#it’s the clinical depression i know. but i’m not happy about it

[asavapatr]

🫠⁉️

[nereidprinc3ss]

hourglass

in which spencer disappears from fem!reader's life entirely for three months, right as it seems they were finally about to make things official. when he comes back they reunite, all the while knowing things can't be the same as they were.

18+ (smut, angst) warnings/tags: oh god so many. NOT canon compliant in the slightest, i make shit up, softdom!spence, nipple stuff prob, fingering, oral f receiving, piv sex, unprotected sex, pet names, tara mentioned, depression, mentions of trauma cause its the prison arc duh, passing mentions of alcohol, mentions of spencer losing weight, reader mistakenly thinks spencer tried to kill himself BUT ONLY FOR A SECOND, where is diana reid, nobody knows or cares, probably filming glee, optimistic ending a/n: haven't posted smut in forever but this wip required it and the angst was so angsty i just had to finish it. it was started in jan or feb and subsequently added to and changed months apart and then edited so the writing quality varies from section to section which i apologize for. originally based on good guy by julia jacklin... also the odyssey by homer? can't really explain that one you'll just have to see for yourself anyway byeeee ilysm!!! PLS tell me if you liked it! or if you hated it! but preferably if you liked it! MWAH! wc <12k

It’s been about three months since you last saw Spencer Reid.

About three months since you had an early Valentine’s Day celebration (even though you weren’t a couple) complete with champagne (even though he doesn’t usually drink) and slow dancing (even though you swore you’d be terrible and he spent the first ten minutes laughing at you as you stepped on his toes.)

About three months since you finally settled your head on his shoulder and let the warbling vinyl carry you somewhere distant as the two of you danced slow circles on the parquet floor for what felt like hours.

You’d have liked him to stay later that night. You’d have liked him to stay all night if you were being honest with yourself, but at 11:45 he gently pulled away and told you he had to go.

“Curfew?” you joked, the corner of your mouth lifting a little and you hoped you were hiding your disappointment well.

“Actually, I’m going down to Texas for a few days to speak with one of the leading doctors in experimental Alzheimer's and dementia treatment. I’m going to see if he can get my mom into a clinical trial. I leave early tomorrow morning.”

“Oh my god, that’s amazing, Spencer! What are you doing still here? You should be at home getting ready to go!”

A rosy blush stains his cheeks and he looks down at the ground, laughing that little self-deprecating laugh of his. It makes your heart dance to see him so happy, makes you want to wrap your arms around him and never let him go so that he knows how much you absolutely adore him—but you settle for an affectionate squeeze where your hands have come to rest on his biceps.

“I wanted to see you tonight because I won’t be here for Valentine’s Day... but I still really wanted to spend it with you,” he admits meekly.

If before your heart was dancing, it is now melting.

The dreaded ‘what are we’ talk has been lurking in the dark corners of every conversation you have with each other lately—at least, in your mind it has. What you have with Spencer is not easily defined, and near impossible to explain to your friends—you act like a couple, you go out on dates, he introduces you to his team like you’re his girlfriend without ever putting it into so many words—but this validation that your pseudo-relationship might be evolving is better than any flowers he could have gotten you (although the peonies he brought will look very nice on your bedside table.)

“Four whole days... what will I do without you?” you whisper, brushing a hand along his face, and your chest aches with the heavy truth of it—despite the fact that he often is gone for stretches about that length. They don’t ever start to feel shorter.

“Well, you can start by reading that copy of The Odyssey I annotated for you.”

“Depressing,” you admit. “And a little ominous, considering you’re about to embark on a hero’s journey.”

“I think you’ll like this one,” he smiles.

You chew on your bottom lip, looking up at him as you think.

“Give me something to look forward to,” you say, earnestly.

“I—well, honestly, I just really want to kiss you and I’ve wanted to for a long time now and, you know, if that’s something you’re maybe also interested in then we could, uh, figure out a time to—”

“You want to kiss me?”

“Wh—you couldn’t tell?” Spencer says, like he can’t believe it.

As if on reflex, you lunge up and capture his lips with your own. It obviously catches him by surprise, but when you lower from your tiptoes he follows you, pulling you in closer and holding your face in his hands.

It’s too natural, too right, to be exhilarating. There’s no rush of adrenaline—it's more like stepping into a hot bath or warming your freezing hands at a fire. Like pieces clicking into place. It’s a relief.

You breathe into it, letting more and more of yourself melt against him. He keeps coming back to you deeper and deeper like a rising tide, and you want more than anything to keep getting closer to him—but then he stops. He stays close enough for you to breathe his air, but dodges your kiss gently before supplanting it with a gentle one to the corner of your mouth.

“I really have to go,” he breathes, before moving away from your mouth to kiss your forehead and speak softly against your skin. “If I don’t leave now I’ll be here all night.”

Which is exactly what you want, and the implication does little to make you want him less. But you care about him too much to be so selfish.

At some point, his hands found their way into your hair, and you gently grab his wrists.

“Incentive for you to come home.”

Nearly three months since that night.

At first when he stopped answering texts, you’d assumed he just had too much going on down in Texas. Which you could understand—you knew how stressful this situation with his mother was.

Even when four days came and went without even an alert from him that he was back in town, you thought, okay, maybe he’s been called away on a case. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s disappeared because of his work. But even then, he’d at least text you enough information so that you would know he was alive. Now, radio silence.

So you tried not to be clingy. You tried to act like an adult, to focus on school and your life outside of Spencer, but when Tara Lewis cancelled your weekly meeting due to an “unforeseen work-related emergency”you called her immediately. Tara was something of a mentor, and it was she who had connected you and Spencer to begin with. You had met the other members of his team by that point, yes, but none who you knew as well as Tara.

When she had informed you that Spencer had been arrested in Mexico and was now facing prison time for murder, you laughed.

Laughed until you realized her end of the line was silent.

Realized it was not at all a joke.

In a catatonic state of tranquility, you asked her for more details. Beyond assuring you of his innocence, she couldn’t (or more likely, wouldn’t) provide them. Asked where he was now. Asked all the right things that made sense to ask.

Then you hung up and had a panic attack because Tara said something about 25 years and you saw Spencer evaporate from your future like an apparition.

Slowly, you felt him evaporating from your past, too. Those memories from the night he left, became visions of you swaying with a ghost. Holding nothing but light between your hands as you kissed the peony air of your apartment.

He doesn’t want to see you, she had said into the phone one night, her tinny voice cutting in and out. You’re not on his list of approved visitors.

“You asked him about me?” you had whispered, curled up on top of your made bed in the dark.

I tried. I’m sorry. I’ll call you when I know more.

All your days melded together like a muddied smear of paint. Suddenly you felt you had nothing to look forward to. No anchor, no goal. Yes, a PhD... and then what?

The only thing that punctuated one 24 hour period from the next was the time you spent crying because Spencer was in prison and he didn’t want to see you and by the looks of things you may never see him again. When you weren’t crying, you were thinking about how your life was a big cosmic joke. An unfortunate statistical anomaly that didn’t mean anything to anyone else, and that you couldn’t do anything about.

That copy of The Odyssey, which wasn’t even bound and instead was a thick stack of printer paper organized by a single black clip, became something of a manifesto for you—a tome that your poured over, reading and re-reading each note in the margins, each word beautiful and imbued with meaning because you knew Spencer had selected every single one specifically for you. You traced the letters reverently, because in a way this was the last thing he had said to you—about Lattimore’s faith to the original text, Merrill’s strict use of dactylic hexameter, the stylings of Wilson and Lombardo, and how he thought you would enjoy Hammond’s prose just as much as he did.

Day by day it was becoming more prophetic than fictional, and you allowed yourself to sink into madness. You would rather be a deluded zealot than be nothing at all.

He didn’t want to see you.

He might as well have been dead, for all that you were grieving him. And you started to hate him, because he wasn’t dead, but wouldn’t do you the kindness of proving it. Like a festering wound, scratched open day after day so as not to ever heal, you had to live knowing he was less than an hour away. So no, you weren’t exactly over it. You lived day by day, waiting for the occasional call from Tara to keep you updated on Spencer, but either she didn’t want to share much about how he was doing, or he had specifically barred her from doing so, because she was always sparse on the personal side of things. That thought actually lifted your spirits, because it meant he was at least acknowledging your existence in some tiny way.

But your routine was becoming more regular, and so you staid on top of your classes and your non-Reid related meetings with Tara once a week, and you learned to dip your toes into existential dread and the oily black pool of depression every night without ever fully submerging yourself. You learned hope, because it was pretty much all you had, and the BAU had confidence that they would get Spencer out one way or another so you did too.

So you didn’t really think about it when you missed a couple of calls from Tara some evening in May. You were preparing for finals and had way too much on your plate academically to think about anything else which was a welcome relief so you fully embraced it. I’ll call her back tomorrow, you think, as you clean up from dinner before going back to the living room where your textbooks and papers are completely covering every available surface. Maybe I have no idea what I’m going to do with my life after school, but I’ll be damned if I don’t even make it that far.

Hours later, well into the night, you’d all but forgotten about the calls. A knock at the door takes you a bit by surprise, and you frown as you stand again, tugging your Georgetown sweatshirt down over your shorts as you shuffle to the entrance of your apartment. You’re not expecting anyone, so you crack the door, peering around the edge of it.

And you couldn’t even consider trying to hide that shaky inhalation of dead air when you see Spencer standing on the other side.

Surely you’re hallucinating.

Surely this man in front of you who looks like he just got back from a day of work didn’t spend three months in prison pretending you didn’t exist.

He looks the same. Hair a bit longer, maybe—and gaunter even more than is normal for him. 

But it's him.

You can’t think about the apprehensive look on his face—you can’t think about the impossibility of him being here. You can’t think at all. Without your explicit permission, your body surges forward into his, and he’s real, and alive, and warm, and he is an anachronism in the hallway as he accepts everything you pour into the embrace, doesn’t flinch when you move your arms from around his waist to loop around his neck and back to his waist again with crushing force because you just can’t get him close enough.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer mutters into your hair, I’msorryI’msorryI’msorryI’msorry, he keeps saying, rubbing your back as you try to find a solid grip on the sleek material of his suit—try to gather all the pieces of him, already afraid he might fall apart and float away again.

“You—dis—disappeared,” you hiccup after an eternity, pulling away enough to look up at his pretty face. Tears blur your vision and darken the front of his jacket, bending the florescent lights so they form a kind of halo above his head.

Through the surreal haze you can see his throat bob.

“I know.”

He knows?

He knows?

You scoff.

“You have no fucking idea, Spencer. What the fuck is wrong with you? I—I'm—”

The hot anger is such a relief for a second, boiling the oceans of your despair into a wrathful, scorching fog, but as soon as you try to tell him how you feel, the barbed wire cuts into your throat again. You shove him away, skin burning where his hands had been.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, hands hanging uselessly at his side. There’s that kicked puppy look about him—and it’s familiar, but now there’s more damage. You don’t know anything about his time in prison, you haven’t heard a damn thing, but beneath the glassy desperation in his eyes there is an unfathomable void that seems to be preventing him from being fully present—and you realize for the first time that he is different.

It chills you.

Before, you and Spencer shared everything. There wasn’t one part of his internal machinations that you didn’t understand, nothing you kept from each other. But as you study him now from a few feet away, you realize there might as well be a yawning chasm between the two of you.

He is so different.

Those eyes look deeper. No gears turning just behind the slashes of gold and brown anymore—only an endless dark corridor that goes places you will never go.

Gone is the perpetual boyish up-turn at the corner of his lips that always made him look slightly vacant in a way that you found incredibly amusing. Something you had been so fond of, even if you teased him.

He seems to have aged ten years—if not physically, then in demeanor. And now you feel like a little kid throwing a tantrum.

You cross your arms, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

You’re embarrassed. And pissed. And relieved. Everything is worse and better. You want to fall back into his arms, but you have been jarred by the revelation that this might not be the same Spencer. It might not be the same relationship. You have no idea where you stand.

He says your name gently, with so much familiarity you’re briefly jerked into the past. It makes you wish you could look up to find him as he was three months ago. Wish this was just a bad dream. But that’s not fair to him.

“Sorry,” you mutter, studying the grey carpet fibers instead of looking at him.

“Don’t apologize,” Spencer says immediately, “you’re right. I don’t—” he clears his throat— “I’m being incredibly selfish. I shouldn’t have just shown up, I’ll just—I'll leave. I’m sorry.”

A silent moment passes.

You don’t look up as he turns and swiftly begins to move down the hall toward the stairway, leaving as quickly and silently as he had come, like a few bars of a song sighed in and away on a fleeting breeze.

Your bare feet are concretely planted, imagining him jogging down the steps and speed-walking away from your building—

And suddenly you’re sprinting after him, feeling like you might puke because Spencer was just here and you let him go again—and even though you’re still so mad and confused and hurt, the realization that he is leaving again makes the entire building spin and lurch.

“Wait!” You yell, almost wiping out as you run down the stairs and whip around corners in your slippery fucking socks. “Please, wait!”

The lobby is already empty as you spill out into it, and cold dread tightens around your neck like a fist as you shoulder your way through the double doors and right into Spencer.

“Please don’t leave again, you just—I'm sorry, I really need you to not go—” you blabber, lachrymose once more, gripping onto his forearms for dear life.

“I’m not going,” he breathes shakily. “I tried to leave because I think you were right and maybe I should and maybe it would be better for you but I can’t.”

“You can’t,” you agree, more sob than spoken word. He cups your jaw, then your cheeks, wiping tears and brushing away hair like he can’t figure out how to hold enough of you between his hands. The wild kaleidoscope of his eyes, bright and alive and real as he scans you desperately captures your attention enough to slow the tears to a trickle. He notices this and stares back, entranced.

A silent agreement is made, or maybe an inevitable fate is accepted—either way, something was set in motion three months ago and it matters to see it through. Spencer kisses you and you’re ready for it. You don’t need slow or tender. You need to feel how he feels. You need to know what he knows.

You sling your arms around his neck and he pulls you closer until you almost tip backward, chasing the bruising kiss even as you regain your footing. You want to drink him in and you do your best, breathing deeply as he kisses you deeper, backing you inside and toward the elevator.

“Is this okay?” he manages, only after blindly reaching for and mashing the up button on the wall panel.

Ideally it wouldn’t happen like this, but the world you live in obviously isn’t ideal and your personal situations as they coincide are far from ideal, so this is how it has to happen. But it’s hard to explain, and you’d rather not admit that this is so far from what you wanted for both of you and follow up with the fact that despite that you need him like you need water. So you don’t say a word as the metal doors slide open promptly. Instead you pull him in and let him press you to the chrome wall as he hits your floor button, and that very hand comes back to grab your ass like you didn’t think Spencer Reid capable of. It almost aches as his fingers dig into the flesh, but it’s a good ache because it means he’s real and he’s there.

