#i wrote this instead of getting therapy

[greyfingers]

Visual Warnings 𖣠 longlegs / fem!reader

┊ ┊ ⋆˚  Summary: Longlegs takes a special liking to you after you look at him for a little too long.

Not to worry though, Reader has a knife. :)

.・。.・・..・。.・・..・。.・・..・。.

nsfw

19k

4/4 chapters.

Warnings: stalking, eventual smut, mild knifeplay, v. mild blood. 🩸

[iyohme]

and i know that you mean so well;

but i am not a vessel for your good intent!

("Tongues and Teeth," - The Crane Wives)

my serotonin got jetpack bursted into the stratosphere with this blurb by OP. Your brain is so juicy and moist and wrinkly OP. Godspeed. I'm not even into DC but the whole "Burnt out and neglected, and now a bunch of people driven by guilt guilt guilt want me back so they can feel less guilty?" just made the racoon in me rub its hands menacingly hoho

Just imagine not even living your best life; just a shadow in the lives of the illustrious Waynes, a ghost in a castle, visible only to the loyal servant and the occasional curious paparazzi who shrugs and looks away--after all, there was no mention of you in any occasion: must be the kid of in-house staff. How nice of Brucie Wayne to allow even the children of in-house staff the opportunity to study at such a high-end college! (The reporters chortle and snicker at your barely-passing marks, sighing at such a wasted opportunity. Oh well. And then they move on to the tabloid topic of the week, after the strutting socialites and the rich and the arrested Rogues.)

You gather things.

You gather pieces of a cracked dream, a single plastic teacup you had brought into the cavernous mansion the day you held Alfred's old, gnarled hand. Ears ringing and slippers still stained with your parent's blood as they were gunned down before your very eyes. You gather your things, what made you before you were "Wayne," so to say. Your mother's old cigarette box, smuggled from the crime scene, your one memento of the woman who you could not forget but never forgive.

A juxtaposition of love and hate, forever crucified. The image of the Virgin Mary inside the tin box seems to be a mockery of faith, across from her image lying cheap cigarettes.

You gather test papers, all barely passing and with more reds than blacks, and grind them up into strips with the shredder you had brought; just one time the black card Wayne had given you, and it left the bitterest, sourest aftertaste in your mouth. They burn so cozily on the school Bunsen burners, especially when sprayed with alcohol, immediately immolating like timelapse sparkler videos. You gather your name before the Incident, you cherish it, and you repeat the syllables in the dead of night, spilling past your mouth. Even if it was the name of a child-abusing monster, it was still yours, and it was still of use.

And use it, you would.

While they go and be a family, you work to begin yours.

You gather funds: it's easy to take on odd jobs when people do not suspect you. You tuck away that black card at the bottom of your study table drawers, forgotten there like scribbled-out pages of an essay, an unfinished drawing, and leftover candy wrappers. It's a bit-by-bit work, but you know the Waynes wouldn't even see it happening. Your brothers and sisters (an absurdly alien concept, as they don't even acknowledge you exist ninety-five percent of the time) are prodigies paraded around at every event. You are the unseen ghost flitting through their shadows.

Graduation comes and goes. It's laughably easy to falsify having lost your social security number and other documents--Gotham is that much of a shithole, you suppose. The man in the cowl notwithstanding. His efforts are admirable, but weak. Recidivism is common in this place, as if there were some sort of pull that incited the people in Gotham to cruelty, to madness.

It's absurdly Lovecraftian, in its own way.

You are not even living your best life, and yet you are free. Alfred knows; he always knows. If you are The Ghost, then the aged butler is a man one step between the doors of death, and he sees you every time you move. Your room is empty, and he raises an eyebrow at your satchel: all your items already stored elsewhere or given away.

("I suppose this was a long time coming, Little Master."

Tap tap tap. Footsteps on marble floors, setting sun.

You shrug. "Eh. The Waynes gave me a roof and education. It's all good."

You grunt. "Well, people change. Like you know, how kids being gifted stop being gifted when they grow older." You say, instead of 'Well, if a child doesn't get any praise or attention if they do good and probably even less if they were bad, why even bother?')

A pause. "Your academics were not so lackluster when you were younger."

You promise to try and stay in touch. (You crossed your fingers behind your back.) You leave, sunset on your face.

The nap you had in a dingy hotel with far too many odd stains and not enough locks you could put on was the soundest you've ever slept in years.

Freedom smells like summer air and the last rays of sun, followed by the cold blue hour.

It takes three months for an out-of-state college to accept you. It's far from Gotham. It has a dormitory. Excellent. While you were indeed a mediocre academic student, you had banked everything on band scholarships.

Who knew more than a hundred clarinet players had unclaimed scholarships yearly? Packing up your small life in bags, you take a train upwards to another state.

(Meanwhile, in Gotham, there is an odd sense of unease as Bruce Wayne stops by an inconspicuous door. It's relatively clean, as expected of his manor, but the worn out brass on the handle suggests that someone had lived there before. He opens the door. Steps in. A bed, a dresser, a study table. Bare bones.

The unease intensifies. But who?)

Someone had lived in here, yes.

[lucalicatteart]

Poll adventure (paventure? lol) Day 11: read the small story tidbit below the poll for more details, OR just vote based on initial impression

(✦ see past poll results + further information HERE (link) ✦)

Yesterday's poll decided that The Adventurer should curiously socialize with a few of the boat travelers ...

~

"The Adventurer grabs one of the ornate glass bowls near the buffet table, meekly gathering some cheese and vegetables as he scans the crowd. For the first 15 minutes of the lunch, he mostly crouches in a corner seat, nibbling on his food and nervously fielding the occasional drunken question from a passing party guest..

Knowing he should.. probably... actually socialize at some point, he begrudgingly chooses conversational partners, squeezing his eyes shut and pointing around randomly until he lands on someone.....

The first is a scrawny man in a flashy suit, wobbly from wine but still keeping a vaguely charming demeanor about him. He proudly introduces himself as a "legal expert", then goes on to ramble for a while about the laws in the area, how drastically they vary from city to city (plus a few veiled hints on how to safely break them), and that if you travel a lot it can be hard to keep up with it all.

He mentions, quite conveniently, that he's recently published a book on the topic, a legal guide for local explorers, and offers to give The Adventurer a copy for a special discounted price... but... then soon recalls that the crate of books he'd planned to sell on the boat sadly ended up falling into the river earlier during a "silly little mishap"..

In place of a book, he simply slides The Adventurer a glossy mint colored paper swirled with golden floral motifs, supposedly serving as some sort of business card, though the actual contact information seems obscured beneath the cluttered design. The Lawyer also pulls off his scarf as he rises to leave, wrapping it around The Adventurer's shoulders with a little waving flourish (not the first time someone has confused his anxious shaking for cold shivers). The Adventurer stutters out a confused thank you, then watches as the Lawyer stumbles off, mumbling to himself that he's been drinking too much and "truly must find somewhere to piss"......

The second person he approaches is an older woman, hunched over a table fidgeting with a handful of colorful glass dice, spinning and stacking and arranging them into patterns whilst her thoughts drift elsewhere. Initially, she gives evasive answers when asked personal questions, but soon grows more talkative once the topic of local flora and fauna arises. She apparently used to adventure as well, roaming the lands to document various elements of nature relevant to her mysterious "private research" - though, at her age, she's now resigned to casual boat rides rather than riskily hiking alone through uncharted wilderness. Gently laying a worn leather journal of watercolor paintings out onto the tabletop, she points at various berries, leaves, and animals, eagerly describing their significance...

After chatting for a while, she abruptly changes topics, mentioning that sometimes she can "sense things which she should not" (whatever the hell that means), then asks him to pick one of her dice. He hesitates, but she just stares, refusing to elaborate further.. Finding even 30 seconds of awkward silent eye contact physically impossible to bear, he hurriedly plops a finger down in front of an iridescent yellow die. She chuckles..

Scooping up all of the dice from the table, she rattles them in her clasped hands, then brings them up to her ear as if to listen... to something?? A few moments later, she turns back to him, speaking in a raspy whisper: "There are others, melding your footprints with their own, seeking a gift you do not yet know - this is what I see."

Before he can ask her for any elaboration, the Captain returns, grumbling that The Adventurer has already stayed 5 minutes past the time limit and swatting at him with a broom to shoo him off of the boat. Apparently an hour can go by fast....

After climbing back into his dinky raft, he sails mostly successfully down the river, finally making it to a point that, at least based on his map, SHOULD be where the main road picks back up past the detour. He crashes into a small grouping of rocks whilst trying to navigate back to the shore, but he was planning on disassembling the raft to get his rope and supplies back anyway, so.. aside from a scraped knee and possibly broken pinky toe, he decides it's actually fine. The cat is okay, which is all that really matters, anyhow.

