#every sickness and mental illness i had has disappeared because of this

[marcop0los]

I've been staring at this for hours. it's wonderful

Pages 5-8

Pages 1-4 here

Jojo moots still here? hi? ignore the sudden change in style and quality its been uh *checks watch* an entire year and ive gotten over my perfectionism since then

[oval3000]

Chapter 5

Yandere Teacher Nanami x Student Reader

Warning: Abuse, (force) smut. Abduction, violence, rough play, toxic behavior, age gap, everything from all above. Mainly from his point of view...somewhat... modern au- ish idk. College teacher x student.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 6

-------------------------------------------------------

"Mr. Nanami?" A man in a suit knocked on his classroom door. Nanami was grading some paperwork before his next class. He turned to the side and saw the man alongside some police officers." I hope we're not interrupting you? I'm detective Aki, this is officer Yamada and officer Fujikawa. We want to ask questions about one of your students, (Y/N)."

"Sir." Nanami stood as the man and two police officers entered, closing the door. Nanami knew this day would come. How could he not know? "Of course. Miss (Y/n) hasn't attended my classes for the past month.

"That's why we're here. Her friend had filed a missing person's report on her and we just want to know if you may know anything regarding her disappearance." The detective said.

"The last time I saw her, was when she was sitting on one of the campus benches. I asked her if everything was alright and she told me she was waiting for her ride." He explained. " She seemed a little down and mentioned something about an ex-boyfriend. I've dealt with many of my students who were dealing with hard breakups so I didn't think too much of it."

"Ex-boyfriend?" The detective said.

"Yes. I don't know his name it was never said, but she did mention an ex-boyfriend and by the look of it, it's not something she seemed happy about." Nanami looked at the detective as he jotted down what he was saying.

"Was she acting strange while attending your classes before her disappearance? Did she seem a little down?" Aki asked.

"No. She was a normal student. In fact, she was my best student. Although she had trouble with one assignment, she would stay after her classes for help. Other than that, she was fine. However, I am a teacher with many students, so I might've not pay too much attention to her because of the others, who might be in the same position as her. College is college. Nothing changes." Nanami fixed his glasses and sighed. "Her family must be worried sick if she hasn't shown up." Nanami asked, almost looking a bit sad.

Aki raised his eyebrow. "Have you noticed her disappearance?"

"I did at first. She never missed a class ever. Then again. I have many students who don't bother showing up for months."

"Why is that?" He asked.

"They want to give up. Math is too hard. Struggling with mental illness. I've been working here for ten years, I've seen at all." Nanami sighed, looking down at his papers. "Sadly, no matter what I do, I can't always fix their problems when it's out of my reach. I should've asked Miss. (Y/N), about what was bothering her that day. That was my mistake."

Aki looked at Nanami, who still kept a normal composer. "So her disappearance wasn't too strange for you?"

"Like I said, at first it did. Then again, it's not the first time a student stopped showing up here. I guess I was wrong about that." Nanami raised his eyebrows. "Has anyone seen her since then?" He asked so concerned.

"No, we're working on a timeline on who might've. So far, you're the last person who has seen her. However, no one mentioned an ex-boyfriend before." Aki tapped his little notepad with his pen.

"Oh. it makes sense now." Nanami scratched his head.

"What makes sense?" Aki questioned.

"When she mentioned the ex-boyfriend, it went like this." He hummed, " 'My ex-boyfriend is a jerk who only thinks about himself. We were hardly boyfriend and girlfriend since we dated for three months.' It was confusing to me. I don't know what these young adults think now about relationships; now there is a thing called situationship' or whatever it's called. Every day, I hear students talk about their 'situationship'—are they boyfriend and girlfriend? I don't know what kids are up to these days." He explained. "I was puzzled because, aren't boyfriend and girlfriend, boyfriend and girlfriend? Now, I realize, it must've been one of those situations where you're just with a guy, just cause, with no title. Now it makes sense why it's called situationship'. Either way, it can still break someone's heart. Maybe that's why no one mentioned him; it didn't seem like what they saw was a relationship. Nonetheless, for Miss (Y/n), it must've been more than that, but it was overlooked."

"Did she mention anything about this ex-boyfriend or lover she had?" The detective asked, jotting down as much information as he got.

"No. She was on her phone during the little conversation we had so it was cut short. I swear those kids are always on their phones like they're addicted to them." Nanami picked up his papers and hit them on the desk countertop to straighten them in place. He checked his watch and saw the time. "My next class is about to start. Is there anything I can help with?"

The detective closed his notepad, "No that'll be all for today. Thank you, Mr. Nanami." He shook his hand and headed his way out alongside the two officers.

"Oh! Please tell (Y/N)'s family my condolences. She's one of my students here. Hope she's found soon." Nanami said.

The detective gave him a sympathetic smile, "Sadly, her parents died recently, in a car accident. I'll tell her friend though, she's worried sick about her."

Nanami went back to teaching his class. He went on to be a normal regular teacher. He saw the detective and two officers roaming around, talking to other students and teachers. He kept his usual face and went on with his day. He would hear his colleagues about you, how they're saddened that you just vanished.

Some came up and spoke to Nanami since you were in his class, and he gave them the same type of response he gave to Detective Aki. When he got into his car, he drove off.

He went on to run some errands really quickly and got some snacks and a beverage. He went and decided to stop by a public library and started to use the public computers and continued to do some paperwork and make new homework and test assignments.

He looked at the time got up from his chair, logged off, and walked away from the library building. He got back in his car and drove off to a food place.

He ordered a meal for himself and ate in his car while grading more of his paperwork. When the sun was completely gone, he went to a copy, and fax machine place that was open 24 hours and started to make multiple copies before heading his way home near midnight.

He did this routine for 3 weeks. 3 whole weeks. 3 torture weeks for him.

The day he saw a man getting arrested on the college campus with Detective Aki and the two officers, his 3 whole weeks ended.

He got out of work, he went on to the library, and used the computer for some time. He went to an electronic store and bought himself a new computer. He got into his car and drove home.

He opened the door that was inside the garage and placed the store bag on the kitchen counter.

He walked upstairs and opened the bedroom door. "Sorry, I'm late. Work has been chaotic." He stared at you with your eyes glossy and the rag on your mouth. Your hands were still tied up to the headboard. He went towards and touched the rag and pulled it out. " Sorry about this, sweetheart. It was just a precaution. On the good news, they arrested that ex-boyfriend of yours. It wasn't good for him when they saw all the texts he had 'sent' you. Too bad they found your phone on his property."

"P-please...don't hurt me...Please don't hurt me." You cried to him.

He grabbed your cheeks with his hand, "Who's your best friend?" When you didn't answer him, he grabbed onto you harder, "Answer me!"

"E-Emi." You told him.

"Well, that Emi bitch made those 3 weeks a living fucking hell for me and I'm not too happy about that, sweetheart." He sighed and let you go. "At first I thought your family was gonna be in my way, but it turns out is Emi. Tell me, what should I do?"

You shook your head.

"You're right. It'll be too suspicious." He got on the bed and laid next to you. "I'm just happy to be with you." He slid his hand down to your body and stopped once it reached your stomach. "It must've been lonely here for you. Tell me something else, do you want some company while I'm gone?"

You felt your body shiver with his touch and talk. "N-no."

"No? You're fine here without me? Because if you ever feel alone, I can change that." He rubbed your stomach.

"I'm fine. I-I'm okay." You pulled your knees up to your chest feeling chills going through your body.

"I love you, I hope you know that." He said, smiling at you. He pulled you closer to him, wrapping his arms around your body. "I'm doing this all for you."

He kissed your cheek, "This is all for love."

SPOILERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(Sorry for the long wait! R.I.P to Nanami 😩)

[iplaywithstring]

What it can be like to live with mild ME/CFS (individual experiences will vary)

chronic fatigue - this one may seem obvious but remember that fatigue isn't the same as tiredness. It's heavy, bone deep, and makes even simple tasks difficult

muscle weakness - going up stairs, lifting a glass of water and even speaking can be difficult. Sometimes I can't open the fridge.

Dysautonomia - my autonomic nervous system is messed up. It means low blood pressure, dizzy spells, poor temperature regulation, and orhtostatic intolerance (which leads to horrible nausea)

Brain fog - words disappear from my vocabulary. I forget what I was talking about in the middle of a sentence. I can't follow a conversation or a tv show. Reading comprehension is non-existent (all of this is great while being a master's student).

Short term memory issues - possibly related to brain fog, but a separate thing because I don't realize the memory issues are happening until someone points it out. Great when my kid tells me something and not only do I forget the information, but have no memory of having the conversation.

Flu-like symptoms - chills, nausea, weakness, muscle and joint aches. Do I have a virus or did I do too much? Who knows. Constant fear I'm going to be Actually Sick and not realize it because I always just assume it's a bad day.

Inability to work full time - I tried this, it did not go well, even with a pretty low activity job. I am not sure if I'll ever be able to work full time because mental activity has the same effects as physical activity.

Unrefreshing sleep - It doesn't matter if I sleep for 3 hours or 8, I'll likely feel the same when I wake up. Monitoring my heart rate variability (HRV, a good measure of energy levels taking into account CNS function) has shown that sometimes I even have less energy when I wake up. Joy.

So maybe this is a bit of a rant, but it's also a reminder that even a mild form of this illness (I'm so lucky to be mild!) is life-altering and has an effect on pretty much every thing I do.

I have privilege - thanks to my partner we are financially stable if I don't work, I have access to medical care and if I'm unable to take care of things, I have support. I am happy and I have been able to create a life that feels good and fulfilling even while I manage my symptoms.

I got sick in 2010, after a viral infection - no idea what virus but I had a pretty high fever and felt miserable for a few days. Not sick enough to go to the hospital, but enough that I knew I was sick. It's moving into winter in the northern hemisphere, where viral infections tend to rise.

Take care of yourself and the people around you. Get your covid and seasonal flu vaccines. Stay home if you're sick, wear a mask in public. I don't want you to get sick like I am.

[hatsunevitu]

okay so since the Cupid Ye was aired i’ve been constantly thinking about cartman’s mental condition. we know he’s probably taking medication now, so i hc him having antisocial personality disorder and bipolar disorder. and i’ve been imagining him having his depression episode for the first time after he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. he’s not used to it, he has no idea what’s going on and why he suddenly feels so tired and numb all the time, so he just stays at home skipping school and avoiding social contacts. he’s scared and the “it’s all because of your illness, poopsikins!” from his mother doesn’t help at all.

and sooo i wrote a short moment about this?? i’m sorry for any mistakes because it was originally written in my native language, not in english :(

***

Ever since early childhood it was clear and obvious to everyone that Eric Cartman had problems. Not even like that, Kyle corrected himself in his thoughts. Eric Cartman had Problems. Sociopathy, sadism, aggression – all that a person could notice in Cartman after only half an hour of communication.

And Kyle wasn't too surprised when bipolar disorder was added to all of the above in a sloppy psychiatrist’s handwriting.

By the time Cartman was finally diagnosed he had already gone through several phases of mania. Kyle even did a little research on the disorder. "To know what to prepare for the next time I meet this psycho," he told Stan. "And to know how to help him if necessary," he added silently to himself.

By the age of fifteen, Stan's company was already used to Cartman's regular explosive mood swings, which were accompanied by crazy ideas, aggressive behavior, and, if absolutely unlucky, deaths of a couple or more people.

It was typical: after a short break, Cartman would burst into Kyle's room (often through the window), start showering him with business plans, startup ideas, and opportunities to have extreme fun. Kyle was silent, trying his best to ignore him and frowning irritably when Cartman smiled ecstatically and rushed to Kyle, tugging at his sleeve and almost shouting that everything would be better this time and that it’s a one hundred percent successful scheme.

For some time Broflovski genuinely believed that everyone in their friends group was going through such tortures, but after a short questioning, he found out that they had not seen Eric's mania with their own eyes. Kyle understood — and they won’t, when Cartman just chuckled at the outraged "What the fuck, Fatass?" and replied, "I guess you're just special, Kahl. They wouldn't understand." His eyes flashed especially maliciously, and Kyle looked away hastily so as not to give Cartman the opportunity to start another fight.

Well, all in all, no one's world collapsed when Cartman was diagnosed with a new mental illness. Over the past months of insane hallucinations and obsessive intrusive thoughts, he managed to make everyone sick of him. He refused to go to the therapy sessions for a long time, shouting, running away and trying to get into a fight, and Liane was too afraid to find out another unpleasant truth about her son, preferring to go with the flow and shut him up with the fulfillment of every single of his whims. Kyle doubts that anyone would have done anything to help Cartman if he hadn't intervened. Why – it was unclear to Broflovski himself, but Cartman's first depressive phase hit them both unexpectedly too hard.

Disappearing from everyone’s sight for two weeks, Cartman ignored calls and messages (although Kyle had a serious doubt that anyone other than Butters and Broflovski himself texted him) and skipped school despite Mr. Harrison's threats of expulsion.

Liane avoided answering questions, pursing her lips in frustration and talking her way out with a trivial "He's sick." Kyle didn't believe a damn second, knowing that if Cartman was sick, Kyle would have known about it the very first. Something was wrong. For some reason, the desire to find out what exactly was much stronger than it should have been when it came to Eric Cartman.

***

Perhaps Kyle really shouldn't have worried so much — not to the point of climbing into Eric's window at night. But the Cartmans hadn't opened the front door all day, and by that time Kyle's nerves were so stretched that they threatened to break if he didn't get answers to his questions in the next few minutes. Disturbing thoughts and images of possible turn of events appeared in his head. Perhaps Cartman was dead? Or, on the contrary, has killed someone and had been dissolving dismembered body of his victim for two weeks? One option was no better than the other, but nothing was even close to what he saw in Eric's bedroom.

Haggard, seven kilograms thinner, with an unhealthy skin color and bags under his eyes, he looked painfully wrong, not Cartman-like. He didn’t look exactly ill — more like lifelessly tired. But that wasn't even what hit Kyle so hard.

He did not suspect how much had been hidden in Cartman's eyes before – lively fire, hatred, anger, enthusiasm, passion – all this was gone, dissolved, buried under this empty, dead, unblinking gaze. For a second Kyle even thought (hoped?) that he was really dead, but the heaving chest under the blanket and almost inaudible sound of breathing exposed life in Cartman. He was lying on his back, his head slowly turned towards the window. Kyle sought recognition on his face, but did not see a single shade of any emotions.

He froze in the window, making eye contact with Eric, feeling like he saw something he shouldn't have. He tried to revive the old familiar hatred that usually boiled in him as soon as their eyes met, but Cartman’s emptiness totally killed all the anger. Kyle climbed through the window – Cartman didn't react in any way, lazily closing his eyes – and walked up to the bed, touching his shoulder timidly.

“Hey, Cartman?” he said, shuddering at the way his voice echoed throughout the bedroom. Cartman didn’t open his eyes but smiled hardly visibly.

“Hey, jew”. His voice was empty and emotionless and Kyle pursed his lips with a bit of a pain.

“You need to see a doctor, Cartman”, he said firmly as Eric finally opened one eye disinterestedly. “I’ll help you. I promise”.

And he did.