You gasp as he hitches your leg up, arching into him. The shorts that you’re wearing leave very little to the imagination to begin with, but they become downright indecent like this.

Quickly the elevator stops and the doors hiss open. You don’t hesitate to pull Spencer by the hand down the hall. When you notice you left your door wide open, you don’t even care. Neither does he, apparently—once you’re inside he slams it shut, flipping the deadbolt while his eyes are glued to you like you’re already naked. Now Spencer is shameless in the way he drags his eyes over every curve, every place your clothes and hair are disheveled from his touch and eye-fucks you so obviously it makes your face warm. Three months ago Spencer would have at least been bashful about it when he met your eyes again, but this Spencer is far from apologetic as he pins you with his burning gaze once more. His hand stays stuck to the door like he’s holding himself back.

“Is this what you want?”

There’s an undercurrent of sorrow below the gravely arousal, like this isn’t what he wanted for the two of you either. But you’re both at the mercy of fate. This is all you have, and it might be all you can do for each other anymore. So you don’t need to say that, because he understands.

“Yeah. Yes, this is what I want.”

For just a second more he watches you from his place by the door, and there’s an unexpected softness to it. He looks at you the way he would have looked at you before. Like as long as he stays there he can entertain the idea of being that person again.

Need wins out quickly, though, and he surges forward. Immediately you’re caught in the riptide of him, helpless as he kisses you all the way to your bedroom.

He’s never been in here before. You find yourself glad it’s relatively clean—one of the pastimes you’d picked up in his absence was keeping everything tidy. It was something you could control.

A lamp glows at your bedside. You lean against the footboard of your bed, hands timidly behind your back and suddenly shy to have in him in your intimate space. Both of you set aside the heaving desperation long enough to catch your breaths, and for him to scan the room like he too is being forced to reconcile with the innate and unexpected intimacy of the moment. He cuts a harsh, dark gash in your sweetly decorated bedroom, radiating something wild and powerful and unsure of himself like a chained bull as he takes in the soft, pale bedding, the paintings and photos taped to the walls, the woven rug and the sheer drapery. His breathing slows as he studies it all—eyes eventually catching on something behind you. Looking is unnecessary. You’re sure he’s spotted the dried peonies in their ceramic vase. Or maybe the now worn stack of papers that is his Odyssey, marked up and soft around the edges from constant flipping-through.

Then Spencer looks at you, and that softness seeps in again. Along with something like... fear? Grief?

In some other universe your first time with Spencer is sweet and giggly and kind and he smiles at the decor in your room and looks around with wonder because it’s another way he gets to know you. It’s a different way to learn you from the inside.

You sense that he’s caught in between universes right now as well, painfully aware of what he would have given you that he can’t anymore.

He breathes your name like an apology, and foolishly you let a second go by in which you think he might offer you one. But he doesn’t. Not with his words, anyway. His eyes tell a different story.

“It’s fine,” you say unprompted on a whispered exhale, then a little louder as you push off the footboard, crossing the space until your hands are on his chest. You focus on his tie, not making eye contact as you rush to undo it. “It’s fine.”

He lets you do this for a few seconds before finally covering your trembling hands with his own. You still can’t meet his eyes.

“We don’t have to do—”

“No! No, please. I want to. I need—I need us to be okay.”

“Hey,” he murmurs, catching your chin and forcing you to look at him. “We are okay. Me and you are fine.”

It’s a pretty thought, but it’s not true. In fact, it’s a hideous and abject affront to the truth. Sure, maybe you’re fine in comparison to last week. Maybe anything feels fine compared to an eight by six cell. But it would be impossible for you and Spencer, for your relationship, whatever that relationship may be, to be fine. It’s especially impossible for him to make that claim, after all he did or rather didn’t do while he was gone. What you need is for him to stay anyway. What you need is to find a way to be with him, to exist with him, even when you are so clearly not fine.

“I just need you to stay,” you whisper, and he’s already nodding, wide-eyed like he’d do anything for you. You ignore all the bitter venom rising in your throat. You pretend this isn’t all happening after he cut you out of his life with a dirty switchblade. Instead you focus on his hands on yours, the familiar smell of him, which invites you to let go of each and every thought and worry. He must’ve showered before coming here, you realize. How long has he been out? What happened? 

“Okay. Okay, I can stay. What else can I do? How do I make it better?”

You sniffle and look back down.

“You can untie that for me.”

He hesitates, then nods some more, fingers working under yours to undo the tie around his neck.

“Okay.”

A moment goes by and after that final whispered word, the tension begins to build again. Spencer senses it in the way your fingertips linger on his chest and you step even closer, dragging them down to his belt. The metallic sound of it unbuckling, despite being your own doing, still manages to flip your stomach. How many times have you pictured this? When was the first time you realized you wanted it? You’re sure you haven’t stopped wanting it even once since then.

Spencer tosses the tie away and is shrugging off his jacket now, then before you see it coming he’s kissing you again, ducking down to do it. He feels taller this close up, and especially in your bedroom, where he just seems rather out of place. But you want him here. God, you want him here.

You break the kiss, forced to look down as you fumble with his belt.

“Sorry,” you gasp, embarrassed by your lack of dexterity. The light is barely sufficient to see what you’re doing, especially when he’s wearing black on black and your eyes are still bleary.

“You’re okay,” he assures you, and it’s so Spencer a fresh round of nerves electrifies the tips of your fingers. That thing is happening—the thing you’d hoped to avoid if you hadn’t lost momentum partway through, where you’re allowing your actual feelings for him to get in the way rather than getting swept up in the pathos of the moment and letting everything be easy and mindless. “Here, can I help you?”

But he doesn’t actually wait for an answer before he’s finishing off the belt for you, tugging it loose from his hips till it’s a leather coil in his hands. Your fingers brush the material and he lets you take it as if it were your prize. It’s heavier than you thought it’d be, and you just feel the weight of it in your hands for a moment, your dropped head brushing his chest.

You have a terrible feeling that if you do this now, it doesn’t mean everything will be alright. Because it can’t just go back to normal. Spencer has told you nothing of what must be an enormous trauma, and you haven’t spoken about it at all, but you sincerely doubt that after this he’s going to be ready to just jump into that committed relationship the two of you had been toying with for months before his absence. You’re almost... scared of him, now. Scared of where he’s been and what he’s endured—things you’re sure you couldn’t have taken. What that does to a person, you can’t imagine. He seems so solid and real in front of you now—but you know that’s not always enough. Maybe you’re just scared that somehow whatever he’s been through will have made him care for you less. That you were too far removed from the whole ordeal, and now you’ll never understand. If you could understand, maybe you could fix it for him. Maybe he’d stick around.

Still—even if you do end up pushing him further away in the long run—won't it have been worth it to have had him so completely, even just once?

You toss the belt to the ground, compressing all of these very complicated thoughts and feelings into a few seconds so short he can’t ask you any questions about them. Instead you find his top button, and just as you manage to undo it with relative ease he’s gently grabbing your wrists. You look up at him, immediately surrendering.

“If we’re going to do this I need you to relax a little bit.”

Gears grind in your chest. You feel need and anxiety comingling in every square inch of your body. It’s a sick buzz—a high on an empty stomach.

“I can’t,” you admit.

“Yeah, you can,” Spencer gently disagrees, slowly lowering your hands. When he’s sure you’re not going to try ripping his clothes off again, he releases, and his eyes lower to the zipper of your hoodie. His fingers follow, warm against the soft triangle of revealed skin at your chest as he grips the small piece of metal between barely shaking fingers. “You can.”

You match his eyeline, breathing shallowly and watching as he slowly drags the zipper down. You wonder if that sound has haunted his fantasies the way the sound of his belt has haunted yours. If he’s seen this hoodie on you and wondered what’s underneath, staring at you and daydreaming during movie night with you none the wiser.

Both of you have your eyes glued to the span of skin as the zipper parts. Spencer stalls with the zipper at your sternum, just below the band of your bra.

Right. No shirt.

You look up and find his eyes already on you, tinged with a curious kind of humor.

“I wasn’t expecting guests.”

The words come out shy. Spencer’s chuckle has its own nervous airy quality as he resumes tugging on your zipper, leaning down until your noses bump.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Then he kisses you again, a little sweeter now. Sweet enough to give you butterflies and for them to flutter right out of your stomach and spill from your lips in a little whimper against his.

It comes as a surprise when he pushes the fabric from your shoulders without looking or asking. Not that you’d have said no—you're just underprepared for how assertive he is in this foreign context.

Left just in your flimsy shorts and your thin bra, you feel quite exposed—but Spencer’s hands are as demanding and hungry as his mouth. They skim up your sensitive sides and sweep lower, suggesting less proper placement over your ass and pulling at your bottoms until you gently put a stop to their wandering.

“Wait. We’re... we’re uneven.”

It’s a struggle to get any words out at all when he keeps chasing your lips, nipping at you like he physically can’t stand not kissing you, but they catch his attention and he laughs airily, pulling back to let his gaze pour over your less clothed form. It lingers and catches and lights you up everywhere it touches, drops of heat soaking into your skin and making you feel all fuzzy and needy.

“We are,” he acknowledges, tone low and colored with the faintest smile. “You’re a lot prettier without your clothes on than I am.”

“I don’t believe you.”

The challenge comes immediately and thoughtlessly. Spencer’s golden eyes flash up to yours. He’s breathing a little harder than usual.

“You want me to show you what I mean?”

If that means getting him naked, then yes, absolutely.

You nod, but rather than immediately stripping, he takes your hand and holds his own open next to it. A thick pink scar bisects some pretty significant palmistry lines, but you don’t mention that. Instead you swallow—your thoughts, your words, your nausea.

“That’s new.”

You wonder how you hadn’t noticed it earlier.

He nods.

“A lot is new.”

It sounds almost like he’s challenging you—there's a kind of tremulous force in his voice, despite the perpetual softness there, like he’s inviting you to say it’s ugly. And you realize he’s referring to more than just the glowing scar cutting an asteroid trail against the flesh of him palm. The scars he obtained in prison must form a constellation over his body.

“I don’t care. I wanna see you.”

Spencer swallows, cupping your face with the scarred hand once more. You can’t feel it against your cheek but you know it hasn’t gone away.

“I’m sure you think you do,” he permits, and that’s where the conversation ends for the moment—with his hand on your face and his lips back on yours. “For now why don’t you let me worry about you?”

Obediently, you breathe, “okay.”

This is, for whatever reason, amusing to him. The brief levity dies as quick as it comes like a snuffed-out brush fire as soon as he lets his hands fall back down to your hips.

“I want... I want to give you slow. But...”

But slow is for people who didn’t lose three months of their life. Slow is for people who don’t know what it’s like to be starving. Slow is not for the desperate.

You understand the feeling.

“I don’t need slow.”

You’ll let him use you up like quick-burning fuel if that’s what he needs. You’ll go as fast and as bright and as hot as he tells you.

“But you want slow,” he murmurs, a secret acknowledged into your own waiting mouth. You’d keep it there forever. You could be the object he hides his soul in. “I know you do. You deserve to get what you want.”

“I can go fast. I want whatever you can give me.”

Spencer’s shuddering exhale is like a drug, dizzying as you inhale it and your eyes flutter at the high, pressed head-to-head with him. For so long you’ve needed him so badly. It’s overwhelming to have him now, all over you. If only your walls could breathe him in the way you are, if this room could remember what it feels like to hold him the way you will, if any inanimate object could bear witness to how you’ll give yourself, any part of yourself, over to him, so willingly.

“I’m going to try.” Spencer’s voice is hoarse as he walks backward to the bed, taking you by the hips as he goes. “I want to do it right. I want to do this the way I... the way I imagined it, before...”

Now he’s sitting, and you’re standing between his legs as he finds the clasp of your bra and undoes it, his fingers a comforting pressure where they ghost down the slope of your back. Your heart is pounding at the confession, at the way his tongue darts over his bottom lip and his fingertips journey back up to your straps, looking up at you with haloed irises as if he’d find anything other than the most dangerous kind of smoldering devotion in your eyes—the kind cult-leaders seek and spend years nurturing, and he’d earned with a mere brush over your bare skin.

The fabric slides down your arms, and as it falls to the floor, you watch something like despair flash-flood his eyes. It is a deep, distinctly human grief. The ineffable kind where something is almost too beautiful; so perfect it offends the mortal senses because it should be permanent, but nothing is, and the clash of divine beauty with unstoppable time which oxidizes copper and covers marble with vine is almost as grotesque as metal rending delicate flesh. It is the grief that drove the first poet to write and the first parents to press their baby’s painted hands to the walls of a cave. It is the desire to do the impossible—to capture ephemeral perfection and make it eternal, and the knowledge that it is hopeless. You recognize it because you’ve felt it for him.

“I thought about you all the time,” he whispers, doesn’t bother calling you beautiful but you don’t mind because he’s telling you with his hands and his eyes and the waver of his voice. “When I was gone, I thought about you—”

You’re just as quiet, just as soft.

“Don’t, Spencer.”

He doesn’t get to tell you about when he was gone. Not now. Not after he acted like you didn’t exist.

“Okay.” He swallows the things he’d wanted to tell you like you choked on the things you needed to tell him for three months. “I’m sorry.”

But his hands—his hands are perfect over your waist and his lips are perfect where they kiss your ribs like they’re his homeland. You could forgive a thousand wrongs for each kiss he puts to your skin. Light from the full moon stretches over the room like a blessing from the cosmos, and you have every intention of making the most of that gift, how the silver gilds the planes of his face and highlights curls like they were carved, and invites you to search for something in each shadow.

Some of his kisses land over the sensitive skin of your breasts though you doubt he has much intention or that there is any sort of end-goal with the trail he blazes—in fact, you have to root your hand in his hair and pull gently back when he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s making you wait again. His eyes are glassy and cheeks slightly pinkened—you weren’t expecting this wave of fondness to knock you on your ass but here you are, falling all over again.

“You don’t have to go that slow.”

A slow smile splits the heart of his mouth at your bashful tone and he’s emboldened to bring his hands higher for a moment, thumbs brushing particularly delicate though not downright indecent spots. Nonetheless, your breath catches.

“Impatient girl,” he scolds, and though it’s lighthearted it still inspires heat to dance across your face. Oh, I think I’ve been plenty patient, you itch to say, but you bite it back because it’s only sad and true and unkind.

Still, he gives you the beginning of what you want, really only the tip of the enormous iceberg that is your desire for him, by slipping his thumbs into the waistband of your shorts and tugging them down. His hands slide up the fronts of your thighs, tracing the trim of your underwear, and you’d swear he’s not even breathing. The moment one of his hand loops behind your knee and pulls forward until it’s pressed to the mattress and you’re half-kneeling, half standing, desire begins to truly cloud your mind. Manhandling never seemed like Spencer’s style, but when paired with how softly he reveals your hip, pulling gently down on the fabric of your underwear just to admire you up close, you don’t mind it.

