#and i cry at the slightest hint of literally anything negative

[amethyst-halo]

my artstyle is all cutesy too :(((

yea im. ughbbgbhbgbghbgbh confused

[carelesscreativity]

NightKiller Broken Bones w/ Uncorrupted!Nightmare for LateNightBarista: Commission For Ko-Fi

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

(SFW, Blood[?], Angst, Fluff)

It was worse than usual. Usually, when Nightmare had a bad day, the castle would feel electrified and tense. Going out into the hallway or to the kitchen was a risk. Nightmare would be near delirious and attacking anything that seemed even remotely threatening. The gang knew that Nightmare couldn't help it. When he was having a bad day, Nightmare's past memories were kicked into full gear and he would be drowning in old pain. Trying to talk to him was out of the question and trying to touch him was a suicide mission. They usually all just hid. But today seemed different.

The castle held the same charged feeling, but none of them had heard anything. There was no screaming. No breaking of furniture. No feverish rambling about not wanting to be touched or seen. Nightmare hadn't even left his room. It was quiet and there was a heavy aura of pain surrounding the castle like a thick smog, slightly choking each of them. Killer couldn't even focus on sharpening his knife in his own room. His hand wasn't steady enough and he had to give up before he permanently fucked up the blade.

It had been almost four hours since the feeling had settled over the castle. Nightmare usually started his reign of destruction and terror as soon as he woke up. Killer knew that, if he was wrong, he would be risking quite possibly all of his limbs. But he was the boss' right hand. So that meant he had to look out for him. Or something like that. He hopped down and teleported before his feet even hit the floor. He landed in the hallway right outside Nightmare's room. He paused. He couldn't hear anything from inside and it was still eerily quiet. He slipped his knife back up his sleeve and paused. He raised his hand and for once in his life, Killer actually knocked.

He waited a few moments. The aura wasn't becoming any more charged. His target soul gave an uneasy waver. Killer's brow furrowed and he knocked again, a little louder. "Boss??" He called, knowing he had a strong enough voice to carry through the door. There. He heard a small shuffle and the faintest hint of a sharp inhale. Killer furrowed his brow and moved a little closer to the door, listening. He could just barely hear raspy breathing. "Boss, I'm coming in." It was more of a warning than anything. It was also Killer signing off on his death wish if Nightmare decided to freak out.

He turned the knob, only to find it locked. He sighed and teleported inside, disregarding the door completely. The aura of pain was thick in the room. Every negative feeling was swirling around like fumes and Killer gave a momentary tremble. The breathing was louder. It was practically a death rattle, but it kept going and for a split second, Killer felt a small pinprick of fear that Nightmare really was dying. The thought made him ache in a way he couldn't describe. He had yet to turn around and face the bed, where he could hear the breathing coming from. "Boss. I'm gonna turn." He said, bracing himself.

He wasn't even sure what he was bracing himself for. He turned and the first thing he became aware of was the staining. Black stains were spattered across the walls and leaked into the carpet around the bed. And good stars, the bed. The bed was bleached black, all hints of the dark purple sheets gone. The thing on the bed caught Killer's attention and it shook him to his skeletal core. He managed to actually focus. The monster in the middle of the corruption was unmistakably a skeleton.

But the only parts that seemed to be connected were the head and the torso. The lower half had been broken off at the spine and all of their limbs were completely shattered off as well. The remains of a shredded purple tunic somewhat covered their upper half, but not enough since Killer could still see what was left of the ribcage. Any ribs that were still there were cracked or dangling. Regardless, the ribcage still moved up and down with each breath. There was a dented, stained and lopsided crown on their head that looked like it might've once been gold.

Black liquid was freely pouring out of every crack and orifice on their body, Killer able to tell how much of a struggle it was for them to breathe around it. The limbs were splayed around them and Killer could tell that some pieces were missing. A couple fingers and toes. He finally focused on their head. The entire left side of it was busted open in a wound that would put Horror's to shame. An eyelight was fixed on him in the other socket, muddled violet and cyan. The second Killer met their gaze, he felt a shockwave straight through his body to his soul.

His soul snapped into an inverted heart and his vision became crystal clear as his eyelights flared to life. He vaguely recalled hearing something about this form. Everyone knew the story of Dreamtale. He could still see bruises on those stained bones. He was snapped back out of his thought by a wheezing, violent cough. He winced as something snapped and he saw one of the other's ribs break off and fall, becoming dust against the bedsheets. Based on why he could barely see underneath the taters of the tunic, Killer didn't want to guess what the other's back looked like.

His eyelights moved up to the meet the other skeleton's once again. The corruption looked like it had unpeeled and melted around them. Killer didn't say anything at first because he needed a moment to piece everything together. It was a given that Nightmare was blind on his left side, but he hadn't quite realized the extent. Sometimes, he'd catch Nightmare stumble randomly while walking or in the middle of battle and, seeing his broken legs, it made sense to Killer.

