#but i was recommended it by my internship supervisor

[tarantula-hawk-wasp]

tbh I understand the point of cover letters and they're not even that bad to write but also gagging and wailing. i did get mine written. 12 hours later than I intended so now my schedule of homework for the week which is already a teetering jenga tower, is thrown off

[lieutenantselnia]

I want draw and write for my f/os so badly but my university assignments say no ._.

[vulnerasti-cor-meum]

why did I ever think I would be a good fit for the navy when just the other day it occurred to me that the career to which Im most suited is probably like. kindergarten teacher

[banjjakz]

Seven Days at Granny Orimoto's Flower Shop ; Yuuta x F!Reader

My name is Okkotsu Yuuta. I am a recent graduate of a martial arts vocational school. I just completed a year-long internship abroad in Africa. Due to my recent re-entry into Japan, I am still in the process of setting up my phone and internet. I apologize for the inconvenience and I am extremely sorry for the burden. As a supervisor and business, you may benefit from the set of skills that I have to offer. I can lift upwards of 25kg. I am neat and detail oriented. Due to past life experiences, I am a fast learner and quick to adapt to new surroundings. I am accustomed to taking orders and delivering results. It is my utmost goal to ensure the comfort and satisfaction of those around me. I am eager to be of service. Please think of me kindly.

Or: An odd boy shows up every night begging for a job offer. Did you mention that he gives you handwritten letters? Do you have to report a workplace romance if the only other employee is your boss, who is currently dying? Asking for a friend.

notes: commission for the lovely mielle! thank you very kindly for 1) commissioning me!!!!!! and 2) putting up with my compulsion to surpass any and all word count specifications

warnings: general off-putting vibes, casual discussions of child death, implied stalking (at the very least), unethical(…? maybe ethically gray?) necromancy, etc. y'all know what's about to go down

♡‬ read on ao3 ‪♡‬

Life as a florist is every bit the dream that you’d hoped it would be.

The thought of working from nine to five in some cubicle for the rest of your life was enough to drive you out of university before even completing the feeble attempt you’d half-assedly made at a degree. While the path to your current state of employment had not been linear, easy, or even recommended, you cannot imagine ending up anywhere else.

You’re lucky enough as it is that Granny Orimoto was willing to take you on – perhaps, at first, out of pity – as a shop-hand. That day, all those months, is still as clear as unmarred waters in your mind. What a pitiful image you must have made: underfed, poorly clothed, with roving, vacant eyes.

Nevertheless, you adjusted quickly and gratefully to your new place of employment. Within months, your sense of self and purpose in life had been restored, watered and nurtured underneath the guiding light of Granny Orimoto’s flower shop. Like a corpse risen again, your days were once more filled with hope and aspirations.

Eventually, Granny Orimoto began bestowing upon you more and more responsibilities. You tend to think of your daily tasks as privileges more than anything else. You’ve graduated far beyond merely ringing customers up on the till – at this point, you’re somewhat of a budding horticulturalist. Or, at least, that’s what you’d like to think on your good days.

Recently, Granny Orimoto has even begun to entrust you to manage the shop on your lonesome for several days out of the week. It used to be the case that she would require you to work only hours that coincided with her own availability, so that you might fall under her constant supervision. Of course, this was back when you could barely keep a plant alive. Nowadays, things are quite different.

Quite different, indeed.

On this slow, Monday evening, managerial status finds its way to you once more. Closing the shop used to feel weird, without Granny Orimoto there to lay into you about your posture, or your clumsiness, or your naturally shy, stuttering nature. Now, it’s starting to feel eerily more and more like business as usual.

When the bell above the front door rings, you don’t think too much of it – this town is a bit of a tourist trap, so there are quite a few out-of-towners who aren’t used to respecting closing times. Usually, you’re too nice to shoo them out, but the weight of the day bears heavily upon your apron-clad shoulders.

But when you spin around on your heel, the polite-yet-firm “we closed four minutes ago” withers on your tongue like dead leaves crumbling away upon the unrepentant, earthen ground.

The most disturbing thing is not that he’s exactly your type of handsome: tall, gaunt, malnourished, with a strange, lost look in his wideset eyes. It would be easier, somehow, if your immediate and arresting attraction to the gangly stranger was the most of your worries.

Perhaps what unnerves you so, is the fact that you are powerless to do anything but devote the entirety of your attention to the odd young man. The terra cotta pot once in your grasp has suddenly been placed on the nearest shelf. The gardener’s gloves on your hands have now been stripped away and flung carelessly to the ground, the delicate flesh of your fingers on display for the world to see.

“Are you hiring?” He asks. The lights flicker. Granny Orimoto should really stop fighting you about calling an electrician – they aren’t that expensive.

No, is what you should say, because you don’t have the authority to answer this question and also the thought of having to train someone else when you are just barely getting the hang of your newfound managerial status is a terrifying prospect.

And yet, what ends up leaving your mouth is:

“Yes.”

His black hair is overgrown and in dire need of a trim. The bangs are in a liminal state: too short to part, too long for comfort. It dangles limply in his eyes. Those eyes. Big and glassy and dark, like a dead doe gazing up, unseeingly, at the sky.

“Okay,” he says. “Is there an application that I could fill out?”

Is he not cold? The weather chills significantly at night, and his layers look rather thin. Or maybe that’s just the way the clothes hang off of him. “No, it’s alright. You can just – um, you’re good.”

“I’m…?”

“You’re good,” you repeat and then you have to fight for control over your own body, so that you can turn around and break eye contact before it actually kills you.  “When can you start? Do you have a phone number? Um, so we can get in touch with you about scheduling and training and verify your location and such and so forth.”

Okay, that last sentence was hastily tacked on. You’ll be the first to admit that much. But what kind of girl would you look like, asking a random stranger for his number out of the blue?

You hear more than you see him shuffle his feet, still lingering awkwardly in the doorway. “Um, no, sorry. I don’t have a phone.”

“E-mail?”

“Ah..no…would communication via letter be alright?”

What is his problem?

He shows up, four minutes past closing, poorly dressed and clearly in poor health, as well, to inquire about a job opening, and doesn’t even have a phone or any form of contact to provide other than handwritten correspondence?

Is this a prank? Are you being pranked, right now? You pause your fastidious, frustrated handling of today’s arranged bouquets just to surreptitiously scan your surroundings for any hidden cameras.

It’s like the man of your dreams has walked through the door. It’s almost too good to be true. You know you have eclectic tastes—and this is exactly why you’ve never had a boyfriend, before.

Because what living man could possibly compare to the fictional freakshows you stay up late at night reading about? Who would be worth fawning over, when you are already well equipped with a wealth of off-putting – and, quite frankly, disturbing – characters of ill-repute? Never has there been a living, breathing vessel capable of catching your jaded, heavy eyes.

Until now, that is.

“Sure,” you say, allowing the brain-rot to take control of your faculties. “Give me one second to write down our mailing information.”

But before you can cling desperately to another excuse to evade his magnetic presence, the strange boy speaks up, alluring you with the unsettlingly tranquil timbre of his voice: “That won’t be necessary. I can hand deliver the letters every day, around this time.”

You blink, sizing him up once more. Any normal human being would find this situation incredibly odd and even worth of a police report.

However, you’re comfortable in your own skin and are able to recognize that the screws you’ve knocked loose over time have, for better or worse, permanently altered your threshold for “red” or “green” flag recognition. For all you care, the flag could be purple. You aren’t thinking about flags right now. You’re thinking about his murky bangs, dark and deep, a rich obsidian, metastasizing over the smooth expanse of his alabaster forehead like a natural disaster.

“Okay. I’ll be waiting at this time every night, then.”

For the first time this evening, his gaunt face split into a tender grin, pink lips parting like spliced flesh. Somehow, he’s able to make the act of smiling something gory, something haunting. Your eyes are glued to the bone-white of his teeth. It’s like watching a car crash. You want, desperately, to look away. You cannot.

“I’m glad,” says the strange boy. “I’ll be here every night, right on time.”

A soft breeze stirs outside, just restless enough to tickle teasingly at the windchimes which dangle from the shop’s awning. Usually, the barrier of the front door dulls the melody. Tonight, you can hear the bells loud and clear.

Before you can think to demand (beg) that he reveal additional identifying information about himself – like, say, his name – the boy has all but disappeared from sight. Incredulously, you whirl around on your heel, scanning every visible inch of the shop for any possible clue as to where he went. But your searching is all for naught. It seems that he is, both in presence and absence, a complete mystery to you.