[zvtara-was-never-canon]

What do you think about this take? Do you agree? https://www.tumblr.com/zuko-always-lies/764888302529757184/cobra-diamond-had-this-very-interesting-take-on?source=share

Half agree, half disagree. I'd say that's what BRYKE wanted people to see Azula's arc/ending as, a tragic "death" of her very spirit, leaving just a hollow shell behind. It's impossible to redeem or heal her, not because "she's too evil", but because she's just not there anymore. And obviously the opinion of the guys that had THE final say on the show affects the narrative since they decided what would or would not be part of it.

But they still allowed things like Aang saying "EVERYONE has the potetial for great good and great evil", Zuko looking at Azula with pity in the finale and even saying he believes even Ozai could change. And the head writer, Aaron Ehasz, REPEATEDLY pushed for a redemption arc for Azula, with a reconciliation with Zuko, and the seeds for it are all over the original show. It's not that difficult to look at all that and wonder "What will happen when/if Azula recovers from her breakdown?" because since the story stops just a few days after her fall from grace, it is not set in stone that she will stay like that forever, even if that's indeed what Bryke wanted us to take from that scene.

Most importantly, as of this moment, everything else Bryke approved of post OG series leaves Azula's fate far more open-ended.

The Yang comics disrespected her character horribly and made the heroes go from witnesses to her tragedy to people directly causing said tragedy - but Azula is also far, far, far more "alive" than she was at her ending scene. She's sick and evil, yes, but she has goals that she's actively working towards (even if they make no sense because Yang is bad at his job). She's not just in constant agony, crying and screaming and unable to even talk, or completely catatonic. Her soul is corrupt, but not gone.

Same for the recent (and much better written) Spirit Temple comic, in which Azula resigns herself to constantly repeating the same cycle of getting new people to boss around, pushing them too far, being abandoned and then replacing them, she is making the CHOICE to stay in that cycle. It's a bad choice, but it's hers. Once again, Azula is corrupt, not dead.

Korra is where it gets a bit tricky because, well... Azula is not around and is not spoken about ever. Since the comics happen before Korra and Azula spends 90% of her time in them disappearing into the woods and confusing the main characters, it's very possible that she's not mentioned because she fucked off from their lives years ago and they have NO IDEA what she's been up to, if she's even alive.

Is she commiting petty crimes just to get by and bitching constantly about no longer living in luxury? Is she plotting her vengeance against Zuko in some weird cult she's been the leader of for decades? Is she living happily on some remote island with tons of children and grandchildren? Did she die young after tragically jumping off a cliff or stupidly choking on food? Is she the drunk, mentally ill philosopher that ruins the day of every pretentious intellectual and acts obscenely in public, Diogenes style?

Who knows? Not me. And I don't know because Bryke, at some point, clearly decided that Azula did NOT "die" in the finale. It makes sense. They wanted the story to end after the three seasons of Avatar, but they've turned it into a full on franchise now, and Azula is one of the most popular characters AND a main villain, so bringing her back inevitably draws people's attention, regardless of if they want her to recover or to just be defeated by the good guys again.

Maybe they'll "kill" her again at some point, but considering she got a solo comic and is mentioned by name in the announced comic of Kiyi, her sister/replacement, going to the very school she used to go and how Zuko worries about what that might lead to, it's pretty clear that she will be affecting the narrative(s) for a bit more time, be it directly or indirectly.

Basically: I think I know what Bryke originally intended, I have no fucking clue what their current plan is (assuming they have one) and I don't care because I basically only take the original show into consideration and it left PLENTY of room for my headcanons.

[theoldlesbianwithcats]

hi! yes, exactly! your comparison to TIMs is spot on. i’ve seen other lesbians make similar comparisons between the way fakebians violate our boundaries and how TIMs violate those of women more generally. they’re reading from each other’s rulebooks. i’m afraid to consider a relationship with a bisexual woman because i don’t want to be a prop in her yuri manga fantasy life.

i was bullied horribly as a girl because the other girls could tell i was gay, it affected me so badly i was eventually diagnosed with a serious mental illness as a result. i really feel like ‘comphet’ could have been useful for us as real lesbians to describe the way we force ourselves to be compliant with heteropatriarchy against our nature, but it’s gone full mask off lately and become shorthand these days for ‘had sex with a man’. goldstars ‘didn’t go through comphet’ i.e. we didn’t have sex with a man. i dated men, though, i personally definitely ‘went through comphet’. i didn’t sleep with them BECAUSE i was a lesbian, there was no other special reason. in theory, i don’t believe that all non-goldstar are liars. but i am sick to death of being condescended to about how i’ve supposedly lived some beautiful, rose-tinted, lesbian life. or even being told i must only be a goldstar because i am ugly and unsociable and no man would even want me. and more than anything in the whole world, i am sick of hearing lesbian-identified women talk about all the past sex they’ve had with men. every time i hear about a supposed famous lesbian who has a history of long sexual relationships sometimes with multiple men, or talking casually about sexual escapades with men, i want to disappear.

Personally, I gave up on dating or even being friends with bi women. 100% of the bi women I've known IRL ended up being lesbophobes or inappropriate with me, even the ones who are feminists or only date women.

I completely agree with you on the term comphet. Gold stars are affected by social pressure to be attracted to men and it deserves to be talked about, it just doesn't involve having sex with men! I know many gold stars who self-harmed, are mentally ill due to abuse and/or had addictions for example. I've been in feminist lesbian spaces where women were super comfortable talking (sometimes in explicit terms) about their past sexual experiences with men, but when I mentioned being a gold star or even just missing having sex with a woman, I was branded a weirdo! Sorry for being a lesbian in lesbian spaces, I guess?

I find it interesting that they can call themselves lesbians all they want, but their behavior and words betray them. Calling us too ugly and unlovable to attract men is not something a lesbian would say, since we don't care about attracting men. That's just classic lesbophobia from women who won't admit they're bi.

About celebs, I made a meme recently that reflects how I feel about it haha

[micahthemoon]

December 31 2023 It’s New Years eve, the last day of the year. And what a year! I’ve experienced so many great things in my transgender journey this year. To honor those accomplishments, I’ve dedicated today’s entry to highlighting one post from each month and what I consider the most significant experience, good or bad. Here’s to a new year full of yet more great opportunities to grow, to learn to love myself and find myself. Micah is checking out. See you in 2024.

January = Sickleave I was not-forced-but-kinda-forced to go on sick leave from applying to jobs. Honesty, I fear that starting therapy would ruin my chances of starting hormones someday. But I don’t think I can wait any longer. I might need to bite the bullet and find a therapist. Pray to whoever that this doesn’t take away the progress I made in medically transitioning. Or worse make people invalidate my gender identity because ‘Mentally Ill ™’ (01/04)

February= Second appointment and BMI wakeup call After four months of waiting, I finally had my second appointment at the gender clinic! All went well except the scales. I don’t own a scale at home – I won’t risk hating myself more because of a number. Thing is, I am around 15-20 kg heavier than six years ago and at least 5 kg too heavy for top surgery atm- And I fell into my own trap of feeling horrible about my body because of it. (02/14)

March = Legally changed gender It happened! I finally got the message that my gender id is legally changed now! It feels so surreal! I’m honestly filled with so much adrenalin I didn’t even have time to second guess writing to my Banks, insurance and other important systematic institutions in need of the news! Gah, I want It all to be fixed now but it takes time and really, I am just overjoyed! (03/02)

April = Starting minoxidil First day using minoxidil!! I got it yesterday yet decided it would be fitting starting on a Monday. My daily routines are getting so crowded now both including minoxidil and tattoo aftercare. I think it’s a good thing in terms of making a routine to when I hopefully get testosterone. By then hopefully I’ve learned from all my past mistakes – like this morning where I put minoxidil on before eating my breakfast. Take it from me, minoxidil doesn’t taste great. (04/17)

May = Third appointment, reached weight goal You know you’ve mastered your mascara game when your gender therapist is wondering out loud whether you’ve started HRT without him knowing. I really enjoy how confused my mascara beards can make people. But alright back to the gender identity clinic appointment I had today. It went well better than I’d expected and if all goes well, I might be able to start testosterone way earlier than I’d expected too. And the cherry on top I am now under the cut off weight for top surgery!!! (05/15)

June = Starting a positive relationship to my body (image) Something strange happened when I was going to bed yesterday. For some random reason I started feeling my torso and I didn’t feel disgust about it? I touched every little bit of stomach, waist, and hips to figure out why it felt this neutral maybe even good suddenly. I have never liked how this part of me felt or looked so this was such a surreal experience. The feeling disappeared as quickly again when I lay down, but it did make me want to try to do some morning stretches. Success, I guess? (06/01)

July = Getting my gender validated by somebody I trust Today the camper that has been here the longest (she had 20th anniversary this year) told me that back when we first met, she couldn’t connect with me. Like I had a wall up to the world. Now that wall was gone, and she could finally see me. And she almost felt attracted to who I was now. Coming from her this means so much to me. I might not need people’s permission to transition but at the same time knowing what I do seems right to others is a huge relief. Thank you so much for telling me. (07/20)

August = An almost-approval for HRT I got the answer from the gender clinic about t. The answer is ‘maybe?’. One person was on holiday, and he needs to look at my case before the team can approve it. Don’t get me wrong I’m glad that everybody else seemed on board. However, I am a bit annoyed given that the team knew when they’d discuss my case for two months and they didn’t make sure everybody was present. Or at least let me know beforehand if not everybody could be present, so I wouldn’t get nervous without reason. (08/10)

September = An actual approval for HRT Guys!! GUYS!!!! It happened!! I am now gotten approved for testosterone!!! I am so happy I spend way too long trying to make an ig post about it!!! Sure, I still must wait for preparation appointments and blood tests and all of that but just knowing I am officially approved and on my way to get started is amazing. I even bought myself a celebratory licorice even tho I try not to snack (felt only half bad eating it)!!! (09/11)

October = Participating in baseline meassurements for HRT study I was at some pre-t tests for a study I’m participating in. We went through different physical tests, muscle strength, lung capacity together with scans of the heart and bones. Overall, it was alright especially given how awkward I’ve felt about the EKKO scan of the heart (first time since my ex I had no shirt on in front of another). What ended up being the worst was the CT because I got the dizziness side effects from the drug, they gave us. Glad I did the test but wow I am tired now. (10/31)

November = Starting HRT And so it starts fr. Here is my first (if not counting the pre-t one) testosterone update!!! I think I should maybe for the next ones try to do it before doing my mascara beard just to see if you can see any difference in my 'clean face' over time. (11/23)

December = Finding new way to measure voice pitch I got myself a new toy: a voice pitch analyzer app!! I was suggested this app by a trans friend as another fun way to document my transition and so I just tried it to make a sort of late baseline. It says my pitch is on average 173-178 hz (depending on language) which is in the female range (feminine voices tend to be classified as between 165-255 hz while men’s around 85-155; I googled it). Looking forward to seeing the changes over time. Maybe it can become a tool for gender euphoria! (12/17)

[lotuslol]

Not to invalidate any other mental illness but the saddest mental illness of all is DPDR

Here is the thing

This is just for pure self-expression, I have never experienced most mental illnesses in full (I have had OCD before) so I am no judge of what is sadder than the other

But because of DPDR, I have tasted plenty of depression and anxiety that made me understand the pain those who are actually ill with those illnesses.

Dpdr was like someone who hated you took you to a walk in hell and made you taste everything that would make you suffer

Some depression here (I could see no future, I had memory issues, I could barely leave my bed, I couldn't enjoy things I used to love immensly) some anxiety here (my hands shaking uncontorlably, sudden teeth gritting, phantom pain all over my body, one panic attack, inability to leave the house from fear, couldn't sleep well or long for the first 2 months of the illess)

All of these came because I lost my ability to recall and understand memories and reflect on them which made me lose my connection with my personality. I also lost my ability to understand the world in large (can't get into full details now because it's all fuzzy and super triggering, but my understanding of night and day flipped, my understanding of the calender messed up) and because of all that, whatever I did in a day would be forgotten that night.

It felt like the right side of my head was empty.

I was acting all out of character for myself (no one noticed anything except that I slept more and disappeared and messed up my sleep)

So this all and the extra details that I can't talk about right now made life ...meaningless.

I couldn't live or be a human, I felt like a lump of dismemebered pieces trying to be one and this lump was all in pain, because of her dismemeberment and because of her trying to assemble pieces that didn't fit together.

Without close connection with your memories you actually HAVE NO IDEA WHO YOU ARE

It made me remember that time I had covid (mine wasn't serious, just a 2 week isolated rest in my room while studying for finals, only felt like mild cold except that I lost my sense of smell)

Because I lost my sense of smell, I couldn't recall what thinge smelled or tasted like

I have been eating for 21 years (now I am older ofc) but losing my sense of smell for one month made it impossible to recall anything's taste, as if all these 21 years were nothing.

Same thing happened with DPDR but on a deeper and much more personal level, my connection to everything in life.

I felt pain where I never thought I could feel pain, I felt pain in my sense of self

As if suddenly my sense of self had pain receptors and they were on fire. As if your self is an invisible bubble around your body that has receptors to sensations and feelings, and my self was dislocated from me and on fire.

And on top of all that...you have intrusive thoughts

As if it wasn't already painful enough 🙃

And not just any intrusive thoughts, they are also physically painful and personal

Like somebody lived in your head, judged your every whimper because "you are acting sick, pull your weight" "Don't cry, you have no reason to cry" "you deserve this for arguing with God, this is punishment"

Like someone gaslit you constantly "you are a boy, not a girl. Look, your privates look more mike a penis" "you are gay, not straight" "your name is Meriam, not Lotus" "you are not in pain, stupid. Stop whining for no reason" and because I had basically nothing but air in my head, these thoughts echoed and they echoed SO LOUDLY I thought that they were true (even though my conscious self knew that this all was wrong)

Like I would be feeling immense pain, like I have many cuts on my back. I would be taking a shower to lessen the pain, it felt like I was washing physical wounds. As soon as I likened my shower to washing wounds, I felt a mean snigger that told me "you are not washing away wounds, stop being dramatic. You aren't wounded"

I forecfully felt no pain after that, but it was forceful, like someone shoved your pain down your throat to make it disappear.

...but I AM in pain, I was in immense pain just moments ago...I have a hard time remembering...

I felt the emotional equivelant and almost ALMOST the physical sensations of being flogged on a daily basis.

And if I dared to commit the horrible act of acknowledging my illness and saying "I am ill" between me and myself and complain about it, I will lose my sense of self more and feel dazed, as if I was being punished for doing so.

This has been going on for 7 months, every month less traumatizing than the one before, but it all was exhausting and painful and sad.