The black-eyed skeleton could also see the way Nightmare's palms were cracked and he was simply missing quite a few fingers and the boss' occasional difficulty with physically grasping and holding things was so much clearer. Everything was so much clearer. Killer started to slowly move over. "Boss." The word alone seemed to make Nightmare flinch. He wasn't. He wasn't Boss. He couldn’t be. Not like this. Never like this. Everything hurt and his pain had amplified six times over once Killer had seen him. He hadn't wanted anyone to ever see him in this form. He could only breathe though, completely useless to speak. Killer's shoes squished along the carpet as he got closer, finally stopping next to the bed.

He was on his blind side, the bastard. Nightmare still remembered the origin of that wound like it was yesterday. He recalled vaguely the goop beginning to spill out of his eyesocket at a frightening rate. It hadn’t been too alarming at first. He hadn't been ready for the corruption to literally explode out the side of his skull in a way that felt like he'd been shot from the inside out. He was yanked out of his memories with a sharp inhale as he felt the slightest shift in the bed. He managed to turn his head, his neck creaking a little to see that Killer had picked and begun to fuse the broken pieces of his left arm back together. What was he doing??

Nightmare managed to make a questioning noises and Killer, forever on the same page as him, glanced up. "What's it look like? Putting you back together." He replied to Nightmare's unspoken question. Nightmare stared at him for another few moments. Killer kept glancing up at him before sighing. "No, I don't think any less of you, okay? You don't have to keep looking at me like that. I won't tell a soul." Killer was always so hard to read. His emotions were always so faded and while it helped in battle against Dream, it didn't help with complicated conversations like this.

But Killer's soul was inverted right now, which meant... Hesitantly and painfully, Nightmare probed at Killer's emotions. The slight brow raise signaled that Killer could tell was he was doing, but he wasn't going to stop him. Nightmare could sense truth. He could sense truth and trust and devotion and... Nightmare didn't realize he was shaking until he felt Killer's hand give the lightest touch over his sternum to still him. Nightmare was crying. It would be difficult to see his tears through the black liquid running down his face, but Killer had always been a perceptive son of a bitch.

Nightmare continued to stare at Killer as he worked on fusing his broken, battered body back together. Where was it? Where was the amusement? The disappointment?? The pity??? Every emotion Nightmare would've expected from Killer simply wasn't there and all he could sense was his devotion, his respect and his admiration for him. There was another feeling. One that Nightmare could barely recognize, but didn't want to acknowledge. Not yet, at least. He furrowed his brow, twitching slightly at the pain that it sent through his skull. He continued to stare before Killer glanced up. "Deep breath." Nightmare did so, but still whimpered as Killer popped his arm back into the socket. "There we go..." Nightmare could feel soft pulses as Killer sent soothing magic through it. "Boss."

The title made the invisible smog of pain in the room worse, so Killer took a breath and tried again. "Nightmare." The broken skeleton opened his eye and looked at him. "I don't know how you do it..." He moved to his other side and Nightmare felt a little more relaxed since he could see him better. He watched Killer pick up the other arm and get to work on it. "You... live like this... and still manage to be everything I admire. I've seen you fight amazing battles and this was the kind of body you were working with underneath?" He gave a soft scoff of amazement. "Unbelievable... You’re truly amazing.”

Nightmare really didn't know what to do for a moment. All he could sense was truth and it was overwhelming him. He wanted to cover his face and he managed to shift his reattached arm just a little. Killer seemed to notice immediately and reached over him, gently placing a hand on his arm as a gesture to keep it still. "You don't need to hide from me." He said softly. Nightmare made a weak noise. If he could blush, he would've. Killer finished with his other arm and stood up. "Deep breath." Nightmare did so, still unable to stop the sharp cry of pain as Killer reattached it.

Once again, he relaxed into the soothing pulses Killer gave. After another moment, Killer reached out and flicked the tatters of his tunic. “Probably can’t take this off of you all the way without fucking something up, but you mind if I start working on your ribs?” Nightmare didn’t answer for a moment and Killer blinked. “I could also start on your legs, but that would mean cutting open what’s left of your pants.” Nightmare gave a weak huff and Killer nodded. “Ribs it is, then.”

He pushed the fabric out of the way and Nightmare nearly started crying as he felt the pain slowly beginning to lift away into dull aching as Killer’s magic began to spread through him. He screwed his eye shut and kept his head turned away. He inhaled shakily as he felt a hand slip under his cheek and he managed to look back at the other. Killer had his other hand on his sternum. “I’ll fix you up. Nightmare... if you were able to do what you do with a broken body, imagine what you could do with a mended one? Stars, you’d be unstoppable.” Nightmare blinked before managing a very small, weak smile. He wanted to laugh, but he was sure that would fuck up whatever Killer was doing.

Killer chuckled, rubbing his thumb over his cheek bone at the sight of that little grin. “You can relax a little. It’ll be a while.” He watched as Nightmare closed his eye and tipped his head into his hand. Killer’s grin had already returned in response. He kept soothing and healing. It would take a bit, but for Nightmare, he had magic to spare and all the patience in the world.

[the-corvidae-collective]

The following post will be very venty and incoherent because I just got negatively front triggered and now I’m gonna talk about it.

