’t do is already a trigger for him

His own brother tried to have him assassinated.

His bodyguard and oldest friend betrayed him.

He’s just found out the detective makes him vulnerable. 

He knows Dan - and therefore probably other work colleagues as well - think he’s got something to do with the satanic murders. 

And now Chloe is turning her gun - and apparently her back - on him. She’s no different from anyone else. He was stupid to ever trust her, etc, etc, and now he’s spiralling.

She was the last rock keeping his head above the ocean at this point, and when she goes to arrest him, he goes under. We see that mania come out very quickly; he starts laughing hysterically and tries to goad an inexperienced uni into shooting him. He pretends to have a gun, knowing the cop will fear for his life and instinctively shoot. Since Chloe’s right there at the time, and he now knows he can be hurt around her, that’s attempted suicide. He wants to die. He even admits to Amenadiel he was trying to achieve “a good death…or at least a nice and messy one.”

No one ever addresses this bloody hell why

And then there’s the case with the shooter in the hospital. Lucifer’s grieving Uriel at this point, and he’s up to his eyeballs in self-loathing. He killed his brother. He really is the monster everyone believes he is. He’s spent the entire episode up to this point trying to make people punish him. He’s riled up Chloe at a crime scene and she’s told him off. He’s punched Dan, and Dan didn’t retaliate. He turned down Linda’s offer of continued therapy in a way that’s almost a challenge; he wants her to snap back at him. And when none of these little punishments are enough for him, he escalates and escalates and eventually he steps in front of the sniper’s intended victim and, again, goads him to shoot. He goes a bit further this time, though; he outright begs the sniper to shoot him, and reams the guy out when he says he didn’t think Lucifer deserved it. 

Again, he knows Chloe is there. This is a suicide attempt. He even admits to Chloe that he didn’t care about the intended victim, he was just trying to get himself killed. She doesn’t believe him. And it’s never addressed again, and I’m salty. 

Anyway I hope this clarifies some stuff for you anon? and I’m sorry it took so long to finish I rewrote this so many times for Maximum Sensitivity and kept including stuff and taking stuff out and it got SO LONG and i had to condense it and i have A LOT OF FEELINGS ABOUT THIS OKAY I HAD A LOT TO SAY

[creativity-is-rebellion]

Some Things are Not Dialectic

So much has happened to me since I last wrote on this blog. To sum it up in a nutshell: I changed therapists (something I have been meaning to do for a while now), I was hospitalised yet again for just a little over a week this time, voluntarily, for recurrent suicidal thoughts, where I was tentatively diagnosed (yet again) with BPD, and the new therapist I started seeing after coming out of the hospital diagnosed me with Asperger’s. I also started a DBT program, which I am now six weeks into. Previous therapists, if you have read any of my other posts, have diagnosed me with Bipolar I, but after only two sessions with the psychiatrist at the hospital, and in the wake of him talking, at length, with my husband about my history, I was informed that I probably have Bipolar II and BPD. My regular psychiatrist disagrees with this and stated that it is probably complex trauma (or C-PTSD) and Bipolar I. I am inclined to trust the diagnosis of the latter more, as I have been seeing her for two years now. And now I also have an Asperger’s diagnosis from my new psychologist. What a mess. After all these upheavals, I feel emotionally at sea.

I also decided to swap medications at the hospital (the Seroquel was not helping my insomnia and was making me gain a bit of weight) and finally gave Lithium, the supposed “gold standard” of Bipolar medication, a chance. And it made me terribly ill. I was so nauseous all the time that after 4 weeks of struggling along, I had to give it up. I even broke out in a rash, but no professionals, not even my GP, wanted to listen to my misgivings, so I just informed them all that I was coming off it. My psychiatrist respected my decision, but wants to put me on something else. I am reluctant, because I have tried all sorts of medication for extended periods of time, and there are always negative side-effects, or they don’t do what is intended. I was told in the hospital by the psychiatrist that Lithium would be ideal for someone like me who has ambitions, wants a career, and doesn’t want to sleep for 20 hours a day, so when I experienced intolerance, I felt so disappointed. I even spent some time blaming myself. I have found my overall experience with taking medications really draining and time-consuming. I feel as if I am trying, and even doing everything I should, but it’s just not paying off. One method that I have tried in the past on my hospital visit before this one was ECT, and I did find that somewhat effective, but the results were not long-lasting enough. And, after reading about the experiences of those who get regular sessions of ECT, I worry about the possible effects it would have on my long-term memory if I was to go down that route. If there were any negative side-effects within this vein, it would be incompatible with the way in which I want to live my life, including my career goals.

While I was in the hospital, I was referred to a centre that specialised in Dialectical Behaviour Therapy (DBT). I have read about DBT previously, and wanted to try it out when I received a previous diagnosis of Borderline “tendencies” in Norway, however, as I lived in a small town, there were no DBT groups available nearby, and so my therapist gave me a booklet to read up on it on my own. I had also previously stumbled upon the therapist that founded DBT (Marsha Linehan) when I was studying my Bachelor of Psychology. She later admitted that she actually had been diagnosed with BPD herself, and so DBT was a hodge-podge of different therapies and western and eastern practices that had worked for her. I thought the refterral would take longer to process than it did, but it was processed more-or-less straight away after I came out of hospital. I attended the three commitment meetings and was successfully offered a place, and, after all that I had heard and read, was excited to begin. But six weeks in, I feel let down. 

Let me preface what I am about to say by stating that I think there is a lot of good methods to help tackle negative feelings that DBT offers, but a lot of the skills surrounding self-care are competencies I already possess (and so nothing new). There are also some aspects of DBT that are just not really relevant to me specifically, but that’s alright. If I look at it as more tools I can fill my emotional toolbox with, not everything is going to fit. I enjoy and aim for self-improvement, and this is what attracted me to DBT in the first place. On the other hand, I am an analytical person who enjoys testing concepts and seeing if there are any potential flaws in what I am learning, and the method of delivery of the current program I am in doesn’t seem to leave room or space for that. I am finding aspects of DBT condescending, basic, and invalidating. I don’t feel that my prior knowledge or skills are being acknowledged as strengths I am bringing to the table that I can build upon. It is almost as I, along with the rest of the group, am being treated as if I am clueless, and that the therapists and coaches involved in the DBT group sessions are the autocratic, absolute experts on everything we should be doing and what we are doing “wrong,” something that I feel is quite harsh given that most who suffer from BPD also have C-PTSD, or, conversely, that those with C-PTSD can often be misdiagnosed with BPD. After researching some more, I have found that I am not alone in these misgivings. 

I decided to share some of my criticisms just this morning with my individual coach. We met at a cafe near where I live, after I dropped the kids off at school. Towards the end of the session, she asked me directly if I ever felt she had invalidated me in our individual sessions. I decided to be honest and tell her that I had felt that. I have only just started acknowledging past trauma, some of which occurred years ago, to both myself and my therapists. It’s mostly because I feel that it is time to do so, because the thoughts and feelings were coming up more and more regularly, intrusively and involuntarily, to the point where I feel like I can’t ignore them anymore. Three weeks ago, I disclosed to my coach in an individual session about the trauma and sexual abuse I had experienced via school bullying. I told her that she had laughed briefly after I had told her about a boy who had pinched my bottom in front of the whole grade on a dare when I was was 13, and said I didn’t blame her, maybe she laughed out of surprise, but when I also told her that she had, in the same conversation, told me not to worry about “stupid school” (her exact words), she denied having said that to me at all, and got quite defensive. 

She even said that perhaps I had just “experienced it that way,” and just refused to acknowledge that she had said that at all. I felt so gaslighted,so triggered (my mother tried to gaslight me all the time) and am now unsure whether I will continue with DBT. I left really shaken up, which was tough as I had had a really rough week and had actually woken up in a good mood, and had to then work really hard to turn my thoughts back around again. Upon reflection, I think the coaches are badly trained and unprofessional. This might be what is making the delivery sub-par. Maybe it’s just yet another case of “you get what you pay for.” Now, the question is, do I continue, and just try to focus on implementing the skills, instead of worrying about my obvious personality clash with the therapists and coaches involved? Sigh.