[studyblrbymaya]

so, i’m back. it’s been a couple of months, we’re moving into my least favourite two seasons where i’m going to experience severe mental illness, far worse than my usual, i’m going into my country’s hardest year of education, we’ve had a pathetic summer (if you can even call it that), and guess what? none of my studying has paid off. al of the hours of studying that i’ve put in throughout my life? pointless. in that 2 hour exam, i destroyed my future.

i spent this whole summer working my socks off for this exam that determines my future, and i failed. i had my heart set on 4 universities, and i am now unable to apply to any of them. any of the tiny hints of certainty that there once were have completely disappeared: all of my hard work, and it went nowhere. a whole summer in my study, for absolutely nothing. i’ve lost faith, cried, had really, seriously nasty thoughts, and a week later, i’m shocked that i’m still here. i wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy: it is hell. absolute hell.

i’m having to alter my original plan for where to apply: i feel like an utter failure. i’m embarrassed, i’m lost, and i have absolutely no clue what my life is going to look like. absolutely no clue whatsoever.

the possibility of anything good happening for me now is all gone: i feel so stupid for hoping for my dreams to come true, so stupid for having fun now because i feel like the stereotypical stupid person who deserves nothing good, and so stupid for wasting a summer working. every single minute of all of my education feels useless and it feels like there’s no point continuing with it. i feel like i’ve let myself and my family down and i really don’t see anything improving. honestly, i’m so lost.

unlike most of my other posts, this one genuinely doesn’t have a meaning. there’s nothing behind it. no special message about how ‘you should never give up, even when it’s hard!!!’ because for me, there is no point. no message about what i’ve learnt from this (apart from that i’m a serious failure), literally nothing. im meant to be preparing my application for sendoff in 2 weeks, and none of it is ready. i’m throwing in the towel right now. i am tired, sick of being hopeful only for nothing good to come of anything. i’m absolutely exhausted, inadequate, reeling, a let-down. all of that wasted money, effort, and time. a whole summer and hundreds of pounds wasted on my failure. it honestly feels like i’ve been being hit by a brick for the past 6 weeks. i’m back to square one with self care, i’ve forgotten what i enjoy, i just can’t. im not okay right now and just feel so embarrassed. i’ve no clue how im going to face school or studying again. everything is so, so unbelievably dark right now.

no tags. i just need to get this off of my chest.

[your-naked-magic-oh-dear-lord]

Hey, fam. I apologize for my lack of online presence. I have neglected a lot of very dear friendships, missed valuable opportunities, and caused my own self senseless grief.

I want to be more present this year (oh how interesting that I have said this in years past!!) and more available to support my friends and entertain my followers. I feel I used to be somewhat popular.

In addition to the normal hurdles in my life – mental illness, physical disability, poverty – this past year has offered new, additional catastrophes to deal with. The very shortest of it is that my elderly father has wrestled with a persistent injury for two years that led to his having his left leg being amputated below the knee two weeks ago. He is doing remarkably well and despite the trauma of literally having a limb cut off, he is in great spirits, taking well to physical/occupational therapy, and clearly born anew with the pain of his injury gone with the limb.

My sibling and I have been left to run my parents' disaster of a "farm" while my mom stays with my dad at the hospital. I'm exhausted all the time and sometimes I let it all get me down.

Additionally, on October 9th, I lost my beloved Australian Shepherd, Bear, who was the light of my life, closer than most of my friends, and always there for me when I was sick, sad, lonely, or just... lost. After three months, I'm handling it better, but occasionally, I will be overwhelmed and burst into uncontrollable sobbing.

My beloved cat, Toni Stark, disappeared over the summer and I was denied the opportunity to properly grieve the way I was allowed to with Bear. I struggle with that every day and dream about her at least one night a week.

January last year I made my last bid for freedom. I had every possible door closed in my face. I've had no hope for escape since.

My mom hasn't targeted me for psychological torture much lately but that's because she's been targeting my sibling who's gradually becoming as broken as myself.

I'm not trying to bring anyone down. I just want those who wonder what I'm doing to know why I struggle.

I'm going to make an art blog and utilize my Kofi better. I'm going to journal more in my personal blog. I'm going to allow myself to express myself. I go through long periods where I just can't articulate an opinion because I know no one wants to hear it. But I find it's not necessarily about being heard; it's about getting it out into the aether. I deserve a voice.

I did not set out to give such a long update when I opened Tumblr today. But I guess it's necessary.

I love all of you. I do apologize to those of you whom counted on me for support. I want to be a better friend to everyone.

You'll hear from me again soon.

Your friend and occasional ghost, Billie (Sara)

[agathabridgerton]

Signs

Episode: “Je Souhaite” | Rated M | @today-in-fic | Warning: if any of the symptoms of pregnancy are squicky for you, it would be best to avoid this fic. Also, a reminder that we use Fahrenheit in the U.S., so don’t freak out at the wonky temperature stuff, my Celsius loaves.

Scully feels a little guilty for sending Mulder home last night after teasing him all day about what she was going to do to him in bed, but she blames her upset stomach on being “forced” to skip lunch that day. Scully had waved him off after three hours of on and off vomiting, feeling like she sent the entirety of her pizza and soda into the toilet.

She’d sent him back to his apartment so he’d stop hovering, his incessant chatter only magnifying the headache beginning to build at the base of her skull.

Mulder had called as soon as he got home, leaving a voicemail for her to please not come in tomorrow if she’s still sick. Well, Scully had fortunately felt right as rain when she woke up, aside from the minimal gnawing feeling in her stomach.

She regrets eating two bagels with lox and her real cream cheese now. This must be her punishment for breaking the rule of saving it for the fair amount of bad mornings she encounters. Her stomach’s mutinying again at the smell of Mulder’s black coffee and she can feel another toilet session coming on.

“Oh, God,” Scully whispers, all intent to apologize and press a soft kiss to his lips going out the proverbial door as she sprints out the real one and hauls ass to the bathroom.

She must have a stomach bug, Scully reasons, trying to even out her breathing as she folds some paper towels and wets them before pressing them against her face and neck. She’s suddenly feeling strangely hot, evidence of her sick flushed away.

Mulder knocks three times on the bathroom door. “Scully?”

“Yeah?” she sends back, splashing her face with water. She groans as she feels another gag coming on.

“I brought you some ginger ale and—and some Pepto Bismol. And Tums. I know you don’t like the Pepto but, you know, I figured this called for all the stops.”

She can imagine the look on his face as he hears her vomiting again. Scully checks her watch when it’s over. It’s still only 8:27 in the fucking morning!? How the hell is she supposed to make it through the rest of the workday like this?

The door hinges creak and she looks over at Mulder. “I told you not to come in if you’re still sick, Scully.”

“I wasn’t! I felt fine this morning, and then I walked in the office and smelled your coffee and...”

He leans against the counter and crosses his arms, puckering his lips as part of his exaggerated thinking face. Scully stands up straight and shoots him a look. Mulder shakes his head and puts his hands up. “Look, all I’m saying is that it looks like the same thing happened last night. As soon as we got out the ice cream, you bolted to the bathroom.”

She sighs and shakes her head. “What are you getting at, Mulder?”

“Just that you should go home and at least take a nap or something. If you stay off your feet for a few hours and relax, I’ll be happy. Nibble on some crackers, catch a soap opera...” Mulder shrugs. “You’re clearly sick, Scully. If not for yourself, do it on the chance that it’s contagious.”

Scully places the wet paper towel on the back of her neck, holding it there. “Fine. But only because it might be contagious.”

“I mean—that doesn’t make it better, but thank you nonetheless. Do you want me to drive you? What if there’s a random smell that sets you off on the ride there?”

She rolls her eyes but tells him, “Fine.”

—

Mulder’s assertion that certain smells have been setting off whatever’s going on with her stomach seem to be proven true when she comes back to the office after a few hours of rest and relaxation to the harsh sight of a man whose... whose mouth suddenly disappeared and had to be surgically recreated. Not a twinge from her stomach aside from shock butterflies.

Scully’s relieved that she’s been able to keep down her lunch. To be fair, it was crackers with a little cheese and a full two cups of water to make sure she was hydrated, but any food is good food. She proudly announces to Mulder during their ensuing flight the next day that it seems whatever illness hit is gone.

—

It’s not cold in Creve Coeur, Missouri—certainly not in Spring—but Scully’s feeling every degree of the breeze through the open windows like it’s in the thirties. She’s shivering the entire car ride to the Mark Twain Trailer Park, and noticeably enough for Mulder to glance at her with concern before putting up the windows and turning the heat up.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little cold.”

He frowns at that but lets it go until they hit a red light, when he leans over and presses his hand to her forehead.

Scully quirks her lips in a smile. “What are you doing?”

“Checking your temperature,” he replies. “You don’t seem to have a fever...”

“I’m fine, Mulder,” she insists, leaning into his hand for the few seconds she gets the light turns green.

“Alright, but if you’re still sick, Scully, then you have to promise me that you’ll go back to the motel, okay? I brought the meds just in case, if you need them.”

She smiles softly and places her hand on his arm. “Thank you.”

“It’s what a good boyfriend does.”

—

Her stomach bug really does seem to be gone, which is a relief. However, she’s now insatiably hungry for two things: Mulder, and the bagels from the bagel place two streets over from her apartment. Well, she consoles, one is attainable, at least. And, boy, does she attain it. They’re both breathing heavily by the time Scully’s through with him, and even though they’re sticky with sweat, she curls her body around Mulder’s anyway.

Her breasts are tingly, which has never happened after sex before, but she chalks it up to Mulder’s harsh treatment of her only a minute ago as she nuzzles his chest. She inhales and sighs happily. “I love the way you smell,” she murmurs.

He laughs and she feels it against her cheek. “Coming from the woman who made me start using a different deodorant,” he jokes, squeezing his arm around her shoulders. “Your nipples are darker.”

“What?” Scully props herself up with her forearm to make proper eye contact as her brows furrow.

“Yeah. I don’t know. They’re darker. Feel a little heavier, too. You didn’t notice?”

She shakes her head and laughs. “Unlike you, Mulder, I don’t spend hours studying my boobs.”

He shrugs and rolls them over so he’s hovering over her on his forearms. “Your loss.”

—

“Fuck,” she swears, digging around in her suitcase, fresh from her shower. She’s only got one hand because the other’s holding her towel wrap together.

“What?” Mulder asks around his toothbrush, exiting the bathroom. His tie is slung behind his neck and his suit jacket is waiting for him on the bed.

“I don’t have any panty liners.”

“Do you want me to go out and get some?” he asks, heading back to the bathroom to spit.

“Yeah, that would be great.” Scully walks past him into the still-warm bathroom and lets the towel drop as she uses the one wrapped around her hair to dry the wet strands.

“Alright. I’ll be back in a jiffy.” She drops the hair towel when he takes the singular step needed in the tiny motel bathroom to invade her space in favor of pulling him down for a kiss by the ends of his tie. “Mmm, settle down or the plan’ll be botched.”

“I was just thanking you,” Scully says, affecting innocence as she does his tie for him.

“For buying you panty liners? What would happen if I surprised you with some ice cream?”

“I would eat the ice cream.”

“Damn.” Mulder presses a kiss to the top of her head before heading out to put on his suit jacket. “Do you mind me asking why you need panty liners? Also! What brand?”

“Any with wings. And I need them because there’s been an unusual amount of vaginal discharge in my underwear and I don’t want to ruin any more of them.”

“Right.” He steps back in view of the bathroom and takes in her naked body.

Scully raises an eyebrow at him. “What?”

(Their books on pregnancy are buried inside their storage closets from a time best forgotten.)

“Nothing. I just like looking at you.”

She smiles at him, drying her hair again. “Get going, hotshot.”

—

Halfway through the flight home, Scully discovers something that makes her a bit worried. She’s not supposed to get her period until next week, so the blood on the liner she quickly tosses away with shaky hands can’t be because of that. She tries to forget about it as she walks back to her seat next to Mulder, but he must see something on her face that prompts him to ask if she’s okay.

“I’m fine,” she lies, managing to give him a smile. “Just tired.”

He seems to accept that and leaves her be. It’s not even a lie; she feels exhausted after everything that happened over the past few days. Scully makes a mental note to book an emergency appointment with her Ob-Gyn when they land, and closes her eyes.

—

“Dana,” Dr. Namin starts, disrupting her patient’s thumb twiddling.

Scully abruptly stands up as her doctor moves to stand in front of the exam table, computer and several documents in hand. “You don’t look concerned,” she says, following Namin to the exam table.

“Because there’s nothing to be concerned about at this stage except plenty of rest, hydration, and eating at least three good meals a day,” Scully’s doctor replies, opening up her computer and spreading out the documents. “We’ve done all the tests you asked for, but nothing came up. However, based on the symptoms you listed, I performed one more, and that’s where we found the culprit.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re pregnant, Dana. Plain and simple. Congratulations.” Dr. Namin slides one of the documents towards Scully, who takes it. “You’re about three and a half weeks along. You can take all the papers. There’s suggestions for all the prenatal vitamins you’ll need to take and how much water to drink in a day. Resources for managing symptoms, too.”

Scully nods dumbly, tears gathering in her eyes as she stares at the diagnosis. “Um, when should I come back?”

“Don’t worry about that right now, I’ll have someone give you a call with that information. Just relax and enjoy the news. I remember how much you wanted this, Dana. I...I don’t know how this happened, but the baby’s doing well. Minor bleeding is completely normal and you don’t need to worry. If it gets worse or doesn’t stop soon, then come back.”

“Okay,” Scully chokes out, smiling widely as she wipes away her tears and collects the documents on the exam table.

—

She spends a few hours at her apartment trying to figure out how to tell Mulder the good news but gets nowhere. In the middle of pacing around her couch, one arm unconsciously wrapped around her abdomen, her phone starts ringing.

“Scully speaking.”

“Agent Scully,” Skinner starts, and she immediately knows that Mulder’s done something stupid again, “could you check on Agent Mulder? He snuck into my meeting and was yelling at my chair.”

“Yes, of course, sir.”

“Thank you.”

Scully hangs up the phone and sighs heavily. Looks like God’s giving her a sign to just get it over with. When she enters the office, however, the woman Mulder keeps insisting is a genie is there, too. She licks her lips nervously and tries to ignore her.

“Skinner called me, Mulder. Is everything alright?”

Sitting at the desk, computer on, she has to wonder what he’s doing. “You don’t remember disappearing off the face of the Earth for an hour this morning?”

She gives her head a small shake as she tells him, “No,” truly starting to get concerned.

Mulder just shrugs with a little smile and gets back to typing with a nonchalant, “Well, I guess everything’s okay.”

Get it out, just say it, she thinks, trying to psych herself up. She sighs. “Mul—” But the woman’s still there in the office. “Could you give us a minute, please?”

“Sure,” the woman—Jenn, Mulder told her on the plane—says with a nod.

Scully steps closer to the desk, butterflies in her stomach. Jenn isn’t moving, and it’s making her annoyed, quite frankly. “Like, today?” she says, turning around, but the black-haired woman is nowhere to be found, not even in the annex. Scully turns back to her partner, extremely confused. “Where the hell’d she go?”

Mulder childishly imitates a genie disappearing and she feels the sudden urge to laugh at the thought that this man is the father of her child. “No...” she says, softening the guffaw trying to escape to a scoff-laugh. “It’s gotta—” She scoffs for real this time. “It’s gotta be hypnotism, or—or mesmerism, or something.”

And thus begins the verbal sparring. As he lists all the things he wants for the world, Scully thinks, again, of how this is the father of her child. Something suspiciously soft is trying to emerge from her heart as she responds, and she’s a coward to boot, so she leaves without telling him. Driving back to her apartment, Scully feels guilty at how little effort she put into trying to break the news to Mulder. She just—she doesn’t know what to make of the news herself, let alone how to explain it to him.

