#Psychiatric Wellness Path

[bunnyboy-juice]

blah blah blah blah blah

[reasonsforhope]

Story from the Washington Post here, non-paywall version here.

Washington Post stop blocking linksharing and shit challenge.

"The young woman was catatonic, stuck at the nurses’ station — unmoving, unblinking and unknowing of where or who she was.

Her name was April Burrell.

Before she became a patient, April had been an outgoing, straight-A student majoring in accounting at the University of Maryland Eastern Shore. But after a traumatic event when she was 21, April suddenly developed psychosis and became lost in a constant state of visual and auditory hallucinations. The former high school valedictorian could no longer communicate, bathe or take care of herself.

April was diagnosed with a severe form of schizophrenia, an often devastating mental illness that affects approximately 1 percent of the global population and can drastically impair how patients behave and perceive reality.

“She was the first person I ever saw as a patient,” said Sander Markx, director of precision psychiatry at Columbia University, who was still a medical student in 2000 when he first encountered April. “She is, to this day, the sickest patient I’ve ever seen.” ...

It would be nearly two decades before their paths crossed again. But in 2018, another chance encounter led to several medical discoveries...

Markx and his colleagues discovered that although April’s illness was clinically indistinguishable from schizophrenia, she also had lupus, an underlying and treatable autoimmune condition that was attacking her brain.

After months of targeted treatments [for lupus] — and more than two decades trapped in her mind — April woke up.

The awakening of April — and the successful treatment of other people with similar conditions — now stand to transform care for some of psychiatry’s sickest patients, many of whom are languishing in mental institutions.

Researchers working with the New York state mental health-care system have identified about 200 patients with autoimmune diseases, some institutionalized for years, who may be helped by the discovery.

And scientists around the world, including Germany and Britain, are conducting similar research, finding that underlying autoimmune and inflammatory processes may be more common in patients with a variety of psychiatric syndromes than previously believed.

Although the current research probably will help only a small subset of patients, the impact of the work is already beginning to reshape the practice of psychiatry and the way many cases of mental illness are diagnosed and treated.

“These are the forgotten souls,” said Markx. “We’re not just improving the lives of these people, but we’re bringing them back from a place that I didn’t think they could come back from.” ...

Waking up after two decades

The medical team set to work counteracting April’s rampaging immune system and started April on an intensive immunotherapy treatment for neuropsychiatric lupus...

The regimen is grueling, requiring a month-long break between each of the six rounds to allow the immune system to recover. But April started showing signs of improvement almost immediately...

A joyful reunion

“I’ve always wanted my sister to get back to who she was,” Guy Burrell said.

In 2020, April was deemed mentally competent to discharge herself from the psychiatric hospital where she had lived for nearly two decades, and she moved to a rehabilitation center...

Because of visiting restrictions related to covid, the family’s face-to-face reunion with April was delayed until last year. April’s brother, sister-in-law and their kids were finally able to visit her at a rehabilitation center, and the occasion was tearful and joyous.

“When she came in there, you would’ve thought she was a brand-new person,” Guy Burrell said. “She knew all of us, remembered different stuff from back when she was a child.” ...

The family felt as if they’d witnessed a miracle.

“She was hugging me, she was holding my hand,” Guy Burrell said. “You might as well have thrown a parade because we were so happy, because we hadn’t seen her like that in, like, forever.”

“It was like she came home,” Markx said. “We never thought that was possible.”

...After April’s unexpected recovery, the medical team put out an alert to the hospital system to identify any patients with antibody markers for autoimmune disease. A few months later, Anca Askanase, a rheumatologist and director of the Columbia Lupus Center,who had been on April’s treatment team, approached Markx. “I think we found our girl,” she said.

Bringing back Devine

When Devine Cruz was 9, she began to hear voices. At first, the voices fought with one another. But as she grew older, the voices would talk about her, [and over the years, things got worse].

For more than a decade, the young woman moved in and out of hospitals for treatment. Her symptoms included visual and auditory hallucinations, as well as delusions that prevented her from living a normal life.

Devine was eventually diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder, which can result in symptoms of both schizophrenia and bipolar disorder. She also was diagnosed with intellectual disability.

She was on a laundry list of drugs — two antipsychotic medications, lithium, clonazepam, Ativan and benztropine — that came with a litany of side effects but didn’t resolve all her symptoms...

She also had lupus, which she had been diagnosed with when she was about 14, although doctors had never made a connection between the disease and her mental health...

Last August, the medical team prescribed monthly immunosuppressive infusions of corticosteroids and chemotherapy drugs, a regime similar to what April had been given a few years prior. By October, there were already dramatic signs of improvement.

“She was like ‘Yeah, I gotta go,’” Markx said. “‘Like, I’ve been missing out.’”

After several treatments, Devine began developing awareness that the voices in her head were different from real voices, a sign that she was reconnecting with reality. She finished her sixth and final round of infusions in January.

In March, she was well enough to meet with a reporter. “I feel like I’m already better,” Devine said during a conversation in Markx’s office at the New York State Psychiatric Institute, where she was treated. “I feel myself being a person that I was supposed to be my whole entire life.” ...

Her recovery is remarkable for several reasons, her doctors said. The voices and visions have stopped. And she no longer meets the diagnostic criteria for either schizoaffective disorder or intellectual disability, Markx said...

Today, Devine lives with her mother and is leading a more active and engaged life. She helps her mother cook, goes to the grocery store and navigates public transportation to keep her appointments. She is even babysitting her siblings’ young children — listening to music, taking them to the park or watching “Frozen 2” — responsibilities her family never would have entrusted her with before her recovery.

Expanding the search for more patients

While it is likely that only a subset of people diagnosed with schizophrenia and psychotic disorders have an underlying autoimmune condition, Markx and other doctors believe there are probably many more patients whose psychiatric conditions are caused or exacerbated by autoimmune issues...

The cases of April and Devine also helped inspire the development of the SNF Center for Precision Psychiatry and Mental Health at Columbia, which was named for the Stavros Niarchos Foundation, which awarded it a $75 million grant in April. The goal of the center is to develop new treatments based on specific genetic and autoimmune causes of psychiatric illness, said Joseph Gogos, co-director of the SNF Center.

Markx said he has begun care and treatment on about 40 patients since the SNF Center opened. The SNF Center is working with the New York State Office of Mental Health, which oversees one of the largest public mental health systems in America, to conduct whole genome sequencing and autoimmunity screening on inpatients at long-term facilities.

For “the most disabled, the sickest of the sick, even if we can help just a small fraction of them, by doing these detailed analyses, that’s worth something,” said Thomas Smith, chief medical officer for the New York State Office of Mental Health. “You’re helping save someone’s life, get them out of the hospital, have them live in the community, go home.”

Discussions are underway to extend the search to the 20,000 outpatients in the New York state system as well. Serious psychiatric disorders, like schizophrenia, are more likely to be undertreated in underprivileged groups. And autoimmune disorders like lupus disproportionately affect women and people of color with more severity.

Changing psychiatric care

How many people ultimately will be helped by the research remains a subject of debate in the scientific community. But the research has spurred excitement about the potential to better understand what is going on in the brain during serious mental illness...

Emerging research has implicated inflammation and immunological dysfunction as potential players in a variety of neuropsychiatric conditions, including schizophrenia, depression and autism.

“It opens new treatment possibilities to patients that used to be treated very differently,” said Ludger Tebartz van Elst, a professor of psychiatry and psychotherapy at University Medical Clinic Freiburg in Germany.

In one study, published last year in Molecular Psychiatry, Tebartz van Elst and his colleagues identified 91 psychiatric patients with suspected autoimmune diseases, and reported that immunotherapies benefited the majority of them.

Belinda Lennox, head of the psychiatry department at the University of Oxford, is enrolling patients in clinical trials to test the effectiveness of immunotherapy for autoimmune psychosis patients.

As a result of the research, screenings for immunological markers in psychotic patients are already routine in Germany, where psychiatrists regularly collect samples from cerebrospinal fluid.

Markx is also doing similar screening with his patients. He believes highly sensitive and inexpensive blood tests to detect different antibodies should become part of the standard screening protocol for psychosis.

Also on the horizon: more targeted immunotherapy rather than current “sledgehammer approaches” that suppress the immune system on a broad level, said George Yancopoulos, the co-founder and president of the pharmaceutical company Regeneron.

“I think we’re at the dawn of a new era. This is just the beginning,” said Yancopoulos."

-via The Washington Post, June 1, 2023

[theoxenfree]

OF FLESH SIN

vampire priest x reader | 2.6k | 18+

you're the child of a monastery groundskeeper and come to find out that one of the senior clergy, father marius, was brutally maimed in his chambers overnight. you're approached by the monastery's new recruit: father shaw; who claims he had witnessed the scene of the crime and invites you to his chambers to tell the tale.

warnings; dark content bc of descriptions of gore and violence towards the end, obsessive behaviors, theological themes, probs inaccurate representation of monastery life lmao, outdated + deragatory mention of psychiatric care to fit the narrative, very brief mention of animal death, classism (mc getting shit on for being poor and coming from an "uneducated" family), kinda honestly cheesy if you think about it, roughly proofread, vampires are monsters y'all—that's the only way I write them

shouldn't have to say it, but: none of this is indicative of my personal viewpoints. it's just fiction, folks.

second prompt fulfilled for my lil' october writing project! this won the second poll! please reblog + leave feedback to be kind and help a sister out 🥹💕

Father Marius died in quite some awful way last night, as reported to you by the nuns hanging fresh washed garments on the clothesline in the waning, purpling daylight.

“A look of horror! Utter terror! So frightened that his jaw had become dislocated in forever a scream,” shivered one young nun, Lucy; recently a convert from the slums. “I, well, I didn't see it myself. Neither did the rest of us, actually. They say it was that new Father Shaw who found him at dawn.”

You had been raking gravel out of the yard, tiny stones kicked off of the path into the kempt lawn by prancing horses and wagon wheels, when Lucy and the other nun, Esme, had caught your attention with their hard, dense gossip. They regarded your approach with less caution than they would have had with their other sisters, as gossip was deemed inappropriate, a violation, a flickering serpent’s tongue carrying covert temptations leading to luscious sins and debauchery.

They saw you—poor, morose, the groundskeeper's only child and reminder of loveless trysts—and thought nothing of snaking you into their prattle. You were not the sort to divulge anyone's secrets without gain, without reward, and you knew that the nuns kept nothing to their names once they took their vows and donned their habits.

“Father Shaw,” you continued the discussion with some intrigue, mostly from the fact that he was very new, very young, and modestly handsome, “why was he awake so early? Why was he in Father Marius’ chambers? Curious to me.”

Neither of them gave much caution to your questions, shrugging as if to dismiss your ambivalence and accusatory tone. You were bold in the way that the faithless and lost always tended to be: asking senseless things, always concerned with the wrongdoings of others, always suspicious, always inquiring—forever inquiring.

“Oh, my, you're so defensive,” Esme fanned a yellow bedspread out with an oncoming breeze, catching the wind beneath the fabric so it billowed and rippled midair. “If that’s how you're going to be, then: why does your father stumble around the yard at night with a lantern, swinging around a pistol like a madman? Won't he hurt someone?”

Because he's a godless, superstitious drunk. Perhaps, even, a bit disturbed in his mind, but you couldn't bear to think that way, that he might be the type to need his head locked in a metal cage, gagged, arms bound, and padlocked in some damp, distant corner of an asylum.

“He's a good man,” you relented, taking your hands from the top of the smoothed out, worn handle of the rake and resumed your task. The gravel made an awful, grinding sound as the teeth of the rake collected pieces of stone and led it back to the rest. “He's served this monastery well. I don't mean offense about Father Shaw, I'm simply curious about what transpired is all.”

“No offense taken,” came a voice from behind, startling both the twittering nuns and yourself at the same time. They saw it to be Father Shaw standing there, hands cuffed behind his back with a particularly demure disposition, hiked their skirts and whisked themselves away back inside. “Ah, am I really such a frightful figure? I couldn't really find an opening during your conversation to invite myself in. I apologize.”

You were of a similar fretful nature, quickening your clawing and the reach of the rake. “Nay, Father. I think it's simply because you're a strange man to them still. A handsome face, a warm voice, mysterious; give them time, they'll come around.”