Well. There are certainly worse things that have happened to you. At least you got to chat with a cute, creepy guy for your trouble.

;

The next day, Granny Orimoto abstains from work yet again. Her modest apartment sitting atop the flower shop has kept her out of sight for many days, now. You’re no stranger to her fits and bursts of ill health, but you cannot recall the last time the brusque, full-hearted old lady has been bedridden for such a prolonged length of time.

You almost consider trying to drop by unannounced to bring her some soup and vitamins, but the thought dies immediately upon arrival. Memories of the last time you’d tried to caretake for her and were subsequently thrown out with indignant, irate gusto are enough to curb your momentary sympathy.

This means that you are effectively head of shop, once more. Over time, it gets easier to deal with the random accidents prone to any small, self-run business: leaks, clogs, jams, flickering lights, disappearing items, strange sounds at odd hours with an unlocatable source. All of it, you handle with def improvisational methods.

Even the spontaneously shattering bathroom mirror is no match for your handywoman capabilities! Really, Granny Orimoto should be lucky that it is you who happened to show up on her doorstep just as her health began to take a dive.

These are the kinds of thoughts buzzing around your skull as twilight descends upon the horizon like flies to a carcass. The death of the day is, as usual, a bloody affair: hues of bright vermillion spill across the sky, setting everything in the shop a brilliant, flagrant shade of fresh-burning red. The terracotta pots seem almost to be radiating with internal heat.

Night comes soon enough, bringing with it a brisk chill in the air. The wind rustles the windchimes, a forewarning of what is to come.

And sure enough, at 8:04 P.M., there he is, lingering in the doorway, daring to take not one step past the threshold, just as he’d done yesterday, that first night.

“Good evening.”

Clutched in his fingers is a wrinkled letter, wrapped in plain stationery. He offers it to you with both hands, politely.  

The space between the both of you evaporates in the fraction of a second it takes for you to cross the shop and greet him back, accepting the letter with greedy hands and a greedier heart. “Good evening. Thank you for the correspondence.”

“Thank you for receiving it,” he replies, scratching the back of his head in a stupidly endearing self-conscious gesture. “I know the manner of communication is a bit unconventional… sorry about that…”

“It’s okay.” And it really is. You, of all people, are no stranger to unforeseen and harrowing life circumstances. That the young man does not possess a phone or email address is not so uncommon, anyways – you’ve had time to reflect on the situation, and for all his off-putting looks and strangely formal manner of speaking, he could easily be a country mouse who has recently relocated to a more urban area. Who are you to judge?

“Shall I have a response waiting for you tomorrow night?”

He bows, then, for a bit longer and a bit deeper than what is normally appropriate for two virtual strangers. “I’d be grateful. Thank you for the trouble.”  

Once more, he evaporates seemingly into thin air, leaving behind not even the faintest trace of his existence. He appears to possess an uncanny ability to slip out of sight just as your eyes fall shut in the millisecond it takes to blink, to breathe.

Taken in stride with his dark-circled eyes and general aura of mysterious tragedy, the whole schtick is a little bit sexy, you have to admit. His vibe is that of a haunted family heirloom: beautiful, priceless, stained in generations of blood and cursed to doom those who dare to draw too near.

Your eagerness is almost feral as you tear apart the seal to the envelope in your hands, greedily pawing at the innards. What awaits you is a handwritten letter, complete with smudged pencil marks obscuring some of the more intricate kanji scribbled onto the page. Some of his radicals waver, lines bending or sprawling in odd and abnormal ways, as though he’d been shaking when we wrote it.

 As though he’d been nervous. So nervous, in fact, that upon handing you the thing, he had to immediately abscond from the premises without another word.

Cute.

To Whom it May Concern,

Thank you very kindly for your willingness to take me on as an apprentice to your shop. Please allow me to introduce myself.

My name is Okkotsu Yuuta. I am a recent graduate of a martial arts vocational school. I just completed a year-long internship abroad in Africa. Due to my recent re-entry into Japan, I am still in the process of setting up my phone and internet. I apologize for the inconvenience and I am extremely sorry for the burden.

As a supervisor and business, you may benefit from the set of skills that I have to offer. I can lift upwards of 25kg. I am neat and detail oriented. Due to past life experiences, I am a fast learner and quick to adapt to new surroundings. I am accustomed to taking orders and delivering results. It is my utmost goal to ensure the comfort and satisfaction of those around me. I am eager to be of service.

Please think of me kindly.

Upon reading the very last word of the very last line, you discover that your bottom lip has been bitten so severely that a fine trickle of blood is descending down your chin.

There is no resume or CV in sight – just this handwritten, strangle little letter in which he divulges some most interesting truths.

Is he playing mind games with you? “Accustomed to taking orders”? “Eager to be of service”? Is he trying to tell you something? Outside of the hiring process, that is.

The note itself is perfectly polite and proper. It’s you whose mind succumbs hedonistically to the gutter. Oh, for shame.

 At night, the shop tends to turn into a gnarly jungle of pots and leaves and vines and poorly-placed smatterings of soil; you wade through theses trenches, aided by no more than the moonlight attempting to feebly infiltrate through the shutters – as the lights are out, again. Should probably call someone about that.

In your frantic haste, it’s a miracle your hands aren’t sliced by a spare pair of shears lying forgotten on some counter or another. Before injury occurs, you’ve already located what you’ve been searching for: a usable pen and some clean, uncrumpled paper.

The matchbox in your back pocket proves useful as you strike up a flame and light a nearby candle, paying no mind to the potential danger of the wobbly column of fire in a room full of fauna.

Like a woman possessed, you feverishly scribble away at your reply. It takes you longer to draft this one particular letter than it had to complete your college entrance exams.

But it’s alright – the candle beside you burns throughout the night, neither the wick nor the wax diminishing even a wink.

Dear Okkotsu,

Your eagerness to work hard is clearly evident. Color me impressed.

As fate would have it, I am in dire need of some help with running the shop. The owner has been absent with illness for quite some time and the workload is starting to get unmanageable. The addition of a strong set of arms is more than welcome. Even when it was the two of us putzing around, we still wouldn’t have been able to do some of the heavier lifting.

I’m curious to hear more about your passion to serve. Was this instilled in you during your time at vocational school? What does “being of service” mean to you?

While we are ultimately a public-facing shop, the stream of customers is slow, and your daily tasks will often look like physical labor and horticultural activities. But, from your letter, it sounds like this will pose no object.

Overall, your enthusiasm is appreciated and your hard-working attitude is attractive to future employers.

You could start as early as tomorrow.

Please do respond at your convenience.

It was rather quickly with only a slight bit of panic running through your veins that you tacked on “to future employers.” Even while reading it back, you cringe a little bit. Too forward? Oh well. It’s written in ink and it’s much too late to go for hunting for another clean piece of paper in the shop’s opaque blackness.

Speaking of which… you really should call an electrician. And a plumber. And some sort of handy man, to help you clean up all the broken glass from the shattered bathroom mirror. And maybe it may also me a good idea to get in touch with a security footage company and inquire about their installation rates. It certainly can’t be normal; how many things go missing so frequently. Although you’ve spent most of your waking hours with an aging elderly woman up until very recently, you’re quite sure that dementia isn’t contagious.

Ah, well. These are all things to take care of tomorrow. Sighing, you tuck away the letter into your back pocket for safe keeping before you go about locking up.

You try not to think too hard about the lingering gaze you feel on the back of your neck. If anything, it feels better than being completely alone.

;

The fragrant scent of okayu fills your nose as you climb the stairs to reach Granny Orimoto’s apartment.

Usually, you would not dare to trespass inside her abode, despite it’s close proximity to the shop. She is a grouchy old lady who does not take kindly to meddling. And yet, you couldn’t ignore the seed of worry in the pit of your belly, which had blossomed over the course of the past few weeks into full-blown concern for her wellbeing. Besides her once-daily text message in the evening confirming the status of shop operations, you have not seen or heard from the old woman in what must be almost half a month at this point.

So, you’ve bitten back your pride and prepared a meal to personally deliver to her.

You are moderately concerned when there is no response to your three separate attempts at knocking on the door. Granny Orimoto hadn’t responded to any of your text messages, so you’d naively assumed she’d been asleep and hadn’t seen them. But is it possible to sleep through the ruckus that you’re creating?

The tension in your body only heightens when you try to the doorknob and realize, in shock and slight horror, that it’s open.

“Granny Orimoto?” You call out, haltingly yet loudly – loud enough to reach her wizened ears. “Granny, I’m sorry, I’ll be coming in now! Pardon the intrusion!”