An hour into The Exorcist, hugging a pillow as she wishes Mulder was watching it with her, the phone rings. “Scully, do you wanna come over and watch a movie? I’ve got your favorite popcorn...”

She grins. “Of course. I’ll bring the drinks.”

—

They’ve both changed their clothes for the movie night, and when Mulder opens the door, they’re sporting matching grins. “Oh, zero alcohol content?” he faux complains, taking the case of six drinks into the kitchen. “Is this your punishment for me, Scully?”

She elects not to respond as she follows him and takes out the package of popcorn and a pot. “Can you grab the olive oil, Mulder?”

“Yeah, of course.” He puts four of the drinks in the fridge before reaching into one of the cabinets to grab the oil and put it on the counter next to the stove, which Scully’s turning it on.

“I’ll never understand why you won’t just microwave them. It’s faster.”

“Yeah, but if you do it in the pot, it tastes better,” she shoots back, opening the package and pouring the kernels into the pot.

“That’s just because of the oil.”

“Well, you can continue to eat shitty popcorn for the rest of your life if you want, but I’m going to eat my good popcorn.”

They turn to face each other as the kernels pop and hit the lid, a staring contest beginning. Scully wins when she licks her lips and distracts Mulder enough to get him to blink.

“Ha! I got you! I win!”

“That’s cheating!”

“I won!” she says in a sing-song voice, emptying the finished popcorn into the bowl.

Mulder shakes his head with a smile. “Why don’t you take the drinks and get comfortable. I’ll finish the popcorn.”

Scully nods and does as he suggests, but as she’s crossing into the living room, she pauses and turns around. “No butter, please,” she says, and he turns around with a scoop of butter in a bowl in his right hand, the handle of the microwave in the other.

“No... butter...?” She nods. “We always put butter on the popcorn, Scully.”

“Well, I don’t want butter this time,” she says, and makes her way to the couch, sitting down and placing the drinks on the coffee table. She hears Mulder sigh heavily and put the bowl of butter in the fridge before making his way to the living room, bowl of popcorn in hand.

He shakes his head as he grabs the movie case from the table and inserts it into the player. “Can’t believe you don’t want butter on your popcorn. Eugh. It’s un-American.” He steps around the table and sits down next to Scully.

She takes the case from where he left it and makes a face. “Caddyshack, Mulder?” she questions.

“It’s a classic American movie,” he insists, grabbing his drink and propping his feet up.

“That’s what every guy says.” Scully grabs her own and untwists the cap, tossing it onto the table. Mulder does the same, but his bounces off onto the floor, and she laughs into the bottle. “So, uh... What’s the occasion?” she asks, as if they still take the justifying movie nights thing seriously.

Last week’s was I thought you might need some help feeding your fish.

“I don’t know. Just felt like the thing to do. Cheers.”

Maybe it is time to turn over a new leaf, especially considering the baby growing inside her, cell by cell. They clink their bottles—“Cheers,” she says—and drink. Tell him, tell him, tell hi—

“I don’t know if you noticed, but I, um, never made the world a happier place.”

They nod together and Scully knows that this is the moment to tell him. She takes a deep breath. “Well, I’m fairly happy. That’s something.” A smile slides onto her face and she looks at him, a lot more than fairly happy now. “Actually, I’m ecstatic.” She gives a little laugh and reaches into her pocket for the piece of paper she’d stared at for hours earlier.

“Really? Is there a specific reason, or...?”

Scully pulls the paper out and looks at the blue highlighted text on the portion of the paper that’s not folded back for a moment before handing it to Mulder. “That’s why,” she says, voice trembling a little out of happiness.

She watches his face as the words sink in. He reads it again, murmuring, “Diagnosis: pregnancy (3.5 weeks),” as he does so, a grin spreading across his lips. “Scully...”

“I know,” she says, setting her bottle on the table, and before Mulder can say anything else, she cups his cheeks and kisses him, unwilling to fight the urge.

“Scully, this is wonderful!” He laughs joyously and kisses her again, setting the paper and his drink on the table. “I’m so happy.” He brings her into his embrace and buries his face in her shoulder for a long moment, both of them starting to cry. He suddenly pulls away and puts his hand on her abdomen under her shirt, his other arm still wrapped around Scully.

“I love you,” she tells him.

“I love you, too,” he replies.

[jeans-movie-reviews]

American Psycho

This movie did not even make the list of top 100 movies, and to be frank I did not want to review it after watching it. 

It is incredibly rare that watching a horror movie I am unsettled or scared. This movie did not scare me in the sense that one would expect watching Christian Bale sever his ties with sanity. Instead it made me viscerally uncomfortable. 

Based on the novel by Bret Easton Ellis, we see Patrick Bateman as your regular businessman, on the outside at least. The movie follows his rather quick jump from regular resentment and displeasure to straight out murder and torture. I got the feeling that we as the audience were to believe that Patrick suffered from Anti-Social Personality Disorder. Closer to the end of the movie we watch as he is forced to come to terms with the lack of grip on reality. Having an unstable narrator leads the audience to question what is real and what is fake. Leaving me more uneasy than when I initially finished the film. 

Leaving aside the villainization of mental illness for a moment we can really get into the grit of this film. 

Christian Bale has left such a disconnect from reality in every scene he plays as Patrick Bateman. Be it during the brutal murders as the music is playing, how he discusses what the music is and where it came from. His apparent disinterest in the ladies of the night he invites into his apartment. Or his intense fits of rage at what most people would call minute. In my opinion the most intense point in the film that really drove home how unsettled I was came from the scene where he calls his lawyer. Bateman can be quoted as saying “ Tonight, I, uh, I just had to kill a lot of people! And, um... I'm not sure I'm gonna get away with it this time. “

After all of the murder, and the entirely sick confession he pours into the phone you see his true concerns shine through if but a moment. I’m not sure I’m gonna get away with it this time. He shows no remorse for what he’s done, I’m of the belief that you can’t even claim this a confession but instead a retelling of the fruits of his labor for legal purposes. 

The breath of fresh air amongst all of the crazy from Bale is seen in William Defoe, playing a private investigator, Donald Kimball, who was hired to investigate Paul Allen’s (Jared Leto) disappearance. Defoe manages to disarm both Bale and the audience through seemingly knowing nothing. His appointments to question Bale always leave the audience wondering how much he really knows. 

At some point the film takes a hard turn into the unreasonable, but with the audience spending so much of the film teetering on the edge it’s incredibly hard to pinpoint where. Especially because after Bateman’s confession it appears that everything is completely normal. We as the audience are left wondering if finally Patrick has lost his grip on reality or if it was gone the entire time. Did Kimball ever really exist, did those murders actually occur? And what if the answer is no? Would Bateman go out of his way to live through the sick fantasies now that he believes he fully did it once with zero consequence? Is he Patrick Bateman at all? 

Overall I really wanted to like this movie a lot more than I did. It was filmed nicely enough, the acting was astounding, and yet I’m still left with this awful taste in my mouth and a feeling I can’t quite shake. I watched this movie over a week ago and I am only now reviewing it as it has shaken me to my very core. In that sense I believe it has accomplished everything it set out to, as I will be thinking about it and discussing it for years to come. 

[saeyoungchoismaid]

Hanahaki Disease

Pairing: Asmo x gn!reader Genre: nsfw themes in the beginning, angst, fluff Warnings: listening in on others having sex and masturbating is briefly and vaguely mentioned in the beginning. Mentions of blood. choking, suffocating, ‘dying’ Summary: Many choose to forget their love. You don’t know if you have that option. Word Count: 5.8k  ObeyMAX day: July 10 - Asmo 

Hanahaki Disease is an illness born from unrequited love. Flowers begin to bloom in your lungs, feeding off of the tissue, and using your nutrients as its own. If your feelings aren’t returned, the flowers will continue to grow until they suffocate you. The only cure, besides having the love returned, is to remove the flowers from your lungs. However, if you go through with this procedure you will lose all memories of your love. Many choose to forget, you don’t think you want to make that choice. 

You clutch your pillow tightly as you listen to the moans and all other sorts of lewd noises leave Asmo’s room. You know it’s Asmo room for a multitude of reasons. One, the succubi has apparently never heard of using their indoor voice and is just saying Asmo’s name like a mantra. Two, your room is directly next to his room, per your secret request to Lucifer. You’re now regretting that request. 

Before you can even think of any more reasons, which there are plenty of, you hear the succubi scream in pleasure which means they are probably cumming for the third time. It’s quite annoying actually. Mostly because you’re hating yourself for getting turned on. On one hand, you're sick to your stomach and can’t stand to listen to them. 

On the other hand—well, that hand is currently shoved down your underwear. You can hear the way Asmo is moaning and grunting, his bed squeaking with each movement. Yeah, you’re pretending that your hand is him above you making those noises. It didn’t take long for you to start moaning softly, your body’s temperature growing as your pleasure does. 

Amazingly enough, you and Asmo cum at the same time. Well, you’re assuming so. His moans got higher pitched and louder before slowly drifting off. You pant and open your eyes to find your dark ceiling, the cold room starting to creep over you. 

Your eyes fill with tears as you go limp, your hand just resting inside of your pajamas as you cry. You eventually get out of bed to clean up, knowing you won’t be able to go to sleep feeling all sticky. This doesn’t stop you from crying. The longer you cry, the worst you feel. 

You’re in the shower when it first happens. You start to cough violently, your tears going from sad, self-loathing tears to lack of oxygen tears. You lean against the cool tile as you practically cough up a lung, your body shaking in fear. 

Something then falls past your lips and lands wetly on the floor of your shower. 

You don’t even notice it at first, too busy trying to regain air into your lungs. Did you cry so hard you puked? You look down to find that the water is trying to carry something pink to the drain. You blink a couple of times before rubbing at your eyes. Maybe your vision is just blurred? Is it blood?

Once you rid your eyes of the rest of your tears, you bend down to get a better look. You still aren’t completely sure what it is, so you gently pick whatever it is up. You unfold the wrinkled object and then realize it’s a petal. 

Your immediate reaction is to try to figure out what else it could be. A flower petal doesn’t make sense. Why in the world would it be a petal? Exactly. It wouldn’t. 

You finish up your shower quickly after that and swiftly get out, bringing your petal out of the shower with you. You set it onto the counter and then wrap a towel around your body, staring intently at the puny thing. 

Your next reaction is trying to figure out why you would’ve coughed up a petal. You tried reasoning with yourself. Maybe Mammon is pranking you again and put a petal into your food? But that wouldn’t explain you coughing it up. Maybe Lucifer used a spell to do this? But that doesn’t make sense either because he wouldn’t do something that would cause you harm. Maybe Solomon did a little magic? He doesn’t seem like the type to do something like this either though. 

You sigh and hang your head into your hands, trying to think of any reason as to why this happened. It just leads to you worrying more though. What if you cough up more? How will the guys react? Should you even tell them? 

You groan and decide to just deal with it in the morning. You do your after shower routine before going to bed, staring at your blank wall with a heavy frown on your face. It took awhile for you to fall asleep but you eventually managed to do it. Somehow. 

“Good morning, my handsome brothers and lovely (Y/n),” Asmo greets as he walks into the dining room for breakfast. You keep your head down as you roll your eyes, trying not to bring attention to yourself.

But, of course, just like every morning, Asmo swoops down to kiss your cheek before taking his seat beside you. You don’t reply like you normally do though. You just keep your head down and remain silent. Asmo would’ve noticed if it weren’t for his brothers chiming in. 

Satan noticed though. 

“Ugh, I hate how chipper you are,” Belphie groans from his seat. Levi snorts and smirks at Belphie before turning it towards Asmo. 

“He’s only so chipper because he got laid last night,” he says while chuckling. Mammon instantly gags and rolls his eyes. 

“Don’t remind me. They kept me up all night. I even debated on making a deal with a witch to get my hearing to stop working.” 

“That’s a great idea! Then, you wouldn’t hear us talk about you,” Asmo singsongs. They then start to bicker per usual. Being reminded of last night only makes you feel sicker. You nibble on your breakfast, feeling your appetite disappear with each word that leaves Asmo’s mouth. 

Suddenly, you start to cough just as harshly as you did last night. You quickly grab a napkin and cover your mouth, your eyes filling with tears as you hack away into the white cloth. Satan is quick to stand up and come behind you, ready to do the Heimlich maneuver when you raise your hand to stop him, your coughing slowly coming to a halt. 

You look down into your napkin to find another sopping petal, the sight of it adding weight to your already heavy shoulders. You quickly crumble the napkin up, not wanting anyone to see what lay inside. 

“(Y/n), are you okay?” Satan asks, placing his hand onto your shoulder. His question makes all the others abrupt with questions of their own. You wipe at your watery eyes as you nod your head, clearing your throat before speaking. 

“Yes, I’m fine. All of you calm down. My food just went down the wrong pipe. I’m alright,” you reassure with a warm, but fake, smile. Everyone relaxes at your words, making you relax as well since you weren’t caught. 

“I’m not very hungry anymore though. Beel, you can have my share,” you say sweetly, giving him a genuine smile as you slide your plate over to him. He always makes you feel all mushy and happy. It’s just who he is. 

He does that little chuckle of his in response as he happily takes your plate from you. “Thank you, (Y/n). I’m glad you’re okay,” he replies sweeter than candy. You ruffle his hair a bit before you look over at Lucifer. 

“Is it okay if I stay home today? I’m not feeling too well.” Well, it’s not a lie but it’s not for what they’re thinking. He instantly nods his head as he stands. 

“Yes, of course. That must’ve been a fright to choke like that. Do you want me to stay home with you? Do you need anything?” You smile at him now, feeling your chest swell a bit for how much he cares. 

“No, no. You have to go see Diavolo today for an important meeting. I’ll be fine. I just have a bit of a headache now,” you say as you gently pat his shoulder before waving to the brothers and making your departure. 

After school, there’s a knock on your door. You don’t feel like getting up from your moping party, so you just tell whoever it is to come in. You look over at the door to find Satan, a small frown on his face. 

“(Y/n), I…” he trails off, looking around your room instead of looking at you. You sit up at how serious he appears, fear starting to crawl inside your mind. 

“It’s okay. You can say whatever it is you have to say,” you say sweetly, sending him an even sweeter smile. He looks over at you and you can physically see his body relax at this. He slowly walks over to your bed and sits at the foot of it. 

“(Y/n), what’s really going on? While I was at school, I was thinking about this morning and I discovered something. You barely even touched your food after Asmo came in. You were staring down at your plate and picking at your food until you started choking. You didn’t choke on food, did you?” he says softly. 

You stare down at your blanket, mentally cursing Satan for how smart and observant he is. He caught on so quickly. Too quickly.

“No, I didn’t choke on food. If I told you the truth though…” you trail off just as he had done earlier. He decides to copy you as well. 

“It’s okay. You can say whatever it is you have to say,” he whispers, gently taking a hold of your hand. He then adds on, “You can trust me with anything. You know that, right?” You look up at him then, a dumb smile on your face. 

“It’s both a blessing and a curse to have you as a best friend,” you mumble, almost feeling like crying. He laughs and gives your hand a squeeze, nodding his head in agreement. 

“I agree. So, what’s going on?” 