Now, to address the Asperger’s diagnosis: I actually feel it is a good fit. She got in an expert who took me through the diagnostic criteria before giving me the diagnosis, and, for the first time in a long time, I felt validated. I have been doing a lot of reading since receiving my diagnosis, and have found a number of interesting facts about females with Asperger’s, such as they are more likely to be overlooked for diagnosis compared to that of boys, as they do not present with the same symptoms, and are often misdiagnosed with (interestingly) Bipolar, BPD, or even OCD, because it was (until recently) considered a diagnosis exclusively reserved for boys. They are overlooked because they tend to be great social mimics (as females generally are more socialised than men), which masks the symptoms and difficulties females with ASD face. I believe that one of the reasons for my life-long fascination with human behaviour (to the point that I decided to study it), is due to my desire to fit in, when I have always felt different. I have, as my husband has also observed, a number of special interests that I enjoy talking about at length in social settings, and often fail to pick up on the social cues of boredom in the individuals I am talking to. But, that’s alright. It is part of the diagnosis. I am working on it. I might not ever get there, but that is alright too. In my research on the subject, I found a delightful blog from Tania Marshall, as well as her book, entitled “I am Aspien Woman,” which discusses the unique struggles of females with Asperger’s. The blurb to the book states: “Have you ever wondered about a friend, a partner, a mother, sister or daughter? Wondered why she says she feels 'different'? Out of step with her peers, she may struggle keeping friends and a job, yet she has multiple degrees. Bright from early on, she may have singleminded focus, sprinkles of anxiety, sensory and social issues, be gifted in art, writing, science, research or singing. Maybe she is a woman on the Autism spectrum, with a unique constellation of super-abilities, strengths and challenges?” I relate to all of this. I was a precocious reader with an eidetic memory from an early age. I have multiple degrees, and am creative, but struggle in social situations. It’s who I am, and I accept it. When I told my GP, who also closely follows my mental health progress, that my current psychologist has diagnosed me with Asperger’s, she dismissively stated that “everybody is different - we are all on the spectrum” - to which I have to say - what a load of crap. There is different, and there is different. I have always been a person that marches to the beat of her own drum, sometimes to my detriment. But it’s just how I am.

So, what if I don’t have BPD, or Bipolar, but rather “just” Asperger’s? I am high-functioning, so I can understand that it took a long time to identify it, but, on the other hand, it feels as if going through all of the struggles I have been through could have been prevented if only I had had a therapist that was skilled enough to really listen to me, to pick up the signs, and to validate me. I am hoping I have that now with my current psychologist, and am looking forward to working together with her toward a brighter future where I can accept myself and also work on my issues in a safe space.

After years of not sharing my thoughts or being as assertive as I want to be, I have found that recently I have been coming out of my shell in this respect, and those around me aren’t liking it. Apart from the example above, on the day I was leaving the hospital, there were a series of delays concerning my release, that, when they all added up, frustrated me so much, I had to say something. I sometimes think that those in the so-called “caring” professions abuse their power. Whether it’s bad training, an authoritative personality, or other traits that are, in my opinion, not suited to these professions that are the cause, it is a dilemma which is vital to address. Of course, #notalltherapists. But, in my long-standing experience with mental health services, and as a psychology graduate myself, it is enough to cause concern. Too often, patients are discounted because of what’s wrong with them, dismissed because the health professional believes themselves to know better, or put into the “too hard” basket for so-called “difficult” behaviour. But what needs to be acknowledged is that the person that is standing in front of them is there because they are seeking help, and should be looked at as an individual, and not necessarily by the box the therapist wants to fit them into. More duty of care, more empathy, and more acknowledgement, is needed.

[karihighman]

There was a time I couldn’t imagine a future without you, but I can now. [And] I feel…free.”

– Will Halstead (Nick Gehlfuss), 5×09 “I Can’t Imagine The Future”

Chicago Med had to end their fifth season early due to the pandemic, so their 20th episode served as their makeshift season finale. Since we’re unsure of when they will exactly be back filming, I figured it’d be a great time to take a look at a “wish list” of sorts for their up-and-coming sixth season. From happy couples to hospital policies, there’s a lot that can be done during season 6 of Chicago Med. Keep reading below for some ideas.

Learn more about Crockett’s past

Perhaps it was just bad timing for Crockett Marcel’s (Dominic Rains) past to come to light during their season finale, but regardless, it would be cool to get to know more about Med’s newest doctor.

How did his lost child come to be? As in, was he previously married? Engaged? In a relationship? And how was he as a father? We saw a little bit of how his loss affected his current work – in episode 12, and in episode 20. But, it would be – I hesitate to say nice, because who wants to see a character in pain? – interesting to see if we could learn more on how he was affected by it. Did it change how he operated as a doctor? Was it the reason for his move from New Orleans to Chicago?

We’ve only really seen the overconfident, cocky Dr. Marcel – I think it’s time we could stand to see another side of him. Not that he has to break down completely, but to show a little more vulnerability would be refreshing, I think.

Can Manstead make it work?

…At least as friends, that is. Natalie Manning (Torrey DeVitto) said she would want to try and be friends with Will Halstead (Nick Gehlfuss) again, so why can’t they make it work? I think they could, and should give it a shot at least.

Now, before anyone freaks out, that’s not to say I don’t “ship” Manstead. I’ve been rooting for them since day 1. But, that being said –– Will and Natalie have both seemed to have moved on. Will’s been dating Hannah Asher (Jessy Schram); and Chicago Med has hinted at a potential connection between Natalie and Crockett. Yep, as in Crockett Marcel!

Will and Hannah started off as a bit of a wildcard romance at first, and while I’m not quite sure if we can fully trust Hannah, Will seems to, which is really all that matters. Meanwhile, Natalie and Crockett have been working closely, and way more often, together. So, will there be more in store for those two? It’s hard to tell for sure, since Med was cut short by 3 episodes.

With where they left off, it appears as though Crockett may open up more to Natalie about his past. That could be a good thing, as it would further my first point.

But, back to Manstead.

While we saw Natalie and Will argue quite a bit during season 5, it would be nice to see them interact in some way again next season. Even if it starts as a simple “Hello.” Maybe kind of getting back to their season 1 vibe? Just a thought.

Explore Chexton as individuals

While I did like Chexton together, now that they…aren’t, I think it would be a prime time to give some screentime to April and Ethan as individuals. Who are they without the other? We know their backgrounds, but we haven’t seen them interact with many others besides each other over the last season. (Well, okay. Unless you count Crockett. But let’s not get into that right now).

It would be interesting to see April have to find a place to live. Or, maybe she could live with her brother, Noah? I missed seeing the Sexton siblings on my TV towards the back half of the season! It would also be intriguing to see how Ethan fares on his own. Like, does he miss April? Or, does he thrive? Does he – dare I say – find someone else? Or, is his heart still attached to April, despite her indiscretion?

And what about April? Can she work alongside her ex-fiancé and her former crush? Well, I’m assuming it’s in the past, as we haven’t seen anything more personal between Crockett and April; only professional, which is good given the situation, I think.

See Maggie, Ben, and Auggie as a family

PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD GIVE BEN, MAGGIE, AND AUGGIE A HAPPY GO LUCKY STORYLINE. PLEASE. THEY DESERVE IT!

In all seriousness, Maggie and Ben have been through hell and back. The both of them fought cancer, and beat it to remission! Then, they got engaged and married! Now, they’re going to tackle raising a young kid together. The best foster parents ever? Check. Adorable kid? Check. Family unit in the making? Check.

They deserve to have that idyllic family life: cooking pancakes in the kitchen on the weekends; Ben taking Auggie with him to school while Maggie jets off to work; Maggie coming home and reading Auggie a bedtime story, etc. Would that not be the cutest thing ever?! And who deserves it more than Ben and Maggie?! My heart is bursting at the thought.

Have more scenes featuring Owen, Elsa, etc.

I’m well aware adorable Owen Manning is very different from super-intelligent medical student Elsa Curry. But, in general, what I’m saying is it would be lovely if we could utilize these sort of, “background” characters more. Give Elsa a storyline beyond desiring Will’s affection (thank god I think Med has moved past it for now). Give Natalie some more scenes with her own child, Owen. Please? Please, @ Chicago Med, I’m begging you. Can we also get Nurse Doris, Trini, or Monique into more scenes? They offered great lines of dialogue and an extra layer that makes Chicago Med more realistic (though it’s already very realistic)!

More storylines for Sharon Goodwin and Daniel Charles

CHICAGO MED — “I Will Do No Harm” Episode 515 — Pictured: S. Epatha Merkerson as Sharon Goodwin — (Photo by: Adrian Burrows/NBC)

CHICAGO MED — “The Ghosts Of The Past” Episode 517 — Pictured: Oliver Platt as Daniel Charles — (Photo by: Elizabeth Sisson/NBC)

The veterans of Gaffney Medical Center have gotten quite a few spotlit stories on their personal lives, so let’s keep that going into season 6! We left off with Sharon’s son doing business with a medical supply company, and he seemed to have bonded with Dr. Lanik fairly well. But, Sharon was seen looking a little uneasy. Why? Could it be the methods with which Michael secured this information? If so, could we see them have a discussion about it?