More kisses are littered over your stomach, and he takes you by surprise a second time with a quick maneuver landing you on your back and him on top of you.

“I wasn’t doing you justice with my imagination,” he murmurs against your mouth. “I couldn’t have known.”

“Couldn’t have known what?” you pant as he shamelessly digs his fingers into the plush of your ass. You almost hope it bruises.

“How pretty you would be,” he coos like he means it, and you dissolve, slipping through his fingers like sand in an hourglass. “You were holding out on me.”

It’s a tease, not at all serious, but you manage to hit him with a, “Was not, asshole,” and he chuckles, placating your little hurt with another sticky kiss, and you get another disorienting glimpse of some other timeline where you’re both a little less damaged. Where it’s a little easier.

But in this timeline, his touch becomes starving and ragged and urgent, and you accept the drag of his thumb up your thigh and between your legs, gasping when he runs his knuckles up the center of you. This touch is metal on screeching metal. It does not pretend to be anything more than what it is—brute, powerful, executed to elicit sensation. You get the sense that Spencer’s never touched anyone this honestly, and while you do envy the girls who got to have him gentler, you’ll take this as the compliment that it is. A kind of vulnerability that is nearing primal.

His lips, though—always his lips—are kind when they brush and land on your skin guided by some invisible map. A dip down your neck and chest and then a plunge, his tongue dragging over your hips, chasing the fabric of your underwear as he almost pulls it off and then reroutes, making room for himself between your legs and pushing lace aside to mark the hinge of your inner and upper-most thigh. Your chest heaves and you don’t dare move for fear he’ll stop leaving signs of himself on your body and you won’t be able to reassure yourself that it was real and he was here and it was not another dream.

Because something in you knows, if only consciously recognizing it for the first time now, that he will disappear again. That this may be your only chance.

The desire to make the ephemeral eternal. An impossibility.

He’s clearly losing himself to something, eyes shutting blissfully. You wonder when the last time he let his guard down even a  little was. You’re okay with being the thing he gets lost in, even if you’re not exactly okay with him—something you are becoming more acutely aware of as each touch makes a part of you want to cry. Maybe you still have some things in common. A strange pain that doesn’t quite feel like it belongs to you, for one thing.

You slam back into your body as his nose nudges against you through fabric, and his lips catch on cotton as he drags himself up, eventually settling a kiss against the little bow at the waist of your underwear. There he stays, eyes closed, mouth pressed to you.

“Is this okay?”

You swallow, buzzing. Is this really what he wants? After everything?

“You don’t have to...”

“But is it okay with you?”

Nothing more than an airy whisper, you reply, “Yes, if that’s what you want.”

Being emotional at this point seems wrong, but it’s difficult to ignore the fact that you have thought about this before and it’s finally happening but it’s not exactly as you’d imagined it. There is an indelible sadness to it, to the way he’s so hungry for you because he’s been deprived, to the desperation with which he touches you because he’s had everything taken from him.

For a moment, before he tugs your underwear down, he pauses, and you wonder if he’s freezing one moment in time, this moment, and grieving all the other ways it could’ve been, and accepting that this is the way it is going to be. You are.

These higher realms of thought abandon you as he finally pulls the last barrier down your legs and encourages you to spread them further. You don’t have time or energy to be embarrassed, not even by his staring, or the way his eyes dart up to yours and back down again, wide and shining, as if to say, have you seen yourself? Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?

All you feel is the lack of him on you, the pull to have him closer so strong it’s almost sickening because he could be gone at any second. Maybe he understands that because he doesn’t waste anymore time before he’s kissing the most sensitive part of you. The drag of his tongue has you loosing a shuddering cry.

His mouth wanders, making connections you wouldn’t have realized the value of until you feel them on your skin. Your hips buck as he traces you and you’re unable to stop yourself from tangling your hands in his hair. Speech fails you—hell, you can hardly breathe as you watch his with a furrowed brow and parted lips, only expelling air from your lungs in the form of little cries and gasps and failing to hold your hips down to the bed.

The tip of his tongue teases around your entrance and he catches your leg as your foot rises off the bed, slinging it over his shoulder and consuming you more fervently until you have no choice but to moan though you’ve never been one for theatrics. Nobody has done this for you like he’s doing it for you. Locks of hair fall in front of his face and you hold them back for him, shuddering as he shifts his weight and presses the tip of his finger to your cunt.

“Ah—please,” you manage, your first words since he started. Spencer groans against you and the sound is so wonderfully unexpected, so much better than in your dreams. You cant your hips up in further invitation, chirping as he takes it, pushing two fingers into you at once. Your eyes screw shut and you bite back a whine at the slight stretch, unconsciously writhing your hips either to get further away or take him deeper, you’re not sure.

Spencer pulls back, kissing your hips and thighs and pumping his fingers very slowly as you adjust.

“’M sorry,” you pant, “it’s been awhile, I...”

“Don’t apologize,” Spencer says like it’s simple, his own breath coming quicker. “How’re you feeling? Need me to stop?”

“No! No, it feels really good, I feel good.”

He holds your burning gaze, matching it with his own, and his hair is tousled and his cheeks are flushed as he continues to move his hand.

“Yeah?”

“...Yeah.”

This little show of obedience, of call and response, has him smiling before he occupies his mouth with something else once more. It’s a different smile than you’re used to from him, but you decide you don’t at all mind it.

Like that, with his tongue and fingers working tirelessly, your orgasm comes on quickly. The feeling is rare but not entirely foreign, and in that brief moment of utter disconnect between your brain and reality, of sheer white-hot pleasure, you don’t feel you’re missing out on anything at all. How could you be, when you are here and Spencer is here and for a moment all your neurons are lighting up and flashing neon? How could there be anything more to life than the searing feeling of him slowly withdrawing his fingers from you, than your hips between his hands like he’s cradling the world, and his lips, indiscriminate with where they kiss because every part of you is worthy of attention?

You’re reeling, and your legs are gelatinous as he so affectionately sucks the darkest mark yet onto your inner thigh like a parting gift, like he’s signing his trembling work. If you could clamp your legs shut around the almost painful aftershocks you would, but he’s climbing back up your body, so all you can do is wriggle against him and release delayed, stunted little moans. He stops to kiss your neck before he makes it to your mouth and drinks down all your sounds until you’re gentle and pliant for him like you haven’t been yet.

His voice is soft and sympathetic when he speaks. “Better?”

Wordlessly you nod, both comforted and unsettled by how well he knows you. What, exactly, has been made better, you’re not sure. Not trust. You don’t trust him anymore. Something cheaper, but temporarily effective. A sense of permanence, maybe, however fleeting it may be. You’ve completed something with him now, and he’s still here, still sweet.

He looks into your eyes, then, for a moment—and there is just enough light in the room for you to tell yourself that the shadows dancing there as he looks at you are love.

They morph as you watch into haunting, wild hunger. Pained even now.

He sits up abruptly and so do you, scooting back against your headboard and pulling your knees to your chest to protect your pounding heart as Spencer takes you in with darting eyes and quick breaths. His fingers find the collar of his shirt and he begins to unbutton.

“I need you to remember it’s all going to heal.”

He swallows, and you hardly have the wherewithal to study the way he unbuttons his shirt, a way he exists in the world that you had previously not been privy to. The words are too distracting.

“What?”

Sometimes he reminds you of a deer, with those big brown eyes that can’t help betraying anxiety. Moreso in those old pictures he’d shown you from his early days at the BAU—but it shines through occasionally even now. It’s reassuring to know that something inside of his has remained soft.

“Just...” his fingers don’t stop at their task, and you come to the disturbing realization that his knuckles are bruised. “Please don’t freak out, alright?”

Your mouth goes dry, eyes glued to the lengthening span of revealed skin.

And before he even has his shirt fully undone, something isn’t right.

He’s like a Pollack of bruises—starbursts and watercolor blots of discoloration blooming over his side and stomach.

You’re glad the light is off for two reasons: one, being that you don’t think you could handle the bruising in all its glory, and two, you hope the look of horror painted on your face is at least partially obscured from Spencer.

But you can’t. You simply don’t have the gas in the tank to freak out, as he’d said—at least not externally. Those bruises shouldn’t be there, but 96 days is a long time to be gone.

You drag your eyes back to his—nervous, deeply insecure and mistrustful. A deer. Just like those pictures of a 24 year old Spencer in an FBI jacket that was too big for him.

It’s enough to have you scooting on your knees across the mattress to him. Those big eyes stay glued to you as you draw near, falling as you carefully push open his shirt, cautious not to bump any tender spots as it falls to the bed. A flash of white gauze wrapped around his forearm that makes your stomach flip. How? You want to ask. Why?

He doesn’t seem to know what you’re going to do, and neither do you, until you’re grabbing his hands, bruised knuckles and all, and just... holding them for a minute.

“I lost weight,” he says quietly, as if that’s the most shocking thing about his current appearance, though it is noticeable.

“You’re still pretty.”

He smiles at this—a true Spencer Reid smile. Flattened lips, eyes tinged silver with sadness, voice quiet and anxious and wavering.

“I didn’t have a lot to spare.”

A moment goes by.

“I’m not going to ask you about them,” you promise, though you care so much and you want to know but you already understand that he won’t want to tell you.

Another moment. It doesn't surprise you to watch the shiny vulnerability in his eyes to freeze over completely. But he squeezes your hands once in thanks, and you know it’s still the same Spencer.

“Lie down.”

Oh. Right.

This.

You do as he says, taking a deep breath to try and exhale the concern twisting your stomach like a poison. Somehow your room feels so unfamiliar, so new with him in it. Even the whorls on your ceiling look different as you study them, trying to time the pattern of your breathing with the pattern of the paint and plaster and not let the sound of Spencer further undressing quicken your heartrate too much.

Soon he’s coaxing your legs apart again, reverently, and kneeling between them, studying every part of you—lingering not on the parts you’d expect. He traces the scar on your knee with his thumb, follows a line down your thigh to the freckle on your hip. The scrutiny is unnerving and warms you everywhere. Perhaps he senses the microscopic clench of your thighs as you imagine pushing them together, if he weren’t in the way.

“You alright?” He asks, still stroking your hip. Tender again. It’s so hard to keep up.

“I...”

Suddenly your heart beat is a deafening echo in your own ears. The tide of your breathing is too powerful, too in and out and whooshing, leaving you always too empty or too full but never comfortable.

Maybe he’s changed, and he’s harder to know now, but he is the same Spencer. He is the Spencer you’d fallen in love with. The hard part is knowing that now you may never get a chance to tell him that. You don’t know if he’d be able to hear it.

There are things you can’t have with him anymore. Not now, at least. Maybe not ever. But you can have this. It will be different, but you’d rather him be different and here than the same and only in your memory.

You swallow.

“I’m good.”

Tangling your hand in his hair once more, you pull him down into a kiss. It’s hesitant, at first—maybe he can taste your thoughts, where they’d been balancing just on the tip of your tongue. But the uncertainty fades and he kisses you deeper, harder, in a way that is hard to keep up with. You like the messy overwhelm of his lips, teeth, tongue. That’s the only way he knows how to want you.

When you go to wrap your leg around his waist he catches it, running his hands over the soft plush of your thigh. The hard line of him presses against you like memory foam and you gasp and he breathes it in deeply as your brain short-circuits, as you realize this is really going to happen, that you’re going to have him like you’ve never had him before and in ways you’ve only imagined and immediately felt ashamed for.

“Spencer,” you whisper. He ducks to leave open-mouthed kisses along your neck and your eyes flutter shut, craning your neck but not losing sight of your objective as you reach down blindly. When you find what you’re looking for he freezes, groans against your neck at the same time as you breathe the tiniest whimper. Just in your hand he feels impossible, hot and imposing and hard. Your heart palpitates.

Without thinking, you angle your hips up and encourage him closer, until the tip of him is smearing through your folds, and you both go utterly silent like the breath had been stolen right from your lungs. The moment crystallizes, time around you hardening like preserved amber to keep you frozen there forever.

And then he rolls his hips, catching the underside of his cock on the crux of you, and then he does it again, and you choke out a moan and so does he, and it’s beyond perfect—it's nirvana, more than you could ever have conceived of, with his weight pressing you into the mattress, arms caging you in, his heavy breaths hot against your neck and vice versa as you twine together like serpents on a rod, your foot floating in the air as you widen your legs to make more room for him.

And you’re not even fucking yet.

“Oh my god,” you whine, just for him, barely audible under the heavy cloak of night, the thickened air in your bedroom and the sound of panting and fabric shifting. It’s like your heart is trying to reach through your chest to his own where they’re pressed together—that is how hard it’s beating.

Spencer only breathes a long, low curse and shifts so he can grasp himself. Your fingers drift down the shaft of him as he slots himself at your entrance, notching half an inch in and you hold your breath, and you brace yourself—and then he’s kissing you again, but gentler this time. Reassuring. You soften, you can’t not, releasing all your air in a soft gust through your nose, and then he’s pushing in.

Your lips part at the stretch as it fuzzes your mind, but he stays right there, nose pressed to your nose, lips ghosting over your own. He’s not going anywhere, you think, and you’re glad for it, when it burns ever so slightly, and the tiniest whine escapes your open mouth.

“Shh,” he soothes immediately, low and soft, only fractionally louder than you had been. “You’re okay.”

Spencer. Your Spencer.

For a moment, you’re living in that alternate universe. The kinder one. The flash of pain you feel then has nothing to do with the way he’s opening you up.

This is the closest you have ever been, and in some strange way, the furthest apart.

Together, fingers brushing, you guide him until he settles at not quite your deepest point. You can feel that he’s not giving you everything yet, but you’re okay with that, as you adjust to the full feeling. Spencer again senses your desire to close your legs against the deep intrusion, and gives you the best he can by encouraging you to wrap your legs around him.

“Good girl,” he whispers tenderly, nudging at your jaw with his nose and dragging kisses along the ridge of it. Your stomach flips at the moniker and your brain turns to warm sludge as your eyes flutter shut. It makes you feel all light-headed and you flutter around him. Spencer chuckles into the junction of your neck and shoulder and the vibrations send a chill down your arching spine. “I thought you might like that one.”

“Mhm.”

“Mhm. How are you? You okay?”

“’M ready.”

“You’re ready?” His tone is dripping sarcasm and faux-disbelief as he pulls back the slightest bit only to push right back in deeper, this time. Your toes curl, one thigh sliding higher up his waist as you cling to him.

“Fuck,” you manage, a pitiful, high pitched curse tossed to the wind. He echoes the sentiment.

“Oh, my god,” he groans, continuing with that slow pace, “you feel so good, angel.”

You grapple at his back, searching for purchase as your brow knits. “Faster.”