There are unironically people out there who unironically use phrases like “anti-psych/anti-science” and who call a history of systems advocating for themselves in spite of institutionalized and system violence “an anti-DID hate movement” and I know, logically, there is a reason. There is a reason the people who say those things and treat anti-psych survivors that way are of the demographic that they are. I know that the fact that DID systems and people who have experienced severe trauma heavily rely on the psychiatric institution and scientific academia as an uncontested objective reality because the truth of a subjective/nuanced reality in which mentally ill and neurodivergent people are systematically abused and subjugated by the entire system that studies and treats them while still existing and needing to be studied is literally unbearable. I remember when we used to believe all those things and how we got there. I remember looking at the systemic abuse of us and people like us (and disproportionately of people even less privileged than us, especially BIPOC) and deciding that I literally could not live in a world where it is simultaneously true that neurodivergence is a real thing that significantly impacts my life and the institution that invented that entire method of categorization and controls everything about it exists historically and currently as a tool for oppression and marginalization. That reality is painful and complicated. That reality forces you to look at the professionals, the only people you’ve ever been able to consistently trust and rely on, and to recognize that they have and continually do harm you, to see that they are standing precariously on a history of violence that is ongoing and unaddressed. For people like us who already experience delusions, including persecutory delusions, it was a terrifying thought that the very little unambiguous trustworthy power we thought might still exist could be unreliable. (Hint: there is no such thing as unambiguous or trustworthy power consolidated on that scale. Once people in positions of power get to decide who gets what rights, they can instantly use that system for whatever they want, and will inevitably use it to maintain that power.) It was far easier, and more comforting, to believe that we were simply the unreliable ones, that our experiences were rooted in personal weakness or inadequacy rather than systemic disenfranchisement.

The thing that changed this mindset for us was seeing all the others who have been harmed. Learning our history, a history in part of systems who insisted they were not the labels and models a psychiatrist forced upon them and that they did not consent to the way their identities were medicalized, showed us a vision of ourselves, of the pain we’ve seen throughout our experience in the mental healthcare system. We saw swathes or other “crazy” people like us, people who weren’t believed, people crying for consent and protection and safety and to be spared from relentless dehumanization. We were not the only ones who had been stripped of our autonomy. We were, and are, in the scheme of all those who have been impacted, one of the “lucky” ones. The severely traumatizing experiences and continual marginalized we have experienced is quite average in terms of what most neurodivergent people experience. We are not a special case, and our case is unimaginably severe.

The idea that people will not believe us and others like us is not even the slightest bit new or shocking. We’ve become extremely desensitized to it, in fact. The thing that hits us so hard when we see people and posts that demonstrate this kind of mindset is that we know it is almost certain that they are the result of disenfranchisement and vehement denial and cognitive dissonance as a literal survival mechanism. They are a reminder of all we have to fight for and how far we are from creating a world that sees ND and mentally ill people as even worthy of basic human rights and autonomy. When we’re fighting for these rights, we’re not just fighting for ourselves, or even for all the other people who have come forward with their experiences of violent oppression and who have tirelessly campaigned for our rights. We’re doing it for everyone who is terrified of a world without material medical realities relating to mental health, and everyone who desperately needs to believe they can trust the system that marginalizes them in order to have anyone or anything to trust at all.

I know other people are probably much less used to or more heavily impacted by things like victim blaming and denial of oppression. I just wanted to say, to leave off, that no matter who you are or how “crazy” you’ve been labeled, we believe you. We’ve seen a lot even in the little advocacy work we’ve done and also in our personal experience. We know how isolating it is to live in a world that constantly views us as inherently unreliable narrators of our own lives. I know it really is that bad. I believe you.

[ephemeral-afterlight]

Day 10: Unconscious

(We’ll lie, we’ll die.)

Whumptober 2019 Day 10: Unconscious

Word Count: 2065

Relationships: none

Warnings: Not unsympathetic Virgil but he is kinda an asshole in this, misunderstandings, physical violence, injury (head wound), cursing, implied neurodivergent/autistic Deceit (and mislabeling stimming as anxiety)

A/N: virgil having repercussions for his actions? i love this song! 

anyway, i’m sorry i’m late every day. i’m trying my best, but i’m having to write these in about an hour or so’s time, and it’s really difficult when the prompts are longer than 1k.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Virgil’s voice obviously comes as a shock to Deceit, of whom spins around from where he’s standing at the kitchen counter and hides his hands behind himself. Even as Deceit looks surprised, and a bit weary, there’s a gleam of childish excitement, and Virgil doesn’t like the look of it a single bit. The snake-like side shifts his weight between both of his feet nervously, rocks back and forth as he shyly glances up at him with bright eyes, and Virgil has a bad feeling about this.

“O-Oh, I was, uh-- I--” Deceit stammers, refusing to make eye contact, and Virgil narrows his eyes suspiciously. What the hell is he planning this time? Back when he still lived with them, Remus and Deceit played pranks all the time, and Virgil can still distinctly remember the feeling of putting his foot in his sock and it immediately being submerged in tomato sauce. Disgusting, and juvenile, and Remus hasn’t stopped calling him Spaghetti Sock since. Isn’t he creativity? Couldn’t he be a little more… you know… creative?