“Have you?” Father Shaw asked, taking measured strides in a half-circle around to your front. He concentrated on where the teeth of your instrument struck next, tips temporarily wedged into the soft dirt before being ripped up with chunks of earth and gray gravel. “It wouldn't do for me if you… were still ill at ease with me as well. I consider you my one, true friend in this place.”

Your father held a certain destestation towards Father Shaw that you'd never witnessed before, saying nothing else than that something was terribly wrong with him and not to place yourself in a position to be alone with him. This you attributed to his unsoundness, but it was always the sudden flicker a sharp breath against candlelight—a jarring shift in his demeanor when he spoke about the Father, neurotic and prone to throwing things about the cottage interior, that caused you to pay some mind to what he told you.

“And, you're a great friend of mine as well,” you hoped you sounded coherent and paced your words evenly enough. “I'm sorry if you thought I was accusing you of something, sir. I really meant nothing to it.”

Father Shaw’s lips sprawled tight and pale into a fond smile, never showing his teeth, though the imprint of them seemed massive and the skin of his lips startlingly thin across them. “I know. You have nothing to fear. My feelings were not affected. If you'd like, come to my chambers later, we may pray together first, and I'll tell you everything you wish to know about what I saw to sate your curiosity.”

“That seems improper, sir.” You said.

“How so?”

“Inviting someone to your chambers at night seems an unbecoming venture for a pious man of status, such as yourself,” you continued, now standing upright beside your rake, “if any of the sisters were to witness it, worse another priest, aren't you afraid you'd be horribly chastised? Even worse, excommunicated altogether?”

Although Father Shaw’s dark eyes reflected no light, holding such demanding depth to them that it was hard to keep your bearings whenever you realized you'd been staring, his entire face was alight in amusement.

“Wherever did you learn to speak like that?” he asked candidly, still glowing despite his pallor. “Forgive me when I say, but your father is not an educated man. I mean no offense, please don't look at me in such a way. You are so well spoken, I only wish to know more about you.”

“I've lived here my entire life,” you told him. “The nuns taught me how to read.”

He looked impressed. “You can read?”

“I can!” From a near distance, you could make out your father’s haddard form, bent sideways on a walking cane and limping towards the pair of you. You looked up at the priest’s smooth face. “It'd be best for you to leave before my father can speak to you. He isn't the kindest soul after a long day.

Father Shaw didn't react with any semblance of worry, but agreed that there were other things needing to be done and began away. Just as he passed you on his way towards the monastery, he let his hand rest atop of your shoulder and leaned you towards him to whisper in your ear: “come to me tonight. I'll be waiting for you.”

There was something so luxurious and cooling about his voice; fine silks sitting in the shade during autumn gliding across your bare skin, wrapping your neck, your chest, your nether parts. His voice was a fine, chilly mist after the first rains in spring which felt refreshing and new after a glacial winter, yet still had capacity to soak you to the bone. It was a nighttime breeze caressing your cheek, sweeping through the hairs of your scalp, making your skin burst all over with bumps.

“I don't like the way he looks at you,” said your father with a mouthful of porridge you'd seasoned with herbs of the season. It was wonderfully fragrant and warm during nights that were still a bit too uncomfortable to sip anything cold. “He looks at you like you're a slab of meat! Some prize after a hunt. I don't like him, love. Not one bit. You'd do well to stay to mind yourself and do your chores and nothing else, y’hear?”

After dinner, you cleaned up, swept the floors with hard bristles, and snuffed all the lights except for the fireplace where your father sat in his old chair, fiddling with his favorite pistol.

“It's time for bed, old man.” You watched him fit a couple of small bullets into the loading chamber. They glinted against the orange flames. “Goodness. What have you gotten this time? Something new?”

“Aye!” he grinned, nearly toothless and in a sickly sort of way. “Went to market the other day while the nuns bullied you and picked out some fine bullets from the silversmith,” he cracked the two halves of the pistol shut. “Better to be prepared.”

You waited until sometime later once he was finally asleep, possibly after midnight, before leaving the humble cottage sitting on the fringes of the massive monastery yard and rushing across the grounds to get inside.

Once, they'd kept a guard dog on the property, one of those meaner breeds that were used for gambling, but the poor thing wound up shot dead in the middle of the night by a traveling friar who'd come to seek refuge at the monastery. The sisters, and yourself, were horribly distraught by the entire ordeal and all vetoed the consideration of bringing another dog here.

Since then, it was no task for you (or anyone else) to get inside the building and shuffle along the shadows through the corridors. At night, the place stirred with patient insects, feral rodents large and small in the pantry, and hungry owls tamely whining from the rafters when something startled them away from their hunt of vermin.

Your feet were a light sound on the masonry below, padded by thin leather soles which alerted you to your enthusiasm as the thwap thwap thwap became louder, aggressive as you closed in on a wall and turned down another hallway for a sturdy wood door at the end of it.

As your knuckles rapped, hoping the sound wouldn't disturb the animals’ nighttime caroling, a swift darkness moved across the floor from behind the door, briefly blocking out the soft light seeping out from underneath.

The next moment, you were being pulled inside and sat at a small table tucked to the side of Father Shaw’s rather generous room. It was a simple space, sparsely furnished for the barest of comforts—only for what was needed to live—but what had been made for him was of exquisite craftsmanship, some made of teakwood, which Shaw assured you was remarkably durable and highly resistant to rotting.

“It's wonderful for boats,” he said, pouring a light amber colored brew from a metal kettle he'd heated a short while ago. “It’s good for all elements, really. Exceptional longevity. I've heard it has become a popular option in the city for burying the deceased.”

“Will Father Marius be buried in a teakwood coffin, then?” you asked, sipping politely from the cup even though you had no appetite for it. You already felt ill at ease enough having disobeyed your father by sneaking into a priest's personal chambers at night. The things the sisters would say about you—

“He will be entombed underneath the monastery with the rest who have served here and passed. I believe that is all stone down there, my dear.” Father Shaw smiled tepidly, kettle aside, no tea of his own. “But, I know that your curiosity led you here to me with questions, yes? About the state I found Father Marius in, yes?”

You tried to disguise your intrigue by drinking more of the tea, of whatever it was he had given you, and listened to the sounds of your fingertips sticking to the porcelain from sweat and steam.

“If you wouldn't mind sharing…”

“I wouldn't!” he leaned on his arms on the table, closer towards you as though with a secret. “As I've said, you are truly the only soul here who I can confide in. You are not a sheep. And you do not fear sin as the rest do. So, you can ask me anything and I'll tell you everything.”

“Tell me about Father Marius, then.”

Father Shaw reached across the table for one of your hands; his far larger, fingers much longer and colder than your own and held it as he recounted the event.

“Dreadful sight, it was. It was, oh, perhaps sometime after three o'clock when I heard a massive racket. A struggle. When I knocked, all of the noise subsided at once and there was complete stillness. Silence, my dear, silence so deep, dark, and damning that I knew something awful had happened.

“I didn't knock again, I was too afraid to! But, Father Marius was getting on in age, so I couldn't just stand by, either. I kicked the door in—just once was all it took—and I rushed inside to see the room was a complete mess. A fight had clearly taken place, and the walls—oh, the walls—”

His remorse was carefully placed, stiff, and uncertain and he couldn't be seen in the vastness of his black gaze. You were moved by the vulnerability he was trying to show you, going as far to abandon your drink to place your warm hand on top of his.

“The walls, my dear, were a mess of blood. Something vicious and awful had happened in that room. But, then, I found Father Marius lying there on the ground next to a broken window. I think he'd tried to throw himself through it. His face was shredded to pieces, his eyes gouged. When I got closer, I noticed that his tongue had been severed from his head!”

You were holding Father Shaw’s hands in a bloodless grip, face ashen, teeth chattering behind your lips. “What on earth! That is not only horror, but cruelty!”

“Oh, my love, it gets worse!” Father Shaw held you mesmerized in his gaze, the conviction and anguish with which he told his story. “Closer still, Father Marius’ face was locked in one of pure terror, I've—I’ve never seen a human react in quite a way such as that before, to fear. The man unhinged his own jaw in a hideous scream, and it seemed to me he was skeletal. By that, it's like he was, well, quite dry.

“So, I crouched down so much lower and inspected him all over. Do you want to know what I found?”

“Yes.” You spoke breathlessly.

Father Shaw had moved out of his seat and was on one knee in front of you, both of his frigid hands on your face to smooth across your cheeks, pushing away pieces of hair obscuring some part of you he'd wanted to see.

“My love, I saw marks in his neck. Two, beautifully, wonderfully symmetrical marks that were far too clean to be of any animal that we know of. The bite was clean, it was patient and cunning. And the fangs that had sunk into his tender flesh had drained him of blood, of the very essence that kept his heart beating until the very last.”

“Sir—” your stomach plummeted, falling forever, when he smiled, teeth longer than any humans should be shown through to you. He wouldn't let you go when you went to move out of his hands, away from him. “Father Shaw, please—”

“I wish you could have seen it, my love. It was a breathtaking sight and I long for someone else to admire the beauty of my work alongside me.”

It was unthinkable that a vampire could walk on these holy grounds and in the bright of day, yet Father Shaw had for countless days. Evil held you sweetly by the cheek and in your hair, kissed you with a corpse’s cold lips, and laved the skin of your skin with a long, serpentine tongue.

“O’, my merciful lord…”

Father Shaw bent your head back with a fistful of hair and spoke from your throat:

“There is no God, only me. Come into the endless night with me, my love.”

[pink-amethyst-tarot]

Looking for a sign?

a pick-a-card reading

Take a deep breath and let your intuition guide you. In the end, only you know what is truly best for you.

P I L E 1 P I L E 2 P I L E 3

pile 1

"You are a badass being, full of life, love & possibilities. Through this deck, may you find a path to your best self." Modern Witch Tarot Deck, Lisa Sterle

Page of Swords, Queen of Pentacles, Eight of Pentacles, Ten of Cups, The Emperor, Seven of Swords

It seems you are looking for the joy in life and you have been working really hard to find it. The thing is, you might be looking in the wrong places. You're looking right when you should be looking left. You aren't seeing your potential and how powerful, beautiful and magnificent you are. The things that you are trying to manifest want to come to you but you first have to look within.

Card from the Angel Answers Oracle Deck: Don't Stop!

I am reading this as your angels telling you that you are doing so well, even if things are uncomfortable right now. You have made amazing progress, and you should acknowledge that. If you look back on who you used to be and where you used to be, you will notice that you have made some amazing strides forward. Don't give up on you. There is a reality that you want to live in and it's calling for you, but it can get to you if you don't meet it in the middle.

I hope you enjoyed this reading, if you would like to get a more person look into your situation, see this post.

pile 2

Six of Swords, Three of Swords, Five of Wands, Death, The World, Ace of Swords

Change is inevitable. There is a change that you have been resistant to because you don't want to be uncomfortable. You're so used to one side of the river, you're afraid to even think about going to the other side. This thing you are avoiding, it's not what you think it is. Change, good or bad, can be uncomfortable. It's still going to happen, though. You will not be able to please everyone but you will be happier, in the end. It's not your problem if there are people that don't understand what you're doing or what you want. They are either along for the ride or they can stay home. You know what the right choice is.

Card from the Angel Answers Oracle Deck: YES

There's your answer. The answer is yes. I'm hearing Say Yes by Floetry; all you gotta do is say yes, don't deny what you feel. Once again you know what you need to do, what you want to do. You just wanted someone else to say it so I'm saying it. Don't think of all the reasons why you think it's a flute. Your angels/guides/the universe doesn't do flukes. If it's for you, it will find you. The answer is yes. Yes.

I hope you enjoyed this reading, if you would like to get a more person look into your situation, see this post.

Pile 3

Queen of Wands, Ace of Wands, The Devil, Temperance, King of Wands, Justice

First thing I heard was, "leave him alone." Now, this is a general reading so apply the pronouns and genders this will apply to. You are doing something that you know is wrong but it feels damn good. It makes you feel powerful. You're aware that something is off. Maybe a power imbalance. If you don't cut this out now, it will bite you in the ass very quickly and painfully. It's time for you to take control of the narrative again and do right by yourself.

Card from the Angel Answers Oracle Deck: NOT THE RIGHT TIME and NO!

This has HEEEEELL NO energy to be quite frank. Whatever you are doing or planning to do, just don't. Just avoid the mess and drama while/if you can.

