#also i had pointless debates that did nothing but make my anxiety worse

[lifeofcynch]

it really is a weird feeling when you’ve had a specific opinion for like years and only recently start to be like ‘hm is this worth it? is this really the hill i want to die on?’

[after-witch]

Sweet Escape [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Title: Sweet Escape [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Synopsis: Escape isn’t easy. Nor is it very long-lasting. When Overhaul’s men drag you back into captivity, you brace yourself and wait for what your captor will do with you. 

Word Count: 7,592

Notes: yandere, kidnapped, humiliation, degradation, mentions of eating disorder behavior, improper use of household cleaning products, Overhaul is a mean man 90% of this fic is just Overhaul being an asshole to you

There are going to be bruises on your shoulders. Fingerprint shaped bruises from the men holding you steady, afraid that you'll try to sprint off--maybe afraid that you'll try to spring at their boss, disobedient, unruly possession that you are.

You know that Overhaul won't like it when he eventually sees those black-and-blue fingerprints marring your skin--he might kill them for it, or worse. They're digging in too hard, but you don't warn them to ease up lest they find themselves on the wrong end of Overhaul's hands; they brought you back to this place, after all, and they deserve nothing but your hot, raw contempt.

You could run. You could slip out of their grip, if you put your mind to it. Your clothes are wet and the medical table that you're sitting on is slippery from the rainwater that's dripped out from your soaked clothes. But Chisaki Kai--no, Overhaul, you remind yourself, for the energy he’s exuding now is very much that of a foreboding boss--is standing in front of you, and you'd never make it to the doorway.

"Leave us," Overhaul says, not bothering to move as the men gripping your shoulders release their painful hold and swiftly leave the room. He tears off a sanitizing wipe from the ever-present canister on his desk and wipes down the doorknobs that they touched, before locking the door. An unnecessary precaution, given your nerves, given your state, given your realization that your escape attempt was a massive fluke that would never be allowed to happen again.

You numbly watch as he gathers up supplies from around the makeshift clinic he'd created in the small suite of rooms he allowed you to exist in. The canister of disinfectant. Medical-grade soaps. Sponges. A bucket. Needles, needles, needles... you remember the feel of the syringe you'd stolen in your hand and distract yourself from the fear of what he's going to do to you by retracing the steps of the past day.

**

You got farther than you thought you would--really, you did. At every stage of your plan, you expected Chisaki to suddenly reveal that he knew every step you'd taken so far. That he'd catalogued every act of false obedience to lure him into relaxing the rules, that he saw you swipe the syringe of tranquilizer from the clinic when he'd left for a moment to grab a fresh pair of clothes for you, that he knew you asked to sit with him at his desk only to sneak a glance at his calendar, so you could sweetly plead for an afternoon in the garden when he would be busy, when he would surely ask a highly trusted subordinate to watch over you.

A highly trusted subordinate who knew all about your weeks of good, sweet behavior and who was none the wiser when you'd jabbed him with the syringe, plunging the medicine, the same kind your captor once used to 'calm you down' when you were having fits, right into the man’s thigh. 

You didn't hesitate: you'd dipped your hands into the man's pockets, pulled out his wallet and ran. You barely remember anything until you were in the forest--you vaguely remember using the key card to open the gates surrounding the base, you remember the fear that at any moment you would hear an alarm sound; but from there, everything was a blur as you sped into the forest wearing only the soft day shoes you'd been given to go outside.

You made it through the forest, though not without bumps and cuts and sore feet and a dimly throbbing ankle that was thankfully only turned. You ran until you reached a small town, one you'd never been in before. You buried your first instinct deep, deep, deep: do not contact the authorities. Who knows what connections Overhaul had, especially in a town so close to where he operated? So instead you waltzed into a little corner shop and made a beeline for the bathroom--where you promptly vomited out your breakfast as all of the anxiety and fear and adrenaline caught up with you in an instant.

You remember staring into the bathroom mirror afterwards, your face cold with splashed water. It was then, staring into your pale and anxious face, a face you hadn’t been allowed to see in a mirror for ages, that you felt freedom slamming back into you. You could do what you wanted, now. You were going to get your life back. You could make your own schedule and have your own hobbies back and eat what you wanted and--your stomach had gurgled, as if on cue. You had to get something to eat. But how would you pay?

The wallet you'd pilfered felt heavy in your pocket, and you opened it without a second thought. No cash. But a credit card. It would do, until you were able to get some cash of your own. You wandered back into the shop and even now, you can still feel how struck you were by how cozy, how nice, how different it felt. Just a small general store with big open windows and soft music in the background, and an old woman behind the register who immediately asked you if you needed any help finding this or that.

You smiled--a real smile, how nice that felt--and shook your head and loaded up a basket. A first-aid kit, a large water bottle, a toothbrush and toothpaste... then came the snacks. Candy. Chips. Soda. Things you hadn't tasted in so long. You even grabbed a pointless fashion magazine. The old woman had glanced at the name on the card and you offered a sheepish smile, a fake one that made you feel a pang of guilt for lying to her: "My boyfriend sent me to do the shopping. He's no good at this stuff." She'd smiled and nodded, oh I understand dear, before packing up your order.

You stepped out into the sunshine--you can't pretend like you remember how it feels, right now, shivering from the damp rain on this table--and took a deep breath of fresh air. It smelled crisp and sweet and clean. Not the sterile cleanliness of your captor's clinic, but truly pure--real. There was a slight tinge to the air, and you spotted grey clouds on the horizon. Not an omen, no: just another sign that you were outside, you were in nature, you were free. The smell was the promise of thunder, of electricity, of cool rain.

It also smelled like... well, lunch. Or more precisely, you smelled the vague scents of the little pizza shop a few shops down.

And here is where you made, looking back, your biggest mistake. You should have headed to a bus station. Or called for a taxi. You should have gotten the hell out of there right that second. But your mind flashed back to Overhaul's little calendar, the words printed neatly in the little square for today: he would be away until the evening, which meant you (surely, surely) had a few more hours before he came back and discovered your escape.

He’d ordered no one to bother you and your now-unconscious guard in the garden, so if no one saw you run out, then an alarm certainly wouldn’t raised for a while. You had time, didn't you? Time to grab a meal? You could always get it to go, and you could even ask an employee inside about buses or taxes. Yes, it was fine--you would get a few slices to go and hop on a bus and leave forever. More than that, it was practical. You needed energy, and the junk in your bag--while undoubtedly delicious--wasn't going to be enough to sustain you for long.

The door to the pizza place dinged when you entered, and you almost teared up at the normality of it. It was a buffet style place, with rows of pizzas under yellow-cast lights and rows of red booths and people lifting slices onto their plates with shared tongs. Unusual for a small town, but maybe it was a remnant from a more bustling time, when American-style pizza places were all the rage. For a moment, your thoughts had turned back to your captivity: Overhaul would have never set foot into a place like this--nor would he have let you. Germs, germs, everywhere. And you loved it.

You paid with the card, but there was no need for excuses this time--the young man behind the register didn't even check for a name or signature, much less ask for identification. You asked about a to-go box and he'd shrugged, mumbled out an apology--they didn't do that here. You have to eat inside.

For a moment, the rational part of your mind screamed: get the hell out of here, then! But your stomach growled, and hunger beckoned, and damn if that row of glistening pizza slices didn't make you want to eat. And eat.  And… eat. You shoved repressed thoughts deep down, your heart hammering all the while, and took a tentative step towards the buffet. Thunder rumbled as you debated. You could be out of here in... 30 minutes? Enough time to eat--to binge, your mind whispered, you can now--and maybe get it out after? Yes, it would be fine. (It would not. Future you, the one sitting on the table and watching in increasing anxiety as Overhaul finishes up his tasks, wishes she could tell you.)

You should have seen the start of the rain, sudden and relentless, as a bad sign. Instead you ignored it and filled up a large cup with diet soda that spilled a little when you forgot to let go of the button. You ate without thinking, not even really enjoying the taste of the first greasy pizza slices you’d had in ages.

You were on your fifth slice when the restaurant doors dinged, but the sense of small town charm was overrun by the immediate realization that you were caught. You were fucked. The air thickened--were you the only one to notice?--as two men in slim suits entered the restaurant with an air of immediacy. You were spotted in a second, if that. You thought about running.

But then you thought about the bored teenager behind the register and the old man cutting up his wife's pizza slices because she had trouble chewing and the little girl stacking up pepperonis while her mom chatted on the phone and you resigned yourself. You didn’t want anyone else to get hurt…even if it meant giving in. You didn't struggle, couldn't struggle, and let them lead you swiftly outside where the torrent of rain soaked you immediately  as they pushed you down the block, where an unmarked car waited. You glanced up helplessly as the cloudy sky and rain streamed down your face before you were unceremoniously pushed into the backseat.

Overhaul was sitting inside, staring at you with an intensity you've never seen before.

**

Your backpack drops with a thump next to you and you flinch out of your memories.

"Let's see what you bought with that stolen card during your little adventure."  His voice is deceptively calm. He must be furious with you, you think. And you can't believe you didn't think about credit fraud alerts before you used the damn card.

The noise of the zipper is thunderous and you scoot yourself back on the exam table, pressing against the wall to put a little more room--even if it's only inches--between you and your captor. He begins to pull everything out of the bag, one by one, and seeing it all lined up makes it clear what type of lecture is coming.

A few bags of chips, a bottle of soda, bars of chocolate, all junk, junk, junk. All food he would never permit you to eat, and certainly not in such quantities.

"Disgusting," he murmurs, before tossing each item into a trash bin kept against the wall, one by one. You cringe at the sound of each bag, each bottle, hitting the bottom of the trash. You didn't even get to taste them. He stares at the trash, eyes narrowed, as if the food itself was worthy of his venom. "Full of unnecessary sugars and fats and oils. Eating so much of this will make you sick. We've talked about this."

You say nothing. You press your lips together. You won't give him the satisfaction of argument. You won't let him pretend like he has any right to lecture you on what you eat, and certainly not what you eat after you've escaped (however briefly) from his clutches.

"At least you didn't have time to ingest them during your ill-planned escape, hm?" He replaces his previous gloves--tainted with the thought of germs on the junk food bags, no doubt--and your stomach flips at the sound of the medical gloves he's snapped on in their place. "Which is more than I can say for the pizza." You never knew someone could say pizza with such a ridiculously nasty tone, but you've learned a lot of things during your captivity.

"You weren't content with this junk hoard," he says, gesturing towards the trash while keeping his eyes firmly on you. "You had to gorge yourself on greasy pizza from a dirty buffet, too? We are going to clean your mouth out, by the way.”

You hate the way he says gorge--you hate the way he says greasy--you hate the anxiety that comes with wondering what he’ll do to ‘clean’ your mouth. You hate him, you hate him, you hate him. The hate makes you answer defensively, despite your earlier resolution to stay quiet. You can't help yourself, in a lot of ways.

"I was hungry," you say, still feeling defiant.

"No one working on their fifth slice of pizza is hungry," he answers, simply. You feel diminished, but not enough to shut you up.

"So? It's not your business what I eat anyway.” A familiar tightness is springing to your throat. You don't want to cry in front of him ever again, so you clip the words out, fighting to retain control.

He presses a fist to his forehead in a sudden, rather surprising show of frustration. "Not my business? Not my business? It's my business to take care of you. Do you have any idea what could have happened to you out there?"

The fullness in your stomach, the cold rain soaking you, the remembrance of the wind and branches lashing at you as you ran hours before, all these freedoms have made you feel bold. Or maybe you're succumbing to the effects of an adrenaline crash and you just can't control your mouth.

"I could have been free. You can’t--you can't just keep me here. You can't just kidnap someone and decide you know what's best for them."

There's a long, steady pause as he stares at you. His expression--what you can see from his eyes--is blank, and you almost wonder if perhaps you've stumped him.

"I can," he says, lightly. Easily.

Fucker.

He sighs, and you get the distinct impression that you’re a nuisance, something to deal with, something he’s having to deal with instead of doing far more important things. "You’re showing a severe lack of appreciation for all the work I do to take care of you."

You don't know how to respond to that. "You kidnapped me.” It’s all you can think of--the bare truth.

He doesn't speak at first. Then he lifts something from the supply tray he's set up--a blue hospital gown, thin and short, and tosses it towards you. You catch it instinctively, feeling the thin, feather-light material in your fingers. He tosses a towel, next, and you hold it against your damp chest. He turns around.

"Change."

You don't want to. You don't want to. But you've never pressed your luck on what would happen if you refused to get dressed before, afraid that he might do it himself, and that fear overrides any thoughts of outright rebellion. For now. You slide off your wet clothes and push them towards the end of the table, then use the towel to dry off your skin. There are scratches and bruises, including a nasty looking one that's already turning green on your ankle. Your feet are swollen from running on the hard forest floor with your thin day shoes.

When you're finished, you clear your throat, and he turns back around. He tosses your wet clothes right into the trash--damn, you liked that shirt--and wipes off the table with a separate towel. You sit, legs dangling off the table, and wish he'd just get the punishment or examination or whatever it is he has planned over with. You can feel the coldness of the table through the medical gown, and its thinness makes you feel even more helpless. Weak. You want to retain that feeling of freedom that you had earlier in the day. Even choosing to return without a fight, choosing to avoid hurting the innocent people in that town, made you feel bold.

He stands in front of you until you force yourself to look up, to get it over with. He's swapped out his mask for a medical one.

"Have I ever hurt you?"

You hate this.

"No," you admit, voice tight. "Not physically," you add spitefully, because fuck him for trying to make himself sound like a decent person because he kidnapped you but didn't happen to hit you.

"Do I take care of you?" His tone is firm, commanding. It leaves no room for silences. Instead, it makes your stomach feel light, makes your heart feel like it wants to race.

"I can do that on my own," you counter.

"Can you?" He says, voice dripping in condescension.

"Yes," you spite, bile rising into your throat. "I can take care of myself."

He reaches back and grabs the little stool he keeps in this room, rolling it up to rest in front of the table and in front of you. He sits down and cups his hands together, resting them on his thigh. He leans forward. An easy gesture. Like he wants to have a conversation. But something about his movements sends out warning signals. Big, glaring, flashing warning lights that scream DANGER.

“You can take care of yourself.” It’s a statement, yet the way he says it is brutally mocking.

“I can,” you insist, your voice cracking just the slightest bit under his gaze.

"So, where would you live?" He watches you intently and it takes a moment for you to realize what he just asked you. He isn't offering you freedom, no. But maybe you can win an argument, just this once, and forcibly stop his delusions that he's "taking care of you."

"Anywhere," you say, but he looks unimpressed. "An apartment," you correct. "Like my old one. Doesn't have to be big." Your heart pangs with nostalgia for your old place, for your independence, for your life.

"Ah." Overhaul brings a gloved finger up to his chin and rests is there, nodding, as if he's seriously considering your words. "And how will you pay for rent at this apartment?"

You can't resist the snarky tone. "A job."

He rests both hands on his thighs. "Tell me, how much did you make at your last job, again? No--tell me, how long did you hold your last job?" You cross your arms defensively around your waist as he continues. "If I recall correctly, you were fired rather quickly from that one... and the one before."

You squeeze your waist, hoping for the tiniest bit of comfort from the gesture. "I... it wasn’t my fault.” You feel like you’re under a magnifying glass. “The first time. And the second, well, I was looking for something better, anyway."

He raises his eyebrows, curious. "Looking where? At the bottom of a bottle?"

Your entire body tenses.

"After all," he continues, voice almost taking on a syrupy sweet tone. "Your fridge was so well-stocked with them. Hmm. Do you think it's responsible to spend so much money on alcohol when you're behind on rent payments?"

"No," you say, voice tighter, "But--"

He doesn't give you a chance to finish. He stands, and you immediately squeeze your arms again. "And how much were you spending on other luxuries? Those clothes you kept carelessly shoved in your closet... they were a name brand, weren't they?"

Your throat is dry and your mouth is dry and you lick your lips. "There were sales," you insist.

"Ohh," he says, his voice lifting in mockery. "And I bet there were sales on the jewelry, the trinkets, the--" his eyes drift upwards, an implication of his disdain, "--figurines."

You lift your chin in defiance. "I'm allowed to buy things that I like."

He begins to pace. Not aimlessly, no, nothing with him is ever aimless. He paces until he stops in front of you, turning to face you for effect.

"What happens if you're late on three rent payments? Remind me of the policy that decrepit building you called an apartment complex had."

You squirm on the table. "I was only behind on two--"

"What happens?" His voice is firm. You can't avoid it.

There's a pause before you murmur, unwillingly. "You get evicted."

"So." He takes another step, and turns back towards you. "Do you think it's responsible to spend money you don't have on luxuries, when you're behind on rent?"

You want to run. Maybe you should have run at him earlier. Getting tossed into a solitary room after attacking him might be better than this interrogation.

"No," you admit. You swallow, dry and thick and a bit painful. "Okay. I'm not great with money. I bought things to make me happy because I was stressed out about---life. It's not that big a deal. I--I didn't get kicked out, anyway."

He sits again, but keeps himself upright, the air of faux casualness replaced with an air of command. "How did you catch up on your rent? Tell me."

You hate him. You stare at him, hoping he'll end this, but he simply stares at you until you blurt out the words. "You paid my landlord. Anonymously." You stare down at the floor, at the drops of water still there from earlier. "I didn't ask you to. I would have figured something out."

"I'm sure."

He stands, and you stare at the wall until you hear him roll the tray of supplies towards the table. Your body trembles of its own accord when he grabs your arm firmly and wraps a blood pressure cuff around the top. You sit in silence as the cuff gets tighter then mercifully deflates.

He tsks at the number, and jots it down on the pad resting on the table. For once, you're not tempted to peek.

"I need to take some blood," he says, and you stick out your arm in automatic, habitual compliance before your brain even realizes it. He grips your wrist firmly while he swipes your arm with an anti-bacterial agent.

"How much do you weigh?" He asks suddenly, voice nonchalant.

