#for his untreated anxiety

[abigailspinach]

The very next evening Matthew betook himself to Carmody to buy the dress, determined to get the worst over and have done with it. It would be, he felt assured, no trifling ordeal. There were some things Matthew could buy and prove himself no mean bargainer; but he knew he would be at the mercy of shopkeepers when it came to buying a girl’s dress.

After much cogitation Matthew resolved to go to Samuel Lawson’s store instead of William Blair’s. To be sure, the Cuthberts always had gone to William Blair’s; it was almost as much a matter of conscience with them as to attend the Presbyterian church and vote Conservative. But William Blair’s two daughters frequently waited on customers there and Matthew held them in absolute dread. He could contrive to deal with them when he knew exactly what he wanted and could point it out; but in such a matter as this, requiring explanation and consultation, Matthew felt that he must be sure of a man behind the counter. So he would go to Lawson’s, where Samuel or his son would wait on him.

Alas! Matthew did not know that Samuel, in the recent expansion of his business, had set up a lady clerk also; she was a niece of his wife’s and a very dashing young person indeed, with a huge, drooping pompadour, big, rolling brown eyes, and a most extensive and bewildering smile. She was dressed with exceeding smartness and wore several bangle bracelets that glittered and rattled and tinkled with every movement of her hands. Matthew was covered with confusion at finding her there at all; and those bangles completely wrecked his wits at one fell swoop.

“What can I do for you this evening, Mr. Cuthbert?” Miss Lucilla Harris inquired, briskly and ingratiatingly, tapping the counter with both hands.

“Have you any—any—any—well now, say any garden rakes?” stammered Matthew.

Miss Harris looked somewhat surprised, as well she might, to hear a man inquiring for garden rakes in the middle of December.

“I believe we have one or two left over,” she said, “but they’re upstairs in the lumber room. I’ll go and see.” During her absence Matthew collected his scattered senses for another effort.

When Miss Harris returned with the rake and cheerfully inquired: “Anything else tonight, Mr. Cuthbert?” Matthew took his courage in both hands and replied: “Well now, since you suggest it, I might as well—take—that is—look at—buy some—some hayseed.”

Miss Harris had heard Matthew Cuthbert called odd. She now concluded that he was entirely crazy.

“We only keep hayseed in the spring,” she explained loftily. “We’ve none on hand just now.”

“Oh, certainly—certainly—just as you say,” stammered unhappy Matthew, seizing the rake and making for the door. At the threshold he recollected that he had not paid for it and he turned miserably back. While Miss Harris was counting out his change he rallied his powers for a final desperate attempt.

“Well now—if it isn’t too much trouble—I might as well—that is—I’d like to look at—at—some sugar.”

“White or brown?” queried Miss Harris patiently.

“Oh—well now—brown,” said Matthew feebly.

“There’s a barrel of it over there,” said Miss Harris, shaking her bangles at it. “It’s the only kind we have.”

“I’ll—I’ll take twenty pounds of it,” said Matthew, with beads of perspiration standing on his forehead.

Matthew had driven halfway home before he was his own man again. It had been a gruesome experience, but it served him right, he thought, for committing the heresy of going to a strange store. When he reached home he hid the rake in the tool house, but the sugar he carried in to Marilla.

“Brown sugar!” exclaimed Marilla. “Whatever possessed you to get so much? You know I never use it except for the hired man’s porridge or black fruit cake. Jerry’s gone and I’ve made my cake long ago. It’s not good sugar, either—it’s coarse and dark—William Blair doesn’t usually keep sugar like that.”

“I—I thought it might come in handy sometime,” said Matthew, making good his escape.

[of-another-broken-heart]

Damn, that survey about jam on toast really has me wishing we had bread (and butter) because I could DESTROY like half a loaf all by myself right now.

Which of my menagerie of maladies is to blame for me craving salt and fat above all else?

I don't fucking know.

Even day-old bread costs like $4 a loaf now. And butter, that shit's like, double digits for a pound.

I don't remember the last time I could eat enough to actually feel full.

I say, while just wanting fucking. Bread.

Hit me with the peasant scraps. I will take your stale heels and I will be delighted.

[comatosebunny09]

heavy | sylus q.

— summary: who takes care of the person busy caring for everyone else? sylus. the answer is sylus. — cw: female!reader, fingering, unprotected intercourse, naughty things done in a bathtub, creampie, alcohol mention, pet names, slight choking, allusions to depression and anxiety, explicit language, praise kink, not proofread, kinda rough sex, mdni — wc: ~3.4K — dividers by: @grabby-smitten — now playing: truman show - merges & l3gion

It begins with a steady pressure behind your eyes. 

Untreated, it blossoms into something more intense, seeping through your temples like spilled liquid, and the pain borders unbearable. You can’t focus on your work, the harsh glow of your monitor worsening your plight.

You snatch your glasses from your face. Attempt to ease the pressure with kneading fingers. Pinch the bridge of your nose. Sigh. It’s useless; your vision blurs around the edges, and your head is pounding as if your brain’s seeking release from your skull.

You don’t notice Captain Jenna behind you. Jump when she comes to you in the form of a firm hand on your shoulder, voice soft. “You should go home to get some rest,” she suggests through a pitying smile.

You don’t protest. There’s more to her words than a simple plea. It’s an order, and you’re smiling small, already gathering your things and slinking out of your cubicle. 

You’re grateful for the reprieve. Maybe a restart will help ease the weight off your shoulders.

—

Something smells divine.

It jumpstarts your appetite, the rich scent of herbs and meat seeping through the cracks of your apartment door. You didn’t realize how hungry you were, your stomach snarling whilst you ease your key into the lock. 

You can’t remember if you left something in the oven. Can’t be bothered to recall much of anything, your head still pulsing like a war drum. Your curiosities are sated once you slide into your home, and the aroma is stronger here. Hearty, nearly lifting you into the air to carry you to the kitchen like one of those old-school cartoons.

You meander into your kitchen after dropping your pack by the door—by a pair of designer, red-stained loafers twice the size of your own feet. Your suspicions are confirmed when you catch sight of a familiar shock of white and broad shoulders nestled between your humble decor and drab cabinets.

Never mind how he got here because you’re reining in a giggle. He’s wearing the frilly Kiss Me apron you got him as a joke gift a few months back. Humming something, bobbing his head before he acknowledges you over a broad shoulder. His scarlet eyes are mirthful, and the soft grate of his voice is enough to put you to sleep.

“You’re home early.”

You smile, tired and swollen-eyed, leaning against the doorframe. Study him over crossed arms. He’s busy with something on the stove. Concocting something delicious, and your stomach reminds you that it’s empty and you’re cruel.

“Jenna kicked me out.”

His shoulders shake with a chuckle when he returns his attention to the pot and wooden spoon in his hands. “Good. I take it you’ve only sustained yourself on coffee and air today.” Stopping, he peers at you again, a knowing lift to his brow. 

You sputter, the heat of embarrassment prickling your neck. He knows you too well. You’re an ass who often neglects yourself, pushing food and sleep to the backburner in favor of shouldering everyone else’s burdens. 

You pout, caught red-handed. The man in your kitchen chuckles. Sets the spoon down, and you watch him stride across the tiles for something. 

He comes to you with a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, already pouring the red, viscid fluid into a wine glass. Slender fingers brush over yours when he eases the glass into your hand. He angles himself to kiss you, full-bodied and red-blooded on the lips. A kiss that leaves you reeling. Craving more, the warm scent of his skin hijacking your senses as you tug on the collar of his shirt.

You whine when he pulls away, and he’s all smug smiles that crease the corners of his eyes when he steps back to tend to dinner.

A tide of warmth wades over your skin. You smile against the rim of your glass, grateful to have someone who knows you sometimes better than you know yourself.

Drinking might not be the best decision for you right now. But you haven’t the heart to tell him, watching with all the fondness of the world as he buzzes around the kitchen like a Disney princess.

—

Dinner will be ready in 30.

In the meantime, Sylus shepherds you into your bathroom, insisting you settle in with a bath. 

It’s lavender-scented inside your bathroom, the warm, wet steam washing over your cheeks. Greeted by the dull hum of the ventilation and the sound of rain lazily falling onto the world beyond your window.

You’re exhausted and hanging on by a thread. Don’t think you could manage the task of undressing on your own. So, he’s gentle as he props you on your counter, stripping you of your clothes, touching you like something to be revered.

His lashes bow when he swoops in to adorn your bare shoulders and the swell of your chest with kisses. Your body responds in kind when he nears your pebbling nipples, though he doesn’t grace them with the lazy drag of his lips. 

He promised you he would be good. At least until you’re washed up, fed, and comfortable.

He brands your skin to the crooks of your elbows, down to your wrists, your fingers. Catches your gaze when he kisses between the peaks and valleys of your knuckles, and the fire that burns beneath his irises sets your insides alight. 

Broad palms move down your sides, perch on your hips. He hefts you up with one hand fastened to your rear, and your arms and legs unconsciously shoot out to encircle him. He chuckles, swinging you ‘round, walking you to the tub. You’re the biggest baby when you’re tired, but he would never complain. He prefers you like this—all supple and pliant, desperate for the feel of his body against yours.

You watch the rose petals he sprinkled in your bathwater cling to your skin once you’re inside. And it works as a soothing balm through your person, the frothy water embracing you like a warm hug at the end of a tedious day. 

You sigh heavily, leaning back against the tub’s wall. Your eyes slide shut. You’re about to succumb to the pretty girls of slumber when the sound of shifting fabric alarms you. 

Sylus moves to leave, but your hands dart out to ensnare his wrist. He glances at you over his shoulder, a question hanging between his brows. 

“Stay,” you urge with a pout. Throw in watering puppy eyes for dramatic effect, laying the guilt on thick. 

He chuckles something hearty, settling onto the floor beside you. “I figured you could use some alone time. Besides, I’ve got dinner going. Do you want me to burn it? Cajun wasn’t on tonight’s menu, sweetheart.”

You huff. “You set a timer, right? It’ll be fine.” 

Truth is, he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to this plane right now. A constant in a world filled with turmoil. Your security blanket. You never mind him impeding on your time, your space.