I hope you enjoyed this reading, if you would like to get a more person look into your situation, see this post

LEGAL DISCLAIMER: FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY. These readings are not a substitute or replacement for any professional help or services. My readings are not a substitute for any form of professional legal, medical/psychiatric, relationship, religious/spiritual or financial/ business advice nor consultations. You should always see a professional legal/trained adviser for help in any matter. I am not responsible for any decisions/ actions you take.

[deancasbigbang]

Title: Physical Graffiti

Author: entropic_saudade

Artist: BasketcaseBetty

Rating: Explicit

Pairings: Endgame Dean Winchester/Castiel, Brief Dean Winchester/Ash, Brief Dean Winchester/Max Banes, John Winchester/Kate Milligan, Past John Winchester/Mary Winchester, Past Dean Winchester/Lee Webb, Past Dean Winchester/Cassie Robinson, Past Dean Winchester/Others, Past Castiel/Others, Implied Bobby Singer/Rufus Turner, Past Bobby Singer/Karen Singer, Harper Sayles/Vance, Edward Carrigan/Madge Carrigan, Jenny Sorenson/OMC, Larry Pike/Joanie Pike, Background Max/Stacy.

Length: 75000

Warnings: Archive Warnings: Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings. Additional Content Warnings: Self Harm, Alcohol Use Disorder, Recreational Drug Use, Child Abuse, Past Non-Con, Past Underage, Past Drug Addiction, Minor Character Death, Mental Health Issues

Tags: Case Fic, Murder Mystery, Horror Elements, Slow Burn, Journalist Dean Winchester, Detective Cas, Eventual Hopeful Ending, Families of Choice

Posting Date: November 4, 2024

Summary: The only ghosts and demons are the ones inside his head.  Fresh from a prematurely-ended stint at an inpatient psychiatric facility, ‘former’ self-harmer and functional alcoholic Dean Winchester returns to Sioux Falls, where he works as a crime journalist. His editor, Bobby Singer, sends him back home to Lawrence to gather the story on the murder of a teen boy and the recent disappearance of another. Painful memories from growing up resurface as the missing boy turns up horrifically dead and another goes missing.  The investigation is further complicated by the town’s gossipy tight-knit nature, Dad’s judgment, and botched attempts at making inroads with his estranged half-family, Kate and Adam Milligan.  Dean crosses paths with Castiel Novak, a renegade detective from Kansas City with a troubled past of his own. As they work together, they slip past each other’s defenses, unearthing each other’s secrets and digging for the truth.  As it turns out, monsters just might be real—and they just might live at home.  A Sharp Objects-inspired AU.

Excerpt: A dumpy parking lot, leaning against Baby’s hood, looking to the stars—it reminds Dean of doing the same with the football jocks. The way he’d smuggle stolen beer cans in Dad’s jacket pocket, turning him from ‘homo’ to ‘hero’ in their eyes. Stupidly, it reminds him of Lee.  Dean sneaks a glance over at Cas’ profile, tracing the angle of his jaw as he tilts his head up. The same stupid butterflies flap in his stomach. He suffocates them with a few swigs. “So, our arrangement. I’ll answer a question for each one you answer,” Cas offers, his adam’s apple bobbing.  “Deal.”  “What was it like growing up in Lawrence?” Dean whistles. “Starting with hardballs, huh? You don’t pull any punches.”  “Would you rather I ask for your favorite color?” Cas teases.  He groans. “No, none of that grade school shit. Gimme the real scoop.” Cas raises a pointed brow. You first. “Alright, Lawrence.” He sighs, bracing himself. “Mom had… my brother when I was four.” His voice wavers slightly when he brings up Sammy.  “Adam is much younger, though, isn’t he?”  “Different brother, Kate’s my stepmom. Me and Sam, we’re our Mom’s. She died when Sam was six months old. House fire.” Cas’ eyes sadden, but he doesn’t say anything. “But, as far as growing up—normal, I guess. Went to the school district nearby, was in wrestling for a little bit. I wasn’t some prodigy but I did okay, grades-wise.” “I bet you were Mr. Popular.” Dean barks a laugh. “Uh, no. Sorta depends on who you ask.” Depends on what year. “After graduation, I left for college.” Dean skips over the rest of the highlight reel.  “And Sam?” “Hey, you gotta answer at least one question first,” Dean pokes him. “Why is a detective from Kansas City down in Lawrence?”  “My supervisor likes to send me out on solo cases for assists. I don’t exactly work well with others.”  “Well, you and I make a pretty good team—a little chaotic, maybe, but at least we ruled two suspects off your list.”  “That we did. It’s a shame you’re not a detective.” “Reporters are detectives of sorts. We both look for narrative, just in different ways.” Cas gives a thoughtful hum. “My turn again. What happened to Sam?” Dean’s throat convulses. “He died. We were in our teens.” “What happened?” “He was sick all the time. One day, he just… kept getting worse. His body couldn’t take it.” Sammy’s ghost observed them, sadly, flickering in an in-between state.  “I’m sorry, Dean.”  They sit in silence for a few moments. Panic builds in Dean’s chest, and he worries that he’s ruined whatever rapport they’d been building.  “I’ll tell you something if you swear to not tell another soul?”  Dean nods, relief settling over him. He eats secrets for breakfast.  “The real reason I work Homicide is because it’s better than what I used to do.”  “What’s so bad that working Homicide is better?” Cas looked down and didn’t answer.

DCBB 2024 Posting Schedule

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Mary Harrington

Published: Feb 19, 2024

A new study challenges the common assertion that gender-dysphoric youth are at elevated risk of suicide if not treated with “gender affirming” medical interventions. If it’s true, it ought to have a seismic impact on the accepted medical approach to gender-confused youth.

Reported in the BMJ, the study examines data on a Finnish cohort of gender-referred adolescents between 1996 and 2019, and compares their rates of all-cause and suicide mortality against a control group. While suicide rates in the gender-referred group studied were higher than in the control group, the difference was not large: 0.3% versus 0.1%. And — importantly — this difference disappeared when the two groups were controlled for mental health issues severe enough to require specialist psychiatric help.

In other words: while transgender identity does seem to be associated with elevated suicide risk, the link is not very strong. What’s more, the causality may not work the way activists claim.

The association between gender dysphoria and mental illness is well-documented by both providers of “gender-affirming care” and trans advocacy groups and clinical psychology research. But one less well-evidenced claim, based on this association, is that these difficulties are caused not by being transgender, but by the political and social stigma associated with it. Gender dysphoria, we are to understand, is not in itself a mental health issue. What causes mental health issues in transgender youth — up to and including suicide — is the wider world’s rejection of their identity, and of the metaphysical frame of “gender identity” as such.

This is the root of the oft-repeated social media assertion that anyone who demurs about trans identity, however mildly, is complicit in “trans genocide”. The same assertion that invalidating trans youth makes them kill themselves is also behind the rhetorical question routinely used to browbeat parents into consenting to social and medical transition for their gender-confused offspring: “Would you rather have a live daughter or a dead son?”

It’s behind the prohibition on “trans conversion therapy” already in force in several countries, and promised by the Labour Party in England too. Such measures forbid therapists from exploring with their clients whether there is any link between their gender dysphoria and — for example — life trauma or other mental health issues. For logically, if the cause of distress and suicidality in trans people is not being accepted for who they are, any therapist who seeks to explore links between gender dysphoria and other biographic or psychiatric issues is complicit in just this kind of non-acceptance, and is thus not helping but harming their client.

But as the study puts it: “Clinical gender dysphoria does not appear to be predictive of all-cause nor suicide mortality when psychiatric treatment history is accounted for.” Rather, what predicts risk in this population is “psychiatric morbidity”. And contra the activists, transitioning does nothing to reduce it: “medical gender reassignment does not have an impact on suicide risk.”

Every suicide is a tragedy, and leaves grieving loved ones behind. No one wants to be complicit in pushing a young person down that path. So the suggestion that questioning someone’s gender beliefs may have this effect serves as a powerful emotional cudgel. But if the Finnish study is correct, this whole rhetorical, legislative, and medical edifice may be built on sand. If the elevated risk of suicidality in trans youth disappears when you control for other psychiatric difficulties, this suggests strongly that trans youth are not more at risk due to transphobia or invalidation, but due to the well-documented fact that gender dysphoria tends to occur in people who are disturbed and unhappy more generally.

It ought to follow from this that the way to manage suicide risk in trans-identified young people is not to affirm their gender identity and whisk them off for medical interventions, but to watch for and treat psychiatric comorbidities. Ultimately, though, the claims of gender ideology are less scientific than metaphysical. So don’t expect scientific evidence that contradicts its prescriptions to have much impact on trans advocates. Even if “following the science” would make a real difference to suicide risk in gender-dysphoric youth.

==

History will view "gender affirming care" advocates the same way we view lobotomy advocates.

[oniraki]

Broken into fractures

Pairing : Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

TW : Mental health, Psych ward, mentions of : self harm, suicide wishes/attempts , severe trauma (both Simon and reader), dark themes , angst, hurt/comfort , swearing , nicotine and psychiatric medication/sedation use - maybe too much tagging but it's better safe than sorry I guess?

AN : inspired by all the fantastic artists and writers here I gathered the courage to try and write something up myself. Hope I don't mess shit up .. please have patience with me for I really don't know what I am doing right now (and English is not my first language..)

"you're in time out Mr.Riley.." his psychiatrist says in a hushed tone, making Simon's head throb painfully. He does not like that bawbag of a man with his silly round glasses and his pathetic attempts to comb his hair in a way, that would hide his growing baldness. Simon tries to focus on Doc.Hershal's words but instead his eyes are glued to a coffee stain on the man's button down.

"Mr.Riley do you even pay attention?" A grunt is the only response that so called doctor gets out of him. The man sighs. "You hurt another patient, Mr.Riley.." he tries again and Simon chuckles hoarsely. "I'm well aware of that. He had it coming for some time .." - "You broke his nose." The doctor states more urgently, observing Simon's features as far as possible, since half of his face is hidden behind a black scarf.

"Fucking hell..should've broken his neck instead." Dr.Hershal shakes his head. "We have talked about this plenty of times, didn't we, Mr.Riley? This is no healthy way of coping with your feelings. This is unacceptable behavior above all of it. Every patient has a right to be here, to heal and to be safe while doing so"

Simon could feel his blood boil, hear it rushing through his whole body. Safety? He was talking about safety after all, that happened earlier that day? "Where was her right of safety when that fucker had his hands all over her...?!" The psychiatrist nods "I have heard about the incident. But that does not justify your aggressive behavior. That was something to be dealt with by the hospitals staff, Mr.Riley."

Incident. The nurses should've handled this. "And still nobody showed up fast enough to put her out of her misery, for fucks sake!"

His heart was beating way too fast, his bruised hands shaking in his lap. Knuckles cut open from that other man's broken teeth. He felt no shame, no regret. He'd do it all over again. Do anything to keep you safe, to protect you from harm. Even if it ment that he had to be locked up here longer than he had anticipated.

He'd do it for you.

Anything..

_______

The light was nearly blinding you as you crossed the threshold of the door, leading to the cage on the hospitals rooftop. You've never been entitled to garden privileges, going out alone and wandering around the paths between old trees and decorative bushes. You couldn't be trusted, the nurses always explained with that sorry, kinda pittying smile on their faces. You'd be a danger to yourself, they'd argue. Couldn't risk you hurting yourself, fulfilling your death wish..

The cage was just a sorry excuse of a garden. An area with fake grass and plants, some benches, secured by a Chain-link fence.. but it was your only escape from the sterile and sad gray walls of the ward, crushing you between them until you couldn't breathe. Closing you in, never letting you go. The flickering of the neon lights, the squeaking of the linoleum floor. Cold,blood sucking fingers that had a hold of you. Everything designed to torture and torment you furthermore.

The only way for you to leave that place was in a body bag. That much you were sure of.

"Hey scare-bear.." you whispered as you let yourself slump down on the fake grass next to Simon. He didn't even flinch or look at you at your sudden intrusion of his space. Not even when your head was leaning against his biceps. No words or sounds left his lips as he fetched a cigarette out of the box, lighting it up on the one he was smoking and then offering it to you. You stayed in comfortable silence for a smoke or two. Simon could feel the tension leaving his body, how his shoulders relaxed more and more with every passing minute. You were here. With him. Not in the observation room with that big window, directly connected to the nurses office. Not sedated and fixated. Not alone.. never alone, as long as he could impede it.