You stare at him, incredulous. He's never brought up weight before. He’s always been careful to avoid details about weight, nutrition--calories. The most he would do is point out that you need a well-rounded diet with the right vitamins and nutrients, and ignore your questions about sauces and cooking oils and grams, all attempts to find out something that could give you an ounce of control over what’s going into your body.

"I--I don't know.  You don't let me look at the scale when I step on it." He knows this. He knows that he's forbidden you from seeing the number, because he knows about your past, knows your tendency to get obsessive and strict and focus on food and weight and worth.

"Why don't I let you look at the scale?"

Your stomach feels like it's twisting.

"I don't know." The lie is bitter on your tongue.

The casual tone in his voice when he replies is far more biting than any cruel insult. "Yes, you do." 

His words are punctuated by the harsh medicinal smell of the next wipe. But you're in no mood to appreciate that he's still choosing to numb your skin despite your earlier transgressions.

The tears you felt building earlier begin to prick at the corner of your eyes. You don't want to cry, you don't want to cry, you don't want to cry.

“Why don’t I let you look at the scale?” He repeats, firmer, more insisting. He winds a band around your arm and taps at your veins.

Your arm looks fatter, like this. You swear it does. You look away to avoid your arm and the needle and his gaze.

“Because, um, I sometimes have problems with food. Or weight. Or whatever.”

“You have an eating disorder,” he tells you, all business as he plunges the needle into your skin; there’s only the ghost of a sting as he begins to slowly draw your blood. But you barely feel it, you can only feel the impact of his words, blunt and hateful.

"You were going to throw up in that germ-infested hovel. Eat until your stomach was distended, then head into a bathroom--which I'm sure the staff hadn't cleaned in ages--and stick your unwashed, greasy fingers down your throat until it all came back up. Am I correct?"

You can't tell if you feel woozy because of the needle or the way that your heart is racing at his words. Throw up. Greasy. Disgusting. You're disgusting.

"Stop it," you say, voice muddled with humiliation and anger.

He pulls the needle out, and quickly presses a bandage to your skin. He keeps a finger there, firm and pressing. He looks up at you, now, as he continues his onslaught.

"And then what? Let me make an educated guess. You were going to get on some filthy bus and open up all the junk you bought earlier? Perhaps," he muses, as he rips off a piece of tape to keep the gauze in place, "you could have asked the bus driver to stop at a public bathroom for a vomit break. And you'd probably make sure that whatever flea-ridden hotel you found along the way had a scale in the bathroom so you could keep track. And another one of your delightful," he practically spits the word out, "cycles would have started, hm?"

"Stop it," you repeat, voice breaking. "I wasn't--I wouldn't have--"

"You were going to," he says simply, interrupting. "Thankfully, we got there in time. Although I'm sure now you will endure a stomach ache after your reckless indulgence. A lesson, perhaps, though not the exact one I would inflict myself."

As if on cue, your stomach rolls and clenches. You’re keenly aware that you’re going to have digestive problems tonight, and the thought of being at his mercy while you’re dealing with them threatens to send you over the edge.  Could you get even more disgusting? The thought of how you look right now, stomach no doubt bulging, hair disheveled and damp, covered in ugly bruises and cuts--combined with the fear of spending the night on a toilet sends you over the edge.

You press your knuckles against your mouth and squeeze your eyes shut and try to force the sobs down. Your body begins to tremble, even more so as he lifts your leg. Without warning, he begins to unceremoniously scrub it down with a sponge dipped in disinfectant.

It stings and your eyes feel like they might pop at the sudden pain. You hiss at the feeling of the liquid on your cuts and try to pull away, to no avail. Your legs feel like jelly in his grip.

“That hurts,” you whine. 

“It can’t be helped,” he tells you, holding your leg firmly as he scrubs the sore bottom of your feet. Any sensitivity you had there is overruled by the soreness and pain from running, from the stinging aches that remain in your cuts. “I have to clean every cut or you may get an infection.”

He sets your leg down and lifts up the other, and you cringe before he even begins to move. You can’t help but whimper as he scrubs your leg, and the helpless stings of pain only increase when he moves on to your arms.

“Please,” you say, feeling low, nearly flattened. “I can’t… I can’t take this.”

He pauses, and the seemingly genuine concern in his eyes (it’s not, you remind yourself, it’s not--you think of the shop and the pizza place and the old man cutting his wife’s food, that was concern, that was care) has you feeling sorry for yourself.

“The stinging will go away in a few minutes. You chose to run away, you can certainly deal with this minor consequence.” He retains his grip on your upper arm and he swipes the sponge across your shoulders, briefly pushing the fabric aside as he does so. He pauses when he sees the blooming fingerprints on your shoulders, but says nothing.  You wonder if those men will survive the night.

There’s a a cut, thin and long, dragging from your collarbone down across your chest. He dips unceremoniously below the gown, touching you in a spot he normally avoids. The feeling of him so close, touching you--not quite on your chest, but close enough--only intensifies your humiliation. You whimper again and try to pull away, but his grip offers no room to move.

“I can’t--” You don’t finish. Your throat is so tight and you hate it, you hate that you can never talk about anything with him, never argue with him without clamming up with tears and a thick throat.

You bring your hands up to your hair, tugging on it until it prickles. Your breath starts to come in short bursts, your chest having as you pull on your hair and will yourself to be anywhere but here. For a flashing moment, you wish you’d never tried to escape. If you didn’t, you’d be getting ready for bed right now. Things would be--not okay. Never okay. But you wouldn’t be here, on this table, cold and stinging and in pain and utterly despondent from having your failures shoved in your face. But then you remember that if he’d never kidnapped you, you wouldn’t have had to try to escape in the first place, and the wish fades.

He remains silent, and instead simply keeps a steady, firm grip on your upper arm until your breath slows, until you can control yourself. Your skin feels at once numb and prickling in anxiety and adrenaline and emotions coursing through you.

Overhaul gives your arm a squeeze that is, perhaps, meant to be reassuring. “Are you suitably recovered?

You nod. Your stomach feels sour. You want to ask if you’re done, if you can just go sleep or get sent (you dread the idea) to solitary confinement or whatever it is he has planned in the wake of your escape. Anything would be better than this room and this soft, thin gown and his bright blue surgical gloves and your failure hanging in the air.

He extends his arm out and you pause for a moment before you grasp it, holding tight as you get off the table and stand on wobbly legs. You’re loathe to touch him, but you’re even more loathe to fall flat on your face on the hard floor.

He speaks before you get a chance to ask if you can change out of the medical gown.

“Now, we’ll go to the bathroom.”

Your knees suddenly feel like they might drop out from under you. “The bathroom?”

He nods, and pulls himself away from your weak grip as he begins walking towards the door. You follow without thinking, pausing when he stops to slide his medical gloves into the trash before slipping on another pair.

“We’re not finished here,” he tells you, and you swear his voice is almost giddy as he turns his head to meet your questioning face. “I told you earlier, we’re going to clean your mouth out.”

He can’t mean--

You take a step back, and your knee buckles. He’s quick--he catches you before you fall, but doesn’t let go. His pulls you upright and pulls you along. Your legs have no choice to walk--walk or be dragged--and you struggle for words as he leads you out of the clinic. Before you know it, you’re back in your room (familiar, warm, the same as it ways this morning) and led swiftly into the attached bathroom.

He pulls you in far enough that he’s able to shut the door behind him, trapping you inside. As if you wouldn’t be trapped by his mere presence. For a moment you wonder if he was bluffing, trying to scare you into submission, but by the time you take another breath he’s running the sink water and tearing into a new box of bar soap.

Your voice catches as you finally speak up. “You--you can’t be serious.”

“What makes you think I’m not serious?” He doesn’t even face you as he speaks. Instead, he turns on the tap and fills a paper cup with water before setting it on the sink’s edge. Next comes the bar of white soap, which grows slick underneath the water. He turns off the tap and lets the excess water drip off, before turning to you, soap bar in hand.

“Open your mouth.”

Your lips press together automatically, and you shake your head. No, no, and no. This isn’t happening.

He sighs, and again the feeling that you’re annoying him creeps under your skin. Why does it bother you that you’re annoying him? It shouldn’t bother you at all, but somehow you feel a pang of regret at how much has changed in less than 24 hours. 

“If you don’t open your mouth willingly, I will open it for you.” He takes a step closer, but your legs feel heavy now, rooted to the spot. It isn’t like there’s anywhere you could run, anyway. “I don’t want to do that,” he continues, voice slightly softened. “Cooperate and open your mouth.”

What choice do you have? You could protest, you could argue, you could leap into the bathtub and make him fight for what he wants. You could keep your mouth shut tight and force him to find a solution. But he is stronger than you, in more ways than one, and he would get his way in the end.

So you make the only choice available to you. Your entire mouth shakes and seems to fight against you as you slowly open your lips in compliance. You feel stupid, standing here with your mouth hanging open.

You can’t reflect on the feeling for long, as he wastes no time in shoving the bar inside your open lips. You can’t help but whimper at the intrusion, but he doesn’t let up and begins methodically scrubbing at your tongue. At first, there’s no taste--then the built-up slick of clinical soap makes itself known, and you take advantage of the soap slipping out of your lips to press them together again, denying him entry.

“Open,” he orders, soft and firm.

And you do, heaving your shoulders in an unreleased whimper. What else can you do but listen? He continues to scrub, this time moving the bar into the side of your mouth to scrub at your teeth. The clammy, greasy feeling of soap coating your teeth makes you curl your wide open lips downward. You must look ridiculous, in all respects, lips gaping in an unpleasant frown as your captor mercilessly soaps the inside of your mouth.

“Do you not like the taste?” His eyes glance over at your frown, and the mockery in his tone is more than blatant. 

“Uhh-uhh,” you mumble, open-mouthed, shaking your head. The position you’re in--Overhaul scrubbing into your mouth, your shaking body, the dim feeling of your bruises and cuts from earlier--makes you feel so painfully exposed. So painfully helpless.

He hums and rests the soap against your tongue. Before you can attempt to move your tongue, lessen the feeling of the taste of the soap against it, he gives you a command.

“Bite down.”

Your teeth sink into the soft bar, keeping it in place, and your whimpers grow stronger at the humiliating order you’ve just obeyed. Could you sink any lower?

You watch him through tear-brimmed eyes as he moves to stand in front of you. You know what’s coming before he even speaks and when he does, it’s no surprise.

“Have I ever hurt you?”

Back to this, again.

You shake your head, mumble around the soap: “No.”

“Are you capable of being on your own?”

You hesitate, and he merely jumps to another question, one far more pointed.

“Have you held a single job for longer than a year?”

You want to protest, but any attempt at complicated speech is marred by the soap--the weight of it, the taste, and your need to keep it steady in your mouth.

“No,” you admit, hating the feel of the bar as your lips press against it with the effort of speech.

“Would you have been evicted if I didn’t pay off your debts?”

“Yes.” Tears sting at your eyes. You want to wipe them away but you’re afraid you’ll get soap in them, somehow.

“Are you responsible enough with money to hold a job, maintain an apartment, and buy yourself the necessities for life without someone else stepping in?”

The soap somehow tastes even more bitter. “No, I can’t.” Your tongue pushes up against the soap at this, and you resolve to keep it to one-word answers only.

“If we didn’t intercept your little outing, would you have attempted to throw up at that restaurant today?”

You shake your head, but it’s a lie, and you know it’s a lie--and he knows it’s a lie. So you nod, weakly. “Mm-hmm.”

“Have I been feeding you healthy meals? Have I been ensuring that you don’t engage in disgusting self-destructive behaviors?”

He has, but that’s not--your mind wants to argue, but you’re so tired and sick and your stomach hurts and the taste of the soap is too much. So you nod, instead.

He nods in response, and you pray that he’ll take the soap out and end this. Instead, he lifts your chin with a single finger, making you keep eye contact as he speaks.

“Do I take care of you?”

“Yes,” you cry out, your words garbled around the wet soap bar. He releases your chin and it’s these words, this final question, that make you break entirely. Your shoulders ache from bruises as you cry, hunching over slightly and watching as some drool-laden soap droplets fall on the floor. “Yes, yes, yes,” you repeat, mechanically, crying around the bitter soap that’s digging into your front teeth.

Satisfied, he takes hold of the bar and waits for you to release it, then tosses it with ease into the trash. You blubber and spit, only succeeding in releasing a trail of soapy drool down your chin. Your tears are hot and stinging as they roll down your cheeks. You open your mouth, you try to say something, but all that comes out is soft cries punctuated by your attempts to spit out the soapy film.  

“Look at you,” he murmurs, bringing a gloved hand up to your cheek and wiping at the tears. “My poor thing. You can’t even speak. You can’t even articulate yourself. How could you ever hope to make it on your own?” His words are soft and cruel and you merely cry harder, humiliated and helpless.

Your throat is sore. Your stomach hurts. You want your warm nightgown on. You want to be in bed. You wish your stomach didn’t hurt so much from eating junk. You wish you weren’t covered in cuts and bruises. You wish you’d just enjoyed the garden and went back inside. You wish you’d never done this at all. You’re so stupid. You’re so stupid.

And you finally say so, all of it, blubbering, bits of soapy drool dribbling out of your mouth as you cry and admit your faults out loud.

After your wrought-out apology dissolves into meaningless whimpers, Overhaul finally grabs the glass of water he set on the edge of the sink, and you gratefully swish the lukewarm liquid with earnest. You lean over the sink and spit, body trembling, then fill the cup again and repeat the gesture again and again to get rid of every bit of white soap stuck in your mouth. Even as you spit, you realize that the taste isn’t going to be completely gone anytime soon--it’s stuck in your mouth like a bad memory.

You jerk when his hands are suddenly on your back, rubber gloves sliding up and down the thin medical gown covering your cold, helpless body. But he merely keeps rubbing, gentle and soothing, while you swish and spit, and cry and cry.

His hands leave your back only to grab a washcloth from the built-in shelves across from the toilet. You watch as he wets the cloth and you stand silently, allowing him to wipe up the drool and soap from your chin, your neck, even a bit on your chest where it dribble-dropped downward.

When you’re all cleaned up, he fills up a cup with mouth wash and silently hands it to you. You gratefully swish it for as long as possible before spitting it into the sink. The soap taste is still there, but lessened somewhat by the overpowering mint of the mouthwash. He gestures to your toothbrush and you pick it up, and begin mechanically brushing your teeth, stopping when the 2-minute timer flashes on the bottom. You instinctively grab your floss without having to be told and make quick work of that, too.

He opens the door to the bathroom, but gestures for you to wait. You do, standing numbly, wishing that he let you have a mirror so you could see your own state. But he doesn’t, and you can’t, and so you wait until he returns with a bundle in his arms.

It’s your pajamas. A soft, pink nightgown--he didn’t pick the soft blue one, tonight, and you’re grateful to avoid any reminders of the medical gown you have on--with matching socks and underwear. You nod and accept the bundle meekly. He turns around and you make quick work of the medical gown, tossing it in the trash yourself before you get dressed for bed.

“M’done,” you mumble, though you quickly realize speaking makes the lingering soap taste stronger. You follow him silently out of the bathroom and into your bedroom, which is just as you left it that morning. The only thing different is you. Subdued, humiliated, helpless.

Overhaul pulls the cover on your bed and you sit down, numb and chastened. You pull your legs up and tuck them under the soft comforter. You’re forcing yourself into the routine you’ve been following for the past few weeks, but the secret thrill you once had of obeying with ulterior movies is no longer there. It’s been replaced by a heavy stillness, the knowledge that you failed in more ways than one. The occasional roll of your stomach reminds you that the night may not be over, bedtime routine be damned.

But you ignore it for now, and you lean your head back on your pillow as he pulls the comforter towards your shoulders, tucking you in. Rather than leave immediately, he sits next to you on the bed, looking down at you with an obsessive, possessive expression in his eyes.

You force down an instinctive flinch when he suddenly begins to stroke the top of your forehead, moving up to pet your hair softly. His gloves are gone. While not completely new, it’s rare--rare enough that the feeling of his bare fingers is still an unusual sensation.

You close your eyes. It usually makes him leave faster. Your heart begins to pound as you hear him stand, as you sense him leaning in, as you feel the ghost of his breath against your face.

“Sweet dreams. We’ll start fresh in the morning.”

What a silly thing to say, you think. Your dreams are never sweet anymore.

[virgil-is-a-bitch]

So I meant to get this out earlier than I did. However its here now!

The idea started from an ask @random-fander sent (You're amazing btw, thank you so much)

Warnings: Unsympathetic Virgil, claustrophobia, panic attacks, panic attacks described in detail, self hate, self hate talk, Virgil being a dick, mind manipulation, Remus being Remus (including-body gore, gore, food metion, burns, gross talk, being trapped, spiders, spider horror, caps) , ducking out being talked about, ducking out being a form of sh, slfhrm

This gets dark so be careful

This is split into four parts. All of the parts flow together in the order they are in, but if you need to skip a part, it should still make sense. Stay safe y'all

Anxiety vs The Brain - Logan pov

Anxiety vs The Ego- Romans pov

Anxiety vs The Rejected- Remus and a little bit of Thomas pov

Anxiety vs The Snake- Janus and Virgil pov

Each part is split up with ~~~~~~

Enjoy~

[Also I'm on mobile tumblr, and it won't let me put a read more. My apologies]

The Fight of Anxiety

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~Anxiety vs The Brain~

Logan was mildly upset. No, correction. He was... frustrated. Another pointless argument. More time wasted when something actually productive could have happened. Overwhelming heat swirled pushed against his ribs as he briskly walked towards his room. He was in desperate need of a break from the others. He needed to be somewhere spacious. His room, where he could let his feelings, the burning heat, out.

"Hey Teach?" He knew that voice, he didn't want to deal with the side who owned that voice at the moment. But he did the polite thing and turned around to face Virgil.

"Is there anything I can assist you with?" He asked, his voice flat like that a cool glass filled with ice water. Something he had practiced, it was easier to deal with the temperatures in his chest with the others being unaware that it even existed. So he gave no signs that things were off, if just to keep things running smoothly.

The sound of the others shoes squeaking against the floor, raised the temperature a few degrees inside Logan, as Virgil made he's way over to him. "Lets just walk for a bit, okay Lo?"