For Dr. Charles, it was great to see him step into that paternal role more. Can we keep that going with his daughter, Anna next season too? Yes, we saw him suffer a devastating loss of his wife, Caroline “CeCe” Charles, and we saw Robin make an appearance during that time. But, after that, his ex-wife and Anna made an appearance. Anna came back recently too, and it was great to see Daniel admit his slight failings as a parent with her…and to see him try and make it right. It gave the always so smart psychiatrist Dr. Charles a more humanistic quality. It kind of made him more relatable, more everyday.

It would be nice to see the more real sides of both of Med’s fearless leaders.

There you have it, 6 wishes for Chicago Med’s sixth season. Do you have something you wanna see happen? If so, comment below, or reach out on social media! 

Courtesy GIPHY / Twitter / Chicago Med. 

    6 Things That Should Happen on Chicago Med Next Season There was a time I couldn't imagine a future without you, but I can now. I feel...free."

[i-heart-danchou]

Deserving

Okay!  This is for @bottomerwinweek​, prompt 1, Reunion/Reincarnation AU This ended up being a million words long (well, 6k), so I’m sorry about that.  I also switch between Levi and Erwin’s POV which will be differentiated using different fonts.  I hope you enjoy it! ------------------------- For as long as Erwin could remember, he had been harboring a secret.  It had started when he was a small child; he would wake up in the night screaming about titans and monsters and dangerous governments, and his father would cradle him to his chest and promise him, promise him, that he was safe in his bed.  It got worse over time- he had memories which weren’t his, visions of a world and a life that had never and could never have happened.  His parents had sent him to a school psychiatrist a number of times and the diagnosis often wavered between ‘wanting more attention’ and ‘severely mentally ill.’ He learned rapidly to hide his dreams, his memories, the pain of loss which he felt every day.  It was easier to make friends that way, to do well in school, to be bright and successful like everyone seemed to envision for him.  His parents were glad; it was just a phase, then.  Imaginary friends, he’d grown out of it. Over time he learned that virtually no one else in the world experienced life as he did.  His friends at school weren’t born yearning for a face in their dreams, and certainly none of them had lived through the downfall of civilization, a military coup, nor been sentenced to death by hanging.  He assumed he was unwell, and after trying a number of different mood altering medications had determined that he wasn’t going to get any better. It would have been fine if it weren’t for Levi.  Dreams and delusions were easy enough to get past, but for as long as he could remember, Erwin Smith had been in love with another human being, one which (in this lifetime, at least) he had never even laid eyes on.  It was more challenging as he went through puberty, as his friends were discovering porn on the internet and their love for large breasts, Erwin found himself unable to get past this surly man in his mind. 

He was teased for being a prude, but it didn’t bother him.  The Levi in his heart was worth waiting for, and he couldn’t really imagine finding happiness with anyone else.  He had a few flings of course, short people with sharp eyes but… There was no one in this world who could hold a candle to what he’d shared with Levi— an odd mix of passion, trust, respect, and absolute devotion to one another.  Even the memories with Levi where things had been grim, dangerous or terse were precious to him.  

He smiled even now when he recalled Levi threatening to break his legs, how they’d fought hand to hand in those difficult beginnings… how Levi had swallowed his feelings and put Erwin first, telling him to give up on his dream in those last crucial moments.  

**

Erwin tried to find Levi in any way he could— searching for his name on social media, using the internet to see if there was anyone, anyone else in this world who had lived a past life like Erwin had.  That was how he connected with Mike, and the relief at knowing that he wasn’t crazy was almost impossible to describe.

They agreed to meet at a nice gastro-pub near Erwin’s work, and idly Erwin wondered if this was too good to be true.  He and Mike had been so close… and yet, he held himself responsible for Mike’s death.  It was likely that Mike resented him, blamed him, hated him now.  It might also just be a scam; a con artist online taking advantage of desperate people like Erwin.

He needn’t have worried though.  From under his umbrella Mike spotted him across the street and knew him immediately.  It wasn’t often Erwin was swept off his feet in an embrace, but he found himself actively reciprocating and burying his face into the warm crook of Mike’s neck.  “Erwin.”  He whispered, taking deep, long breaths in through his nose.  “It’s you.  It’s you.  I thought I was mad.”

Erwin squeezed tight, his heart racing in his chest.  He looked the same, he sounded the same, he smelled the same.   Fuck, it was real.  Levi was probably real.  He pulled away and looked into Mike’s eyes, his eyes crinkled with joy and relief.  He was almost too happy to speak.  

“You ah… you wanna grab an overpriced cocktail and some avocado based appetizer that probably won’t be served on plates?”  Mike managed eventually, his hands perched on Erwin’s shoulders.  

“I’d like that.”  Erwin nudged Mike’s body with his elbow and they walked in together.  

Erwin was all questions— have you always felt like this?  Have you found anyone else?  Nanaba?  Do you hide it?  Do you remember how you died?  Why is this happening?  Who are we?  Who were we?

Mike smirked, apparently glad that some things never changed.  Erwin’s inquisitive and brilliant mind was as sharp as it ever was.  “Yes, no, no, yes, no, I don’t know, I don’t know, and I don’t know.”  He said without much emotion in his voice.  

Erwin nodded.  “It’s funny.  I can’t remember how I died either.  I was leading the charge against the beast titan and... that’s where it ends.”  He swirled his drink around in the glass with his straw, watching the ice cubes dance.  “My whole life I’ve been researching alternate realities, parallel universes… trying to find evidence of these titans, of the walls… I haven’t found any.”  He looked wistful.  “I imagine we’re not the only ones.  A whole world can’t have disappeared into nothing.”

“I wonder.”  Mike mused.  “You might be onto something with parallel universes.  Wormholes, old souls, that kind of thing.”  He shrugged.  “I’m glad we found each other.”  

Erwin nodded.  “Me too.”  He could see it on Mike’s face; the man was searching for someone too.  A face in his dreams that consumed his heart and most of his thoughts.  He had a hole in his heart and only a faint memory guiding him towards fulfillment.  

**

By the time Erwin was approaching his thirty-fifth birthday, he had more or less given up on finding Levi again.  Or, that’s what he told himself anyway.  He’d tried to function in a romantic relationship a number of times, but nothing had ever quite clicked.  He was too aloof, maybe, not good enough at displaying his feelings.  He was never… there, in an emotional sense.  

Gone where the days when Erwin had browsed teashops, underground fighting rings, cleaning supply stores in hopes of finding Levi again.  Mike in that time had found Nanaba, and Erwin was truly happy for them both.  It was difficult to give up hope, he supposed, but hope was making it difficult to function.  In the other world his depression had consumed him, had damaged the lives of the people around him.  He didn’t want to make his parents worry, after all.  They had done so much for him.  

Despite his resolve, Erwin still found himself always keeping an eye out for Levi wherever he went.  He never used headphones in case he missed Levi’s voice calling out, he tended not to stare at his phone for a similar reason.  At night, he’d look through obituaries, death announcements, anything to just… prove that Levi existed.  That it was okay to give up on finding him.  

Nothing ever panned out, of course, so on his birthday he decided to treat himself.  He took the Monday off to give himself a nice three day weekend at the beach.  Living in the city as he did he very rarely got to get out and see nature, and… well, the ocean carried a lot of significance for him.   He’d always, always dreamed of seeing it with Levi one day.  

It wasn’t very difficult to rent a cottage by the beach in the middle of October, and he spent the better part of the weekend huddled up inside next to the quaint little fireplace.  The weather was awful, the winds were roaring, and he was glad he had a bit of privacy here.  He filled a solitary glass of wine and watched the watched the beautiful full moon break through the clouds and dance on the surface of the water.

**

The weather broke on his birthday, at least enough for him to stroll up and down the coast and get some fresh air.  He ignored the notifications on his phone and shoved it in his pocket.  Aging was hard.  Perhaps harder still now that he knew he was approaching the age when he’d died in that other world.  That Erwin Smith had accomplished so much in that time and… although this Erwin was successful by virtually all measures, he felt he had accomplished nothing. Thirty five years of looking for a ghost.  Thirty five years alone and desperate.  Happy fucking birthday, commander.  