Taking care not to jostle the still-hot bowl of rice porridge in your hands, you slip off your shoes at the Genkan and make your way inside of the apartment. Although you’ve only been here once before – and it had been an extremely brief stay before Granny Orimoto had shooed you off the premises – it still doesn’t feel all that unfamiliar to you.

It’s a traditional set-up, that much is for sure. Not much has changed, either. Same old floral blankets folded in various assortments and piles around the tiny room, same old plastic draining rack laid across the kitchen sink.

And, of course, there is that strange pair of guest slippers by the front door.

A bright, childish pink with the width and depth to accompany the foot of a young girl no older than six, these slippers had given you pause the first time you’d set foot in Granny Orimoto’s apartment. As far as you know, the old lady doesn’t have any living relatives with which she maintains contact. She spends every holiday alone, in her room, and refuses any offers of companionship between the two of you. You’ve always assumed something tragic must have happened, for a woman this advanced in age to have no one to visit or host during the New Year.

So why, then, does she keep a pair of children’s house slippers by the front door?

Although they are neatly placed and carefully aligned, the heels of the slippers face the direction of the household – as though they’ve been recently taken off and exchanged for outside shoes. Like someone has been here and left. Were they in that position when you stopped by before? Perhaps Granny Orimoto set them that way during her last cleaning.

Shaking yourself out of your reverie, you move past the entrance area and towards where you know the bedroom awaits. There is no overt stench of death and decay, so you aren’t afraid of walking in on her corpse. You’re, like, 85% sure that you could mentally recover from handling that situation, but it would be unfortunate and would likely mean an endless night for you and the poor EMTs who would be dispatched to the scene.

The bedroom door, too, is slightly ajar, and when you push it open all the way, you’re greeted by a sight that hits you squarely in the chest, knocking the wind from your lungs, stealing your voice, marring your eyes with shock and sympathy.

Granny Orimoto lies on her back, skin so pale that it is a near perfect match to the futon covers draped around her frail body. Even from this distance, you are able to clearly track the pathway of her veins as they course across her, the deep blues and greens standing out abnormally against the thin, alabaster flesh. Her hair, significantly grayer than the last time you’d seen her, has escaped from it’s usual, customary low-slung bun. You’ve never seen Granny Orimoto in any other kind of style – in fact, you’d begun to think ��� somewhat mischievously – that her hair had been surgically arranged to the nape of her neck.

But now, it sprawls around her skull in scraggly spirals, spilling across the pillow like leaking liquid. Thin and brittle, you’re sure that if she tried to gather it into a bun as she once had, it would split and break into a million fine pieces of ash.

“So, you’ve come.”

That hoarse voice snaps you out of your trance. You hadn’t even noticed that she was awake. One moment, you’d been gazing at her motionless body – and the next, you find her entirely unchanged except for the fact that her eyes are now open, peering at you. Unblinking. It’s disconcerting.

It looks like the effort pains her, to lift one hand and pat weakly at the comforter. “You came all the way here, silly girl. Might as well sit.”

You aren’t being kicked out?

Wow. She really must be dying.

Gingerly, you fold your legs beneath you and linger at the edge of the futon. “Granny, how are you feeling? I brought okayu. If you are feeling up to it, please eat. You must take care of your health.”

“Alright then,” says Granny Orimoto, mildly. “You’ll have to help me.”

“Of course.”

There is ultimately an insignificant amount of spillage down the front of her shirt, in the end. Still, you take it as an opportunity to encourage her to take a bath and change into fresh clothes, which you expect she has not done in far too long. This, too, requires your assistance. You don’t mind it at all. In fact, it brings you peace – to be able to care for the woman who had most probably saved your life by taking you in, all that time ago.

When it’s all said and done, Granny Orimoto lays back in the bed. The sheets could use some washing and the futon itself should surely be hung out in the sun to dry, but you recognize that this might be a bit too much excitement for her today. Having eaten and bathed, Granny Orimoto appears ready to return to her slumber.

You decide not to push your luck by overstaying your welcome. “Please rest well, Granny Orimoto. I will come back soon.”

It is when you are almost past the threshold of the bedroom door that you hear Granny’s whisper, faint as smoke and so soft it almost doesn’t sound like the stubborn, strong-willed woman you once knew:

“You remind me of my granddaughter.”

As though you’ve been struck by lightning, your body is immediately paralyzed, muscles helpless to do anything but twitch in confusion, overstimulation. “Oh…? I hope she is well…”

“She’s dead,” says Granny Orimoto. “The stench of death follows you.”

Ironic, coming from a woman who is quite obviously preparing to approach the far shore herself. “I see.”

“Whatever is hanging around you, get it taken care of. You’ll stink up the shop and the plants will wither.”

“Yes, Granny.”

“Are you taking care of my zinnias?”

“Yes, Granny.”

“Better be. How can you own a flower shop if you can’t take care of zinnias…”

You want to whip around and ask her what the hell she means by that, but the rumbling of her soft snores fill the space before you can get another word in edgewise.

As you make your way downstairs, Granny’s words continue to marinate in your mind – and not just her implication that the shop would be left to you. That she thought it fit to tell you that you remind her of her dead granddaughter was certainly an event that occurred in your life. But what exactly had she been on about, telling you that you smell like death?

In absentminded thought, your hand fiddles around in your jacket pocket with the latest letter from Okkotsu. You can’t stop thinking about his response to your last letter.

To You, Whom it Concerns,

Are you taking care? The seasons are changing during this time, so I hope your health is faring well.

I’m glad that my enthusiasm comes across as clearly as my physical capabilities.  Sometimes I struggle to convey my intentions and inner thoughts. It seems like we can understand each other well, even while communicating through letters, which makes me happy.

To me, being of service means unobstructed and clear-minded dedication of the self, body and mind, to another’s fulfillment. Not dissimilar to pure love. This “pure” element is important to me. In fact, I believe total service is a form of pure love. Would you agree?

Maybe this is a bit strange to say, and you might hate me for it, but you remind me of a girl I once knew. She is long gone now. It has been nice to see some of her, again. Of course, it has been even nicer to get to know you.

Regretfully, I cannot begin formal employment just yet. The country re-entry procedures are taking longer than expected and things are a bit complicated right now. It is burdensome, but if you could please kindly allow for some additional time I would be very grateful. I’m sorry to trouble you.

In the meantime, it’s fun to chat together, like this. I’d be happy if we could continue.

Take care not to catch a cold.

The first time you’d read it practically had you squealing into your hands like a schoolgirl. Pure love? Expressing concern for your health? Expressing his desire to continue exchanging letters, even if he can’t formally start the training process?

At this rate, you’re on track towards a confession.

Which, of course, is the ultimate goal. You could never forgive yourself for letting the physical manifestation of all your wildest fantasies slip away. No, you’ve got to reel him in. You’ve got to ensnare him in a web of infatuation, so convoluted and intense that he won’t be able to find his way out. You’ve already decided that he is yours. It’s only a matter of time before things fall into place.

As has become customary, Okkotsu drops by the shop at precisely 8:04 p.m. and not one moment sooner or later. You’ve grown to anticipate the tinkling of the windchimes which herald his otherwise soundless arrival. Like an apparition, his visage manifests in the front door.

There’s something different about tonight: uncertain, he chances a foot past the threshold. “Could I trouble you to come inside?”

Oh. Oh! Are you finally past the stage of contactless letter exchange? You could cry tears of joy. “Please come in.”

“Pardon the intrusion…”

When he breaks past the entry area, it’s as though a wave of heat pulses throughout not just your own body, but the entire shop, as well. A light sweat breaks out at the crest of your brow. Is this seasonally appropriate? You aren’t sure if there is any season wherein a heatwave past sundown is normal.

Okkotsu looks at you like a lost puppy, floundering at what to do, what to say next. You yourself are no less awkward, but you take on the burden of breaking the silence first:

“It’s funny, you mentioned in your letter that I remind you of a girl you once knew. Today, my boss said that I remind her of her dead granddaughter. Wouldn’t happen to be the same girl, huh?”

You’re trying for lighthearted, but the joke falls flat when Okkotsu pales, white as a ghost.

Damage control, damage control! “Oh, I’m – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no, it’s alright,” he cuts you off, raising a hand. “I should’ve been forthright from the beginning. You aren’t too far off from the truth.”

Huh?