Logans fingers were about to burst from the heat that laid just below his skin. He's nickname left a ugly taste, like burnt coffee beans, in his mouth when it came from this side. However he just gave a short nod and continued walking down the hall, now with Virgil along side of him.

They walked in an uncomfortable silence for a while, the only sound was the squeaking of those shoes and light breathing. Logan refused to look at the other. That was until they got to Logans door. A sigh of relief escaped him as they both stopped, his shoulders relaxing just slightly.

Now all that was between him and being able to cool down: was simple door.

"I'm afraid this is my stop." He stated to Virgil, a small forced smile on his face.

When he didn't get a response, not even a shrug, Logan turned and faced his door. The deep blue paint was starting to chip in places, he would need to remember to borrow some paint from Roman later. The tips of Logans fingers cooled against the smooth metal of the doorknob as he grasped it. He turned the handle and opened it, and a sour taste nipped at his mouth. Hadn't he left his lamp on? Why was it so dark?

A pair of hands where on his back suddenly, causing him to flinch hard. But before he could turn around and inquire what the hell was going on, he was shoved past the door frame and into the dark, into something that felt like a boxes. He turned around in time to see Virgil.

His hair a mess, his eyes a deep cold purple (as cold when you forget a coat durning a winter storm) but worse of all was his smirk. The smirk that said Virgil knew exactly what he was doing. And he didn't regret it at all. And then Logan couldn't see him at all, as the door slammed shut.

The door made a harsh noise when shut, like a piano stopped midsong, never to finish the piece, leaving an empty feeling. Logans breathing speed up as his hands searched for a doorknob. But there was nothing on this side of the door. He put his arms to the side, just to find out he barely had a couple inches on either side. His breathing hitched, the heat swirled faster, making his chest feel like it was break open. An empty feeling clouded his head as he fall back against a tower of boxes. The tower swayed, threatening to fall.

Heat spilled from his eyes painfully, as he tried to feel for anyway out. Empty whimpers crawled out of his mouth, but were to quite for anyone to hear. The heat swirled with the empty from his head, both of them feeling like to much. It was to much as the sound of squeaking shoes started up and started going away from him.

"No- Virgil!" He cried as loud as he could, but the heat & emptiness muffled his words, "Please- I, please... Can't..." His voice burned from the bottom of his lungs to the roof of his mouth. There was so much pain, so much heat, so much of everything. But there wasn't enough space. No room to breath, no room to move. No room.

No room

No room

Not enough room to breath

Not enough room to move

Not enough room

No way for Logan to let go of anything, so it stayed in him. Trapped in him. The heat was trapped, and same with the emptiness. Suck in him. Just wanting out, where he could breath.

But he was stuck in his own hell, behind a simple door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~Anxiety vs The Ego~

Roman hummed softly, humming always helped seemed to help soften other noises. And oh boy, he had a killer headache at the moment. It felt like all of the Disney songs had played at once at the loudest volume, and as much as he loved Disney, it was overwhelming.

However it hadn't been all of the Disney songs at once, it had been everyone arguing about Thomas hopes and dreams! Well, perhaps it hadn't only been about that... But that was the part that had made Romans head pound like a drum!

He tapped his fingers to the beat of the song he hummed softly as he headed towards Logans room. After the debate the normally calm logically side looked distressed, and if any side knew what distressed looked liked it would be Roman!

So, like the hero he likes to think he was, Roman decided to ignore the beat in his head and go check in on the distressed side who needed his help!

Although, "How can you think that 'you' could help anyone?" Virgil asked at breakfast interrupting Romans explanation of Thomas' dream from the night before. "Really Roman, how could you be a hero?" the memory pounded in his head, his humming got louder.

Maybe he could check on Logan as a friend, he didn't always need to be a hero anyways. Sometimes friends are needed, not hero's. Roman gave a nod at the idea, and continue walking, unaware that he had even stopped.

"Really Roman, how can you be our friend if it always has to be about you?" Virgil's voice seemed to whisper in his ear, repeating something he had said earlier. Romans breath hitched, his humming coming to a harsh stop.

"You act like you're better than us, look in a mirror once in a while Princy." Roman squeezed his eyes closed and shook his head. He really didn't think he was better than any of them. Virgil must have been upset, which is fair he had to deal with Roman after all.

Roman cover his face with his hands, hiding large tears rolling down his face. His back against the hall wall. His head pounding with the crude words of the anxious sides.

"Oh my fucking God Roman. Can't you do anything right?"

"It's not surprising that Thomas didn't get the part. You're his creativity after all."

"I'm not even surprised that you failed. Again."

Roman was on the floor now curled up against the wall, his body was shaking with heavy loud sobs. It was to loud, his voice was to loud.

"Wow." Romans head shot up, this time the voice wasn't just in his head, it was right in front of him. Virgil looked disgusted, as if looking at something worse then trash... And maybe he was. "Do you have to make yourself everyone else's problem? No one wants to see you like this. I thought Princes where strong. I guess not."

His words replayed in Romans head, like a skipping CD raising in volume every repeat. "W-What?" Roman asked, his voice broken and far to quiet.

But Virgil heard him just fine. "I know you heard me just fine Princey. Why do you lie like he does? Maybe you should join them. I wouldn't be surprised if you do. You would betray us, wouldn't you??" Virgil yelled, small tears running down his checks smearing his makeup.

Roman blinked, when did he start crying. Oh god he made Virgil cry. Oh god oh god. No, no he didn't mean to. He was sorry- oh god how horrid was he to make Verge cry. He stood up as fast as he could on shaky legs. "Oh god, Virgil I'm sorry-"

Virgil scoffed, "You are just like them, aren't you?" He wiped his eyes and shook his head. "I thought I could trust you.." He whispered before putting his hood on and walking away from Roman.

Roman hurt, his head hurt, his eyes hurt. The ego himself hurt.

He was broken. He couldn't breath. He sunk out of the hall, and into his room. The mirrors that once had been whole, were now shattered. Thomas's ego threw himself onto his bed. Bruised and broken, vowing not to come out unless absolutely necessary. Completing forgetting about looking for Thomas' logical side.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~Anxiety vs The Rejected~

Remus swung a baseball bat as hard as he could into basically anything in his room. His own laughter bouncing off the walls. He was upsettie spaghetti, Thommie didn't like his ideas as much as Romans. Not that Romans weren't good, but they didn't have Remus flair!

Remus wanted to be noticed not rejected! He really wanted even just one of his ideas to be at least considered- But if they wouldn't listen, he could make him self heard!

Remus let out a blood curdling scream, the baseball bat changing to a sword as he stabbed a wall and leaving it there. He let out a laugh before letting out a sob. But normal tears where Roman thing! So boring! So he cried battery acid, it burned, but at least it was interesting!

He tried to rub it away, but it only made it worse and more painful the more he rubbed. He let out a frustrated scream as it burned, snapping his fingers and the acid was gone, no marks on his skin.

"Haha Remus, maybe acid wasn't the best idea! Maybe milk! Ooooo chunky milk tears!" He started to cry again but with chucky milk, it smelled horrid, perfect!

Thomas cringed at the idea of chunky milk tears, but pushed the thought back. He hugged a pillow to his chest, his eyes where glued to the TV. He didn't understand why he felt so shitty today. Sure he and his side got into a argument, but he normally didn't feel this bad afterwards.

Remus snicker and wiped away the tears, grabbing a stuffie (a Pumbaa stuffie from lion king, Janus had given it to him, and Remus had given him Timon) hugging it close to his chest. "Pumbaa? Imagine if you had real organs and not fluff? Well not you. JayJay spent a long time working on you, so maybe a different stuffie, cool idea right?" Remus bit his lip in thought. His mind spiraling down a rabbit hole- pfht- of that idea.

He set Pumbaa down on his one nightstand, and grabbed a notebook and a simple blue pen and started scribbling down notes against the wall. Randomly yelling out what he was writing, or letting out a laugh. His mood going up now that he could write out an idea. That he could do it with out being told what he was doing was bad. It felt amazing.

There was a knock on his door, and Remus' face split into a grin. "Come right on in hoe bag!" The door opened and Remus spun around notebook held out in front of him, excitement flooding him. "Look at this Janu- hold on, your not Double Dee!"

Virgil stood in his doorway, eyes glancing around the room, the disgust evident on his face. "I see you still don't know how to clean."

Remus quickly closed his notebook and held it to his chest. "Nope! Cleaning is for losers who don't like the adventure of trying to find shit!" Remus said, feeling that he had been a bit to loud. And the worry was proven right when Virgil flinched at his voice and looked away.

Remus cleared his throat and made sure his voice was at a more 'inside' volume. "So, um," he cleared his throat, holding the notebook tighter. "Whatca doing here raccoon bitch?"

Virgil eyes jumped up to Remus and down to his notebook, "Isn't that your idea notebook or some shit?" Virgil asked, ignoring his question.

Not very sneakily, Remus thought, but had something else he was more forced on. "Its none of your business, maybe it's porn!" He giggled, knowing it wasn't the best lie, but it really could be porn, if he knew himself.

"You know Thomas doesn't like your ideas, right?" Virgil asked with a sneer. His voice heavy and gross. But not in a gross way that Remus liked, this gross felt heavy and sticky. It felt like his words clinged to his very skin. And no matter how hard he rubbed at his skin the feeling wouldn't leave.

Remus did not like sticky.

"Well you know Thomas doesn't like being anxious right??" Remus snapped back, a moment or two late. Making it noticeable that he was affected by his words.

Virgil smirked, having noticed that his words had the affect he wanted. "Well at least I have a purpose, I keep him safe. Not tear him down."

Remus huffed, his hands starting to rip at the edge of the notebook. "What do you want Anxiety?" He asked, his voice dark. It washed over his room marking the temperature drop a degree or two.

Virgil finally walked out of the doorway and into the others room. Stepping over and around anything on his floor. "I want you to stop existing." He said bluntly. Stopping once he was an arm length away from Remus.

Remus snorted and then started full on laughing. Even going to the extent to slap his knee, once he caught his breath and straightened (ha) he looked at Virgil, raising one of his eyebrows. However Virgil didn't look as amused. "What? I'm a part of Thomas. He needs me to be whole! I can't just stop, ya know, being. Like, I'm not you! I'm not gonna be a dramatic duck and duck out- oh, oh shit." Remus' eyes went wide, one even popped out of his socket which he quickly pushed it back in. "That's not what you meant, right Verge?"

Virgil smiled sickly, "I'm glad you figured it out so quickly. I was worried I would have to explain it for your tiny dumb brain." He took half a step closer, and Remus tensed up.

Remus dropped his notebook. And summoned his morning star, "I think its time for you to leave. You're not welcome here anymore." His voice dropped to gravely tone. His room walls shook violently, as stuff fell off. Pumbaa took a dive off the table to the floor.

Virgil's face pinched as he seemed to think it over. He gave a bitter sweet fake smile. "I don't think I will Remus." And with that he jumped at Remus.

Remus went to swing the moment Virgil moved but something held back his morning star, he glanced over his shoulder to see webs over it, connecting it to the wall. Oh fuck- and then he was knocked into the wall. He immediately started to struggle and screaming.

Webs were sticky, webs could caught you and keep you there.

And Remus was fucking shit his pants scared.

Virgil growled and covered his mouth, a sticky substance climbing from his sleeve and covering his mouth.

"No! Fuck no!" Remus tried to screamed, some of it going into his mouth. He gagged and threw his head back and forth.

The webs covered his arms and legs, pinning him to the wall. Virgil stepped back, panting lightly while smiling at his handy work. He wiped his brow before bending down and picking up Remus notebook and opened it.

Remus struggled harder, Virgil wasn't suppose to look though it, fuck! The stickyness of the webs made him so uncomfortable, he wanted to rub his skin with an metal sponge until it was all gone. He gagged at the feeling of it over his mouth, and tried to scream, but barely any noise got through the thick web covering his mouth.

Virgil tutted as he looked through the note book. "All of these are horrid- and I thought Romans ideas were shit!" He let out a chuckle before ripping out a few sheets.

Remus whimpered, eyes going wide. He shook his head wildly. Those where his ideas! He didn't care if Virgil liked them, he didn't care if everybody hated them! He just couldn't have them ruined, they were his! And he loved them-

Virgil rolled his eyes and rip the papers in half and then into quarters, and he kept going until the papers where confetti sized.

Remus had thick milk tears running down his face, pooling on the web gag. He wanted to yell, he wanted to hit Virgil. He just wanted Virgil out. But he was stuck. Quiet literally. 

Virgil tore up the rest of his ideas, and then threw it like confetti into the air. He smiled and dropped the cover of the notebook before turning around and walking towards the door. While going out of his way to stomp onto Pumbaa.

Remus growled as loud as he could, thrashing against the webs. Don't fucking leave me like this, you motherfucker! Fuck you piss bitch! He tried to yell against the gag.

Virgil smirked, and opened his door. "Wouldn't it be such a shame if your door lock? So no one could come in?" He chuckled darkly, "Or get out?"

Remus was rightfully freaked out, No! Satan's asshole, please no! The idea of being alone, no one knowing, no one being able to hear him shook him to his core. Whether or not Virgil could do it, didn't matter. Remus' thoughts were already running wild. What if he died here? Alone, even unable to scream?? What if there was spider babies in the sack on his mouth and they hatch and eat his face???

His thoughts were interrupted by his door closing, and the sound of a lock clicking. If he was freaking out before, he was losing his goddamn mind now. He couldn't make sense of his thoughts, the sticky webs seemed to be more sticky and climbing over his skin.

I need out, I need out, I NEED TO GET OUT!

That one solid fact stuck out in his mind, and he tried to sink out, only to find out.

That he can't. He just can't, no matter how hard he tried.

His mind turned from painfully full to excruciating empty.

Milk tears ran down his face and dripping around the web mask as he sobs went unheard.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~Anxiety vs The Protector~

Janus gripped the plate harder than needed, as the sound of squeaking shoes came down the stairs. He set the plate into the soapy water, clenching his jaw. The horrid squeaking made its way to the kitchen to right behind him. His back was stiff as he grabbed a sponge and started washing the plate.

He wasn't dumb, this wasn't the first time. It just had never been this extreme. As Self preservation he could always tell the stability of the mind as a whole, and right now everything was crashing to the ground.

"What the hell have you done to everyone Virgil?" Janus said in a calm voice, his angry barely noticeable. Like the last burning coal in a fire pit filled with charcoal, hard to see, but still able to burn. And if the right breeze blew, that single coal could start the spark to burn down a forest.

He kept his hands hidden in the soapy water, scrubbing the plate, hiding the ever so slight shake of his hands.

"Why do you think I had anything to do with it? We both know your the one that hurts Thomas." Virgil replied, his voice oddly soft which was off putting.

Deceit, gave a dry single 'Ha' as he lift the plate out of the soapy water and into the clear rinse water. The soap bubbles from the plate and his shiny gloves spreading out on the clear water. "Now Virgil, I'm suppose to be the lying side. You wouldn't want to be like evil old me, right?" He chastised lightly, shoving down any of his fear. He needed answers, he needed to know what happened so he could help others. To get Thomas stable.

Virgil growled softly, inching closer to Janus' back. "Deceit, you fucking snake. Trying to turn my own words against me?"

Janus rolled his eyes pulling the plate out of the water and placing it in the already half filled dish drainer. "Well, Anxiety, you shouldn't have said it then." He pulled out the plugs from both sinks and watched the water spin down the drains.

Virgil hissed, standing right behind him now. His eyes watched over his shoulder as Janus pulled off the bight yellow rubber washing gloves from his hands showing his scaled hands. "How does it feel to be the monster of the group?" Virgil's voice dripped in false honey, as if asking how Janus' day was going.

His breath hitched, it stung him somewhere deep. It hurt. But he couldn't focus on it at the moment. He needed to stay focused.

He pulled a pair of soft yellow cotton gloves from his pants pocket, slipping them on over his scaley, bumpy ugly hands. Hiding the sight of his hands from both of them. He turned to face Virgil, keeping his face blank. "I don't know, how does it feel?"

Virgils face flushed in anger. Unlike Janus, he felt no need to hide his emotions. His emotions fueled him, pushed him to do what he was doing. "Shut your fucking mouth!" He shouted, getting even closer to Janus face.

The threatened snake growled in warning. His scaled half of his jaw dislocated and dropped, showing off his sharp teeth.

Virgils brow furrowed as if in thought, and Janus felt a cooling pressure surrounding his head, pushing into his brain. "No-" he gasped out as he fell back, his hands catching on the counter, holding him up. Water droplets from the sink darkening his gloves. "You don't get to fucking try that shit on me!" Janus hissed, the pressure intensified before backing off. He winced, eyeing the other in front of him.

Virgil had a shit eating grin on his face, the rest of his face was relaxed. He had found what he needed, and Oh good God was this going to be fun-

"Do you know the real reason I left DeeDee?" Virgils voice was fluffy and sweet like cotton candy. Janus didn't trust it, he didn't trust him. His head ached from the earlier pressure. But maybe if he let Virgil talk he could figure out just what happened.

"I totally do, VeeVee," he spat out the nickname harshly like it had burned his mouth, "You defiantly told Remus and I the reason why, before you left. You, for sure, didn't just leave one day. No note or anything."

Virgil rolled his eyes with a sigh. He looked down at the ground and scoffed the floor with marks with his shoes, "Deceit. You're the reason. You're the reason I left, I couldn't handle you. Always lying about the simplest things.  Not caring about us. Me and Remus. You only ever cared about yourself!" When he started his voice had been soft, but by the end of his rant he was yelling and his voice was breaking... In pain?

Janus mouth was open, he couldn't help it. He was in shock. Damn, he was expecting it, but it still pained him. His brain seemed to grow heavy, he blinked hard, his mouth closing, and refocused his brain. No. He couldn't give in, Thomas needed him.

But Virgil wasn't done.

"Deceit..." He let out a soft, wet chuckle, "You're the reason I ducked out. Your voice haunts me every moment of everyday of my life. I can't stand you. You hurt everybody, you infect everyone you come in contact with." He was staring holes into Janus, the other was breaking before him. His eyes were clouded over, his human eye had a single tear drop out and roll down his cheek. And oh, did it feel great to break him. He just needed to do one last hard hit to get him to completely fall.