“Shall I help you bathe, then?” He doesn’t await your response, already reaching across you for your body wash and loofah. 

He’s tender as he works the soap into a rich lather over your shoulders. Honey-slow, dipping between the valley of your breasts, snickering when you instinctively arch into his touch when the material catches on your nipples. Once he’s satisfied your upper body is thoroughly saturated with suds, he maneuvers himself onto his haunches on the floor.

“Sit up,” Sylus instructs. You sluggishly obey, bowing forward to grant him access to your back. 

Lids shuttered, a content hum eases from your throat as he works out the knots and strain of your back. Smooths the loofah down the ridges of your spine, encircling one shoulder blade before moving onto the other. He’s gifted, trained in the art of your body. Knows just where to touch, to massage to get the cogs in your mind turning and your breaths evening out.

He dips the loofah into the water, and you giggle as it slides between the swell of your ass and the tub’s floor.

“Well, I can’t exactly get you clean when you’re sitting down like this.” 

Your gaze shifts to his. His eyes darken with something familiar, a smirk curving one corner of his lips as he salaciously cocks his head. 

You feel a pull in your tummy, and your lashes flutter, lips parting slightly. Without thinking, you position yourself onto your hands and knees, the water lazily sloshing about and licking your thighs. Curiously, you peer at him from over your shoulder and waggle your ass, playfully signaling for him to finish up.

Resigned, amused, Sylus works the loofah over the globes of your ass. Up and down the backs of your thighs. And it’s purposeful when, with each pass, he grazes your fat labia, peeking through the plush of your thighs. You shudder each time, a pleasant sigh escaping your mouth, and you wiggle to chase the harsh drag of the loofah, if only for him to mistakingly graze your clit with it.

He tsks behind you. “Sweetheart, we agreed this would only be a harmless little bath.”

How harmless could he expect it to be with him looking at you like that? Touching you like that, his palm branding your thigh whilst an errant thumb kneads the muscle there, dangerously close to the outskirts of your cunt?

“I changed my mind,” you relent in a breathy, needy whisper. And you’re rocking your hips this way and that, trying to lure his thumb into the catch of your pussy.

He laughs again, the sound of it murky, and you feel it furling in your chest. “As you wish.”

Your body vibrates with anticipation. You’re not made to wait long, a virile, wide palm stroking your legs apart. Soon after, you feel his thumb stroking down the expanse of your slit, and you jump, a shudder racking through you.

“Easy, darling,” he coos. Voice is thick as bourbon, and his thumb even thicker as he dips just the tip of it into your puckering sex.

He moves maddeningly slow as he collects some of your nectar on his thumb, smoothing it between your folds in search of your clit. He finds it with laser precision, stroking the distended pearl to life with meticulous circles that leave you baring down on nothing and moaning against the grit of your teeth.

A hand fastens around your hip. Massages one of your cheeks, holding you steady whilst he fucks his thumb into you slow and consistent, and the sticky squelch of your cunt soon fills the atmosphere as he works you into a mess of shaking tendons and sighs of “yes, yes, please. More. Fuck.”

Spurred by your words, he alternates between fingering you—trading out his thumb for his index and middle digits—and rubbing your clit. Ducks in to blister your rear with kisses, and you jerk, hypersensitive to every sensation, every sound. He pants softly behind you. Enjoys himself, watching you fall apart around his fingers, his girth pushing against the seam of his pants. He palms himself, kissing closer to your labia, the scent of it bewitching, and he wills himself not to add his tongue into the fray.  

He curls and pistons his fingers inside you, a frothy ring of lubricant collecting around the base of his digits. He eases a palm over the curve of your stomach to massage your tits and pluck your nipples, sweltering breaths fanning across your spine. 

You’re pushed closer to the precipice, towards that slurry edge of bliss. He murmurs words of praise against your skin, and you hump against his fingers like a beast in heat, chasing that sparkling rush. Chasing that crest of pleasure in your stomach, eyes screwed shut. Just a little longer. Just—

“Cum for me, sweetheart,” Sylus quietly demands, pressing against that unfathomable knot of pleasure inside you. 

And as if he has some sort of hold on your body, the world falls away from you at his behest. Your orgasm ripples through you, spilling like lava, pooling in your stomach, and dripping to your extremities. Your mouth opens with a gasp. A shaky exhale with his name in it, and you pitch forward, catching yourself on your hands last minute before you nosedive into the water. 

He laughs behind you, roosting one hand on your hip and the other on your stomach to steady you. “Good girl,” he croons, rubbing your pulsing cunt with his fingers. “You look so fucking sexy when cum like that.”

You shiver, clearly overstimulated, and he resigns to help ease you back onto your rear in the bathtub, kissing the sensitive space behind your ear. 

He lures you into a languid kiss with gentle fingers beneath your chin. Licks into your mouth, groaning his approval as you lazily return his affections, loose-limbed and spent.

You prop the back of your head on the tub’s rim, lips still sealed to his, and Sylus rubs up and down your body to encourage you back down from the clouds. You whimper into his mouth when he pinches your nipples, catching his hands to twine your fingers together, the stimulation too much. 

He greedily milks what remains of your voice from your throat before drawing away from your lips with a sticky click to pepper your throat and shoulder with apologetic kisses. 

When your heart beats something steady, and your labored breaths slide into something more even, Sylus peels away. “Dinner’s ready,” he purrs, grin all toothy, smug.

You track his movements to the door through hooded eyes, a satisfied cant to your lips whilst you sink to your chin into the water, mind a delicious slurry and the tension between your shoulders nearly gone.

—

“You’re insatiable,” he breathes, hot and wanton, against your hinged-open mouth. 

You have him notched between your splayed legs on the kitchen counter, and his hands are on an unhurried mission over your thighs whilst you kiss him. Your arms snake about his shoulders, fingers, easing into delicate locks of white, and you slant your mouth possessively over his, sealing your bodies together.

Dinner cools on the stovetop. Stuffed chicken breasts, garlic mashed potatoes, roasted asparagus. All a labor of love that you promise to consume after you’ve consumed him, pushing your greedy tongue into his mouth.

His groan vibrates your tongue whilst his thumbs ease over the inner cut of your thighs, and he grazes your outer labia with each pass, sending satisfying jolts of electricity throughout.

The bath renewed you. Cleared the fog from your mind, stoked the fire of your libido. Which is why you ambushed him in the kitchen, seducing him into fucking you when he was just about to set the table. 

Your body rolls like waves licking the shore against his, your nipples rubbing against the harsh fabric of his shirt. 

He’d peeled the straps of your negligee down your shoulders, bunching the neckline beneath your tits. 

“Fuck me,” you exhale, grappling with the catch of his belt. Hands perched on your waist, he peers into your eyes, brows knit with the strain of reining in his desire.

“Can I at least get you to the bed first,” he breathes, gritting his teeth when your lips brand his Adam’s apple.

“Nope.” You finally pull his belt free, and you busy yourself with unbuttoning his pants.

He chuckles darkly. Shakily, propping his hands on the countertop on either side of your thighs, letting you do terribly distracting things to his neck with your mouth. He sucks in a breath when you palm him, hand hot and searing against the cotton of his briefs. Cranes his head back, and you exhale all triumphantly against his throat, hand dipping beneath the elastic waistband to fish him from the confines of his underwear.

“Fuck,” he curses through swollen lips. Cheeks dust with a pretty shade of crimson, and he twitches each time your hand smooths over the leaking tip of his cock. Each time you stroke down the shaft, back up to thumb his slit, smearing his pre-cum over him.

“Fuck me,” you order once more, licking behind his ear. Draw his lobe into your mouth to nibble it, and he groans something bitten off, a pliant mess of muscle and sinew beneath the artful glide of your hand.

With no further goading, Sylus encases your hips with his hands. Drags you impossibly closer toward the edge of the counter, replacing your hand on his cock with his. 

He strokes himself so well. Your mouth waters from the sight, your sticky, bare pussy clenching with anticipation. The predatory gleam in his eyes reads as one of restrained desire. Like a beast subdued behind a cage, giving you an out, a chance to escape.

You merely swallow, enraptured by the sight of him so desperate for you. So eager when, moments ago, he was resistant to your temptation. He fists himself once more, his weighted hand swallowing up the bulk of his cock. He taps his heavy dick against your folds, the sensation curving your spine and siphoning an unbidden whimper from your lips.

He undulates his hips, rubbing himself between your folds, saturating his turgid flesh with your essence. And oh, it feels so good when his tip bumps the pucker of your pussy. He teases you with the prospect of fucking you proper, drawing himself out to repeat the motion from before, each time digging a little deeper.

When he finally eases home, nestled deep in the hot channel of your sex, your rigid walls ravenously sucking him in, you share a breath out. His chest heaves when he looks at you. The need that lurks behind his gaze makes your cunt flutter, and his responding groan is strained with the effort of keeping still inside you.

You lean back on your hands. Give him the go-ahead with a flicker of your lashes, and then he’s moving inside you. Fucking into you like a well-oiled machine, and he lifts the hem of his shirt to watch your union. 

You watch the steady ripple of his abs, wanting to chase the sweat that beads between them with your tongue. For now, you’ll settle for enjoying the feel of him. Throw your head back, your heels hooking into the backs of his thighs, keeping him in motion. Refusing to let him go. 

“Fuck,” he sighs. “Fuck, do you know what you do to me?” 

A sweltering hand curls around your neck, squeezing with enough pressure to bring your pulse thrumming to your ears. His thumb finds the hang of your bottom lip, drawing your mouth open to ease it inside. Your tongue darts out to sample the taste of it. Wraps around the worn pad, and you close your lips around it to suck. 

He fucks into you harder, your eyes rolling back as his balls knock against your ass. Reluctantly draws his finger from the hot suction of your mouth, splaying his fingers down your sternum to where your bodies convulge. 

“You feel so fucking good, kitten,” Sylus breathes. Thumbs your clit, your body convulsing. “So good, squeezing me like that. Taking me like a big girl. Look at you. So fucking good. Ah, fuck.”