He snuggled up against his thick woolly scarf and made his way down the pebbly shore.  The wind was harsh and angry, but at least the sun was vaguely trying to make itself known.  It wasn’t pleasant, but the ocean spray in his hair was making him feel alive.  There was something haunting and beautiful about the vast expanse of the sea, and he found himself looking across the horizon and wondering where… wondering where Levi was.  If he was even alive at all.

Possibly he needn’t have worried so much.  Off in the distance he heard a soft ‘fuck.’  

His ears pricked up, his eyes widened, and he scanned the beach.  Maybe a hundred yards away there was a slight man standing at the edge of the water, staring right back at him.  His arms were crossed, his eyes narrowed, a shock of black hair blowing in the wind around his eyes.  His clothes were worn but clean, he looked healthy.  

Levi.  Erwin’s mind was racing— it was Levi, it was Levi, he was certain of it—yet he hadn’t considered the possibility that Levi might not know him, might not remember or recognize him, might not want anything to do with him— shit. His heart ached with how much he adored this man, and it took everything he had to keep himself restrained and not throw himself at Levi.

He took a calming breath and started to approach, as it was apparent Levi was not going to come up to him first.  Each step closer hardened his resolve; it was Levi, he knew his face, he knew his stance, he knew this man.  Thirty five years of searching, it was him, it was him. 

“Levi?”   He called tentatively, carefully… as a young man, Levi had been so skittish and mistrusting.  Who knew how old he was now?  What his life had been like, if he had any reason to be wary of strange men calling out to him on the beach.  

There was something difficult in Levi’s expression— pain, certainly, worry, confusion, heartache… a touch of excitement, disbelief, joy too… but… pain was the predominating feature.  “Erwin.”  He said at last.  “Of all the fucking beaches in all the fucking world.”

They didn’t run to meet each other in the sand and hug, they didn’t kiss, they didn’t cry.  That interaction answered a few questions, actually.  Levi knew him.  Levi had at least some of his memories from the past.  Levi likely had met someone else from their world, or he would have been much, much more surprised to see him.  And… Levi had been actively avoiding him all this time.

Erwin hesitated for a moment, trying to plan how best to proceed.  “It… it’s been a while.”  

Levi’s expression fell into something detached and cynical, a more typical look for him to be sure.  “Yeah.”

“I rented a little cottage by the water.”  Erwin said, forcing a plastic smile to his lips.  “Do you want to come in so we can catch up?”

A war raged in Levi’s eyes.  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”  He muttered, and started turning his back on Erwin.  

“Levi.”  Erwin said softly, the vulnerability and hurt was obvious in his voice.  “Please don’t walk away from me again.  I’ve been searching my whole life for you.  Only you.  Please.”

Levi pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a small groan.  “Fine.  It better not be a long walk.”

**

They were both silent as they walked to the cabin, the soft crunch of the sand beneath their feet and the soft roar of the waves as they hit the shore were the only real sounds.  Erwin kept a respectful distance from Levi, but he noticed that although Levi was keeping his eyes in front of him, on occasion he snuck a little glance up at Erwin.  He smiled then.  It was such a Levi thing to do that it made his heart sing.

“Make yourself at home.”  Erwin said pleasantly when they arrived, tossing a log onto the dying embers in the fireplace.  

“You kept the place clean.”  Levi remarked with no small amount of surprise.  His fingers ran along one of the wooden surfaces, coming up dust free.  “Not bad.”

Erwin chuckled.  “My whole life I’ve been looking for you, Levi.  I got into the habit of keeping a clean home just in case.”  

Levi cocked an eyebrow.  “Gay.”  He decided, inviting himself into the kitchen so he could brew them both some nice tea.  

The swell of love that Erwin felt was almost indescribable.  His face ached from smiling, and it was all he could do to stop himself from hugging Levi from behind, from kissing his neck up and down, from running to the bedroom and just… seeing where the day took him.  

But he didn’t do that.  “I suppose so.”  He tried to swallow his smile.  “How have you been, Levi?  Tell me about—“

“What do you remember?”  Levi demanded, his eyes sharp and desperate.  “From before.”

Erwin swallowed.  “I remember titans.  I remember a world crushed from the outside by disgusting monsters who threatened to destroy everything.  I remember losing my father to my own stupidity, and I remember being in the army.  I found a young man in the underground who changed my life, a man so brilliant and talented that I believed he and I could save the world together.  He was my right hand, and he stood beside me and supported me through all my crazy ideas.  I was in love with him, and he knew me better than I knew myself.”

He paused there, watching Levi carefully.  He’d always been good at coaching his expressions, and he was difficult to read, but… the pain in his face was escalating, and the tips of his ears were red.  “We did everything together.  People seldom saw me without him— without you.  You supported me through losing my arm, through the coup, you helped me chase my dream and… and when everything was falling around us, you stood beside me and helped me lead the final charge.  I died proud, I died as the man I wanted to be.  I died knowing you would finish what I started.”  He reached over and took Levi’s hand.  “You were in my heart as I faced the beast titan.  The greatest love of my life.”

Levi’s face was grey and ashen.  He pulled his hand away from Erwin and licked his lips.  “Do you want to know what was in the basement?”

Erwin narrowed his eyes for a moment.  “Yes.”  

“You were right.”   Levi said, putting on his coat as he headed to the door.  “You were right about everything.”

**

Letting Erwin die had been the hardest thing Levi had ever done.  Leaving him alone in that cottage, that desperately lonely look in his eyes, was certainly a close second.  His whole life he’d been dreaming of Erwin, wondering where he was, what his life had ended up like.  He seemed put together, at least.  Well dressed, wealthy, nice car, nice watch… good.  He’d done well in this life, he was probably happy, had friends… this was fine.  

Levi hastily texted Hanji before he got on his bike.  ‘Meet me at the bar.  Some bullshit happened.’

He had come to the ocean for the same reason Erwin had, dammit.  He’d wanted to be close to him on his birthday, he wanted to honor the commander in one of the only ways he could think of.  He didn’t fucking like the ocean, it was cold and polluted and fish fucked in it.  …besides, the ocean had always been a sore point for him.  It reminded him of Armin.  It reminded him of he day he’d let Erwin rest.  

He hated the ocean, but he often did things he hated out of respect for Erwin.  He hadn’t expected to actually find the piece of shit, with his stupid gorgeous face and his hopeful eyes and god dammit why was this happening?  He was never supposed to see him again.  Erwin deserved better.

Despite his helmet and hood Levi had ended up soaked by the time he peddled up to the bar.  “Levi you look like a drowned squirrel!   So cute.”  She patted him dry with some questionable bar napkins and Levi slapped her hand away.  

“Fuck off, Hanji.  I’m not in the mood.” He went behind the bar and poured them both some whiskey.  

She rolled her eyes.  “What, did you find Erwin or something?”

He shot her a glare so withering and severe that she actually flinched.  “Oh.  Jesus Levi.  I had no idea, I’m so sorry.”  She put a hand on his shoulder and he shrugged her away.  “Did… you talk to him?”

“Yeah.  He remembers the old world.  He remembers me.”  Levi swallowed.  “He doesn’t know how he died.  Hanji I can’t—“

“I know.”  She said gently.  “And you know that I’m going to tell you that he’s not going to be angry with you. You must have been wondering, right?  All these years— where he’s been, who he’s become, if he dreamed of you like you dreamed of him?  Finding me was one in a million, Levi!  Finding both of us was one in a billion!  Don’t fuck this one up because of your hangups.  Look at me.”  She forced him to make eye contact by clutching his cheeks.  “Erwin will love you no matter what.  Don’t fucking do this.”

Levi had reconnected with Hanji a few years earlier, purportedly by chance but he now suspected she had tracked him down on her own.  Her whole life had been marred with difficulty, as the memories of her past life had caused her nothing but trouble.  She had refused to hide her ‘mental impairment’ and it had cost her dearly.  When she had finally found Levi, she had broken down and sobbed.  

On Levi’s end, he had spent his whole life wondering if he was insane— cursing himself every time a tall blond man made him turn his head.  Meeting Hanji, confirming that it wasn’t all in his mind had been extremely liberating but… that meant Erwin was real too.

He’d been able to avoid tracking him down for a while, as Hanji was highly motivated to find Moblit first.  After an exhaustive search they found him at last, as the subject of a gofundme page for a young man with leukemia.  According to the last update, Moblit had died about two years prior, surrounded by family and loved ones.  Hanji didn’t speak about him much, but knowing Erwin was out there, that Levi was squandering this chance was probably killing her.