Janus was shattering like glass, and he knew it. He just needed to hold out a little longer. He wasn't sure what he was holding out for any more at this point, he just needed to hold on.

But Virgil sound hurt, maybe he really was that horrid. To dive someone to stop doing what they are made to- to drive someone to try to not be. Dear lord, he was a monster. A tear welled in his human eye and slipped down his check.

"You pushed Remus to it too..." Virgil muttered, pulling his hood over his head. He brought his hand up to his face as if wiping away tears.

The snakes legs shook, barely holding him up. "What do you mean, Virgil?" He ask softly. His voice was laced in pain. Virgil had to be lying, right? Remus was his best friend. They shared ideas, watched movies, made dumb plans on how to bug the others. Janus didn't hurt him, like that.

Right?

Virgil sighed, tired, as if he was explaining something simple to a child. "I meant what I said Deceit. Remus has ducked out, and you pushed him to it." Virgil let out a sob, "He ducked out because of you." He lifted his head to look at Janus, "Why can't you just let us be happy?"

Janus shattered into a thousand pieces. His legs gave out and he fell to the floor. He was the one to protect them, not hurt them. He had caused pain. He hurt Thomas, the main person he was suppose to care for. And now his best friend was- no! He could fix this. The lights had helped Virgil, he could help Remus.

He got back up, it was hard too, but he needed to correct this. He had too. He could feel the very foundations of the mind splint like old wood. He needed to fix this. He took a step towards the stairs, up the stairs was his and Remus' room. And once he figured out how to get in his room, he would help his best friend. Because that's what friends do. He had tunnel vision, all he could focus on was the stairs, and getting up those stairs and to Remus-

He took another step towards the stairs, but hand on his chest pushed him back. He turned his head to the owner of the hand, Virgil.

Virgil gave a shake of his head, "Janus," Janus felt a shiver run through his body, this was the first time his name had pasted his mouth, "Do you really think he would want to see you?"

He slowly sat down on the floor again, pulling his knees to his chest. The sound of shoes squeaking echoed in his head, even after the actual noise was to far away to hear. He couldn't really see anything, everything was to blurry with tears. He felt broken and dumb. How could he have been so selfish and not notice what Remus was going though?

Janus gasped, maybe Virgil was right. Virgil would be the one to understand what Remus was going through. Janus nodded, he would give Remus time.

He really was a monster, wasn't he?

[itsreigns]

Louder Than Words

Sheamus x Reader

Sheamus gets hurt in the ring. (Y/N) is trying to take care of him but he's stubborn. It all leads to an unexpected reveal.

Requested by @bull-moose-penguin

Word Count: 3,224

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My heart stopped once I understood what the fuss backstage was all about. Sheamus was hurt. And apparently, it wasn’t good. At all. 

He had to be carried out backstage because he couldn’t put any weight on his right leg. It was a disaster. He just came back from an injury, and he was so excited. I can’t even imagine how he’s feeling right now.

I make a beeline towards his locker room, anxiety running through my veins. Taking a deep breath, I knock firmly on the door. 

“Go away!” The thick, and evidently angry, Irish accent echoes from inside the room. 

“Stephen, it’s me, (Y/N).” I introduce myself, in hopes he lets me in if he knows it’s me. 

I wait for a reply but it never comes, so I open the door slowly, entering the room right after and closing it back behind me. The sight in front of me breaks my heart instantly. 

He’s lying on his back on the temporary treatment stretcher placed against the wall, his face hidden in the crook of his right arm, as his hurt leg is being iced. 

“I don’t think I gave you permission to come inside.” He shoots dryly, clearly displeased by my action. 

“You should know by now that I’m not very good at doing what I’m told.” I try and joke around, to lighten up the mood a bit, but his attitude is starting to get under my skin. 

“I’m not in the mood, (Y/N). So please, leave.” He snaps at me, not even bothering to look at me in the face one time. 

“I’m just trying to check on you, because I am goddamn worried about you, but if you’re going to be an asshole about it, I might as well just leave you the fuck alone.” I just couldn’t contain it anymore. I turn on my heel and walk out of the room, closing the door with more force than needed, as I ignored his calls for my name.

I see where he’s coming from, he’s upset. But I’m not at fault, I was just trying to help. I guess, the ride back home in an hour will be interesting. 

The hour passed by quickly and I’m actually dreading to go home with Sheamus. Usually it was awesome. Me, my best friend and roommate, talking, laughing our asses off, singing off note… But today, that would be very doubtful. 

It hurt seeing him like that. And especially, it hurt even more because he’s shutting me out. I always want to be there for him, to help him through whatever it is he’s going through. But this time, he’s not letting me. And I don’t know why. 

I mean, I know he’s stubborn. God, is he stubborn… But he usually listens to me, lets me help him, lets me support him. And now, he just treated me like shit. Like I was nothing to him. 

God knows how much I wanted to be something to him. 

How much I loved him. 

But I’m not ruining our friendship with my stupid and pointless feelings and emotions. Not when that’s all they are: stupid and pointless.

I’m debating whether I should go to his locker room and see if he needs help, or if I should just wait for him at the front door of the building or at the car. I’m super worried about him, but I’m also pissed off and I honestly don’t know which of them I should act on.

I reluctantly decided to act on both. I’m going to the locker room but I’m definitely showing him that I’m upset. 

This time, I don’t knock. I just stand outside waiting for him to come out. As I’m standing there, leaning against the wall, I hear some shuffling inside. Suddenly, the door flies open and Sheamus leaves the room.

Our gazes locked for the first time since the injury and the incident after. He looks at me intently, as if studying me. But I can’t judge him, I’m doing the exact same with him. It doesn’t last long though. Unable to face me any longer, he quickly moves his gaze down, shame written in his features. 

He looks pale and defeated. He has his bag hanging on his left shoulder, as he balances himself in his crutches. The knee, now stabilized by a brace, didn’t look good at all. His eyes are holding so much sadness, it’s really tearing me up inside. So I swallow my pride and talk to him. 

“Let me take your bag.” I try to break the ice softly, as I reach out for the bag. His head snaps up and he stares at me, and to my surprise, he looks almost offended by my offer. He pushed his shoulder back before I could reach the bag. 

“I can take it myself.” He grumbles, groaning in pain when he puts the slightest amount of weight on the hurt leg. 

“Clearly you can.” I mumble lowly, thinking he wouldn’t hear me, but he did. So he stops in his tracks and stares at me. “What? It’s true. You’re clearly in pain and struggling, but you don’t want to admit it.”

“I’m not weak. I can take care of myself, and I can definitely take my bag.” He replies, really snappy. 

“I never said you were weak. You’re not weak. And you’re not showing any weakness by letting people help you.” I snap back, feeling myself getting into a mood too. “But go ahead, hurt yourself even more. I don’t care.”

With that, I just give up trying to get some sense into his stubborn brain and start to walk fast in front of him, not caring whether he could keep up or not.

“(Y/N).” He calls my name softly, making me stop in my tracks. I turn to face him, crossing my arms over my chest, a sour look on my face. “You can take my bag.” He mumbles, as he averts his gaze down, looking embarrassed. 

I don’t say a word. I head towards him and hold his crutch so he could get the strap off his shoulder. Then, I take it and put it on my shoulder as he gets ahold of his crutch again. 

We walk slowly towards my rental. I’d look at him every now and then, noticing how tired and in pain he looked. I wanted to say something but I decided against it every time. He never said anything either, so I just took it that he didn’t want to talk. And honestly, I didn’t want to argue anymore. 

Once we got to the SUV, I headed to the trunk so I could put our bags in there. I hear him open the passenger’s door, followed by mumbling and whisper-cursing. I know he was struggling with getting inside in the car, but if there’s anything I’ve learned today it’s that if he wants help, he’ll ask for it. 

I’m not pushing my help on him again. If he wants me to help, I’ll wait for him to actually realize it and ask me for it. I close the trunk and head towards his side of the car. Only to find him leaning against it, looking really helpless. Once again, I cross my arms over my chest, as I look at him.

He glances at me from the corner of his eyes, before sighing deeply. “Could you please help me get inside?”

And once again, I don’t reply. I get closer to him and look intently between the SUV and himself, trying to come up with a way of getting a full 267 lb injured man inside by myself. Couldn’t be a worse day to rent an SUV instead of a traditional, lower car. It’d be much easier to get him settled in one of those. 

“First, I think you should go on the backseat instead so you can keep your leg straight on the extra seats.” I advise gently, so he wouldn’t snap on me again. And he doesn’t. Actually, he complies right ahead, moving towards the other door. 

I close the passenger’s door and move to open the other, granting access to the backseat. 

“So, this is what we’re going to do: I’m going to stand on your right side, so I can be your support. You’re going to try and pull yourself up onto the seat with your arms, using them and your left leg for boost. And I’ll try and help as much as I can.” I inform, trying to sound convincing.

He looks at me, hesitant. “Are you sure about this?”

“I’m not sure, but we can’t stay here forever, we have to try something.” I reply, sighing. “Please, trust me, ok?”

He doesn’t reply. He leans the crutches against the SUV, then he leans himself against the side of the seat and places his hands on it. I hook my arms around his waist, steadying him against me. 

“You ready?” I say, trying to assure him. He nods, but he looks scared. “On 3. So… 1, 2, 3-”

He hops on real hard and quickly, bumping his head against the top outline of the door in the process. Well, at least, he’s seated inside. Rubbing his head and groaning in pain for sure, but still seated. 

“You ok?” I gasp, worriedly, in shock. He nods affirmatively, but doesn’t reply. I guess this only improved his bad mood. “Move to the other seat then, so you can sprawl your leg on these seats.”

He does as he’s told, much to my surprise, but continues with his silence. Even though it’s bugging me, I kind of prefer it than being graced by his bad mood. 

“Do you want to put anything under the knee? For comfort? A folded sweatshirt or something, we don’t have many options right now.” I offer, but he shakes his head. “Okay then… Put your seatbelt on and we’re going.”

I put the crutches on the car’s floor, before closing the door. Then, I head to the driver’s seat and get settled myself, putting my own seatbelt on. Turning the SUV on, I pick a random radio to have some low background music before hitting the road. 

It’s been almost 20 minutes when he speaks up, his voice louder than the music. 

“I called after you.” He says, and I furrow my brows in confusion as I look back at him through the rearview mirror. Our gazes locked the second I did so. But I had to keep my attention on the road, so I quickly averted mine. “When you first went to see me… I called after you when you left.”

“I heard.” That was the only thing I had to say. Surprisingly to me, because I always have so many things to say. 

“Oh…” He trails off. When I look again through the mirror, his gaze is down, glancing down at his hands. “I’d have ran after you, but it’s not like I could.”

“Why would you?” I ask as I take another look at him. Now it’s his turn to look confused. “Run after me, I mean.”

“Because…” He replies, trailing off as he rubs his eyes.

“That’s not exactly an answer, but sure…” I reply more dryly than I intended, feeling myself get upset again. 

He sighs heavily before replying. “Because, (Y/N) I was rude to you when all you wanted was to help me. Because I pushed you away when all I wanted was to have you close.”

My breath gets caught in my throat in anticipation. It’s not what he said. It’s the way he said it. 

“I’m still here.” I say, trying to maintain my voice even. 

“I know. You don’t take any of my shit and you set me straight every time... on my terms. You don’t push me, you don’t pressure me, you give me time to let things sink in. And when they do, you’re there. You’re there to soothe me, to comfort me, or even to give me a reality check if needed.” He sighs once again, and our gazes lock again through the rearview mirror. ��And that’s why I love you.”

 I’m sure my brain stopped functioning at that moment. Why did he bring up this conversation in the car? In the middle of the highway? While I’m driving? I probably look like a deer in headlights.

“You’re not going to say anything?” He asks nervously, snapping me out of my thoughts. 

“I- I don’t know what to say.” I mumble, edgy, my feelings and thoughts all over the place. 

“Oh. I see. Forget I said anything.” He replies sadly, looking dejected and defeated. 

“No, look-”

“I don’t want to hear anything, ok? Drop it.” He cuts me off harshly, and my voice gets caught in my throat. 

My heart is beating madly in my chest, anxiety taking control of my body, as I barely pay attention to the road. The silence is deafening, the background music being almost unnoticeable. 

Another fifteen minutes, and we finally arrived at our shared house. I pull up in the driveway, turning the car off once it was parked. 

I take my seatbelt off, hesitantly. Sighing, I open the door and get out of the car, preparing myself mentally for the confrontation that’s about to happen. When I get to his side, his door is already opening and he’s struggling with getting out. 

“Here, let me help you.” I mumble nervously, offering him my hand. 

“I don’t need your help.” He snaps, refusing it. With that, he tries to get off the car putting his whole weight on his left leg. Of course he lost his balance, and would have fell on top of his hurt leg if it wasn’t for me. I held him tight in his waist, using all my strength to keep him from falling. 

“I got you. I got you.” I repeat, out of breath. When I look up, my eyes meet his sad ones. He glances between my eyes and my lips a couple of times, before pushing me away. 

“Thanks.” It’s all he said before grabbing his crutches and heading inside the house. 

My shoulders fall down in defeat. Why couldn’t I say all I wanted to say? Why was he making it so difficult? It shouldn’t be this difficult. 

I open the trunk and get all the bags out on the floor, so I can close it after. That’s exactly what I do once they’re all out. Then, I take them inside with a lot of effort. I let them fall on the floor once I reach the living room. That shit was heavy! I was exhausted. 

Sheamus is nowhere in sight. I roam a bit around the house trying to find him, but to no avail. Where the hell did he go? There’s only one place I haven’t checked and that’s the balcony in his room. But the door was locked.

I debate whether I should go there or not. What if I go there and nothing comes out of my mouth again? What if I only make things worse? What if he hates me now? Fear is taking over me in all honesty. 

Well, what’s done is done, so I might as well just go there and get it over with. 

I head upstairs, stopping in front of his room’s door. I take a couple of deep breaths, convincing myself that I can do this. I knock loudly on the door, but I get no answer. I’m feeling even more anxious now, if that’s possible. But I’m not backing down, I knock on the door again, this time more insistently. 

“Go away!” His Irish accent echoes from inside the room, just like earlier. 

“I’m coming in.” I inform, seconds before I open the door and walk inside the room.

He’s sitting in his comfy chair on the balcony with his leg resting on top of the small blue bench, the sun lighting up his face, staring at the landscape. I’m about to reach him when I realize I don’t know what I’m going to say. Again. 

And that’s exactly what happens. Once I get to him, my voice gets lost again. My brain is all fuzzy.

“I think I told you to go away.” He says, sounding very upset, avoiding looking up at me. “I don’t want to hear what you-”

I don’t know what came over me. I lean down and cradle his face in my tiny hands and press my lips into his in one smooth motion. When I pull back, he gasps, surprised by my actions, as we stare at each other. I’m caressing his beard gently with my thumbs when he licks his lips unconsciously. 

“Can you hear what I have to say now?” I plead, giving him a small smile. He gives me a light nod, as he still stares up at me. “I love you.”

“(Y/N), I love you so much.” He whispers as he pulls me down to sit in his lap.

“Stephen, your leg-” I sit down but get back up quickly, afraid of hurting him.

“No, it’s fine, you’re not hurting me.” He assures me, pulling me down once again. “Just let me hold you. Let’s enjoy this view together.”

I just sit on his lap, my legs draping over his left side, and enjoying the moment. I wrap my arms around his waist and rest my head on his chest as he wraps his huge arms around me. I love feeling his skin on mine, the heat coming from him so comfortable.

We sit there in a cozy silence, in the sun, wrapped up in each other. He presses some kisses in my hair every now and then, and damn… I really am in love with him.

After a while, I pull away so I can face him and he looks up at me in confusion. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything back in the car. I just… you caught me off guard, and my brain… it literally stopped functioning.” I admit it in all honesty. He lets out a laugh, a genuine one. I loved feeling the vibration of it in his chest under my fingertips. “Don’t laugh! I wasn’t expecting it!” I smile, blushing as hell, as I playfully hit his shoulder. 

“I know. And to be honest, I think if you said it back at that moment, I wouldn’t have believed it.” He admits, running his fingers down my arm. I keep silent, waiting for him to elaborate on it. “I’d probably think you were saying it just as a friend or out of pity.”

“Then, I think it was for the best that I showed you how I felt, instead of telling you first, right?” I smile widely, as I hook my finger under his chin.

He matches my smile, and leans up, pressing his lips to mine. He pecks me a couple of times, before taking the kiss to the next level. His tongue runs over my bottom lip, urging me to give him access. I gladly do so, letting our tongues caress each other in a needy, loving kiss. He pecks me one more time before breaking the kiss. 

“Definitely. Actions speak louder than words.”

Give me feedback?

[callboxkat]

Deceit’s Purpose

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Author’s note: This is one of those fics that just kind of wrote itself. I don’t know what this is, but it’s Angst.

Summary: After the events of Selfishness vs Selflessness, Deceit tries to figure out how to get through to the other sides and show them that he’s right. But maybe it’s too late.

Warnings: Does this count as sympathetic Deceit? I’m really not sure. Morally gray, maybe? He’s not a sweet angel or anything, but he’s not horrible. Also, because it’s from Deceit’s perspective, Patton and Virgil are kinda vilified a bit. Expect arguing, lying, talk of lying and the morality of it, a wedding, insults, kind of depression, and an UNHAPPY ENDING. Shocker, I know.

Word count: 1654

Writing Masterpost!

Deceit paced back and forth in his room, angrily flinging his hat and gloves at the bed and fisting his hands in his hair.

Why were the other sides so ridiculously stubborn? So completely unwilling to listen to him?

Sure, he was Deceit. Sure, he lied. A lot. Maybe. But that didn’t make him bad.

Deceit’s main function was, well, deceit. But that wasn’t always wrong, and it didn’t always simply entail him trying to get Thomas to lie with reckless abandon. He had more class than that. More finesse. More sense.