That sparkling feeling pools in your stomach again. You grit your teeth, bowing forward to roost a hand on his shoulder. Your gazes interlock, and he’s so fucking beautiful like this, that carefully constructed composure giving way to something primal. Animalistic, and his hair falls into his face as he grips your hip to the point of bruising, mooring you to the countertop. Keeping you steady for him to ravage you.

After some time of skin slapping and desperate moans saturating the air, he twitches inside you. Hips stutter. Head falls back while his mouth hangs open, and he sighs, so relieved with one final stroke, molten spurts of cum painting your insides a gooey white. Branding down the inner cut of your thighs, puddling on the countertop.

You tug him into your arms, blistering his neck with open-mouthed kisses and the soft rake of your teeth. He shudders, leaning into you, propped on his hands on the counter, face nestled between your breasts.

You share a laugh as you massage his scalp. Relieved. And you’re patient as he softens inside you, stroking over the broad expanse of his back, cooing affectionate words against the crown of his head.

[caramelcactus]

fck the canon lore really. This shit fr makes feel abnormal amount of grief over fcking fictional pixelated children. I VITALLY need my babies alive and happy well not entirely but at least alive. Gonna use that AU as my haven where Evan is not tormented and is being protected instead like a precious baby he is, Michael despite his tough guy persona being a overprotective older brother, and Elizabeth fangirling over Circus baby (bcs animatronics aren’t murderers here) and is in general a sweet considerate little girl ( ˊ̱˂˃ˋ̱ )

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Though I made a big brain move here. All the deaths( I mean Aftons) that happened in games are just trauma-related nightmares in this au. Animatronics are normal in real world, but are murderous in nightmares

✦ I mean bite of 83 is something Evan could theoretically see in dream because of his fear of animatronics and separation anxiety after losing his mom

✦ William, apart of his untreated/undiagnosed bipolar disorder with severe manic episodes, has PTSD after springlock incident and it haunts him even in his dreams

✦ Michael may be the one with most nightmares because he’s scared of losing his family. Like my guy has his parents divorced, Charlotte whom he treated like his sister suddenly dying which amplified his protectiveness towards Evan and Elizabeth out of intense fear to lose them too, then his mom disappearing the exact same way, his dad being mentally unstable and denying it, and two little siblings he’s hella protective of and has to look after. Not to mention school and peers problems. It fucked him up a lot and he’s only 15. His nightmares are result of his severe stress and trauma

[veilofaponia]

Premonition

yan feitan x reader

warnings: yandere content, stalking, sexual harassment, detailed descriptions of gore

word count: 2.4k

You’ve noticed a strange phenomenon recently.

It started off small. You’d find a chapstick you often used to have suddenly disappeared, despite being sure of where you put it last time. Or jewelry you don’t remember owning would appear strewn around in your apartment.

Then, something happened that truly made you suspicious.

The sound of two pairs of footsteps joined in with the sound of your own. They were catching up with you, though you paid no mind to it at first.

A guy’s whistle caught your attention. You turned around to the source of the sound and were greeted by two men who must’ve been around your age. Both reeked of alcohol and sweat. One of them was having trouble standing upright while the other decided to take the initiative.

“Hey, you’re cute. How about joining us for a drink?” His speech was thick. It almost sounded like he was struggling to get each individual word out.

You huffed. “Sorry, I’m not interested.” You just wanted to get home and unwind. The desire to entertain two intoxicated men really wasn’t present.

Both of them just laughed, the sound boisterous and obnoxious. The second guy spoke up this time. “What? C’mon, no need to play hard to get. I swear, we’ll buy you the highest quality drinks on the whole damn market, you’ll never wanna go back.”

You didn’t bother humoring them with a response and spun on your heel to continue home. Their personalities changed so quickly you almost assumed someone clicked a switch inside their heads. One sneered while the other reached out to tightly grab your wrist.

“What’s the matter with you? You think you’re too good for us or something?”

Without thinking, you immediately went to slap him in the face, but accidentally scraped your nails against him too. This caused the man to let go of you and press his hands against his head.

“Ow! What the hell?! This bitch just scratched me!”

There were two thin lines of blood trickling down his face, though neither were deep enough to scar. Taking a deep breath, you made your voice sound as confident as you could.

“If you don’t leave me alone,” You rummaged in your bag till you found your phone and held it up. “I’ll have no choice but to call the cops.”

The man who you’d hit gathered saliva in his mouth to spit on you, but missed and hit the ground next to you instead. His friend scoffed and murmured “You wouldn’t be able to handle us anyway.” Then, the two saw fit to walk off.

You sighed and made a mental note to carry a self defense tool next time you had to work overtime.

It wasn’t until a week later that it refreshed in your memory. You’d taken a relaxing shower and decided to finish the day by watching some tv. When you saw what was on the news, bile rose in your throat.

Two corpses had been found near the center of the city. As if whoever the perpetrator was wanted them to be found. What had been done to the pair was simply awful.

One had his legs bent in an unnatural position, an untreated third degree burn present on his left, while his right showcased an infected cut so deep bone could be seen. His tongue wasn’t in his mouth anymore and his oral cavity was stained with dried blood. Multiple teeth weren’t in his gums anymore.

They were instead found shoved down his throat.

The other had been subject to the same torture, if not worse. His head was barely attached to his neck anymore, being almost completely cut off. It had a notable dent and fragments of skull were found in his hair. Two deep cuts were visible on his forehead, continuing all the way down to his chin. It was almost like whoever had done this was trying to mimic a cat scratch.

You were stuck in a state of shock while you heard the news reporter rattle off all their wounds and what was known of the case so far. A sense of pity and empathy for the two friends filled you on top of the anxiety you felt. The channel then showed the pictures of the two men. It felt as if you’d seen their faces before but couldn’t recall when or where. Your mind was struggling to piece together the puzzle, when abruptly, it dawned on you.

These were the two men who had harassed you that day you returned from work.

You didn’t know how to react. Sure, they were assholes towards you, but a fate like this was something no one deserved.

When you processed everything you’d heard so far, you realized a similarity that the newsman didn’t comment on: their hands. Fingernails had been ripped off, burn wounds taking their place instead. Some fingers were broken, the bone completely shattered beyond repair, while others simply weren’t present. Skin had been torn off. The flesh underneath had started to rot. There was even one of them who’d had a nerve exposed, only for it to be cut in half. You shivered at how that must have felt.

You decided this story would only give you nightmares and quickly switched channels.

The media milked the case for all it was worth. With no new material besides theories online, they lost interest and moved onto the next mildly interesting story to rant about. The fact the culprit had never been found made you feel uneasy, but since the neighborhood you live in isn’t known for violent crimes, you told yourself to stop being irrational.

You’re mindlessly scrolling on your phone when the sound of a glass being slid towards you brings you back to reality. An alcoholic drink is placed in front of you, similar to the one you’d ordered beforehand. You’d told the bartender about the guy you’re meeting here and how excited you were. Now, she just gives you an apologetic smile and you murmur your thanks.

Overstimulating music induces a headache and you berate yourself for not bringing your headphones. To your left is a girl giggling at whatever compliments the mediocre guy she’s talking to is giving. You scoff at the display, refusing to admit it bothers you so much because your date never showed up.

You decide to re-check your messages with him, silently praying he’ll finally have answered you.

It’d been over an hour since you sent your first. None of them had “read” underneath them. You sigh and down your beverage, the taste warming your mouth. Anger bubbles inside you, but you’re not looking to cause a fuss in front of others. You pull out the needed amount of money and slam onto the table with much more force than you meant to. You’re cursing under your breath and clenching your fists the entire time you exit the building. What was supposed to be a date with a cute guy instead had you wishing you never agreed to meet that idiot in the first place.

You’re in front of your door and reaching for your keys when a strange smell hits you. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever smelled before. If you had to think of a comparison, you’d settle on the smell of something rotten. You grimace at the odor and assume someone must’ve not thrown away their garbage properly.

A sense of dread fills you, but you can’t seem to figure out where it’s coming from. It’s like your gut feeling is screaming at you not to enter your apartment. When you ask yourself why, you can’t arrive at a sensible answer. Concluding the alcohol must be having a negative effect on your voice of reason, you pretend not to notice and stick your key into the hole.

The voice in your head gets louder. Don’t open the door. Turn around and walk away. But you push it down, deeper and deeper, until you can’t hear it anymore.

I live in a protected neighborhood. Nothing that has happened has given me reason to be this paranoid.

The door unlocks and opens swiftly. Almost as swiftly as your expression morphing into one of pure terror.

You immediately sink to the floor. Your knees crash against the wood, but you’re too out of it to notice the pain it causes.

The guy you were supposed to meet today. He’s here. On your floor. There’s cuts all across his entire body, a larger one on his torso taking the center of the stage.

Tears are starting to obscure your vision. You wish they could wash out the sight in front of you right now, never to be seen again. You’re digging your nails so tightly into your palms blood is being drawn.

This doesn’t make sense. This shouldn’t be happening. Why is this happening?

Police. I need to call the police.

Even in your frenzied state, you have enough clarity to remember your phone so you can dial the emergency number. Your eyes are fixated on the body in front of you while your arm reaches for your bag. But your hand doesn’t find it, instead meeting the texture of your floor. You direct your gaze to where your bag should be, but isn’t. In fact, you don’t see it at all.

Instead, your eyes notice a pair of gray shoes that doesn’t belong to you. Your eyebrows furrow at this. Looking up reveals a sight that sickens you to the very core.

A man is looking down at you. Blood is soaking into the fabric of his clothing and into his dark hair. Blood is dripping onto the floor. The air feels heavy with his presence, weighing down onto anything and everything else. So much so you’re having trouble breathing.

Reading his facial expression is hard, a cowl covering a large part of it. But his eyes tell you all you need to know. They’re glimmering. He’s clearly thrilled at the situation.

He sounds pleased with himself when he speaks up. “Like it? Gift.”

A sinking feeling forms in your stomach while processing his words. You can’t think of something to say, even if you could.

“He’s not the only one. Two more. Those on the news.” The way he speaks is like a blacksmith’s blade, every word instilling fear deeper into you.