By the time he's taken apart his boat, eaten a quick meal, and bandaged his leg, the sun seems to have nearly set. It's later in the night than he'd usually like to travel, but, where he's going is a pretty commonly used road, so maybe it's safe? He's exhausted from socializing, but could probably muster enough energy to walk for at least a while. Or perhaps he should just call it a night and find a place to sleep.. But.. where??? What should he do?

-

Additional information

acquired a long, warm, expensive scarf

acquired slightly increased knowledge of local plants

acquired vague information from the 'dice based fortune teller', or whatever that was meant to be

acquired a business card (+ ability to get away with one minor crime free of legal consequence)

acquired mild nausea for the next 5hrs from weird buffet cheese

acquired badly scraped knee and sprained toe (will walk slightly slower for the next 2 days)

the adventurer's current main goal: follow his map to reach the abandoned castle ruins and see the rare animal specialist about the mysterious egg he has

[rainstormsandothersadthings]

There was an interesting thing Arthur learned when he was eight and three-quarters in the field on the right side of the castle. He was chasing the red ladybugs that flew and crawled up the castle walls as if unaware of the unavoidable chill of the stone; as if they didn’t know the castle was where things rot and everyone pretends they can’t smell the stench.

[stuck-in-the-ghost-zone]

oaughhhh. everything is stagnant again

[commemorator]

najaa(addphonetic) : its a dutch thing i find myself using because sometimes theres a thing in a language that says something your language does not and learing that is how the human experience works And someties, that thing is really languaging, as in my case, I recognize

how it resonates to own fatalistic culture and implications for analysis of own(possibilities) culture and language + how lgs dynamic lends well to analysis on discourse(possibilities) + how i heard of it and how i was motivated to write and how it affects me on a deeper level and how it lends well to analysis of social media and its changes on our behavior(possibilities) and how it lends well to understanding terms and realities of subjectification(possibilities) and how deconstruction can be applied meaningfully and how this lends well to point on intentional exercising of forces of sequentiality and simultaneity + how everything is an opportunity for creation + how language can be used as conceptual tool for cultivation in all ways: educational, mentally healing or liberatory(possibilities), as opposed to it semantic isolation or lack of agency or unimportance

> first part: avg(q:high)! length - avg(q:avg)! harmony length/clarity/cogref - self level focus - low(q:low)! deterioration accuracy - low(q:low)! semantic markers > second part: high(q:high)! length - low(q:high)! harmony length/clarity/cogref - analysis level focus - high(q:low)! deterioration accuracy - high(q:low)! semantic markers > third part: low(q:high)! length - high(q:low)! length/clarity/cogref - communication level focus - low(q:low)! deterioration accuracy - high(q:low)! semantic markers > fourth part: low(q:6)! length - avg(q:low)! length/clarity/cogref - meta level focus - low(q:high)! deterioration accuracy - high(q:high)! semantic markers

[copperbadge]

Recently I ran across an article about an art center that was doing creative expression classes for people with disabilities. Not that unusual, I've encountered that and trauma-oriented art therapy before, but it was the first time I'd come across the idea since getting diagnosed with ADHD. While the class was aimed more at high-needs disabilities, it occurred to me that I could -- if I wanted -- make non-prose art about being disabled.

Outside of my work in scene design I've never been much of a visual artist because I've never felt I had the combination of "something to say" and "a meaningful way to say it", but I started to question how meaningful and complex I really had to be to just make some statements about having ADHD. I can do it in prose, after all.

So I started thinking about how you would talk, in visual language, about things like time blindness, shame stemming from undiagnosed disability, the shift in behavior that medication can induce. Ways to express my condition to people who don't experience it. I still didn't really know how to build the pieces but whenever I went to an art museum I'd think about how I might do a gallery installation. The centerpiece of my mental gallery was a pair of barcodes, one marked "Neurotypical" and one marked "Neurodivergent".

[ID: An interior view of a small booklet, with pages marked 1 and 2, showing barcodes -- on the left, labeled Neurotypical, and on the right, in slightly weirder configuration, labeled Neurodivergent.]

And then I thought, why not make a zine? Nothing you're thinking of couldn't be put in zine form instead of on a gallery wall.

[ID: The booklet continues to pages 3 and 4; on page 3 is a postage-style label reading AUTISM with up arrows on either side, and on page 4 is a QR code labeled ADHD. The QR code technically should work but it just dumps a block of text I wrote about having ADHD into a browser.]

I grew up with zine culture in the 90s and I always wanted to make one but much like with visual art, I never felt like I had the right kind of thing to say; either I had too much to say or too little, and anyway I wasn't confident that what I wanted to do wouldn't just come off as trite and obvious. But you can make a six-page zine out of a single sheet of paper, so I did: I made Helpful Labels For Strange Brains by idab zines, a division of Extribulum Press. (i--dab is a term for a cuneiform tablet that contains a royal communication.)

[ID: The last two pages feature the same image -- a cereal bowl with a spoon in it, the spoon containing a single Adderall pill. One image, however, is captioned "Wake up. Pour yourself a cup of iced coffee. Fix a bowl of cereal. It's going to be a good day." while the other is covered in a detailed ADHD-style step-by-step process for the same actions, culminating in "It's going to be a day like that."]

I'm pretty pleased with how it came out -- the art all looks intentional and it still has that "taped this together after school" aesthetic I remember fondly from the 90s. And the confines of six pages, each only a few inches square, offers a good structure to keep things clear, simple, and meaningful.

[ID: The cover of the zine, labeled "Helpful Labels For Strange Brains" in a kind of esoteric stampy font.]

Especially nice is that if you wanted to you could just hand out the flat sheet, and let folks fold it into a booklet or not -- there's instructions for folding it on the back of the zine. Additionally I have some sticker backed printer paper so I could print it such that you could literally turn the labels into real labels.

Anyway if you want it, here ya go. You can print it on a single sheet of paper and follow the instructions on the back to fold it. I thought about selling it but I do not have the spoons to do a bunch of printing and folding and shipping.

[lizzobetumblin]

Melissa hated her feelings. 

She buried them in a chest in the 5th grade (along with her ability to express them). Other peoples' feelings on the other hand was her forte. She could process, decipher and regurgitate other peoples emotions effortlessly. This gift could’ve taken her through college, all the way to a degree in psychology. Distinguished Dr. Jefferson with a PhD and a cozy office and impressive roster of high-profile, weallthy clients was a shiny idea. Fate would have a different hand for Melissa her talents were exhausted on mediating family fights, friend group drama, and charming her way out of confronting her own feelings. 

“Feelings.” Even saying it out loud to herself seemed silly. Something reserved for ‘cry babies’ and water signs. Typical Sunday nights started tame, reading or writing fan-fiction and drinking cranapple juice. And then like clock work her father would yell her name, 

‘MELISSA!!!’ Emotionless, she’d get up dust off her Winnie the Pooh shorts and make her way downstairs. On the long walk down the hall to the stairs leading to the living room brawl, she’d go through her check list: 

1.) Don’t cry.   

 2.) Stay neutral; Deescalate

3.)Don’t take anything personal. This isn’t about you

She padded down the carpeted stairs in her old soft socks to see her mother tightlipped and tear streaked thinking, 

‘she broke rule number 1’. Her father, Michael was proud and angry, his big belly filled with self righteousness. She knew he would be unyielding in his resolve and at this point her only option was to deescalate.

 ‘Rule number 2’. Then her sister the water sign and calamity for the evening sat on the floor nearly fetal, face red and raw with emotion. 

‘Its not your fault’ Melissa wanted to say ‘You just didn’t follow the rules… you’re loved.’ But she couldn’t say that because she’d be breaking rule number 3. It wasn’t about how Melissa felt. Even though she felt like screaming,

“VANESSA, YOU DIDN’T DO ANYTHING WRONG. DAD—YOU JUST HAVE PENT UP ANGER BECAUSE YOU GREW UP IN THE HOOD OF DETROIT AS A BLACK MAN IN THE 60s AND 70s. YOU NEED A HEALTHY OUTLET LIKE.. I DONT KNOW… THERAPY?!?!?! THIS IS A WASTE OF ALL OF OUR TIME. I LITERALLY JUST WROTE THE BEST SAILOR SATURN x CHIBI USA FANFICTION EVER AND THIS IS KILLING MY VIBE!”

Instead, she decide to hear every one out. She decided to help. To calm her dragon of a father down. To be a translator for her emotional sister. To not take it personal. To stay neutral. To not cry. 

9 years later, at her fathers funeral she still never broke the rules. She played her flute and spoke at his memorial. She was present for her mother because it wasn’t about her. When other peoples' emotions bubbled up she stayed neutral. She sat through both services and she did not cry. It wasn’t until she excused herself to make a phone call outside did she collapse onto the stairs of the funeral home and weep alone in the cold Detroit snow. 

It’s okay to break the rules sometimes, she reminded herself. As long as no one else sees it.

Traumas began to compact on Melissa, as they do. Humans tend to collect traumas like pebbles on a long hike. We toss them into our backpacks and keep moving forward. Some hikers would falter, but Melissa was built for this. She’d carried the stones of her family’s traumas uphill for years. She was strong. 