But it didn’t matter.  Levi had allowed Erwin to die.  He had snatched his last chance at life away, and ensured his dream would never come true.  Beyond that, he had failed to kill the beast titan.  Levi Ackerman had spent the last decades of his life crippled and useless, unable to join the final fray, unable to keep his vow.  Levi had survived all of them.  Little by little his world became empty, and he wasted away to nothing.  His penance had been a life of solitude and reflection, and that wasn’t about to change now.  

He had robbed the world of Erwin Smith, he didn’t deserve to find happiness with him now.  Erwin fucking deserved better.

**

Erwin had stood for a good long while staring at the door after Levi left.  He thought about following, about grabbing Levi’s arm and forcing him to stay but it just wasn’t the way Erwin operated.  He’d watched through the window as Levi had cycled off and covered his eyes with his hand.  

He could have followed, but he didn’t.  If Levi didn’t want anything to do with him, he had to respect that.  Perhaps it was enough to know that Levi was alive and well, that he was well, not happy exactly but… functional.  Fuck.  

He wondered what might have transpired in their old world to have gotten Levi to turn on him so completely.  Maybe in his last moments, Erwin had betrayed humanity, let them all down, disappointed Levi beyond measure.  Maybe Levi had reconsidered all of the deaths Erwin had been responsible for, maybe he blamed him and thought him a monster now.  Maybe he’d lived a long happy life in a titan free world, settled down with a nice man and felt disloyal to consider the love of another?

Erwin had never entertained the possibility that Levi would reject him if they were ever reunited.  He’d taken their love for granted, and now he was paying the emotional price.  Idly, he wondered if he would ever recover from such a blow.  

He called in sick to work for the rest of the week, and extended his lease on the cottage.  He was in no shape to work right now, and he needed some time to heal and plan his life from now on.  Levi was not an option anymore, and he had the rest of his life to think about.  Maybe he could get married now, give his parents some grandchildren.  Maybe he could fake his way through the rest of his life, and die knowing his soulmate had moved on long ago.  

It was fine.  He was fine.

He sunk into the plush little armchair which sat beside the fireplace.  His head fell into his hands and he took some deep, solid breaths as he tried to calm the miserable anxiety coiling in the pit of his stomach.  Depression had destroyed commander Smith once before.  He wondered if loneliness might do it this time.

His phone started buzzing in his pocket and of course he ignored it.  That is, until the buzzing became incessant, annoying, and worrying in its urgency.  An unknown number was calling, and he sent it straight to voice mail.  Immediately following was a series of texts.

‘Erwin, it’s Hanji, I found your number online.  I know Levi met up with you, I know everything is fucked up right now.  Can we talk?’

**

Levi examined the glass he was holding against the warm yellow light of the bar.  Spotless.  Just how he liked it.  His heart was aching and he swallowed it down, deftly placing the glass in line with its siblings.  Had it always been this monotonous?  In a strange way, it reminded him of what life had been like immediately after Erwin had died.  The world was darker, music seemed muted, everything moved slower.  

It had been an awful part of his life the first time it had happened.  He’d staggered through life, his face unchanging, having to hear the snickers and whispers of those who blamed him for letting Erwin go.  What a fool that Levi was, he’s doomed us all, and that Erwin Smith, what a monster, what a villain, the two of them deserved each other.  Levi had silently borne it all.  He owed no one an explanation, and he felt he deserved some retribution for what he’d done.  It had been the right call, but it was hard to convince himself of that sometimes.  

Eren and his cohort had scarcely noticed a difference in Levi after Erwin died, and he wasn’t surprised.  They got to their fucking ocean, and the world kept spinning like Erwin had never mattered.  The fucking shitshow that followed was another story entirely but… fuck, what was wrong with him?  Levi never reminisced like this, it was pathetic.  

He’d seen Erwin for less than an hour yesterday, and his whole life had been turned upside down once more.  The man had a strange and terrible power, that’s for sure.  He shut his eyes and tried to banish Erwin from his mind, but as was often the case his beautiful gentle smile came to the forefront of his thoughts and made his heart clench.  

He’d spent the last decades of his first life praying for a chance like this… to be with Erwin again, unencumbered, free, living a life where happiness was a real possibility but… he’d let Erwin die, he’d broken his promise.  Erwin deserved better.  

The bell above the door chimed cheerfully as a customer allowed himself into the bar.  Levi glanced up, started offering to take the guy’s order when he saw it was Erwin.  His eyes widened and his jaw clenched.  “What the hell are you doing here?  You followed me?”

Erwin shook his head.  “Hanji called me.  She told me I would find you here.”  He sat down at the bar.  “I’d like a beer, please.”

Levi poured him one of the microbrew special crafted IPA bullshit beers he had on tap and set the glass down in front of him.  

“Thank you, Levi.”  

Levi’s heart clenched and he felt like he might be sick.  

Erwin was silent for a moment as he sipped his beer.  He carefully placed the glass on a coaster and looked started watching Levi with those impossible beautiful eyes of his.  Levi knew he looked pained, nervous, highly strung, and defensive.  He hesitated, not sure what to say.

Erwin broke the silence, then.  “I’d like to speak with you, Levi.  I’d like you to listen to what I have to say, and if at the end of that you still don’t want me to be a part of your life, I’ll accept it and I won’t bother you again.”

Levi met his eyes and nodded his consent.  How?  How could he still be under this man’s spell after a lifetime and a universe apart?

“I spent the final years of that other life loving you.  Wishing that we had the luxury of security and simplicity so we could just find happiness together.  Wishing for a world just like this one.  I loved that you were able to prioritize our mission, I loved how passionate we were, and I loved how I could be myself around you.  I’ve spent this entire life yearning for you and searching for you.  I never stopped loving you.”

Levi kept how moved he was off his face.  He kept his expression hard and cold. “You don’t understand.”  He muttered.  “You just don’t—“

“Hanji told me how I died.”  Erwin interjected, and Levi’s blood ran cold.  

“I don’t resent you for that, Levi.  She didn’t understand why you did what you did, but I do.”  He reached over and offered his hand for Levi to take.  His palm was warm and inviting looking, but Levi resisted taking it.  “You did it out of love.  It was a gift, an act of mercy.  You let me die with my humanity, my dreams, my sense of self intact.  I can’t forgive you, Levi.”  Levi’s heart dropped.   “…because there’s nothing for me to forgive.  You were right to let me go then.  I was ready to end it, I was at peace for once in my life.  It never would have ended up like this world, not in our lifetimes.  We never would have been happy.”  Erwin looked so tired, so hurt.  “We have this chance now.   A chance to carve a beautiful, peaceful life for ourselves.  I love you and I want to be with you.  Please, please don’t send me away.”

Levi recalled when Erwin had died.  How the news had hit him like a punch in the gut, how all at once the light had been snuffed from his life.  The way he’d crumpled into himself, picked up the pieces of his heart, and forced himself to keep standing.  Letting Erwin go was a choice he had to live with, one that he told himself he’d never regret, but… it had killed him.  His soul had died with Erwin, and that moment of intense, visceral pain hadn’t left him even now.  

He came out from behind the bar and hugged Erwin as tightly as he could.  His eyes screwed shut, the vague threat of tears at the back of his mind, he squeezed Erwin nice and hard and his breath hitched when he felt those strong arms envelop him.  “I missed you.”  Levi said simply.  “All this time, I thought of you.  I never stopped fighting for you, Erwin.  I never let you go, not really.”

“I know.”  Erwin’s voice was deep and soothing as ever, and Levi found himself smiling as Erwin nuzzled his hair.  

**

Erwin had often wondered what his first time with this world’s Levi would be like.  He sort of imagined someone getting slammed into a wall, fists raking through hair, more biting than kissing… a marathon of desperate animal sex which one might find in the deepest caves of the internet.  But it wasn’t like that at all.

Levi had closed the bar early and taken Erwin’s hand, and they’d walked to his little apartment in blissful, almost giddy silence.  Erwin followed Levi to his bedroom and sat down beside him on the mattress.  A comfortable beat of silence passed between them, and Levi made the first move.  

He crawled into Erwin’s lap and kissed him up and down his face, deft fingers working his shirt open, breathing in the soft skin beneath the fabric.  Levi was soft, tender, reverent even, and it made Erwin’s heart sing.  

Erwin cupped Levi’s face and drew him in for a kiss, urging him out of his clothes too.  Levi yielded, presented his neck, started rubbing himself along Erwin’s warm arousal.  He could see Levi wanted to be submissive, perhaps a show of apology for… everything, but it wasn’t exactly what Erwin had in mind.