If Feitan wasn’t so proficient in Nen, his bloodlust would’ve surely leaked out and alerted you by now. The display in front of him disgusted him, the pair of men truly digging their own grave. He had to remain patient, just a bit longer. Then, like the thief he is at heart, he could steal you away.

He throws one last look your way before turning around and tailing the guys who’d bothered you. Whatever their corpses would look like when Feitan was done would be their own fault, he reasons. After all, he’s not nearly as tolerant of behavior like that as you are.

“Then, the one who killed them...” You don’t finish your sentence, fearing the answer you already know. His eyes crinkle with delight before a thin, pale finger points at himself. Fear stirs inside you like ash.

The blood on the pliers was starting to dry. The one who had put his hands on you was much worse for wear than the one who’d only spoken. His breathing is coming out uneven and ragged, his heartbeat going at a slow and irregular pace. When this hell for them started, the first thing Feitan wanted to do was recreate the way your nails scraped against the mans face. The sight of blood dripping down due to Feitan in the same manner you drew blood excites him, even if his version is a lot more brutal.

You open your mouth but no sound comes out. You don’t know what to say. Any words that escape could very well be your last.

At the lack of a response, the man clicks his tongue and walks towards the body on the floor. Your eyes follow him.

He settles his leg on top of your date’s chest and applies pressure. You assumed he was already dead, bled out to death, but your hypothesis is proven incorrect when his bloodshot eyes shoot open and stare deeply into yours. His chest is still weakly moving up and down and his heart is still pumping blood. If only the organs would just give up; it’d be a mercy for both him and you.

You wish you could look away, anywhere but the gruesome display in front of you. Your nerves must’ve stopped sending signals to your brain, because your entire body is refusing to move.

Through the weak breaths of the dying man, you can make out a single word.

Help.

The orchestrator of this event must see this as some kind of comedy event. His eyes betray his amusement before he regards you again. “Go on. Help him.”

This causes your frayed nerves to finally spring into action. Your vocal chords seem to have finally regained the ability to produce sound, though your voice comes out cracked and fragile. “I really don’t understand what’s happening. I just-” I don’t want to die like them. “Is there anything I can do to get you to go away and leave me alone?”

He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, appearing to genuinely consider an answer to your question. Then, he delivers his verdict. “No.”

Mortification seeps deeper into your bones, but he doesn’t grant you any time to recover. He begins to walk towards you. His footsteps are quiet to the point it’s uncanny.

Sparing a final glance to the man begging for your help, you mumble a “sorry” and redirect your attention to the one approaching you. Your attempts to scoot away with him are just met with a huff and a grip on your arm. No matter how deep you plunge your nails into his skin, he doesn’t relent. When you run out of energy to continue, he pulls you up by the arm he’s holding so his mouth is positioned near the shell of your ear.

This time, he pulls down his cowl before whispering into your ear.

“If you don’t want any more victims, you come with me.”

[lumiidragon]

Anxiety is cruel and painful.

A slight vent-ish, slight Zim appreciation doodled I was working on off and on. As a person who has serious struggles with untreated anxiety to the point to where it effects my daily life, I really sympathize with Zim's own anxiety issues he has when he gets into his head all of the horrible things that could go wrong and how the outcomes would be completely devastating, even if these outcomes aren't realistic or even if the "issue" at hand isn't even an issue, but a fabrication of an overactive and unwell brain.

Also, I was just playing with some slight style stuff with Zim~ :)

[akirathedramaqueen]

CBT and Exposure Therapy: Blitzø Showcase

An important (really, don't skip) disclaimer

If you are contemplating whether or not you would benefit from any kind of therapy, consider consulting with your medical provider first. While I did my best to validate all the points made using publicly available resources, I am not a medical professional. At the very least, I strongly advise that you do your own research and not take some amateur's opinion about a character from a silly demon show for granted.

"Everyone in this show needs fucking therapy STAT!"

We hear fans screaming into the void every now and then. Me too. I plead guilty and I willingly put myself in custody. But I am not taking these words back.

Especially often it is being said with Blitzø in mind, who, as hinted earlier and clearly shown in the latest episode, Ghostfuckers, is not doing okay. Not in the slightest.

Which is . . . yes. Indeed, trauma-ridden Blitzø is a major problem for both him and those around him. Yes, we see him reaching his lowest point now exactly because he left these gaping wounds untreated for so long.

But the tricky question is—how, though? What to do? Will a good talking to a confidante help? Or, maybe, some kind of shock would snap him out of the spiral?

I've been pondering on this topic for more than 4 months, and, as the Ghostfuckers came out, I finally got all the data I need to prove a point. The show did all the job for me and effectively made Blitzø go through improvised versions of two popular therapy techniques. And, before I even start, I want to say—I am so glad with what we ended up with. What they did, and, more importantly, didn't do, aligns well with how it would likely happen in real life.

So buckle up, and let's see where it gets us!

Therapy # 1. Cognitive-behavioral therapy, or CBT

This is, in essence and with some corrections, your good old talking. Here you can find more information about it, so, if you're not familiar with the topic, I recommend following the link first.

But, very shortly: CBT is an extremely common approach to be tried while you're dealing with anxiety, depression, and a number of other mental disorders. What it aims to do is to help you get past unhelpful thinking (distortions) and learn not to act on it.

Looks like it fits the bill, right? Blitzø has a lot of issues with self-fulfilling prophecies, infuriatingly stupid assumptions, poorly thought-out actions . . .

But he's not like, you know . . . w-we're not, like . . . we're not doing a . . . w-we . . . what's betw— It's a transactional fucking, you see.

If you don't feel like coming, that's OK! I'm sure I can do without it for one month. :)

Stolas only cares about having a rugged peasant raw-dog him into his matress! It's nothing, ya know . . . it's nothing else.

You . . . no longer have any obligation to see me, to touch me, to bed me . . . You are— you are free of me.

He sees things which aren't truly there.

It's not Stolas giving him space after the disaster in the 'Ozzie's.' It must be Stolas not needing him anymore, getting tired of him.

It's not Stolas caring about Blitzø. He is a royal, why would he care how an imp's day he happened to be fucking was?

It's not Stolas setting Blitzø free and putting an end to a problematic transaction they had with the hope for it to grow into something more. It's him getting rid of Blitzø.

As a result, he ends up hurting himself and the relationship he had with that one sad gay bird he happened to fall deeply for but literally trashed in his own house twice, acting on nothing more than frenetic fear of losing Stolas, but in reality, driving him away even more . . . for good.

I mean, you royal fucks think you can do this every time, like you can just play with our feelings because we're smaller and not as important!

Ha! I'm right, aren't I? You get off getting plowed by people you look down on!

And I can sorry more people, everyone but you! 'Cause I don't owe you dick! Everyone, but you . . .

So, the case's closed? Let someone—say, Millie—talk to him and tell him how wrong he was about himself and the others?

Well, here's the thing. Despite him being infinitely wrong about Stolas's intentions, we can't deny the fact that every one of his beliefs was not, in fact, a distortion. It'd led him to wrong conclusions, yes, but it was built on the information he received and legitimate experiences he had in his life. Here are only some of the facts connected to only this situation with Stolas, but there are other problematic behaviors and other reasons for him acting the way he does.

Fact # 1. The circus fire did happen, and Blitzø was the reason for it. Unintentional, and of course it wasn't his fault, but it still ruined the lives of many people—him included. Blitzø cannot act like it never occurred.

Fact # 2. Hell is divided by class and race. Their situationship with the grimoire was an embodiment of that inequality. A lot of Blitzø's outburst during the Full Moon and later in the Apology Tour was connected to it, to his beliefs that Stolas is the same as the rest of the privileged circle. Beliefs, I stress, justified by the real world. Stolas is more of an exception, and even then, his behavior is only different when it comes to Blitzø. He still acts the same toward other imps.

Fact # 3. We knew about Stolas's intentions all along, but before that fateful Full Moon, what Blitzø saw was Stolas avoiding him and not communicating the issue the Ozzie's date had raised. And before Ozzie's? Stolas did act entitled and inappropriate. He was baby-talking to Blitzø and used derogatory terms while addressing him. The dude literally called him an impish plaything in the Truth Seekers.

Fact # 4. Blitzø's heavily implied (though not officially confirmed by the show) existing conditions—ADHD*, BPD**, PTSD, and dyslexia/dyscalculia***—do affect his life, and while Hell seems to be somewhat receptive of neurodivergence, he still has to deal with it every single fucking day. He is going to be avoidant and afraid to be abandoned at the same time. He is going to hate himself. His learning disabilities are going to make his life harder. No way around it.

Note: *, **, and *** contain links to separate meta-analyses from @timkontheunsure and @tealvenetianmask about the respective conditions and how they show themselves in Blitzø's case.

And my beef with CBT here is exactly that. CBT's goal is to gaslight you into believing your distortions hold no water and suggests you just ignore them. And, as I've shown with Blitzø, these reactions and assumptions aren't baseless. They are legitimate, and, in fact, sometimes help to get by. Even though it's a crooked crutch, you can't learn to walk properly by just throwing that crutch away. You're still going to limp, and oh, will it be painful.

This is oversimplistic and dismissive. Anxiety and depression don't come out of the blue, and with mental disabilities, it's even deeper. The class/disability stigma is alive and strong, and just slapping a "you're fine" bandaid on your traumatized self isn't going to help.

Therapy # 2. Exposure therapy.

Exposure therapy is another approach commonly used while dealing with traumatic past and its aftermath—PTSD, anxiety, phobias, and such. Again, if you're not familiar, there's the link for you, but very shortly—the therapist puts the patient in a safe environment and 'exposes' them to the feared object in question for limited periods of time. The goal is to eventually get rid of the targeted fear and decrease avoidance.

And Blitzø has got some phobias for sure.

The fear of letting everyone down. Again.

And the fear of abandonment. Again.

All of it is a result of self-hatred, sitting so deeply it rules his life and his vision of how others perceive him. Said it himself. Almost.

So, where and how does the show expose Blitzø to his traumatic past?

First, the most recent, and the most obvious one—Rolando and his slideshow of all traumatic events Blitzø ever had in his life.