This inspires another breathy chuckle, but he obliges, and you cry out softly. It’s almost unreal, your head buried against his neck, drunk on his scent and the drag of him like a shock felt in the far reaches of your body, again and again.

There’s nothing you can say that will accurately demonstrate what you’re feeling, so you elect not to speak, to remain silent and try to get a grip on this cacophony of sensation and emotion. But it’s too much to be alone with. You feel you have to get it out, to seek understanding. You can’t do it alone.

“Spencer.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t know...” the sentence trails off into a gentle keen. He moves to kiss you, speaking against your lips.

“You don’t know?”

Shyly you shake your head. Spencer sighs wistfully.

“Do you know how much I missed you?”

It’s like he can sense your need for comfort. For something grounding.

And while this topic was off-limits earlier—you're softer now. The stone walls that form your boundaries have been chipped away and lowered.

Spencer continues unprompted.

“I thought about you every day. Every night while I was falling asleep. You were always on my mind, angel girl.”

You whine. Whether it’s pleasure or distress is anyone’s guess—including your own.

“You were gone so long,” you whisper, eyes shut.

At this, Spencer slows again, and the tension that was building settles back to a simmer.

“I know. I wish I could—I wish I could change that. But I’m here, okay? I’m right here with you.”

Then he makes sure you feel every last inch, and it takes your breath away. If your thoughts were any more coherent, they’d be something along the lines of: but for how long? How long until you leave again?

“You’re here.”

You say it like a mantra, once out loud, and then again and again in your head, timed with every clash of your hips. With each repetition he becomes more real. Every little ache, every tingling, head-emptying brush against that most sensitive spot inside proves to you that he could not be any closer. This can’t be faked. It can’t be another dream to wake up in tears from.

“You’re here,” you gasp as it hits you, as it truly sinks in.

“I’m here,” he breathes.

There’s so much you want to say—three months of words you need him to hear, of things you need to talk to him about, things you need to yell at him for and things you can only say crying in his arms and things you can only say laughing or whispering or drunk or half-asleep—and in this moment you can’t manage any of it. Every word condenses into one drop of salt water, drifting away from your eye and down your cheek. Spencer doesn’t tell you to stop crying. He only kisses the tear away, and murmurs I’m here I’m here I’m here over and over again against your skin until he’s not even speaking it out loud anymore. But you feel it. With every brush of his lips, every breath, every movement, you feel it.

Soon he’s adjusting his angle, gradually picking up the pace but retaining that unforgiving depth, and your nails bite into the skin of his back as your jaw drops. Spencer hisses, pressing impossibly closer.

“I’m sorry!” you squeak.

“Do it again.”

“Wh—what?”

“Please,” he begs, low and hot against your jaw, just beneath your ear. “Do it again, honey.”

Honey.

You’d do anything for him if it meant he calls you that again.

When he shifts his weight to one arm and reaches down between your bodies to play with your aching clit in exactly the right way, you don’t really have a choice. You arch and moan wantonly enough to feel embarrassed as your nails scratch down his back. At the same time he’s making noises of his own, and you almost feel guilty for marking him up like this only you think he likes it. The most perfect and troubling tension is building in your core, so taut you almost fear the inevitable rebound when it snaps. But you’re driven to be exactly what Spencer needs right now, and to let him try and be what you need. Even if it scares you. Even if you’re not sure how.

Spencer groans, head tucked to the bend of your shoulder. “I’m not gonna last.”

Any response you might’ve been about to muster is annihilated by a sudden, deep bolt of pleasure.

“’M gonna cum,” you mewl like it’s a secret.

“Are you?” he asks, coming up breathless. If your eyes were open, you’re sure you’d see him above you.

“Mhm.”

“Look at me. Look at me.”

It is unmistakably a command—one you fight to follow.

You cry out as you meet the intensity of his gaze, those shadowy corridors suddenly ablaze and alive. They are not unending, like you’d thought. They are a door thrown open to let the light in, or maybe to let the fire out. They’re open in this moment for you.

No more words are spoken after that—you cum hard, gasping as you fall and spin. Spencer follows very shortly after, like he was holding it together just for you, and your eyes are still locked though everything is a bit bleary.

“Fuck,” you whine as he continues to fuck you for as long as he can, despite your writhing hips, but you’re entranced by him, unable to look away now that you’re hooked. Until he slows to a halt, glances down at your mouth, and you just have time to pray that he’ll kiss you before he does. You whimper against his lips—a plea for understanding. A plea for him to stay, even though this is over. He kisses back so soft and sweet it’s like he can read your mind. Echoes of I’m here I’m here I’m here still buzz across your skin. His eyelashes tickle your cheek. Your heart stops beating quite so quickly, melting and warm like the rest of your body.

Soon the kissing ceases and you’re just breathing together, trapped and faced with the knowledge that it must end just the same as you had waited for it to start.

Eventually the air between you becomes mostly carbon dioxide and you let your head fall to the side, dizzy and giggling breathlessly as you nearly avoid asphyxiation. Spencer laughs too, letting his head fall to your shoulder once more, and you finally let your eyes flutter closed. To do something as simple as laugh with him again is its own small euphoria. It’s unexpected, and a soft landing once all that tension breaks underneath your combined weight.

It can’t last forever, you know that well. But the slow fade of it makes the next parts a little easier.

Spencer presses a kiss to your neck. “Is your bathroom through that door?”

You hum a confirmation and are only slightly disheartened when he pulls out and rolls off of you. You’re further disturbed when you see there’s gauze around his thigh, matching what’s around his arm, and you wonder how you missed that. Spencer scoops up his clothing and disappears into the adjoining restroom, assuring you he’ll be right back and leaving you alone with your thoughts and the whorls on the ceiling which have seemingly shifted into entirely new constellations.

He leaves the door cracked which is oddly reassuring—the sliver of warm light and the sound of the sink running. Only a few moments pass before he’s returning clad in boxers once more to sit on the edge of the bed, pushing away the sheet you’d just pulled over your chest and pulling one of your legs over his lap. Your face warms as he brings a washcloth between your thighs. As soon as he glances up at you and catches your eye you’re looking back to the ceiling.

“I should’ve asked first,” he says quietly as he cleans up the mess he’d made of you.

You speak just as softly, like you’re both afraid of disturbing some peace, of waking some sleeping giant. “It’s okay. I would’ve told you if I didn’t want it.”

His reticence, his unreadable face, make you nervous.

When he’s done, he rises to toss the dirtied cloth in the laundry bin, and with his back to you (as scratched up as it might be) you feel braver.

“Are you gonna, like... hate me now?”

It was a mistake. That’s clear by the way he turns around, brow knit deeply and grimacing slightly like even the suggestion offends him.

“Am I going to hate you?”

Again you pull the sheet up, and again you look away, studying the pattern of moonlight stretching out over the floor and scooting to make room for him when he steps in it.

“Not hate, I just...” the bed dips beside you and you are indescribably glad he’s not immediately running out the door. “I’m not dumb. I know what this was.”

He pulls you into him and you settle against his chest. It feels good. “I never thought you were dumb.”

This is your first real conversation since he’s gotten back, you realize. And how quickly you’re falling into familiar patterns, familiar syntactical beats. You know when to speak. You know when to bite your tongue and keep him talking.

The silence goes on longer than you’re used to. Maybe he got good at not speaking while he was away.

Eventually your eyes wander, falling to the white strip over his thigh where it is parallel to yours on the bed, only over the sheets.

“What happened?”

You said you wouldn’t ask, but that was then, and you’re upset again. You almost want to hurt him. To piss him off. You don’t know.

But it doesn’t work.

“Do you really want to know?” There’s a note of something heavy in his voice, and you look up at him. It’s a privilege to have him this close—his beauty is a constant surprise that you’d become unaccustomed to over the months. You say nothing, and he takes that as the yes that it is. “I... I did it to myself.”

He may as well have reached down your throat and grabbed for fucking heart for all its clenching. Tears well almost immediately, though they’ve been waiting in the wings all night.

“What? Did you—were you trying to—”

His eyes widen.

“No! No, honey, no.” You wilt as he gathers you closer, a deeply confused frown still contorting your features, too heartbroken even to cling to him, or to appreciate the ease with which honey slips past his lips again. “No. I was—it's complicated. I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to hurt myself, but I had to—I had to do it before someone else did something worse.”

The bruises covering his abdomen.

You sniffle and pull back enough to look up at him tearfully. “Why would they want to hurt you?”

Mist fills his eyes even as he’s looking down at you, a layer of separation, as if he’s two places at once. Even as he goes to brush your hair behind your ear, to stroke your cheek.

“I’m... not... the same, as I was.” It’s not an answer to your question—but it’s the beginning of the answer to a question you’d been too afraid to put into words.

“Don’t say that,” you beg, because you know where this is going. He keeps smoothing your hair like it’ll make this easier.

“But it’s true,” Spencer says gently, the slightest waver betraying his own emotion.

“You’re just going to leave again.”

And you’re losing to the tears.

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you will,” you insist, like a child crying to a parent come to comfort them after a bad dream.

“Not right now. Right now I’m here.”

I’ll stay until you fall asleep again.

For now, maybe that has to be enough. 

You cry on his shoulder. He kisses your head and doesn’t tell you to stop. 

Eventually, you sniff and wipe your eyes. 

“We were so close. Before you… we were almost there.”

You’re sure of it. You’re sure that if he hadn’t gone when he did you would’ve been a real couple. You would’ve told him you loved him. 

“We’ll get there again,” he promises, rubbing your arm. “I just… I need a little bit of time. I think you do too. But we’re going to get there again.”

Maybe it will never be like it was. 

But as so often is the case—Spencer is right. Difference doesn’t mean it won’t ever be good again. 

You have to believe that, just as you had to believe you’d see him again. 

You look to The Odyssey on your bedside table. 

The sun has been obliterated from the sky, and an unlucky darkness invades the world. 

But the sun has a habit of rising, time and time again, after the longest nights, after the darkest storms. 

You feel the beginnings of its rise, see the golden tips of it lighting the room as he holds you. Even now. 

[ziracona]

The Darkness really is the best song in the show.

[httpvomitello]

Hey so how do you think the tmnt boys would deal with having a crush where they text each other frequently and also do hang out a lot. But what they do when for once their crush texts them “I hate everything right now. I’m so angry. >:(“. Behind the scenes Their crush just came on their time of the month and now they’re like angry with everything hormonally? If the boys come over cuz crush isn’t answering, hours later, crush seeming better, “sorry about that. I just came on my time of the month earlier, this ones bad this month and my emotions are crazy. I now just feel depressed :(”?

Hello again! I hope you like it! ♡♡♡♡

Leonardo

Leo gets a text from his crush that reads, “I’m so over everything right now. I’m mad and don’t even know why.”

He’s used to keeping joking his way out of awkward situations, so he responds

“Yikes, sounds rough! Want me to come over and cheer you up with some cool ninja moves or bad jokes?”

When there’s no reply for hours, Leo’s anxiety spikes (even if he won't admit it)

He grabs his katanas (just in case) and heads out to check on them

When he arrives, his crush finally explains, “Sorry about that. I just came on my time of the month earlier. This one’s bad, and my emotions are crazy.”

He might be a little awkward at first, but he quickly adapts, flashing his signature grin

“Ah, no worries. Your favorite turtle has arrived!So, what’s the plan? Do you want to grab us some snacks and watch some movies?”

They decide to watch Twilight

It's a good thing they ended up sleeping next to Leo, because that way they didn't have to witness him start crying at the end

He’s happy to be a distraction, whether it’s watching a movie or just hanging out

He’ll probably pull out a few tricks, magic or otherwise, to get a smile out of them before the day’s done.

Raphael

Raph gets a message from his crush that says, “I’m so frustrated. Everything’s making me mad for no reason, and I’m trying to keep it together.”

He doesn't take long to send a message asking if everything is okay

When he doesn’t get a reply after a while, Raph starts pacing

He debates texting again but doesn’t want to seem pushy, so instead, he heads out

When Raph gets there, his crush doesn't take long to explain

“Hey, sorry I didn’t respond earlier. My period just started, and it’s hitting hard this time. I feel like a mess right now,”

Raph softens immediately, his face full of understanding

He knows how overwhelming emotions can be, and he doesn’t want to make things worse by crowding them

He’ll stay close, maybe put on a show they both like or offer up his shoulder if they need a comforting presence.

Donatello

Donnie receives a text from hos crush at a random time while he was finishing one of his projects

“Today’s been a mess, and I’m so angry. I don’t know how to shake this mood.”

His immediate reaction is to problem-solve, so he texts back

“I’ve read that mood swings can sometimes be helped by balancing serotonin levels. Do you want me to come over and help you troubleshoot?”

He’s serious about wanting to help, though his methods may seem a bit... clinical

When he doesn’t get a response for hours, Donnie’s curiosity gets the best of him

It doesn't take long to get to their house

“Sorry I didn’t get back to you. My period started earlier, and it’s really messing with my emotions. I just feel so out of it,”

Donnie immediately understands and goes into helpful mode

“While I can’t stop that, I can help with the physical discomfort or even keep you company to distract you from the emotional side effects.”

He might offer up some tech-based solutions, like a supercharged heating pad or an app he coded to track moods and help regulate them

If they’re feeling down, he’ll switch from science talk to a more personal approach, asking what they need and offering to help with whatever would make them more comfortable

Even if his methods are a little unconventional, Donnie genuinely wants to make things better for them.

Michelangelo

Mikey got the text from his crush while he was watching his favorite cartoon

“I’m just in such a bad mood today. I feel off, and I hate it.”

His heart sinks because he’s all about making people feel happy and loved, especially his crush. He responds immediately

“Aw, that’s the worst! You want me to come over and bring snacks and some good vibes? I’ll cheer you up, promise!”

When there’s no reply for a while, Mikey’s concern turns into action. He grabs a bunch of their favorite snacks and his skateboard, determined to turn their day around

When they finally explain, “Sorry for not responding. My period started, and it’s been a rough one. My emotions are just all over the place,”

Mikey is quick to jump into comfort mode, his empathy showing immediately

“I’m here to make you feel better, no worries. Snacks? Cartoons? Blanket fort? You name it, and we’ll do it!”

Mikey’s goal is to lift their spirits, no matter what

His energy is contagious, and he’ll stick around for as long as they need

By the end of the day, Mikey will make sure they’re at least smiling, even if just a little

[i-am-baechu]

♬ Summary: Jungkook is proud that Y/N is his girlfriend and he of course lets the world know how much he loves her. 