Okkotsu continues, “When I was a little boy, Mrs. Orimoto’s granddaughter and I were best friends. Her name was Rika. When she was six, Rika died in a car accident. I was with her at the time and failed to do anything to stop it from happening, or to save her. I’ve always been very sorry to Mrs. Orimoto, who raised Rika from a young age. By working at her shop, I hoped to repay some of that debt…”

You blink once, twice. Time seems to fall apart and reconstruct itself in the space it takes you to conjure up a response. What can you possibly say, to a story like that?

“You don’t, er, have to say anything,” mutters Okkotsu, as though he’s read your mind. “I know it’s heavy. But that’s the truth…”

“Okkotsu,” you say, voice tinny and faraway to your own ears. “You have a good heart.”

His downcast face shoots upwards, wide eyes seeking out your own with a desperate sheen to their dark, bottomless depths. “Huh…?”

“I mean it,” you press on, stepping closer as you do. He doesn’t even flinch or waver. You know this, because your senses are acutely aware of every fiber of his being. “Not many people would be that brave, or honor that sense of duty. You’re an admirable man. Has anyone ever told you that before?”

It seems you’ll be staying well past closing tonight to mop up the puddle that Okkotsu is about to melt into. His ears burn such a bright red that they almost glow in the dim lighting of the shop.

“I- I--!”

“So that’s the depth of your service,” you muse, your toes stopping just shy of his own, “or your ‘pure love’?”

Okkotsu’s eyes flutter shut. The sound of his gulp echoes like a gunshot. “Ah… er, miss manager, I—”

“Call me by my name. I’ve written it to you for a reason.”

Obeying your direct command, he feebly whispers your name, invoking you like he’s scared of what he’s about to summon. It sets a live wire alight at the base of your spine. Sparks fly throughout your body and it’s all you can do not to pounce on him then and there in this very shop, sleeping Granny upstairs be damned.

“Good. It seems you really are skilled at taking direction.”

His eyes are still closed when you nods, face flushed. Cute. You can’t help but want to tease him more, push him further. “Good job.”

His head all but hangs, now, as he resolutely refuses to make eye contact with you. In front of him, his hands are clasped suspiciously in front of his crotch – a detail which you take in ravenously, hungrily.

Curbing the overwhelming desire to do more, you settle with pushing your sealed envelope into his firm, solid chest with both hands, letting your fingernails press lightly into the muscle. “Here’s today’s letter. Read it and respond well.”

“Yes, I understand,” he says, eyes still shut, head still hung.

It requires you to stand on your tiptoes, when you try to lean into his ear and whisper: “You deserve a chance to make things right. Let me help you with this.”

You let him go, then, because you’re sure he’s about ready to burst at the seams. The last thing you throw his way is yet another bit of praise, because you’re a little bit awful: “I admire your idea of pure love, Okkotsu.”

Before tonight, you’ve never seen a grown man walk straight into a windowpane. Okkotsu reels back, nods and bows to you in acknowledgement before hightailing it out of the shop so fast that, as usual, you fail to actually see him go through the motions of stepping out and leaving. He’s always in such a rush. An odd one, he is.

Good thing “odd” just your type.

From that night onwards, Okkotsu starts making himself more available outside of his usual 8:04 p.m. haunting. Now, he’ll drop by early enough in the afternoons for his shadow to be visible against the door. Still, he resolutely avoids any times when current customers are present. You tease him, lightly, for this, asking how he plans to work partially as a sales attendant if he is afraid to interact with the customer base.

His response?

“I want to work here for two reasons,” he’d stated simply. “For you, and for Rika.”

Normal women would probably find an issue with their ideal man likening them to his dead childhood sweetheart. Fortunately, you are not normal. It’s flattering, even.

Clearly, Rika was another manifestation of his pure love. That you can even approach that category, let alone be mentioned in the same breath as her, is, to you, a vibrant green flag. You must be doing something right here.

So you continue intertwining yourself deeper and deeper with Okkotsu Yuuta: the letters are a constant in both of your daily lives, as well as his visits become more frequent. As an interesting development, he’s started to bring you homecooked food. Usually, it is you who does the caregiving. The first time he shows up with an obento made specially for you – complete with a heart made out of specially cut seaweed set atop the fresh rice – you almost start crying.

Admittedly, it’s all moving very fast. Hasn’t it only been four days, now, since he’d first darkened your doorway, pitifully asking for a job with no form of communication? And now, here he is, feeding you the food he’d prepared for you to enjoy as you go about your closing shift.

“Would you ever want to go out?” You blurt, and then pause, mortified at the overtly forward implication to your words. “Like! To a restaurant! Or a café! You always bring me stuff. Let me treat you.”

“Hmmm…”

Okkotsu’s wide, dark eyes roll upwards in thought. “But I really like staying here. I like eating here. No one else gets to see your pleased, comfortable face while eating except me. I don’t think I can share that. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you respond, dizzy. “You don’t have to.”

This is the right answer. Despite his soft, youthful features, the ginger grin he offers you is undercut by the ominous glint in his intense gaze. “I don’t have to share?” He gathers some pickled plum in the chopsticks, bringing them to your open, waiting mouth. “It’s all for me?”

“I am,” you say, and accept the bitter, delicious fruit on the tip of your tongue. It is pungent. It is sweet. It is overwhelming. You almost aren’t able to swallow.

Time spent with Okkotsu makes life seem so fantastical that it almost blinds you to the world of the living. That night, you cannot find it within yourself to leave the shop and go home after closing, instead opting to chat with this gaunt, ghoulish boy until you are startled awake in the morning by your phone’s automatic alarm.

When you come to, you discover that you’d all but passed out behind the front desk, where the two of you had sat, talking, for hours into the night. Okkotsu is nowhere to be found, but in his absence is a crisply folded piece of paper lying innocently upon the desk. Hastily, you scrub at your eyes and smack your lips, trying to wake yourself up as much as is possible before you unfurl the letter and dive into its contents.

To You, Whom it Concerns,

Do you have any idea how difficult it is to be apart from you?

If I could have, I would have stayed with you all throughout the night. I’m sorry to have left you by yourself. But you aren’t really alone. If you ever feel lonely, in the shop, please remember that I’m always there with you. Watching over you. Can you feel me?

Thanks for listening to me last night. It was a heavy story to tell, but now that I’ve confessed it, I feel so much lighter. And you accept me! Words can’t express how I feel, so please allow me to keep showing you.

Also, since Mrs. Orimoto isn’t well these days, can I ask that you don’t share with her that I’m here? The shock may worsen her condition. When she is no longer bedridden, I will tell her myself that I wish to remain and work in the shop. You shouldn’t be caught in the middle of my situation.

As always, I can’t wait to see you again. I miss you so much already, and I haven’t even left the shop yet. I’m writing this as I watch you sleep. Did you know that you snore a little bit? It’s cute.

Please think of me often.

On the one hand, you want to bury your face in your hands and scream and cry and maybe roll around and die a little bit. A love note! It’s a proper love note, this time. The thought makes your insides feel as though they’re being set alight with a bright, brilliant, inextinguishable flame.

On the other hand, Okkotsu’s mention of Granny Orimoto has brought to mind the fact that you haven’t heard from her in what is now two days. Usually, she’ll send you a message or two at the end of every day, making sure that things are in order and that you haven’t burned down the shop yet. But the last time you’d spoken to her had been when you brought over the okayu to soothe her sickly stomach…

Inexplicably, a chill overtakes your body.

Operating on autopilot, you pull yourself together – running a hand through your hair, smoothing your wrinkled clothes – and make your way out of the shop, to the external set of stairs running along the west wall.

With haste, you climb the steps, nearly tripping over yourself to reach the front door which has been left, once again, unlocked. The sense of wrongness occupying your faculties only heightens when you realize this must mean that Granny Orimoto has not been up out of bed since you’d last visited.

When you stop to toe off your shoes at the genkan, you notice that the bright pink pair of children’s house slippers are nowhere to be found, absent from their perpetual perch by the front door, as though someone – or something – has stepped inside.

Mind whirling a mile a minute, you push into the apartment and immediately reel back at the offensive scent of pure, unadulterated rot.

Oh.

Oh, no.

It could be the spoiled ingredients in the fridge, you think, desperately, as you hustle towards the bedroom. It could be anything. Anything but what it is you’re most afraid of.

Dazed, confused, scared, and still freshly woken up, your clumsy limbs somehow manage to collide with one of the low-sitting tables filling the living space. The abundance of knick-knacks and keepsakes cluttering the surface clatter in indignation, making an obscene ruckus as they fall over and to the floor. Upon closer inspection, you realize, to your horror, that it is an altar which you’d disturbed.