“Wait, are those cupcakes? What the hell do you think you’re doing messing with Patton’s stuff?” Virgil snaps when Deceit moves a bit too far to the right, exposing the tray of cakes decorated with patterns and colours to match each of the four light sides, including himself. There are light blue ones, undoubtedly Patton’s, which he decorated with hearts and outlines of cat heads. There are red ones, for Roman, which have music notes and stars. There are ones that are obviously Logan’s in dark blue, with stripes and mathematical symbols. And then there are Virgil’s, purple swirls and bats and spiders that must have terrified Patton to draw. 

Deceit looks like a deer caught in headlights, and his hand flutters at his side, quickly patting the side of his thigh over and over again. He’s obviously anxious, which is a dead giveaway that he’s up to no good. Virgil doesn’t know what the hell he’s trying to do. Is he messing up the designs? Eating them himself? Throwing them away? Virgil doesn’t think Deceit is that evil or malicious, but… what if he’s trying to poison them? What if he’s using Patton’s hard work to get back at them?

“Patton’s… stuff?” Deceit questions slowly, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, and the purple cupcake he’s holding in his hand is lowered. He glances down at it, turns to look at the tray for a moment, then meets Virgil’s glare with an odd gaze of his own. “But that’s not--”

“What’s going on down here? I’m trying to get my beauty sleep, hello!” Roman’s voice booms as he walks into the kitchen to stand in front of the dining table and rub at his eyes groggily. Logan follows behind, wearing plain pajama pants and a t-shirt as a contrasting juxtaposition to Roman’s boldly patterned matching set. He doesn’t say anything, just leans against the counter and crosses his arms, and his sleepy eyes are dark and neutral where they bore into Deceit.

“Deceit’s messing with Patton’s cupcakes. He won’t tell me what he’s doing,” Virgil growls in response, twisting his jacket sleeves in either hand restlessly. Deceit just looks down at his shoes, and taps on his leg faster, and Virgil wishes he’d just stop.

“What?! You fiend! How could you deface these sweet treats?” Roman asks as he pulls out his sword from seemingly nowhere, too offended to notice Deceit shrink back in what appears to be fear. What, he can pick a fight, but he runs away as soon as he’s confronted? Coward.

“That’s not--”

“Oh, quit lying, Deceit. Just own up so I can go to bed,” Virgil blusters, raises a lip in distaste when Deceit has the nerve to look upset. He’s the one who came into their home, messed with their stuff, and of course he’s gonna make himself the victim somehow. Fucking typical.

“Virgil,” Logan snaps from beside him, and Virgil whips his head to him in surprise. Is he seriously getting in trouble for this? For Deceit trying to hurt them? He’s just trying to protect them from a lying, evil snake, and Logan’s mad at him? “You are being unnecessarily harsh. Did you even see him do anything to the cupcakes? How do you know his intentions? Did you ask him, and did you allow him to speak? No matter if you like Deceit or not, you cannot accuse him of tampering and then refuse to even allow him the chance to explain himself or clear up any potential misunderstandings. He has the right to a fair trial.”

And despite Logan of course making it into literal due process, Virgil still listens. Maybe… maybe Logan’s right. He’s been stressed out all day, and he’s exhausted from the panic attack he had a few hours ago, so… maybe he’s bringing that negativity with him. He’s… what did Dr. Picani call it? Projecting. He’s projecting his frustration onto Deceit. He just needs to calm down and try to see a different perspective. Right.

“They’re Patton’s cupcakes. I didn’t make them. I was making them look worse. They taste like shit now. I hope you hate them,” Deceit rushes out, and his eyebrows furrow immediately. He looks frustrated, and confused, and a little bit panicked, and Virgil doesn’t see any of it. Instead, he sees Patton’s dejected face when he realizes that Deceit ruined the cupcakes he made for them, the way he’ll be so sad that Deceit can’t be good, that he’s nothing more than a snake. He’s angry. So angry. And Roman lets out an insulted “Hah?!”, shows the same emotion Virgil is feeling.

“What the fuck? Who the hell do you think you are?” Virgil snarls as Deceit sets the themed cupcake that was in his hand back into its place in the pan. His head buzzes like a swarm of wasps filled with ire, and he’s itching to do something he can’t pinpoint.

“Wait, no, he’s--” Logan starts, but a single indecipherable look from the snake-like side cuts his words off. The exchange is odd, and feels too familiar to be between the two, and Virgil doesn’t even care.

“I’m not gonna-- I’m gonna leave now,” Deceit chokes out, expression distressed and mouth wobbling, and Virgil’s so fucking mad. How dare he try to throw himself a pity party? Fake-crying, seriously? Who the hell believes that? And then Deceit is clutching at his cape with white knuckles, hunched over as he tries to sweep out of the kitchen, and-- no. He’s not just going to come in here, mess up their shit, and get away with it.

In a single motion, Virgil shoves Deceit forward, watches his panic and shock when he stumbles. He watches the fear flash through his eyes, the betrayal, the resignation, and Virgil falters too late.

Deceit’s head ricochets off the edge of the counter, smacking into the granite countertop with a loud thump. The others cringe in sympathy, wince when his iconic bowler hat is sent flying to the ground where it skids to a stop beside a chair. His body comes down with him, descends when his knees give out from the pain, and his limp arms fall to rest in front of him. He slowly pulls in on himself, and then relaxes completely with his body curled around the edge of the cabinet.