♬ Pairing: Established relationship; Jungkook x reader 

♬ Rating:  Explicit (18+) 

♬Genre: Established relationship, comedy, angst?, fluff, and smutish

♬ Warnings: Smut angst(ish) and fluff (lol) 

♬ Part of, ‘ His Fan Girl

♬ Authors note: Time jump like I know the story isn’t here yet but I couldn’t help myself lol 

After being with Y/N for a while, Jungkook already knew her reaction to the song. Y/N always got mad (flustered) at him for sharing things with his members about their love life but she also thought it was cute. When Jungkook told her that he was working on his solo album, he lied to her. The lie wasn’t big but he just said he was going to do a love song for her and she couldn’t help but fall for him more. The song had two versions to it, normal (for Y/N) and explicit (for Jungkook); problem solved. The only thing he wasn’t looking forward to was Y/N scolding him. 

Y/N sat in the studio watching Jungkook sing away in the booth and she couldn’t help but smile at him. She loved watching him sing because of how passionate he was about it. He opened his eyes and gave her his bunny smile letting her know he was truly happy. He put his headphones on the stand and walked outside. He gave her the hand motion to come here and she tilted her head at him. She placed her laptop on the couch and said her sorrys to the producers who just gave her a smile. She stood under Jungkook and gave him a confused look, “Is everything okay?” 

He nodded his head and leaned down, giving her a quick kiss, “I just wanted a kiss from you.” 

Her face felt hot and she glanced at the producers who weren’t even paying attention to them, “Yo-You can’t just kiss me in front of them...” 

“Why? You don’t want my love?” 

She slapped his chest gently and crossed her arms over her chest, “T-That’s not what I meant and you know that.” She looked over his body to look at the stand and a soft smile appeared, “You're doing a good job. Your English has improved, I’m proud of you.”

He kissed her forehead at this and nodded his head, “It was all because of you. You're a great teacher, you know.” 

“I-I tried my best...Are you almost done?” 

“Almost, can you wait another hour?” 

“Of course, I can. I just need to look over the reports from work.” 

He nodded his head and rubbed the back of his neck, “I’m sorry you have to wait for me.” 

“Eh? It’s okay, Kook. I’m glad I can spend time with you.” 

Another reason why he loved Y/N. She was always patient with him and just wanted to be with him regardless of what it was. He also knew she struggled in her life. She had clinical depression and there were days when it was so hard for her to function. It hurt him to see her like that because no matter what he did, she stayed the same. She always felt bad for doing this to him but he understood. 

“Baby, are you okay?”

Y/N looked up from there to give him a small smile, “I will be...”

He gave her a small frown and sat on the bed. He grabbed her hand, rubbing her knuckles gently, “Are you having another episode?” 

She sighed and nodded her head, “I am...I don’t know why though. I know you wanted to go on a date today but I don’t know...I don’t know if I can. I-I’m sorry.” 

“I wish I could take the weight off of your shoulders.” 

She gave him a small smile and leaned into his body, “I love you...”

“I love you more.” 

Her shy nature made intimate moments between the two even better. Jungkook still couldn’t believe that she was a virgin when they met and that she didn’t really have experience with a boyfriend. It made his heart flutter to know that he was her first and her last. It was an honor that he will carry for the rest of his life. There were moments when she had to push Jungkook out of bed to go to work or even to stop him from having another round. He just couldn’t get enough of her. How could he? She was everything he wanted and more, a blessing even. 

“Yo-Your fingertips are cold...”

“Let me warm them up then.” He slid his hand down her stomach to her entrance. He shoved two fingers in and she arched her back off of the bed. He looked down at her red face and couldn’t help his heart beat faster. She looked so cute even though they were doing something sinful. 

He brought his head down to her breast and started sucking at her nipple making her moans even louder. He backed away and grabbed the condom off of the bed but she noticed he was different tonight. He looked nervous and she kind of knew why. She gently brought his head into her chest and kissed the side of his head, “Kookie~, It will be okay. I know your solo will be good.” 

He pulled away and looked down at her and gave her a soft smile, “I love you.” 

“And I love you more.” 

He placed the condom on his cock and gave her another smile, “I don’t think you understand...I love you so much.” 

He intertwined their fingers together next to her head and thrust into her. She let out a moan and he leaned down letting her moan into his mouth, “Kook~!” 

Their tongues swirled each other and he opened his eyes to peek at her. Her face was so red that he could feel the heat off of it and with her eyes closed, it made her look so innocent. He kept thrusting into her as he placed kisses on her neck, “You give me strength...” 

Today was release day. Y/N and Jungkook were in New York for him to perform at Good Morning and she was so excited to see it. She was going to be in a special area making sure no one could see her. This was the second thing on her mind, the first thing on her mind was just seeing him perform. They sat in the hotel with her laptop on the bed as she looked at him with a smile, “Are you excited?” 

He gave her a nervous smile and laugh, “I’m not sure...” 

She leaned forward placing a kiss on the tip of his nose, “I’m excited. You didn’t let me come with you to the filming...I’m still upset about that, you know.”

He rolled his eyes and brought her in to sit on his lap with her laptop in hers. He kissed the side of her head and chuckled, “I wanted it to be a surprise.” 

“You know I don’t like surprises...”

“Too bad.” 

She glanced at the time and looked up to see him already looking down, “Are you ready?” 

“Yeah, I am.” 

She pressed play and she watched it as he played with her fingers. She laughed at some parts and rolled her eyes. When the video was over, she turned her body so she could straddle his waist with a goofy smile, “This just shows how clingy you are...”

“Clingy for you only baby.” 

The autoplay on youtube went to the next song and she glanced to see what was playing. She turned her whole body and she squinted at the screen, “JUNGKOOK! WHY DOES THIS SAY EXPLICIT!” 

He felt sweat forming on his forehead as he let out a small laugh, “I-It’s nothing.” 

I'll be fuckin' you right, seven days a week. She glared at the screen with her mouth open and her face blazing. She shut her laptop and let out a groan as she brought her hands to cover her face, “Why did you make that!?”

He pouted at her and wrapped his arms around her waist, “Because I love you, plus the world knows I have a girlfriend. They know I’m talking about you.” 

“Th-They don’t know it's me! OH MY GOD, THE GUYS ARE GONNA LISTEN TO THIS AND KNOW!!” 

Jungkook let out a laugh and kissed her cheek, “I kiss your waist and ease your mind..”

“NOT NOW JUNGKOOK! SINGING WON’T GET YOU OFF THE HOOK!”

[serpenera]

One of the things that most irks me in the HP, and especially Snape discourse, is the misinterpretation of the meaning of the patronus. The general consensus seems to be that the shape of the patronus indicates one’s true love but that is a massive oversimplification that creates numerous inconsistencies. In other words, when we look at it like that, the patronus makes NO SENSE. Except the patronus makes PERFECT SENSE. Just let me explain.

The patronus, as we know, is a charm that repels Dementors - an anthropomorphized representation of clinical depression. Keep that in mind as this is important. You conjure it by focusing on a happy memory or should I rather say a happy thought.

Memory is the word Lupin uses when he first explains the patronus to Harry and I’d argue this is the reason why Harry initially fails at conjuring one. He remembers his first time on a broom and winning the house cup. Both happy memories to doubt but “not powerful enough” as Lupin puts it. So what makes a powerful memory?

Harry tries again and succeeds by focusing on the memory of finding out he was a wizard and would be leaving the Dursleys and going to Hogwarts. What makes this memory different than the other two is that it wasn’t just that of a fleeting moment of glee but of an event that marked a major change in Harry’s life, a change for the better. Yes, it was a moment from the PAST but one that influenced Harry’s PRESENT and FUTURE.

See, this is the key to understanding the patronus. The trick is not to remember a happy past long gone, it’s to find something in the past that gives you a reason to move forward. Anyone, who’s ever been depressed to the point of wanting to off themselves will know what I’m talking about here. And those who don’t, good for you.

Anyway, back to Harry. When he conjures his first fully corporeal patronus at the end of PoA, he thinks of going to live with Sirius. And when he uses the spell again in GoF he thinks of celebrating the end of the Tournament with Ron and Hermione. In both cases, he doesn’t even recall an event of the past but projects into the future. And note that regardless of whom or what he thinks of (and not once does he think of his dad), his patronus stays a stag. Even after his love and admiration for James falters due to the discovery of SWM, his patronus stays a stag. This is because the stag, while visually traceable back to James, does not represent James as a person but rather a concept that James himself is a representation of. The stag stands for family, legacy, and a sense of belonging. What keeps Harry moving forward despite all the obstacles is not the mere memory of having had a dad once, it’s the realization that he’s not alone in the world, that he has friends who care about him, and that he’s part of a community.

If we look at the patronus through this lens we can logically explain the shape and origin of all the major ones present in the books.

Snape is often accused of being a stalker incel and whatnot because (apparently) his doe patronus is the same as Lily’s.

First of all, did you pull that information out of your ass? ‘Cause I checked and nowhere in the book(s) does it say what shape her patronus was. The same goes for James. He was a stag animagus. We don’t know what shape his patronus was. That, assuming they both even knew the charm. Although, as Order members, they probably did. If they hadn’t learned it at school, Dumbledore or another Order member would’ve taught them.

Okay, for the sake of this argument, let’s assume that James’ patronus was in fact a stag and Lily’s was a doe and also that the animals represent them respectively. People will argue that the fact the patronuses match (they don’t actually cause they’re two different species of deer but never mind) implies they were each other’s soulmates. To back that argument they will cite Tonks’ patronus which changed into a wolf after she fell in love with Lupin. At the same time, they will argue that Snape’s doe indicates an unhealthy obsession with Lily. Can you spot the issue with this reasoning?

Snape’s and Tonks’ cases are analog: their patronuses turn into animals related to the other person. And yet in Snape’s case, it’s obsession, and in Tonks’, it’s love?

Lily/James and Tonks’ cases are opposite: Lily/James patronuses turn into animals related to themselves while Tonks’ turns into one related to her love interest. But in both cases, it’s true love?

If Snape’s obsessed with Lily then Tonks is obsessed with Lupin and Lily and James are just obsessed with themselves. Contrarily, if Tonks loves Lupin then Snape loves Lily, and Lily and James, again, just love themselves respectively. Moreover, if you follow either logic, Harry is obsessed / in love with James and Dumbledore with Fawkes.

See how none of that makes ANY SENSE whatsoever? Also, no, it’s not a plothole. Y’all are just looking at it wrong. Now let’s rewind and analyze all of these the same way we did with Harry’s at the beginning of this rant.

James’ case is very straightforward. Similarly to Harry, James finds meaning in the traditional idea of family, clan legacy, and belonging. Remember how on the train to Hogwarts he says he wants to be a Gryffindor just like his dad? That, in my opinion, is already very telling, and considering that right after school James marries the girl he decided would be the future mother of his children and promptly gets her pregnant we can easily deduce what he values and what he believes his higher purpose to be. When facing a Dementor and being consumed by despair, perhaps remembering the loss of his parents and perceived betrayal of his best friends, in order to push through he certainly focuses on his wife and especially his son.

Lily’s doe patronus has nothing to do with Snape. Or with James for that matter. Instead, it has everything to do with Harry. See, many real-life women who find themselves at the edge of despair for one reason or another declare they only push forward because of their children. I think Lily is no different. I mean, she did die trying to protect her child. So I think that facing a Dementor, she thinks of Harry. Her wish to be there for her son and protect him is what keeps her going forward despite everything. She has to be strong because she is needed and that is what her doe stands for.

The doe and the stag, somewhat complementary animals, both symbolize family-related but very different concepts. The stag carries a distinctly masculine meaning, that of the passing of legacy and prolonging the bloodline. The doe has a more feminine feel, that of nurturing and protecting.

Snape’s patronus is the same animal as Lily not because he loves her or is obsessed or even just friends with her. It’s the same because both these characters find purpose in the same thing: being needed.

While for Lily this mindset seems to stem from her motherhood, for Snape it seems to have always been there and for very a different reason. The severe neglect he experienced in his early childhood conditioned him to always seek external validation. It’s as if he couldn’t find value in himself unless someone else found it in him. This is why he was trying so hard to be useful to Lily when they first became friends. This is why he got himself groomed by the Death Eaters. This is also why he was so easily manipulated by Dumbledore.

Speaking of Dumbledore, he has to have taught Snape the patronus charm and it must have happened sometime between his defection and the Potters’ death. Now imagine what that might have looked like.

Dumbledore explains how the patronus works. Snape tries, recalling one of his happy childhood moments with Lily, and fails. He chooses another memory and fails again. Dumbledore tells him it has to be something really powerful. Snape is out of ideas, the only happy memories he has are of his childhood friendship with Lily but that friendship is over, it has been for a while, she’s married to his bully and having his child, and on top of that, she’s being targeted by Voldemort and it’s all his fault. Reminiscing their past together is nowhere near enough to fuel the patronus. Then Snape projects into the future in which thanks to him, Lily is safe, she forgives him for his past mistakes and they make up. This time he successfully conjures his trademark doe.

I imagine that, after Lily died, Snape would have had trouble producing a patronus. That would be until Dumbledore pointed out how even in death she still needed him to protect her child. He would then focus on a future in which Voldemort is defeated, Harry is safe, his debt with Lily is paid and his sins are redeemed.

Dumbledore knows that Snape’s doe patronus is related to Lily but it’s probably because he taught him the charm himself and in doing so he learned that it was thoughts and memories of her that fueled it. Not because it was (presumably, mind you) the same shape as hers.

That said, I’m firmly convinced that if Snape had survived the war he would again have had trouble producing a proper patronus, not because of any change in his feelings towards Lily but rather because with Harry safe and Voldemort gone, he’d find himself lacking a purpose. If, for example, he got himself involved with someone else, someone who would make him feel needed, he might be able to produce a patronus again but it would most certainly remain a doe.

Tonks’ patronus is an interesting one because it actually changes its shape in the course of the narrative. We know it became a wolf after Tonks fell in love with and started dating Lupin.

Yes, it’d be easy to assume that the wolf represents the character whose name is literally Wolfy McWolf and who’s also a werewolf but that would be both shallow and inaccurate.

Tonks’ wolf, not unlike Lily and James’ stag and dear, is symbolically tied to the concept of family and friendship. We don’t know what drove Tonks forward before she became involved with Lupin but we can easily deduce that what drives her afterward is the thought of being with him. When she conjures her patronus, she probably thinks of a future in which they have a proper relationship or perhaps start a family. When Snape makes a dab at her patronus he isn’t just being mean. Knowing Lupin, he probably expects him not to take responsibility for his actions towards Tonks and wiggle out of the relationship the moment things get a little bit too serious for his liking. In saying her patronus is weak he’s trying to warn her not to put her faith in Lupin.

In the end, I’d like to mention Dumbledore’s patronus. Just like a phoenix is reborn from its ashes, Dumbledore rises up from the pit of his troubled youth. When in the vicinity of a Dementor, he must be plagued by thoughts of his misplaced aspirations, of Ariana’s death, and his fall out with Grindelwald. The thought I believe he focuses on in those moments is that of having rehabilitated himself in the eyes of society, and having ultimately become a champion of the light.