You go quiet at his question, debating on telling him the truth or not. But, of course, he can also pretty much always tell when you’re lying. You decide to tell him everything, from taking the shower when it first happened to this morning. He listens intently and doesn’t interrupt, waiting to speak until you’re done speaking. 

“You have the Hanahaki Disease,” he replies like it’s obvious. Your brows furrow at this new information, trying to recall anything you’ve learned about this disease. You’ve never heard of it though.

At your obvious confusion, he starts to explain. “Basically, you’re in love with a certain someone and since they don’t return your love, to your knowledge, your lungs are growing flowers, or something. I’m not completely sure about all the details. I read a book on it forever and a half ago. I’d have to do more research on it.” 

You nod your head, relaxing and feeling yourself smile at having such a perfect best friend that will help you through this. Your smile fades though when you see his dark expression. “What aren’t you telling me?” you whisper. 

He stays silent for a moment before speaking in the softest voice you’ve ever heard from him. “As I said, I don’t know all of the details…” he trails off to gather his thoughts before continuing, “but, if I’m remembering correctly, it can be fatal. There is a cure though.” 

Your rising good mood suddenly plummets at this news. 

“Fatal?” you mumble, your throat constricting at the thought of dying because of your stupid crush on Asmo. That airhead is going to get you killed! And for what? 

You don’t realize you start crying until Satan starts wiping the tears off of your cheeks. “Shh, hey. Don’t cry. Why are you focusing on the bad? I said there’s a cure. I’ll leave and go do research on this. You’re not going to die, (Y/n),” he soothes, pulling you into a hug. You take a deep breath of his calming scent and nod your head, closing your eyes. 

“Okay. Thank you. You’re the best,” you mumble into his chest. Your face vibrates as his chest rumbles with his laugh. 

“You bet I am,” he replies playfully. 

It didn’t take long for him to come back with answers, several books crowded in his arms along with a frown. “Well, that can’t be good,” you say softly as you sit up on your bed, which is where you’ve been hiding out from everyone. 

“So, I was right. Hanahaki Disease can be fatal but there’s a cure. You’d have to get surgery to remove the flowers from your lungs or else you’ll suffocate to death.” Your brows furrow at this, seeing that he still looks apprehensive and maybe even angry? 

“What else? There’s something else. I can tell,” you say softly. 

“Well, you can get the flowers removed but if you do, you’ll forget about the person you love. You’ll have no memory of them,” he says softly. Your heart squeezes at the thought of not remembering Asmo. 

“So, I can’t do that.” 

“(Y/n)-”

“No, don’t ‘(Y/n)’ me. I’d rather die then forget A—him. He’s my love. I don’t…”

He sighs and walks over to your bed and sits down beside you, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. Your head flops down onto his shoulder closest to you, a frown hanging heavy on your face as tears prick at your eyes. 

“You can just say it’s Asmo. Everyone knows,” he whispers softly to you, bringing his hand up to comfortingly rub your back. You turn your head to cry into his chest, your breathing starting to become labored. 

“Everyone except for him,” you sob, your whole body shaking. You cry for a while, holding Satan tightly as he holds you just as tight, if not tighter. Once you’ve cried your heart out, he speaks up again. 

“Why don’t you just confess to him? I think he likes you,” he says as he pulls away, using his thumbs to wipe at your cheeks. You shake your head and grab his wrists to pull his hands away from your face. 

“There’s no way I’m going to tell him. You know him. He brings someone home practically every other night and-” Your cut off by something forcing its way into your throat, causing you to cough and hack until you get the petal out. You spit it out into your hand, panting for air and letting your face cool back off. 

“(Y/n), I’m serious. Look at you. You’re coughing up multiple petals a day. If you keep this up, it’ll go from every couple of hours to every couple of minutes until you’re choking on them and not being able to breathe,” Satan says gravely, his own eyes starting to sting as he thinks about you dying in front of him without him being able to stop it. 

You smile softly at him and cup his cheek, rubbing your thumb along his cheekbone. “Hey, calm down. We’ll figure something out, okay? I’m sitting with the smartest man in the Devildom,” you soothe, taking deep breaths with him to help him calm down. 

“(Y/n), I’ve already read a handful of books and they all say the same thing. Your love either has to reciprocate your love or you have to get the flowers removed from your lungs. There’s no other option. We don’t even know how long you have,” he pleads quietly, tears starting to leak from his eyes. 

You sigh and shake your head, bringing your other hand to run through his hair, just as he had done for you. “Hey, don’t cry, okay? I’ll talk to...him. Alright? I’ll do it for you,” you promise. This makes him relax before he pulls you into another hug. 

“Thank you, (Y/n),” he mumbles into your ear. 

Later that evening, you're laying in bed and trying to coerce yourself into falling asleep which isn’t playing out so well. All your mind can do is play out scenarios of your confession to Asmo. What if he laughs in your face? What if he shoots you down without hesitation? All you can think about is negative outcomes. You can’t even imagine him returning your feelings. 

But how could you? It’s obvious he’s not into you. Why would he be when he can have anyone he wants? 

Next, your brain liked to play out the scenario of you choking to death right in front of everyone without being able to do anything. Your eyes start to sting with the want of tears, your fears slowly starting to consume you. Before you can think better of it, you quickly jump out of bed and run out of your room. The cool air of the big house hits your bare legs as you run through the hall. 

You gasp for air as you reach his door, abruptly knocking on it as you lean against the wall next to it. He’s quick to open the door, looking at you with wide eyes. 

“(Y/n)? What’s wrong? Are you choking again?” Satan asks as he swiftly takes you into his arms. You shake your head as you start to cry into his chest, your whole body shaking violently. “Shh, it’s okay. I got you,” he reassures, whispering sweet nothings into your ear as he pulls you into his room. He sits you down on his bed, squatting down in front of you once you’re settled. 

“Can I stay here?” you just barely whisper. You feel like a child who had a nightmare and is afraid of the shadows that lurk in the dark. Then again, that’s pretty much exactly what is happening. He instantly nods his head in agreement, smiling up at you as he soothingly rubs his hands through your hair when he stands up. 

“Of course. You don’t even have to ask,” he reassures. He then leaves the room for a moment before coming back with extra blankets and a pillow. Before he can walk past his own bed, you gently grab his wrist. 

“I, um—you should sleep on your bed. I’ll feel bad if I kick you out of it,” you whisper, slowly starting to calm down more. He smiles more at you and sets the pillow and blanket onto the bed. 

“Are you comfortable sharing then? Because I’m not letting you sleep anywhere else other than a bed,” he replies as he sits down beside you. You nod your head, sniffling and wiping your tired eyes. 

“Yeah. I was, um, actually wondering if we could…” you trail off, your throat constricting a bit. 

“Hey, c’mon. It’s me. You can speak freely with me,” he whispers, rubbing your back. You take a deep breath, nodding your head as you work up the confidence to ask him. 

“Can we cuddle? I just...I’ve never done it before, and it would make me feel better that you’d be able to feel the signs if I started choking,” you reply in the softest tone possible, staring down at your lap. You look up at him though when he starts to chuckle. 

“You’re too pure for this world. Of course, I don’t mind,” he promises, standing up to pull back the covers. He lets you crawl in first and get comfortable before tucking you in on your side of the bed. He then goes around to the other side of the bed and crawls in, making sure to be respectful of your boundaries and to let you come to him. Once he pulls the covers up his body, you slowly sidle over to him and tuck yourself into his side. 

Having your best friend here supporting you like this is so reassuring that you can’t find the words to thank him even if you tried. 

“Thank you,” you say simply, wishing you could say more. You can hear the smile in his voice when he replies. 

“Don’t mention it,” he whispers back before you both fall into a comfortable silence and eventually drift off to sleep. 

The only way to describe the next morning is pure chaos. Apparently, one of the brothers saw you two embracing in front of Satan’s room before he pulled you inside. 

They, of course, all assumed the worst. 

“What did you do to our innocent (Y/n)?” 

“Do I need to get my knife?” 

“Yeah, what did you—wait, Belphie. You have a knife?” 

“Satan, unless you two are dating, this is highly inappropriate.” 

And it just kept going. Asmo, for once though, is deadly silent. He wouldn’t even look at you two and just ate his breakfast. He didn’t give you your daily morning peck on the cheek either. 

Starting to get annoyed, you huff and roll your eyes before shouting over them. “Can you hooligans shut up for ten seconds and let me explain?” Successfully grabbing their attention, you continue. “I just had a nightmare and went to his room for comfort. Nothing happened, you pervs,” you explain in deadpan. 

You watch them all physically relax. Except for Asmo. He still seems wound up tight and ready to snap or break in half at any second. 

“Oh, thank god.” 

“Belphie, put your knife away.” 

“I shouldn’t have assumed the worst and jumped to conclusions. I apologize.” 

“Are you okay, (Y/n)? Was it a scary nightmare?” Beel asks, giving you some of his breakfast as an apology. This man is too pure to be a demon. You honestly feel terrible lying to all of them, especially him. Then again, it was basically a nightmare come true. 

“I’m fine, Beel. It was...actually terrifying but Satan helped calm me down,” you reassure the sweet man. He smiles softly at you and pours you some juice before you can do it yourself. 

“I’m sorry, (Y/n). That must’ve been awful,” Belphie says next to Beel. 

“And here we were throwing accusations at you two. I, once again, apologize,” Lucifer speaks up, bowing his head as he apologizes. 

You smile at them all and shake your head, moving your hands back and forth in front of you. “No, no. It’s okay, really. I understand why you all had your suspicions. I’m sure it did look bad.” You take this chance to look at Asmo who is still staring down at his breakfast as he slowly scoops food up to his mouth. 

You’ll have to ask him about it later. 

All the brothers, minus Asmo and Satan, continue to apologize though until breakfast is halfway over. Then, after that, you all finally relax and talk as you normally do. You’re glad because you didn’t know how many more apologies you could take. 

You’re walking towards your room after school when you hear Asmo yelling at someone. You pause by his door, not meaning to eavesdrop but you can’t help but to be curious. You jump out of your skin when the door flies open and out walks a succubus. They give you a dirty look as they leave, fully clothed and furious. 

You watch them for a moment before looking inside the room to see that Asmo is standing at the door, a deathly grip on his door knob. You clear your throat and give him a small smile. “Hey, I wanted to ask how you’re doing. You seemed a little tense at breakfast and…” you trail off, looking down the hallway to where the succubus just disappeared as they turn, “plus, that whole situation just happened so—”

“How about you mind your own business and leave me alone?” he snaps, cutting you off. Your head whips back to him, your jaw dropping as you stare at him. Did he really just say that? Maybe a side effect of the Hanahaki Disease is hallucinations? 

“What—”

“What are you, deaf? I said mind your own business! You’re always so nosey! What? Whoring around with Satan isn’t enough? Do you want to—” He stops in his tracks when your eyes start to fill with tears, his throat closing in on itself. Why is he yelling at you? You did nothing wrong. You didn’t spend the night with Satan because you wanted to sleep with him or something. 

He still has a chance. 

Before he can apologize though, you start to cough. He waits for you to stop so he can say how sorry he is but you just keep going. Suddenly, your coughing stops and there’s no sound escaping you. But why do you still look like you’re choking? 

“(Y/n)? What’s wrong?” he asks quickly, not sure as to what’s happening. Are you pranking him? 

Your face fills with color, becoming too dark for his liking. “Help! Someone help! Something’s happening with (Y/n)!” he screams at the top of his lungs as he wraps his arms around you. His touch sends the petal flying from your mouth and you get clarity for a moment before you start coughing again. 

He helps you to lay on the ground, seeing that your legs are shaking and going weak. Your eyes leak fat tears as you stare up at him, not being able to stop what’s happening. You should’ve just told him how you feel and tried to get him to fall in love with you. You barely got any time to even decide what to do though. How unfair is that? Maybe it’s because he yelled at you and you thought for a moment that he hates you. 

Satan is there within a few seconds, his eyes widening when he sees you choking. He knows how to do the heimlich maneuver, cpr, and anything else you could imagine but none of that will help you. He knows that but he feels his hands itch by his side to do something as he kneels next to you. 

“Why are you just staring at them? Do something!” Asmo screams, fearful tears welling up in his eyes. You continue to cough below them and spit out petal after petal, the petals growing in size with each one that leaves. 

“I’m sorry, (Y/n),” Satan whispers, holding your hand in his and giving squeezes to help soothe you. He hopes it’s soothing anyway. 

Asmo is beyond furious and devastated as he screams at his brother. “Why are you apologizing? Just help them!”  Tears fall down his face and land on yours, calming your coughing with each tear. Satan takes notice of this and wipes at his eyes to get a better look at you. 

“They love you! That’s why this is happening!” Satan shouts, seeing his other brothers race down the hallway towards all the commotion. When they arrive though, your airway is blocked once more and your face starts to grow dark. Asmo looks away from you to Satan, not understanding what he’s talking about. 

“What are you talking about?” he speaks his thought, his hands shaking as he pulls you onto his lap. They watch your eyes roll back into your head, your body slowly starting to grow still. 

“I’ll explain later! They’re in love with you and you don’t return their feelings! You—”

“I do! (Y/n), I love you! I promise I do! Ever since you got here, I’ve been head over heels for you!” Asmo sobs, his chest aching with the raw feeling. He’s never admitted it before. He always just told himself it was lust, not the other L word. 

They all look down to you, expecting you to breathe and wake right up with a bright smile. But you laid in Asmo’s arms completely still. Satan’s fingers go to your neck, his entire body feeling numb. “They have no pulse!” he panics, going up onto his knees to stare down at you. 

You’re supposed to be okay! Asmo confessed his love for you and you’re supposed to be healed! So why aren’t you breathing? Was he too late? Asmo starts to sob, already assuming the worst. Satan keeps staring at you, trying to find a loophole or an unknown answer. His other brothers stand around them and silently cry, not really sure what’s going on but knowing by your still body that it’s not good. 

Satan then sees the pink flowers deep in your throat, a gasping flying out of him as his hand goes to your mouth. Everyone watches as he shoves his hand into your mouth before struggling to grab something. He grabs the flower and retches it from your mouth, staring in awe and disgust as he pulls the flower free from your throat. An entire flower connected to a stem comes from you, your chest tugging a bit when Satan reaches a certain point. He yanks harder and the flower suddenly comes free, revealing roots that were stuck inside of your lungs. 

“Kiss them,” Satan whispers, hand dropping the flower by your body. The flower is covered in blood and spit, soaking the floor as soon as he drops it. Asmo doesn’t hesitate to kiss you, wanting you to live so he can do all the things he’s been dying to do. 

He places a delicate kiss onto your lips, the biggest weight imaginable leaving his shoulders as he finally gets to kiss you. He just wishes it was under different circumstances and that you could actually return it. Your lips felt cold against his but he could care less. Tears are still streaming down his face and landing on yours, sliding down your cheeks towards your hairline. 

His eyes snap open when your lips just barely move against his. He would love nothing more than to keep kissing you but that small movement had him pulling back. You gasp for air, your red eyes flying open. You cough and make them all panic that it didn’t work. But then your coughing stops and you’re just laying there and staring up at the ceiling while you get air into your desperate lungs. 