Deceit didn’t just try to make Thomas lie: he also worked to get Thomas to recognize his lies, to be aware of them—especially when he was lying to himself. Especially when he was hurting himself by pretending to be something or someone that he wasn’t. Deceit was trying to look out for Thomas! To protect him! The others had even admitted as much the first time that Deceit had revealed himself to their host. So why did the so-called “light sides” still treat him like some horrible, irredeemable piece of garbage?

Now, not only was Thomas not going to the callback, but he was going to the wedding instead. An event he was most certainly not looking forward to. Thomas’s role in it was limited to simply watching the ceremony and saying a brief “hello” to the newlyweds to prove he was there. All it was going to do was make Thomas miserable and satisfy Patton’s need for Thomas to be some kind of morally pure, selfless angel.

But Thomas wasn’t an angel. He was a human. As a human, shouldn’t he get to be selfish sometimes? Especially when it came to once-in-a-lifetime opportunities like this?

Recently, Deceit had been trying to change things, to make them all more aware that Thomas needed to do things for himself sometimes. But it was beginning to feel pointless. Maybe they would never listen, certainly not to a liar like him. Their perceptions were too clouded by what Deceit was.

All he’d wanted to do with the court room scenario was teach the others a lesson and try to convince them to let Thomas do what was best for him for once. Truthfulness was not always the only good option. Selfishness was not inherently inferior to selflessness. Being deceitful did not inherently mean being a bad person.

Deceit wanted to help Thomas; and since he knew the others were hell-bent against Deceit, especially a certain overgrown child and a certain angry purple raccoon, he’d been trying to do it while disguised as one of the “light sides”.

But acting was hard. Deceit was not the creative side, and Thomas simply was not a good liar—therefore, much of the time, neither was Deceit. Even worse, the others didn’t exactly hang out with him a lot, so it was hard to get an idea of how to properly mimic them. He still did his best, but clearly it wasn’t working.

So, how was Deceit meant to help his host, to do his job? To keep Thomas from becoming someone that others simply used, took for granted, and tossed aside? He wasn’t going to duck out—he wouldn’t do that to Thomas, and based on the others’ behavior so far, they probably wouldn’t miss him until the damage was unfixable.

Deceit continued to pace, wracking his imaginary brains for something, anything, he could do to fix this.

But perhaps the damage was done. Perhaps there was nothing Deceit could do to convince them that he was worth listening to. This seemed particularly true in the case of the callback. The others, even Roman, Thomas’s creative drive, were set on making Thomas go to the wedding. All because Deceit had happened to be the one to most seriously try to get him to go to the callback instead.

And now there would be no callback. No Alfred Hitchcoppolucas. No movie, no fame, no fortune, no more doors opened for Thomas. Just more of the same. Just more of the main four sides forcing Thomas to do what they wanted, what Morality wanted.

Heck, the deciding factor that made Deceit choose to pop up in the first place during the callback vs. wedding debate had been the fact that Patton had just kept talking over Thomas, telling him what he needed to do without even asking Thomas what he actually wanted to do.

…

As time went on and the day of the callback and wedding neared, Deceit continued to try to change the others’ minds. But, of course, it didn’t work. Virgil would just yell, or hiss, or simply roll his eyes and leave. Roman would be clearly conflicted, but ultimately deny him, his mind already made up. Patton would point fingers and lecture him on right and wrong, leaving no room for Deceit’s argument. Logan might have listened to him more, but he was still mad at being mostly left out during the courtroom scenario. That may have been a mistake on Deceit’s part, in hindsight, but it was also yet another thing that he could not change. And any time he tried to speak directly with Thomas, Thomas would either immediately banish him, or Virgil would pop up and make him do it.

So, when April 13th finally came, Thomas went to the wedding. He missed the callback. And just as Deceit had expected, as Thomas himself had expected, Thomas had a terrible time. They all did, really.

Virgil spent the whole day anxious about everything that could go wrong. Roman was miserable, both because of the missed callback and because of the loneliness that the wedding dredged up inside him. Logan claimed to be unaffected, but Deceit knew that he felt that the callback would have better served Thomas’s needs and wants in life, even if not going to the callback was akin to Thomas having never gotten the opportunity in the first place. Patton was all but drowning in nostalgia and other feelings. Deceit, meanwhile, spent the day having Thomas lie about the fact that there was somewhere else that he would very much rather have been than at that wedding. And Thomas himself felt all of that.

It was a long day, in short.

Afterwards, Deceit was sitting in the dark, theoretically watching The Phantom of the Opera on the television in the commons of the mind palace. The television was on silent, Deceit’s head resting on one gloved hand as he watched the screen with glazed eyes, his mind elsewhere entirely.

“Ugh,” a voice said, interrupting his thoughts. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, hello, Virgil. You’re exactly who I was hoping to run into this evening,” Deceit said, rolling his eyes.

“Just get out already. You lost, okay? There’s no point hanging around and bothering everyone anymore! Just GET OUT!”

Deceit turned to look at him. “Oh, of course. The entire mind palace belongs to you and your pals, how could I have forgotten?”

“Dude, if this is some pathetic woe-is-me act to try to get us to sympathize with you, it’s not going to work.”

Deceit, deciding he didn’t have the energy for this tonight, just released a heavy sigh and turned his gaze back to the television.

Virgil snapped his fingers, and the screen went dark. Deceit made a point of snapping his own a half-second later, turning it back on. Virgil growled at him. That was unusual, Deceit noted. Usually when Virgil chose to mimic an animal noise, he favored hissing. Roman was more of a growler.

“Why. Are. You. Here,” Virgil demanded, snapping his fingers again. This time, Deceit didn’t turn the show back on. He knew it would just lead to an endless, frivolous fight of turning the television on and off again. The main sides were rather ridiculous, after all.

“Because you’re completely incorrect,” Deceit drawled. “There’s plenty of time to change things. Thomas can still go to the callback, and even barring that, he can get another opportunity like this one! They just grow on trees, after all.”

Virgil frowned at him.

“I was going to watch a movie,” Virgil said.

“Well, clearly, no one else is watching anything right now,” Deceit said.

Virgil, even though he surely knew what Deceit meant by that, shrugged and snapped his fingers. A different movie started playing, Phantom of the Opera gone.

“I wasn’t watching that!”

“I don’t care. Don’t you get it? We don’t want you here. I don’t want you here. Just go! Get out of here!”

“No!”

Virgil threw himself onto the couch and put his legs up on it, crowding Deceit into the corner—as petty of a tactic as all get out.

“Why not? You don’t even do anything good for Thomas. All you do is show up in cartoonishly awful costumes and jeopardize all of his friendships! How is that helping? All you do is lie.”

“That isn’t all I do,” Deceit said, his voice shaking from anger, but slow and deliberate.

“Ah, he admits it.”

“Yes! I mean—No, I don’t! I’m not just deceit!”

“It is literally your name. You are Deceit.”

“You aren’t just Anxiety, are you?”

“That’s different.”

“Is it? Is it so hard to believe that I might be useful for things other than deception? You may be Anxiety, but you are also Virgil, correct?” Deceit was practically vibrating with anger now. Why did the others refuse to understand? Why did his primary function have to make getting his point across so much more difficult?

“Deceit—.”

“My name isn’t Deceit! My name is ETHAN!”

Virgil stopped. He stared for a moment, eyes wide. For a second, Deceit thought that maybe, he’d actually gotten through to him. Maybe, he’d actually found a way to start to prove to Virgil that he wasn’t just a single function, incapable of being anything more, of being anything good.

But then Virgil’s gaze hardened.

“That’s just another lie.”

[wafflewarriors]

The Not-So-French Mistake

Chapter 6: Crossroads Angel

Sydney was seated on an ashy bench when Dean found her. “Appreciate my sobriety, kid. That,” he said, “was rough.”

He lazily watched people scatter into their sectioned camps. He briefly wondered if being an angel was like this, but dismissed the thought. Being an angel wasn't about supervision; Castiel was a warrior of heaven―not a babysitter. “Where did they get tents and sleeping bags? Half the city was fried extra crispy.”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she wrinkled her face at an intruding thought that haunted her. “Why do I get the feeling that we're losing? Guns won't do squat if this thing is an angel or a demon. No, scratch that―anything you guys hunt can't be killed with a regular bullet. This is pointless!”

Dean considered it and then shrugged, unaffected. “They're townspeople. We can't do much except shield them from whatever evil gets in the way. False hope is better than no hope at all.” He watched tent lights flicker off for sleep. “You can't expect them all to catch on. They weren't born into it.”

She protested, “But I wasn't born into this and look at me!”

“I'm not so sure about that, Sunshine.” He lifted an eyebrow. She was a smart cookie, Dean would give her that, but something told him that her abilities ran deeper than quick learning, and he believed his gut. He said, “Back at the house―those were some fast reflexes. And the way you just knew how to load a gun? Sorry, but it's kind of fishy.”

“It was instinct!”

“Tootsie, that was muscle memory. I know it when I see it.” He almost pitied her ignorance. “I’m betting the thing that brought you here also toyed with your memory.”

She fumed at the outrageous idea. “My memory is perfectly fine!”

His face tightened into a knowing expression. “You said you watched our show, Supernatural, yeah?”

“Yes. Why is this―?”

“You remember Zachariah?”

“...Yes,” she said cautiously.

“Then you'll know he implanted fake memories into our brains and tricked us into believing we weren’t hunters to prove our ‘worth’ and other manipulative bull crap. Angels can do that. It’s not difficult for them.”

Her entire expression darkened, and she deflated. “Then... who am I?”

Dean was rarely sympathetic, but she looked so lost. “Hey, relax. I just didn't want you going into this clueless.” He planted a firm hand on her shoulder in distant comfort. It was seldom Dean was even this consoling.

She gave a distracted, sullen nod, staring at the dirt illuminated in rosy hues as the sun departed from the sky. Faded scarlet light danced along the tents as a sliver of the sun began to disappear altogether.

Dean frowned at her response. God, she was sulking. Now she was reminding him of Sammy. “Hey, don't get pouty on me. Save the tears, please,” he said.

Heat pooled behind her eyes. She blinked them back. Crying in front of Dean Winchester was not on her bucket list. “What do they want with me?” The waver in her tone was poorly hidden.

He patted her back, recalling the years when Sammy had suffered nightmares; this was eerily similar. “Not sure, kiddo. But I'll tell you what, I'll do my best to make sure they don't get what they want. ‘Kay?” He soothed.

“Okay.” Her voice was hushed and timid. She sniffed.

And Dean sure had a soft spot for that. “O-kay. How about you go get some sleep? Alternate-reality-traveling can really take a toll. You look tired.” He encouraged.

“Yeah...” She stood reluctantly, as though she was anxious..  “Well, um, good night.” Her awkward parting ended with quiet patter of jittery footsteps as she strode to her lone tent. 

●●●

Sydney fumbled for her flashlight with twitchy fingers, her depth perception growing progressively murky as green shadows swallowed the daylight. Artificial white reflected off the metal framework and highlighted the plastic walls. The moonlight weaved through stray branches of trees and spindly weeds, and it was threaded like a spiderweb as it hit the tent. The anticipation added to the rap of her heart, and she found herself nearing panic.

The flashlight shook in her trembling hands, and her heart battered as she unzipped the door and crawled onto her sleeping bag. She kicked off her shoes, the abrasive polyester cold on her bare feet. The sleeping bag cushioned her weight as she sat in fathomless usease. She toyed with the hem of her jean jacket, too cold to depart with it. She hugged her frame, pulling the denim further around her nervously trembling form. She laid back against her pillow, tolerating the cold that seeped into her neck with a shiver.

Terror gripped her, and doubt twisted within her gut as she frantically questioned her future plans. These thoughts had been haunting her ever since she’d been left among the townspeople, yet now the full volume of her choices were attacking her confidence. Her trust was hardly reliable. Her anxiety always led her to wrong conclusions and dubious opinions.

She knew she could still search for guidance, despite how it terrified her. She desperately wanted to consult Dean, realizing he had lifetime experience with these issues. However, she also stressed he would reject and dismiss her idea, and she would wind up never returning home. She debated her options and thought back.

The town had been a disaster before she had taken initiative, it’s residents suffering as the temperatures wavered between boiling to lava-like. The heat storm seethed with fever, and chaos insued. Sydney had taken the duty of driving the remaining citizens to shelter and leading them to somewhat safe domain: ideally spaces without the nuisance of dissolving structures. It had required time to restore their faith in rescue and to gain their trust, yet soon the town was under her supervision. This leadership was natural―like it was buried within her subconscious instinct.

Naturally, her first attempts had been spent seeking outside communication. Phones, apparently, were a vain effort within the town’s ranges. Service had been cut off, wholly dead, and electricity was hopeless, considering the electric poles had literally been fused to the sidewalk. Functional cars were scarce and burdensome to run. She gave up further contact and took to the present issues before she would return to her attempts.

Those whose conditions were more severe were tended to, and, fortunately, most were responsive inside an hour. Few actually died with their watch while under medical care. She had also allotted the more alert survivors tasks, such as passing time by searching for supplies―specifically tents, blankets, and other sleep necessities. She was mindful they would be stuck here for some time. They traveled in sets of twos or threes, confident with the possession of bottled water.

However, as they came sprinting back to the temporary camp tear-stricken, her heart sank to her feet. She was responsible, and she had already failed them. Something in her stomach went rigid and her veins chilled so that she shivered, even underneath the blazing sun. The disappearance was one level of despair, but knowing that their siblings and parents were mourning them? It was unbearable. 

She had ordered them to stay put, don't follow. Her urgency had gotten the best of her, and she was determined enough to bust into the liquified storefronts and townhomes to find them if she must. These were families, and she wasn't going to see them broken. Not by her. She already knew what those with homesickness suffered. There was nothing admirable about the experience; it was only a constant longing and anguish for those she had left.

Ever since she had traveled to this twisted world, she was confined to her loneliness and bound to her very own dejection, isolated from those she sought. She was alone now, and while the towns and rolling hills were spacious and distant, she felt claustrophobic. The world of Supernatural was suffocating her ever so slowly.

A few brave souls offered their assistance, and she didn't refuse, nor accept them. She simply allowed their presence. Tolerated them. While she had grown fond of her adopted band of survivors, she was fed up with being dished the sloppy, inferior plate of absolute garbage her life was gradually transforming into. Her investment in the television show hardly even existed! She didn't understand why she was chosen. Rage boiled within her, and she could do nothing to defuse it besides fix her mistakes. Her thoughts repeated her pitiful temper: unfair unfair unfair.

She marched off, kicking down crooked doorways and punching her way through cooled ashes just to simmer her inner distress. As she calmed, the sting of aching muscles brought her to a state of temporary peace.

The loyal followers trailing her seemed wary of her mood and kept their distance. She sent them an apologetic glance, realizing her actions were inflicting a mild fear into the already heated air. She felt the need to justify her behavior, but she was grasping at straws and excuses.

Worse, she understood why; she knew the unspoken truth. She was feisty, deft, and clever: a sore replica of the Winchester brothers, and she knew it. God, she knew it. She was practically their sister, their personalities were so comparable. She could even somewhat relate to the hunting: despite the lack monsters, she knew her way around a gun.

The rage-driven hunt slowly morphed into something of purpose. She split off from the team―reminding them to stick together; she knew she was being a hypocrite, but she couldn't bring herself to care. 

“I can help you get home,” a masculine voice said from a veil of sweeping shadows.

Sydney had been aggressively prying open a stiff, splintered door when she jerked it back in alarm, pummeling her hand onto it and stumbling as her heart skipped a beat. “Freakin’ learn to knock!” she managed to say, leaning against the wooden edge of the doorframe to regain her composure and a portion of her dignity.

“There's no need to be distressed,” the voice behind her offered, dangerously patient and bare of implications or suggestions.

Sydney turned and said to the motionless silhouette, “And why would you do that? Why would you help me get home?”

She couldn't see his face, but she could hear the deadly smirk in their words. “Because you're out of options.”

She bristled. “The Winchesters have offered to help. They're enough.”

“Are they? Two pitiful, self-sacrificing men and a hopelessly fallen angel? Castiel is useless, he can do nothing to help you,” he said, sneering. 

Cas was apparently a sore topic, and she was tempted to poke that festering wound. She contemplated the course of action, and ultimately was fond of it; he was annoying. “Castiel is the only angel I trust right now. After all, he rescued me from frying in that hotel room you angels had me locked in.” Sydney eyed the spread silver outline of his intimidating, metallic wings illuminated by the cracks in the walls. “What can you do that they cannot? They have accomplished more than you possibly could.”

He followed her gaze to his sides. “You can see my wings?” He did not seem fazed. Rather, amused. “Interesting.”

She inquired, “Yes. And why is this so out of the ordinary? Should I... not see them?”

“Humans don't have the ability to see our wings,” he said to her.

She froze, staring at the perplexing lines of plumage glowing in a hazy wisp of blue grace. The question, it appeared, was never 'who is Sydney?' but 'what is Sydney?', and that was a startling mutation of the merely concerning one. It’s one thing not to know of your past, but it's another thing to not know what you are. She felt like a foreigner in her own skin.

“Never mind that,” the angel said. “I’m your ticket back home.”

She pinched her lips, gnawing at her cheek in thought. How often had the Winchester been screwed through a deal like this? Too many, was her original thought. But what if he could actually get her home? It was extremely tempting. “What’s your price?”

“My price? I'm not a demon, girl. Deals are not made by angels.”

“But you want something anyway.”

He grinned, but it never reached the eyes quite right. “I admit, there is something you must collect in order to return to your reality.” He stiffened when a shuffle and clap of an untrained foot met a floorboard above them, creaking as her team thoroughly searched rooms. He tsked. “It is not safe to tell you just yet. Meet me here tonight when your allies are asleep. Do not fail me.”

“Wait, hey, hello, pause―can't you just snap me out? I know how angels function.”

Again, that eerie smile of his. “My grace is dwindling. Had you not noticed Castiel's crippled state? We are all weakening.”

There was a lush purr and murmur of feathers, and he had vanished.