Second—Blitzø's drug trip in the Truth Seekers. While it does not contain the events of the past as they were, it does force him to face his fears.

Are you worried I might have enough of it one day as well? . . . You're going to die alone! . . . You're going to die alone, Blitzo!

With some stretch, the third one is Verosika's 'Blitzo sucks' party. Where Blitzø was forced to see the consequences of his avoidance and rejection.

Note: to be clear, I do think the party does not show the true extent of Blitzø's actions and how much he'd hurt people. It was exaggerated by Verosika, and here I explain why this is the case.

So, what gives? Or, rather, what gives it not?

It might sound funny now, considering I brought it up myself, but I, once again, say this is not therapeutic, just as CBT kind of 'talking.' If anything, all these three events did more harm than good.

The D.H.O.R.K.S.'s goal in the Truth Seekers was to torture the information out of Blitzø. He was not supposed to overcome it. He was supposed to crack.

The Verosika's goal was to ruin Blitzø's reputation. She was working her ass off to prove he's just a heartless freak.

The Rolando's goal was to fucking kill Blitzø.

And okay, their motivations had nothing to do with helping him, but maybe it did, in its own twisted way?

No. The writers added this to push Blitzø past the breaking point, not to heal him, and to show us more of his lore. Each time he was forced to face his past or fears or consequences, he was only spiraling more.

The only thing which did him some good was . . . well, Millie finally seeing his bravado mask falling off. But the cost of it was way too high. Not worth it.

To the therapy's defense, some points why it would never work in the way it was done in the show:

Blitzø had never given his consent and was not ready to face it. I might be very rude right now, but go and try producing some explosion-like sounds in front of war veterans without letting them know first and see what happens.

The amount of fearful experience exposed was way too overboard. He couldn't possibly digest it in a healthy way.

The environment was not safe. It was straight-up retraumatizing, an intentional one.

So there's that.

But what helped then?

We've briefly brushed over the fact Millie did talk to Blitzø. While I did imply this might be an example of CBT, here are some key deviations from the classic therapy which made all the difference.

Millie didn't sugarcoat all the shit Blitzø did. He was hurting their business. He didn't pay her. He was reduced to Bethanie. It showed her opinion can be trusted.

Millie apologized for not being there for him sooner. She admitted she relied too much on Blitzø being bulletproof, unbothered by everything. She admitted she didn't support him in a way he always did.

While proving she could never hate Blitzø, she used their common story, one he knows and can recall. She used evidence to prove him wrong, not a "it's all in your head" bandaid. And more than that, later she proved it with action—not for one second did she believe Rolando and his shittalk about what Blitzø supposedly was thinking about her. Her unwavering faith spoke more than any words ever could.

Getting back to exposure therapy . . . Metaphorically, she reminded Blitzø he can handle a beating or two. And physically beat the infestor demon out of him, which, as we can see later, didn't really affect Blitzø that much. He wasn't even battered. So, apparently, when the said exposure is done by someone who genuinely tries to make you feel better and knows your limits well, it might just work?

And finally, Millie acknowledged Blitzø's pain. She didn't brush it away. She validated him.

What all of this is about?

Like every treatment, too much of a medicine can become poisonous. So are CBT and exposure therapy.

They might help, and lots of research shows they do in certain cases. But there are limitations to what they can and cannot achieve, and they have to be adjusted to each individual story, to each trauma, and they should not be applied as a way to mend the outcome of the trauma without taking into account the story it comes with. Again, legitimate concerns and experiences cannot be brushed away or ignored.

Actualy . . . we've seen where it leads in the show too. In the beginning, Millie was quite dismissive of Blitzø's worries—all of this over a . . . breakup?

And here it comes full circle.

Only when Millie started taking Blitzø seriously, did it help them progress. And look how quickly we've switched from a complete despair to a glimmer of hope! Isn't that a beautiful closing scene?

As a closing note—we do not need to 'fix' Blitzø. After all this shit he went through, there won't be a day where he wakes up and be like, "Hey, I don't hate myself anymore! And look, I'm not afraid to be abandoned or misunderstood!"

I'm sorry to break it to you, but this is a lifelong battle. Being mentally whole, healthy, and constantly happy is no more than a myth, and everyone has their own demons and skeletons to deal with.

What Blitzø needs is some good support system to pull him back when he's down.

And boy, do I hope that one particular owl will fill in that role of unyielding pillar for Blitzø each time our lizard will fall into that pit again. Look, I love Millie, but there's only so much she can do. She can't be always present, she has her own life . . . and her own disaster of a husband to look after (affectionate <3). Here and here @lost-romantique talks about Stolas's capacity of loving, with me occasionally nodding, ha-ha. But to be short—it's fucking immense. And since he loves words, I do believe he has all the energy to tell again and again and again how awesome Blitzø is. Even if Blitzø wouldn't believe it himself.

[bahablastplz]

All in | Chapter 12.5 (Jisung & Minho)

pairing: Lee Felix x f!reader (mafia au)

summary: You didn't know what you were getting yourself into when you started dating Yang Jungwon, notorious mafia boss. Your life gets flipped upside down when you're found beaten and bloody by SKZ, the rival mafia group, and you're quickly integrated into their lives. What will happen when you try to leave your old life behind and start anew?

chapter summary: Jisung has always been overlooked. Minho has been invisible in his own ways. The two have become inexplicably linked; how did Jisung and Minho come to join SKZ?

warnings: please see series masterlist for all warnings.

series masterlist ~~ series taglist ~~ main masterlist

Jisung 

When I was in third grade, I could not pay attention for shit. 

It annoyed the Hell out of my teachers—I would lean back in my chair, I would distract my classmates by talking to them, and I would even intentionally mess up my assignments as a way to cull the boredom. In reality, I was lost in my own head. My own thoughts were my downfall, even though I was just a child. Full of thoughts, worrying about what my classmates thought of me, whether or not my parents would yell at me, and even coming up with long, convoluted scenarios about all the worst ‘what-ifs.” 

When I was in the third grade, I started missing assignments. I would lose them in my backpack that was always a mess; I couldn’t keep track of my assignments like I couldn’t keep track of those thoughts. One day, my mother got called into the principal's office to talk about my behavior. They suggested signing me up for counseling, that my behavior could have been due to an underlying and untreated disorder. 

That night when we got home, my mother beat me. She scolded me for bringing unwanted attention to our family, for causing a scene and making up issues that didn’t exist. I didn’t need counseling, she told me, I was just stupid. Stupid, idiotic, good-for-nothing child that can’t even pay attention in class. 

The thoughts got worse after that. 

When I was in the fifth grade, I started meeting up with the school counselor in secret. I told her about my mom’s adversity toward me going to therapy, though I left out the details—that sometimes, she would beat me or call me names, that some nights she took pills when she thought I wasn’t looking. I didn’t know a lot at that age, but I knew those were things I was not allowed to share. 

The counselor told me I likely had some academic confidence issues. No shit. But one day, she called up my mother and told her all of her suspicions about me: That I likely had ADHD, ODD, and generalized anxiety. It would explain my lack of attention, my blatant disrespect toward the teachers, and the thoughts. I didn’t want her to tell my mom. Didn’t think she would, because of confidentiality and shit. But my mother was surprisingly receptive to the idea, especially when she found out that I would be starting medication that could fix me. 

That was the first time I felt hope. Hope that I could be better, that maybe she would see me as more than just her stupid son that had no life ahead of him. 

I never started treatment for my problems. It fell through, more or less, though I found out years later it was because my mom started taking the medication prescribed for me. In seventh grade, after a particularly hard night that my mom had beaten me, I left the house. I was only gone for a few hours, hanging out with people that were certainly no good for me way past my curfew. It was only a few hours, but when I returned home my mother was dead. In her hand was a bottle of adderall prescribed to Han Jisung. Me. 

Grief is a funny thing. No, maybe funny isn’t the right word. Because when you’ve never known grief, it runs you over like a stampede, suffocating you until it’s all you know. In the seventh grade, grief was all I knew. Unsettled were all of the questions I had for her; Do you really think I’m stupid? Do I have any sort of potential, or am I just a waste of space? Am I worth anything? But now that she was dead and I was unable to ask her, it was like all of those statements just became the truth. If she was unable to refute them, then they would simply become a fact of life. 

I dropped out of highschool after my first semester. I ran away from the shitty foster home they had placed me in, though ‘placed’ is sort of a kind word. When you’re a teen in the system, you don’t really tend to stay in one home. You bounce around, one after another, reminded that you’re nothing, nobody, and that you will never be wanted. You’ll never stay in one school district, never get to keep in contact with your friends, and never get to keep any of your possessions that you hold dear. So, the first night in foster home number ten, I ran away. 

When I was fourteen years old, I joined a gang. 

They were entertained by me. One thing I found out was that they were amused by how reckless I was. That I would do just about anything they asked. Because when you have nothing to lose you can raise the stakes—and if you make people laugh in return, even better. I lived off of their praise, which was maybe why I was more willing to do things that were… well, stupid, so to speak. 

I’m not sure what my life would have looked like if I hadn’t met Lee Minho, my partner in crime. 

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Minho 

Invisibility. I always knew what that was like. 

I didn’t exactly realize that I grew up in a gang, at first. I knew that I wasn’t like my peers, that I should stay quiet and stay to myself, to not draw too much attention. There were just certain qualities of my life that were different–my parents would never come to parent-teacher conferences, I would never have a sleepover or birthday parties with my classmates, and I should never talk about what happened in my home. 

These were just things that were always a part of my life. I never really made any friends, but I was good at school. Most people never even knew my name, but that was just how I liked it. Once I got to a certain age I really started realizing what was going on in my house–the robbing, the selling of drugs, the violent crimes, but I turned a blind eye. Always doing homework in the background of my house where these things were taking place, I got very good at listening. So even if I wasn’t involved, I always knew what was going on. And for some reason, my mother and my father, who knew that I was too unnaturally intelligent to be their child, never forced me to participate in anything. I’m not sure they ever knew that I knew more than I was supposed to.