When men began to befriend and reject her, saying ‘you’re too good for me’ but not too good to make them feel good. She carried that. 

When childhood friends began to cut off the strings of her heart, saying ‘We can’t be friends anymore’. She carried that.

When her family separated like dandelion seeds, it seemed like they’d never be together again. Melissa slept on so many couches, floors and car seats sometimes she didn’t know if she’d see them again. 

She carried that. 

Dying was never an option though sometimes she didn’t mind the thought of it. Peace and warmth were two things she’d desperately yearned and hadn’t felt fully since the womb. Then one night in the pitch black of the hot, sweaty, roach-infested studio in southeast Houston she slept in she wondered:

‘Why can’t I break the rules?’ She’d seen everyone else in her life break them like popsicle sticks. And she didn’t just want to break the rules, she wanted to break them boldly and loudly and annoyingly and honestly and sloppily like every one else gets to do. It was in that moment, tucked in a thin jacket inside of an 8-foot high instrument cubby in the inky darkness—it hit her. 

‘Is my suffering for a high purpose? Or is my suffering trying to kill me?’ 

She cried. 

She escalated. 

She took it personal. 

But it wasn’t enough. She wanted to scream in a microphone in a sea of shadowy faces. She drank whiskey and wove her pain into rock music. 

‘Music is my boyfriend’ she declared. The only man that kept his baggage to hisself. And it healed her. It gave her voice reason and purpose. 

The pebble-laden hike became lighter with time. The incline eventually evened out to flat, beautiful landscapes where the breeze finally met her back. She knew it wasn’t gonna be easy or sunshine but even the rain cleansed her and it was beautiful too. 

Somewhere in the rain she decided rules were meant to be built and broken. Like trust and love and friendships and families. Because every thing deserves the opportunity to change and grow. 

So... She broke rule number 1 on stage while singing a beautiful song. Dr. Jefferson (PhD) screamed for her to stop but she didn’t listen and the tears flowed like rivers of emotion down her cheeks. 

Rule number 2 was broken when she grew older and saw the injustices of the world. Marching with hundreds in protest she realized not everything needs to be pacified. 

And one day when she finally fell in love, she broke rule number 3. No matter how much training she’d done she couldn't help but take every thing her lover said and did personal. But it was ok. Because in all her resistance she realized breaking rules was her power. 

Melissa began to fall for her feelings. Her feelings gave life purpose. They weren’t always logical, as feelings seldom are. They were sloppy and embarrassing and rude and so fucking uncomfortable. But they were hers. And they were real. And when she sat alone sipping wine, staring at the moon…They were the only ones still by her side. Ready to break the rules for her because they loved her. 

And she finally loved them back. 

[bumblequinn]

hi @sourpatchsquids! thank you for your question.

as an artist with ADHD, i know this struggle very well. unfortunately offering advice on this kind of thing can be tricky, because what works for me may not work for you (and vice versa!). nonetheless, i can try; take whatever works for you, forget the rest, or reshape any part of it as you see fit. :)

but before i offer any actual tools, i have one caveat. i want you to take a moment to reflect and consider if you should be:

changing expectations

the timing of this question seems fated, because just the other day i had a therapy session wherein i expressed my grief and frustration over struggling to work lately due to my seasonal depression. it's not fair that i'm struggling just because it got a little darker outside! i just want the spark i had in the summer! i was so much more consistent!

my therapist's response: nothing about human beings is consistent. we get sick, we get tired, we get hungry and thirsty (and thirsty) and sad and lonely and restless and stressed and overwhelmed. this all gets amplified for folks who are atypical in some way or another.

when my therapist compared our seasonal cycles to those of plants and other animals, who wilt and slow down and hibernate, i protested aloud that i wanted to be a perennial instead. at this she said: even perennials change with the seasons. rose bushes have to be pruned, sometimes down to half their height! it was a dose of perspective i didn't particularly want, but really needed.

so when you're struggling to work through executive dysfunction, burnout, or brain fog, it can help to first check in with yourself about a few things. what do you have the capacity for right now? do you need any accommodation? and if so, what changes you might make to accommodate yourself?

with practice and self reflection, i've learned a handful of specific routines that help me when i'm struggling with creative work, which i'll detail next. note that while your question is specifically about music and i am specifically a musician, i believe that all of these suggestions can apply to most any form of digital creative work.

with that in mind:

#1: work slower

when i'm at the top of my game, i can get a LOT done in a day. but when i'm depressed, fatigued, or distracted, i just can't go full steam. sometimes i'll try to convince myself that i can if i just push harder, but what actually ends up happening is that i'm just fiddling with settings and going in circles rather than moving forward.

instead of that, when i want to work a lot but can't, i try to work slow. how slow? however slow i need to. take four hours to figure out the melody for a single verse. take all day to figure out that drum groove. yeah, i take a lot of breaks in between. who says i have to be my Absolute Most Productive Every Day Or Else? that's the puritan work ethic talking. kill it. be kind to yourself.

i'm reminded of advice i once read about some super successful and prolific author (gaiman? king? pratchett?) who said they wrote only four hundred words every weekday. that's already less than the word count of this post, and i'm only—[travels into the future to check my final word count]... 22.8% of the way through writing it!

now, i don't think i could function that way, because ADHD means some days i'm hyperfocused like crazy, and other days i just have no steam at all (more on that in #4-6). but it seems to me that if even someone highly respected in their profession can achieve what they have with only a little bit of work on a regular basis, maybe i don't have to punish myself for not pumping out a finished work every single week.

doing less work per day means you're much less likely to burn out, which does a lot for working more consistently. if that consistency still doesn't look like a five-day work week, that's okay! as long as it helps you work even a little more often when you want to, it's something worth doing.

however, if you're still feeling truly stuck, all hope isn't lost. you can still try:

#2: switch projects

sometimes the reason i'm moving slow is because of a bad brain day, but sometimes the reason is that i just cannot muster the motivation to do the specific task i'm trying to do right now. ADHD is fueled by novelty and interest, and if i'm not interested in what i'm doing, or it's feeling stale, that's a sign that i need to switch gears.

this is why first it's helpful for me to have more than one project going at a time. this might mean completely unrelated works, or it might just mean related tracks as with the music for a game like SLARPG or susan taxpayer.

the idea here is not to start a dozen different projects and bounce around them like i'm playing whac-a-mole—though i have done that. (i don't recommend it.) the idea here is to have a manageable number of different projects i can be working on so that if i get bored or stuck on something, i have fallback options.

what that number of projects is depends entirely on the week. maybe right now it's two, maybe another time it's three. i would probably be getting carried away if i tried more than that, but that's just my own limit. maybe yours is different. that's something for you to think about.

but it doesn't have to stop there.

#3: switch focus

maybe there is this one project that i just HAVE to work on, but the task i'm trying to do at this stage just isn't coming to me. okay, well, why don't i try working on a different task?

let's say i can't figure out what i want to do with the melody in one part of the song:

what if i try jumping ahead to a different part of the melody? ...no, i'm stumped on melodies today. okay, how about working on the drums instead? ...hmm no, i think i'm just completely tapped out on writing parts right now. alright, what if i organized my tracks, making sure they're all grouped and named in a way that i can work with easily? what if i did a rough volume balance for the mix?

and so on. if that's not enough to shake the off stuckness, i might consider: what can i do to make this project more interesting to me?

what happens if i try using an instrument or effect that i almost never reach for? what if i try sampling something obscure? what if i bang out the drums using my midi keyboard instead of drawing it in on the piano roll?

any approach that breaks me out of my usual habits is bound to get that feeling of novelty and fun back when i need it.

or maybe i can't do any of that right now, and so i take the time to answer a question from a fellow musician instead. i consider that part of my work, too, in a broader sense. check in with yourself and figure out what you can do right now. the rest will still be there later.

but okay, let's say you try switching gears, and switching again, and again, and nothing is moving. you try new approaches, but that wall of awful is insurmountable in this moment. it happens! the next thing you might try is:

#4: learn something new

when you aren't able to make progress on your projects, you can still make progress on your knowledge and craft. i often find this stokes a flame of inspiration in me where there wasn't one before. and even when it doesn't, it still gets my brain out of that feeling of stuckness and dread and into one of thought and action. learning also benefits in the long term because it adds to the well of knowledge from which you draw for all your future works.

for all the awfulness that exists on the internet, it remains an absolute treasure trove of teaching. there's an endless ocean of videos, blog posts, and articles from which you might learn something about your craft. (and if you sail the seven seas, plenty of book PDFs as well. 🦜🏴‍☠️)

it's true that the quality and depth of information out there can vary wildly, but in my experience most resources get at least some things right. and the more you research, practice, and figure out what works for you, the better you will learn to differentiate between the advice worth keeping, and the advice to forget. (that goes for all of what i'm saying here, too!)

that said, since our shared focus is music, a few resources i would highly recommend are:

music theory and composition music matters, 12tone, charles cornell, music with myles, 8-bit music theory, and this introduction by andrew huang

mixing and production dan worrall (especially this series for fabfilter), kush after hours, red means recording, andrew huang, alice yalcin efe, in the mix

general inspiration nahre sol, ben levin, david hilowitz, game score fanfare, posy, jerobeam fenderson, open reel ensemble, and ELECTRONICOS FANTASTICOS!