The only things left unshaken by your blundering blight are two framed photos: one of which displays the portrait of a young girl, no older than six, with long, dark hair and a serene smile. She seems to peer at you through the barriers of the picture frame, through the barrier of time. Her gaze hooks into your soul and invites you to step closer, to look harder. The longer you stare, the higher the gooseflesh on your skin raises in alarm. It’s an uphill battle to slide your gaze over to the picture beside her, which displays the likeness of a young boy close to her in age – presumably unrelated to her, given their distinct features, and yet, he is placed next to her on what is surely a memorial altar meant to honor and house the deceased.

While the personal effects and other supplicating items have all been disrupted and thrown off by your collision, the incense in front of the two picture frames still burns brightly, steadfastly. Oddly, it does nothing to quell the horrid stench of decay in the apartment. If anything, the altar seems to be exasperating the smell, which brings involuntary tears to your eyes and a pucker to your lips.

It's less so that the stench itself is what drives you to such a reaction; rather, the sensation invading your olfactory senses fills you with an abominable concoction of violent emotions: rage, pity, sorrow, envy, despair. You are drawn follow the source of these feelings, and your feet lead you to the bedroom, hands trembling underneath the sheer weight of all that you are experiencing as they push the slightly ajar door all the way open.

A gasp escapes you, unbidden. There, in that same, white futon adorned with layers and layers of her signature floral blankets, lies the corpse of Granny Orimoto. You can tell she’s dead because her skin has started to sag and bloat in strange and inhuman ways. This is the least surprising thing before your eyes.

Next to Granny sits a little girl – the spitting image of the girl in the portrait you’d glimpsed mere moments ago. Her gaze had once been trained steadfastly on Granny’s body, but now she looks up at you, unblinking, all-seeing.

“Hello,” says the girl, with a little girl’s voice.

“Hi,” you respond. “Do you live here?”

“Yes,” says the girl. “This is my granny.”

You remind me of my granddaughter.

She’s dead.

Granny Orimoto’s parting words to you echo in your head, rattling your brain, fizzling your consciousness.

“It’s nice to meet you, Rika. Granny Orimoto told me about you.”

Slowly, cautiously, as though you are approaching a spooked animal (ironic, given the fact that it is you who is shaking like a leaf), you crouch down and kneel on the floor, sitting on your haunches in a polite manner, mirroring the girl before you. Granny Orimoto’s body is the only thing separating you as you both sit, face to face, hands clasped in your laps, peering curiously at one another.

“I know,” says Rika. “Yuuta told you about me, too.”

Of course she would know about the conversations you and Yuuta have. This also might as well happen. At this point, after all you’ve just witnessed – first, the fresh corpse of your former employer, and now, the physical manifestation of a girl who died over ten years ago – there is very little left that could happen which would truly shock you out of your wits.

“Yes, he did. Have you been hanging out in the shop? Have you been lonely?”

The girl sticks out her bottom lip. “Yeah. You guys didn’t pay attention to me. Even when I was really loud, or turned the lights off, or broke the mirror. Sorry for breaking the mirror. I was mad.”

“It’s okay to be mad, but we mustn’t break things, or hurt others. I’m sorry for not noticing you sooner. Do you like plants and gardening? Like your granny?”

Rika nods. “Mhm, yeah. But Granny never lets me into the shop. Granny says all I do is mess things up. Granny says I’m no good. Granny says people died because of me. Did you know my dad is dead, too?”

“I’m sorry,” you say.

“It’s okay,” says Rika. “I wanted him to die.”

You blink. “Did you want Granny Orimoto to die, too?”

She takes a moment to contemplate before answering. “Granny had to die if I was going to play with Yuuta again.”

“What do you mean?” You ask, desperate to understand. When she begins to explain, you lean forward, forgetful of the fact that it is an old woman’s corpse which lies beneath you.

“Granny has already lived for so long. I wanted to come back. I died before my seventh birthday. Yuuta and I were supposed to spend it together. Yuuta never forgot about me. Yuuta talks to me every day. Yuuta went to Africa. Have you ever been to Africa? I went with Yuuta because he made a shrine for me there. Now Yuuta is back in Japan. Yuuta promised that we would play together again. Yuuta said he needed some time to prepare things. Yuuta is good at things like that – Yuuta can fight and do magic. Yuuta does jujutsu. Do you know jujutsu?”

“I know it,” you tell her.

“Yeah, Yuuta has powers. Yuuta knows a lot about dying and things like that. So, anyways, Yuuta said he would use his powers to help me come back so we can play together again. Yuuta said that me and granny have to switch places. I said ‘OK, Yuuta!’ and then Yuuta said he needed seven days. What day is it today?”

Somehow, you know the answer, even without looking at your phone’s calendar. “Monday.”

“Oh, so it’s been seven days. Yay! We can play together again. Do you want to play with us, too?”

“I would like to play together, yes.”

Abruptly, Rika unfurls from her graceful little seated position and makes her way over to you, crawling over Granny Orimoto’s corpse. You try not to think too hard about the graphic squelching that occurs underneath the childish palms of Rika’s tiny hands.

“Yay! Let’s go downstairs. Maybe Yuuta will be there.”

You don’t have the heart to tell her that Yuuta only swings by when the sun is out of sight. Her arms raise, clearly indicating that she’d like to be carried, and you are content to oblige her, as you scoop her up in your arms and make good on her direction. You exit Granny Orimoto’s apartment with Rika in your arms, her little feet dangling from your hip. The bright pink pair of slippers almost fall off as you make your way down the stairs, and you take care to remind her to make sure not to lose them.

When you get back to the shop, you must admit that you were mistaken in thinking Yuuta would not be there. As though he’d been anticipating this – which, you realize, he absolutely was, as this marks seven days from the first time he’d set foot in the shop – Yuuta stands by the front desk, wringing his hands before him nervously, sweat visible at his temples.

The both of you lock eyes, and he smiles, warm and fuzzy and entirely ill-fitting for the increasingly absurd scenario in which you find yourself. But you have little time to interrogate him about what the hell is going on – for Rika leaps from your arms and hits the ground running, screaming at the top of her little lungs, Yuuta!! Yuuta!!!, excited and so full of life, in only the way that children can scream in pure joy. Pure love.

He crouches and readily meets her, scooping the little girl up in his arms and sweeping her into the air, spinning round and round with Rika in his arms. Rika-chan!! Rika-chan!!! he cries – literally cries, that is, as you cannot help but spot the stray tear or two running down the swells of his flushed cheeks.

It is right as you are starting to feel a bit voyeuristic that Yuuta slows to a stop and finds your eyes once more. He comes to you, then, with Rika still perched on his hip, a chafingly tender smile splitting his face into two.

“I knew it was you,” he whispers with charged intensity, voice potent with unspoken feeling. “I knew you were special. I’ve always known. You never judge me. You always listen. You accepted me. And you accepted Rika, too.”

Have you? Accepted them, that is.

You shock yourself when you realize that you really have accepted all that’s transpired. Granny Orimoto saved your life when she’d taken you in and, for that, you must always be grateful. But from what Rika shared with you about how she’d been treated as a small child, and from what you’ve observed from Yuuta’s generally traumatized disposition and extreme reluctance to come face-to-face with the old woman, you realize, now, that there is a reason why Granny Orimoto had no living family to speak to or rely on when she was in her final days.

Whether or not her death had something to do with Yuuta’s apparent preternatural abilities (you remind yourself to ask about that later), it remains clear that she’d been in ill health long before you’d arrived at the flower shop. With no one to talk to. No one to care for her. You’d always felt pity. But, now, you realize that it may have been a situation of her own doing.

How could you argue with the living, breathing testament to that fact, who stand before you in fresh-faced, smiling glee?

“Of course I accept you both,” you say, earnestly, and mean it. “Rika is too cute not to love!” The young girl giggles, bashfully burying her face in Yuuta’s neck.

“And what about me?” Yuuta’s brows are quirked, his smile dipping into something a bit more cutting, a touch more heated than his simple joy from moments ago. “Am I cute enough to love, too?”

The answer is simple and requires no effort on your part: “I love you, Yuuta.”

You had more to say after that, but it proves a bit challenging to monologue your undying devotion to this man while said man is currently enveloping your mouth inside of his own. He kisses like a black hole: devouring, dark, impossibly comprehensive, and providing you without hope for possible escape.

He really is your type.

;

After those first seven days, Yuuta finally begins training at the shop. And Rika joins in, as well.

The three of you make an odd, adorable little family unit. After Yuuta had taken care of cleaning and renovating the apartment space upstairs, the three of you moved in without further delay. Your days are filled with home-cooking, raising Rika, maintaining the shop, and working alongside the man who has quickly made himself to be your life partner in every endeavor.