Your eyes then move to your love, new tears filling your eyes. Asmo thinks maybe you’re upset with him and that’s why you’re crying. It makes sense to him. You almost died because of him. 

“This is the happiest moment of my life,” you whisper hoarsely. Everyone immediately relaxes and even glares at you a bit for scaring them and then saying such a thing.  

“You’re such an idiot,” Satan cries, pulling you out of Asmo’s hold and into his own. You weakly return the hug, chuckling quietly to yourself. 

“But I’m your guys’ idiot,” you mumble, growing tired as soon as you get all the air back into your lungs and your heart has calmed down. 

“You should rest. I’ll explain to everyone what happened,” he says as he pulls away, looking to Asmo. He’s assuming that he would want to help you now that you two are an item. Well, he assumes you are. 

“I’ll help them. You can inform me later,” he says softly, gently taking you back into his hold. He brushes your hair out of your face, the softest look imaginable gracing his features. You smile tiredly up at him, leaning into his warmth. 

He then helps you up and starts to lead you to your room. “Can we go to your room?” you whisper weakly, feeling him instantly go back towards where you were laying. 

“Of course, my love,” he reassures, leading you to his open door. You look to Satan who picks up the wet flower with his already dirtied hand. 

“Wait,” you call out. It wasn’t as loud as you hoped but it still got all of their attention. “Can I keep it?” you ask. They all stare at you as if you grew a second head. You just keep your focus on Satan though who is studying you silently from the floor. 

“Yeah, of course. I don’t really know why you’d want it though…” he reassures as he gets off of the ground. You smile and lean into Asmo’s side, your eyes tracing the flower. 

“It’ll be a reminder that our love prevailed,” you say softly, warming all of their hearts up. Satan smiles at this and nods, sending you a thumbs up with his free hand. 

“I’ll clean it off for you and leave it in your room,” he reassures. You thank him before letting Asmo lead you inside and close the door behind him. 

“Do you want a bath?” he asks, leading you to the bed to let you sit down. You think about it for a moment, looking down at your body. You could use one, since your shirt has your spit and little drops of blood on it but you don’t want him to see you naked for the first time like this. 

You shake your head and weakly point at his closet. “No, I’m okay. Can I just borrow one of your shirts?” you ask unsurely. He instantly smiles and nods as he makes his way to his closet. 

“But, of course! I just know you’ll look perfect in my clothes!” he says cheerfully, starting to act more like his usual self. He pulls out a sweater and a pair of his boxers for you to wear. Lucky for you, you’re just in your uniform. You can easily get another school shirt to replace the ruined one. 

He walks back over to you and hands you the clothes, sharing a loving smile with you before walking back to his closet to get himself clothes. He keeps his back to you when he hears something drop to the floor, knowing it’s your clothes. 

“Can you...help me? It’s hard to lift my arms,” you say softly, a dark blush spreading across your cheeks. He turns to see you in his boxers and still in your bloody shirt, your bottoms on his floor. He shines a smile at you as he walks over to you once more, ready to assist you. 

“I’ll do everything I can to help,” he promises. He goes behind you and places his hands on your waist, silently asking if he can take your shirt off. You nod your head, letting him remove it for you. He keeps his eyes to the back of your head, knowing now isn’t the time to thirst over your body. 

He helps you pull the sweater over your head and get your arms through, kissing the side of your head when he’s done. “Sorry. It’s just hard to—”

“You don’t have to apologize. All of this is my fault anyway,” he reassures, standing up from the bed to get changed out of his uniform. He hears you lay down, turning to see that you’re giving him the same privacy that he gave you. You’re so precious. 

He quickly changes into something comfortable before swiftly going back to the bed, pulling his satin sheets and smooth covers over your delicate body before sliding in behind you. He then snuggles into your back, inhaling your scent as he closes his eyes. 

“It’s not your fault, you know,” you whisper, your voice the only sound in the quiet room. His brows furrow as he opens his eyes back up to look at the back of your head. 

“What? How can it not be my fault?” he asks confusedly.

“I’m the one who kept it to myself and didn’t tell you,” you mumble. He sighs and tightens his grip on you a bit. 

“Hey, don’t stress over it now. It’s all over. You’re mine and laying in my arms. I…” he trails off for a moment, steeling his resolve before saying the three words, “I love you.” He pushes his face into your hair as you reply. 

“I love you more,” you promise. 

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More with Asmo 

Tag List: @mexicanmagick, @animefreak-247, @jungialo, @fanfictwarrior, @ohbbobeyme, @zeldan7, @niphredil-14, @gamelovers-posts, @virtualmemmecollector, @collarjessie, @officialdevorak, @katelynwithpaint, @buzzybeebee​ ✦ if you would like to be added or removed, comment or send an ask :)

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[jetaime-jespere]

Under The Weather

Some pointless fluff that's been floating around my head for a few days. Also on ao3 🙂

It’s not the usual alarm clock that wakes her this time - the tauntingly peaceful melody that she now associates with being ousted from a dream every morning.

In fact, Emily is hardly awake. Her eyes are still sealed shut, she’s still nestled under the covers because the thought of moving is almost unbearable. Even in her sleep induced haze, the only thing she’s fully aware of is just how shitty she feels, like every part of her body has somehow teamed up against her in unison. What started last night as a subtle headache is now accompanied by a persistent rawness in the back of her throat. The same pain has crept in to settle behind her eyes, and now radiates around her head, like a pair of gnarled hands wrapped and clenched around her brain. But that isn’t the only thing - everything just hurts. Her limbs feel like lead, her throat is now on fire, lips cracked and chapped from the winter air. Her mouth is dry as dust as she grapples for the glass of water Aaron had left on her nightstand hours ago - something he’s done since they moved in together.

Cracking one eye open takes monumentally more effort than it should. The wind rattles against the windows, whistling through the bitterly cold February morning and Emily groans at the prospect of even moving from the safety of their warm bed. A glance at the clock tells her it’s 5:40. Aaron’s side is empty, the sheets cooled, but she can hear the steady pulse of the shower, see the steam curling out from under the door. The cloying pull of sleep is too consuming, the glass of water all but forgotten as Emily groans. The notion of having to get up in less than a half an hour is making her stomach roil in protest.

Instead, she burrows herself deeper into the blankets, wishing somehow this day would somehow restart itself. Her eyelids are too heavy to stay open, even though the looming reality of her alarm hovers over her, along with the daunting challenge of making it through the day. Emily remembers the stack of unfinished case reports left on her desk from yesterday, abandoned in the wake of remembering Ava’s ballet class just a few minutes too late to be early for once. That’s about the time the headache started, subtle enough to temporarily ignore as their daughter happily chattered away in the backseat, little legs kicking against the leather upholstered seat - a story about unicorns and fairies, one Emily could probably retell herself she’s heard it so many times. If only she knew then.

The next thing she’s aware of is Aaron bending down to kiss her awake, fresh from the shower and half dressed in an undershirt, his skin still damp as he murmurs good morning . The whiff of eucalyptus soap and his mouthwash only makes her dizzy as she all but pushes her husband away from her with an ill attempted protest against his affection. “Five more minutes,” she croaks. “S’tired.”

“Sweetheart?” Aaron questions even though he doesn’t have to. He’s no stranger to her indifference to early mornings, the way her arms wind around his neck to pull him close most days when he wakes her with the same kisses, the same sweet nothings in her ear. On the rare occasion when they have more time, he ends up back in bed with her, making the most of a few precious moments. Those mornings are his favorites - the ones where he gets to press her into the mattress, get her leg over his shoulder, seal his mouth against hers to muffle the moans he hasn’t grown tired of hearing even years after he first heard them. But this is different. He figures it out immediately, knuckles brushing against her flaming cheek, skin clammy under his touch.

“Hmmph?” Emily shrugs out from under his touch, the cool hand on her burning forehead a reminder of just how awful she feels. “Five more minutes and I’ll get up.”

Aaron laughs softly, already reaching for his phone on the dresser. “Not a chance.”

“I’ll be fine in a half hour.” It’s a futile attempt; Aaron knows her better than she knows herself by now. Emily doesn’t get sick often, maybe once every few years. But when she does, it hits hard and fast, rendering her inherently useless for a day or two, and they’re all a little thrown off kilter without her. Even though her eyes are closed she can practically see him making arrangements - school dropoff and pickup, soccer practice for Jack, ice skating lessons for Ava. It’s also a Wednesday, the one day a week he spends mostly in meetings as unit chief. It’s the day she picks up more slack around the house, handles the after school activities in addition to her own professional responsibilities. It’s a routine they’ve perfected through trial and error over time.

“You weren’t yourself last night,” he sinks down beside her, his weight dipping the mattress down as he pushes some hair from her face. “You barely touched your dinner. You fell asleep with the light on,” he adds pointedly, pressing his lips to his wife’s forehead for confirmation. “And you definitely have a fever.”

“Do not,” she argues. It’s becoming harder and harder to challenge him, a battle she knows she’ll ultimately lose. There’s no way he’ll let her out the door let alone into the BAU at this point. Despite the sweat that trickles down her back, her teeth chatter together.

Aaron wraps her into his arms, aware of how she melds against his chest as she seeks the warm comfort of his body. “Do too.” His tone is light, which only manages to frustrate her more. “And you’re staying home today. Don’t even try to argue with me.”

Emily attempts to pull away from his embrace. “I have a meeting too, you know. Jack has practice and Ava -”

“Has ice skating. I know, Sweetheart.” Aaron gently pushes her back down, tucking the blankets around her. “I know their schedule. And yours. We’ll manage.” But he’s already reaching for his phone, dialing a number he knows by heart.

“Who are you calling?” She asks weakly, succumbing to his insistence. The sky has lightened to a shade of dark blue instead of inky black, the first traces of the winter morning starting to peek through the curtains.

“I’m texting Garcia. If she can take Ava this afternoon, I can get Jack to soccer after my last meeting.”

Emily grumbles while he taps out a message as she runs through her day ahead. There are her own meetings, of course, a slew of chores around the house waiting when she gets home, all the little things that accumulate during the week without fail, over and over. Aaron can almost read her mind as he gets dressed, disappearing into the depths of their closet to pluck a suit from the rack on his side. “Things won’t implode without you, Em. We can survive one day.”

From her place in bed, Emily watches him dress, securing the sleeves of his dress shirt, the jacket stretching across his broad shoulders over the crisp fabric of his shirt. Some days, she can’t believe they’ve come this far. Seven years of marriage has brought its fair share of ups and downs, most recently an ill-timed miscarriage in the days before Christmas. She hadn’t been too far along - ten weeks - but December 23rd was spent at her doctor, Aaron’s hand wrapped around hers as the news was broken, their eyes glued to the ultrasound screen. They hadn’t been trying at all. It was a surprise neither of them expected, which only seemed to worsen the blow when it abruptly ended. Emily had been the picture of composed, smiling through her grief on Christmas Eve, distracted by Ava and Jack’s excitement, the endless mountain of gifts to smuggle from their closet under the tree, only to spend the early hours of Christmas morning crying in his arms until he rocked her to sleep. She closes her eyes, wills herself not to think of it. It’s still a little too soon.

When he’s fully dressed, traces of cologne lingering in the air, Aaron gathers a box of tissues and fills a glass of water, setting both down next to Emily. “I’ll bring you some toast before I leave. You need to eat something.”

“You need to wake -”

“I’m already -”

“Mommy?” The voice outside the door tells them at least one more Hotchner is already awake. Aaron drops a quick kiss on Emily’s head, frowning when he notes how warm she is. He makes a mental note to bring some ibuprofen with the toast and opens the door just a crack to find their daughter on the other side, fully dressed, not a hair out of place.

“Where’s Mommy?” He’s met with the round, concerned eyes that belong to Ava. Even at six, she could be Emily’s clone, with sleek dark locks and the same pale skin. Ava is precocious, sharp as a tack yet sensitive, hesitant to trust but loyal to a fault. Her arrival in the world had been dramatic, at one point downright terrifying for a few minutes, shoulder dystocia to blame. Aaron had turned ghostly pale as the doctors rattled off medical jargon he’d only ever seen dramatized on primetime television. Yet it was that same efficiency and urgency that ultimately brought their daughter safely into the world a short time later. The moment she was placed in his hands, Aaron was completely smitten, his world forever changed.

“Mommy isn’t feeling well, Ava.” Aaron explains with an abundance of patience, his tone soft and reassuring. In the days after Christmas, following the miscarriage, Ava had been confused when Aaron took Emily’s usual place at the new, massive dollhouse from Santa, doing his best to display the same enthusiasm his wife so effortlessly showed. He’d uttered the same words - Mommy isn't feeling well - when she protested, complaining about his doll handling skills and seeming inability to make their hair look half as good as Emily did. Even though his placations  held an entirely different meaning then, Ava questioned him relentlessly. Telling a version of the truth had been harder than he anticipated, for more reasons that one.

“Is Mommy okay?” Ava asks, persistent as ever.

“She’s fine, honey. Just the flu. Remember when you had it in Kindergarten? You got to stay home while Jack went to school. Mommy and I took turns staying home with you? You got to eat popsicles in bed and watch TV during the day?”

Ava nods, not fully convinced as she tries to poke her head further into their bedroom. “I guess.”

“That’s what Mommy has, honey. Grown-ups get sick too. So Daddy is going to drive you to school. Aunt Penelope is going to take you to ice skating lessons this afternoon.”

Ava squeals with delight at the mention of Garcia, clapping her tiny hands together, only to have the expression melt off her face seconds later. Then she frowns. “But Daddy,” she whispers slowly, her resemblance to Emily and similar mannerisms uncanny, as if profiling him even at the tender age of six. “You don’t know the Good Morning song.”

Aaron checks his watch and pinches the bridge of his nose as he peers into the hallway. Jack’s bedroom door is still firmly closed, indicating his son is most likely still sound asleep. Waking him is the next battle, one of his least favorite tasks as of late. “What song, Ava?” He sighs, not missing the fleeting touch of amusement that crosses Emily’s face from across the room, the softest of laughs. Even in her current state, pale and tired, clearly more than under the weather, Aaron thinks she’s stunning.

“Mommy and I always sing the Good Morning song on the way to school.” Ava folds her arms across her chest, tapping her foot against the floor. “If you don’t know the words -” Her dark eyes double in size, widening impossibly as she stubs her toe with disappointment. “How can you drive me to school?”

“Honey -”

“Mommy knows all the words.”

“Ava - “

“Daddy.” She challenges, sticking her lower lip out in a whiny pout. Aaron knows what’s ahead. Even though Ava has him completely wrapped around her tiny finger, their daughter absolutely adores her mother, never missing an opportunity to steal a few quiet moments together. He often finds Ava curled in Emily’s lap, listening to a story, or playing dress up with some of Emily’s old clothes. Aaron has caught a few misplaced tubes of lipstick hidden in her dress-up box, ones Emily thought she lost long ago. He’s seen the pictures she draws, the way Ava always draws Emily next to her in each one. It tugs on every single one of his heartstrings, every single time.

“Mommy will teach me,” he assures her, crouching down to her level, bringing her to lean on his knee. “Daddy will do his best to know all the words before I take you to school.” He ruffles Ava’s hair as she beams, seemingly appeased by his effort. “Can you be my special helper this morning and wake Jack for me?”