(if any readers have their own helpful resources for creating music or any other media, feel free to share in the replies & reblogs! 💓)

of course, on an especially bad day, it might be a challenge to seek out information, let alone retain it. that can feel pretty bad, but remember: be kind to yourself. the next thing you might consider trying is:

#5: consume art you love

not just music. books. shows. movies. games. illustration. animation. whatever moves and inspires you.

but do it intentionally. don't just pull up some random thing the algorithm suggested! check in with yourself about what you want (or are able) to engage with right now. choose accordingly. if you get a little way into it and realize it's not scratching that itch, hit the bricks. check in with yourself again. wash, rinse, repeat, until you find whatever it is that speaks to you right now.

and do it actively, if you can. don't just let it go in one eye and out the other! really pay attention to the work. what do you like about it? what are its themes and motifs? what makes it work so well? what are its flaws, and how much do they matter? what might you do differently? you can write notes as you do this if it helps, but even simply noticing and thinking goes a long way.

what you don't want to do is come at this with a lens of shame or envy. you're not here just to say to yourself, "ugh, if only i could do THAT." it's okay if it happens. use that thought as a springboard for curiosity: "well okay, how DID they do that? do i have the resources for it? if so, how could i apply that to my own work? if not, how can i adapt it, or what do i need to learn?" keep your mind open and approach the work with a sense of wonder.

as a creative person, it's very easy to think, "i should be making something right now, not watching a movie!" but that thought forgets something vital: your art is a response in a conversation. of course the "language" you use is your own, and maybe if you're lucky you'll invent a new word. but most of the words you use have been around long before you were born. you're just one voice in a dialogue that spans continents and generations, and that's okay. it's even the whole point.

none of us is an island. we are profoundly social animals. just as we can't live without eating, we can't make without learning. so half of making art is consuming it. consider this part of the process as well.

and finally,

#6: rest, and live your life

let's say you're in really dire straits. you've tried working slower. you tried changing focus, you tried changing projects. you want to take in new information or actively engage with your favorite art, but you're not in the headspace for it. what now?

take a nap. take a walk. take a shower. eat a nice meal, or an okay one. talk to a friend. maybe even do that chore you've been putting off (you know the one).

it's human to always crave making, but you're not a machine—and even if you were, machines need regular maintenance, too! you wouldn't drive a car that's completely out of gas, and you won't do yourself any favors treating your body that way either.

i know that when you take a break it feels as though you're not accomplishing anything, but you are: you're taking care of your animal self. and while you do that, your creative brain doesn't stop working! much like windows, it has countless background processes running at any given moment, with inscrutable names like "cbdhsvc_692da" or "Microsoft Edge Update Service." it's true, i checked.

when you're stuck on a project and you step away to rest, your brain is still chipping away at your ideas unconsciously. i like to tell people, "it's percolating." much like waiting for a pot of water to boil, that idea is still heating up, even when you take a step away. just be sure to check in on it once in a while. the time will pass, and it'll be boiling again before long. :)

before i go, i'll leave you with one last thing to keep in mind as you try all of these strategies:

be kind to yourself.

being human is just about one of the hardest things you can do. let alone being a human trying to survive capitalism while living with disabilities! the last thing you need on top of that is to overwork yourself, talk to yourself negatively, or treat yourself harshly. there are plenty of other people in the world who do that to you—don't be one of them.

i'm not saying that you shouldn't try to challenge yourself, to test your limits and go above and beyond your ambitions, if that's what you want to do. just remember that hard work and self compassion are not mutually exclusive. so be careful not to bully yourself. take pride in the progress you make, even when it seems small. encourage yourself like you would a friend who's going through a hard time. and when you challenge yourself, be your own cheerleader.

i hope you find this advice helpful! remember, this is just what helps me, so don't feel like you have to follow any of it exactly. maybe taking time to learn new information helps break you out of your rut more than working slowly, so you reach for that tool first. maybe having multiple projects going at once is too distracting for you, so you prefer to stick to one at a time. whatever your needs are, feel free to alter and adapt these ideas to fit you.

thank you for reading, and i wish you the best of luck in your creating.

with care, bee 🐦

[woncon]

➳ like a rainbow

➶ stray kids ot8 x gn!reader ｡˚ °

-ˏ` ✎﹏ sometimes it just hurts and you need to cry it out. but don't worry, your boyfriends are here to help you through it.

➴ genre: angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, fluff in the end

: ̗̀➛ warnings: crying, emotional pain

⌨ :: 1.2K words ♡ ︵ . .

⁀➷ i had a sobbing afternoon the other day. i wrote this as a therapy session, and now I'm dedicating this to all the dear Stays who need it! <3

⁀➷ thanks to @wonsheep for helping me fix my grammar mistakes and for giving me advice how to convert a whole story into another language precisely °♡̷•.

➳ stray kids masterlist | main masterlist

You retire to the bedroom. You don't even bother to close the door. You just throw yourself on the bed, and the tears are already flowing. You curl up in a ball and let your heartache take its course.

Today seems to be one of those days.

A day for crying.

You're too weak to get up. You're too tired to think. You’re just hurting and you let it hurt. Maybe if you use up all your tears, it'll be easier.

Maybe.

You embrace your body. Your shoulder shakes. Your whole being gives way to desperate cries. You close your eyes because you see nothing but your own tears, endless. Your heart is pounding loud, crumpled in its cave.

You don't even hear when someone enters the room.

Chan calls you by name, softly and quietly, but as soon as he realizes you aren't sleeping, but instead hiccupping from sobs, he is not subtle, he repeats your name in terror and comes to your side.

"What happened? Who hurt you?" He grabs your face. "My baby? Baby, talk to me. What hurts?"

You cuddle up to him, bury your head in his chest and shake it. You can't talk about this now. You have no words now, only tears, but you cling to Chan's body to let him know that even if you can't articulate it, you need him here. So you don't dig your fingers into the fabric of your sweater, but hold Chan close to you.

Meanwhile Chan is stroking your back, rocking you slowly, trying to soothe you with his kind words, you are still crying bitterly, your own chest unable to suppress the grief that is welling up inside you.

Soon Felix sticks his head into the room. His incomprehension quickly gives way to worry. His eyes widen, his mouth clenches helplessly, and every bitter sound you make creates another crack in his heart. He wants to climb on the bed, cuddle up to you, touch you reassuringly, hoping that his touch, his presence, will go some way to soothe your suffering.

But before he can do that, Chan whispers something to him. Felix doesn't understand at first. He shakes his head.

"Blanket. Hot chocolate. Music. Netflix. Dori," repeats Chan.

Felix nods vigorously, and heads out of the room to hand out tasks to the others. Everyone is committed when they find out how bad of an emotional state you are in. They are eager to do something to cheer you up, if only a little.

Seungmin looks for your favorite blanket. Felix makes the hot chocolate while Hyunjin roasts marshmallows. Jisung and Jeongin take care of the music, one brings the speakers from Chan's studio, the other your favorite playlist. Changbin's forearm disappears into the sofa as he searches for the remote control. Minho lures Dori into his lap to bring him to you.

When their duties are done, they all go to the bedroom and shower you with their kindness. You crawl out the cover of Chan's chest and sit up. You are so struck by all these hopeful faces and loving little things that for a moment you completely forget the pain you have felt, and the mere purpose of your existence is the vibrant gratitude you feel for them. A visceral gratitude for their kindness and love.

"See, little one?" Chan says with a half smile as your boyfriends flood the bed. "You are not alone. You are never alone. If you need it, you can cry on everyone's shoulder because we're here to take care of you."

Chan pulls out a tissue from his trousers and hands it over. You blow your nose. Seungmin spreads the blanket on your legs. Jisung turns on the speaker, then puts it on the nightstand. Jeongin starts the music, and the bedroom fills with rippling melodies instead of your inconsolable crying noises.

"Here." You get the hot chocolate in your hand from Felix. 

As you sip the sweet drink and eat the marshmallows, you feel warm inside. Your tears slowly dry up. 

You feel safe in the ring of your boyfriends on your huge bed as they quietly watch and listen to your wishes and reactions. They do their best to make you feel better, and their efforts alone make you feel better. By being here, being with you, and wanting to help, you know that no matter how much it hurts, they will try so hard to make you not suffer. They will listen or silently embrace you, whatever you need, they will want to give it to you, but they won't let you wallow alone, helpless.

Felix clears the empty mug up with a broad smile. As soon as your hand is empty, Minho immediately puts Dori in your lap. The cat instantly curls up on your blanket-clad thigh, settling into regal comfort.