In fact, so much of your life is consumed with this newfound domesticity that there is little reason for you to leave the shop in the first place. Whenever you stray too far outside, you are prone to headaches, dizziness, fatigue, and even fever. It’s best to stay where is familiar, you reason. And Yuuta’s cooking is too good for you to want to eat anywhere else. He makes sure you eat three times a day, at least, and insists you finish your plate every time. Perhaps this is why you can’t stand life outside of this four, cozy walls – where else could you possibly find contentment such as this?

The business is re-named to “Rika’s Flower Shop,” which all three of you find quite agreeable given the current state of affairs. More customers than ever flow in, attracted by the colorful designs hand-painted by Rika herself on the building exterior. You generate enough revenue for additional renovations to be made on the shop. There is enough room in the budget to hire some part-time shop hands – local university students in the area looking to support themselves.

Everything is coming to fruition. For once, you truly feel as though life is blossoming.

And you can attribute all of it, every last bit of happiness, to them: Granny Orimoto, Rika, and Yuuta. The happiness is so overwhelming that you don’t ever want to leave their side, not even to run to the konbini, or to visit the post office. Why would you need to leave, when everything you’ve ever wanted is right here?

You have a family, a home, a life. You’ll remain in this shop with your loves until the day you grow as old and sickly as Granny Orimoto, and you’ll likely die upstairs, lying next to Yuuta, the both of you wrinkled and gray, curled together atop the futon, exactly where Granny had wheezed her last, bitter breath.

You wonder if Rika was there to watch it happen. You wonder if Rika will be there to see the both of you off, too.

You hope so. You really, really hope so.

You’re sure death will be every bit the dream you’re hoping it will be.

[takami-takami]

Sounds like your supervisor wanted a secretary and not an intern. Im currently in a masters program for counseling, and some of my peers have had similar experiences. I'd seriously recommend bringing this up with your faculty if possible. My program has a site coordinator, and she is the one who primarily deals with issues like this. If someone like that exists for your program, theyd be your best bet, I imagine. If this site was recommended to you by your program, it's a bad site that should be removed from the available options for students.

I talked with the lady who runs the internship program and she's kinda 🤞 buddies with my old supervisor (she's connected to the agencies because of her Job). But, despite that, really seemed to want to help me find a new place! So we did!

I also talked in my internship seminar class to my professor who was like 😰😧😨 and my classmates all comforted me and told me that I didn't deserve to be treated that way. Which was lovely.

You're very right. My professor said internships should be like 95% real work to the profession and it's good I got out. You're definitely right, she wanted a secretary to work the front desk for the bulk of it. It's crazy! Unethical! I would never do that to an intern because they're there to LEARN!!!

[valyrfia]

hey!!

Just a little personal questions for ya, what competitive or diploma exam did you write/give for your PhD?

Or was it purely based on honours?

I just did my undergraduate degree, socialised a bit too much, was decent at my work, and girlbossed my way a bit too close to the sun. Nepotism and who you know and who likes you is like 90% of academia, I got my PhD because my masters supervisor recommended me and my favourite joke is that I'm a personality hire. If you're interested in a PhD–seriously just start emailing people. Ask for internships, ask for projects. Make yourself known and make yourself liked. The academic component is a tiny part of it.

[findmeinthefallair]

A Look at Hunter's Complex PTSD (Part 1)

Alrighty, here is the first part of excerpts about Complex PTSD that I have compiled from a beautiful, poignant and funny memoir, “What My Bones Know” by Stephanie Foo, which I will be linking to Hunter’s character arc with as much detail and as many screencaps as possible.

Other sources of info in these analyses are wise words from my seasoned internship supervisor (in total, about 170 supervision hours clocked in with her) during my past training before I got licensed to practice, my own lived experience with Complex PTSD, and loosely drawing anything relevant from almost 3 years’ experience with my own clients’ cases so far. 

Special thanks goes to my friendo @wordsdarkerthantheirwiings (do check out her mental health blog!) for recommending this great book to me ^_^

Trigger warnings have been tagged in this post, and there will be multiple mentions of trauma and abuse in this series that I’m putting together.

I will be sharing parts of the book by following the order of the chapters, while the Hunter scenes might occasionally jump here and there and not be as chronological in order.

I’ll start with the author’s first overview of how PTSD works:

Someone with PTSD has a brain which tends to flag things on a scale of life-or-death. Their brain will shoot out what it believes to be the appropriate emotional response to perceived danger.

The above pic is so important. It may not be “reasonable” or “rational” as what we know those two words to mean on a normal day, but dare I say that it is its own reasoning and rationale. It’s a condition whereby the brain forms powerful associations after a life-or-death experience (or many such experiences), with the goal of protecting us but which can be debilitating after the real danger has passed. You could say it’s a state of being overprepared, almost constantly.

Related to the above statement, I’ll show one of the more light-hearted moments from Hollow Mind that happened before the true horrors really showed themselves in the second half of that episode:

It’s a more comical moment here, but the “Boo!” sound from the walkie talkie triggered a very believable response from Hunter. He raises his hands automatically to shield himself, in case he gets attacked. It’s not the exact pose as when he flinches when Belos makes physical contact with him (my bet is that if Hunter raised his arms high like this in front of Belos, he may have been punished or chastised for not standing stoic, strong and portraying “proper” Golden Guard strength) but is kind of along the same lines.

However, Hunter has undergone very strict military training, requiring him to be prepared for new scenarios including strange foreign noises or stimuli, which I would say has been both a risk factor and protective factor in his life. This will be covered in greater detail in future analyses. Therapists use the terms "risk factors" and "protective factors" when looking at what may worsen or improve our clients' conditions.

Related to above, Titan knows how many times Hunter has been struck and threatened like this, traumatized perhaps hundreds of times over the course of years:

Importantly, I believe he has gone through both Big T (e.g. a single life-changing event like a car accident) and Little T trauma (many ‘smaller’ instances, like getting yelled at four times a week over a duration of years), since this can certainly be the case for some people. In later parts of this exploration, I will cite examples of the various Big T and Little T traumas Hunter has experienced.

Like what happened with the book author, making mistakes is especially dangerous in Hunter’s case because Belos heavily implies that he will disown him or get rid of him if he slips up enough.

Dozens of people have also let him down and have been bystanders:

Is the world a threat to him? Well, there are very few places where he would feel safe. Hell, I bet he’s even safer while away on missions than when he is in his own room. But he always had to return home to the castle, or else. He has been manipulated into placing the most trust in the one person who cares the least for him.

In the following section, the author highlights how she would see flashes of her abusive father in other people, even years after her father left the picture:

For Hunter, being physically distant from Belos didn't erase his triggers. Him preparing for a possible strike from Darius in Any Sport in a Storm:

and the mirror scene in Thanks to Them, where he panics after seeing a flash of Belos as he is looking at his own long hair:

are relevant examples of him feeling as if his abuser is right there, when Belos isn’t actually present.

I have a few of my own examples, the first of which is how I had a couple of peers in classes who had bullying tendencies: and they would have crooked smiles and narrowed eyes that are eerily similar to my own parents’ expressions whenever I had traumatizing moments with my parents. Whenever these people had those evil-looking grins, I would either feel intense fear and/or rage.

Plus on two different occasions, I thought an abusive ex-housemate of mine that I lived with for 2 years was in the same room..many months after I got away from her.

The first incident was seeing someone who looked almost exactly like her (her beanie hat, black coat and black boots were the exact same shades and shapes), just a different hair colour and slightly diff eye shape, in a bookstore. Till today I still have no idea why this other girl stopped whatever she did just to stare at me with a sullen expression across the store space for maybe half a minute. I remember freezing and hiding behind the two friends I was with, whispering to them “I feel like that could be her…”, in case that girl turned out to be really her, because I felt she was still not done with criticizing my mistakes from our shared group project and saying awful things to me several months before that, even though I already blocked her across all platforms in 2015 and made a callout post here on Tumblr without naming her.

The second incident was a year after, when I was at the office and scrolled past a photo of Kristen Stewart (of all people..my ex-housemate looks a lot like her, especially the mouth) on my laptop, and for a solid minute I very strongly smelled this ex-friend’s perfume. I remember darting around wildly because I was beginning to believe she had followed me all the way there to sneak up on me, in the office that had doors locked with security codes. I felt she was about to turn a nearby blind corner and come for me. But the scent faded away after a minute, and I was left there in shock that my broken brain reenacted a scenario involving her presence and her perfume. Fascinating, honestly. Luckily Kristen Stewart pics no longer scare me like that.