In letting Erwin die, Levi likely felt he’d betrayed Erwin’s trust.  Like he’d been trusted with a precious jewel and he’d thrown it away without a thought.  Levi probably wanted to make things right, to spend the rest of his life apologizing and worrying that Erwin loathed him for his act of love and mercy.  Erwin didn’t want that.  They had this second chance, and he didn’t want to waste another second lamenting over a world filled with monsters and angry teenagers.

Levi began to prepare himself and Erwin gently caught his wrist with his hand.  “Not today.”  He said peacefully, his eyes hooded with affection.  Erwin leaned back on the bed and coyly spread his legs, an act of love and trust which he would do for no other.  “I want you.”  He informed Levi.  “I love you and I’ve never stopped loving you.  I always, always want to be with you.”

Levi’s expression relaxed into something trusting and warm, the little wrinkle between his eyebrows diminished and he licked his lips.  “You might regret that.”  He said, a light tease in his voice.  “You might not realize this, but I’m a cranky, fastidious, miserable little asshole.”

Erwin laughed and the mattress vibrated beneath him.  “I think I can probably handle that.  I’m a manipulative, emotionally distant, megalomaniacal bastard.”

“Not much has changed then, old man.”  Levi’s eyes were warm, a cautious joy threatening to mar his facial features.  He took his time prepping Erwin, kissing his temple and cheeks as he worked.  Every touch was tender, and the whole room was heavy with love and affection.  Erwin was glad to take Levi like this, and he shut his eyes against the pleasure he felt as he was filled.  

Yes.  Everything about this was right.  

The sex itself was over quicker than might be desirable, but perhaps that was to be expected considering how long they’d both wanted this.  It didn’t really matter; they were both satisfied, fulfilled, and drunk on each other.  Levi insisted on washing up before they cuddled, but as soon as they’d rinsed off Levi found his usual spot nestled up against Erwin’s chest.  

“I never thought this would happen.”  Levi admitted.  “I never imagined we could get time like this.  To just… be together.  Nothing hanging over our heads.  It’s not bad.”

Erwin smiled and stroked his shoulder.  “Not bad at all.”  He agreed.  “The rest of our lives is going to be like this.  I never want to be apart from you again.”  He kissed the top of Levi’s head.  “Move in with me?”

“Fuck, Erwin.  You move fast.  This wasn’t even a proper first date.”

“Oh goodness, you’re right.  I barely wined and dined you at all.  Your friends are going to think I’m terribly cheap.”

“Guess you could make it up to me by going for another round?”  Levi was smiling.  

“Levi, I’m sorry, but I’m just not the type of man who has sex twice on the first date.  I have to have some boundaries.”  Erwin was smiling too.

“You’re such a loser.”  Levi grumbled affectionately, wrapping his arms around Erwin’s neck and kissing him all over his face.  “You’d think I’d have developed better taste in men by now.”

“Mm, can’t argue with that.”  Erwin flipped him over and pinned him to the bed.  “You never said if you’d move in with me or not.”

Levi looked up at him, his eyes sparkling as he pushed Erwin’s hair out of his forehead and back into place.  “Duh.”  

**

Life fell into a pleasant routine after that.  Erwin sold his shares in his company and used the profits to buy a quaint little tea shop in a cozy village by the sea.  He loved his life with Levi, the simple pleasures that came with living a normal existence.  He was getting better at baking, and Levi seemed truly content.

Each night they’d make some time for each other, even if it was just snuggling up together while they both dicked around on their phones, or doing chores together, just… simple, gentle time.  

Sometimes they’d reminisce about the old world, or wonder about how the universes were connected, about the metaphysical implications of past lives or wormholes or… it didn’t matter.  Erwin sometimes surprised himself by not obsessing over that life anymore— the basement, even held only a small appeal now that there was no war to be won, no ghosts to avenge.  

Still.  It was in his nature to be curious.

“Levi?”  He asked one night, resting his head on Levi’s thigh as they both sprawled out on the couch together.  “So… after the basement, what happened next?”  He wiggled his eyebrows.  “Didja miss me?”

Levi flicked his forehead and let out an exasperated but affectionate sigh.  “Don’t even go there, Erwin.  The whole thing was a fucking shitshow and you should be thanking me that you weren’t there for it.  Teen angst everywhere.”

Erwin laughed and snuggled into the warm flesh of Levi’s leg.  “Mm.  We should have gotten a spinoff.” “Two old men bantering in the woods.  Dunno if it has any real market appeal, commander.”

Erwin just shut his eyes.  “We just need a media strategist.  I bet it’d be very popular.  I’ve never been wrong before.”  

Levi smiled and stroked Erwin’s hair.  “That’s true.”  His voice was gentle.  

Erwin found it so easy to fall asleep like this.  The couch was warm and comfortable, Levi’s body was soft and smelled amazing, and the gentle hand in his hair was soothing beyond words.  He drifted off with a smile on his face, wondering what Levi would mumble now that he was sure Erwin wouldn’t hear him.

“I love you, you bastard.”  The words were soft and reverent.  

Erwin wondered what he’d done to deserve such happiness.  

[laurapaq]

Attachment Theory

Without further adieu, the first psych installment of my grounded fantasy series (which I’m fangirling over like a dork):

In attachment theory, the child is constantly checking if the primary caregiver is close, available, and attentive. If they are, the child feels secure, and behaves normally, playing, exploring, and interacting with other children. If not, the child experiences anxiety and distress, and responds by seeking and summoning the caregiver until they return or the child gives up.

Attachment theory was proposed by John Bowlby in 1958 after he had served as a psychiatrist in London treating children. He observed their behavior and noted that the children who’d been separated from their mother showed emotional distress even when their physical needs were meet, such as crying when they were fed by other caregivers. However, Bowlby still believed the strong attachment between the mother and the child was survivalist in nature because the mother had first fed the child, so she was associated with safety.

Attachment is defined here as a deep and enduring emotional bond that does not have to be reciprocal. This is different from ‘bonding’ which is a theory based off close skin-to-skin contact that has been largely discredited. Basically, attachment revolves around the parents’ response to the child when they feel threatened. This first attachment with the caregiver (the mother in John Bowlby’s original theory as he placed a strong emphasis on the mother due to her initially feeding the child) is believed to influence the rest of the child’s relationships, including those in their adult life. It can be considered a WEIRD theory (Western, educated, industrialized, rich, democratic) in origin and worldview, but has been empirically grounded and claims universality as one of its early proponents, Mary Ainsworth, conducted studies in Uganda.  

Specifics:

The stages of attachment were studied by Rudolph Schaffer and Peggy Emerson in a 1964 study that studied 60 infants for the first 18 months of their life. The stages of the baby’s attachment were recorded in mother’s diaries and by monthly visits. 

(0-6 wks) Asocial: Most stimuli, social or non-social, produce a favorable reaction. 

(6 wks-7 months) Indiscriminate attachment: The infants show no preference to anyone, and just want constant attention. Around three months, the infant can recognize familiar faces, but still responds roughly equally to anyone.

(7-9 months) Specific Attachment: the infant shows special preference for a single person who is associated with protection and comfort, and unhappiness if separated from that person, while others may be regarded with fear or anxiety.

(10+ months) Multiple Attachments: the infant becomes increasingly independent and forms multiple attachments.

Mary Ainsworth classified children into types of attachments in a study done with year old infants who were repeatedly separated and reunited with their caregiver. About 60%, the securely attached, responded as Bowlby expected, with distress at the caregiver’s absence and joy at the return. About 20% or less, the anxious-resistant, were despondent at their caregiver’s absence, but this distress continued even when their caregiver returned, and these children even appeared to punish their caregiver for leaving (or maybe for making them human lab rats). The avoidant, about 20%, didn’t appear upset at their caregiver’s absence and turned to toys or other distractions (although biologically they showed signs of distress, such as elevated heart rate). These behaviors were modeled at home, with the securely attached able to trust that their needs would be met, whereas the anxious-resistant or avoidant could not always depend on their caregivers.

In 1987, researchers Hazan and Shaver explored the adult romantic connotations of initial attachment. Romantic behavior was studied as an attachment since similarly to the initial bond, it requires the partners to feel safe with the other is nearby, requires the partner to be responsive, involves intimate contact, and those involved show preoccupation with the other, and pay close attention to facial features and body language. If this is true, we’d expect to see secure, anxious-resistant, and avoidant bonds between adults in a romantic relationship. It also implies that adults consider one another desirable by the same standards they did as an infant: safety, attentiveness, and availability. Or, perhaps an adult would seek to replicate their initial relationship, for instance, someone who had a secure relationship would continue in a pattern of healthy relationships.