You sneaked your arm around his, your hand engulfing his with featherlight touches. The nurses patched him up properly after his emergency session with Hershal.

"'m sorry, love." You could feel the vibration of Simon's voice. Calming and soothing as a lullaby. He still didn't look at you, instead he kept his gaze on the sundown, throwing another cigarette butt off of the roof. "nothing to be sorry for, Si. It's my fault they relieved you of all of your privileges.." you murmured kinda dejected, petting his hand ever so lovingly.

Simon huffed, shaking his head eagerly, nearly making his hood fall down. "I'd trade every fucking, meaningless privelege if that's what it takes to keep you safe. Stop acting like it was your fault. You didn't ask him to touch you.. should've killed that bastard the second he tried to get close to you the first time."

Your movements stilled for a long moment until you released a breath you didn't know you were holding.

"they all told you to stay away from me, didn't they...?" Your voice was merely anything above a whisper. Simon only grunted in response. "As if that's ever going to happen. Nothing can stop me from being near you, little gremlin."

"but what, if they're right, scare-bear?" You ask, now avoiding his gaze that lingers on your face. "What if.. I'm no good for you? Making your condition worse..?" You thought intensely about it for the last couple of weeks. Simon used to make progress, used to get better.. at least until you came along. Certainly it hast to be your fault. "Is that what they believe or what you believe?" He snapped at you, hating himself for the harshness in his voice immediately.

You heard the night nurses whisper about you and Simon. About you being a liability to him. Stopping his progress, pulling him down into your dark abyss.

Your mind began spiraling again.

"I need words, love. Talk to me.. don't shut me out. Not again.." he demanded softly, freeing his arm out of your grasp. He'd leave you, right ? Because he realized how much of a burden you were.

But instead of getting up and leaving he placed his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into him gently, as if he might break you.

But by now your thoughts and emotions were cutting too deep, pulling you into a kind of headspace where'd you go nonverbal ..

Burden. Threat. Liability. Rotten heart and soul inside a useless, broken body. Not good enough. Not loveable.

Why can't you finally die?

" 'm here, lovie. I got you." He whispered into the crown of your head. "It's okay not to be okay right now. We'll get through it, together."

Oh how you just wanted to believe him..

[docgold13]

Batman: The Animated Series - Paper Cut-Out Portraits and Profiles

Harley Quinn

Doctor Harleen Quinzel had been a psychiatric resident at Arkham Asylum when she fell under the thrall of The Joker.  During their psychotherapy sessions together, The Joker twisted the young doctor’s mind, indoctrinating her into seeing the world from his bent perspective.  She became trapped within a folie á deux (or shared delusion) where she believed she and The Joker were in love and catering to his whims was her only means of achieving happiness and actualization.  

Harleen had been a highly accomplished gymnast and martial artist in her younger years and she used these skills to break The Joker out of Arkham.  She donned a harlequin-style costume with all manner of thematic gadgets and became ‘Harley Quinn,’ proving herself a highly competent sidekick to the Clown Prince of Crime.  

Of course The Joker treated her just terribly; yet in Harley’s delusions this was merely his way of demonstrating his love.  She accompanied The Joker on many capers, crossing paths with Batman on numerous occasions.  Although he never underestimated Harley’s ability, Batman maintained a particular soft-spot for Harley, convinced that she could be disabused of The Joker’s insidious influence.  

The only one who ever succeeded in getting through to Harley and helping her to see The Joker as abusive and no good for her was the fellow villainess, Poison Ivy.  Sadly, Ivy’s influence only lasted so long and time and again Harley would somehow end up back in the clutches of her ‘Mr. J.’  

The wonderful Arleen Sorkin provided both the inspiration as well as the voice for Harley Quinn, with the character first appearing in the seventh episode of the first season of Batman: The Animated Series, ‘Joker’s Favor.’

[stvlti]

"The Penguin (HBO TV series) is deeply misogynistic"

Note: I am writing this review after the 1×08 finale, so beware of spoilers

There was a clickbaity headline floating around earlier about John Turturro, the original actor for Carmine Falcone in The Batman (2022), not wanting to reprise his role in The Penguin (2024) because of the excessive violence against women in the show. But fans who watched the show pointed out that it isn't particularly misogynistic in its portrayal of violence: there's no gore, and the gang violence we see is pretty much equal opportunity genre-typical violence committed against male and female characters alike. What I feel like is misogynistic though is its ending.

Sure, the recurring female characters of the show were well crafted and three dimensional: Sofia Falcone Gigante, in spite of the violence she is shown to have suffered in the psychiatric care / prison system, is a force to be reckoned with for most of the series; Eve Karlo is not simply Oz's regular sexual companion who capitulates to his every whim but a partner in crime to a degree; the mother Francis Cobb, for better or for worse, sculpted Oz into the man he grew up to become with her lovebombing and manipulation.

The issue is that this is a series that follows a villain's rise to power. And while we always knew that Oz was never gonna have a redemption arc, that he was just going to get worse - or rather, the show was going to reveal to viewers more and more of just how deep and limitless his cruelty and cunning goes - the show had us sympathise with all 3 of these female characters only to ultimately sacrifice their autonomy and freedom to bring the storyline to a close with the Penguin on top. Because there's Oz winning and the women around him being taken out of the picture, and then there's Oz winning and the women being chained back down to positions of entrapment that they'd been in for most of their lives after they've tasted freedom. Sofia physically and geographically ends up right back where she is before this saga - incarcerated and institutionalised - but she's already getting the fairer end of the deal. At least she's attained a certain degree of enlightenment after her journey through the criminal underworld and her soul-searching with regards to her place in society and the path she wanted to take.

But Francis? We finally learn in the last 2 episodes that she's a tragic character all along, who was dealt a lose-lose situation with how to raise Oswald after that defining traumatic incident in their family, and she has had to live with the consequences of her choice for decades, secretly hating both herself and her son unbeknownst to Oswald. And just when she finally finds her release in having that confrontation where she lays all her cards on the table with Oz, she is incapacitated by her medical situation and, worse, kept close by Oz's side until the day she dies. She finds no closure, she finds no peace. She has no mouth but she must scream. Francis's ending is straight horror.

And Eve is stuck roleplaying the relationship with his mother that Oz has constructed in his head, knowing that the mother herself is trapped in the other room. This is sickening enough as it is, but this is also after she learns that the man she has found allyship with was the reason her deceased friends and found family never got justice for their brutal murders all along. After she finds solidarity with Sofia, another woman who lost her family to Oz, the show puts Eve right back in Oz's arms because oh, that's right, her material conditions as a sex worker means that she never really had a fair chance to make her choice in a place like Gotham.

But the thing is, out of all 3 women, Eve was the one that could've easily skipped town and escaped Oz's influence in the end. There was no reason for the narrative to bring her back to Oz's side other than to end on a twisted note of irony. This is why The Penguin (2024) is misogynistic. Not because of some imagined amount of physical violence against women portrayed on screen, but because the narrative ultimately punishes its female characters in order to illustrate Oz's villainy - something that we as viewers already understood from all his morally reprehensible actions throughout the series. Even in the finale, we're sufficiently reminded of his villainy in his actions towards Victor Aguilar. There was no need to tack on the last 5 mins and show us the unhappy endings that Francis and Eve are given.

(Another tangential thought I had as well is that those last 5-10 minutes of the finale create a very noticeable tonal shift from your regular tragic crime noir drama to an outright horror ending, which isn't necessarily contradictory to the genre, but it is very sudden and jarring.)

I understand that the showrunner for The Penguin is a woman, Lauren LeFranc. She likely knows exactly how horrifying that ending is to the female, femme, and/or queer contingent of the audience. So the question remains: why?

Edit: I've had multiple people argue with me and say they disagree with my review - in that they don't think the show is misogynistic. Guys, I put the post's opening statement in quotation marks for a reason. I'm not saying that the show is "deeply" misogynistic. I'm quoting the assertion that it's misogynistic and arguing around it. Do I personally think the show is deeply misogynistic? Hell no! I literally listed out the ways the show gave us well rounded and three dimensional female characters. In case you need that spelled out for you: I do NOT think the show is misogynistic/anti-feminist in its entirety. I'm just saying that there's something misogynistic about its ending. Happy to be proven wrong with examples and explanations.

[a-roar-of-hate]

Random Ideas For Multitracking

1: Oracle + Beastkeeping I imagine a mix of oracle and beastkeeping likely just involving channeling the ghosts of animals instead of humans- Alternatively, possibly also channeling your actual spirit animal. I imagine mixing them might give you the ability to talk with other people's palismans. 2: Oracle + Plant Like beastkeeping, this more than likely would involve channeling spectral plants- Quite literally the ghosts of dead plant life. Perhaps reading the natural world to predict the future. 3: Oracle + Abomination These two would likely be "synergized" as they're both "dark" forms of magic- Purple magicks!! I think they would mainly involve giving bodies to oracle spirits with abomination muck, and possibly using crystal balls as an ingredient in the muck itself. 4: Oracle + Potion This one was seen outright in the show, but to clarify... Oracle potions seem to use crystal balls as an ingredient, and this specific mix likely just involves creating what are basically just variations on a scrying potion, though with the added "temporal" aspects of oracle magic. 5: Oracle + Illusion Once more, a set of magicks that would likely "synergize" well together, as sight is a big aspect of both- Using the spirits of the dead, and then mimicking them as they were when alive to trick enemies. Channel someone's dead relative, learn all you can, then use that information to create a convincing illusion. 6: Oracle + Construction I imagine these as doing the opposite of synergizing- Instead being nearly unusable with eachother, given how spiritual Oracle magic is, while Construction is so physical, they simply can't work together in any major way- Likely the most possible is creating golems for oracle spirits to possess. 7: Oracle + Bard Likely uses music as a way to channel and warp spirits to the player's whims, or using the knowledge of the dead to play bardic spells without previous knowledge- Possibly also involves playing songs to create windows into the future. 8: Oracle + Healing Turns healing away from its more physical aspects in order to focus on spiritual health and the like, possibly utilizing sight of the future in order to find the best possible path to heal. Likely one of the equivalents of psychiatric studies in the Demon Realm.

[downundergarfield]

Support classes reaction to reader getting jealous? Like the merc is getting a lot of attention from like idfk a group of women getting gas at a gas station and reader is just like : |

Support classes react to a reader getting jealous!

It's something to think about, so keep these three men In awkward situations, I know you like to watch it.

Medic It smelled of blood and meat. This is not surprising, because you spent time with your favorite psychiatric doctor. The man was collecting someone's insides in a container. Fortunately for him, this someone will not wake up, it will not cause problems. You were sitting with him, on the lookout. The door, the existence of which you did not even know, opened with an unpleasant creak. Ludwig yelped, covering his crime with his back, you slowly approached him. "-Oh, there you are, Dr. Doe! I've been looking for you everywhere! And you, of course, were here, well, how else! You are a real doctor, a real master of your path!" This girl was making eyes at Ludwig from the very beginning. And of course she fell for his fake name. "- uh… well… Actually, I'm busy." "- of course, of course! I understand, I don't dare to distract you, I just would like to spend a little more time with you. You're leaving soon…and we would…you know… We could have done something in my office." She was already snuggling up to him and running her finger along his chest, but you intervened, speaking to her in a completely unfriendly tone "- Dr. Doe doesn't need a secretary for his job." You spoke up, looking at her angrily. Obviously, you're jealous, which only made Ludwig worry more "- Fräulein, actually, I have a girlfriend" The unpleasant personality changed dramatically in her face, obviously, she saw her plans crumble into thousands of pieces right before her eyes "- Oh, is that so? I was hoping it was just a friend of yours. Well, I think I'll go. I have urgent matters to attend to.." The girl hurries to the exit. Before leaving, she throws a tearful glance in the direction of the Medic "you broke my heart, Dr. Doe-" She waves her hair and locks the door. You can feel Ludwig exhaling all the accumulated air in his lungs. And how anger boils inside you, rising to your face. "- Gott sei Dank…" "- WHAT A SLU-" "- shh. She's gone, but that's half the tro-. " "-I really hope she doesn't look at you anymore." You interrupted him with a frustrated face. "-…Of course not! I only love you, and some girl won't change my mind. Besides, she doesn't have such a beautiful body like you." He puts his arm around your waist and then looks at the pile of organs in the container. "-Ve still need to get zese organs out unnoticed.." You nod. Yeah, he's damn right.