“Virgil! I may have had my own outbursts before, but I cannot condone unprompted violence!” Logan hisses, reprimands digging deep to unearth the tiny loose thread of guilt from the fray ripping into Virgil’s psyche. That… that was too much, even for him. What the hell? He’s-- he’s not supposed to be the bad guy! He’s been trying to be better, and at the first sign of provocation, he immediately becomes worse than the one he’s angry at? He stooped that low in a matter of moments?

“Come on, we all know we can’t get injured. Quit being dramatic,” Roman sighs as he puts his sword away. Even he glances at Virgil with the slightest hint of surprise, crosses his arms and shifts his attention to Deceit. He looks exasperated but empathetic, something that is far from mirrored on Virgil’s own face. “Deceit. Seriously. I know that wasn’t cool of Virgil, but there’s no point in dragging this out.”

And Deceit… doesn’t answer. He may be a liar, and a slippery snake, but he has nothing to gain from faking being hurt, so what is he doing? Is he trying to guilt-trip Virgil? Not that he… not that he doesn’t kinda deserve it, but it’s an… annoying way to go about making him apologize. Which he might not even do, if Deceit’s still being an asshole when he gets up. But then Logan is kneeling down beside Deceit, shaking his shoulder with an uncommon worry in his eyes, and suddenly this whole thing doesn’t feel as nonchalant as before. “Deceit. Deceit. Wake up. Deceit!”

He doesn’t wake up.

Then Logan rolls Deceit over, displays the blood coming from the cut on the snake-like side’s forehead, shows how his head rolls to the side without any resistance, and Virgil feels his heart leap into his throat. What the fuck. What the fuck. He didn’t-- He may have been mad, but he wasn’t trying to seriously hurt him! Why isn’t he getting up? They’re sides, for Christ’s sake, they can’t get injuries like that! They heal almost instantaneously!

“He’s-- he’s not waking up. I think-- maybe he can’t wave the wound away because he was knocked unconscious? But he still should have woken up by now. I don’t understand,” Logan mutters, talks in circles around himself with a rapid-fire pace. His thoughts are clearly hard at work, assessing all available information and possible outcomes, and Virgil’s hands are shaking. Why isn’t he waking up?

“Kiddos? Why is everyone awake so late? W-- What happened in here?!” Patton shrieks as soon as he sees the blood, and his hand shoots up to cover his mouth. He has to turn and lean on the kitchen door frame for support, uses the other hand to cradle his queasy stomach, and Virgil is simultaneously relieved and terrified.

“Deceit came in here and messed with the cupcakes you made, and then Virgil got mad and pushed him,” Roman informs plainly, hands clenched at his sides with the stress of not being able to do anything to help. Virgil is in the same boat himself. His fingers twist around each other, fidgety as he incredulously watches Logan attempt to wave away the wound and subsequently fail.

“But I didn’t make cupcakes,” Patton says worriedly, eyes perturbed as he seems to try to mentally extract information from the two still standing. Of course, he can’t read their minds, so he can only speculate himself, and that allows his brain to finally process Roman’s words. “Wait, Virgil pushed him? Virgil, that’s not okay!”

“But-- you didn’t make them? Then wh--” Virgil starts, but then his voice gets locked in his throat when he comes to the obvious realization. Fuck. Fuck! He… those were… why?! Why did he just stand there? Why didn’t he just say s--

Oh.

“This is what happens when you jump to conclusions, Virgil. I thought you’d moved past this type of childish behaviour, but clearly my expectations were too high. Deceit obviously made cupcakes for us, went to the trouble of decorating them with our preferred colours and themes, and you knocked him unconscious for it,” Logan says angrily. His words are charged, and they’re completely true. Virgil can’t-- he’s so stupid. He was so caught up in himself he didn’t even bother to look at the full picture. He knows what it’s like to be the outcast, knows what it’s like to try to fit in and appeal to people the only way he knows how, and yet he still… He demonized Deceit without even bothering to put himself in his shoes. He shouldn’t even need to, because he’s been there, and he still ruined what was obviously meant to be a thoughtful gift to make peace with them. He’s such an asshole.

“I hope you’re happy with your choice, Virgil,” Logan mumbles, and Patton is conflicted, and Roman can’t even look at him, and Virgil knows he’s seriously fucked up.

[christinaroseandrews]

You ever have one of those books that you really really want to like but somehow lets you down so hard that after you finish it all you want to do is cry?

Yeah?

So this was that book. 

Settle in, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.

The alt rock band, The Stone Butterfly is in need of a replacement backup singer. So when in-demand studio musician, Brooklynn Hawk becomes available. The group wants her. But the band isn't the only one who wants her, the lead singer, Levi Matthews, also wants her. Wants her bad. And he's not about to take no for an answer. Despite her attraction, Brooklyn has her own reasons for saying no. She's committed to taking care of her developmentally delayed younger sister and is afraid that saying yes to Levi means saying no to her career. After all, he's a star and she's just a studio musician and a temporary fix. But neither can deny the attraction. Unfortunately, Levi is the only one who won't take no for an answer. There's someone sending postcards who's just a little too invested in the lives of Brooklynn and Levi.