So yeah, the Hunter mirror scene…I felt that spooky stuff. Eerie, right? PTSD, what more Complex PTSD, can rewire your brain and it does try its best to protect you, but it can be rather wonky sometimes. Children who are abused in a manner that results in Complex PTSD are hyper-alert to even the smallest twinges in facial expressions.

To continue:

Our poor boy might have been jumpy and guarded in a number of other scenarios, potentially misinterpreting or simply not knowing what was going to happen, therefore his whole body was geared up for a fight-or-flight response:

Thank goodness he had Flapjack in those months, along with the friends he would meet, and later Camila as well.

Like the author, Hunter definitely does not have one foundational trauma. Having been isolated by Belos, he was alone and defenseless in that throne room many many times. He has emerged with so many visible scars on his body and having to create his own identity on his own terms. At this rate, exposure therapy would not be enough as a treatment plan for him. His web of relationships and interactions with people and the world need a major reframing, for his state of being and view of self to be positive and leading to peace and self-acceptance. In fact, this reframing has already been unfolding gradually, with twists and turns along the way:

And losing Flapjack recently and feeling the effects of moral injury, may be the ultimate test for him as to where to place his trust. One of those places has to be in himself in order to advance forward.

The book is about how the author found hope in having to live with Complex PTSD for the rest of her life, and her early years of investigating what happened to her seemed bleak. However, she found relevant people to contact and interview over the years, to uncover new hopeful sources of info about the condition, which will be in my later analyses.

Is Hunter a lost cause (quoting Belos’s awful words from Thanks to Them..)? I wouldn’t say so! I obviously hope he’ll be alright in the remaining two specials…

Stay tuned for Part 2 next weekend.

[softsky-daily]

7/23/2024

The sky seemed sleepy today. Just like me.

Positive thing: I started SpyxFamily and I got some encouragement from my advisor about taking an extra semester.

He was really chill and supported my decision to quit internship early if it was making me so miserable. He also gave me some recommendations on other sites to contact so I'm feeling hopeful about finding a better place.

Other than that today was just brain fog. It was really hard to focus on anything and I just had this weight in my head all day. Luckily I didn't have to do too much besides some work and class, and the rest of the time I mostly watched SpyxFamily. It was actually pretty good. I didn't have any reason to think it wasn't but it was just one of those things I didn't look into. I'm such a sucker for a fake marriage plot. The stakes are also way higher than I thought but I guess that's part of the comedy of it. If Anya doesn't get to play pretend princess a world war is gonna break out - sounds about right to me.

Tomorrow is my normal work day, and I'm going to email my internship supervisor that I want to quit. I'm nervous about it because I have to be professional (word gets around fast in the counseling world and burning bridges just makes your life more difficult) but I also really really really want to leave right away. I'll probably have to stay at least another week or two but if I at least can set an end date then that'll make it way more bearable.

Just one day at a time. I keep telling myself that. Just have to keep going until the day comes that living becomes easier and not this terrible, oppressive force.

[swagtastic-bougie-pompadour]

how does one get into Naraja-Uva? (Apologies if I spelled that wrong)

…are hybrids allowed?

-@allthatglitterzz

Oh, yeah, we get that one a lot. See, it's a lot simpler than you'd think! You walk up all of those steps, and you open up the front door... and ta-da! You've gotten yourself into Naranja-Uva! LOL.

In seriousness, you just gotta fill out an online application! Give us a bit of writing (depending on your academic level) about why you wanna go here, get us a letter of recommendation from some adult other than your parents (teacher, gym leader, ranger internship supervisor, just anybody who isn't gonna call you "my precious angel..."), and send along whatever grades, battle records, etc. you can that show us what you've been up to!

Hybrids are def allowed, though! Our first formal acceptance was a pretty short time ago, but there's been hybrids flying under the radar for far longer than I can talk about being here. Saw some article a few months back about a former student "coming out" as a Zoroark hybrid--fascinating stuff! Not my expertise, but more perspectives are always welcome!

[tauforged]

Hi I gotta ask, how did you get a lab tech job at an aquarium? I am a lab tech in a hospital, and I’m rly not a fan of the environment/people, but it has always been my dream to work at an aquarium. Do you need a specific degree/expertise?

depends on the institution and what lab exactly you’re going for. i personally don’t have any schooling or a degree of any kind (rather, i dropped out of art school after a semester and a half in 2018 LOOOL) but i happen to have several years of hands-on experience as aquatics department head at a pet store beforehand, and years of hobbyist experience before then, and so between that and a passion for the field i caught some attention and got the position. if you’re looking to be in one of the bet labs, i’d say you probably wanna have some degree of veterinary experience, but something like a water quality lab could be a bit more lenient as long as whoever you’re working with is willing to take the time to train you. i’m very lucky that my supervisor is a wonderful person who saw potential in me despite me not having the most impressive qualifications on paper, and i’m eternally grateful that she was willing to hire me on despite me having absolutely 0 lab experience and needing a good amount of guidance and advice for the first month or so before i started getting the hang of things. every situation is different - some places will help pay for relevant schooling if needed, some don’t require schooling at all. i know a lot of places, my own workplace included, are working to make the field more accessible and in the process of establishing more robust outreach programs to really make it less intimidating to get into, so i’d say chances are getting better and better if you’re willing to put yourself out there!

as general advice, i’ll always recommend looking into what sort of volunteering/internship programs your local zoos/aquariums/museums offer!! they can be a good way to get your feet wet and see what it’s like to work in a certain department without immediately diving into a full time job, and i know at my facility were always happy to get the help whenever possible. most of my coworkers either started off as volunteers or interns or transferred from another department at the same place, so it happens a decent amount. while i personally didn’t have the fortitude to stay in the customer service side of things for very long (so much respect for everyone who does. you’re braver than every US marine 🫡) my prior employment ended up being a decent factor as well, since i already knew the building and general goings-on. i say go for it! believe in yourself!! you’ll never know what opportunities are out there unless you look :3

[kohakhearts]

🍓 🐇 🪐 🔪 and 🏜️ for writer's truth or dare

🍓: how did you get into writing fanfiction?

solid question that tbh i don't really have an answer for. i wrote my first fic when i was 11 i think? percy jackson and harry potter were my gateway fandoms. i dabbled a bit in pokemon. but i couldn't tell you what my actual intro to fanfiction was, or how i moved one from self-insert ocs (primarily fem oc x male protag, LOL) to the kind of fics i read and write now. i've been doing this shit over half my life, that's all i know jhdfgfhjdk

🐇: do you prefer writing original characters, reader inserts, or a mix of both?

i never really wrote reader inserts, but between canon and oc characters in fanfic, i actually kind of do like making fandom ocs like. a lot. i RARELY do it but it's so fun, highly recommend! in general i wouldn't say i prefer writing one over the other, but i make ocs for the flexibility and creative license it grants, while i consider writing canon characters for the first time a fun kind of challenge. certain blorbos get elevated to "basically an oc" status due to Projection but that's a whole other thing

🪐: name three good things going on in your life right now

5 YEARS AND TENS OF THOUSANDS DOLLARS OF DEBT AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS STUPID PIECE OF PAPER (i'm graduating uni, WOO)

i got promoted to supervisor at work for this session of weekend classes and am reprising that role at summer camp this year, which i'd been uncertain about at first but now i'm kinda looking forward to it tbh!

my final internship went (mostly) really well and i made a lot of awesome connections that are opening up some unexpected doors for me, career-wise

🏜️: what’s your favourite type of comment to receive on your work?

i love essay comments. any flavour is fine. quote analysis? play-by-play of your favourite parts? a personal anecdote? just four paragraphs of key smashes? it's all good. go be long-winded and incoherent to your heart's content, seriously. i will never not love an essay in my inbox

writer truth and dare ask game

[wearelibrarian]

So, I'm a LIS student, recently started an internship at a local public library and was told that they're moving me from the technical area (classifying and describing books) to reference temporarily (because we're short-staffed due to summer holidays).

I'm really nervous about dealing with people, helping them find whatever they want and giving them recs if asked. I'm shy and awkward and haven't been reading much lately, so I just wanted to know if you have any advice for me?

Hi!

Want to know a secret?

In my first library desk job, back at my undergrad, I… didn’t do very well interacting with patrons when I first started. My boss shifted me to behind the scenes stuff for an entire semester before giving me a second chance at the desk, didn’t tell me the full reason behind the shift until much later. That’s a story for another day, and one better suited for my main rather than Librarian.