Sniper The brainy figure shakes while his van hurriedly drives along a deserted road. It was unbearably hot outside, so Mick was left wearing only his vest. Anything is better than his entire working form. You were steaming in just a T-shirt and shorts. On the other hand, you enjoyed each other's appearance. "- need t` refuel." "- alright!" You're moving on, to the nearest gas station. And fortunately, it appears soon. You pull into the gas station, noticing a pink mini-bus next to one of the gas pumps. Girls in swimsuits were hanging around. You're tense. "- what is it?" "- bet it's just a busload of prostitutes." You were silent for a minute, but Mick interrupted the silence by opening the door. You jumped out after him. He inserted the refueling gun and looked at his watch. It seems that no one noticed you and was not going to bother you, so you relaxed. "- I'm going to get some water."

He nodded curtly, and you walked away past the noisy girls. They smelled of a disgusting cloying perfume. Disgustingly feminine music was playing from their bus. The disgusting pink color irritated your nerves, but you didn't say anything. ----

In your hands were bottles of cold, even icy water and one ice block. There were no girls in sight, thank God, but when you approached the van, it became clear to you where they had gone. The Sniper did a good job, he didn't give them any attention, even if the girls climbed under his vest. He beat those hands painfully, but did not give an answer. "- WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE??!" The girls looked at you like a flock of seagulls. "- Not every guy at the gas station is lonely man, NOW LET'S GET OUT OF HERE!!" "- you managed to snatch a gorgeous male~" One of the girls blurted out, poking you in the nose and they left, chattering something in squeaky voices. Mick exhaled, growling. You patted him on the back. " 'm sorry…" It seems he felt a lot of guilt for this situation "- it's not your fault, Mickey, they just need a rich guy who can pay them all." "- I know… but I'm sorry…anyway." You pat him on the back again, comforting him. He smiles warmly and is clearly calming down. "- thank you, sheila." "- no worries. Would you like a popsicle?"

Spy It was a hot Friday evening, even stuffy. You had a long weekend ahead of you. And of course the Spy wouldn't be the Spy if he didn't decide to spend his weekend with a glass of fine wine. You went with him, and he immediately warned you that there could be quite rich people there, who often turn up their noses so high that they don't see people under them. You said you'd be careful with him and he smiled warmly, scratching the top of your head. The Frenchman finished styling your hair while you picked out your best clothes. He praised your costume/dress and you finally came out. When you arrived at the liquor store, you admired its beauty. It was neatly built of a dark-grade of some kind of wood, the logs were hewn and beautiful patterns were neatly burned on them. When you went inside, a rather pleasant smell of wood and wine hit your nose. You glanced at the spy and he looked confident and pleased. You walked between the shelves for a long time and every time you were amazed at the number of wines that generally happen in this damn world. A note of unpleasant bitter feeling settled in your chest when a buxom lady in a black ball gown and curly hair approached your man and began to ask about something. "- you look like a person who understands this, what kind of wine can you recommend?" To your indignation, the Spy answered her, consulted her, communicated with a warm smile. You're not used to seeing him like this. Maybe he is callous and tired only in front of his colleagues? It's because they're all men in a row, isn't it? Or maybe the smell of wine just hit him in the head and that was enough for intoxication? It didn't bother you at all. When the girl left, thanking the Spy for the consultation, you pulled the sleeve of his suit. He understood everything from your displeased face. "- oh, don't do that, Mon chéri, you know that I only love you. The lady just needed advice." He gently pats you on the cheek and the feeling of his gloves on your skin more or less soothe you. "- let's not linger here." "- well, bien Mon amour, I just chose what to take~.

[m00nsbaby]

Violent things.

Steven Grant + Marc Spector + Jake Lockley x F! reader. Part I. (Out of 3.)

Tags & warnings. Lots of talks about death, violence, abuse. Inspired by Moon Knight's 5 episode x Corpse Bride. (+ this one is for my delulu girls since the reader is a bit delulu lol.)

Word count. 6.2k

Summary.

"Oh man!" What an interesting accent. "Wow, these meds are really amazing," he whispered as he tried to catch his breath. Hah, he did that too. "I thought I was dead." He hadn't even looked at you properly; he was just suddenly relieved to be in the presence of someone else. "Oh, no," you cleared your throat. "You are dead."

Each person had a different 'other side.'

Except you. Or well, technically, you had it, but it had been a long time since you'd been in it. In fact, apart from the bright colors, you couldn't remember much of it.

You'd been in excessively bright representations of what people imagine as 'heaven,' parties with mead, and you'd even tried candies that would have turned your tongue green if you'd eaten them in life.

Although, of course, that's how the most common ones looked; there were stranger ones too. People seeing themselves in their tiny cat-filled apartment or wandering the halls of their old school. Either way, it was fine because it was only temporary while they reached their destination.

Everyone except you.

And a few others who had the misfortune of lacking emotional intelligence even in death.

Literally.

It's okay, though. Over the years, you got used to this 'life' and the idea that you would never see him again, although getting used to it didn't mean you stopped missing him.

Stopped thinking about him.

Stopped wanting him back.

Anyway, work kept you busy because, yes, even in death, you couldn't escape the damn bureaucracy. You didn't have a real name for your boss because she also looked different to each person; to you, her face was very similar to that of an old friend, even though you couldn't specify which one.

She took pity on you somehow. She explained your situation, although it took you a lot of energy and time to understand it. She did everything possible to keep you from becoming one of those lost souls who simply roamed around here. She also pulled you back onto the path when you began to stray.

"There are 3."

You frowned.

"What do you mean, there are 3?"

"There are 3." she shrugged as you walked through the corridors of the psychiatric void. This was a new scenario, and your clothes were different too. Something more modern, you didn't recognize it as something from your time.

Yes, a few years weren't that long, but fashion moved disgustingly fast in the world of the living.

"Do you think you can handle them?" Should you mention to the boss that she looks like a chatty hippo, or is that the kind of thing you keep quiet to maintain good working relations?

You bit your lip and then nodded.

"Good luck." Her mocking smile was never a good sign.

Before you could object, she had disappeared. You took a deep breath; those were funny expressions that had stuck with you even now that you didn't have to breathe for real.

Your shoes echoed in the empty halls as you headed for what you assumed was the main entrance.

The door opened by itself.

Or rather, it opened before you even extended your hand.

"Whoa." You muttered, your eyes widening at the guy in front of you.

A rebellious curl fell over his forehead, and his huge brown eyes were even wider in surprise. He was dressed appropriately for the situation; it looked like a uniform for a psychiatric ward patient, and although it was loose-fitting, you would swear you could see his muscles from miles away.

And he, on the other hand, practically screamed in your face.

"Shit!" He jumped in place, bringing a hand to his chest as he laughed in disbelief.

Oh yeah, there was a bloodstain right on his chest. Nothing to worry about, not anymore at least; once you died, you technically couldn't die twice.

Although finding a functional washing machine in any of the many 'beyonds' was trickier than it seemed. If this Marc Spector guy was in the same situation as you, it was quite likely that he would spend the rest of eternity with that stain on his clothes.

Unless the boss offered him a job.

It would be wonderful to have him here forever.

Were you overthinking? Probably.

"Oh man!" What an interesting accent. "Wow, these meds are really amazing," he whispered as he tried to catch his breath.

Hah, he did that too.

"I thought I was dead." He hadn't even looked at you properly; he was just suddenly relieved to be in the presence of someone else.

"Oh, no," you cleared your throat. "You are dead."

Your voice sent shivers down his spine, and when he finally bothered to look at you more closely, you could see a touch of fear in his expression.

You were used to it by now, so why did it hurt this time?

"You're joking."

"Maybe if there was someone else to see me lying to you, it would be more fun, don't you think?" You tried to joke, but the poor guy seemed on the verge of an emotional breakdown.

That was a good sign; maybe you could keep him after all.

Marc pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes as he tried to regain his composure.

"Do you expect me to believe this is the afterlife?"

"No, not the afterlife, an afterlife. This one is yours, well, for now, this is the path."

He fell silent, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths as if his body still needed oxygen.

You waited.

And waited.

And waited.

But he never said anything, so you caught his attention by clearing your throat.

"Welcome, dear… traveler," you murmured as you clumsily searched for your notes in your pockets.

Ah, there they are.

"I will be in charge of…" You continued reading. "Guiding you on your way to…" How could you call this? Heaven? Valhalla? Mictlan? "What comes next."

Marc looked at you as if you were crazy, and you had no choice but to continue.

"It's a place that's difficult for the human mind to comprehend, so for you, it's something more…" You looked around with a furrowed brow. "Familiar."

He scoffed, his tone full of irony.

"I really am crazy," he muttered in a whisper.

"Together, we will traverse the 10 steps that will lead you to eternal rest." Your arm moved awkwardly up and down. What a stupid choreography your boss had given you. "Although," you stepped out of character. "Sometimes they are doors, and it seems that will be the case this time."

"Who are you?" He asked out of nowhere, and you swallowed hard.

"Your guide."

"Are you some kind of… Goddess? Are you God?"

You laughed, partly embarrassed, partly genuinely amused.

"I'm just your guide."

Marc had to settle for your answer.

"Are you ready?"

"Can one be ready for something like this?"

You shook your head but gave him a resigned smile. You felt sorry for him, as well as for all those who passed through your hands, but at least you did your part by taking them to what you would never know.

You offered him your hand, and hesitantly, he took it.

The contact with his skin made you swear that your heart was beating again.

You took a slow step through the corridors of the psychiatric ward with him behind you, his fingers gradually clinging to you. This was the first time in a long time that Marc allowed himself to be afraid, even when his thoughts were divided between his desire to cling to life and, on the other hand, that 'finally' feeling that had been intoxicating him for the past 10 years, ever since Roro left.

A few minutes of walking, and you knew by pure intuition which was the first door.

Unfinished business.

The first scene was… Something.

No one likes to witness the way they died, but much less what happens afterward. Have you ever heard that the last sense you lose is your hearing? Marc could clearly hear Layla scream his name just after the gunshot.

Or at least, his body managed to register the sound because he didn't remember it, but you could clearly see the scene at this moment.

"You left something unfinished." Your voice was as gentle as you could make it as you surrounded his body on the ground.

A strange feeling overcame you as you watched the curly-haired girl kneel beside him.

Holding him, begging him to come back.

Not sadness or pity, as it usually happened; you felt… uncomfortable? Annoyed?

Marc released your hand to get closer, appreciating the scene up close, and you knew how much he wished to touch Layla when his hand moved in her direction, trying to get her attention.

"Layla?" He whispered, his voice broken, his attention focused solely on her. He didn't even look at his body, which was slowly giving in. He didn't realize how she cradled him between her cheeks and kissed his lips one last time just now.

Your stomach churned; fortunately, you had already forgotten when was the last time you had ingested something.

"Baby?" He asked louder, and you knew it was time to intervene.

"She can't hear you," you whispered from behind, only able to observe Marc's back. The way his body contracted and suffered from small spasms due to crying.

Isn't it curious how all those things become muscle memory? Your breathing shouldn't be a problem when you weren't in your physical body, yet these things still happened.

"What were you doing here?" Your gaze wandered through the darkness inside the pyramid, your steps careful as you approached the open tomb of God knows who. A disgusted expression appeared on your lips at the sight of the mummified corpse.

Everything was better when you pretended that maybe you didn't really look like this.

Marc gave an ironic laugh, still crying, but you decided to give him space.

"I was trying to save the world."

You scoffed. 'Well, to each their own,' you thought as your fingers traced the edge of the tomb.

Hopefully, they buried you in something nice and expensive too.

"This might hold you here; we still don't know what will happen next because it's very recent."

"No." He interrupted, still kneeling in front of himself.

It turns out that the last thing his body registered was the way Layla grabbed his chest, taking something that rested on it afterward. The girl stood up, still with a broken heart but doing her best not to collapse.

You recognized that expression quite well.

"She'll take care of it."

Everything around him became blurry, apparently, that was the point at which he stopped fighting.

Marc slowly got to his feet, his eyes red, and he sniffed repeatedly. If you had the chance, maybe you'd tell him that he didn't need to do that, nothing would come out of his nose.