So... I wanted to like this book. I wanted to like it so much. And there is good in here and I think the author may have just mis-stepped. But whoa-boy was it a whole lot of mis-steps. Like fall down the stairs into a pool of broken glass. Like I want to reclaim my time and maybe take a nice long shower while drinking copious amounts of alcohol. 

So before I begin my rant.. here’s what I liked:

I liked everything to do with the music scene. It was well researched and felt real.

I loved the rest of the band. Sasha was probably my favorite member followed by Noah. I'd love to see their stories one day.

Do you notice what’s missing?  If you said the main characters, you’d be right.  There’s a reason for that.  Now on to what I disliked... and be warned... here there be spoilers.

The Hero, Levi, was cut of the same cloth as Edward from Twilight and Christian Grey.  The dude is super stalkery. Especially at the beginning. He was pushy to the point of WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!

So there’s the normal insta-lust that happens in a lot of novels.  It’s ubiquitous so I didn’t give a whole lot of thought.  Then quickly got worse. So here’s a pro-tip authors... when a woman says no repeatedly to a date but the guy persists, it isn't romantic. It's sexual harassment.

But wait, there’s more!

Levi also oversteps a line when he follows Brooklynn home. Sure I get it, you like the girl... that doesn’t give you the right to get into her cab and not get out.  If I were Brooklynn, I’d have gone to a wrong place then take a subway home. It’s even worse, because when all of this goes down he had the power to fire her. So that meant that anything he did came from a place of inequality and if she said no, she'd be out of a job. Literally Brooklynn told him "no" over 20 times and he didn't back off. Even going so far as to corner her (the author's exact words) and kiss her without her permission. That's not romantic. That's sexual assault.

Later in the book, when they hook up.  He dictates where she sleeps and even takes Levi also jumps to so many conclusions, overrides Brooklynn's wishes, and even steamrolls her. And takes care of her sister’s care even though he wasn’t asked to. I couldn't warm up to him. I wanted Brooklynn to dump him and hook up with Noah. Seriously. This was 50 shades of fucked up.

Then there’s Brooklynn.  She’s a little too perfect.  Perfect voice. Perfect body. Talented. The thing is, I liked her.  But in that, you’re way better than the hero and I need someone to like kind of way.  The problem was that the story took place in NYC and the author apparently didn’t think about that... and so kept mixing up the heroine’s name with the city.  Whoops?

The PoC representation wasn't handled well. Black characters repeatedly had their skin referred to as "mocha" something that is considered offensive by many in the Black community and their hair was referred to as "wild" which is also an offensive term.  If you’re an author and not following @writingwithcolor then you need to be right now. 

Go do it.  I’ll wait.

In addition, Brooklynn is supposed to be of Native American descent. That isn't explicitly stated until 94% of the way through the book. I mean there’s tiny hints... but not nearly enough.  To be honest, I was picturing Broolynn as mixed race Asian based off of her description. But initially she was scanning as white.  When indicating race, it needs to be done early and it needs to be done with all characters. Not just the PoCs. And in addition, Native Americans need to be identified by tribe. Representation Matters.

Speaking of representation, the book seriously misrepresented an already stigmatized mental illness: Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD).  The stalker is revealed to be Brooklynn’s developmentally delayed (yes, that is the actual terminology used in the novel) little sister who’s got undiagnosed BPD.  

BPD is often referred to as "Crazy Bitch Syndrome" colloquially however in reality, the way BPD manifests is in self-harm and self-destructive behavior. Marsha Linehan describes BPD thusly  “… borderline individuals are the psychological equivalent of third-degree burn patients. They simply have, so to speak, no emotional skin. Even the slightest touch or movement can create immense suffering. Yet… life is movement.” They don't stalk people and they definitely don't physically harm others. They also tend to commit suicide when they feel hope is lost...  and the illness has  a very high rate of suicide. They don't try to commit murder.

What is often identified in media as BPD is actually Anti-Social Personality Disorder (ASPD). The fact that the book perpetuates this myth is incredibly damaging. Representation matters, and for people suffering from BPD or those whose loved ones suffer from BPD (like us) this hurts and can actually reinforce the negative image that all sufferers of BPD have where they feel that they aren't worthy of love and affection and respect. BPD has such a high rate of stigma that finding psychologists who can treat this (it isn’t an illness that is treatable by medication) can take years. 

This kind of negative portrayal has very real impact. And it would have been easily solved if the author had done their research or hired a sensitivity reader. Even the Wikipedia article addresses this. This is willful ignorance. And it’s an unforgivable sin. 

This sin is made even worse in that the two suspects are Women of Color.  The decoy suspect is a Black woman which just helps support the “Angry Black Woman” stereotype.  The actual perpetrator is Native American which goes right into the “Savage Natives” stereotype.  Seriously, don’t fuck around with mental health and PoC.  Just don’t. And be aware of the Unfortunate Implications of what you’re writing. 

Did you follow @writingwithcolor yet?  No?  Do it!!!

Finally, the ARC I received could have used a good proofreader. I tried to check the preview to see if the errors were visible but since they didn't start until chapter 7, I couldn't. Therefore since the book has been published and I received the ARC after the publication date, I have to assume the errors made it in.

Basically, I wanted to like this.  I really really did.  But I couldn’t.  This book made me angry in all the wrong ways. So I can only give it

One star.