One day when I came home I could tell that something wasn’t quite right. As soon as I walked through the door I was met with silence, not the usual commotion that I would try to avoid. As I walked through the house I found the gun that I knew was hidden in between the couch cushions, turning off the safety. Though I was only a junior in high school I knew there was a silent, unspoken responsibility to be upheld, to protect the same way I had been protected. I held the gun close to my chest, listening closely as I stood against the wall of the kitchen listening to a near-silent conversation. 

“We don’t have your money,” my father confessed. A pair of footsteps walked around the room impatiently, a breath hitching as someone cocked their gun. “We never even gave them the cocaine, it was a bad deal!”

The person scoffed, clearly unamused. “You’re really going to lie to my face? The issue here is that you ratted us out to the police after selling Mark the coke.”

I heard what sounded like my mother’s voice beginning to protest, and though I didn’t know nearly enough of the situation I rounded the corner and pulled the trigger twice. Two bodies I’ve never seen before fell dead on the kitchen floor, limp with their own guns in hand. My parents were relieved, though I had never really cared how they felt towards me one way or another, I turned and put the gun back where it belonged. I let them deal with the mess of the dead bodies and the cleanup. It was the first time I ever allowed myself to intervene, and while I wasn’t exactly sure why I did it it wasn’t the last. 

I was glad I was able to take advantage of my invisibility, of the people who had never heard my name, who never knew my parents even had a child let alone that he knew how to shoot a gun. That he knew the intricacies of the gang business at the age of sixteen years old. 

When I was a senior in high school I graduated near top of my class. I had a perfect GPA, missing the extracurricular activities that my peers had to help them succeed on their applications, but I exceeded in every subject I ever tried in. I even got accepted to a great school in statistics and business with a full ride, but I never told my parents. I thought I was going to enroll, but then somebody new joined the gang. 

We hadn’t had someone new join the gang in over two years, since I killed the two opposing members. Of course, this spiked my curiosity, but I heard that this new guy was more popular with the younger members. Han Jisung was his name, and he wasn’t quite like anybody else I had ever met before. 

Some of our younger members were surprised that I had any investment in their sakes, but I was genuinely curious about this guy. Fourteen years old, dropped out of school, willing to do just about anything that anybody had ever asked of him. He seemed to be in it for shits and giggles, thriving off of the attention he got whenever he did something particularly spontaneous. Stealing from an old woman, selling drugs to a police officer’s girlfriend, he seemed to do just about anything if he could get a laugh out of it. It seemed like bad news–for everyone. If he did something particularly stupid, he would get us all fucked. 

He was assigned to his first real mission–robbing a bank, and for some reason, I decided to tag along too. I’m not sure if it was because I was concerned about the future of the gang–that wasn’t necessarily something I had ever worried about before, but something told me that leaving this guy all by himself was bad news. My parents had been slacking on their leadership of our gang for years, so it was just about time before it fell apart for good. 

Han Jisung didn’t quite seem to like me. Maybe that was unfair to say, because it was just that he didn’t really seem to talk to me at all at first. I think I had a tendency to over-explain things, to be protective and tell him to stand up for himself. He was no longer in high school, he told me, and so I taught him all of the things he needed to know along the way of our mission. I skipped the first day of my college orientation.

What I wasn’t expecting was for things to work out as perfectly as they did. Jisung was an amazing listener. He rarely needed to be explained to twice, and for some reason his brain had a perfect understanding and explanation of blueprints. Once being taught a weapon he was a certified master of it, and though I had shot a gun and had killed people before I was more confident in his abilities, his way around a dagger or a pistol.

Han Jisung was quite literally made to work with me, I concluded, as our heist went off without a hitch. What had started off as a mission that was a joke in order to get Jisung incriminated was more than a success, as we accumulated thousands of dollars without the authorities ever knowing it was us. And though the younger boy was apprehensive towards me at first and I had spent years telling myself I would never get involved in my parent’s business, it was obvious that we were… well, partners in crime, so to speak. 

I found out more about Han Jisung. His mother was just recently deceased and he was very clearly being taken advantage of by the other members of the gang. He was willing to do anything for the attention, when all he needed was someone to believe in him. 

Jisung was my very first friend. I wasn’t willing to call it that at first, but that’s what it was. I was willing to finally tell someone what it was like to grow up in a gang, to work hard to be the top of your class but get no recognition for it. I thought that maybe I would go to college just to be far away from here, just so I could be somebody else, but I was never even sure if that’s what I wanted. 

Jisung told me that he has always been seen as less than, as stupid. No matter how hard he worked, nobody would ever see him for his efforts. He would always, always be dismissed.

I didn’t want to be invisible. He didn’t want to be dumb. It seemed like for the first time, we each saw each other as more than what we had always been. And we worked exceptionally well together, even if neither of us necessarily wanted to be involved in crime. 

I started to think that maybe I could end up like my parents. Maybe I could see a future in this gang, that I could be someone to professionally carry out crimes and get away with it like nobody else ever had before. That maybe there was a future for me and Jisung to be out there, on top and well-known. Though, I unfortunately caught my parent’s negative attention, and with Jisung still known as ‘the boy that would do just about anything,’ it didn’t come of any good. 

We were told we needed to infiltrate another gang. The opposing gang whose leaders I had killed two years ago were still out for vengeance and it was nothing more than a death wish. Even we could realize that, but there was no getting out of this. 

Jisung and I were walking the streets, looking for new weapons and discussing infiltration plans when we were approached by an unfamiliar stranger. 

“Are you the two that carried out the infamous robbery on main street two months ago?” 

Jisung and I had both frozen, reaching for our guns in our pockets as we eyed the mystery man. He had a large nose and wide lips, dark eyes with longer black hair to match his dark ensemble. He gestured us toward an alleyway, and with knowing side-glances, Jisung and I cautiously joined the man for some privacy. Bang Chan, he had introduced himself, one of the most well-known mafia leaders in this area. That was not something to be taken lightly. 

“That infiltration was not something to be executed by beginners,” he laughed, whistling as if to show us just how impressed he was. “You would need to be someone seriously smart, to really know what you’re doing.”

“And your point is?” I had asked, crossing my arms and looking at him with trepidation. I ignored the way that Jisung’s eyes had lit up upon being called smart, the way that Chan had taken notice of this and used this to his advantage. 

“The point is, I want–no, need people on my team that are as smart, as capable as you two. The Lee family has been a part of this city for years, very well-known. But you, Minho, you don’t like to make yourself known, do you? You would prefer to keep yourself in the shadows, to focus on your studies. And you, Jisung, you just need somewhere to belong, don’t you? Aren’t you tired of not fitting in?”

Okay, so this guy seriously knew what he was talking about, how to use his words to take advantage of a situation. It was as if he saw the way that Jisung reacted and easily maneuvered his plan to work in his favor.  I tried to look away from the way that Jisung tensed up, visibly excited when Chan spoke. I even had to calm my own nerves. I was sure there was nothing he could offer us, nothing that could persuade me, but I was wrong. Bang Chan already had his victory written in stone. 

“Come, work for me instead. I’m sure your talents could be properly used. They’re being exploited right now, aren’t they? Don’t you want to get away? Minho, don’t you want to forget the Lee family, let your intelligence be acknowledged for what it is? I promise that we won’t throw you into any known danger for our own amusement at SKZ. You can’t tell me it’s not tempting, no?” 

And no, I couldn’t say it wasn’t tempting. Though I had no more chance of escaping through means of a college degree, I could still get away through other means. I could be useful in ways other than people throwing me head-first into a suicide mission. It seemed more sustainable for me and Jisung both, and I could tell I wasn’t the only one considering it. 

We had two days before we were expected to take down the opposing gang. 

“The only catch is you need to come with me right now and never look back.” 

One glance at Jisung and I could tell that our decision was already made. My partner in crime, now at a different location to work with me within reasonable means. It was strange, wasn’t it? To want to keep my first and only friend, to be willing to continue the life of crime in a way that was more organized and deliberate? 

But on top of that, even moreso I felt this innate desire to protect Jisung, my only friend. I couldn’t let him go by himself either for fear that he would be easily exploited by this powerful man. 

And even though I had become well-known as the ‘master of infiltration’ I wasn’t sure how much longer I wanted to be invisible for, not when I found the one person who had made me feel seen. I could either send us both into a death trap and Jisung would never be recognized for his talent, risk the only thing I’ve ever cared about dying before my eyes, or I could take Chan up on his offer. 

“We’re in.” 

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

taglist: @shuporanporang ; @purp13st4r ; @eurydiceofterabithia ; @heartsbyandra ; @thicccurls ;

@rylea08 ; @the-sweetest-rose ; @oddracha ; @kapelover ; @goldenmellow ;

@zerefdragn33l ; @uhh-awkward-rightt ; @astudyoftimeywimeystuff ; @kaleigh-2002 ; @thatonexcgirl ;

@mindfreecreator ; @linoalwaysknows ; @velvetmoonlght ; @minahaeyo ; @crystalchuuu ;

@hash2013 ; @skzswife ; @b0bbl3s ; @thecutiepieme ; @bear8585 ;

@moss-the-man ; @softkisshyunjin ; @sylveonitesworld ; @m00njinnie ; @nicoleparadas ;

@starsofasteria ; @klopez01 ; @luvlinos ; @hyunjinnnnnnnnnnnnnn ; @skz-akira ;

@boi-bi-ahaha ; @l33bang24 ; @hermione640 ; @gal82 ; @b-chansbbygirl ;

@kayleefriedchicken ; @notsojourni ; @hogwartslife64 ; @stilltrynafuckingtumble ; @ellelabelle ;

@melleus ; @hyun-bun ; @luminouskalopsia ; @leftovercigarettes ; @sabrina-gal-kpop

@ghostedgameplays ; @wealwayskeepfighting ; @meloncremesoda ; @Lovelino23 ; @honeyybbuubblleess ;

@blossominghunnie ; @sunlitangel777 ; @kkamismom12 ; @slaykanejvetsi ; @eastleighsblog ;

@skzskzskzskzskzskzskzzzz ; @k-keya ; @moonlight-sunrise-channie ; @estella-novella ;

@mbioooo0000 ; @lovemepie67 ; @lemonn015 ; @jaeminie-cricket ; @cookiesandcreammy ;

@jchotch726 ; @cookielixie ; @xxeiraxx ; @chuuyaobsessed ; @anime-addictot8 ;

@raspberrii ; @holdontoitwhileitlasts ; @korthbum ; @nxtt2-u ; @drinkingrumandcocacola ;

[abigailspinach]

When Matthew came to think the matter over he decided that a woman was required to cope with the situation. Marilla was out of the question. Matthew felt sure she would throw cold water on his project at once. Remained only Mrs. Lynde; for of no other woman in Avonlea would Matthew have dared to ask advice. To Mrs. Lynde he went accordingly, and that good lady promptly took the matter out of the harassed man’s hands.