He looked good, though, even after getting shot, he still seemed attractive.

The good thing is that you still had 9 different opportunities to make him stay with you, but there was still one question. What did the boss mean when she said there were 3? An administrative error or something like that?

"She'll figure it out," he sounded sure as he pressed his nose bridge and took deep breaths. "She'll fix it."

"Then this is closed." You shrugged. Over time, you learned which dead ones to trust and which not to. Maybe Marc wasn't so wrong.

Nine opportunities.

"Congratulations." You offered him your hand, and he took it again.

That had to mean something, right?

You didn't pay much attention to the way he looked back, as if that would give him one last look at Layla. She had been gone for a while now. In fact, in the world of the living, this had probably happened hours ago.

The good thing (for him) is that apparently, she hadn't died yet.

Well, for you too, so you wouldn't find her wandering around. Romances that not even death could separate were the worst.

No more was said as you guided him through the passageways of the old pyramids as if you were an expert archaeologist, or perhaps an amateur with a lot of free time. One step forward from both of you, and everything around him looked different.

Vengeance.

"I have to tell you now." The cold streets of New York made you feel alive, especially in the short skirt you were wearing. The breeze cooled your legs and tousled your hair.

This seemed more common, even in the seedy side of the city. Apparently, Marc had been a normal person occasionally in his life, not someone who went on pyramid expeditions for fun.

"You won't be able to get revenge on anyone by being here." You walked ahead, trying to find the next door. It wasn't worth wasting time on this. "Sometimes divine justice serves in your favor and takes care of them, but it's not worth staying for a trivial matter."

And you knew it well.

When Marc's silence seemed suspicious, you looked back.

His clothes had also changed; he was wearing a leather jacket and a rather peculiar cap. It was gray, and it fit him ridiculously well.

He looked at you with wide eyes, his hand still holding yours.

"Cariño?" That accent was new. Did Marc like to play someone else occasionally at night? It wouldn't surprise you from someone like him.

Weird, like you.

Different, perhaps.

"What am I doing here?"

"Oh no, are you one of those?" You confronted him, one hand still holding his, and the other going straight to his face. You opened one of his eyes wider with your fingers, and he stayed still.

Had he drunk too much the night before or something? Jake didn't experience these things, never.

He didn't lose track of time; he didn't dissociate or lose control of his body; he didn't forget, and he didn't sleep.

This didn't make sense, at least not for him.

"You are dead, Marc," your words made his stomach churn. "I'm guiding you, we're only on the second level." Vapor came out of your mouth as if it were freezing, and your body still had that natural warmth that one emits when they are alive.

He furrowed his brow, looking at you as if he were seeing a ghost.

Well, that's what he was doing, but when you're dead, you don't have the right to see other dead people like this.

"I'm not… I'm not Marc."

Oh.

The boss's words made a bit more sense now. So, were they really brothers? Twins perhaps? Or whatever they were called when they were three.

The poor guy seemed about to have a crisis, very similar to Marc when you first found him.

"Jake Lockley." Your mind clicked, as it always did when you had these encounters with the souls you guided. A hazard of the job, there were things you knew and things you didn't.

He nodded slowly.

"Listen, sweetheart." He slowly released your hand, and the gesture didn't please you. I mean, if you couldn't keep Marc, maybe it could be one of the other two.

"I don't know what kind of joke you're playing," he walked past you while searching in his pocket for what seemed to be keys. "You're beautiful, and maybe we had a pretty fun night, but it's likely that what we have won't work, especially when you're calling me by another name and trying to play those little mind games with me, which, by the way, don't affect me in the least…"

Jake bumped into someone as he moved away from you clumsily.

"Sorry," he muttered, still confused. The other person ignored him, but when he looked back, his eyes widened in surprise. "¿Qué mierda?" You heard him mumble as he stumbled, sitting on the pavement.

Turns out Jake had bumped into himself.

And you suppressed the 'I told you so' smile.

"See?" You watched him pass you as well, and after a few seconds, you decided to approach him, extending your hand.

He looked at it in silence before taking it and getting to his feet.

"You're not playing, right?"

"Nope," you let go of his hand as you inspected his face. He looked so similar to Marc, yet so different at the same time.

"Are we dead?"

"I'm a little deader than you, but yes."

He bit his lower lip, and you saw him take off his cap and run a hand through his disheveled curls, more out of desperation than aesthetics.

He took a deep breath several times, more than you could count, and looked back. You saw the other Jake moving away in the crowd, and without saying anything, you turned to follow him without losing track.

Jake had to snap out of his crisis to follow you.

And him.

"Is that it? Are you not going to give me an explanation?" He hurriedly walked, doing his best not to bump into anyone until he realized that no one seemed to be affected by his shoves, not even moving them.

"We can't lose sight of you."

"This has to be a bad dream."

Maybe you liked Marc more than him.

"It's not a dream, Jake." You let out a deep sigh as you continued walking behind him. "You died, Marc did too, and…"

"Steven?"

"Right."

You finally turned to look at him when Jake from his memory stopped in front of a car.

It was a nice car.

"I still don't know what happened to you and Steven, but Marc got shot right…" You touched the center of his chest, and he didn't show how your touch made him shiver. "Here."

He wasn't sure if it was worth explaining to you right now that if Marc died, he would drag them both down with him.

"And who are you?"

"Your guide." You gave up; you would have to go through this again.

"Are you a product of my imagination?"

"Unfortunately not."

"Why do you look like one of my one-night stands?"

"I look like this all the time, actually," you looked down; this outfit was terribly uncomfortable. "Except for the criminally short skirt."

The sound of the door made you look forward. Apparently, the other Jake got into the car when you were distracted.

You opened the rear door of the car and looked at the confused guy in front of you.

"Get in."

And he obeyed; you got in afterward.

They were silent for most of the way, neither of you knew exactly where you were going because Jake had vague memories of this particular memory, if that made sense.

He had traveled this same road so many times for the same purpose that this could be any day of his life.

"What's the last thing you remember?" Your voice broke the silence, pulling him out of his thoughts.

"I was interrogating some guys in Cairo."

Ah, well, it seemed that he was just as strange as Marc.

"I see."

Jake somehow saw himself as the most stable of the three; he had learned to deal with the blows of life that he was forced to take to protect Marc and Steven from them.

But nothing had prepared him for the idea of failing them.

For failing them so horribly.

If he kept thinking, he'd go crazy. Even more.

You didn't know how long you had been here; everything seemed more tedious when Jake decided he didn't want to chat with you, or anyone, for that matter.

You assumed it was shock or something similar, and as for what this scenario meant, you understood why revenge wouldn't retain him.

Because Jake got rid of everyone who got in his way. To him or to Marc.

Both of you watched him drive, dispose of bodies, clean his clothes, and repeat as many times as necessary.

Well, he observed with a disgusted expression, and he took the liberty of covering your eyes with his hand. Well, it wasn't anything you hadn't seen before; apparently, the innocent face always gave the wrong impression.

The night ended with him crawling heavily to his apartment, tired, regretful, and often injured.

You looked at him beside you. Why did he seem so distraught by his own actions?

"So, can we cross revenge off your list?" You tried to joke when the expression on his face weighed on your chest. He didn't hear you; he kept looking at the path he had taken to the apartment.

If this was a divine way to make him regret his actions in life, it was quite functional, to be honest.

"And now?" His eyes fixed on you.

And you looked back at him.

"Do you still have the keys?" You pointed to the car.

He searched his pockets, and the keys jingled. Without saying anything, he opened the front passenger door for you to get in.

The gesture made you bite your lower lip to avoid smiling.

He got in afterward.

"Where are we going?" He started the car, and the roar of the engine added an extra note to the pain he was carrying at the moment.

He wasn't going to drive his car ever again?

Driving was the only thing that brought him peace, and the car was the only thing that belonged to him and only him. In fact, the vehicle was in his name, as was his driver's license. They were the only legal documents with Jake's name on them, even if it had cost him a fortune to bribe those in charge to get them without having to present any other proof that there was nothing suspicious behind them.

They were the only proof that Jake was real.

"I don't know, you'll feel it when we get there," you murmured without bothering to roll up the window; you just let the breeze hit you as the car started moving.

He didn't believe you, but apparently you weren't lying, his instinct was guiding him through the empty and dark streets of New York.

His home.

After a few minutes, Jake took a moment to look at you while you seemed completely absorbed in the detailed memories of Jake, who seemed to have even memorized the signs that adorned the streets he was driving through.

"What are you?" The question sounded a bit more offensive than he would have liked.

"Your guide."

"Are you sure you're not some kind of fantasy of mine?"

Was he flirting with you or insulting you? Either way, you smiled.

"None of that," you cleared your throat and finally looked at him. "I'm at the point where you are right now, and I'm staying here."

Should he inquire further, or were manners no longer as necessary when you were dead?

"For how long?"

"Huh?"

"You seem to know a lot about this; how long have you been like this?"

The way you shrugged was enough of an answer for him.

You had to close your eyes for a few seconds when you realized the effect the question had on you. You usually didn't talk about yourself, especially not with the people you guided. They were always more concerned about themselves, and with good reason; the boss knew well what had happened to you, but having someone directly ask about the situation left a disgusting taste in your mouth.

"My dear."

"Huh?" You looked at him immediately, furrowing your brow.

"What?"

"Did you say something?"

"I didn't say anything." The most similar you came to a normal conversation began when Jake released the wheel for a few seconds, raising both hands to declare himself innocent of whatever you were accusing him of.

"I heard you."

"I didn't say anything, I swear on my… death, I guess." He ran a hand through his chest, furrowing his brow.

Even with a bad feeling, you smiled.

And he did too.

Things were more fun when you collected as many jokes as you could about being dead.

"Alright." Your head returned to its position against the seat, and your gaze returned to the outside.

Jake looked at you for a few extra seconds; he knew that smile well.

"I think I can get us out of here," he thought, hoping that Marc and Steven could hear him.

Strong emotions or feelings.

The movement of the car eventually stopped, and you could no longer feel the leather under your fingers; you recognized the grass immediately.

Your eyes were forced open when a couple of children ran past you, laughing and pushing each other. You were beginning to feel tired, even though you were less than halfway there.

You sighed, your body feeling heavy as you stood up.

A couple was enjoying a homemade BBQ, even though the clouds seemed threatening to ruin it.

"Jake? Marc?" You looked around.

Ah, there he was.

Near the children's mother, looking closely at her with a radiant smile. It wasn't difficult to guess that he was Steven; his messy hair and tired eyes didn't resemble the features of Marc or Jake. Well, they did, but not really. Does that make sense?

Finally, one of the three didn't look at you in fear or confusion.

"Oh Gods, hiya!" His accent made you smile, and you waved back in greeting, approaching him as he was only a few steps away.

"You must be Steven."

"And you must be my guide." As if it were a friendly arrangement, he extended his hand, and you shook it gently, enjoying the contact. "Jake explained to me."

Was there a gap between door and door that you didn't witness for them to have a chance to talk? Well, you'd ask later.

"You seem calm."

"I'm totally freaking out on the inside."

You laughed again and nodded. You liked Steven, you liked him more than the other two.

"What level is this?"

"Third." Your attention shifted to the couple next to you, the woman's huge brown eyes told you in seconds that she was the mother of the three.

That was something they had in common, those lost-puppy eyes.

"Strong emotions or feelings." You took a step closer to her, your eyes scanning her face for more familiarities among the triplets and her.

The little wrinkles at the edges of their eyes when they smiled also seemed to come from her. And the curls definitely came from their father.

"Well, I love my mom." He seemed just as distracted by the scene as you were.

You didn't mention that love, at this point, wasn't one of the emotions that could retain you.

The situation wasn't new to you; there was almost always a familiar memory here. You didn't count friends separately because time had shown you that friends were the family you chose; the lines blended easily in those cases.

Maybe this was the reason why you would stay with one of them, and with just 5 minutes exchanged, Steven seemed like a good choice.

The children ran by your side again, and Steven's attention was completely stolen by them. You tilted your head to the side with tenderness and a slight curiosity.

"They're not ready yet; you can go play for a while, understood?" The taller boy nodded, stopping right in front of his brother, who ended up crashing into him.

Both laughed.

"Is it you?" You pointed to the younger one.

Steven seemed as distant from the situation as you. He shook his head slowly before looking at you as if he wanted an explanation. It took him a few seconds to be able to murmur.