If you really want to read this, you can get it on Amazon. *** I received an ARC of this book through NetGalley        

[ruffoverthinksthings]

What would Mal and bens kids be like

Warning: Heavy Bias towardsBal, skewing EXTREMELY towards negative realism.

Two general trends:

Emotional, unstable individuals with heaps of problems inherited from their parents and their inherent genetic/magical weaknesses to mental illness and emotional issues; or

Completely normal, healthy, pleasant people who just happen to be EXTREMELY out of the norm and challenge Auradon’s established norms and beliefs by the simple virtue of existing.

You have to understand: Mal and Ben are an incredibly volatilecouple just waiting to have all manner of issues come boiling up tothe surface. They’re also an AK Royal and VK couple, the veryfirst, actually, and any children they have will be subject to allthe criticism, the scrutiny, and the intentional and unintentionalscrutiny that comes with being a VK in Auradon and being a Royal inAuradon.

Think of it as the worst of both worlds.

On your VK side, your peers consider you “diluted” in that youare an Auradon Villain Kid (AVK), not nearly as “evil,” “rotten,”or “cunning” as any of them simply by virtue of your bloodlineand where you were born--they needn’t even be Evil Evil,just otherwise Good kids that get into mischief most days of theweek. You don’t just become an Isle Kid without growing upin the Isle and even if one of your parents were from there, becauseYOU didn’t live with the discrimination, the desperation, and therampant psychological and physical abuse.

Think of African Americans from “The Hood” and the sense ofshared anger and outrage at “Gangsta” being co-opted by peoplewho never experienced their hardships, oftentimes as a gimmick formoney and attention.

(I actually have a headcanon that Robin Hood’s kid and the restof his Merry Men and Maidens consider themselves AVK already, whichbrings a lot of hatred and conflict between them and the authenticVK’s, but that’s a different topic altogether.)

On your AK Royal side, you are on an even tighter rope than theoriginal Royals, as now you don’t have immediate support and loveof the heroes and beloved monarchs that the original AK Royalshave--in fact, there will be a LOT of (mostly unjustified) racism anddiscrimination simply by virtue of you having “Villain” in yourblood, and most of Auradon being heavily racist and bigoted.

You’renot invited to all the fun parties, but you’re expected to show upfor all the major, boring events.

People do not give you the benefit of the doubt, will rail againstyou on the slightest of mistakes, and will treat your doing thingsright as “exactly what is expected of you, nothing that would earnpraise” or since they can’t say it out loud, “I’m stunnedthat you managed to do this right because I expected you to failcatastrophically, and I don’t want to say anything else for fear oflooking even more racist and bigoted than I already am.”

You seeyour pure AK and VK peers belonging with their respectivegroups,  while you stand outside their groups by virtue of yourbirth, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

And these kids are the KING AND QUEEN’S CHILDREN, so you know,they’re also inherently considered a class all their own, separatedfrom their own AVK peers, and constantly watched by the media andsociety because BOY HOWDY does Auradon love itself some eagerlywatching the 1%’s lives.

There’s two ways that their kids would develop in a society thatoffers them no stability, no community, and all the discriminationand the hatred because they’re an entirely new class of demographicaltogether and that is instinctively terrifying to everyoneelse:

One, you learn to carve out your own niche, take pride in yourdifferences and rally with your other exiled peers, and join or make your owncommunity where you let your Freak Flag fly proud, such asthe slurs being used against your community and turning them into anaffectionate nickname for your group.

Or Two, you forever remain an outsider, and come to terms with thefact that you’re always going to be an outsider, no matter howloved, popular, or invaluable you make yourself to the people thatshun you, and that’s just your lot in life.

Example OC’s of both groups are the following:

“The Knight in Sour Armour” Jacques “Jack” Maurice

Usually, Fairies come to bless newborns, granting them wisdom,strength, and cunning that will serve them well all throughout theirlives. As Jack will tell you, being the biological son of a fairydoes not make you blessed right from the starting gate, it saddlesyou with an awful, terrible curse.

1/4th Fae, 3/4th human; incapable of magic of any sort; naturallyresistant to most poisons, pharmaceuticals, and drugs both good andbad; cursed with both the supercharged empathy of his mother and hisfather and grandfather’s capacity for volatile, explosive rage.

Jack was always capable of experiencing exactly what otherpeople were feeling--their joy, their sadness, their anger, theircuriosity, their disgust, their fear--everything. It was a delight inthat he would happily lose himself in celebrations, literally lettingthe other’s enjoyment flow into him and lift his mood along with itlike a tide, but it was a nightmare when he could also be easilyknocked over and drowned in a sea of gloom, anxiety, and anger.

His parents were blissfully unaware of his distress, Ben thinkinghe was just a particularly emotional child, and Mal evenaffectionately referring to him as a “Cry Baby” because theoverflow of any sort of emotion oftentimes made Jack cry.

Then the panic attacks started.

Mental health STILL being terrible in Auradon, Jack being amagical-hybrid, and the public’s perception that he’s just beinga “yellow-belly who needs to toughen up and grow a thicker skin”whilst they laugh at his latest public emotional breakdown, he’sunable to develop properly or regulate his emotions in healthy ways,and in desperation, turns to Stoicism, using the anger and the ragehe feels at himself to tamp down on ANY emotion he feels or picks upin others.