[prototypesteve]

1994. A little story about my asexuality being misinterpreted (by a professional) as a disorder, and how that led to years of trouble.

Animation Description: An aromatic-asexual sense pride flag, onto which someone writes "So the thing is… I don't think I've ever had what my friends say would qualify as a real crush, and even after four years of college I still haven't started dating, but maybe the weirdest part is that I've never wanted to." Then, abruptly and violently black paint is spattered across the message and in white text someone superimposes the dismissive message "It's just low self esteem! – Expert opinion"

In 1994, I went to see a counsellor.

What happened was some friends and I were just talking about life. We were all in our early 20s, and so of course sex came up, and I confided that no, I hadn’t had it yet. In fact, I hadn’t even been on anything that would qualify as a date, yet.

I’ve always had good luck with friends. Instead of teasing me about it, one of them gave me the name of a counselling clinic, because they thought it might be worth checking that everything was okay, and there wasn’t something getting in the way. (It was the 1990s, and Generation X didn’t have taboos about getting help.) So I made an appointment.

I described what we’d now call textbook aromantic asexuality. I explained that I was 22, and hadn’t yet been in a relationship. I hadn’t even had anything like a crush. I hadn’t experimented; no kisses on a dare. I had pretty good friendships with guys and girls, but nothing closer than friendship. I felt “behind schedule,” especially because my friends all found it odd that I was still inexperienced.

The counsellor gently asked if I felt it was because I wasn’t allowed to be “experienced”. They noted that I referred to everything euphemistically. Experienced. Relationship. Spark. Feelings. Dating. I never said love, sex, aroused, boyfriend, or girlfriend. I never said romance. Was it because my parents had some strict taboos around seeing girls while I was just fresh out of college, when I should be focused on my career? (I’m half Japanese so that was plausible.) Was it because I felt I wasn’t allowed to love the people I felt attracted to, because I might have been gay or bisexual and hiding that? (Also a fair question, because, sadly, the 90s still weren’t a safe or fair time for my gay and lesbian friends—I didn’t know that I knew any bi or trans people at the time, although I’m sure I did.)

I thought about it. The honest answers were no. My family didn’t make me feel like dating was inappropriate or wasteful, and I just didn’t feel anything “special” for any of my guy friends (and I had guy friends who were comfortable telling me they were gay).

I went on. I explained that I felt happy. I didn’t see any obvious signs of depression or illness or anything. All I felt was a little embarrassed about being so far behind all my friends. Not dating, not “feeling the spark”, not having a “type,” and not having any thoughts on a future family all made me feel immature, and like maybe I had some kind of developmental thing going on. I knew what all those things were. I wasn’t some sheltered or repressed prude. I just wasn’t doing any of that stuff. Not even the perfectly innocent stuff like having a crush, or even really having a “type.”

But it was 1994 and counsellors didn’t have asexual or aromantic on their list of things it might be. So the best the counsellor could guess was that I just didn’t feel good about myself. It must have been low self esteem. (The early 90s still reeked of the yuppie success-or-die greedhead era.) Their guess was that I might have felt my sexuality was something I didn’t feel I had earned the right to access yet, evidenced by my using euphemisms to describe love, romance, and sexuality.

They suggested I read “Feeling Good, the New Mood Therapy” by David Burns, and not worry, because some people are just late bloomers.

And I left there, redirected away from a truth that neither of us knew about. And it would be nearly thirty years before I “reopened the case”, and asked the same questions and got a better answer: Some people experience little to no sexual or romantic attraction. They aren’t necessarily repulsed by sex, or driven away by trauma. They might even have perfectly natural responses to sexual stimuli either alone or with others, but they just don’t feel “I want that, and I want it with this specific person, or this specific sort of person”. They call those people aromantic and/or asexual, based on a presumption that romantic and sexual attraction can sometimes be experienced independently.

I learned that in 2022.

I needed to know that in 1994.

I know I’ll gradually get over that. But yeah. I feel a lot of things about it. Some of them are bad things. But what I’m going to choose to feel about it is grateful that the person who needed answers in 1994 made it to my answers in 2022, and didn’t fall apart in 2022 when I found those answers.

I didn’t let that lost time break me. I didn’t let the mistakes I made crush me. I didn’t find anyone to blame. (That counsellor in 1994 wasn’t hiding anything from me. The world just didn’t talk about people off the Kinsey Scale.) I didn’t let it derail my faith. Asexuality isn’t a curse, and our confusion and fear about the gift of being different like this isn’t the Gift-Giver’s fault.

I’m just going to keep moving. With answers. I’m looking forward to seeing what happens next.

[twice-inamillion]

Twisted Reality

Angst (Sadness, Depression, Grieving)

Chapter 220

1,300 Words

(Sana returns home after having a miscarriage of her first child. She needs to adjust to her new reality and grieve her loss. You and the members try your best to make her feel comfortable during these difficult moments.)

Sana returns home after spending a few days at the clinic. It’s been a rough few days for both of you, especially Sana, who tries to put a happy face for the members back home. 

The door opens, and the both of you are greeted by all night and the babies who waddle to Sana. She squats to greet them and tries to smile, but just looking at them makes her tear up. The idea that she would never see her baby boy in person, like how she is looking at the girls, makes her emotional. She stands up, walks to your arms, and cries on your chest.

Jisoo points and says, “Unnie, cry?”

Jihyo picks up Jisoo and whispers, “Auntie Sana doesn’t feel good. Let’s go and play outside with your sisters and give Auntie some time.” Jisoo nods, grabs Ari and Hina’s hand, and walks with Jihyo to the backyard. 

The rest of the members walk up to Sana, pull her from you, surround her, and hug her. They bring her to the living and listen to her thoughts and emotions during the last few days. 

You, on the other hand, go to your room and take a shower before heading back downstairs. “How are you doing, Oppa?”

“It’s hard, losing a child, but you know, got to stay strong.”

“I feel really bad for Sana. I wouldn’t know what I would do if I lost Da-eun; I think I would die if I lost her.”

“I know you love her with all your heart.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry you and Sana must go through this. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” and hug her.

Meanwhile, the members listen to Sana and what happened in the clinic. She talks about the options that come during a miscarriage and how she can’t do anything physical for about a month. Sana mentions that Oppa suggested that she take a break from the tour, to which the members agreed. “I don’t want to say home; I want to go and perform with all of you.”

“You can’t, Unnie; you need to recover. You can’t stress your body.”

“Please… I want to be with all of you. Don’t leave me here alone,” says Sana with watery eyes.

Jihyo looks at you coming down the stairs and says, “What if Oppa stays with you? You won’t be alone.” Sana turns around to look at you with teary eyes, breaking your heart. “Stay with me, Sana. Let’s go through this together; I’m here for you.”

“Okay, but all of you need to keep in touch with me. I don’t want you all to forget about me.”

“We wouldn’t forget about you. We’ll message and call you every day, I promise.”

“Okay, I’ll stay.”

————-

Twice Twitter and Instagram:

Hello, this is JYP Entertainment.

We would like to announce in regards to Sana’s health condition and status.

Sana is currently struggling with sudden extreme anxiety and insecurity towards performing on stage and being in large crowds. No exact diagnosis has been identified yet. We are consulting with several medical professionals to verify the cause in detail.

After extensive discussion with Sana and the members, we have decided that Sana’s current condition requires additional treatment, professional measures, and sufficient rest. Along with this decision, Sana will not be attending the following schedule:

Twice World Tour 2019 ‘TWICELIGHTS’

The health of our artists is our top priority and most important thing. Thus, we will do everything to provide proper and best medical treatment and sufficient rest for Sana’s recovery.

We sincerely ask for fan’s support so that Sana can get well soon. 

Thank you.

JYP Entertainment 

————— 

The news of Sana’s departure from the tour was sent to all matters of the press and online sources. Many Once were shocked to see her sudden departure from the tour but understood that her wellbeing was the most important thing. Many of them get well posted and wish her a speedy and safe recovery.

This made Sana happy to have Once support her through this rough moment in her life. Even if they would never know the true nature of her departure from the tour, she still knew their wishes for her recovery were sincere.

————

A few days before the member's departure to Singapore, the members try to gather their belongings and meet with their families. Nayeon stays home with Sana, while most members go home to their parents. You go to the office to bring paperwork and your laptop to work remotely from home. 

“Unnie, I’m going to go up and take a bath.”

“Okay, I will be in the kitchen and get dinner ready.”

“Kay.”

Sana goes up to her room and grabs her towel, bath toiletries, and a waterproof speaker. She turns on the hot water and lets it fill up more than halfway. She pours some water oils and some pedals to make it nice and relaxing and dips her foot into the bath. 

“Ahh… this feels nice. It’s been a while since I’ve done this.”

She takes out her phone, sets up the speaker next to the stand, and plays relaxing music. She closes her eyes and tries to clear her mind and forget…

With her eyes wide, all she hears is the calming music and the sound of water moving in the bathtub. It isn’t until she hears a baby’s cry that she returns to reality.

“Is that Da-eun? She must have woken up from her nap and is probably hungry for breastmilk. Something that I would never be able to do now that my baby is gone.”

Sana grabs her phone and looks at the photos and videos of the best moments of her life, her pregnancy. She scrolls down her gallery and sees the photos of all the baby’s newborn pictures and when they arrived home from the hospital. Pictures of when they took their first bath in the kitchen sink since the tub was too big, the moments the members would breastfeed them when they cried, and them playing with their stuffed animals. 

She looks at the photos of her pregnancy test, the video of her announcing the news to her mother and father and their reaction, and yours. Screenshots of baby clothing from stores that she circled when she did not know its gender and her mirror selfie of her baby bump. She tries her best to hold her tears until she scrolls to the only picture of her baby, her sonogram. She could see his head, feet, arms, and what seemed to be his heart. It is then she can’t hold her tears any longer and breaks down, crying.

“I…I’m sorry, little one. It’s my fault you're dead… Mommy should have been stronger and fought for you. I could have held you in my arms if I had kept you safe for a couple more months. Instead, you’re…” She places her hands on her face, preventing her cries from being heard outside.

“I don’t know if there is a heaven, but please, if there is one, Mommy knows you tried your best.”

She slowly slides herself into the bathtub, the water covering her face. With her eyes and her mouth closed, and holding her breath when a thought came to mind. “Without you in my life, I have no purpose. I don’t want to live in a world where you’re not in it. Mommy will join you soon…” as Sana finishes the last breath of air.

[aleksa-sims]

RL Story

CW: pain, depression

My life and that of my family was determined by my pain/headache. The docs still thought it had to do with the c-section anesthesia.

I was in the hospital where I delivered 3 months ago. I was examined in neurology. Then I went over to that drug clinic to get my pills. I had a conversation as usual with my doctor. I told him about my severe headache. That moment my doc got a call from the neurologist, where I was an hour ago. My results were ready. They were about to give me a special painkiller which I also got in the past. They wanted to keep me in the hospital for a few days, to examine and observe me more closely.

On the one hand I was relieved, because I will finally get something for my pain that works. But I was still afraid to stay in the hospital. Not again, yk? 😫 I was also worried about my Baby. He will miss me & wonder why I’m not coming home😭... Luckily I had my family. I knew I could count on my parents to take care of my son.

Nico accompanied me to the hospital that day. He was so worried about me. I told him I had to stay here.

He tried to calm me down and said it was going to be all right. But when I looked at him, I realized that he himself... did not really believe in what he just said to me. 😟

He tried so hard to make me happy but somehow... I never feel well. I was hoping Nico knew it wasn’t his fault.

Me: Don’t worry about me, I’ve had this before and it’s gonna go away.

Nico: Yea, you're right, babe.

Me: As long as I have you, I’m fine. I know you don’t believe me. I’m always so unhappy, but it’s not your fault.

Nico: When you were pregnant, you were happy. Extremely happy! I just wonder what’s different now? Sure we became parents but you love our son and you love me. Why isn’t that enough for you?

Me: You weren’t there! That’s why you don’t understand it. When this is over, I’ll try to explain it to you.

Nico: For me, our lives feel like a test rn. Anyway. I have to stay focused and just keep going...

Me: You don't have to do anything! Just take care of our baby while I can’t.

Nico: That’s what I mean. I don’t want you to be sick and stay here. We need to take care of him together. He needs you! Just don’t give up.

Me: I’m not staying here forever. I’m not seriously ill!

Nico: Still, you can’t give up, you have to get better. I’m not just talking about your headache!

This is certainly not how he imagined our future. But that’s exactly what’s going to happen. I’m really going to get sick. Not now, but soon. Nevertheless, when I got my CML diagnosis, we both handled it better, than now in my story, when I was constantly having this severe headache. So yes, maybe this was really a kind of test, or rather preparation for what's coming. Anyway, soon I’ll be better and can go back home to my Baby. I will also call Dr. M, to continue my therapy with her. I wish I had gone to her much earlier. Then at least I would have understood, what was going on with me. 😞

Previous/Next

[graevs666]

it really breaks my heart that they’re now ‘pausing’ hormones/blockers for under 18s in Scotland because of the shitshow in England

I came out at 14 and started hormones at 16. I’m now 25, and I know it’s a typical but sad thing to say, I genuinely wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t start T at 16. it LITERALLY saved my life. I was so depressed, suicidal, so much distress… and to think about other young people going through the same thing I went through, and their only hope in starting blockers/hormones, taken away from them, now not a possibility… it really hurts

Even though the clinic says they’re going to provide ‘psychological support’ to all these young people, that’s just not enough! you can’t remove dysphoria with ‘psychotherapy’ … the whole point is that many of us need medical care to live, to function, to survive. some people are able to do this without hormones and I’m happy for them, but so so many of us cannot do this.

I remember waking up and not being able to look in the mirror, and crying my eyes out if I caught a glimpse of myself … I wasn’t able to talk, shower, walk, go to the bathroom, go outside or be around other people, and wear clothes, without feeling so physically sick, uncomfortable in my own body I felt like I was trapped, and it wasn’t until I started T and had surgery that this all went away

I was able to feel free, feel more at home, function… and sure I have mental health problems now (I always have because of my life experiences) but these problems are not gender related. I don’t have dysphoria anymore (other than the occasion when I’m misgendered or other people’s perceptions of me)

We’re really going backwards with trans healthcare and I feel so hopeless that there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I’m so sick of cis people not listening to us and doing whatever they can to prevent us from being happy and living … it’s not right

[harmslength]

WE ARE SO BACK!

(we are so not back)

Hello lovelies!

I just wanted to write this as deep and loving thank you to everyone who has supported me, welcomed me and to the people who have been patiently waiting for new fics.

I’ve recently reached 100 followers and over 140k messages on c.ai. I just want to let you guys know how much this fucking means to me!!!!!!! AHHH I’m literally so pumped about it, like genuinely this fills my heart with so much joy. You guys make it so easy to want to keep making stuff and ugh I can’t even describe it.