Her face brightens instantly, a mischievous grin spreading across her face at the thought of what she’s being asked to do - something that, most of the time, she’s actively told not to do. “Okay!”

Aaron grimaces slightly as Ava skips off down the hall. There’s a finite window of time until he’s left to deal with Jack’s morning moodiness, exacerbated by his sister’s surprise wakeup call. But it’s worth the few extra minutes he’ll get to spend with his wife. Emily is now fully awake, looking even more miserable than she had moments before.

“You’re on your own for the good morning song,” she rasps sarcastically. Her voice is hoarse, even as she tries to smile. “Couldn’t sing it for you if I tried.”

“I think I’m going to take her for donuts. Those strawberry frosted ones she loves?” He slips back in bed beside Emily, pulling her into his arms once again. “Distraction at its finest.”

“The ones I love,” Emily reminds him, swiping her thumb across his cheek. “Good luck.”

“Right. Hopefully she’ll forget all about it.” Then he remembers just who he’s talking about - a miniature version of the woman he somehow got lucky enough to call his wife, instantly realizing how wrong he is. He’s a goner; he won’t hear the end of this for days.

“I doubt it. But you can give it a try.” Emily snuggles into his chest, savoring their final few minutes of peace.

…

Winter sun streams through the windows, casting the bedroom in a mix of shadows and blinding light.

She isn’t sure how much time has passed - an hour could easily be three, maybe five. Sleep has consumed her, on and off all morning. Yet she’s uncomfortable, alternating between throwing the covers off and disappearing into them, unable to seek enough warmth as she reaches for one more blanket. Everything still hurts, and topped off by a congestion that settles deep in her lungs, rattles her chest with every cough. She almost feels worse now than she did earlier, if that’s even possible.

The house is quiet, so she hears the subtle rumbling of the garage opening, the soft creak of the door leading into the house. Emily smiles to herself - she’d recognize his footsteps anywhere as he makes his way through the living room. He’s undoubtedly picking up wayward shoes and toys along the way, most likely grumbling about the clutter. He’d never admit it (even if she knows it to be true) but it’s one of his favorite tasks. The mess is a reminder of what they’ve built over time, that sometimes things work out just as they were meant to. Even if it means their house will never be spotless.

She pries one eye open as he shoulders through the bedroom door, slipping his suit jacket off to drape over a chair. “You could have stayed at work.” Emily isn’t surprised at all. She knows him sell enough by now.

“I know.” And while Aaron is fully aware of that, there was never a chance he wasn’t going to come home to tend to her. He stayed at the BAU long enough to get things squared away, arranging plans for the kids, and delegating tasks as needed before making a hasty exit. And now, only a few hours later, he’s back. He checks her forehead, refreshes the glass of water on the nightstand and tosses some tissues into the trash. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit.” Emily shifts to make room beside her. “Worse than before, if that’s possible.” She sighs a little when he wraps her into his embrace. Her head falls against his chest on its own accord. “Ava and Jack?”

“Garcia is taking Ava to ice skating. She’s taking her out for ice cream afterward.” He gets a hand in her hair, rocks her back and forth a little bit until she relaxes fully against him. Almost.

“What about dinner?” Emily mumbles, stifling a cough into her fist. It rattles within her chest, reverberating through her ribs. “She needs real dinner, Aaron.”

“I think she’ll live without vegetables for one night, Emily.”

She’s too tired to argue. “Jack?”

“Dave offered to take him to soccer,” Aaron says, patting her back through the last of the coughing fit and grappling for the water glass on the table. “It’s all taken care of.” His hands are soothing, gentle and strong against the sore, stiff muscles. “You sound terrible.”

Emily pointedly ignores him. “What about you?”

“I cleared my schedule for the rest of the day. Tomorrow too,” he adds with a wink, taking her hands in his own when she starts to object. “I’m making it my mission to get you better.” He shows her the package of popsicles he’d stopped for on the way home, tosses the bag away to the floor. “And I got some of these. Just for you.”

The soft laughter that comes from her is accompanied by yet another hacking cough. It’s the little things he does that are the most thoughtful - a pit stop to the grocery store in the middle of a work day is just one example. “Sounds like you have quite the job ahead of you.” But she’s eyeing the popsicles - it’s the first thing that’s sounded appealing all morning.

“You’re not an easy patient,” Aaron chides as he hands her a cherry flavored one, taking a lemon flavored for himself. “One of the worst I’ve ever dealt with, actually.” He flicks her nose lovingly.

“Is that so?” The cool chill of the frozen ice against her lips and throat is a temporary relief, a moment of reprieve. She doesn’t even notice when a little piece of it breaks off to leave a tiny red stain on the sheets. “You’re no picnic yourself, you know.”

It’s his turn to laugh, because she’s right. He’s just as stubborn, the art of rest and healing lost on them both. “I feel called out.”

“It’s because I’m right,” she quips. And she is.

Emily sleeps fitfully in his arms, only waking up once as the sun sets over the trees in the distance. When her eyes drift open, he has the television remote in one hand, the other anchoring her across his chest. “What time is it?” She mumbles, blinking furiously as her eyes adjust to the dim light.

“Close to five.” He kisses her, rocks her a little to wake her up. “You’ve been sleeping for hours.” Aaron sounds almost pleased that she finally got some solid rest. “I’m going to make you some soup. And don’t tell me I don’t have to.” He untangles himself from her, somehow without disturbing her comfort within their bed. “I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

His fingers brush across her cheek; she’s not as hot to the touch this time. Emily leans into his hand, curling her fingers around his wrist.

“Thank you for coming home.” She hardly sounds any better, certainly doesn’t feel it either. But having him there somehow makes it slightly more bearable, an unexpected silver lining to all of this. And the reverence in his eyes, the same one she sees every time he looks at her, confirms the fact that he’d do it without question. Another example of the unconditional love he’d promised years before when they exchanged vows in Dave’s backyard.

“There’s nowhere else I should be, Sweetheart.”

Four days later, Aaron wakes up with the same aching muscles and raw throat, barely able to keep his eyes open as a new week awaits them. Emily is only more than happy to return his favor.

[kikis-writing-world]

Bug in the System

Summary: Reader has a complicated relationship with Nathan, living and working with him. They’ve always been nervous to bring up prescription medication, so shit hits the fan when they runs out and their mood plummets.

Pairing: Nathan Bateman x GN!Reader that struggles with mental health.

Word Count: 2k

Rating/Warnings: Mental health - depression and anxiety are expressly mentioned and reader is in a bad low. Talk of medication and ramifications of not taking them. Mention of doctors. Brief mention of sex. Worries of the stigma around mental health. Lots of swearing because it’s Nathan. Unedited/Betaed. it’s almost fluff in Nathan’s asshole way, there’s a happy ending.

A/N: I blame @foxilayde​ that I’m suddenly writing for Nathan... I hated him when I watched the movie and now here we are. Idk, this idea hit me last night while trying to fall asleep and I couldn’t get it out of my head. I had to write it.

You weren’t sure how to define the relationship you and Nathan had. He wasn’t your boyfriend - not only did that feel so juvenile, but also… he just wasn’t. There had never been a declaration of love between the two of you, no commitment to monogamy or even non-monogamy. The two of you lived together, worked together, slept together- it could almost be called a friends with benefits relationship, only… softer. You ate dinners together, danced around the house together, and cuddled together when watching movies. You also spent days, sometimes weeks at a time where you hardly spoke to each other when engrossed in a project. Did this form out of attraction, or emotion, or was it an inevitability when two adults - whose sexualities, attractions and availabilities lined up accordingly - lived together in isolation for an extended period of time? 

In summary: there was no easy way to define what was between the two of you, and you were happy there were no other humans around to ask. You didn’t feel the need to defend what you shared, but you had no desire to try to label it either.

Despite the friendly and casual nature of whatever the relationship was, there were still things that you had yet to admit to Nathan. The dwindling supply of medications tucked safely in a make-up bag inside the drawer of your bedside table felt like a ticking time bomb. You only had so many doses remaining and it wasn’t like you could walk down to the local pharmacy for a refill. Any supplies coming to the fortress of a home had to be called in, ordered, and helicoptered to you. There was no way to do it without Nathan finding out along the way.

You watched the pills slowly empty from their plastic bottles like a reverse hourglass. Despite the effects they had on your malfunctioning brain chemistry, they never quite tampered down the anxiety you had about opening up about your mental illness, let alone to someone like Nathan.

Nathan worked hard and played harder. He strove to be the best him he could be at all times. He accepted nothing less than perfection and no matter what the relationship between you two could be defined as -coworkers, employer/employee, friends, friends with benefits, lovers -  you didn’t want to disappoint him.

You avoided and avoided until inevitably, the last pill came out of the last bottle. It only got worse from there. Without the anxieties in check and the chemicals being balanced, the insecurity flared even worse. Your inner voice told you that you deserved the unhappiness flowing through you, that you should just stay in bed and give up since Nathan would kick you out of the house soon enough: he’d either get tired of your low mood, your falling productivity, or he’d discover your secret and be done with you.

He noticed. Of course he did. You stopped dancing, stopped cuddling, stopped fucking. Then you stopped eating, stopped talking, stopped leaving your room. You felt like you couldn’t get out of bed at all. You spent your time sleeping or curled up under your blankets in the dark room wishing you could sleep more. That or just disappear.

That was where Nathan found you, a month and a half after you’d run out of your meds.

“What the fuck is going on with you?” He barged into your room one morning… afternoon… you had no idea what time it was.

Nathan turned the light on and you could hear him pacing. “Are you sick? Do I need to call in a doctor? Are you even alive under there?! Hello?!”

You sighed, forcing yourself to sit up and prove you were alive, awake, and hearing him. The blankets dropped to your waist, revealing what you were sure was an absolute mess of a human. You knew what you looked like the last time you’d been brave enough to look in the mirror and you were sure it was even worse now.

Nathan cursed and you swear he nearly recoiled at the sight of you. “Are you in here dying on me or something?” He questioned. 

You weren’t sure how to answer, what you could possibly say to him.

“Hello?!” He snapped his fingers in front of your face. “Is anybody in there?!”

You blinked as he crowded you, hysterics growing as you seemingly ignored him. You could tell he was close to grabbing you and shaking you, and you didn’t know if your body could handle that. As it was, your muscles had protested sitting up. Instead, you leaned over and opened your drawer, taking out the zippered make-up bag.

You tossed the pouch at him, hearing all the plastic bottles click together as it landed at his feet. He bent down to pick it up, opening it carefully like he thought some sort of creature might jump out at him. His brows furrowed when he saw the bottles inside and dumped them out onto the mattress.

“Are these all empty? Fuck did you take these?” He questioned, panic rising in his voice. “Are you trying to OD on me or something? Shit.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket, about to call for help.

“No.” You croaked. “Well, yeah. I took them… but… they’re my meds.” You gave in. “I’ve been taking them since I got here. I[was taking until they ran out.”

Nathan looked down at the bottles, picking one up as he read the label. “What are they for?”

“Depression mostly. Anxiety.” You shrugged, listing the simple ones.

Nathan was quiet as he read the bottles. You had no idea if he knew what any of them meant. It’s not like the labels read “Take one daily to stop the crazies!” The names, the dosages, the frequencies meant nothing to someone with no experience… but then again, Nathan wasn’t just anyone.

“How long?” He sighed, turning to sit on the edge of the bed.

You would have deflated if you didn’t already feel as low as you could go. Having assumed the worst, you weren’t surprised he couldn’t look at you.

“I was diagnosed in junior year-”

“No, I mean how long have you been without your meds?” He interrupted you, turning to stare  you down.

“A month.” You shrugged. “Almost two.”

“For fucks sakes.” He grumbled, turning to his phone again and typing away.

“I’ll pack my shit. Just, give me a few days and I’ll go.” You mumbled, laying down on your side and facing away from him. You didn’t want to watch him posting for a new assistant or scheduling the pick-up or whatever he was doing. You’d wallow for a bit, probably take a nap, and then you’d pack anything here that was important. Fuck the rest. You didn’t have the energy. You didn’t care.

“The fuck are you talking about?” He asked distractedly, like he hadn’t heard you as his cogs of his brain jumped to life. He did that a lot when he was preoccupied. He would hear your voice, realize you’re talking, but not absorb the words. Sometimes he needed to ask 3 or 4 times until you gave up and texted him instead.

“I’m bringing in a doctor. You need to get checked out before you start back up on anything. You’re not supposed to go off of these without supervision. Says so right here. Black and white.” He chastised you.

You frowned, looking over your shoulder in confusion. You saw him still typing away on his phone, holding one of the empty, orange-tinted bottles in his hand. He set it down, picking up another. He took a picture, looking over the label quickly for himself before setting it back down.

“What are you doing?”

“Sending him the labels so he knows what he’s walking into. Why the fuck would you just stop taking your meds?” He sniped. “Why didn’t you get more? I fucking ask you if you need shit and you just conveniently forget your pills?”

You picked at a thread of the blanket, not wanting to watch him as he grew angrier with you. As soon as you were in good health and his conscience was clear, he’d be rid of you. You were sure of it. It was more than you’d expected to be honest.

You heard the quiet noise from his phone, indicating the email had been sent. That meant his attention wasn’t divided as he rounded back on you.

“Why won’t you answer me? It’s like fucking talking to a wall or something. If I wanted one-sided conversations, I never would have brought you up here. Why didn’t you get more?!”

You took a shuddering breath before answering. “I didn’t want you to know.”

“Know what? That you take medication?” He scoffed in disbelief.

The room was quiet as you didn’t answer, but you could practically hear his brain processing, whirring like a computer with a squeaky exhaust fan.

“Hey, look at me.” He ordered, his voice dropping in volume to a kinder tone, but it was still not a request. It was a demand. You sat up again, looking at him stare at you with dark, angry eyes.

“When a program isn’t working, do you throw away the whole CPU or do you debug it and fucking find the fix?” He asked. You didn’t answer, assuming it was rhetorical.

“Your software is fucked, and these,” he picked up one of the bottles to hold up between you two. “These are the fix. Why the fuck would you be embarassed about shit like that?”

You shrugged your shoulders, dropping your gaze again. “You’re…” you struggled to find the words, but Nathan jumped on your train of thought frighteningly quick.

“Me?! So it’s my fault? I eat brown rice and salad and work out every day so I’m some health nut hippy who wouldn’t understand, is that it?”

He was putting words into your mouth, but he was essentially getting the point. You were scared he would reject you, mock you, think less of you.

He crawled towards you on the bed, cupping your chin a little too tight as he lifted your face. He was clearly done having you look away from him. “I’m a fucking reclusive genius who lives in the middle of ass fuck nature and only lets people come and go with a goddamn keycard! Do you not think I’m self-aware enough to realize that? A fucking prodigy, multi-millionaire by 15, CEO of the most successful technology company in history. The President calls me and I hit ignore. Do you really think I’m not self-aware enough to know we all have our own brand of fucked up?” He laughed.

“If you need these to get through it, to be my little genius-” He released your jaw to cup your face in both hands, giving it a shake. “To keep up with my shit, to live here without losing your mind at the isolation, to be my dance partner and dinner partner and movie date - then fucking take them. Would I be having to tell you this if it was for your blood pressure or a heart condition or something?!”