At times, Dori specifically likes to be around those who aren't exactly in a good mood. He makes it almost a mission to cheer them up. Even now, as you run your fingers through his fur and he purrs contentedly, it's enough to bring a small smile to your tear-streaked face.

"You're like a rainbow now," whispers Hyunjin. You look at him. His eyes are bright with wonder, lips slightly parted. "Your tears fall, but your smile shines. Your face is a rainbow."

Embarrassed, you wipe away the remaining tears with the sleeve of your sweater before they dry completely on your face.

"Thank you," you say. "For taking care of me."

"Of course, beauty. We love you," replies Changbin, handing over the remote. You hold it with the hand you're not using to stroke Dori's soft fur. "We love you so much, you can choose the movie. If you want."

"But we can do other things if you feel like it," Felix adds, caressing your hand. "Anything that makes you happy."

"It's nice like this. Can we stay a little longer here?"

Everyone nods.

You scratch the base of Dori's ear.

"Thank you, really," you whisper emotionally.

"No need to thank us." Much to your surprise, Minho is lying down on your other side, resting his head on your shoulder and sliding up. You put the remote next to Dori and stroke Minho's hair with your free hand, and it seems as if he purrs too. You enjoy that this time you don't have to fight with his tsundere self to get him to cuddle up to you. 

Then your hand is snatched out by Hyunjin, who settles down behind Minho. He plays with it, drawing little hearts on your palm.

“Grandpa, space please!" Seungmin pushes Chan aside so that he can lie at your side. Chan snorts, Minho giggles and you smile.

"My seat's taken," Jisung snorts sadly, nudging Dori, who's sprawled on your stomach.

"You have other seats, Sung," Seungmin mutters, who no longer has such a problem because he's found his place next to you.

“Right!" Jisung gets excited. In the next moment, he leaps at Minho, who moans angrily for a second, but lets Jisung sprawl out and nestle on top of him.

Chan, Jeongin, Changbin and Felix form the other pile. 

You wish you had eight arms like an octopus to touch them all and pull them to you. And then Jeongin smiles sweetly at you, Changbin looks at you lovingly, and you understand that you don't need eight arms, because they are all in your heart, as you are in theirs, be at arm's length, cities or continents apart.

[leqonsluv3r]

girl!dad leon kennedy

—husband!leon kennedy being the best absolute girl dad out there, a headcanon list

loosely based off of this oneshot and this headcanon list <3

masterlist taglist

an: happy father’s day yall! i originally wasn’t going to post this for father’s day and post a request instead but this has been sitting in my drafts since i wrote that pregnancy request with leon. so i figured in honor of father’s day, here’s leon being an amazing girl dad or what i think he would be like as a girl dad. anyways, ill post a request this upcoming week. i love you all, pls reblog and like. you know the drill.

girl!dad leon who is infatuated with his daughter from the moment she’s born. he thinks that she��s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen besides his wife, of course.

girl!dad leon who buys his daughter only everything and anything that her little heart desires. doesn’t matter if she can talk yet, she has him wrapped around his finger. he will spoil the absolute shit out of her until asked not to.

girl!dad leon who watches cartoons with his daughter, holding her in his lap while his wife makes breakfast. doesn’t matter if it’s some stupid cartoon about talking dogs that fight crime, he’s just happy that his little girl is happy.

girl!dad leon that helps his wife pick out little outfits and dresses that somewhat match him, doesn’t matter if it’s corny. he just feels that it’s cute and there is no shame in that.

girl!dad leon who plays dress up with his daughter, dressing up like a fairy princess and dancing around. doesn’t matter if his wife is laughing hysterically and taking a ton of pictures, he’s the happiest when he hears his little girl laugh. her little giggles are proof enough that he’s doing something right with his life.

girl!dad leon who plays dolls with his daughter, making silly high pitched voices that he wasn’t aware he could conjure. his daughter is eating all of it up, every moment spent with her dad is a good one.

girl!dad leon who makes his daughter lunches for her first day at preschool, getting her whatever lunch box she desires and making sure that she’s all dressed up and ready. he packs her apples, some cheese and some fruit snacks, whatever else her little heart desires.

girl!dad leon who gets matching t-shirts with his little girl, one says daddy’s little trouble maker and the other says the trouble makers father. it makes his wife laugh and she takes a hundred pictures of their little girl and him wearing the matching t-shirts.

girl!dad leon who takes his daughter to the park, pushing her in the swings, getting to act so carefree with his daughter for the day. it’s free therapy that he never knew he needed. having his daughter is healing him one day at a time.

girl!dad leon who watches as his baby girl says her first words and watches her crawl, he showers her and praise and love, just like his wife. he hugs his baby girl and hoists her in the air, her little babbles and giggles making him feel like he’s living a dream. he never knew his life would be this good.

girl!dad leon who carry’s her around in a baby bjorn, casually walking around the grocery store with his little girl strapped to his chest. her little eyes looking up at him the entire time and making his heart melt. he’s getting softer by the day he swears and it’s all thanks to a combination of him and his wife’s genes wrapped up in a cute little baby.

girl!dad leon who buys his daughter a different stuffed animal after he comes back from every mission, watching her little face light up and yell, “daddy! daddy!” one of the few words she knows. it makes him glad he survived. his two girls safe under one roof is worth it if he has to see bloodshed and death every once in a while. their safety is more important and precious.

girl!dad leon who watches his daughter stumble around on her little legs to pick flowers in the backyard. every time she picks one, she brings it back to him and he holds it in his hand until he has enough for a small bouquet. he doesn’t have the heart to tell his little girl that they’re just weeds, she’s happy and that’s good enough for him.

girl!dad leon who celebrates his daughters first birthday with her and his wife. throwing her a small party with some of his friends and his wife’s friends, watching as his wife opens presents for their daughter. watching as her daughter gets a smash cake, burying her face in frosting and getting all dirty. normally he would hate the mess, but he’d never thought he’d get here. celebrating one year of having the best little girl ever and a loving wife. he really got lucky.

girl!dad leon who buys his daughter a little necklace that says “daddy’s princess” on it. he knows she’s only a year old and can’t really appreciate it yet, but he just wanted to get something special for his little girl. his baby’s first piece of jewelry (among many more if he has anything to say about it).

girl!dad leon who wakes up on father’s day with the biggest smile on his face. his wife and his little girl in the kitchen, cooking him the biggest breakfast known to man. he’s wearing that matching t-shirt he got all those months ago. he gets some heart shaped pancakes shaped like hearts, a card and a teddy bear that his daughters tiny hands hold out to him, says best daddy ever on the belly of the furry teddy. he feels his eyes water and grabs his tiny baby girl, pressing kisses to her head. does the same to his wife, showing his appreciation for having his little slice of serenity. he finally got his happy ending, one he never thought was possible. and he has his wife and daughter to thank for that.

taglist: @elihii @heartsforvin @argreion @sqiim @adollrable @leonkennedygvrl @laceycoffins @porcelainseashore @squazmine (taglist is linked above if you would like to join!!)

[amourdivine]

୨ ♡ ୧ WHO IS HAUNTED BY YOU? PAC  ઉ

Hello lovelies, welcome to another pick a card for my Halloween special 👻 This is a reading about who is haunted by you. I hope you enjoy! Feedback is highly appreciated. If you liked this reading, please consider tipping me at @ amourdivinetarot@gmail.comvia paypal! xo ♡

☁️ ˚ QUICKLINKS . ༉ ‧

INSTAGRAM ୭ YOUTUBE ୭ MASTERLIST ୭ PAYHIP

›    none of the images are mine unless stated otherwise. ›    personal readings are closed.

HOW TO CHOOSE YOUR PILE.  take a few deep breaths and look at each picture separately. see which one brings you to a feeling, a place or a memory. take your time and feel free to come back to it later!

pile one.

the devil, knight of swords, eight of wands

This is a person in a relationship, someone who is not happy with where they are. It seems they're tied to something or someone, perhaps this is a relationship they feel tied to and currently see no way out of. It can be a friend, a co-worker... even a boss. Being with you would bring out certain societal implications they're not prepared for. This person is running from their attraction towards you, but it's very hard to resist you.

They may find themselves glancing at your pictures, social media or typing out texts and deleting them. I wrote 'hands' instead of 'wands' by accident at the beginning of your pile, so there's a big likelihood that they cannot keep their hands to themselves when they see or think of you. If you notice this person is extra fidgety or touchy around you, it's because they get a thrill out of it. The forbidden aspect of it both pains and excites them. To be honest, I don't see them getting out of this toxic relationship anytime soon, so do not expect much. Regardless, you set this person on fire.

channeled words and messages: meme, dm's, sneaky link, ride or die, lana del rey, freak, toxic masculinity, therapy, curse, silence ring, marriage, engagement.

pile two.

wheel of fortune, the moon, knight of pentacles

You probably don't know this person that well. This may be someone you've come across on multiple occasions in an unexpected way, but couldn't talk to all that much. Someone who's in your class or a new co-worker... maybe a friendly, quiet neighbor or a friend of a friend. You've made quite a lasting impression on this person and they want to get to know you. They may have had dreams with you, something which confused them and deeply troubled them. How is it possible to feel like you know someone and not know them at all?