What makes one succeed at a reference and/or circulation desk isn’t reading all the books - I tried that, it didn’t help. It’s being able to meet people where they are.

A reference interview is a conversation. It’s about listening to what someone is asking, giving follow up questions to get a better picture, and exploring for an answer together. Patron wants horror recommendations? Pull up the library catalog, show them how to search by subject, how to filter searches. If your library has access to readers advisory databases (my university does but we also have a strong library science program), plug in some books the patron liked in the past and see what it suggests. Some patron questions won’t even be directly related to the library’s collection - I’ve been asked for directions too many times to count, and it’s never bad to memorize the location of the closest bathroom to your desk.

Remember… your job is to help. You won’t have every answer, but you can at least provide a nudge in the right direction. There’s nothing wrong with taking down someone’s contact information to reach out to them later if it’s a question which requires you to dig, or to ask a supervisor for help, or to refer a patron to another organization.

(Hey, tumblarians, I know a LOT of you follow me. Anyone able to give more advice to anon?)

[scary-grace]

9 & 16 for the fandom ask game, please.

9) Write a recommendation of someone else's fic you enjoyed!

If you like your Barduil canon-compliant with an exquisite mix of joy and tragedy, @palmviolet's fic the year of what now is what you're looking for. Clocking in at an elegantly paced 55k words, this fic has everything -- epigraphs, Tolkien lore, believable post-BotFA politics, and an ending that's both inevitable and hopeful at the same time. And of course, top-tier characterization. Queue up a little fluff to read afterwards if you take canon personally like I do, but absolutely don't miss this fic. Did I mention it's complete?

16) Do people irl know you participate in fandom?

That thud you just heard was me laughing so hard I fell out of my chair. They do in fact know that I participate in fandom, because any time something happens -- a particularly exciting comment, a piece of art, an ask, or a whole beautiful fanbound book like @rainfern and @dyingslowlybutfasterthanyouare made of seeking a friend for the end of the world -- I have to tell someone about it. Sometimes I also out myself, either purposely (at a family dinner so everyone would quit making fun of my at-the-time fandom-obsessed cousin) or accidentally (by screensharing Kairos-in-progress with my internship supervisor). Tl;dr yes, IRL people know. I have very mixed feelings about that, but it's way too late to take it back.

Thank you for the ask!

fandom asks

[drabsyo]

Hey drabs,

Firstly, I'm so sorry for my whack English for it's my second language. And I know this is an ask box, but this is the only way I know to send you message anonymously in case this message sounded cringier than what's in my head. lol.

I wanted to say that I hope everything is going well for you because I know that looking for a job these days feels like looking for diamond in a gold mine, which basically almost impossible and I myself is also looking for a job.

And also, I wanted to share a few things in case you get ghosted by the company after weeks of the interview.

1. Have you ever tried Glints or LinkedIn? I don't know what your line of work but perhaps you want to try to apply through those two apps maybe?

2. If the point above still doesn't work, perhaps you should try internship first. I got my first job right after graduating high school because my mentor saw my works are good enough and he recommend me to his boss. But then again, these kinda things are also based on luck, and not to mention that most companies don't pay their intern, so hopefully we don't have to use this tips.

I also wanted to share somethings that helped me to stay sane and during times like that.

1. Don't forget to eat and stay hydrated. As long as you stay hydrated and not hungry, you'll be more focused on the questions the interviewer asked.

2. Don't stay up late. Same goes like the point above, you'll be more focus and have more energy if you sleep enough. And If you're a night owl like me, well... don't forget to drink coffee after you woke up. lol.

3. After all the interviews done for the day, don't forget to reward yourself. Regardless of what happened or whether or not you're accepted, don't forget to reward yourself. It doesn't have to be something grand, something small can do. For me, I usually eat my comfort food that is those korean instant ramen or have a little gaming session.

I know these stuff are basically generic, but I just wanted you to know that no matter what, you are awesome. Sending you all my support and hugs, good luck Drabs ❤

Hey anon! Oh my goshhh first of all, thank you so much for this. It's been a rough few months, exhausting really. I received your message right after I finished my interview, and I know it sounds lame, but it almost made me cry! To know that you care enough about me to leave me this message is so heart warming. So. Thank you. ❤

Your English is wonderful, please don't ever apologize for that and this message is not cringe at all, FAR from it. I'm saving this ask!

I haven't tried Glints or LinkedIn yet. It's also the first time I've heard of Glints, so I might give it a shot. Thank you for the tip! I'll go check it out. My usual method has been applying for jobs on JobStreet.

Glad to hear your mentor was really impressed by your works!!! ❤ I did have an internship before, but the company where I had my internship in ran out of budget for our department so they weren't hiring. Plus, my supervisor from there also resigned. And I was also the unpaid intern!

I keep forgetting to stay hydrated. Yesterday, the interviewer made us wait for an hour and twenty minutes before the interview started and no one would tell us what was happening. I was so thirsty, it was embarrassing. Not to mention I had a fever, yikes. Hope you're staying hydrated on your job hunt too ❤

Ughhgghh I am a night owl too and I absolutely hate it, anon. I love it, but I also hate it? You know what I mean. I am looking into night shift options though. My friends who work the graveyard shift tell me it's disorienting. Maybe we should consider it, what with us being night owls and all? Hm.

Yes!! A quick gaming session does wonders for my anxiety after an interview. That, or I play some music really loud to tune out my thoughts for the day. Or I just lay in bed. Pet my cat. Read fanfiction. Go on tumblr. And now, I have this ask to go back to too ❤ It's the small wins, for sure. I'm happy to hear you give yourself these small rewards too ❤

Anon, this means a lot to me. Grinned like an idiot reading your tips. And please, take your own advice too. Stay hydrated, do things that make you happy, try to get 8 hours of sleep, and take care of yourself. I sincerely hope you're doing great, staying healthy, and are loved. World's tough. Really tough. You've got me in your corner, anon! Sending you hugs!!!! And all my love ❤❤❤

[treecakes]

my supervisor is sweet though he’s like truly i planned down to the last dollar i don’t know why you’re not able to be paid they said we had more 😭 and he asked my professor who recommended me for this internship and who we’re closely working with if she has any for me. since technically i work for her also. but gah. my grocery money 😭 why does this school hate me specifically

[jortiz09]

GetGreen with Talking Rain

Hi guys!

I’m interning with Talking Rain, a sparkling water company who are best known for their Sparkling Ice drinks. They have recently started their sustainability journey and are focused on internal and external engagement. My role as an intern this summer is to increase their internal (employee) engagement in sustainability initiatives. To do this, I am working with the GetGreen app, who the company has previously partnered with, to increase employee education in sustainability. The app has a list of tasks that an individual can accomplish that reflect savings of potential carbon emissions. For instance, if you were to complete an action to carpool, the app would reward you with a certain number of leaves that represent the amount of carbon you avoided putting out into the atmosphere. In my partnership with GetGreen, we decided to create a new challenge for August to get people excited about learning how becoming more sustainable can benefit their work lives and personal lives.

The goal of my project is to see an increase in the number of employees who download the app and engage in the learning opportunities that were added to it. I am also going to be interviewing employees after the new challenge has launched to understand why they engaged with the app or why they didn’t. Based off these answers, I will then be able to create a recommendations report for the company to continue on their journey towards a more sustainable future.

One interesting thing that I found about working at Talking Rain is that corporate offices have a lot of meetings. Like, a lot. There’s been times where I’ve had meetings back-to-back in a single day. It’s a lot of ideas bouncing around and trying to figure out what works best to achieve a goal or what could be a possible roadblock. There’s a lot of problem solving and setting up connections. For instance, when I wanted to know more avenues of communication that the company has, I got connected to 2 new people I never would have met otherwise.

One challenge that I have come across while working at Talking Rain is getting stuck on my research. I need to come up with questions to ask employees but I'm not sure how to phrase them or even what to ask to answer my research question thoroughly. I went to my site supervisor and told him this because my faculty advisor has been away, and I didn't know when he would be back. We brainstormed what the issue is and what it is that I was stuck on. He gave me some good advice and more direction for my research, which got lost along the way. This didn't help me come up with many questions, but it did ease my mind that I was still heading in the right direction. My faculty advisor finally got back to me and we discussed the type of questions I could ask in more detail.

My internship is mostly remote, but I had the opportunity to go to the office for a day.

One question that I have is how effective do you think it is to a company’s carbon emissions when its employees are more aware of their individual actions in the workplace?

Would you be more willing to buy from a company that has internal sustainability initiatives in place rather than one that didn’t? Why?