His phone buzzed and he released his hold on you, leaning back to read the message that had just come through.

“Doc’s gonna be here tomorrow morning. Gotta keep you hydrated until then and you should try to eat.” He summed up the message as his eyes skimmed the screen. He tucked his phone back into his pocket before slapping your blanket-covered thigh. “What are we eating tonight? Your choice.”

“I’m not hungry.” You mumbled.

“Not an option!” He declined as he stood off the bed. “What are we eating?”

You sighed, letting your head fall back as you thought. “Grilled cheese?”

“And tomato soup? Coming right up.” He leaned over to you, cupping the back of your head as he pulled you close enough to kiss the top of your head. “Rest. I’ll bring it in when it’s ready.”

Tagging: @wickedfrsgrl @din-damn-djarin @dinthisisthe-wayson @seasonschange-butpeopledont @kesskirata​ 

[imaginesbymk]

“Find Me Under The Giant Rabbit.”

Reservoir Dogs/Pulp Fiction One Shot

SUMMARY: I read a Reddit fan theory that Mr. Pink survived, escaped the cops, got arrested and was then put on parole - leaving behind his old life and lying low as a waiter at Jack Rabbit Slims. What happens when you show up to the restaurant one night?

PAIRING: Mr. Pink/Buddy Holly waiter x Reader

TAGS: swearing, smoking + mentions of basically everything that happened in reservoir dogs which is the heist, violence, etc

NON REQUESTED

WORD COUNT: 2,870 (it’s long i’m sorry)

AUTHOR’S NOTE: this is probably the cheesiest thing i’ve ever written, and it’s nothing tarantino would ever put in his films, also there’s no way PF and RS can legitimately tie in together 100% even though there are some factors to support otherwise, but i wanted to write this and see something lol :( leave a like/reblog + feedback!!!

[gif credit]

YOU put your car in park, shutting off the engine, and observed it from afar. It was one hell of a big restaurant, almost a bit too cartoon-like. There was a giant anthropomorphic rabbit on top, and the lights claiming the name were glowing a bright red and yellow. Mind you, this was in Los Angeles, so who wouldn’t blame you if you took one look at Jack Rabbit Slim’s, and mistake it for a restaurant at Six Flags? 

Dozens of bikers came in with their motorcycles, yet their engines couldn’t even overpower the chatter coming from newcomers left and right. You ignored a heavy tattooed biker dressed in all leather and denim catcalling you from afar, and you reached the front desk. 

A man dressed in uniform, most definitely in character, tipped his hat at you and led you to a table with only two chairs. You weren’t expecting anyone to join you in the other seat across. So what if you went for dinner by yourself? You didn’t bother asking anyone to join you for that matter. Not anyone you could think of at the top of your head would be any less boring.

You began tracing your fingers around the rim of the ketchup bottle when not even five seconds after sitting down, a lady approached your table with ruby red lips. 

Of course, you thought. Servers were dressed up as icons from the 50s era.

“Marilyn,” you say in awe.

“Close enough,” Instead of being seated in the Marilyn Monroe section being served by a Marilyn Monroe-looking Marilyn Monroe, you were greeted with a tall Mamie Van Doren, who is just as breathtaking as Marilyn refilling everyone’s coffee mugs from the other side of the restaurant. “How about I get you started with drinks?”

Ricky Nelson’s performance on stage came to an end when Mamie arrived with your food. You looked around the place while eating. People weren’t eating by themselves. Families, friends, dates, all of them occupied their seats. Now that you’ve noticed, you sort of wished you brought someone with you, otherwise the seat across from you is used as a footrest. 

So there, you propped your feet on top, and relaxed… then you sat upright. Your eyes fixated on the waiter in his section, which were the cars back in the 50s used as booths. You watch him walk towards one of them. The couple was a young woman in a blunt bob cut with bangs, and a man wearing a black suit with long black hair tied back.

You squint your eyes. It couldn’t be...

“Hi, I’m Buddy. What can I get ya?”

You blinked, dropping the half bitten French fry from your mouth. Holy fucking shit.

It was all coming back to you. The news broke out about the heist going wrong at the wholesale, all dead except for one, a cop who laid dead on the ramp inside the rendezvous was identified as Mr. Orange. Since he wasn’t supposed to know where you were from, Mr. Pink never turned up to your door as an emergency hideout, or to drag you with him on his getaway because he never had one. You never heard of him ever since. 

Here he was, Mr. Pink, alive and well, wearing glasses. What the hell happened? How long has he been working here? Is he supposed to be Buddy Holly?

“How do you want that cooked? Burnt to a crisp or bloody as hell?” you hear him ask the man in the suit who ordered a steak.

“Bloody as hell, and oh, yeah, look at this- vanilla coke.”

You noticed the irony. He left you in a black suit - and he comes back in white. Like he’d ever want to be caught dead in white, or pink.

“What about you, Peggy Sue?” he asks the woman, jotting in his notepad. You recognized the pun.

“I’ll have the Durwood Kirby burger, bloody. And… the five dollar shake.”

Were you about to laugh? Call out his name? That was enough for you to get antsy in your seat, but you didn’t want to draw attention. You saw him again while finishing up half of your meal, giving the couple their drinks and disappearing back into the kitchen. He was doing his job, but it wasn’t like he was giving his one hundred percent. For someone who preached to the Gods about professionalism, Mr. Pink sure lacked work ethic. Every employee was on point with their character impersonations as if you had travelled back in time. Meanwhile, he acted like himself and seemed bored while wearing an emotionless face, as if he hated his job and epitome of his existence. It was never a dull moment for him whenever he was with you, though.

You got up to use the restroom.

“We’re lucky we got anything at all. I don’t think Buddy Holly’s much of a waiter,” you heard the man at the booth tell the woman as you walk past them, spotting their food from the corner of your eye. It’s no surprise hearing that. Mr. Pink never looked like the type to work at a job like this.

You sat back down and soon, Mr. Pink reappeared, standing over to the side and watched the announcement of the twisting contest, smoking a cigarette. You see him eyeing two pretty blonde women walking past him, and he looked back his way, now in your direction.

He finally did what you wanted him to do, and he stares at you for nearly a solid minute.

You waved awkwardly. 

Mr. Pink tosses the cigarette in a random person’s ashtray and disappears behind the door once again. You darted out of your chair, and marched your way to where he headed, just as the couple he served got up on stage to participate in the twisting contest.

A Zorro waiter jumps in front of you. “Stop right there, mi amor!” his eyes darted at you through the cheap black mask he was wearing. “I believe the bathroom’s on the other side of the bar.”

“Where’s Buddy?” you ask Zorro.

“I’m afraid Mr. Holly is taking a quick break from unenthusiastically serving love birds in their cars.”

“Can you tell him I’m looking for him?”

“Once I see him.” Zorro then took out his sword and pointed it at you, a grin plastered on his face. “Now, shall I escort you back to your dining spot?”

Although you were aware this guy was only in character, you didn’t wanna risk getting kicked out, or having a realistic looking sword ripped through your body. You sighed and turned around, heading back. You noticed at your table a folded napkin beside your empty plate. Mamie Van Doren was last seen there, her back facing you with her heels clicking away on the tiles.

“Excuse me!” you called after the waitress. She ignores you, smiling down at new customers at an umbrella table.

Cocking an eyebrow, you used your finger to flatten the crease and read the note in bold handwriting.

FIND ME UNDER THE GIANT RABBIT. - BUDDY 

You threw the door open and ran outside, precisely under the giant rabbit of the Jack Rabbit Slim’s sign, just like he said on the napkin. You felt like an idiot checking every direction to find no one. Not a lot of the bikers were seen riding or hanging out around the parking lot, some people were coming and going, but you couldn’t find Buddy Holly.

Defeated, you turn to walk back inside. 

Mr. Pink rushed out the door and caught his breath. It looked like he was chasing you down before you could take off. A song used for the twisting contest kept playing from inside.

You didn’t run up to him and jumped in his arms or anything dramatic in that matter. You both stared at each other.

A few days before the heist you two stood across each other waiting for Mr. Brown and Mr. White inside the hideout. It was a quiet moment, not an awkward one. He just took that opportunity to study you, as you did him. It took him that moment to realize he was warming up to you. 

“Well hello there, Buddy,” you smile smugly.

YOU and Pink loitered at the side of the eatery, where the back door to the kitchen was located. He had taken off his fake glasses, showing his full frame.

“Okay,” you watch him lean against the wall, lighting his cigarette. “Talk to me. What happened to you?”

“What the hell do you think? Cops tagged me when I tried driving away. I was put behind bars, and by some fucking miracle this place took me in when I needed money.”

“You didn’t know any other crime bosses looking for a lanky dude?” Pink rolls his eyes at your joke. “I know the heist went terribly wrong, I saw the news. Everyone’s dead as Dillinger.”

“That briefcase had a shit load of two million dollars worth of stones,” Pink blew smoke out. “I swear, if that asshole undercover cop was never sent to set us up, I could have been enjoying a cocktail in Santorini. You’re lucky you called in sick that day.”

You shuddered, remembering how god-awful the illness was. “Never again. I felt like I was being hot glued to a sauna.”

You remembered the day of the heist. In fact, you mentally prepared yourself for something that you’ve never done before. You braced for what was supposed to go smoothly as Joe promised. Instead, you were woken up by the worst case scenario above 38 degrees. You were thankful Joe took it easy on you and promised another job next time. 

“All right, your turn. What did you do after that shit show went down?” Pink asks you.

“Just did my own thing. I wasn’t there so the cops never searched for me.” Pink took a slow drag, staring at nothing. He didn’t really look the same as before. Still lanky, except his hair was a bit more darkened and styled in curls, possibly because Buddy Holly had it permed that way. But his face read that he had been through a lot. Normally you felt zero pity for assholes like him, but you managed to blurt out, “I missed you.”

Pink, blowing out smoke in the air, eyed you up and down and furrowed his brows. “Likewise.”

Not only did it suck not being able to make money, you also couldn’t do it with Mr. Pink. As much as he kept his professionalism to a T, he squeezed in time to get along with you. It was no wonder Joe hired you - you were different than the guys, you moved differently and never felt small. Mr. Pink was drawn to that. 

Maybe that was just an understatement. He grew intimidated by something he expected to experience the least from in the job, and of course, straight out of a fairytale, you had to stop and ask yourself if you felt the same way, and if what you felt was right. Neither of you had any idea. It was against the rules to give out personal information to each other, and Mr. Pink took those rules very seriously, even if it was just one job that he most likely wouldn’t come back to unless a higher pay was involved and Joe Cabot liked him enough to recruit him again. 

If Mr. Pink grew too attached, if he let his guard down for one second, God forbid something would have happened to you. Without a doubt, he would have heavily blamed himself and walked away from the job without saying another word. 

His options were to wait until after the robbery to make a move, or do his job, get paid and leave. Whether or not it was out of selfishness was out of the question. Mr. Pink is already selfish in an intuitive kind of way, he’d rather avoid spiraling into a wave of emotions for one person - so he chose the latter.

“What?” Pink looked at you, feeling a bit tense. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

“Huh? No. It’s nothing,” you blinked, realizing you were staring at him longer than you should have. You shook your head, most likely shaking off the intrusive thoughts. Maybe this wasn’t a good time to tell him what’s on your mind. 

If anything, he’s most likely sleeping with the Marilyn Monroe waitress. “It’s just… you shaved the goatee.”

Pink nodded, looking a bit annoyed that there was no facial hair left on his chin to rub. “Buddy Holly had a clean face. For the record, the only advantage of this job is that I’m under disguise. Other than that, this place is a circus. I’m zooming back in time whenever I clock in.”

“It’s a 50s themed restaurant,” you state. “Working here sounds like fun. At least you get to dress up and experience pop culture.”

He scoffs. “No, fuck the 50s. Shit was all I Love Lucy and those puffy ass dresses.”

“They’re called poodle skirts, Pink.”

“Like I give a fuck what they’re called.”

“You know Buddy Holly smiled. He was a singer and a guitarist. If you keep up the attitude, no one’s gonna tip you. Nice Guy Eddie told me about your rant on tipping.”

“Ha! And? You will never find me up on that stage performing That’ll Be The Day, moving like a fucking animatronic.” Halfway finished, Pink tossed his cigarette aside and looked at you. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

You felt your cheeks flushing. Fuck. “I am?”

He nodded, putting his Buddy Holly glasses back on his face. “Yeah. It’s a breath of fresh air seeing you here.” He stares down at his wristwatch for a moment.

“Your break’s done?”

“It’s been done,” he says. “Fifteen minutes ago.”

You shook your head, chuckling. “You’re so fired.”

“This isn’t the first time I stopped caring, so my boss isn’t gonna bat an eye.” He had his hand wrapped around the back door which was supported by a wooden block to keep it open. “Look, I’ll see ya arou-”

“Pink?” Your heart rose up to your throat.

He turned back to you. “Hm?” 

You just had to do it. You reached up and kissed him softly. Pink didn’t shove or curse at you. His features softened, pulling you close to him and kissed you deeply. Even when you two pulled away, his arms didn’t unwrap from your waist. His forehead was pressed against yours now.

“My name’s Y/N,” you tell him.

He stares at you, no snarky, sarcastic comment left for him to give.

“I know you’re not willing to give your name up just yet, you can’t fully trust me, and I get that, but I won’t tell anyone what happened. You got lucky, I think… but I’m really glad you’re okay.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I’m serious.”

“Y/N,” he says your name for the first time. “You don’t have to go all sappy for me. Karma came in hot. Jesus Christ, I mean, I left you.”

“Not really. You didn’t know me. The cops had the place staked out the entire day, there was nothing you could do.”

He looked down at his shoes. “All right. But still, I feel shitty. Can I at least make it up to you?”

“How?”

Pink shrugs. “I get paid tomorrow.”

“Good for you,” you reply. “Save it like you’re gonna lose it.”

“I’ve had this job for a while now, I got enough to last. But once I win the lottery, I’m gone.”

“To Santorini?”

“With a cocktail in my hand. But that’s besides the point, right now I got enough to take you out on a date… if you’re down.”

“Where would you plan on taking me? Here?” you laugh.

“You’re funny. How about the movies? Overruled, I’m taking you to see a movie. I gotta know where you live first. It’s okay to know now.”

You nodded, you couldn't argue with that. Besides, you two would just be making out in the dark the entire time.

His hand was back on the handle of the back door. Pink pulled it open, looked back at you and smiled for the first time tonight. That warmed your heart, and you were certain it warmed his. He watched you stuff something inside his pocket square as you told him your address. He went back inside, shutting the door on you. You walked back to the front of the restaurant to pay for the bill, and went straight home. 

Mr. Pink shuffles past the chefs in the kitchen, feeling through his suit pocket to pull out his notepad and whatever you stuffed inside just moments ago.

I didn’t even serve them. Is this supposed to be for Mamie Van Doren? He stares down at the dollar bill crumpled in his hand. His frown suddenly transitions to a small but genuine smile. 

Fuck it. Nothing could stop him now. He definitely owes you a date night. He quickly stuffs the tip back in his pocket square, and comes out the sliding door. 

THE END

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