"I don't… I don't remember."

"Marc?" The woman called, causing an amusing scene between the two children, Steven, and you since everyone turned to look at her expectantly. "Take care of Roro, please."

Roro?

"Do you have another brother?" Your voice came out so low that not even poor Steven could hear it.

It was a silent agreement in the way you followed him while he continued to follow the children with his mind in a tangle of thoughts. Was this what Marc had been hiding so eagerly?

You could swear a shiver ran through you from head to toe when your eyes settled on the cave the two children were heading towards, and the thunderclap sealed the deal on the bad omens.

You had witnessed these scenes before. When someone was about to die, it always felt like this. Being sensitive to death was one of the quirks that came with the job.

"Steven?"

He didn't even look at you.

"Lads?"

No answer, obviously.

"It's… It's dangerous, they shouldn't…" He seemed to have lost his breath. "They are going to..."

And you nodded slowly.

"I know."

The small steps were only a few meters away from you as the rain intensified. Both you and Steven were getting wet.

"Let me…" He was never able to form a complete sentence. "I know I can…"

You knew he couldn't, but you still followed him into the cave.

You walked in darkness for a very short time, with "I want my mommy" echoing in your ears over and over again.

The cave seemed to end in the living room of what you guessed was their house. Both of you arrived dripping wet, Steven with red eyes after what he had just witnessed.

You were still wondering what role he played in all of this.

Had Marc's emotional burden somehow reached him? After all, he was also their brother, or at least it seemed like it.

You stopped abruptly when both encountered Steven's mother, hands on her hips, her cheeks red with anger. Steven jerked when she yelled the words, "This is all your fault."

Everything was happening too fast, even for you, who had learned the art of controlling the emotions of the moment. It was usually the boss who handled these kinds of situations.

You were never strong enough.

You moved past the scene, your hand learned to Steven's wrist as you directed him upstairs. He couldn't stop looking as he moved awkwardly, stumbling over his own feet.

"It's this way," you whispered, leading him into the room.

You sighed calmly when finally the silence enveloped you. Inside, one of the children was playing alone. The scene tugged at your heartstrings a little more, but hey, at least there was no one screaming.

"I must be remembering wrong," he whispered as a last hope while he sat on the floor, defeated. He took a seat in front of the child. "It must be Marc's doing."

You pursed your lips, deciding not to say anything as you watched his hands tremble. This kind of thing wasn't in the manual.

"Maybe so," you gave him false hope before knocks on the door diverted both of your attention.

"Open the damn door, Marc!"

Another shiver, as horrible as the first one.

"It's not my mom, it's not my mom," the child whispered, covering his hands. Steven and you could do nothing but watch.

"Open this door!" More loud pounding.

More knocks, more panic, more fear.

Until the voice of the kid made you look again.

"Bloody hell! Look at the state of this place." His little eyes focused on a bunch of Legos in front of him. They weren't even scattered. "Better sort it out before mum sees it." His accent was the same as… Steven's.

"Marc! Open this door right now!"

Witnessing that was enough to clear your doubts; you weren't foolish. After your death, no one could really receit you. Your brain easily connected the dots, and apparently, Steven's did too; he had more clues than you did up to that point.

They weren't brothers.

Marc, Steven, and Jake shared the same body.

"When danger is near," Steven narrowed his eyes as he read from the poster on the wall above the child, "Steven Grant has no fear."

He took a deep breath through his mouth with heaviness.

"He made me up." That was the next thing he said, and you couldn't help but watch the child as he organized his Legos.

The door burst open with a shove, and that was your next cue; it was time to get out of there.

"Steven?"

Wendy, whom you had been referring to as 'the mother,' entered the room, her eyes red, and an aroma of alcohol that even you could sense.

"You are going to learn…" She took Marc's belt, the one that hung next to his toys. It was a horrible parallel, and you could swear your chest hurt. "to listen."

Her steps were slow as she coiled the belt in her hand.

"Steven?" You whispered, pushing him in the chest. He stood on tiptoe to get a better view of the scene.

"I wanna see what she did." He mumbled with difficulty.

You gave him another push with all your might.

"Steven, we have to go."

"Let me see what she did." That was the last thing he said before you slammed the door shut, muffling the poor child's cries of pain inside the room.

"I don't hate her." It was the only thing he could say after what seemed like hours. The sun seemed to have set.

You nodded slowly, your head resting against the door just like his.

"I know."

"She was sad."

You had to swallow the urge to tell him that it didn't justify what she did, but you chose to nod and offer him some peace.

"She was."

There were a few more seconds of silence before you murmured, "We have to go."

He nodded and was the first to stand up, intending to offer you his hand, just as you had done with Jake a while ago. You took his hand and stood up, but you didn't let go of his hand.

You descended the stairs slowly; the house suddenly seemed filled with people. Apparently, this wasn't over yet, and you started to seriously think that Steven wouldn't get out of here. How much more could his heart take?

Everything seemed blurry, although of course, you didn't know that the reason behind it was that Marc had never entered the house that day; the memory was clouded by a window in between.

"What happened here?" He whispered behind you.

"Your mom, Steven."

Her photo was on one of the tables, behind two long candles.

"Don't talk nonsense." He took a few steps forward to see what you were seeing. "My mom and I already sorted this out; it must have been something that ha- happened." They were all wearing black clothes around him. "in the past." He completed in a whisper.

You looked at him again, his eyes filled with tears as he shook his head.

"No, no, this can't…" He swallowed hard, making your own throat ache in response. "Marc would have told me."

You doubted it, but it wasn't the time to remind him that Marc seemed to be hiding many things from him.

"No, this can't be happening." He mumbled, again losing his ability to string sentences together.

Breaking your heart once again. The front door of the house opened in front of both of you, and you understood that it was time to move on.

Without saying anything, you tapped his shoulder, getting his attention. You pointed to Marc outside the house, just a few meters away, drinking from his flask with teary eyes.

"Marc?" He whispered to himself as he moved awkwardly and quickly towards him, leaving the house with you behind.

You decided to give him space; his memory allowed you to stroll through a couple of nearby gardens, and you waited on the grass while Steven processed the moment when Marc finally broke down.

Kneeling on the pavement, his body tense until the English accent of the other became noticeable in the way he spoke to himself.

The place was getting darker, and after a few hours, you sat on the sidewalk, watching the scene from afar. Steven had the opportunity to digest the situation as much as he could, and although for any normal person this would have been the end, you knew this wasn't the point for Steven.

He was understanding, strong within his sensitivity, and he knew how to deal with things that Marc couldn't.

You finally understood the feeling he was facing and what he was releasing.

Grief.

The grief of losing his mother as a child, and the grief of losing her again as an adult. His brother, his father.

The grief of losing himself while trying to understand that he wasn't 'the original' but Marc.

Meanwhile, as the crying finally subsided, Steven was talking to himself. Or so it seemed, because no one else (meaning you) could hear the voices of Jake and Marc arguing with him. "I know how to get us out of here." "Jake, we're not going to harm her." They didn't have to say more for Steven to understand that they were referring to you. "I'm just saying it might be an easy job." "Are you suggesting we kill someone who's already dead? You've truly outdone yourself." "At least I'm looking for a solution, unlike you, Mr. 'resigned.'" "We can't leave Layla alone," Steven whispered, his gaze fixed on you in the distance. "See? Steven's on my side." Marc rolled his eyes. "And what do you want to do?" "I'm just saying… if there's a way out of here, she's the one who knows it."

Meanwhile, when the imaginary crickets began to resonate through Marc's blurry memory, Steven returned to you.

"Hey?" You looked at him, who knows how long you had had your eyes closed. "Can we continue?"

You nodded and gave him a small smile.

"Let's move on."

Mk's tag list :)@ninebluehearts @icreatedthisat317am @onefinnedwonder-fm @shousha133

[butts-bouncing-on-the-beltway]

Because I read the tags - would you be willing to share more about that explicit curriculum for unlearning shame about questions? It sounds very cool!

I'm happy to try!

So, I work for a healthcare practice, and am the lead supervisory staff for the internship program these days (because apparently I have "leadership qualities" like "patience" and "enthusiasm for answering questions" and "a strengths-based teaching style"). Those who know me may understand that this is a choice I make under very specific circumstances as a psychiatric abolitionist because even if you can't change a system from the inside, until external changes are fully implemented, there are still people who need and deserve support from an extent system.

This means that an enormous portion of my curriculum with interns is "what it means to be someone in the position of wielding state power" and how to analyze and decomstruct systems of hierarchy. Because if there's one thing I will not do, it's sign off on a future mental health care provider who hasn't been comprehensively exposed to anti-psych conversations and anchored to "patient-led" communities and ethical critiques.

Within the first four weeks, we have the following lessons as a group:

Week 1: we are in positions of state-reinforced authority, and because of that I am going to ask you to be as vulnerable and open in our group work space as you want/expect your patient's to be. If you cannot do that, I cannot help you. Because we operate in a telehealth capacity, it is UP TO YOU to tell me when you need help because while I can "swing by" and check in with you, I fundamentally cannot notice from 6hrs away that you need help. This is not a role in which you can afford to feel ashamed of needing help, because shane leads to avoidance and avoidance leads to unintentional preventable harm, and if this is REALLY what you want to do, you need to take that seriously

Week 2: what does "learning to fail safely" look like for you? How do you recognize when you are failing/have failed and how do you take a functional look at how that went down without personalizing/internalizing any commentary about yourself from the experience (how can you learn to hold yourself and others in unconditional regard without sacrificing safety, boundaries, or needs of well-being)? What thoughts intrude in your mind when you have made a mistake or realize you don't know what to do? Until we understand how to help you actually hear what failure has to tell you about the path to success, the shoulds and shouldn'ts will control your decisions in ways you probably won't even notice. Who and how were you taught to feel ashamed of needing a period of adjustment/learning curve when interacting with a new skill or idea? What function does that shane serve for you?

Week 3: what is your actual learning process? Like specifically, i don't care WHAT YOU THINK YOU KNOW i care HOW YOU CAME TO "KNOW" WHAT YOU THINK YOU KNOW. Knowledge is inherently contextual and subjective. Are you aware of how that cookie crumbles for you specifically? Able to see both where you may be internalizing information you don't mean to and how you go about intentionally adding to or changing your knowledge? Where could this process change or improve or be adaptable in non-ideal circumstances?

Week 4: what skills do YOU think you are strong in? Which are still feeling vulnerable? Lets learn how you internalize/cultivate feelings like security, stability, confidence, compassion, etc. Lets talk about how to "self-reflect" without "self-interrogation/self-doubt" and how to sit in uncomfortable tense realities that need reconciled or processed. How do you let multiple things with overlapping conflicted areas be true at once?

Week 5: lets learn HOW to ask questions. In part we do this by introducing "case consultation" where an intern comes into group, describes a hypothetical (or real and fully anonymized) situation and asks for the group's thoughts on any dilemmas or uncertainties you see. But in part it's also about how *I* answer their questions. Because I don't "answer them" for the most part. I let the other interns answer directly, and I exclusively either INTERROGATE THE QUESTION ITSELF (why are you asking x and not y in this case? How have you heard the person discuss this related component? What are YOU feeling and how is it motivating the choices you're making and the options you're considering? What do you know already about this symptom/experience you are describing? That sort of thing) or I provide first person narratives from past clients, colleagues, and intra-communal conversations that may offer context and compassion for where that person is and WHY they are there.

Week 6: learn how to give feedback. What is criticism actually? What's the difference between "speaking a difficult truth" and "being cruel or inappropriate" or between "helping someone find language to communicate their experiences/needs" vs "putting words in someone's mouth". How do you find feedback easier or harder to provide? How do you provide it in ways that maintain accountability while mitigating feelings of defensiveness or rejection from the other party? What does it mean for feedback to be CONSTRUCTIVE and how do you decide to prioritize functional guidance to a peer? How do you root out the desire to "go easy" on peers in the field when they make choices or take actions that are harmful or unacceptable? How do you help each other grow in ways that DO NOT rely on or reinforce shame.