By his teenage years, he’s an extremely logical and reservedman, eyes decades older than his actual age, a wizard in mathematics,programming, and behavioural economics, one of the foremost expertsand poster boys of rational thought and the study of emotional andpsychological biases, and frequently involved in numerous HIGHLYunpleasant tasks such as reforming the mental health system, fixingthe numerous systemic racism and biases that still exist in his time,along with not only opening the closets that contains theirskeletons, he breaks the doors down so they may never be able torecede where they won’t be noticed and will go unfixed.

When he ascends to the throne, he gains a reputation for being ahighly unpleasant and overtly practical king who has “no respectfor tradition,” just the rule of reason and hard statistics.

He will happily be called callous, cruel, and cold.

But don’t EVER imply that he is unfeeling, that he doesn’tlove his country and its people, or that all of his decisions aren’tmade with the needs of his people above that of his own interests.

Because the one thing that keeps him getting up every morning,that keeps him soldiering through the constant deluge of emotionsthat threaten to sweep him away and overwhelm him once more, is thepain he feels everyday, his rage that they aresuffering, too, and his determination to make it better, comehell or high water.

In his words, "Being a fairy's child is a three part curse:one, you feel exactly what everyone else is feeling; two, you feeltheir suffering extra hard; and three, you literally cannotstop yourself from trying to make them feel better."

His most iconic feature is his left hand: permanently curled into a claw, because of his childhood habit of constantly gripping things so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Rosa “Mel” Melantha

Mel is the spitting image of her grandmother, Belle: intelligent,compassionate, and brave. She even has her exact shade of lovelybrown hair, if her mother’s striking green eyes.

She’s funny. She’s an absolute darling in words and deed,whoever you are. She reads horrific, gory, personal accounts of thepolitical prisoners the likes of Grimhilde kept in dank, inhumanedungeons before bedtime.

For you see, Mel is obsessed with “Evil.” She wants to knowwhy people are so distrustful of her mother for being a “Villain”Kid even if she long stopped being a villain, and in some generousinterpretations, never really was. She wants to know why Auradon heldthe values of being a perfect society with all “Good” people, buther father Ben decided to bring back the “Bad” people to actuallymake it a better society. She wants to know exactly what makessomeone evil, with the ultimate goal of making an objective“Evil-O-Meter” scale, of which the official unit of measurement will be “Mal,” after her mother and grandmother.

In short, she wants to know, “Why?”

As Queen or one of the crown princesses, she becomes a prominentphilosopher, moralist, and attorney of law (and later, judge) whocompletely changes all of Auradon's standards on crime, “Goodness,”and “Evilness” along with earning the ire of most every religiousleader out there when she never stops questioning “What exactly ISGod's Will?” among other probing questions made in good faith andwithout the hint of malevolence, just childlike curiosity that stayswith her her whole life.

And no, she doesn't mind being completely ostractized by hercommunity for being so smart, intellectual, and asking no shortage ofuncomfortable questions, either--”I'd rather be the minority thatis right than the majority that just assumes they are right.”

Belladona AKA “Bella”

From the very beginning, Bella was an artistic soul, drawing andpainting with whatever she could get her hands on. Malenthusiastically bought her a giant collection of finger paints, anextra big canvas for her to unleash her creativity, and left her toher own devices, wanting to be surprised by whatever it was herdaughter was going to create with proper tools.

What she got was a mural of the Circle of Life, with all the gruesome, violent, bloody detail that a two-year old is capable of.

Throughout her life, Bella has always been accused of beingshocking, gruesome, and offensive for the sake of it. And while shewill never deny it, she prefers seeing it as her “portraying lifeas it really is—confusing, messy, and oftentimes horrifying, butbeautiful—always, always beautiful.”

She has donepolitical pieces of the kind of racism and discrimination that AVK'slike her can experience, complete with all the unhealthy copingtactics and the sheer depth of despair they can reach. She has doneinnumerable album covers for heavy metal, punk, and rock bands,hoping to do the artists before her justice as she crafts thecontroversial, graphic, and oftentimes littered with more femalenudity than is strictly necessary faces of the new generation. Shehas made tattoos and art for friends, and especially people who wanttheir very first tattoo done right—her favourite is that of awriter literally bleeding their lifeblood onto their magnum opus.

She curses in sixdifferent languages without a second thought. She will not hesitateto tell you that you suck to your face, that what you said was stupid,or that you look terrible in her iconic getup of ballet skirtsand combat boots. She walks through life ignoring the whispers andadmonishments of the royals and aristocrats of which she willeventually have to rub elbows with full time when she becomes Queen;she also isn't bothered in the slightest about the criticisms of herpeers about her not being “punk” enough or just being a really good “Posey.” (An Auradon Kid or Auradon Villain Kid trying to be more Rotten than they actually are.)

She does what shewants, and what she wants is to live a life where she and everyoneelse is free to do whatever they please, so long as they do not “stepon someone else steel-toed boots.”

She's a Goodperson, who loves hanging out with the Evil crowd, challenging bothof their ideas of if you really are just one or the other.