They may have tried to avoid you, with no success. Currently, they're trying to figure out a way to approach you without looking crazy. They seem shy, a bit anxious as well. This person may be asking their friends for help on how to talk to you, they may have tried to find a common hobby or class so they can increase their chances of being around you.

channeled words and messages: social anxiety, history class, college, sage green, leather couch, autumn, latte, late for class, "sorry i bumped into you", "i'm so nervous".

pile three.

the emperor, ace of swords, eight of wands

A very proud person (lol). You could be involved romantically with this person to some degree. If not romantically, at least physically. This person doesn't want to admit they caught feelings for you, so they're trying to be cold and rational, hoping that the intensity of their desire for you wears off. They're not used to being genuinely interested in a person. They're not used to wanting to talk to someone.

You excite this person's mind, you pique their interest. You may have stood up to them in some way, or you could have said something that lingered in their mind. You have challenged them and though it irks them that someone had the audacity to do so, they're quite impressed with your charm, your witty attitude. Although we have the Eight of Wands which typically suggests physical attraction, I can't help but feel this person is interested you beyond your body and looks.

channeled words and messages: 888, lawyer, entj, intj, sapiosexual, bookshelf, simone de beauvoir, feminism, jane austen, introvert, "i don't like people", pride, leo, respect.

pile four.

strength, two of cups, knight of wands

The person who is haunted by you is someone you're also haunted by (hehe). The feelings, attraction and relationship is mutual. It is balanced and fair. For some, this is a friend you have yet to confess to. For others, this is a crush you're not sure likes you back. Either way, this is your confirmation that this person does like you and does want you.

I'm getting a "first love" feeling. It could be both or one of you is too shy to tell the other, maybe you're scared of rejection or ruining what you already have. However, it's quite obvious to the people around you that you should be together. It seems a step of bravery is required in order to be with one another, because the love, the respect and companionship is already there. This relationship is already built on a good foundation, so trust that you can hold this person's hand and they will not let go. I'm very happy for you, pile four!

channeled words and messages: childhood best friend, painting, high school, pop songs, spotify, shared playlist, inside jokes, heather, jokester, austin, teasing, "between the lines", slow burn, skinny love.

amourdivine. © do not copy, redistribute or edit my content.

DISCLAIMER. tarot is a divination tool, it’s not a substitute for medical and professional advice, nor is it meant to be taken as such. i don’t take responsibility for any choice(s) made by you or others regarding my readings. be mindful ♡

[tetheredfeathers]

I have this headcanon that Katniss is a very good poet/writer. Her thoughts have always been so poetic, like who the hell calls a boy she fake loves "dandelion in the spring, that means rebirth instead of destruction" like be fr. And at the end of Mockinjay she says something like I make a list in my head of every good thing I've seen someone do.

Post mockingjay she spends her days in the woods writing for hours and hours. It's good therapy for her as well, she writes about Prim, Rue, Cinna, Finnick, Boggs, Peeta's father. Sometimes she writes down her nightmares, fears, the arena, her time in District in 13.

But mostly she writes about Peeta, how she is so afraid of loosing him, and that she's so grateful he came back to her. She writes about how nice it feels to run her fingers through his blonde curls, and his eyelashes oh my eyelashes, miss girly has 5 whole pages dedicated to his eyelashes. She writes about his strong arms, how they ripple when he's kneading dough and how he effortlessly lifts her into his arms like she weighs nothing. She writes and writes and writes.

One day Peeta eyes her notebook curiously, he sees her with it all the time but never has the guts to ask her what's in it. One day he finally gives in and asks her, and Katniss blushes furiously before saying 'just some stuff I wrote'. He asks if he can see it, and she reluctantly hands it to him, it's not that Katniss minds letting him see it, she's just a bit shy. Peeta immediately starts crying right through the first couple pages, Katniss gets all nervous and asks him if she wrote something wrong. He cries even more at that and reassures her that nothings her wrong just that her words are beautiful he can't help it.

When he reaches the more later part of the book, he gets all cheeky and teases her about how badly downn she is for him. She get's all defensive and pretends to get mad and leave. He pouts and apologizes 'I'm sorry birdie, come here'. He wraps his big strong arms around her, carries her upstairs and he makes love to her all night long.

Later he smirks to himself and says 'I can't believe I ever thought that Gale stood a chance'

[specialagentlokitty]

Hannibal x teen!reader - i would notice

Hi 👋, i absolutely loved your Hannibal lecter fic so I was wondering if you could do a Hannibal × teen reader with angst or where he maybe saves them from someone or from themselves? If not that's totally fine. - Anon💜

TW: mentions of self harm and suicidal thoughts and neglectful parents

Therapy.

According to everybody that was the solution to everything, all your problems would be solved if you just sat in a room with a stranger supposedly telling them everything about you.

Things you didn’t want anybody else to know.

You didn’t want to attend your sessions, but your parents were paying a lot of money for you to see this therapist, so you went to your sessions.

Though you never really said much, which was something Hannibal picked up on.

“Sometimes I do have to wonder why it is you insist on coming to your sessions if you’re just going to sit here to do homework instead.”

You shrugged a little bit, looking up from where you were sat on the floor.

“I’ve gotta do it somewhere, plus my parents pay for these sessions, it’ll be a waste of money I guess.”

“Do you not think you need it?”

“Everybody has problems I just don’t see the point in talking about it, it won’t change anything.”

“It could make it easier for you.”

You shrugged again and stood up, bringing a work book over to his desk and set it down.

Hannibal took the book so he could look at it while you dragged a chair over to sit next to him while he read through your work.

“Have you finished everything else?” He asked.

“Yeah, it’s just this. I don’t really get it so I thought I’d leave it until last.”

Hannibal nodded his head, taking one of his many notebooks, and he found one with your name on it and opened it.

Over the sessions he had become used to you using the time for your homework, asking him yo help you with whatever it was you didn’t understand.

It actually helped him learn a lot about you, about your possible home life since you didn’t seem interested in talking about whatever problems you were having.

Hannibal explained the problem to you, and he gave you a brief demonstration on how to solve it before giving you the notebook so you could try it for yourself.

“How is school going? Are you still having problems with some of the other students?”

“A little, but I think I solved most of them.”

He hummed a little bit, slowly nodding his head.

“How did you manage that? Did you take my advance and ignore them?”

“Nope.”

You grinned a little bit at your therapist and went back to your homework.

“Shoved a whole bunch of shaving cream and feathers into their lockers.”

“You do realise retaliation in such a way could could make this a lot more complicated for you. They could also possibly get you into trouble as well.”

“Maybe yeah I guess.”

“What did your parents have to say?”

“The usual nothing.”

Hannibal wrote that down in another notebook and he studied you for a moment.

Usually it was obvious why people were in therapy, usually he knew before they came to the sessions or they would have told him by now but you didn’t.

He was having to rely on everything he saw, everything you did and the very few things that you had said.

Your sessions were routine, going the same way nearly all of the of the time.

So he began to notice the change in your behaviour as time went on, it was slight, only tiny changes but he noticed.

You didn’t bring your homework anymore, you would just tell him about your day, the changes in your clothing, you seemed more withdrawn.

Then you began to miss sessions, the first he didn’t think about it, the second he was a little suspicious but when it came to the third and forth he knew there was something more.

So, when he opened his door to see that you weren’t sat in the waiting room he sighed, making his way to the phone to dial your number.

He waited as it rang, and eventually it rang off into voicemail.

Hannibal went through all his files until he found yours and he grabbed his keys and jacket as he left the office.

You were usually the last appointment of the day since you liked to hang around and just spend time with him, which he never added extra costs for.

Making his way to your listed address, Hannibal looked at the large house, very expensive looking and extremely well kept.

He parked in the drive and made his way to the door, knocking a few times, waiting.

The door was opened and you blinked a few times, stepping aside and gestured to the house so you could let him in.

“What brings you by doctor lector?” You asked.

You closed the door.

“Can I take your coat?”

“Ah, yes. Thank you.”

Hannibal handed you his jacket so you could hang it up next to yours by the door, and you led him through to the kitchen where you were before he knocked.

He watched as you carried on cooking your dinner.

“I didn’t know you were coming but you can still have some of you want.”

“No, I’m alright. But thank you. I’m actually here because you haven’t attended your sessions for the past three weeks.”

You nodded your head, setting the spoon down, and you sat on a bar stool.

“Sorry, I keep forgetting to cancel them. I know you have a policy about cancelling and whatever the fee is for not cancelling my parents can cover it.”

“That’s not why I’m here (Y/N), I’m not here about fees for cancelling.”

You seemed a little confused.

“I’m here because it isn’t like you to not turn up to your sessions, I am also aware that you haven’t been attending school recently.”

“How’d you know?”