“Pick out a dress for you to give Anne? To be sure I will. I’m going to Carmody tomorrow and I’ll attend to it. Have you something particular in mind? No? Well, I’ll just go by my own judgment then. I believe a nice rich brown would just suit Anne, and William Blair has some new gloria in that’s real pretty. Perhaps you’d like me to make it up for her, too, seeing that if Marilla was to make it Anne would probably get wind of it before the time and spoil the surprise? Well, I’ll do it. No, it isn’t a mite of trouble. I like sewing. I’ll make it to fit my niece, Jenny Gillis, for she and Anne are as like as two peas as far as figure goes.”

“Well now, I’m much obliged,” said Matthew, “and—and—I dunno—but I’d like—I think they make the sleeves different nowadays to what they used to be. If it wouldn’t be asking too much I—I’d like them made in the new way.”

“Puffs? Of course. You needn’t worry a speck more about it, Matthew. I’ll make it up in the very latest fashion,” said Mrs. Lynde. To herself she added when Matthew had gone:

“It’ll be a real satisfaction to see that poor child wearing something decent for once. The way Marilla dresses her is positively ridiculous, that’s what, and I’ve ached to tell her so plainly a dozen times. I’ve held my tongue though, for I can see Marilla doesn’t want advice and she thinks she knows more about bringing children up than I do for all she’s an old maid. But that’s always the way. Folks that has brought up children know that there’s no hard and fast method in the world that’ll suit every child. But them as never have think it’s all as plain and easy as Rule of Three—just set your three terms down so fashion, and the sum ‘ll work out correct. But flesh and blood don’t come under the head of arithmetic and that’s where Marilla Cuthbert makes her mistake. I suppose she’s trying to cultivate a spirit of humility in Anne by dressing her as she does; but it’s more likely to cultivate envy and discontent. I’m sure the child must feel the difference between her clothes and the other girls’. But to think of Matthew taking notice of it! That man is waking up after being asleep for over sixty years.

[respectthepetty]

I feel bad for Top

I don't like his cocky ass, but I feel bad for the strange way his slut shaming keeps playing out.

I started to feel bad for him in the second episode when Boston cornered him in the shower.

And although I still don't know where I stand on his story of the childhood fire, it's very clear that Top disassociates during sex.

Good for Force's facial journey, but Top doesn't enjoy sex, which makes his story about the fire seem more plausible, as if sex is just a means to an end - a body to help him sleep at night.

Because when he was in the car with Boston, he started breathing heavily while Boston was getting closer, yet it didn't read like the kind of sexual tension breathing, but the kind that precedes a panic attack.

Perhaps Top suffers from untreated anxiety, and he copes with it through sex and pills.

I know some people don't like me saying it, but Boston is a predator who is exploiting everyone's weaknesses.

He knows what makes these people vulnerable, and he feeds on it.

He is targeting fragile people.

And enjoys it.

He, once again, trapped Top so he couldn't leave.

Now I'm worried that the more Boston traps Top, the more excessive Top will be when coping. If he already sleeps around to the extent he does to disconnect, how far will he go with the pills to escape?

But it seems like he is a pawn to everyone.

And I wonder what that does to a person. To know that he is just a body. Just a commodity used for his body.

Instead of a being a fully realized person, he is a checklist of items.

And even when he says no, people don't listen because why would a slut say no?

And when Top looks uncomfortable being approached even as the guy himself calls Mew his boyfriend, the guy still offers Top sex.

Which is probably why he respects people's boundaries since nobody respects his.

So whatever issues are between him and Sand probably deal with 1) sex and 2) boundaries since those are Top's weak spots. Pure speculation, but I think Top is looking for a fight. If he feels like his life is out of his control then feeling physical pain could be one way to gain back that control especially if he plans for the pain to happen.

And I also wonder what he will feel like to question Mew about his relationship with Ray and have Mew offer up sex to him.

Because why would a slut need anything else?

[dokidokitsuna]

…The eternal temptation of designing a character who doesn’t get to grow up is wondering what they would look like if they did. ^^

-Considering Elfilin’s heritage, I think it’d be fitting for him to be super hairy as an adult– like, he probably shaves his facial hair twice a day and still has to walk around with a goatee, sideburns, and a patchy mustache most of the time. I think at this point in his life he’d still be self-conscious about it. ^^;

-He’s no longer allowed to use his powers freely, and hasn’t been since the [SPOILER] incident. Basically, this is how I imagine he’d grow up if he “survived” it…with increased anxiety, untreated PTSD, and a lot more scrutiny over his behavior and movements.

-The collar around his neck is designed to paralyze him (to varying degrees) if he tries to use any of his alien abilities. Thanks to Forgo’s advice, he already knows how to get around it, but does not tell anyone.

-Speaking of Fecto Forgo, they’re still tormenting Elfilin with nightmares and hallucinations on a daily basis– it’s not like they have anything else to do. Besides, they’re still seething over the fact that Elfilin didn’t listen to any of their warnings throughout the story of DDT, so they’re determined to “punish” him until he finally opens his eyes to how utterly dehumanizing his existence is…again, they’re not really wrong…

-Elfilin’s job at Lab Discovera is, ironically, to host the revived Dream Discoveries Tour. He does not like it. ^^; But he pretends to because he wants to look useful, and in a toxic-positive way it helps him to be more accepting of his situation.

-All he wants is to just stay with his parents: the only people he can trust; the only people who even try to advocate for him to have *some* human rights. This is…the only life he knows.

-He realizes that things are going to get worse for him after his parents either retire or die…or even before then, when Lab Discovera itself (which is basically just a tourist attraction at this point) inevitably shuts down. He suspects that someday he will have to take Forgo’s words to heart, but for now he’s not going to think about it.

[fiddlefordisms]

Canon Details and Analysis of Fiddleford McGucket Part 1

I'm writing a series of meta posts centering around everything we know about Fiddleford McGucket as well as what can be gleaned from those details and some theories of mine. At the very end of this series, I will also do a detailed look, analysis, and theorizing about Fiddauthor (a ship which I love) - however, this series of posts will be focusing mainly on what's actual canon (and thus written in terms of Fiddleford's friendship with Ford) and will be mainly focused on Fiddleford's character even as it stands outside of his relationship with Ford. Because he deserves to be his own character outside the context of a romantic relationship, and he deserves it in general.

Fiddleford was raised on his father's hog farm in Tennessee. We've received very few details about his family life other than that the hog farm belongs to his father, Fiddleford has a cousin named Thistlebert who believes in aliens, and Fiddleford's grandmother who does not approve of "coffee" (whatever that is). What we can glean from this is that Fiddleford is pretty familiar with his extended family. We also know he grew up "dirt-poor."

In Journal 3, Ford mentions that Fiddleford crosses himself while stepping over graves and chastises him for saying "what the devil." Tennessee is also located deep in the Bible Belt. This tells me Fiddleford was likely raised Christian and because of the "crosses himself" thing - likely Catholic. He's the first McGucket to ever go to college.

Fiddleford has anxiety issues, possibly an untreated disorder - a fact commented on by Ford in Journal 3 (knee-bouncing, a tendency towards pulling at his hair, his superstitious nature might lend to this as well, and the "SORRY" photograph mentions that he's "mighty nervous" about his first day, he also mentions having the hiccups that day - probably due to how nervous he is). Given how these things go, it's probably been with him since childhood, and he was probably belittled for it. Especially given the stigma around mental health issues, it would not surprise me if Fiddleford has been told multiple times "to get over his anxiety."

Before meeting Ford, Fiddleford had a low sense of self-confidence (and even after meeting Ford, it might still not have been the greatest). His very first day of college, after being laughed out of class, he's already arranging for a tractor (the joke is he's Southern and from a farm) to pick him up. He was going to drop out of college on his first day had it not been for Ford. This tells us that he was led to believe that he was "not right" or "not smart enough" for college. Because it's only his first day at college, he probably didn't get these ideas ingrained in him from the campus itself. Theories? A few. One: His father probably wanted him to stay and help out on the farm - maybe even take over the hog farm one day. Two: Fiddleford easily leaps to the idea that he "got his math wrong" and that his theory must be incorrect because everyone else thinks so. This tells us he does not consider himself "brilliant" despite the fact that he is HIGHLY intelligent. He's also at Backupsmore instead of a first-rate school. Because Fiddleford has a lot of anxiety, I think it's highly possible something that could have led him to believe this is test anxiety. Schools put so much importance on testing, and because of his anxiety, Fiddleford might not have been able to perform very well on tests. He probably really excelled at doing his homework, though, and probably already had a bit of an inventing streak. He might have been persuaded by a teacher to give college a try and probably had an interest in it due to his affinity for machines and likely a love of mathematics and physics (and possibly chemistry given that Old Man McGucket mixes up a voice-changing serum at one point). Fiddleford mentions in the "SORRY" photograph that he thought making a friend was more impossible than solving relativity. This is extremely sad and points to Fiddleford having been lonely through his childhood and school years up until college. It's not hard to imagine that he might have been bullied for being a "nerd" as well. People tend to look down on those who display Southern mannerisms and interests (Fiddleford plays the banjo, has a strong Southern accent, and was probably raised to take pride in his Southern upbringing) as "dumb hicks" - and this might be a cause for even more bullying while he's in Backupsmore and continued confidence difficulties.