I won’t yap too much about this though. Becauuuuuseee as a thank you I’m finally releasing more shit!! Yaaaaayy! (Bout’ fucking time)

First — A new Neil Lewis fic which you can read HERE. Purely smut, not a whole lot of plot to it. Definitely read the tags though…

Second — I’m releasing a few new characters for c.ai.

We’ve got:

Jim — from The Delinquent Season: you’re his new babysitter. Jim does have a wife in this so just be warned that he may try some morally corrupt things.

Cillian Murphy: fallen angel AU. He was banished from heaven and placed right on your door step. Will he return to heaven? Who’s to say. Probably not after what you’re going to do to him.

Jonathan Crane — from you already know: Dr. Crane is your therapist. Do what you will with that.

John Skillpa — from Peacock: You and John are long-time friends. John probably isn’t doing too well. Sorry John! I love him so much.

And of course, one that always pairs with the story I’ve written! Neil Lewis — from Watching the Detectives: You and Neil have just gotten engaged and are looking to grow and expand your lives together. How romantic.

Anyways I just want to add this last bit under the cut since this has been such an unbelievably long post. If you’ve gotten this far—thank you. And if you haven’t well, I don’t blame you one bit.

I just want to say that I’m back, I’m here but I will probably not be posting regularly at all. I got clinical major depression and a full time job that I hate so writing comes and goes as it pleases.

To add to that though I do have a lot of really fun fics in the works that I’m really fucking excited to share with you all. I’ve been trying to get more comfortable with writing shorter stuff but I have this problem where I just cant write anything shorter than like 5k, I don’t know I think I need to see a doctor..

Anyways I just want to top this off with saying again that I adore you guys so much. All the comments and messages I have received over the past few months have made me so happy. I’d love to talk to more of you and meet more people so please don’t be afraid or hesitant to reach out! I bite but I promise I just got my rabies vaccine updated. Tootles!

[wisteria-lodge]

snake primary + neutral snake secondary

Hello. I decided to write this according to the list you gave. I have a huge struggle with my primary. I guess it is burned, but I don’t know what it is, or I don’t want to see it because that hurts my ego if it sounds completely fake or in some way empty, or I just don’t vibe with it. Which I understand is an issue in itself. 

An interesting issue. You don’t want a primary assigned to you because you’re worried it’ll sound fake? I’ll keep an eye on that. 

For my secondary I guess it is just straight up a lion, mostly being off or burned, burned badger or bird. I definitely use pre-made personas in social or stressful situations, but I prepare so little that I could be anyone. 

This sounds like Burnt Bird secondary “I do the Bird secondary thing, but not very well.” Or possibly a Bird secondary model that you wish you didn’t have to use. 

Before I have to tell you even if I don’t have clinical depression or a diagnosis, I don’t feel happy, and it probably shows. I am someone who cries every time they see Everything Everywhere All At Once, which at this point probably tells a lot about a person. 

… it tells me that you’re very probably neurodivergent. Very possibly ADHD, but I don’t like to diagnose in these things. (Not actually possible anyway.) 

Also, heads up for my English, it is nowhere near perfect or fluent, so there might be some annoying mistakes, even though I know you don’t point it out to people. I ran it through a grammar check, but I have little doubt I missed something.

1.

Sometimes I wish I’d care more about other people, about strangers, but I don’t care much naturally, and it becomes even more pronounced when I am stressed or having to spend a lot of my energy outside myself. Then, that gaze towards outside shuts down, and I stop focusing and giving attention to other people.

You’re not naturally a Badger, taking meaning and energy from the community. Snake is absolutely possible, especially with the way Snakes will focus very intensely on their own bodies when they haven’t got a lot of extra energy to spare. Like, sure you’d like to do more, and doing more makes you feel like a good person, but that’s extra.

A co-worker could be talking about their accident and what happened to their family, and I would stare blindly and think to myself they are trying to get sympathy and I would not budge at this point. While more normally I would give them it, even if I didn’t feel sorry for them. 

You might also just be low empathy, which is… just kind of a neutral thing. I’m low empathy. A lot of people actually find it comforting that they can be upset around me without getting doubly stressed that they’re making my day worse. 

After all, some emotional work needs to be put into maintaining relationships and keeping it alive.

True. And the way you just kind of put that out there as a kind of ‘Rule to Live By’ is actually making me think Bird primary is possible... or a Bird primary model over a burnt primary?

2. 

As a kid I was timid, afraid to explore town, thinking someone will come and say I can’t walk there. I was never peaceful, but I followed my mother’s advice to ignore bullies and don’t give them attention. Jokes on me – I never learned how to fight and argue. I remember myself hot headed, attention seeking, trying to talk with others, even making up lies or cutting bangs by myself just so people notice me. But I was always careful not to make trouble for my mother, be safe, get no injuries, clothes fine and without a rip. 

I’m leaning more Snake primary for you. Your mother is clearly a very important figure in your life, and what she thinks and values is important, because she thinks it. You ignore bullies, don’t wander, and don’t get in trouble because your Mom told you not to… but there’s still this undercurrent of but I would have liked to. In fact, the way you behave for your mom seems to be very at odds with the “attention seeking” “hot-headed” “notice-me” behavior from the rest of your life. I’m considering Snake secondary (because of the different faces for differnt people) or Lion/Burnt Lion secondary (because you would have liked learning how to fight and argue.) 

I was obsessed with Three Musketeers, friendship and finding connection. I would focus on a small group of people or even one person and hold onto it. It started getting really hard time when I had no friends whatever. That pushed me into survival mode and made me quiet and thoughtful.

This focus on small groups of friends is making me really lean Snake primary. (Also, if you’re a Snake Lion, then The Three Musketeers would be *the* perfect media for you.) 

3. 

I think I solve low-stakes problems with something that looks like a snake or rapid fire bird.  I think if I can and have someone close I can call for help, I will. Once in the dorms my European windows fall off the hinges, I couldn’t close it or put it back. I could have definitely done it myself with more time and more focusing and seeing how things work. But I had a friend living there next to me, so I asked them to come. Not that they knew more about windows than I did, but as out both room windows were similar in age maybe they would have a similar issue and know what to do. I don’t think they did, but it was fun and I wish I could do it more - meeting life with your friends and not alone, that’s why I called them. Administration would have been the last resort, they were pretty meh. I think we just ended looking around and putting it back in somehow, just trying to close it in different ways. I was always careful with it after that.

That’s lovely. And… weirdly I think I’m going to put this in for primary, for that whole “meeting life not alone” thing. That’s bigger than just problem solving, that’s getting into why you do things at all. 

The actual problem solving seems to be “lets compare the broken window to a similar, not-broken window and see what’s wrong.” There’s a *little* I Know A Guy bird in this ‘who specifically do I know who would be able to solve this problem.’ But I could honestly see coming from any secondary. 

4. 

In high-stake situations, the most important thing to me is reaching a mental space where I am stable, looking around without panic. That’s why sometimes, instead of pulling an all-nighter before an exam I turned on a movie. I just couldn’t deal with the stress and said bye lol. I didn’t do it all the time, I also studied a lot, alone and with friends, although I cannot say where studying or the movie was more useful. I personally would say in high-stakes situations it’s most critical to try to calm down and manage my stress and anxiety. 

This is making me say Improvisational secondary (Lion or Snake.) Extra preparation isn’t going to comfort you, it’s going to mess you up. You’re not a Bird or Badger, who’ll get stressed out if they don’t read their notes over one more time. You want the mental space and agility to correctly read and correctly respond to the situation, and so you’re giving yourself the best chance for that.

I had experience with bad roommates so in dorms I wanted to live alone, not bother or bothering someone. While this opinion wasn’t allowed legally in our college, students would bribe administrator. I hate bribing, giving chocolate for literally noticing me in someone’s place (it’s a bribe older generation does here while asking employees for something they think is a favor, but it’s kind of their job; why don’t we just stop being assholes to each other instead? I am not sure other parts of the world does this so hence the explanation). 

It’s interesting. You’re describing bribing, like - yeah you’re breaking the rules… but everyone does it, and everyone knows everyone does it, and to some degree you’re even expected to do it. But even though it’s kind of normal, it still bothers you. And this would bother a Lion secondary (who love to be straightforward and honest) more than it would bother a Snake (who might not even think of giving an administrator a “”gift”” as a bribe.) 

As I mentioned earlier, administrator was meh and everyone and their mother knew it, so you can imagine I thought this is big, and I have to survive this and come on top.

This is very Snake primary energy, it has that practicality I absolutely love. 

Money, I thought, should be the most useful, but there’s also too much and too little. In short, I sit down, wrote an application, had an envelope in my bag, talked a bit about how I would like to live alone and tried to slip it out of my bag on the table as it was nothing special. The most interesting thing was that he seemed amused all this time, and even then, I had my hair down and had lipstick on, so I don’t know, maybe my baby face looked interesting, or maybe that’s just stress distorting my memories. I was kind of prepared, but not really if you know what I mean, I obviously needed more information, but I was either naïve and thought this will work or this will be enough. In some way I was also mostly thinking I hate this, this either will work with how much I prepared or not, let’s go in and see. Maybe not good enough for sorting according to high-stakes situations but thank gods in some way that the only ones I had are like this one or exams.

Now that I have built your anticipation,

You absolutely have, I am extremely invested in this story. 

let’s check together how that ended up for me, shall we? I did get a room for myself, and I really loved the room I got the first year there. Its window opened up to a street, I saw a lot of trees, sky, a neighboring apartment complex that did not belong to college. The bribery? It went well, they were either monitored or they actually meant what they said that they can’t guarantee me anything, and that the college had plans to reduce the available space due to shortage of students. So in the end, I left with my money, a little bruised dignity and a new experience, that I knew I would never want to repeat. We just do what we need to do, and what we are okay about doing, no?

I hate bribery, but I wanted to live alone more, so it weighted over.

Something like that (and this whole story, really) makes me think your primary is fighting with your secondary. You think bribing is wrong, and your Lion secondary hates not just being direct and ASKING for what you want... but you want that private room, so of course you go for it. You had a bad experience in dorms before, you’re going to protect yourself. That’s the decision that you feel best about. 

And when it came down to this conversation, you got dressed up, you considered your appearance and how you came across, you thought about what the right level of bribery would be. But in the end, you think that the fact that you looked “interesting” got you through. And “this either will work with how much I prepared or not, let’s go in and see” is SO Lion. It’ll work, or it won’t, it’s out of my hands. 

5.

Recently I made a hard decision of whether to go back home or stay. Decisions are hard for me, especially when neither one nor the other option look better. I tried to take all that I have gathered about the situation and see which side is/feels stronger, which one has more value. 

I’m starting to see what’s got you confused about your primary. One thing about being in a Snake is that decisions get a lot harder when they don’t affect your personal safety and well-being, or the safety and well-being of your People. You’re making a decision with ALL the tools here - gathering information to know which side is stronger (Bird), asking yourself what side feels stronger (Lion), and also considering which side has more value (depending on exactly what you mean by “value,” this could be Badger or Snake. All those approaching are going to give you slightly different answers. 

I left unfriendly environment which saw no value in me or my culture for a more friendly place, where my roots are, where I can make my own decisions, but I had to leave my family. I didn’t feel good there, had no one I wanted to hold onto. But even though I am not a badger, but I am still in a missing people mood. 

I bet you are. You’re a Snake, and you don’t have any People right now. (You’re not Burned. You’ve just recently moved to a new place, and don’t have any People yet.)

This was absolutely the Snake decision, also. You didn’t feel valued, so you went where you knew you could set things up the way you like them. You left your family to do it, and sure leaving your family hurts, but I think you would have felt like you’d betrayed yourself if you stayed.

Connection is so human, and we fuck it up so bad from so early on. Does it matter if you still feel alone around people who surround you? It doesn’t, so maybe it’s better to let your family members rest, be somewhere lonely without them and try to do it yourself. Is it already depressing? I am sorry I hope this doesn’t feel like trauma dumping.

Nah, you’re fine. You’re absolutely going to find people you connect to. 

6.

My fantasies change with time depending on what inspires and moves me then. I fantasize about a Scandinavian style house, surrounded by snow and a night sky, full of books and huge windows when I just want to run away. Other times I fantasize about being a powerful wizard on the run or in disguise, just trying to live with friends, accepted and running from some kind of huge responsibilities or a war. Not that I never fantasized about something more ambitious, but that probably changed with how my life experiences shaped the worldview I have now. Do I have to mention fantasies of falling in love with someone nice while doing something that I like and brings me joy or is that just basic haha?

The “living with friends/falling in love with someone nice”... that’s very human, but since this significant other person features heavily in a short description of your fantasy, going to put that as a point for Snake primary. 

7.

The characters I identify most with probably has nothing to do with me or who I am, more with how I see them. I identify with Lorelai from Gilmore Girls. In my opinion, she has a similar energy to me, to what I think I am inside or could be with a little more stability and confidence. She talks nonsense, and it is fine most of the time, people still like her. She loves her community, her little town, she creates life there and doesn’t wish to leave, and she doesn’t feel a need to run or rush somewhere. I feel I am most healthy and stable when that rush leaves me, and I am stable enough in here and now to actually live there. 

I was honestly pretty happy with Lion Secondary as a sorting for you. But now I wonder. This doesn’t seem like something a Lion secondary would say. It seems like a Neutral Snake would say. And Lorelai is a VERY loud Neutral Snake (and a very loud Snake primary.

Now, Lion secondaries can be mellow, and just want to Vibe, but I absolutely do see shape-shifting capabilities from you, and I wouldn’t expect to see them from a Lion (unless you also had models or performances.) When you were a kid you were careful and thinking a lot about the ‘correct’ thing around your mom, but wild around your friends. In the bribing situation you came in with a persona, but then switched around - you’re funny, you’re interesting, you’re naive. Also in the wizard fantasy - you’re running away from the war, you don’t want to deal with it. Lion secondaries tend to fantasize about being revolutionaries or leading armies. 

Snake Secondaries who like staying in Neutral have a blunt take-it-or-leave it quality which I do see from you, but you also seem just... kind of tired. Not Burnt, but just kind of done with dealing with a family who makes you feel lonely, an administration who isn’t helpful, an environment that doesn’t value your culture... no wonder you just want the ability to just say whatever, and not have to think about it. 

I also think that the lack of a Person (which is a primary issue) is making this whole ask much more ‘authenticity’ flavored than it would be otherwise. You want, you really really desperately want a person to trust enough, and value enough, to be that level of authentic with. 

I identify with Joy from Everything Everywhere, because she feels like a friend who doesn’t need you to tell them how you feel in these feeble words, she looks at you, and she knows, the whole movie knows. 

You’re fantasizing about someone who just *gets* you, immediately. (You’re fantasizing about a Person.)