@queen-bubble

[homenum-revelio-hq]

Welcome to the Order of the Phoenix, Charly!

You have been accepted for the role of non-biography character GIDEON PREWETT with the faceclaim of Sam Heughan! We really enjoyed your discussion of Gideon’s personality, especially in relationship in the differences between Gideon and Fabian! We think Gideon’s level-headed outlook will be a great addition to the Order. We are so excited to have you as part of this roleplay!

Please take a look at the new member checklist and send in your account within 24 hours! Thank you for joining the fight against Voldemort!

OUT OF CHARACTER:

NAME: Charly (he/him)

AGE: 27

TIMEZONE: GMT+1

ACTIVITY LEVEL: I will usually find time to be online and do replies once a day, or at least every other day. I work full time atm and sometimes have activities on the weekends but I always do my best to maintain a steady activity

ANYTHING ELSE: I’m not the biggest fan of images of hardcore gore. Descriptions are fine, I just don’t like to see it. Not really a trigger, though, more like a strong squick I guess.

CHARACTER DETAILS:

NAME: Gideon Prewett

AGE: 30 (which is I think what was put down by Fabian’s mun and which I’ll go with as well, considering they’re twins)

GENDER, PRONOUNS, and SEXUALITY: 

Cis-male, he/him, bisexual. – His own gender identity isn’t something Gideon thinks about a lot. He’s always felt comfortable as a man. He is aware of the imbalance of power and influence between genders that many in his society view as natural and even necessary.He’s aware that he has definitely won the privilege lottery and tries to be mindful of it. But he is very sure of his gender identity and very comfortable the way he is.

His sexuality isn’t exactly a secret, at least he’s never made an effort to hide it. However, he also never actually came out to anyone. He only assumed people knew and if they had an issue with who he chose to go out with, they’d tell him directly. He’s had very few relationships in his life – he’s dated exactly one woman and one man. Both were relatively long-term relationships and he never treated one of his partners differently than the other. It never occurred to him, that he should have to come out to his family first before introducing them to a partner that wasn’t a woman.

BLOOD STATUS: Pure-Blood

HOUSE ALUMNI: Gryffindor – Gideon ultimately ended up a Gryffindor, if only just because Fabian came first in the alphabet and was therefore sorted before him. When Gideon put on the hat, it took an awfully long time debating whether Gryffindor or Ravenclaw was the better fit for him. In the end, Gideon wasn’t going to be separated from his twin, and asked to be put in Gryffindor.  

ANY CHANGES: None

CHARACTER BACKGROUND:

PERSONALITY: 

Gideon has always been known as the clever one, the over-achiever, the workaholic. From the moment he was born he was told he was special. The first-born son, the heir. He was never just a child he was the projection of his father’s high expectations. And Gideon, in his eagerness to please, did everything he could to fulfil them all. He was expected to perform exceptionally in school – he did. He was expected to find a well-respected job right out of school and make his father proud – he did. He was expected to always be well-mannered and courteous – he was. Expectations are the common thread in his life and Gideon lives in constant fear of being unable to fulfil them.

If it weren’t for Fabian and his good influence, Gideon would likely be a tight-lipped bore who wouldn’t know fun if it punched him in the face. It was definitely growing up with Fab and his sometimes outrageous ideas that led to Gid not tightening up to become exactly what their father wanted him to be. He’s still the ‘somewhat more responsible twin’ and more level-headed than his brother. After all, someone has to make sure they get out of whatever his brother cooks up alive. But Gideon, too, can let loose. In fact, he himself has been the instigator of trouble more than once during their time at Hogwarts and he has always had quite a talent for pyrotechnics. Yet, he somehow mostly managed to escape the consequences of their trouble-making. After all, he was the good boy.

As the oldest of three taking responsibility for others comes naturally to Gid. He enjoys being a source of safety and comfort to his friends and family and will offer his care to anyone who might need it. Helping others is something he’s good at, accepting or asking for help himself not so much. He’d rather be someone elses anchor than admit that he, too, is struggling. In offering himself up like this, he often takes on more than he can handle and it’s only a matter of time until he has no energy left for himself and it will all become too much to bear.

A lot of Gideon’s personality is exclusively outwardly. He’s learned how to present himself, how to hold his head up high and smile just right so that people believed what he wanted them to. That he is sure of himself, that he has all the answers, that he is unafraid and doesn’t falter. Ever. Gideon has been taught to be a leader, that he should be someone others can look up to and trust. That’s all he wants to represent and yet, most of the time he doesn’t even trust himself.

While he’s generally warm and kind towards his friends, Gideon suffers from haphephobia and will never initiate touch himself. It isn’t something he advertises however so he will bear it and suffer through a hug or a hand touching his own simply for the sake of not appearing callous or impolite. The only people he freely allows and even welcomes touch from are his siblings, young children and occasionally, his father. Those who have known him for a few years now would know that he used to be different, used to freely hug people even if they were only fleeting acquaintances. This change in his demeanour is a more recent one. But whatever has caused it is likely something only Gideon knows.

Gideon is afraid. Afraid of failing, of losing control, of his own inadequacy. He hides it well behind reassuring words and carefree smiles and an off-hand joke or two. But the crippling anxiety keeps him up most nights, thoughts racing and reliving all those brief moments in which he might have made a mistake. Any mistake, small as it may be is a failure on Gideon’s part, a fuck-up that if not immediately resolved, will haunt him for weeks. Everything he does needs to be perfect he needs to be perfect or else everyone he loves will turn away from him.

Conflict and communication isn’t something Gideon is good at. He can be judgmental and rash at times, and has a habit of making other people’s issues his own to the point where he oversteps. And if he’s confronted about his mistakes he recoils and falls silent instead of facing the problem and fixing his mistake with an apology. This, too, comes from a place of fear. Rather than resolving an argument with a conversation, any criticism sends Gideon into another spiral of paralysing anxiety and obsessing over his mistakes. The fact that people are willing to forgive and move on after he finally got himself together enough to apologise baffles him every time.

BRIEF OVERVIEW OF FAMILY: 

Through everything he’s experienced he’s always had Fabian at his side and without him, Gideon is sure he would have drowned long ago. They’re a unity. Most people know them only as GidandFab, not as two separate people even though the twins couldn’t be more different. Fabian may be the only person who can see through all of Gideon’s bullshit and calls him out on it. He’s the only one Gideon will admit his fears too, will admit to being scared at all to. Fabian is the one person Gideon can stand being touched by without his stomach twisting into knots. He’s protective of both his siblings, but Fabian more than anyone else. He is after all his other half. It may be selfish, but Gideon would always put his twin’s safety and well-being before that of any other person no matter who they are. The idea of losing his brother is worse than anything he could ever imagine and with the war, that fear is ever-present.

He has nothing but respect for admiration for his little sister. Molly is the strongest person Gideon knows and oftentimes he wonders how she does it all – the war, being a mother and caring for so many others who need it all while maintaining an energy level that is almost superhuman. More than once he’s offered to move her and her family to a safe location out of the country, at least until the war is finished. But she always refuses. And he really cannot blame her knowing, that he himself would do the exact same thing if their roles were reversed. But it is another heavy load to carry to keep her and her family safe and out of harms way. Gideon knows however, that it would be pointless to argue with her and he respects her wishes.

His relationship with his parents has always been a complicated one. It was easier while his mother was still alive, but he could never shake the feeling that he was treated differently than his siblings. Was granted more privileges but at the same time judged much harsher. He never doubted the love his parents had for him, but especially with his father he often felt like he had a much harder time getting his approval than Fabian or Molly did. Oftentimes, his father’s affection towards him was tied to Gideon’s own achievements and as he grew older, the expectations also got higher and the praise grew sparse. And that, even now as a grown man of 30, is really all Gideon wants – his father’s praise and approval.

But maybe also because he was the oldest, and because his father, despite the glory days of the noble house of Prewett being long forgotten, still held on to those last shreds of their aristocratic origins, Gideon was privy to knowledge and insight into his family’s affairs his siblings weren’t. His father was always honest with him, answering all of Gideon’s many questions truthfully and never sugar-coating how badly their financial situation or the political climate were. While his siblings were blissfully ignorant, Gideon knew just how much harder it was with every passing year to maintain their old family seat. How much his mother worried about money and his father about the looming war.

Gideon wouldn’t have expected it in the least, but his mother’s death brought him and his father closer together. Both of them dealt with their grief on their own and in silence, preferring to look after Fabian and Molly than giving themselves time to heal. In a way, Gideon thinks, his father leaned on him during those first few months, letting Gideon deal with anything that had to be settled - the will, the belongings, even the funeral. They have a silent agreement nowadays, to protect Fabian and Molly first and see that they make it through the war. Even if it’s at the cost of their own lives.

OCCUPATION: 

Unspeakable and Magic Researcher at the Department for Mysteries – Back at Hogwarts Gideon was never satisfied to only repeat a spell until he knew it by heart and perfected the performance, he wanted to know what was underneath. How did it work, who had invented it, where did magic come from? Those were the questions that kept him up and in the library long after most other students had long retired to their common rooms. He wanted to know the origins and mechanics of magic so he could one day be one of the people who invented new spells. Already during his time at school, Gideon started to experiment with words and movements to see if he couldn’t invent some himself. Without the proper training and tutoring however, little of what he attempted was actually successful. Most of the time nothing ever happened. However, there was one incident in which the 6th year boys’ dormitory in the Gryffindor tower almost caught on fire after which Gideon was prohibited from any further unsupervised experimentation.

After graduating Gideon managed to get into a Ministry research program for experimental magic. The first couple of years barely paid him anything but he learned more than he ever had in all his years of Hogwarts together. After completing his training, Gideon worked on a team that created household spells for a while. Not exactly what he’d dreamed of, but it paid the bills. It wasn’t until a year ago that one of his former instructors approached him with an offer: there was to be a new division within the Department of Mysteries and Gideon was to be a part of it. When he heard what exactly this division was researching, Gideon was filled with unease. After all, by this time the war was already raging all around him. And what he was offered was nothing short of a placement as a researcher for the newly created Division for Experimental Magic Warfare. Gideon was uncertain but the higher-ups in the Order were quick to make the decision for him. Gideon was to accept the job. He was to do as he was told and keep his head down. And he was to report back with everything he worked on that appeared suspicious.

It’s a dangerous situation Gideon has gotten himself into. The smallest mistake could raise suspicion, and it’s almost certain that sooner or later he will encounter his own work in the battlefield fired right at him or someone he loves. He can only hope that when that happens, he will be one step ahead.

ROLE WITHIN THE ORDER/THOUGHTS ABOUT THE ORDER: 

Mid-Level - It wasn’t Gideon who was first approached to join the Order but his brother. Yet, wherever one twin went, the other would soon follow and so they joined together. Gideon was initially much more doubtful than his brother. Unlike Fabian, Gideon never had any dreams of heroism and adventure – he’s much too pragmatic for that. He joined because he was unsatisfied with how the Ministry handled the threat. He believed in a much more offensive and less careful approach and the Order seemed to have the same ideas.

He started out as a simple foot soldier, of little use off the battlefields due to his lack of influence and insight. Only recently has he felt like he’s truly been contributing to the cause as a spy within the Department of Mysteries with access to some of the Ministry’s most secret research. He’s in more danger than he’s ever been before, but it also fills him with a sense of pride. More than anything else he wants to contribute something meaningful, something that might change their outlook on the war.

As someone with a somewhat large family Gideon has everything to lose and he knows that with everything he does and every risk he takes he puts them at risk as well, especially his brother. It makes him only more determined to fight.

Gideon doesn’t mind being a criminal and a vigilante. His involvement in the Order is nothing he’d ever publicly advertise of course, and he keeps his true opinions about how he thinks this war should be fought carefully to himself. But in all honesty, as offensive as they are, they’re still not offensive enough. In these times law or honour don’t matter anymore, only survival and victory. An eye for an eye.

SURVIVAL: 

How is he still alive? Gideon doesn’t know. He shouldn’t be at this point. While he’s always thinking on his toes and carefully calculating his next three steps he’s not one to shy away from the frontlines or stick to the back on the battlefield. He should have died three battles ago. Sometimes he thinks it must be dumb luck. Or his unwillingness to die without his brother by his side. He refuses to go down without him and since Fab is somehow still alive so is he.

In public Gideon keeps his head down. Plays the role of loyal ministry employee and keeps his opinions to himself. It’s what’s wisest and what the Order asked of him to ensure he’d be able to keep this job.

Gideon has a small flat in Central London which he loves dearly as it’s been his first flat ever but he’s appeared on the Death Eaters’ radar one too many times and the longer he procrastinates moving somewhere safer the more dangerous it gets. Still, Gideon needs stability and the idea of moving every couple weeks isn’t one he finds too appealing. Yet he can’t put it off much longer if he wants to continue to stay alive.

RELATIONSHIPS: 

His brother has been and always will be the most important person in Gideon’s life. But neither of them can deny that their relationship has been strained for a while now. Sometimes Gid has a hard time reading his twin. Sometimes he can’t get a hold on him for days on end, throwing him into another spiral full of anxiety and panic and ‘what if something’ s happened’s. He’s well aware of his brother’s self-destructive habits but as of yet unable to take action without greatly invading Fabian’s privacy and breaking his trust. What he can do is to silently watch over him and hope to be able to prevent any greater damages in time. Gideon isn’t an idiot; he knows that he’s co-dependent to the point of potentially suffocating Fabian with his own inability to survive without his twin. And maybe, he tells himself, that inability is even what caused Fab’s drinking in the first place. Nevertheless, he’s determined to fix their relationship – and his brother – so they can go back to the way they had been before the war.

With the majority of his friends Gideon has taken the role of caretaker and substitute big brother. It’s what he knows, what he’s good at, what fuels him. He honestly enjoys being a shoulder to lean on and a source of strength and comfort. His door is always open, and he has an extra set of blankets and fresh sheets ready at all time just in case someone might need a place to stay for a night or more. He’s the kind of friend that will remember you mentioning your favourite brand of biscuits in an off-hand comment and then keep a pack in his cupboard just in case you might decide to visit. And at the same time, he’s the kind of person who knows everything about his friends but at the same time gives little information about himself. He’ll always answer ‘I’m great, thank you’ to a question after his well-being and make it sound honest enough. He rarely reveals more than superficial details of his personal life preferring to keep the focus away from himself in fear of someone digging a little too deep and realising that he is in fact far from the confident, charming man he pretends to be. People need him to be a rock and a safe haven, not just another construction side.

The war has forced them all both closer together and further apart it seems. Trust is dangerous these days, letting anyone too close could hurt you terribly in the best case scenario and get you killed if you’re not careful. And at the same time the trauma of the war has them huddling together and looking for comfort now more than ever. Gideon is almost obsessively cautious about letting new people into his life, but has made a habit of checking up on everyone of his friends and fellow Order members, even those who are just fleeting acquaintances, at least once a week. He keeps track of people, has to know where everyone is to sleep at least a few hours every night. As scattered as they are and with the lifes they’re living, someone has to see that no one’s left behind. It’s a reassurance for himself, and just maybe also for the others to know, that if someone fails to check in, if someone goes missing, he’ll notice.

OOC EXPLORATION:

SHIPS/ANTI-SHIPS: 

Difficult. Gideon isn’t someone who will just flirt and jump into bed with someone. He needs to feel secure and safe first before he can even start opening up to someone. His last relationships have always crumbled under his inability to share and express his true emotions very well. His aversion to being touched isn’t helping much either. A relationship and someone he can trust and confide in is something Gideon desperately craves. But any attempts at getting closer to someone have always failed in the past few years and it’s weighing hard on him.

In his day to day life Gideon is someone who needs to be in charge always. Not being in control is something that fills him with crippling anxiety. And yet, in a relationship, giving up that control is exactly what seeks. He want’s someone else to take charge and just let him float safely for a bit. But communicating those needs isn’t something he’s ever done before.

I don’t have any anti-ships for Gideon. I will literally ship anything if the chemistry is there and it makes sense. For some reason I do like the idea of him having a bit of a crush on Kingsley Shacklebolt, which is probably simply projecting because I have a crush on Kingsley. He has that calm aura. I think Gideon would be very attracted to that.

WHAT PRIVILEGES AND BIASES DOES YOUR CHARACTER HAVE? 

Gideon is a white cis-male pure-blood. He’s pretty much as privileged as they come in their society. And while his parents raised him and his siblings with constant reminders that their blood status isn’t worth anything and that it’s their character that defines them as people, they were far from perfect. Growing up Gideon couldn’t help but notice that at least his father treated him differently than his siblings and that being the oldest son but him under more scrutiny but also at a certain advantage. He often wondered if he was taken more seriously simply because he was the first-born.

It was mostly his sister Molly who taught him to think about his own privileges by sharing her own perspective with him and ridiculing him whenever she thought he was acting like a ‘typical man’. He’s grateful for it and tries to be more aware of his own actions and mannerisms but doesn’t always succeed.

He’s wary of werewolves and other shapechangers but only because he knows way too little about them. He doesn’t find them revolting or disgusting, he’s simply careful. If he were to find out about a friend of his being a werewolf, he’d be surprised if not shocked and have a million questions, but ultimately it wouldn’t change anything about them as a person.

Gideon has never had a long enough conversation with a muggle to have anything other than curiosity for their life-style. Again, he doesn’t know enough about them to form an informed opinion. But he knows that killing people simply because of their culture differing from your own is all kinds of wrong and horrible and he will not stand for it.

WHAT ARE YOU MOST LOOKING FORWARD TO? 

To be completely honest, I wasn’t actively looking for a roleplay. Amos, who currently plays Fabian, and I used to play the twins for a long time in other rpgs and somehow clicked from the very beginning. He very subtly advertised this rpg to me and told me how great it was which made me curious. After checking it out I really wanted to join because I love the concept a lot and also play Gideon again. What I’m especially looking forward to is the outlook. In Canon marauder rpgs the twins always due of course so you’re ultimately playing a doomed character. This can be great for those of us (and I’m definitely one of these people) who love nothing more than pain and angst. But I found that I’m really excited and curious about playing Gideon with a chance of a future. It gives the whole experience a sense of hope.