[anarcho-smarmyism]

genuinely my ex is all over reddit right now accusing me of doxing and suicide baiting him while I told him repeatedly someone had hacked my Google account and Tumblr and he refused to even consider he could be wrong about that, no matter what I said, just like he refused to believe that I would ever leave him for refusing to make ANY friends outside of me that he could talk to duing his constant nervous breakdowns, usually cumulating in threats of self-harm and suicide. he attempted suicide in front of me MULTIPLE TIMES and told me over and over that if I left him he would die because his wealthy, "respectable" abusive Mormon family wouldn't take him in (they did, immediately, as soon as he actually asked. Go figure). He hated everyone I introduced him to, insisted people were "glaring at him and yelling at him" whenever we went out even to the GYM, and would incessantly bother me every time I went out alone. he would accuse me of "yelling" anytime I sounded angry, even if I was speaking at regular volume. every time I said I wanted to leave him, especially if I was crying, he would give me this condescending look and remind me that I would lose my job and my housing if he stopped letting me borrow his car -the car his older, better sister gave him, BTW, because he has never (and probably WILL never) earn a single thing for himself in his entire life. when i did leave him, he was NONSTOP trying to use financial incentives and/or threats of calling the police to falsely accuse me of stealing that damn car to get me to somehow interact with him -even though I told him over and over that we shouldn't be talking at the moment because I was too stressed and angry to be civil. He didn't care; he wanted to manipulate me into staying and being his free nurse maid for the rest of my life however he could.

the last straw after roughly 5 straight years of this was when he refused to stop texting and calling me about where his fucking Playstation remote controller was, even though I told him getting notifications while I drive is dangerously distracting for me (I have severe untreated ADHD; if you're poor in the areas I live doctors straight up do not give a fuck), even though he knew I was working as a home healthcare aide and needed to focus on the needs of my physically disabled patient while I was at work he would NOT stop bothering me no matter what I said or did. Then when I finally managed to get my most important stuff out of that house and he wouldn't stop calling and texting threatening self harm again, and I called the local police telling them he needed to be committed to the psych ward again, the cops beat him up and left him there....which he CONTINUES to blame on me, as if I control the fucking police. The last couple times I talked to him he admitted he's been hearing voices for weeks but the local hospitals won't take him because he won't tell them he's suicidal. So which is it?

For years, he was literally only not accusing me of neglecting or abusing him when I was either working or at home, paying attention to him or whatever he wanted to watch on TV. He wouldn't even put noise canceling earphones on so that I could play video games while he slept (im loud when im having fun; he was raised with upper middle class Mormon suburban social mores, I wasn't). He didn't care what I needed or wanted in my life or from our relationship whatsoever; no matter what I did to improve my mental health or try to go back to school or encourage him to also take better care of himself, he always found a way to sabotage me so i ended up wasting my life sitting next to him on the couch, so he would never have to cope with a single evening of social anxiety by going anywhere at all with me or anybody else! I made the mistake of trying to help him with his mental health when no one else would, and he decided that meant taking care of him was now my life's work.

He ruined so many jobs and friendships for me this way, my family who took us both in cut me off for not leaving a man who would literally throw himself to the ground like a toddler if he was """having a panic attack""", and when I left him what does he do? Make multiple phone numbers to harass me while I was trying to stay away from him and secure housing for me and our cats (2 of which HE insisted on getting, all of which he wanted to abandon in a shelter instead of even just asking his stepdad if he could take HIS cat home with him!), multiple tumblr accounts to cyberstalk me, and go on Reddit to recruit these sexist, gullible mouth-breathers to try and ruin my life for something I didn't do but he actually did. I have proof of him ADMITTING to this, to going off his medications and not sleeping for over 7 days ("handling the breakup badly" in his words); I have proof of everything on the same device I finally blocked him on. whoever has my Google account used it to send my new email a threat that they would follow me to the ends of all worlds to make sure I'm known as a monster at the behest of this actual fucking admitted insane person who actually abused me, financially and emotionally, for years because he assumed he could trap me and I couldn't do anything about it. it got so bad he was trying to control my MEALS and insisting i was insane for not eating the way he wanted me to. Even now I'm struggling to get someone to let me borrow an actual working computer so I can secure ANY of my own stuff, and I'm being slandered as some kind of abusive criminal matermind by a bunch of idiots who armchair diagnosed me as a narcissist borderline psychopath ETC because redditors are easy to goad into an online mob against any Bad Woman, especially someone's ex. if you tell them someone's a crazy bitch, they just take you at your word.

so yeah. For the time being that's my side of the story, as loath as I am to dignify this and have an embarrassing messy public flame war with my ex, it's clear I can't just ignore it because him and his "hacker buddies" are actually guilty of what they're accusing me of.

[theyshapedlikefriends]

Some life updates

After few years I finally found and thrifted Beanie Baby Howl the Wolf (Still have a hard time to find Inch the Worm and either red or orange Digger the Crab)... My life is still so-so but recently I find out I have a hardtime to maintain on focus and it most likely that I have untreated ADHD which also one of reasons why I barely make money right now from b/s/t on FB market and especially by doing art commissions I feel extremely ashamed for his but it would help me so much & I really appreciate a lot if anyone can even drop a $1 tip on my Ko-fi (from what I've said before I cannot maintain focus very well to do art commissions right now and I have art anxiety rn as well)

[punchtothestars]

☆ Von Kaiser Headcanons ☆

(Because I truly do feel for this middle aged man who seems like he's slowly falling apart)

TW for mentions of death of a loved one and mental health struggles

He and Glass Joe have been in the WVBA for longer than anyone.

They have a close bond because of this. They've seen each other in their prime, and helped each other through some of their lowest points.

He yells a lot because he's a little hard of hearing. He doesn't always notice how loud he's being.

He has a lot of baggage from a strict, perfectionist upbringing. Mistakes were severely punished growing up, and even though harsh correction of his errors drove him to excel, he carries a LOT of untreated anxiety and stress.

This is why he's so hard on himself when he fails. His twitching and trembling are a physical manifestation of the stress he can't express.

He became a boxing teacher to give kids like he once was an outlet for self-improvement. Though he's stern, he tries to be gentler than his own instructors were.

He's the kind of person who, despite his intimidating aura, rarely ever gets truly angry. He probably yelled out of frustration at a troublesome student once in his life, and felt a huge amount of shame and guilt afterwards. Later on, he would call that kid to his office, apologize, and have a more productive talk.

His students look up to him and even with the occassional teasing, respect him greatly. Despite this, lately he's felt like he's been deteriorating with age. He wants to be strong for them, though.

He's tense a lot of the time without realizing it, so he often gets muscle cramps.

Believe it or not, he had a wife once, but sadly she passed away a little over a decade ago due to illness. When she was around, she would give him shoulder rubs to ease his pain. These days, it's Joe who does it sometimes - and, surprisingly, King Hippo.

Very rarely uses touch as a form of affection. He only lets those who he's close and comfortable enough with touch him, but his main forms of affection quality time and acts of service. Occasionally, words, too.

He wanted to have kids with his wife, but with her passing, he couldn't bring himself to find someone else for a long time. In the coming years, he may open his heart again, and adopt should he choose to have kids.

For now, though, he serves as a guardian figure and role model to his students.

Doesn't smile often, even when he's happy.

This is based on an adorable Animal Crossing comic someone made (i'll credit them when I remember) but: I like to think his students got him into Animal Crossing when it came out on the Switch.

Maybe they were playing it during free time and they let him have a go at it, and something about the gameplay loop and the relaxing vibe just captivated him.

He's not even much of a gamer - probably mostly plays shit like puzzle games or word games if anything - but he hops in for a few minutes every day on his Animal Crossing island to decompress.

[attornsky]

Alrighty i wanna talk a little abt Sherlock & Co. I originally started listening to it cuz I honestly just wanted another form of media for Sherlock that I hadn't consumed yet, but i 100% stayed for the characters and plot.

With a little background, I am diagnosed with anxiety and get panic attacks. I don't wanna self diagnose but i believe i show signs of untreated adhd (im working on a way to get diagnosed and medicated 🤞) and as a result of these two things, my self esteem and grades at school declined so quickly and suddenly and it affected me so much. I graduated HS three weeks ago, and Im applying to medical school rn, but because of how i performed in my senior year, i have 0 confidence that I could even handle my pre-med preparatory year. I often consider myself stupid and below average because if I can't get good grades, then what am i supposed to do with my life? Anyway, due to my suspected adhd, I have a lot of sensory issues, especially sounds and touches, and nobody seems to understand. I get irritated from overstimulation and sometimes just wanna start crying in the middle of a busy street. It happened a lot during school. We were 36 students crammed into one classroom, so it was never quiet, and it made it even harder for me to concentrate. My school is known to be the worst in the country, and they're not accommodating to any student. We're also KG through 12, so there's always the irritating sound of kids yelling and shouting. I just couldn't handle the constant noise, and i couldn't wait to get home so i could get in bed, close the blinds, and watch a comfort show with my doggo sleeping next to me.

That's where the representation in Sherlock & Co comes in. They've written an adult character with sensory issues, who is open about them and his friends accommodate him. He uses ear defenders and sunglasses and makes an effort to understand his neurotypical friends. That just made me so much more comfortable about the fact that I constantly have noise cancelling earbuds shoved in my ears when I'm in public. I've even started wearing headphones instead (cuz it's better for ur ears ig??). Another thing is, they mention that sherlock, despite being super smart, didn't get good grades in college. And that's like!!! Yeah!! Standardised tests are awful and serve no purpose except shatter students' confidence when they don't get the desired grade. It's not a "one shoe fits all," and it shouldn't be. Everyone has strong points that couldn't be measured using a multiple choice exam. I can't even begin to count the number of panic attacks and breakdowns i get from anything school-related. I've seen close friends break down in uncontrollable tears from bad test scores. And these same friends are the most intelligent, well-spoken people I've met. Just because they couldn't memorize 200 pages of physics formulas and definitions doesn't mean they're worth any less. I don't know. That line from S&C just stuck with me.

Anyway, yeah. This podcast just makes me feel so soft and comfortable and fills me with relief and confidence. I don't know how to explain it.