Week 7-14: start demonstrating to me your understanding of these concepts by assuming gradually increasing levels of personal and group responsibility for A) your personal learning, B) the learning/growth of your peers, and C) the form that the internship programming takes in order to acheive the above desired functions

Essentially, those first 6 weeks are heavy on really explicit and visible cognitive untangling of your processes as a person and as a professional, and then the remaining weeks are about building confidence/mastery in these processes such that by term 2 [weeks 15-28] I'm only a facilitator, not a teacher, and by term 3 [weeks 29-42] you should be assuming a teaching role for the new first-term interns. I am here to help you trouble shoot these processes until you feel confident in both cultivation of your OWN self-concept and skills, AND the support/facilitation of OTHERS' self-concept and skills.

We talk a lot about the inherent value of every voice, even in voices we fundamentally disagree with in every way, because communication is still communication even when we don't like or agree with what's being communicated, and understanding how to act on that mechanism with others around you is often a huge part of learning not to feel ashamed of the space you take up in the world, including the space of practicing a new skill or activity.

Conceptually, it seems really straightforward, but we meet probably at least once a day for at least an hour to do this stuff, and we do that for a YEAR, and by the end of it, we have a solid floor of self-esteem and security in the idea of imperfect enactment of human life being inherently valuable regardless of what comes next. It's a lifelong thing for sure tho. I organize these same talks as a continuum for past interns who have become staff and current internship supervisors helping the interns develop their skills, and while our conversations can often have different forms, they are often very similar if not identical in our goals. So like. Straightforward or not, this isn't easy or fast, and I try to emphasize as much as possible that it is also an endless process, not an outcome based static state we can one day acheive. So part of the process also needs to be learning how not to hate or be ashamed of past us no matter how much we had to grow away from past us. That shame will always keep us locked in that little bit of threat around change unless we are consistent with ourselves in kicking it to the curb when it shows up.

I will say, that this is a curriculum I can do because it is a small group (no more than 5 interns per group with 1-2 facilitators) that allows us to pivot and customize the bones of it as needed. I doubt it would function the same way alone or in a large group setting, but I imagine the principles of it could still be helpful in finding what IS functional in those circumstances

[infiiniteazure]

Chapter One

Author's note: I'm not a native speaker, so if you read any grammatical inconsistencies, 'm very sorry.

enjoy♡⸝⸝💌⊹。°˖

Warning: Mention of post-traumatic stress disorder, violent situations, content that may be disruptive or disturbing.

Chapter Two: The Man Who Was Abandoned by God.

Mrs. Robinson, one of the senior nurses at the military hospital (And head of all the nurses there), would hold a small cotton ball with some iodine on it, while with her free hand she held Jane's chin.

—Didn't you read the note in the file?— Mrs. Robinson would gently wipe the cotton ball across Jane's lip wound. —You can't let your guard down with these men.—

Jane would just keep her gaze fixed on the back of the room as she tried to keep her breathing calm from the pain she felt from the blow she had received.

—Oh Jane, you should be thankful that man didn't knock you out with one punch—

—It's not his fault— Jane would say in a completely muffled voice. —He is not well... Before I went into that room, I read his file in its entirety— She would say with some remorse in her voice.

—None of these men are all right Jane, they are men of war, men broken by all that their eyes have seen and their hands have done—

Mrs. Robinson would cross her arms in front of Jane, that woman had been working there for enough years to read every patient like the back of her hands.

—I know you want to be different from all this shit that surrounds us Jane, we all wanted that when we got here, but you can't pretend that these men are normal people, they are wounded animals that attack to protect themselves— Mrs. Robinson would say those words with some anger. —You can't be so naive Jane, you are an intelligent woman, prove it.—

Jane would lower her head at the head nurse's words, her hair would cover the bruise and wound on her lip.

—Did they lock him up?— Jane would ask softly.

—Until the medications can control the psychotic break.—

The nurse would take off her gloves to discard them, then pause for a few seconds to look at her subordinate's face.

—You can't save the men who were abandoned by God, Jane.—

The woman would walk out, closing the door behind her, leaving Jane all alone with her thoughts. She simply looked at her hands, doubting her own convictions, remembering what happened hours ago in that situation.

The man's eyes, blinded like a rabid wounded dog just trying to protect himself, as if he couldn't recognize his own reflection in the water.

—Mr. Riley? Mr. Riley, you need to take your Midazolam—

The man would get up from the bed in a frenzy, shouting phrases that Jane could not understand, and in one quick movement the tray with the medicines would fly across the room. Jane in complete shock, forgetting all internal protocol would try to calm the man down, but would simply receive a blow on her cheek that would make her fall to the floor.

The sound of the tray hitting the floor would alert the psychiatric security staff, three men would rush in to restrain the patient.

One of the men would cover Jane, who was still dazed from the blow she had received, while in the background the other two men would try to restrain Simon.

—Don't resist, you son of a bitch!— One of the men would scream as they tried to restrain Simon.

Simon's screams flooded the room, screams full of fear and suffering, no physical pain, just a man fighting against himself. For a few milliseconds Jade thought she saw the man's mind fragment again in his gaze.

Once reduced to the ground, more men from the hospital security team would arrive to restrain Simon, Jane would never forget the expression of terror as she saw the face of that man smashed to the ground, screaming for mercy in desperate tears, as if some horrifying memory was replaying over and over again in her mind.

As if a spark fell on a huge wheat field and burned everything in its path.

[a-roguish-gambit]

Hello, in your turn of the century AU, were Pietro and Wanda raised by Magneto their father? In X-Men Evolution, Mags sent Wanda to an asylum because she couldn't control her powers, something out of character for him. In the comics when Wanda causes an accident with her powers in a small town, her response to the angry mob was to kill them all. Does something similar happen in this au?Since the twins are well dressed unlike the other children it makes me think that Magneto at least covers his basic needs. But why did he leave them with Mystique and Destiny?

So yes and no on the asylum. When she had a breakdown from her powers he sent her to one initially for a week, because at the time thats what you were told to do then when your loved ones needed psychiatric help particularly women, unfortunately, thinking it would be safe. it was a private asylum not a public one and the brochure said that there would be like lots of greenery, musical enrichment, healing springs, trained staff, etc. A lot of asylums at the time up sold themselves as these verdant pastoral estates and never expecting the families to visit. But magneto did, cause he wanted to make sure they could handle her. When he saw that they had essentially chained her up out of fear of her powers.... Well let's just say that asylum is no longer in commission.

He...honestly felt like he couldn't face her after that and she honestly didn't want to talk to him either, so he set her up in a small estate with some mutant staff to look after her. It's a lovely place with all the actual amenities the asylum was supposed to have, but she took this as him being ashamed of her and not him being ashamed of himself, and trying to pretend she doesn't exist.

He continues to raise Pietro tho is pretty absentee cause he's getting into this new fangled utopian socialism that's all the rage in the turn of the century, and has set up this mutant organization founded on the idea that humans can't run society fairly even for themselves with their desire for capital and imperialism, and rampant discrimination and classism and if they were the rulers of society they could create a truly fair world. It's kinda gone off the initial path tho and veered into establishing an independent mutant state at this point. Anyways eventually he has Pietro sent to live with mystique and the brotherhood as his focus on his plotting grows.

Wanda eventually gets fed up with this isolation and goes looking for her father and brother and ends up finding the brotherhood of mutants.

Sorry that was a rant. Hope you liked it!

[horsesource]

I’m getting obsessed with the arguments between Positive Reinforcement (R+) vs Balanced (uses “aversives”) animal training. So many of the R+ advocates seem incapable of realizing that solely rewarding behavior can absolutely be cruel--the idea seems to be that if treats and sweet voices replace aversive training tools, the possibility of cruelty vanishes: only unconditional love and dogs' "desire to please" remains.

I haven't trained a dog. In fact, if I look back at the family dogs I've shared my life with, they desperately lacked training. I have, however, worked at a place that intended to train autistic children. This place was full-on R+. We were not allowed to use "limit-setting language" (this includes the word "no"); we were to rely upon "errorless learning", prizes and praises for good behavior; we were required to "ignore and redirect" bad behavior. Guess what? This was completely ineffective. I watched so many children's behavioral issues worsen over time. I watched children quite deliberately fuck with teachers, who the children knew were powerless to administer meaningful consequences. I watched children ignore and even seem angered by effusive "gooooooood job!"s.

Now I want to follow the path behaviorism took in its application to humans (mostly humans called autistic)...

As many know, Ivar Lovaas, the man who did much work to establish Applied Behavior Analysis as the "gold standard" of autism intervention, utilized aversive punishment. Take this 1974 interview excerpt:

"When we first started to treat autistic kids we began with only one child. I would pick up Beth at her parents’ house at 9:00 in the morning and I would drop her off at three, so we had her for about six hours a day, five days a week. You spend that much time with someone and you get to know them pretty well. In fact, I saw more of her than I did of my own children. Well, what happened was that she ceased to be a patient for me—she was simply a child, just like one of my own children.

Beth did very well in some ways; she learned very quickly. But she was also very self-destructive. One day I was talking with her teacher and Beth began hitting her head against the edge of a steel cabinet. She would only hit steel cabinets and she would only hit them on the edge because, you see, she wanted to draw blood. Well, I think because I knew her so well, I just reacted automatically, the way I would have with one of my own children. I just reached over and cracked her one right on the rear. She was a big fat girl so I had an easy target. And I remember her reaction: She turned around and looked at me as if to say, 'What the hell is going on? Is this a psychiatric clinic or isn’t it?' And she stopped hitting herself for about 30 seconds and then, you see, she sized up the situation, laid out her strategy and then she hit herself once more. But in those 30 seconds while she was laying out her strategy, Professor Lovaas was laying out his. At first I thought, 'God, what have I done,' but then I noticed that she had stopped hitting herself. I felt guilty, but I felt great. Then she hit herself again and I really laid it on her. You see, by then I knew that she could inhibit it, and that she would inhibit it if she knew I would hit her. So I let her know that there was no question in my mind that I was going to kill her if she hit herself once more, and that was pretty much it. She hit herself a few times after that, but we had the problem licked. One of the things that this taught me was that if you treat these kids like patients, you are finished. The best thing you can do is treat them like people."

To contemporary readers, *to contemporary ABA practitioners*, this is horrifying! This is abuse! And I am not a fan of Lovaas. But you know, today when I read this, I do hold a peculiar kind of respect for his relationship with Beth, and that is what I want to focus on, not Lovaas’s legacy. What stands out to me in the relationship between Lovaas and Beth, as Lovaas tells it, are two things lacking from contemporary ABA manuals. Firstly, there is an emphasis on the particular relationship between two particular people, Lovaas and Beth--"You spend that much time with someone and you get to know them pretty well. In fact, I saw more of her than I did of my own children. Well, what happened was that she ceased to be a patient for me", "Well, I think because I knew her so well, I just reacted automatically, the way I would have with one of my own children"--Lovaas is claiming Beth as "his", as "one of his own children". And Beth, too, clearly has a hold on Lovaas. Lovaas feels guilt, he questions whether he has made the right disciplinary decision (note that this consideration cannot enter the mind of a behaviorist who considers themselves incapable of discipline). Lovaas does not "ignore and redirect" her. Lovaas demonstrates to Beth a committed seriousness to the eradication of her violent behavior. He does not repeatedly read a social story about "Why I Need to Be Safe Around Countertops" in a syrupy sweet voice, nor give her a cookie when she stops hitting her head. In fact, he engages in violent discipline against her behavior! But I do think there might be a coherence to this discipline that is not there in strictly praise-laden practices. I think part of this has to do with Lovaas's second important deviance from contemporary ABA: the attribution of intention to Beth's actions. Good contemporary behaviorists would never ascribe the sort of devious intention Lovaas ascribes to Beth. It's extremely common to hear things such as "well, he/she can't help [behavior]", "he/she doesn't know any better". This attitude is generally considered kindness, whether applied to children or dogs. I disagree. I have seen the training/teaching rhetoric of "they don't know", "all they know is love" cause real damage to relationships. I believe that this strictly positive behaviorism harms humans and our animals, despite its very popularity depending upon a fantasy of "harmless" training/teaching. I am not saying that every human or animal will benefit from verbal and physical discipline. I am sure there are some who will not. We ought to lend more commitment to the specificity of a relationship than to a method. My point is that many of us seem to think that if we eliminate certain tools or words, the potential for cruelty will vanish from our relations. On the contrary: I have seen horrific cruelty in the "kindest" of practices, and I have seen cases where the clarity of disciplinary action would lend a coherence "kinder" than ignorance, a cookie, or a "GOOOOOD JOB!".