“I called them.”

“Are you even legally allowed to do that? Can they even tell you that information?”

You were defensive.

You weren’t happy that he had called your school and you were looking for a reason to pin something on him, anything.

“I work rather closely with the FBI, I asked for favour as this behaviour is concerning.”

You nodded your head, going back to whatever your were making and you set it all aside before sitting down on the stool again.

Hannibal was stood on the other side of the counter, flicking through the recipe pages that you had left laying around.

“Can I cancel my sessions?”

Hannibal glanced up at you.

“You can, but I’d still very much like to check up on you at least once or twice a week.”

“Why? I won’t be your patient anymore.”

“Because I know you’re harming yourself, I would like to understand why. What makes you think you need to do that to yourself?”

You froze, and you tugged at your sleeves a little bit, pulling them even further.

“I’ve know for a while, I was hoping you would bring up the subject but you seem to have no interest in talking about what you’re going through.”

Hannibal walked to your cooker, and he took over making your dinner for you while you just sat there staring at the counter.

“What’s the point, it won’t change anything.”

“It can help, but people can’t help you if you won’t let them (Y/N), in order to be helped you must be willing to accept the hand that is offered to you.”

“I can’t be helped.”

You pushed yourself away from the counter you were sat at and left the kitchen, making your way into the lounge instead where you just sat down.

You turned on the TV, putting on some random show and you kicked your feet up on the table.

Hannibal followed you, setting your plate on the dining table, and he walked over, tapping your feet away from the table.

“You can be helped, nobody is beyond help.”

“I am.”

“No you’re not, now come eat and we can discuss whatever it is you’re going through.”

You didn’t bother to argue, you went to eat your dinner while Hannibal left you to eat in peace.

He came back and he set a few tubs down on the table in front of you.

“All of these are prescribed to patients who suffer from depression. How long have you been taking your medication for?” He asked.

“About a year or two, I don’t know.”

He hummed, nodding his head.

“How long have you not been taking them?”

You glanced up.

“You have been filling out your scripts, but you have a whole collection of unopened bottles.”

“About half a year I guess… I don’t know…”

“Do you plan on doing anything with those bottles?”

“No.”

“So I can take them away from you and only leave the one you’re supposed to have?”

You nodded your head.

You didn’t have any use for the old ones that you never took, you just kept filling in the scripts to keep everybody happy.

That wasn’t how you wanted to go out.

No.

You had thought about this night after night after night, and you knew exactly what you wanted to do.

“Are you here alone often?”

“My parents work a lot, they’re usually away most of the year.”

He nodded his head, taking your mostly empty plate away when you pushed it away from you.

You followed the therapist to your kitchen, climbing back up on the bar stool as you looked at him.

“Can I take a look at your arm, I would like to ensue that you don’t need any further medical attention.”

You moved your arm closer to yourself.

“Alright, that’s okay. You don’t need to show me, but I do need to know if you’re taking care to prevent infection.”

“Yeah, I know about all that stuff.”

“Good, now since you refuse to come to our sessions I will come here. A few times a week to ensure that you’re taking care of yourself.”

He did.

He kept coming by, he would talk to you, try encourage you to open up to him.

The one thing he noticed is how lonely the house seemed to be, the lack of family photos, the lack of friends around to the lack calls from your parents.

Hannibal arrived at your house like always, the first thing he noticed this time was that there was two other cars in the driveway.

Making his way up to the door he knocked, and a man answered.

“Hello, is (Y/N) home.”

“Who are you?” The man asked.

“My apologies, I’m doctor lector, their therapist. (Y/N) didn’t want to come to the office anymore so we’ve been continuing sessions here, I assume you are their father?”

“Yes, and I don’t know where they are. Look, I’m busy, go check their room or something I have meeting.”

Your dad left the door open and Hannibal walked in, making his way up the stairs to your room and he knocked on the door.

When you didn’t respond he knocked again.

“I’m opening the door.” He announced.

He pushed your door open and looked around to see that you weren’t there either.

Sighing, he made his way back to his car and tried to call your phone once more, but you never picked up.

He decided to head back to the office, deciding that he’d try and find you again tomorrow.

Hannibal didn’t know about your hideouts, where you liked to go or even have a slight idea on where you would go.

And that’s where he found you, sitting in the waiting room, and he walked over, crouching down in the front of you.

“I’ve been trying to find you.” He said gently.

You looked up, and you sniffled a little bit.

“Why do my own parents hate me…?” You asked.

Your voice cracked, and you leant back, tilting your head back to try and fight the tears that were burning your eyes.

“Let’s talk inside.”

He stood up, opening his door and you walked inside, taking a seat in one of the chairs.

Hannibal sat in the chair in front of you, offering you a few tissues which you took.

“What makes you think your parents hate you?”

“They’ve been home for two days… haven’t even spoken to me… haven’t even looked at me… it’s like I don’t exist…”

He nodded his head.

“I.. I.. it’s like if I died they wouldn’t even care… you know? They wouldn’t even notice…”

That was enough to catch his attention.

“Do you think about dying?”

“Sometimes… I know nobody would really notice.. life would carry on…”

“That’s not true.”

You looked up at him.

“I would certainly notice, life would be very different without you in it.”

You scoffed a little bit.

“You have to say that, it’s your job.”

“If you recall you left my services, it’s not my job to say that.”

Hannibal smiled slightly at you.

“I say it because I mean it, I do worry for you, I would notice your absence if you were to die, which is why I have to ask if you plan on acting upon this urge you have.”

“Sometimes but I.. I just can’t… you know?”

He nodded his head.

“I will admit this is rather concerning, I do have to wonder if for your own safety I have you placed in psychiatric care for a few days.”

“No! Please don’t…”

Hannibal thought for a moment, wondering what to do.

“If that’s the case then perhaps we can think of something else, in order to ensure your safety and a plan to help you through these feelings and urges that you are having.”

You nodded, agreeing with this.

The first step was for you to tell him everything you had been avoiding telling anybody this whole time, then he would come up with a care plan for you to help with your recovery and show you that you were important to this world

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

Heavy

Summary: Reader's having a depressive episode and needs some comfort from her mate

Content Warnings: Depression

Author's Note: I should be finishing my Vamp!Rhys fic but I got sad and wrote this instead

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Velaris is beautiful at night, from the glittering stars overhead, to the soft gurgle of the Sidra rushing over time worn stones beneath the city’s many intricate bridges. The music makes the whole city feel full of light and laughter, couples often dancing and humming in the streets. It’s one of your favorite places to be.

Usually.

Tonight it’s just… there. Though you stand in the heart of it, everything moves around you, never quite touching you. It’s as if you’re suddenly a stranger in the place you love the most, the emotional distance between you palpable.

You jam your hands in your pockets and keep walking, though you’re not really sure where you’re going, your body moving on autopilot. It’s been like that for a couple weeks now, if you’re honest, you’ll be half way through the day sometimes before you realize you’re not sure how or when you even got out of bed, or gotten dressed. Did you even eat? Kiss your mate good morning? Rhys has been working long hours in Illyria lately, most nights you’re already asleep before he’s even tumbling into bed, but, now that you’re thinking about it, that could also be because you’ve been going to sleep earlier too.

You frown at your boots as you walk, trying to remember when this happened. It’s not new, you’ve had bouts of this since you were a teenager, but they’ve been better thanks to regular sessions with Madja and some other healers. Art therapy in the Rainbow has helped too. Usually you can tell when you’re starting to slip into the darker places in your head, but it crept up on you this time.

By the time your mindless wanderings bring you back to the Townhouse, the light from your upstairs bedroom is already on, meaning Rhys somehow finished his business and beat you home. You’d only planned to grab some takeout so you wouldn’t have to cook, and yet, here you stand, hands as empty as your stomach.

The door opens before you can even reach for your key, soft light spilling out into the entryway. “There you are!” Rhys says by way of greeting, as if he’d been waiting by the door for you. Your mate leans in to place a quick peck on your lips as he guides you inside.

“Did you go to Rita’s with Mor?”

He should be able to tell you hadn’t, since you’re wearing the same sweatpants you had been for a week, but then again, he also hasn’t been home enough to know you haven’t changed out of them. 

“No I…” you hate talking about this stuff, hate feeling like you’re burdening anybody with the weight you feel pressing down on your chest. “Uh, went to get dinner.”

Rhys stares down at your empty hands, eyebrows raised teasingly. “Did you forget to bring it back?”

You run a hand over your eyes. Cauldron they’re so heavy! Why is everything always so heavy? Your whole body feels like it’s made of bricks, just the effort to kick off your boots feels like it takes every single drop of energy you have left. “Sorry.” Even speaking feels like too much.

Rhys frowns, “Darling, are you ok?”

“Just tired,” you say, avoiding his eyes now. 

He steps forward, placing a knuckle under your chin and tilting your face towards him. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m tired,” you repeat, but your eyes are watering now. 