The theory of attachment has since been modified, with secure attachments, anxious-resistant (or insecure-resistant), and avoidant (or insecure-avoidant) remaining, but with the addition of insecure-disorganized. These are children who don’t easily fit into the other three categories because their response varies. At home, the secure know they can rely on their parents to provide responsible care. As adults, they’re willing to show displeasure or frustrations without punishing their partners. The insecure-resistant have experienced inconsistent or unpredictable behavior at home; this doesn’t have to abuse, this could also be an overwhelmed parent. This child responds by amplifying their behavior to showcase their displeasure and try to get the response they’re seeking. As adults, they tend to worry about their partner’s response or take their frustrations out on their partner. The insecure-avoidant have experienced ridicule, irritation, or rejection to their needs, and so avoid their caregiver when distressed. As adults, they may be unable to acknowledge their distress or isolate themselves. The insecure-disorganized are typically victims of abuse or unresolved trauma, and appear to be frightened or frightening or atypical sexualized behavior. This type of behavior is often linked to psychopathy, defiance disorders, or other issues.

Why It Matters:

Although unless you’re writing a very strange book you’re not going to say “my protagonist has a disorganized attachment,” but it’s still an interesting thing to know. Personally, I tend to group my character’s childhood into ‘good’ or ‘bad’ or ‘very bad,’ but it’s helpful to be more specific when crafting characters. Having variety also adds interest, instead of having three different pairs of abusive parents to traumatize your characters, in which case it starts to look like your world is populated by losers, you could have a character feel bad since his parents loved him but were young and didn’t know how to be parents, or a single parent who loved his daughter but had to work all the time.

Besides psychologically damaging your characters, you can use attachment theory to add complexity in character relationships. Mature characters will realize they have anger issues or tend to be clingy (even if they don’t know why), and so may try to overcompensate and seem aloof because they’re trying to give their friends space or may be a bit of a pushover because they’re constantly biting back their anger. Or, characters that behave normally in most of their relationships might have a sore spot in their relationship with their parents, children, or significant other that seems to come out of nowhere. 

Or, if you get nothing else out of this, you can at least diagnose yourself and your friends.  

https://www.simplypsychology.org/attachment.html

http://labs.psychology.illinois.edu/~rcfraley/attachment.htm 

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2724160/ 

http://www.psychology.sunysb.edu/attachment/online/inge_origins.pdf 

https://www.pnas.org/content/115/45/11414

https://www.britannica.com/science/attachment-theory 

[homesoutofhuman]

Hannibal x reader - Scarlet

I shouldn’t be writing anything new without finishing all my WIPs but here we are, this just came out

Warnings: Dark af, d/s vibes, smut and sexual thoughts, brief mention of blood.

Summary: You’re seeing a psychiatrist, Dr Lecter for your issues with sex, loneliness and hyperfixatons. Will he be your cure, or have you just met the man who will only make things worse?

He eats you up. This man this...force of nature that is Hannibal. You never thought real life people could be so interesting. Most people aren’t, but him? He’s cultured, he knows about wine, food, classical music, classic literature...fuck...even listing it makes you horny. Rather a large problem then that he intimidates you so, that you feel like a complete idiot around him. That he makes you clumsy, stutter, lost for words. That he’s your fucking therapist.

Forbidden, you see and all the more tempting for it. Like the ripest apple just out of reach. And yes you’re comparing yourself to Eve, although Jezebel is more fitting. Hannibal is no Adam. Some days he’s the devil (your devil), other times he’s an angel, or how you picture angels anyway. Tall and big and terrifying. Awe inspiring even. Makes you cross yourself before you enter his office, makes you cross your legs when you hold his gaze just a little too long.

You never wanted to be so wholly consumed before. Your obsession (for that is what it is) is serious. You want to lie down on the floor and just let him...what do you want? For him to walk on you? Crush you? Or just lay down and cover you with his body, let you no longer feel, or see, or speak, just the sweet blackness of oblivion, just so you don’t have to feel this painful want anymore.

“I want you inside me” you tell him one day and see the flash of surprise in his eyes before the mask descends. What you wouldn’t give to see it fall completely, see him weakened by desire, made wordless with sensation- moaning as you touch his skin, proving he’s human after all.

“What you think you want and what you actually need are two different things” he replies, glancing down at his notepad a few moments too long. Your gaze falls to where his fingers grasp his pen, knuckles turning white, the pads of his fingers slipping over the nib.

“Explain.” you say shortly,

“You’ve found a confidant in me…” Hannibal continues, smoother now that he’s back on his psychiatrist track. “A connection, a kinship. Your instincts are sexual because you want to control this relationship. But I’m telling you, you can’t.”

“How does turning things sexual mean I’m in control?” you tilt your chin up as a clue, you want to submit to him more than anything.

Hannibal’s eyes follow to curve of your neck. “I would show myself to you- naked and vulnerable. I would lose my position of trust, of detachment. It would be an abuse of power. “ His tone is calm, steady, but he almost sounds like he’s considering the idea.

Leaning forward,  “How about if I promise to let you take control? Just as we are here, I’ll still be your patient, I’ll follow where you lead.”

He sighs, a deep, shuddering noise. You feel the warm caress of his breath on your face. “I want to help you more than I want to….possess you.”

“It hurts Hannibal, it’s all empty and I can’t get out…” you gesture, words failing you.

Hannibal frowns, a doctor after all cannot ignore someone is pain. “I have an assignment for you. Go without sex for a week, do not touch yourself, no dirty thoughts, no porn, no...erotic literature, until you see me again, think you can do that?”

Smiling, you tilt your head, an attempt at flirting. “Probably not.”

He leans forward then, fixing you with a stern, dark gaze. “You will do it (Y/N). Send me updates, you have my number. If you’re feeling desperate I want you to identify it. We’ll use a code word- scarlet, let’s say…if you use that word I’ll know you’ve failed your task. That you’re thinking...about sex.”

It’s the hardest week of your life, but in searching for things to fill the void you are productive - taking on extra tasks at work, meeting friends. It’s the evenings that are hardest, when you’re alone and your thoughts stray to Hannibal - craving to immerse yourself in fantasies of him. You drive to the grocery store and buy ingredients to make a meal from scratch. You ignore the glances from the lone men in the liquor aisles. Not today Satan.

At home, you prepare your work surface and begin to chop the vegetables, getting into an almost meditative rhythm. A blackbird squawks outside and your hand slips, the knife slices into your finger and blood is everywhere. You patch yourself up feeling wounded, betrayed. The meal abandoned you grab some popcorn and sit, self-pitying in front of Netflix until your heart lightens slightly.

Remembering your assignment you message your therapist. You have him saved under ‘Dr Lecter’. Keeping him at a distance while wanting him closer than anyone else. 

Took a walk today but now feeling sorry for myself on the couch.

The reply comes swiftly; A walk is a very beneficial.

It’s not enough, it’s never enough, so you take a deep breath and raise the phone to your face, snapping a photo.

I cut myself- ouch! You caption it, holding your bandaged finger up for Hannibal to see, a pout jutting out your bottom lip, your eyes wider and innocent. The perfect image of a vulnerable, needy damsel in distress.

You see the bubbles forming on the screen to show Hannibal is typing a reply, then they disappear.

“Fuck it.” you drop your phone on the couch and let your hand drift down to the waistband of your sweatpants. Closing your eyes you let your mind swim with a kaleidoscope of images. Hannibal shoving you up against the wall of his office, biting your neck, pushing you down as he sits in his chair, on your knees looking up as though praying. You imagine his mouth - thin and cruel yet soft on your skin, his large hands at your throat, on your breasts... perhaps he’d even bend you over his desk. In all of your fantasies he is fully dressed, either in his suit or in the waistcoat with his shirt sleeves rolled up. You cannot seem to conjure of the image of him naked. Not yet.

A message tone interrupts your reverie.

It’s beneficial to lick your wounds.

Staring at the phone you think you’re still in your imagination. Could Hannibal have really…? Emboldened by your desperation you take the bandage off your finger and suck it into your mouth as you take another photo and send it before you can second guess your actions.

When the reply comes you see yourself, cheeks hollowed and eyes full of lust, the finger in your mouth a perfect approximation of another phallic object you’d rather feel against your tongue.

His message is one word, but you resume touching yourself and your orgasm hits you like a wave as you read it, let the meaning and hope of it wash over you.

Scarlet.

[ser-yolomere-of-swagalore]

Welcome, O life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race myself, bitch.