PLOT DROP IDEAS: 

My main goal is always character development through the differing relationships Gideon has with other characters. How are the people around him going to influence him, how is he going to influence them? This is very general of course. More specifically, I’d like to see people digging deeper and getting under Gideon’s skin, be it in a positive or negative way. I’d like to undo him.

I’d also like to see how the situation at the Department of Mysteries develops, if Gideon is able to withstand the pressure, if he’s able to continue flying under the radar and gather information without being found out. And I’d like the Order to put more pressure on him, maybe demand more of him as it continues. I want to see how long it takes before he breaks down.

ANYTHING ELSE? I hope you’re on board and want me because this is a really cool place J

EXTRA FOR NON-BIO CHARACTERS:

This section is only if you are applying for a character that does not yet have a biography written (i.e. a character not listed on the character page). Essentially, any Marauders Era character can be applied for, so long as they can realistically fit into the plot and add substance to the roleplay! It may be a good idea to send a message to the main before you do this so we are all on the same page.

PAST: Gideon never doubted that he was lucky. He had a happy childhood, a loving family and, most importantly, a twin. He never quite understood how singletons could function properly but then, they never knew what they were missing either. Growing up Gideon was, in most respects, the epitome of a good boy. He fulfilled most of his parents’ expectations – worked hard in school, got good grades and, as far as they knew, rarely got into trouble. Back then he was carefree, blissfully ignorant of the tension building and the looming war. As he grew older and more aware of the issues so deeply rooted within the society he called his own, he found that he couldn’t just turn his head and pretend not to see the injustice many of his classmates suffered through on a daily basis. Gideon knew he had to use his own privilege to take a stand, he just didn’t know how. As much as he tried to help out and speak up, nothing he did ever felt like it was enough. It wasn’t until his brother was recruited by the Order and simply dragged him along with him, that he found a way to truly make an impact.

PRESENT: After graduating, Gideon’s curiosity and dedication secured him a spot in a training program for magical research and from there on brought him further and deep into the Department of Mysteries where he researches new ways of magic currently unheard of. Every day brings new risks and challenges and the fear of being found out as a spy for the Order is his constant companion. It’s what he wanted, though, isn’t it? He makes a difference. The intelligence he’s gathering is valuable and the research he’s able to do with the resources he wouldn’t have anywhere else could potentially aid the Order in the war. At the same time, he never knows who he’s actually working for. He can feel the pressure of countless expectations and responsibilities piling up and he knows, it’s only a matter of time until he’ll break under the weight.

FC CHOICES: Top choice: Sam Heughan. Other choices: James McAvoy, Sam Claflin

[self-critical-automaton]

Whats Been Going On With Me Lately

So basicly the TLDR is:

I’ve been super ill in weird and new brain ways since about mid-december, when withdrawal from my antidepressants resulted in strange intense psychological events, and I’ve been dealing with the fallout and day-to-day distress ever since. I’m terrified that i might have suffered permanent alterations/damage to my mental state, but who can say.

Details under the cut for anyone who wants to know how ive been doing, or wants to hear about what happens when you quit a high dose of fluoxetine cold turkey after five or six years.

Or for anyone who is going through something similar and wants some info/hope, since withdrawal experiences seem to be super idiosyncratic and variable and its almost impossible to find detailed descriptions.

I’d really appreciate it being read, esp. by people in my life, but dont feel compelled or whatever idk i dont make the rules but srsly please read it if you can it took a lot of time and effort

PS: this and several other articles on that blog were a huge help to me getting through the first couple phases, if you’re having trouble with withdrawal please go read PPS: fine to reblog, in fact please do

In 2017 I started getting painful physical side effects from my antidepressants, which gradually got worse until in lateish-2018 I decided to stop taking them outright. Everyone ever says you shouldn’t quit antidepressants cold-turkey, and they are right, but I’d been taking them inconsistently due to the pain, and I was beginning to suspect they’d stopped helping me anyway, so it seemed the best option.

I quit in probably mid-October and for a couple months felt much the same as usual, but then around the 13th of December it all kicked off. At first I had no idea what was happening, and I thought I was suffering a sudden and intense flu coinciding with a bad depressive spike, but after a couple days I figured out that withdrawal can be offset by weeks or months in rare cases, and decided this is what must be happening. That first round of Withdrawal Time had a few soft-edged but distinct phases (lasting about a week each), and I went through by far the worst experience in my entire life, closely followed by the second-worst and then third-worst.

Round One Start! Phase One: intense existential dread

It kicked of very suddenly, around the 13th december, getting rapidly worse over a couple days. I was paralysed with fear as my mind sunk into thinking in infinite circles, unable to do anything other but endlessly contemplate and debate morbid philosophical topics, forced to confront the inevitability of death, emptiness of life, terror of oblivion, impossibility of afterlife, and so on. I also suffered sensory experiences similar to those ive heard described by people who take drugs like LSD, or very severe fever dreams. Sensations of expanded perception, becoming trapped in imaginary scenarios on other planes, that sort of thing.

In this phase I ate almost nothing, and over that week lost 4 or 5 kg. I also had some flu symptoms, mostly as fevers and chills, and could ony, really sleep in short bursts of a couple hours each. There was very little I could safely occupy myself with, as almost all media (books, games, film, fiction and nonfiction, everything really) would in some way trigger me into thinking about an existential topic, and then the terror would resume. I spent what time I could working to fix the problems with my life that I had suddenly become aware of (my social isolation, my medial issues, my mental health, etc), so I made a lot of phone calls, doctor visits, and applied to some mental health counseling services. I also started looking for avenues to make friends and acquaintances online and in person, and did a lot of research on antidepressant withdrawal.

Towards the end of this phase, the dread got more manageable and began to ease off, and I found I could play simple puzzle games to help occupy myself during the day. Listening to certain podcasts also was a source of relief and distraction. However, things remained bad in the morning and evenings, and I ended up referring to these times as ‘morning hell’ and ‘evening hell’. Also, I began to keep a basic daily log of my symptoms.

Phase Two: generalized anxiety

As I segued into this phase, the existential dread mostly withdrew during the day, leaving instead a sense of severe generalized anxiety. I’ve had issues with anxiety in the past, but it’s always been event-related or social, so Generalized Anxiety Disorder style anxiety was an interesting addition to my mental health cocktail. I still suffered the existential dread, but primarily during the Morning and Evening Hells, and as occasional spikes during the day. Mostly, I felt like it was off to one side somewhere, and felt anxiety about thinking about existential topics.

I got little done, but was able to occupy myself with podcasts, housework, simple games, and (oddly enough) Star Trek: The Original Series. Almost anything else I tried would worsen the anxiety, and threaten to trigger existential dreads. During this time I started sleeping more normally, but also began waking every night with chest pains and leg pains, which of course caused a great deal of anxiety about heart issues and blood clots. I also began to feel like I had begun to ‘wake up’ after having sleepwalked through the past year or so.

Phase Three: misc badfeels and weird sensory effects

As phase 2 segued into this one, around christmas day, the anxiety started to recede during the day. I’d get a window of safety varying from half an hour to a few hours, usually starting in the early afternoon. I began to leave the house more, going for walks with my partner, which could occupy me safely during bad feeling times. During those windows, I often still felt bad, but it felt like a ‘normal’ bad, like depression and ennui, rather than the very active generalized anxiety or severe dread. I also began to be able to read again, and to play games more widely. I committed to attending some local social events (some board games/RPG things, and a support group) and mostly tried to get on with life. 

I was frequently quite sluggish and slow, and didn't usually get much work done, even napping occasionally. As my days improved, my nights worsened, with bad sleep and bad dreams. I would also have odd brief sensory effects, such as hallucinations and waking dreams. For the first time since withdrawal started, I began to worry that I was slipping backwards and getting worse again. Up until that point, I had felt like, as awful as I was feeling, there was a slow but consistent improvement.

By early January I was having inconsistent bouts of the existential stuff and the generalized anxiety in the day, but looking back probably not as intensely as in the earlier phases.

Phase Four: inconsistent rehash

Phase four was similar to phase three, except without the consistency that phase three had (at least earlier on) of ‘morning bad, day safe, evening bad’. It also lasted longer than the ‘about a week’ of previous phases. I had ups and downs of general bad feelings throughout the day, with occasional spikes or longer bouts of existential fear or generalized anxiety, and I developed an aversion to going to bed (as most mornings would feel worse than evenings). I usually slept badly, and I started waking up during what I’m pretty sure were sleep-panic-attacks an hour or so after going to sleep. Chest pains and so on were very common and worrying, so I talked to the doctor a lot and ended up on some cardio waiting lists.

I had some depressive episodes which felt very much like the kind of depressive episodes I’ve had over my life, and about the same topics, though more intensely. It was almost comforting, in a back-to-normal sort of way.

Frankly, this whole phase felt like a random jumble of previous phase symptoms and pre-withdrawl mental health stuff, almost like dimming lightbulbs on an old electrical system, fading in and out and going on and off randomly and unpredictably.

Towards the end of January, I had a bad bout of flu, but during that time I felt a lot better in mental health terms. I don’t know if this was due to the distraction of a big obvious ‘thing to survive’ or if it was a natural upswing as part of the arc of that phase. After I got over the flu, I had a couple days of existential stuff reasserting itself, and I was worried that it was a second bout of Phase One, but I stopped recording my log on the 5th of February, so it’s hard to recall anything past this.

Interstitial Period

I’m pretty sure that for most of February, I felt ‘back to normal’, and was feeling more-or-less how I had been before withdrawal kicked off. That said, my capacity to occupy myself has not really recovered. I’m occasionally able to play games or read, but I often have a bad sense of ennui. This may be my natural yearly Seasonal Affective Disorder, or a natural depressive episode (I have consistently if infrequently had times where I’m unable to occupy myself and suffer ennui, just as part of being a depressed person), but I’ve not had one this long before.

I have a strong fear that my cognition/way of being/mental state has been permanently altered by that first phase, that it in some way ‘opened my eyes’ and now I will never be able to go back to how I was. I’m scared that I might never be free of this existential dread lurking in the back of my mind, but also trying to dissemble, forget, or distract myself feels like a foolish naivety. Its something we all have to face, so postponing the inevitable is pointless, but also I can’t overcome or accept it, so I’m trapped in a limbo.

Round Two?

After feeling mostly ’back to normal’ for a while, I’ve been having some bad times again. For about a week or so (end of febuary/beginning of march), I’ve been having existential fears and the ‘big mix of generalized bad feeling’ again, on and off during the day, and especially in mornings/evenings. I was very afraid that it was the beginning of a downslope into a full repeat of this entire cycle, but it’s been pretty consistent so far, rather than getting worse.

I’m hoping that this is indeed Round Two, and that its just a lot less bad than Round One, which would be consistent with what I’ve read about this stuff.

Final Thoughts

Phase one was the worst thing ive gone through in my life, but on good days I feel somewhat optimistic that it’s had a ‘rock bottom’ kind of effect, that I can find some positive things to come out of it.

It’s given me some perspective, and it’s helped me come out of a sleepwalking time in my life. I feel what i’m missing in my life much more keenly (social isolation/ lack of friends, lack of passion, lack of purpose/drive/meaning in my life), but I’m also able to work on them to some extent for the first time in years.

That said, I know these take a lot of time and work to fix, but it’s hard not to look at the glacially slow progress i’ve made as ‘no progress in basically three months’, and sink back into the things-will-never-get-better-so-why-try kind of depression.

I’m gonna keep trying, though.

[pr-pr]

Long suicidal rant.

Clickbait? Yes, unapologetically so. Just for that fractional chance that someone would give a damn even though this post is super useless and shitty and pointless, like me.  

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So I remember high school very differently from one of my best friends. He said something I thought I’d never hear, that I was always happy. I guess I was happy around him. He was and is a happy person—the most stable person I know, in fact. We just talked a lot, and we got to talk about a lot of things and still do. Still, I remember high school so differently. We hung out during break times when I’d fawn over a crush, chat, or just chill. Or sometimes we’d cut classes together and just chat. Or go for a jog and end up just eating ice cream.

I remembered high school differently. I remember coming home from senior prom and hysterically crying myself to sleep because I’d failed to make one romantic connection the whole four years and it made me feel ugly and unloveable to the bone. Prom simply wasn’t special for people like me—ones who didn’t star in the romcom, random background extras, a snippet in the burn book. I remember going home and hating school so much I felt suicidal every night. I remember writing a short story about killing myself with shrimps and ascorbic acid—I was a nerdy kid. I remember diagnosing myself bipolar because of the experience. I remember being bullied and just sticking to my diaries. I remember failing at math no matter how hard I tried. I remember begging my parents to put me into a different school.

Of course, I also remember finding ways to cut classes so I can paint and debate the whole day—two of my favorite things to do. I also remember the great times with friends and hiding behind a pillar just so we don’t go through another boring class. I remember the laughs, the platters of instant noodles, the spots I’d linger at to see my crush. I remember it all.

I think of high school and I feel so many things colliding, so many colors bursting. All my memories are like so. And my friends tend to remember them differently. I was this, I was that. I was bubbly, I was friendly—but inside I was battling with social anxiety. They don’t know about how many hours I battled in the morning just to get up, just NOT to give up entirely. There were days I hated my friends because I just didn’t want to wake up and meet them—I just wanted to die instead.

I forget that people don’t actually hear my thoughts out loud. If they did, they’d be so turned off. I’m just such a party pooper inside. I’m always scared, always just wanting to fucking die. It began when I was four—that feeling that everything would be better off with my disappearance. My inability to carry on a suicide plan, really, up to this day, I consider a weakness, a form of indecisiveness, lackluster ambivalence.

I’ve had many dreams, of which dying has been the only consistent one. This doesn’t mean that people see me as emo, gothic or always wearing black. Far from it. I dress in rainbows. My favorite color has always been yellow. Specifically egg yolk yellow, Mercedes de Brazo yellow or that yellow dress I had as a child with the corset back I stopped wearing once it freaked out my mom because I had sleep walked in it.

No, I’m actually quite the party with the people I trust. I get it going. Ask around, you’ll see. It’s called hypomania after all. Still, it all crashes. It always does in a ball of flames and I get lonely again. I feel like a fucking freak again.

And I’m sooooo tired. I’m so tired of all this cycling. People don’t actually see me at my worst. Only my mom and sister do. They don’t see me when I just can’t fucking move. They don’t see me when I have panic attacks. They don’t see me when I descend and break down. They don’t see me starving for days. They don’t see me crying uncontrollably. They don’t see me curl up in a ball. They don’t see me shaking and twitching in a corner. They don’t see me when I bang my head on the wall or start hitting myself. They don’t see me when it hurts and I feel my brain is on fire. They don’t see me when I’m all alone and everyone is asleep and I’m still typing all this shit out trying to make sense of something, trying to find a reason to stay alive.

It’s so fucking hard. Sorry for the French. Sorry ma. Sorry God. Sorry! But life feels like torture right now. I’m just so tired and everything is forcing me to move like I’ve caught my foot on a roller coaster.

Life can be good. Of course. Life can be so fucking good. Especially when I’m in love. But life right now is hell for me. I’m doing stuff I love, sure, but fucking shit! Motherfucking  goats on a ladder, monkey fucking balls, jizz dripping dick, shit show. I’m fucking lonely as fuck. I feel like I’m on an island away from civilization. If I want to be cute about it, I feel like I’m stuck in a tower with fucking guard dragons named Penniless and Insanity.

Life feels like hell for me. I’m fucking burning and I just won’t die. Sure, hell is much worse, but fucking shit, you haven’t been in my head. God! Why? I just feel so fucking frustrated. Is there no way out?

I’m writing my shit, right? Just fucking finish this shit so I can pass it to Palanca which I won’t win anyway. I’m not getting my hopes up. But I want to finish it for the sake of finishing it. I know it’s not much. It’s just about time and unrequited love after all. There’s tons of other stuff like it. Still, STILL. I just want the satisfaction of finishing something. Having some sort of closure. BUT IT JUST WON’T END. I have the middle and end, but there’s that chunk, that problem solving part that just won’t come. You know why? Because I’m trying to write the solution to a problem I currently have no answer to. I’m asking questions I don’t know the answer to. It’s high school all over again, reading the same math problem over and over again and still having no fucking clue, that i wind up fucking crying. 

How do I cope with rejection? How do I become a better me? How do I be independent? Can i just insert “to be continued” in the middle of a screenplay?

Maybe my shrink knows the answer. I haven’t seen her in a while. Honestly, because I can’t fucking afford her like I can’t fucking afford meeting people right now even with isolation fucking driving me fucking mad.

Questions to ask my shrink:

What am I supposed to do when I’m suicidal?

Some people think I’m always happy, should I correct them?

How to not be a party pooper when telling people I’m fucking crazy?

 I think I might have over skinned my lips. Fucking burns. 

This feels just so dumb. Writing this shit down. No one’s ever going to read it. No one’s ever going to understand me. All my life has been about trying to make people understand just so I can feel a little fucking less lonely. Nothing’s changed. People don’t know me. I’m either sunshine or a storm cloud.

Sometimes I wish I could chop off my legs so people could see why I can’t run, walk or just stand. Like yeah. At least now they can see. It’s not like I want a pity party. I don’t. But I want to be understood. I want someone who gets it.

I wish I could treat this. I wish meds will make this go away. But it’ll just manage it. And when I get rid of the deepest blues, I get rid of the brightest yellows and I’ll just have nothing to live for anyway. How the fuck do I live?

I constantly feel fucking worthless and useless. I know it’s the disorder, but it’s not like I can get rid of the disorder. It might as well be an organ on its own really.

I just want to die so badly. I’ve just just had enough. My head’s hurt for what, how many decades now? It just burns and aches and vibrates and spreads throughout my body and nobody understands. I don’t want to feel this way. I don’t want to be scared.

The paranoia doesn’t help. Yeah, you can say it’s kept me alive, the whole panoptical life caused by years of trauma of mom reading my diaries, notes, letters, and text messages. Fucking motherfucking shit. It’s kept me alive in a way. I don’t do drugs, sex and very seldom drabble in legal potent substances. I very seldom lie. I can’t even leave the house without telling my mom. I’m “good” because I just live in constant fear of myself. I feel like everything is a gateway for worse things. I can’t let go. I can’t breathe. I wish I could just be.