He stills, violet eyes roaming over you, assessing for the first time tonight how you look, the dark circles under your eyes. He knows you haven’t had trouble sleeping, he’s barely been able to wake you when he comes home at night. “It’s getting bad again, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, tears falling in earnest now.

Rhys’s features soften as he lifts you into his arms, the bond flooding with warmth and understanding as he says, “It’s not your fault. You can’t help it.”

You rest your head on his shoulder as he carries you upstairs. “I thought I was doing better… but everything just feels heavy again.”

He kisses your forehead gently as he climbs into bed and settles you down against his chest. Twisting, his wings unfurl so he can curl one around you, cocooning you in the warmth of his body. “What can I do to help?”

You wrap an arm around his waist as you settle your face against his chest, his heartbeat steady and even beneath you. Madja had said once that this was helpful if you got overly anxious, the steadiness of his breathing helping yours level out, and it helps now too, gives you something to focus on. It’s grounding and you let your breathing sync up, your chest rising and falling against his own. Madja hadn’t been able to stress enough how important it was to find something to ground you in the present when you got like this, lest your thoughts start to spiral deeper and deeper into the dark.

“Just need you to hold me for a little while,” you say.

Rhys pulls your favorite blanket up over the two of you before wrapping an arm around your waist. “I love you,” and the bond floods with more warmth than you think you deserve, but it doesn’t let up when those thoughts sneak in. “I’ll do anything you need me to.”

You place a gentle kiss to his chest. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he replies, fingers tracing shapes in your back. “No one has all good days.”

“But nothing even happened,” you protest. “I just woke up one morning and it was just so heavy to be awake.”

He kisses your temple. “We can see Madja in the morning, if you need, but you can’t beat yourself up. You have no control over it.”

You press your temple into his chest and breath in the jasmine and citrus scent of him. “I hate it.”

He places another kiss to the top of your head. You know he hates it too, hates that it’s a battle he can’t fight for you, no matter how much he wants to. “It will pass.”

Rhys is warm, his presence soothing, the darkness that seeps from his skin on the days he hasn’t had the time to expel enough of it, drifting over your body in soothing motions. This is safe and quite and peaceful. Your body starts to settle more and more as time goes on.

“Do you really believe that?” You whisper. “That it’ll pass?”

“Yes,” he says. “It has before, and it will again.” Knowing he’s had the experience himself, you’re inclined to believe he’s right.

“I’m glad you’re with me,” you admit. 

Rhys holds you a little tighter, “Till all the stars fall from the sky, my love.” He holds you all night, whispering all the things he loves about you as you start to fall asleep.

You let yourself fall into it, hoping tomorrow will be better.

[imyourbratzdoll]

Hello my beautiful bubs💗 so I see you added Max Burnett to your list and like to request a little angsty and fluff. 

So Maybe him and reader get into a ugly and heated argument or he leaves her with no explanation like he does in the movie but then they End up fixing everything after awhile. 

hey baby! I hope you like what I wrote!

summary - max left you with a word, causing you to go through many stages of heartbreak until you finally meet again after 5 years.

warning - angst, swearing, heartbreak, no happy ending.

the gif I use isn't mine, divider by @newlips and @firefly-graphics

He told you to meet him here. You were sure of it. You had reread the address and time he sent, not wanting to disappoint him. You waited anxiously on the bed, gnawing your bottom lip as you whipped your head from the door to your phone. You turned it on and went to the messages, opening his contact.

Max❤: Meet me at our spoken place, you know what room. No, later than 12.

You looked at the time, noting it was now an hour past 12, and you were all alone. You scrolled through the messages you had sent him.

You: I’m here. 12:00 seen

You: Max? Where are you? 12:05 seen

You: Max? 12:15 seen

You stared sadly at your last message.

You: I see… You’re not coming… 1:00 message could not be delivered

You blinked back the tears, wondering if you would’ve seen the signs beforehand if you weren’t so stupidly in love. You would’ve rathered him break things off face to face instead of leaving you like this. Did he even care about you? Were you nothing to him? All these thoughts ran through your head as you stared at the wall, not bothering to wipe the tears that rolled down your cheek away. You must’ve been there for a long time because you were only brought out of your zoned-out state when someone entered the room, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder and asking if you were okay. You painfully smiled, nodding your head before leaving. You made your way home, feeling drained of all emotion, not knowing if you’ll ever feel okay again. 

You slowly stripped from your clothes, turned the shower on and entered. Your head rested against the cool tile, letting the water run down your body as tears fell from your eyes. Your heart hurt more than ever, squeezing harshly inside your chest as if someone had reached inside and begun to squeeze. Your sobs filled the quietness of your apartment, showing you how alone you really were. Once you were finished with your shower, you slowly got out and dried yourself, dressing in your comfy clothes before crawling into your bed, ignoring the harsh rumbles in your stomach, begging for food, ignoring the dryness of your throat. You just wanted to close your eyes and never wake again. 

It had been about five years since Max left you without a goodbye and a shattered heart. You spent the first year numb, barely living or feeling anything. Your friends and family didn’t see or hear from you, and when they did, they noticed that you barely took care of yourself. They tried convincing you to go to therapy, but you stared at them blankly. Barely even hearing a word they spoke to you.

The second year, you spent grieving. Your feelings came crashing down on you one day, and you couldn’t stop the dam from breaking. You’d cry whenever you saw something that reminded you of him, and you’d cry if you saw his name or someone who looked like him. You’d cry when you came home and saw things he had gifted you or the jumper he had left behind. The people in your life were still worried, but they were relieved you were at least feeling something now, taking more care of yourself than the previous year. 

And now we are here. For the remaining years, you became cold, heartless, and mean. You had built walls so damn high around your heart that no one could penetrate it. This is what caused the meeting you walked into. Your friends and family sat in your loungeroom as you walked into your apartment, staring at you worriedly. Throwing excuses that they care about you, they're worried about your well-being, and that you need to get help. You left, slamming the door behind you and heading to the closet bar. You sat on the stool and ordered a whiskey, needing something strong. You barely took notice of the man sitting beside you, rolling your eyes as other seats were available.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you drink whiskey.” You scowled, knowing who was now sitting beside you by the voice. Max smirked, leaning against the counter. “What, no hug?” You skulled the rest of your drink, slamming the glass down before slowly turning toward him, noticing the smug look on his face. 

You smirk, causing his brows to furrow as confusion takes over his features before you raise your fist and slam it into his face, hearing the crunch of his nose. You slam some bills down onto the counter and begin to walk off, exiting the bar to get as far away from that asshole as possible. You rolled your eyes, clenching your jaw, when you heard him following behind you. “Hey! Wait up!” You don’t. You just pick up your pace until he grabs hold of your arm and spins you, quickly raising his hands as you go to punch him again. “I just want to talk.”

“Talk?” You growl, stepping closer to the man. “Now you just want to talk? After five fucking years, you finally want to fucking talk?!” You scream, punching his chest until he grabs your wrists and stares at you. You huff, glaring at him. “I don’t want to talk, Max. I want you to fuck off. I want to return to five years ago and get the shattered pieces of my heart back.” You lick your lips, “I want to go back to before I met you so that I could have never met you and fallen for your stupid words and your stupid face. I want to be me again, but guess what? I can’t! Because I fell for you.”

He raises a brow, gulping as he continues to stare at you. He took in how beautiful you had gotten and how your sweet scent wafted through the air and into his nose. He missed you and feels it’s too late to make it up to you, but god, he will try his hardest too. “Are you done?” 

“Let me go, you asshole.” You growl. You wouldn’t let him back in. You couldn’t. You don’t know if you’ll survive another heartbreak and aren’t willing to try.

“Just listen to me, okay? I’ve been looking for you for five years.” You scoff, rolling your eyes at his words. “It’s true, goddamit, Y/n! Will you just fucking listen to me.” 

“Or what? What are you going to do, huh? What’s worse than you pretending to fucking love me and then leaving me without so much of a word?” Your glare sharpens, desperately wanting to get far away from him. 

“For fuck sake! I didn’t pretend to fucking love you! I still fucking love you! I didn’t have a fucking choice, okay?!” Your brows furrow, wondering what the fuck he means by that. Max sighs. “They were onto you and me. They threatened to hurt you if I met or even spoke to you. It took me four years to get away from them, to get them off my radar. You disappeared. I’ve been looking for you to ensure they didn’t do anything. Fuck! I didn’t want to fucking hurt you!” 

You shake your head, not wanting to believe him. You couldn’t. Sure, you still had some love for him, but you couldn’t put yourself through that again. Max cups your cheeks, looking into your eyes with his tear-filled ones. “Please, just give me a chance… Even as a friend, I just… Please, I need to have you in my life.” You shrug against him, stepping back and away from him. 

“I don’t know… Maybe in another life, but I don’t know if I can put myself through that again.” You swallow the sob that tries to pass your lips before turning away from him and walking away, holding back the tears that want to fall.

“Y/n! Please!” He cries vision blurred with tears as he watches you leave him like he left you. 

thank you for reading!

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