James Joyce -- Ulysses (with some much needed editing)

I haven’t written here in a long time. In fact, after this post, I don’t really see myself writing here every again-- and no, before any of you (if there is, in fact, any one who will see this) jump to conclusions, this isn’t some kind of weird suicide note, or plea for help. What this is, is a sort of manifesto, or a summation, of everything that I’ve felt, and am feeling at the moment, and in a way, hopefully, purging myself of these feelings forever. It’s a goodbye, but also a new opportunity. A creation, as well as a destruction. A final litany of things that I have to say, or wanted to say, and a final exorcism of numerous antagonistic little ghosts that have been rattling around in my head for God knows how long. 

I’ve always been struck by the concept of a sort of Joycean paralysis. Maybe because it’s true-- that Irish people are, in a weird way, struck with a sort of deep, abiding, spiritual malaise, a psychological and emotional paralysis, as a sort of weird, post-colonial hangover-- or maybe because it simply hits too close to home. The narrative of a sort of genealogical, archaeological torpor is one that is all too easy to believe, because it is something that I have experienced quiet viscerally throughout my entire life, but also in a way that is difficult to articulate. The sense that you’re fundamentally at odds with the world around you because of some fundamental, spiritual displacement resulting from years (centuries?) of imperialistic and religious abuse isn’t something that goes well over dinner, after all-- especially when dinner is a hurriedly bought Burger King and the sound of mopeds careening up and down the Cardiffsbridge Road muffles the sound of Coronation Street on the television. 

But it’s a feeling that has stuck with me so long. Longer than I can really remember. This sense of being held back. By myself, by the world around me, by the people around me. Dreams of leaving, of emigrating, have been a consistent fantasy of mine. Occasional spurts of creative writing have always been characterized by the theme of a departure, whether through the realm of some childish Tolkien-esque fantasy or through a plane ticket that randomly fell into the protagonist’s (read: my) lap. That feeling of momentary, ontological vertigo, when the plane leaves the ground and you can feel yourself lifted in that miniature pocket of zero-gravity, is a sensation that I’ve craved and chased (either literally, or figuratively) whenever possible, with varying degrees of success. I even had, at one point, a bit of a miniature breakdown (you know those ones, where they creep up on you, where you have this vague sense that at any minute things are just going to collapse all around you, and nothing will ever be the same) and I started doing some pretty illegal things to get money (fill in the blanks there however you wish) in order to essentially run away, get a plane ticket to somewhere, and just start afresh. But that did crash down, either way-- I started having some viscerally severe panic attacks; I felt like I was going to be trapped here, forever, that I was going to die here, that all the dreams and aspirations I had of doing something worth while were just gonna be swallowed up the dull, plot-less relentlessness with which life here seemed to drive itself--arguably into the ground. I attended counselling, got a professional, objective perspective, and was able to get to grips with things. The anxiety stopped. The borderline insane drive to escape was lulled, and while the gnawing sense of there being a sort of hole, at the center of everything, dissipated, it didn’t quite disappear. I was, once again, able to manage, and plod right along. 

Over time, I’ve come to terms with the fact that my sense of malaise is not, in fact, the result of some kind of literarily prescribed sense of paralysis-- or, at least, not entirely. It is the result of years, perhaps arguably even decades, of mistreatment. By a family and a home that is so deeply dysfunctional that it is, legitimately, tragic. By an early upbringing so neglected and isolated that, to look back and take an earnest look, is genuinely pathetic. By a mindset and by people who see who I am and see something to laugh at. I’ve slowly come to terms with the fact that my family have never quite seen me seriously, as someone incompetent, flowery, soft, and not worth paying attention to. Years, again, potentially decades of subtle gaslighting, invalidation, negation, criticism, patronizing, condescension-- all compounded by shitty, so-called friends, who were all too happy to take advantage of my desire to please and turn it around on me-- had resulted in a person who had so much self-doubt, such a negative self-image, such a horrible sense of failure that, to further disappoint, would result in self-harm. Decades of having my life dictated to me, taking up responsibility and accepting the burden of my family’s terrible choices, of having my potential and my opportunities circumscribes by what seems to be the endlessly unfolding soap opera of my extended family’s self-inflicted pain.  And the worst part is that I simply thought all of this was normal. The concept of Joycean paralysis was able to help me understand, in a vague sense, what was really wrong, but only hindered me in truly understanding its origin.

I worry that if I go on like this I’ll only end up sounding like some kind of serially self-pitying asshole, one of those people that advertises their personal trauma and tragedy as a means to win the Sadsack Olympics, or obtain sympathy, or blame their lack of success and fulfillment on their past. But in the end, that isn’t what this is about. That isn’t the reason why I’m writing this post. In fact, the reason why I am writing this is far more joyous, written with a deep smile spreading across my face. I’ve spent my entire life orientating around myself around other people, of pleasing other people, and I’ve gotten very, very good at figuring out what is that people want, and giving it to them. What I’ve learned, an what I’ve finally gotten the balls to do, is do what I want. I’ve learned to say no. I’ve learned to pursue what I want, to accrue self-confidence, self-love, self-esteem. I’ve learned to deny people, to put myself first, and tell people who need to be told what for. I’ve learned that to be “good” is to give in, to do as I’ve told and take it all on the chin, and I’ve learned that to be “bad” is to pursue what I want, and to rebel. And, fundamentally, I’ve learned that when I am good, I am very, very good, but when I am bad I am FUCKING FIERCE. 

So I am leaving. In fact, I’ve been planning on leaving for quite some time now. Since March, roughly. I am moving to the U.K, getting away from this place, to spend time with people who I have chosen to spend my time with, that I have build up relationships purely of my own choosing and initiative, and whom I trust. To build a life that I choose to build, for myself, and shirking off as much of the trauma, pain, insecurities and self-doubt as I can. Psychiatrist Harry Stack Sullivan believed that the core motivating force in all human behavior was anxiety, and not just anxiety, but the creative and ornate ways we go about avoiding or managing it. According to him, a personality was simply a collection of habits and strategies people gathered over time to “avoid or minimize anxiety, ward off disapproval, and maintain self-esteem.” What I’ve learned, personally, is the sheer liberating power of identifying and deconstructing the aspects of my own psychology that are life-limiting, and taking great joy in completely and utterly destroying the ones that are build up anxious defense mechanisms. I would be lying if I said that it wasn’t scary, because when these mechanisms fall I’ll be thrust, head first, into facing the things I am most deeply afraid of—social rejection and abandonment, unworthiness and failure, unlovability and isolation, to name a few. But it is liberating because I’ve come to realize that, yes, our defenses serve a function, but no, we don’t actually need all of them to survive-- and then, suddenly, an entirely new life is possible. I’ve come to realize that I actually CAN tolerate anxiety; I CAN live with not being liked, I CAN be misunderstood, I CAN make mistakes, I CAN feel bad. And let me tell you, it is a relief. God is sometimes understood as a creator, but he can also be understood as a destroy-- And I am choosing to be the God of my own goddamn life, and taking great pleasure in destroying that which I don’t like.

I’ve ended up prescribing some great, symbolic significance to the act of me leaving. It is me righteously striking back at all the things that had made me hate myself in the past, because they couldn’t simply tolerate hating themselves and needed to destroy me in order to feel better. And so, to them, I say: 

Fuck my family, who have done nothing to actually foster and cultivate who I am as a human being

Fuck the people who have turned my own kindness against me and made me doubt myself

Fuck the people who have made me feel as though my command of words is a weakness-- I am a fucking fantastic writer, and I dare any of those people to challenge me, because I’ll write them into the fucking ground. 

Fuck the people who made me doubt my intelligence; I am more than smart enough to figure things out for myself and smart enough, at least now, to see them for the self-hating, jealous troglodytes they are.

Fuck this place that has made me feel that who I am is wrong, and lesser, and subordinate-- I am worthy, and powerful, and capable.

Fuck this country, and its backwards, stagnant, repressive culture

FUCK

YOU

And that’s it. There’s my gigantic, theatrical display of radical self-acceptance. In a way, what I want to do is leave, and never come back. To delete all my social media, and start afresh. But I know that’s not realistic. I know I have to tether myself to “home”, as much as I disagree with the idea this place is truly home. I will say this, however-- there are parts of my experience here, and my life thus far, that have been wonderful. I’ve got a handful of genuinely fantastic friends, and I’ve forged some very important memories with them. To burn those bridges would be unforgivable, and I would never be able to do that to them. 

It’s 2:16am. I was already exhausted but I had to write this and get it all off my chest. But this is it-- me signing off, forever. Let this be a testament to everything I want to be, an will be, from here on out. 

-Ian.