I wish I could just breathe. I wish the pain would stop. I wish someone would get it. I wish I was worth it. I wish people believed in me. I wish he never had to leave me. I wish he loved me back. I wish my dad wasn’t an asshole. I wish my dad just loved my family. I wish my mom was ok. I wish I wasn’t so traumatized. I wish I could travel. I wish, I wish, I wish. We can’t have everything we want now.

Look, I have a lot. I got a great education. I got good grades even. I got an okay face. Mom says I’m too pretty, but she’s my mom, of course she’d say that. My mom also says my ass is wide but not big—which is bad because I don’t do enough exercise.

Fuck.

I have a lot to be grateful about. I can write—though no one fucking reads me. I can paint—there’s a giant blank canvass upstairs but no fucking paint (for weeks I SOUGHT). I can cook—as much as the next internet aficionado with taste buds. I can…

I can die.

The thought soothes me. Comforts me. I’ve told my doctor many times before but drowned it out with jokes and I’m okays. She counter checks with my mom who still wishes that all this was controllable, was just imagined. Can’t blame her. I, too, wish this was just a nightmare I could wake up from.

Pinch. No! Haha!

It’s reality. I’m suicidal and I don’t know what I can do about it. It’s not like I’m actively trying. I’m just always considering how much better it would be on the other side. I keep thinking about overdosing on chocolate or eating too much fatty stuff that liver cirrhosis occurs. I keep thinking of finishing something great, an obra maestra, then just jumping off a building or some shit. Anything really. I don’t know.

Sometimes, it scares me, up close. Like that heart attack scare, I thought I wanted to live. But wanting to live is such a fleeting thing. What is more constant, what nags at my brain everyday is what if, what if!!! WHAT IF THIS ALL JUST ENDS.

Maybe this is just a call for attention. But I’m sort of tired of the attention too. I’m so tired of telling people how miserable I am and them filing it in a folder under my name. “Jasper, sap.” “Jasper, toxic.” I’m tired of wearing people thin. If I die, it’ll be like pulling off a band aid, really. Quick. Not like this. A long torturous whine. My existence is like the nails on the chalkboard.

I scratched the blackboard once or twice and it caught my crush’s attention. I kinda enjoyed it. Few times I existed in his orbit, even if it was in the world’s most annoying form. Gold.

This is why my humor is dark. It’s the only way I fucking survive. Laughing at myself. At the in-credulousness of it all. Of existing in spite. Of living through pain for nothing. Ha! Pathetic! To detach myself from myself, so I can look from above and laugh at me as I trip on my own fucking feet—my reason for living.

I’m hilarious. How I blunder through life. How I almost got suspended once because some girls gossiped about my armpit hair. How I fell in love with a man who felt absolutely nothing for me. You know why I fell for him? Because I’d never felt so loved before. Ha! Amazing. Just hilarious.

I don’t want your pity. I don’t even want you to fucking worry. I’m not going to kill myself. I don’t need you to tell me that I don’t seem crazy. Telling me that makes me feel like I just imagined my whole diagnosis you know, and that my brand of fucked up is way beyond medical science. I just want to be underfuckingstood.

Is that so hard?

I didn’t know that a movie about aliens was going to be the movie of my life. I’ve never felt so understood until the movie Arrival, it’s hilarious. I feel like I’m just talking alien and the only solution to my problem is to write a book in the future about it. Fucking shit. I experience life, also, I realized like an alien. Always experiencing everything in the context of the future and past. Everything to me is in medias res. I don’t understand linearity. That’s why I’m always lost. Left and right is a circle to me. Everything is so fucking nonlinear my brain is constantly overwhelmed. Am I happy? Am I sad? I don’t know. Hence my trademark HUHUHAHA/HAHAHUHU. Sort of sounds like a monkey.

WHINE WHINE WHINE

Who the fuck will ever read this shit.  NO fucking one.

My whole life I dedicated to be understood--my whole college thesis all about it. In the words of Ursula: Pathetic.

I remember in fourth grade was it? Yeah, probably. I used abstract art to tell my dad that I knew his deepest darkest secret and he was the asshole of my life. Of course he didn’t get it. I abstracted it for a reason.

Life is like a knot. I don’t know where it ends or begins—all I see is that it’s a tangle I can’t solve.

I’m so fucking needy.

I know the answer isn’t love. Pop culture would tell you it is. It’s not. But what if medication doesn’t help? HOPELESS FuCKiNG SHIT.

One day, I ask the wind, the farts I make when everyone is asleep, will I grow thin? Will I just snap? Will I just finally have enough? Will the guilt of leaving my family behind finally be secondary to my suffering?

Someone has it worse—they say. I just don’t like that saying. Like fuck that shit. FUCK THAT SHIT. Someone always has it worse, doesn’t cancel out the fucking chronic pain of my life. Now I have to feel guilty for feeling bad on top of feeling guilty for being alive? FUCK THAT SHIT.

I can’t sleep. It’s been 5 fucking pages. It’s 3 am.

I used to arrive with sappy you can do its. I don’t think I will this time.

Cheers to one day dying. Cheers to death that comes to all. Cheers to death the great equalizer. Cheers to death, my brain’s last hope for a silencer.

[graceinyourhearts]

Note: this is something that i’ve been debating writing about for the last few years. I’ve struggled to form my arguments and frustrations on this subject for a long time, which is why talking about it seemed so pointless. But here I go.

If you know me, or at least have ever met me, you know that i’m shy. Not only am I a shy natured person, but i’m also an introvert. My natural tendencies in my behavior are to be more reserved, guarded, and cautious when I meet a new person. There are lots of introverts, some even outgoing but with introverted tendencies. As an introvert I have found that i’m most content when i’m by myself just doing my own thing. Whether i’m designing something, listening to music, going shopping, working out, or organizing my apartment, I find myself very at peace with what i’m doing in these moments. I’m relaxed, i’m creative, i’m thoughtful, and i’m sure. I get my best work done when i’m in the zone, not talking to anyone, or being distracted by others. That’s not to say that I don’t enjoy the company of others, because I do. Throughout my life i’ve had the pleasure of experiencing very real, deep, and genuine connections with friends, romantic partners, and my family. But I love my alone time, as many introverts do.

I’ve been shy all of my life. My behavioral tendency to be shy does not stem from a traumatic event from my childhood. It is not caused by a mental illness. It is not me “being a bitch” if i’m quiet around you, especially if I don’t know you. Being shy has always been a completely normal aspect of my life, as a child I never found any frustration in that, I was also never treated any differently for that. There are lots of shy children, even shy babies. I’ve found over the years that it’s cute to be shy when you’re a kid, but when you get older and never grow out of it people start to label you a little differently.

I can’t tell you how many times someone has come up to me and said something like “It’s those quiet ones you have to watch out for” OR “You know what they say about the quiet ones *motions gun sign with hands*”. I can’t even begin to tell you how screwed up this comment is. By saying this to someone, you are suggesting they are a harm to themselves or other people, just by being shy. Just because you watched a documentary about a school shooter who was an outcast and kept to himself does not give you the right to place me in the same behavioral category because i’m quiet too. What you’re implying is that my shyness is just bottling up inside of me and one day i’m doing to erupt and hurt someone, and I actually can’t think of a worse insult than that. I would rather you just tell me i’m ugly than suggest that I had the capacity to hurt someone else intentionally. But people say these things and they say them a lot, and quite frankly nothing makes me angrier.

I can’t tell you how many times i’ve been labeled as someone with social anxiety or depression because i’m shy. If you think that only reserved people have mental illnesses like these then I would ask you to pull your head out of the sand. Many outgoing people are depressed. Many shy people are not depressed. Please stop trying to put everyone in a category because you lack the depth to understand what a mental illness truly is. If I had a mental illness it wouldn’t be because i’m shy, It would be because I have an illness. If I had diabetes it wouldn’t be because i’m shy. It would be because I have an illness. It’s the same concept.

One of my favorite questions to get (and mostly because it’s so stupid) is “why are you so quiet?” OR “How come you’re so shy?”. It’s usually the way people ask these questions though that gets me. I’ve always noticed that peoples voices go up an octave when asking this. Like i’m a five year old and needs to hear baby talk in order to respond to the rude question you’ve just asked me. The dumbest thing about this question is that there’s really no way for me to respond to it? “Oh i’m just shy because…you know….it’s my NATURAL TENDENCY TO BE SHY AND YOU’E NOT MAKING THIS ANY BETTER?”. Honestly, did you expect a switch in personality when asking me this? “Oh i’m being shy? Dammit not again. I’ll try to be more outgoing for you if that’ll be easier on you, thanks for the reminder!”.

Believe it or not, i’m not a bitch because i’m quite. If i’m quiet around you when we first start hanging out and that’s bothering you, please find a way to get over it because I don’t stay guarded forever. I can’t count how many times my friends have said something along the lines of “Yep…wish you could just go back to being quiet right now” because I talk too much. (And that comment i’m okay with). Shy people aren’t stuck up…they’re more likely just nervous. Please understand this.

Bottom line of my very long overdue rant, don’t be rude to quiet people. There is nothing wrong with being this way, just like there is nothing wrong with being outgoing. There are billions of people with billions of combinations of behavioral tendencies. Be more aware of what you say to people. Be more aware of how you treat people. Just be more aware. Okay? Okay. *Insert obvious Fault in Our Stars joke here*

/Rant.

[basic-baka]

Characters Having Agency (Part Yuri On Ice!)

i’m probably poking at a hornet’s nest at this point about it but i have a lot of feelings regarding the latest interview kubo gave (especially regarding the rings from episode 10). i’m only using this translation. also this is essentially the more coherent version of this twitter thread i made earlier.

and if you’re here to send me hate, i expect you to send me spite money so you can get a response from me. my time is valuable and i just really want to get this off my chest.

one of the biggest problem i’ve had with yuri on ice is the treatment of victor and how people laud him for being an ‘amazing’ character but then kubo says this in this interview:

Kubo: In the course of writing this story, even I found myself wondering just what kind of person Victor is. From about episode 4, together with Yūri, I started taking a peek into Victor. It was like I was trying to grasp something that I still couldn’t see… Even as I was writing Victor, I was often caught up in those kinds of feelings. In that sense, you could say that Victor is a character that moved and grew together with the anime as a whole.

i get it. i’m currently writing my own series and, of course, my characters aren’t exactly fully written out. however, there comes a problem when even by episode 4, people still didn’t know who victor was. allegations of him being abusive to yuuri were argued and debated about since the series’ beginning.

the problem is that: we don’t know who victor is. we know him as yuuri’s idol. we know him as a playboy (although he seems to be fully enamored by yuuri from the beginning), sort of. we know he’s the number one skater in the world because he’s spent years ice skating. but... there’s a massive problem with victor’s “character”: his whole world revolves around yuuri. he has no hopes, dreams, NOTHING besides yuuri’s.

now you might go, “okay, but cut kubo some slack! this is her first series!”

even if this is her first series, that doesn’t mean she shouldn’t put effort into it. and you’re also wrong: this may be her first series with two male leads, but she’s no stranger to this trope:

337 Biyooshi!!:  By all the usual measures, he could be considered a pretty useless guy: a scholastic failure, an athletic disaster, and a chronic loser... But Fukuda Shinichi has one passion: cheering for others! The 18-year-old captain of North Kanto Southern High's Cheerleading squad decides to make the most of his summer by attending cram school in Tokyo, only to find out that the whole trip was a sham! Things are looking up when he and his friend meet up with two cute Tokyo girls; too bad the girls brought them to a rip-off bar and took off! Ditched by his one remaining friend and stuck with an impossibly high bar bill, Fuku-kun's life couldn't get any worse! But just then he gets saved by Ume, his role model and former cheerleading squad captain! What is he doing in Tokyo... and why does everyone around seem to know and respect him? Without anywhere else to go, Fuku-kun decides follow Ume to his job, only to discover that... he's a male gigolo?!? Fukuda's summer of cheering others on has begun... and the streets of Tokyo's red-light district will never be the same!

Again:  Imamura Kinichiro reluctantly wakes up one day to attend his high school graduation. He'd made no friends in high school and joined no clubs. Everyone was afraid of him, due to his long blond hair and surly attitude. Reflecting on his awful high school years, he remembers a girl from the Japanese cheering squad that he saw in the welcome ceremony three years ago. Searching for the old cheering squad's clubroom, he accidentally startles a classmate, causing them both to fall down a flight of stairs... When he wakes up, it's the morning of his first day of high school, three years ago. As he confusedly goes through his day, he's able to correct a lot of the mistakes he made the first time around, such as actually interacting with the cheering squad girl, Usami Yoshiko! But did he really travel in time, or is this all just a dream he's having while his body is lying unconscious somewhere? Could he really have the chance to go through his high school years again?

Moteki:  One day, Fujimoto, a 29-year-old lonely temp worker, suddenly receives a surge of calls and e-mails all at once from the women connected to his past. That's right, he's finally hit popularity, something which comes only once in a lifetime for everyone! Feeling elated, Fujimoto decides to meet them one after the other... but things aren't always what they seem.

IF YOU READ ALL OF THAT, GOOD ON YOU. i don’t blame you if you skipped that.

a lot of her basic premises has to do with guys who are suddenly really popular and have “anxiety” for dealing with popularity much like yuuri. and like yuuri, there’s a certain admirer or two who attach themselves to the main characters for one reason or another, our victor.

yuri on ice! is her first male/male lead series, as you can tell, she usually writes about heterosexual couples. but because of her homophobic tweet, this made me think that kubo really didn’t expect the fandom, especially the western fandom, to explode as it did. i joked about this on twitter that she’s using this fame to inflate her ego because so many fans are blowing smoke up her ass. it happens to the best of us. i don’t fault her for enjoying a surge of popularity.

what i do fault her though is her insistence that victor has any agency. in the episode, yuri buys the rings and gives one to victor in a fucking church and didn’t seem to want to deny that they were, essentially, good luck charms rather than engagement rings. as i mentioned before, victor’s world revolves yuuri despite having a pet of his own, his own apartment, his own career even. his character starts and ends with yuuri.

ask any fan of the series and they would tell you that victor loves yuuri with all his heart and wants nothing more than to be with him. but... kubo couldn’t let victor have that. by her saying the rings were good luck charms (paraphrasing) basically takes away what little victor had left: his love for yuuri is apparently completely platonic.

there’s a reason why i don’t like “word of god”. if it’s not in the story, especially if it’s fumbled as it is with this series, then it’s not official. that “kiss” is still up in the air for me, quite honestly. just because people can say it’s a kiss or a hug doesn’t make it so. it could be, but there’s also evidence it couldn’t be. the stupid censorship prevents me from making any conclusions. and yes, i would say this for a heterosexual couple. however, my point being, because the “word of god” in this instance is a means to take away his agency...it frustrates me.

she literally says she doesn’t know victor and went with what “he” wants but then turns around and say, “nah, their relationship isn’t romantic” essentially. and that’s extremely frustrating.

one of the main reasons why the finale of yuri on ice frustrates me so much is, the culmination of taking away victor’s agency. he had state a few episodes ago he had no interest in skating anymore. the main conflict at this point is gone: victor doesn’t want to come back.

the main conflict now: will yuuri or yuri win the gold? are victor and yuuri actually a couple?

that finale basically made it a “will you be my coach now and forever?” and victor goes back into skating because it fucking pleases yuuri. then what was that inner monologue for it? it was pointless!

one of the major arguments/debates within the fandom was whether or not the couple victor/yuuri abusive? i say no, because victor isn’t a character.

he’s literally cutout piece to fawn over yuuri when yuuri doesn’t ant to fawn over himself.

as a writer, especially as a new one, you’re going to fuck up and make shit characters. i have my own share that’s for fucking sure. however, the difference is that i see what i fuck up on, learn from it, and improve the character. KUBO HASN’T. from her summaries up above alone, she’s a very static writer and would rather play with tropes than create an interesting story.

of course, not all the characters you make at first will be shit - so long as you understand this: characters need to have agency. you’re creating literal creatures (however imaginary) with more than just looks, likes, and dislikes. why do they like that? why do they dislike it? why do they look the way they do?

you’re creating their story and what makes the characters themselves you’re giving them the agency to basically introduce themselves just how you would introduce yourself to someone new.

these feelings of mine doesn’t just apply to victor of course but characters like him and a character i especially liked from sword art online: asuna.

this video goes into detail about characters having agency and he uses nana as example of how to do it right (video contains series spoilers).

victor, for the sake of this post, has no agency of his own and it’s troubling because all he has is potential when he’s supposed to be the best. being the best isn’t the end of. people always wanna improve themselves (or not). what annoys me is that people act that victor is a well-written character but he’s not. it’s clear he was made up on the spot and there’s no real love behind his characterization. 

he’s barely a character. he’s barely human. even if this world is free from discrimination and hate, humans are not. humans will fuck up because that’s what we do best. this is one of the reasons why people don’t like mary sues/gary stus: agency is being taken away and ends up having little to no conflict.

LET YOUR CHARACTERS FUCK UP OTHERWISE YOU WON’T HAVE A STORY.

and you know what? i feel bad for gary stus/mary sues because they have to be perfect all the time. take kirito for example: this guy isn’t allowed to make any mistakes and that’s awful because he’s not allow to grow. the writer isn’t allowed to grow, and instead, is forced to break his world’s rules that’s already established even more just to prove how much of a badass he is.

my point being: let you characters grow and move. one of the biggest problem with the japanese story telling style is that the world is not allowed to move unless the main character deems it. you need to at least set some ground rules for your world before you can introduce new characters to it.

there’s a reason why i like certain characters that most people don’t: they have their own reasons for being the way they are. sure, it’s relatable mostly but i love the characters more who are more independent and are capable of making their own decisions and learn (or not) from it and why.

my favorite question while creating a character is why. if i can’t answer that question, then i try something else. and that’s why i’m especially frustrated by this.

congrats if you made it all the way down here.