Likewise, I identify with Hunter from The Owl House. He says he misses knowing who he supposed to be. He comes from a really unhealthy background, but I just feel happy thinking how not only he himself warms up to people, but others warm up to him, see good in him, accept him and start to care, not how good people care, but how a friend cares. Hahaha, I identify with Pippin from LOTR movies, because he makes mistakes, and everyone around him is like WTF can you not, why don’t you just stand in one place or be tied to a leash? He’s not stupid, he’s not careless, he’s not bad or ignorant per se, mistakes just happen, it’s natural and instead of being made to feel wrong, let’s just not do that and make it normal, because it will happen, and we will learn from our mistakes without pressure or shouting. It’s a miracle Pippin wants to do things after all.

You’re fantasizing about getting a group of People. Don’t think it’s at all a coincidence that both the Owl House and the Lord of the Rings focus on a small, rag-tag group of people who don’t quite fit, for one reason or another. I also think you’ve probably been dealing with someone who does not react to *normal* mistakes in a healthy way. So of course Pippin and Hunter would be comforting. 

8.

Things that make me feel powerful? Money, having choices, being able to say no, I will not do anything of what you suggest and instead do this completely different thing. Because I can, because I want it, because I can see I will succeed, I will make it. I can choose to do things my way. You need money or other resources to be able to do that. Calling a plumber and being able to pay them would make me more powerful than waiting for someone I know do me a favor based on our relationship. While not being able to select what I want, or having crappy choices wherever I look makes me feel locked up and incredible passive. To quote the quiz, helplessness doesn’t make me angry, it freezes m, but I don’t get angry.

Damn. Yeah, I don’t know what I can say to any of that. What is power? Money, and the ability to say no. And really, when you get down to it - money is important when it allows to say no. The more you can say no, the more powerful you are. 

9.

Recently graduating was the most difficult thing I had to do. I had little to no help, big expectations from the board and little freedom on what decision I could make. Myself already being anxious about what I will do in the future and this major giving me panic attacks in the making did not help focus and do it right. I wonder would it have been better if I majored in something I loved but was kind of useless, than something I hated but what is seen as practical and marketable.

There really isn’t a right answer there. Not everyone needs to love their job, but some do. Some people are fine without a steady paycheck, or without a large paycheck - but some aren’t. Any decision that involves the future like that is going to be a gamble. And I guess I’m at the point now, with how fast the world and the economy is changing, that trying to guess what will be practical and marketable ten years down the line - isn’t nearly as sure a thing as it used to be. 

From what I’ve gathered, thesis can feel useless. I knew a guy who paid someone to write it for him, and honestly with my own experience I wouldn’t care about ethics of it now and would have rather done that if I could have a chance. In the end, how exactly writing your last paper, thesis shows your skills? Sure, you can follow academic paper writing rules, you can use computer, you can read and gather information from research papers, and you can ignore your anxiety and interview people, interpret their answers and have enough skill in a language you are using to not only make sense but follow all the rules. I guess you can use the skills somewhere; I am just talking myself out of this idea. Wait, if someone who never majored in your area and does not have the skills you worked for, can write you a paper and write it good, it’s not an excellent way to evaluate someone.

Yeah, Snake secondary for sure. And what can I say, you make a compelling case. The structural problems in academia, the classism, the behind-the-times - it’s very much still there, and there are lots of people who can talk about it much better than I can. 

My friends were busy with their own stuff, my family were far away and with a big generational gap, professors didn’t help and then evaluated me strangely. It was really hard to see a person I knew for a few years, liked, wanted to impress be against me. Sorry I am tired, but I really needed to write something, and this seemed like a good thing to occupy myself with. Off course, I don’t know how you feel about academic unfaithfulness, but from my perspective, my experience was shitty enough that I wouldn’t give a flying sausage if there would be a next time, especially if I did everything else the right way. I really don’t know how much it was me, because it was me in some ways, but I still think my supervisor didn’t help me, but was ready to judge me. She probably felt she wasn’t paid enough to deal with my problems then. Right. You know what I want to do now? I want to never look back, never get back there, and never even touch this major. I want to leave it in the past and start anew. I want to be able to choose and not be tied to it.

Spoken like a snake secondary. And no wonder why you seem so tired. Also, being treated badly by your advisor is going to hurt anybody... but ESPECIALLY a snake primary. 

Thank you for your time. Have a great day. Or night.

I will. :) Thanks for writing in.

[drbased]

I am sickened by your symbolic state posts because at the moment I’m still living at home, a place that is generally unpleasant for me. I’ve been living in a near permanent state of maladaptive daydreaming since I was a young teenager and its only this year, with moving out on the horizon, that I’m trying to move from my head into reality again. It’s difficult and I don’t exactly know how to live 😂 like with your video game post especially. I don’t know how to live in the moment by following urges. I think: I want to write later, but I don’t plan what I’m to write. Instead of following the urge to do one certain thing I seek out a mindset for the future and then never get around to it. I’ve bought countless items, like necklaces with symbols or woven bracelets, allways promisimg myself that they will be special and lifechanging only for them to be empty. How do I get out of this? How do I stop myself from turning my life into feeings instead of actions?

(if you’ve given a similar answer I apologise. I’m scrolling through your symbolic state tag rn)

So, I've been having a hard time responding to this one. I still haven't been able to finish this post in a way I'm happy with but I really do want to respond so I'm going to have to keep my answer short and hope that I can produce something more valuable at a later date. But anon, your message has really stuck with me. Here's the answer I started writing some time ago:

How do I stop myself from turning my life into feelings instead of actions?

People keep summing this stuff up better than I can and it's driving me slightly insane; all younger me wanted was to be Known and now I have random anonymous strangers I've never met reaching into my fucking Soul like how is this possible. first the yearning anon and now this.

So the Bad, Irresponsible answer is to do what I did, which is sit in a room and hotbox it and ask myself questions and wait till my brain answers them. Weed is what allowed me to blow this whole thing wide open for me. But now I don't do weed anymore I can say that you achieve Inner Peace(TM) the 'hard' way just as well - but dear god with or without drugs this IS A PROCESS. And it HAS to be a process, because there is only process, no destination. After all, there is no 'you' in the future - there is only the reality of now, and the reality of 'you' in the now, and that is what is awe-inspiring and beautiful.

The entire process of re-engaging with reality has so many interconnected parts and requires so much analogy and explanation that I have been seriously considering writing a book about it. I struggle with PDA (pathological demand avoidance), and I believe it and depression are all wrapped up in my symbolic mindset. But since I don't have any background in clinical psychology I would feel like a hack writing a self-help book. So I'm probably going to end up talking about it here, instead. And maybe one day collate it all into some sort of book or series of essays.

The core of all of this is acceptance. Defining acceptance is hard; I best describe it as wanting to, say, move your arm - the moment you've wanted it sufficiently, the moment it has happened. There is minimal causal relationship between wanting it and it happening - sufficient want becomes action, necessarily. That sufficient want becomes action is something I learned to recognise during this process - the symbolic mindset is disengaging with the mundane reality of cause-and-effect such that said cause-and-effect is re-evaluated with a narrative structure instead, utilising symbols to generate meaning with an agenda in mind. So returning to reality has to involve strengthening the relationship between cause-and-effect, and the most sustainable way to achieve this is to recognise what you want moment-to-moment, and then immediately do the thing.

So, I refer to this really irritating (complimentary) comic:

When you struggle to do things for mind-based reasons, the claim 'it't not that simple' comes from a place of being unable to recognise that part of you doesn't want to do it. And this is where the acceptance comes in: being able to recognise yourself as messy, imperfect, finite, human, and a product of your environment - instead of a glorious, infinite source of potential - will result in you feeling less fragile, more complete, and less reliant on symbols to drive a narrative about yourself so you can feel comfortable with existence. Acceptance of yourself and your wants will result in more authentic actions, which will result in less of a need for everything to 'go right'.

The process of acceptance is something that happens within you, and you will feel it when it happens: acceptance is when something goes from simply being theoretically true (I can state that I am wearing blue trousers) to being something I believe (I know that I am wearing blue trousers). Said acceptance is much less fragile, because my belief of the colour of my trousers is something I no longer need to be true - if someone says my trousers are red, I can say 'oh, they probably are' and I can look down at them and make another judgment. If they're red, I don't panic, because when I believed they were blue, that was an innocent belief that came out of my flawed human mind. I am, in short allowed to make decisions, I am allowed to believe things, to think things, without them needing to be correct, without them needing to be more correct than the reality in which I exist - the reality that came before me, and will exist regardless of my ability to percieve it, Descartes be damned.

If you want to write, but find yourself unable to write, you might have to confront something embarrassing about yourself: that you don't, actually, want to do the process of writing; instead, you want to have written something. But believing of yourself as a conduit to, and obstacle in the way of, achievement, posits said achievement as a metaphysical construct of greater importance than the literal reality of how many hours you sacrificed for said achievement. There's both a humility and a sense of responsibility in all of this: you're the one who generates meaning and feels the feelings, so you must prioritise yourself over some percieved obligation to 'the universe' - your achievements are your own and do not exist in the ether first. But reality itself exists first, and you must engage with the physical world in order to strengthen that causal relationship. There was a post I read a while back about how if you're struggling with gender dysphoria, then exercise can really help - this works because it operates under the same principle that without a natural interaction with cause-and-effect, the brain constructs a narrative to fill in the gaps, kind of like phantom-limb syndrome.

The realisation 'it is that simple' comes from the moment of acceptance. The moment 'it is that simple' is the moment you understand that writing a book is the same as moving your arm - if you want it enough, you will do it. There are many things that you may want *in theory* - but those are infinite, metaphysical, symbolic. There is only the reality of who you are and what you experience, moment-to-moment. Until you go and make that sandwich, your hunger isn't even proof that you need to eat anything. You show your depth of self through directly interacting with the real world, whatever form that takes. Symbolic thinking is what happens when you stop interacting with the real world, including the reality of your own selfhood, and the result dissatisfaction will have you sunk-cost-style retreating further and further back. Breaking out of it is hard but it's all a testament to just how much what we want is who we are.

I've barely scraped the surface here of what it takes to do all this - but this is the fundamental basis of the principle that I developed and still use to this day. It's the principle I used that got me starting to write on tumblr - instead of pathologising my desire to analyse, I decided to start getting my thoughts out into the world. Instead of waiting till I can achieve a known symbol of completion - instead of writing a book - I decided to engage in a much more immediate form of writing by directly writing out, with zero plan, what I think and publishing it instantly to the world. Because of this, my thoughts have ceased to exist as some testament to my big-brained genius - and will vanish along with me when I die - and representative of my fragile ego, but rather something I use to directly engage with other in the material space. My ideas now generate meaning because of their relationship with reality, not in spite of it. And it's infinitely more satisfying.

[somethinglikethatyeah83]

I'M HERE: Campbell Bain

Pairing: Campbell Bain x GN!Reader

Warnings: Reader has a breakdown so detaul description of said breakdown

Summary: Campbell is always there to help out when you need it <3

Word Count: 1.3K

A/N: First Campbell piece! Last piece for a while though since I've got exams coming up but I should be back on them in a week or so, depending on how well the exams go lmao

Everything hurt. Each fibre of my being was crying out for help, and an unbelievable amount of pain was coursing through my veins, and between synapses in my brain. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't see, and I just wanted everything to end. I wanted everything to go away and for it to never come back again. 

I couldn't narrow it down to what had started it. One minute I had been fine, the next I was in another horrid state. I wasn't even in an episode. I had been fine for months, everything had been okay and then this happened.

Campbell was in the studio. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear his voice as he announced a new song, but it was fuzzy. Whether because it was too far away or because I couldn't hear anything either, I couldn't answer. I wouldn't have gone to him but he always got upset when someone interrupted one of his sessions, and I couldn't dare make him upset. His happiness brought me happiness, and I wouldn't ruin it.

He's going to kill me when he finds out I didn't go to him in this state. Campbell was always insistent that I went to him to help whenever I got like this. Not that he was forcing me to talk when I didn't want to, just so he knew. Just so he could understand what I was going through and ask if there was anything he could do. Normally, there was. 

I really did appreciate Campbell. Unlike him, I wasn't the best at showing it. Campbell was an unbelievably affectionate person, constantly showering me with hugs and kisses and compliments, which somehow I just couldn't reciprocate all the time. I love him, more than anything else in this world, but I couldn't always do the same.

We had, of course, spoken about this. Manic depression was very different to clinical depression. He understood that as much as I wanted to show him how much I loved him, the depression meant that I couldn't always. He was okay with it. He said that just being with me made him feel good enough. I still didn't believe him, after all these months, but there was no changing it. 

I had been curled up in my bed for the past hour. I couldn't take all the noises from the common room and so ran to my bedroom and threw myself onto my bed, curled my knees under my chin, and slammed my eyes shut. The nurses didn't follow me, knowing that soon enough, Campbell would come bundling in and help me, which he hadn't yet. The show hadn't ended yet, that was all. 

Campbell was probably the only person in the world that could calm me down. The other patients knew it, the nurses knew it, and even Eddie knew it. When I was having a problem, someone always went and got Campbell.

And it was the other way around, too. When Campbell would get a little too hyper, I was always called on. I couldn't always make him better, and he would have to be stabilised sometimes, but the majority of the time I could calm him down. We were the perfect pair, even if we were loonies. 

Everything in my surroundings was so fuzzy that I didn’t even hear Campbell enter. I only jolted in my curled-up position when I felt his palm against my back. He apologised softly, my hearing a little better with how close he was, even if he was still slightly fuzzy. I sat up where I was, seeing his features pulled into a sympathetic frown. 

“Hey.” I murmured, running a hand through the matted hair at the top of my head, trying to tidy it up. “You alright?”

He sent me a soft, calming smile. “You’re not.”

“Cam, I’m fine.”

“Don’t lie to me, love, I know you too well now.” He spoke, velvet voice bringing me that sense of tranquillity that no one else could. “Hug?”

My eyes watched his for a few moments, hesitant on whether it would help at all, and endlessly deciding that Campbell’s hugs were just too good to pass up, ever; even if I wasn’t in this state. There was never a time when his cuddles didn’t do anything. Even if I was completely content, being surrounded by sunshine in human form was just… perfect. 

I nodded, and before I could speak, he swiftly pulled me into his lap on the bed and wrapped his arms around my shoulders, one hand against the back of my head while his lips were pressed against my hair. My hands pulled into my chest as I laid sideways against his. I was completely shrouded by him, having the outside world completely shut out, and for the first time today, it felt like only Campbell and I existed. Finally, I felt safe. I didn’t feel like everything was pushing in on me, and I felt so safe that those tears that had been kept behind my eyes spilled. 

“Darlin’.” He cooed, rocking us back and forth slightly. “I’m here, you’re safe. You talk to me if ya want but I’m not gonna force you, yeah?”

I gasped a deep breath, trying to find air in my heavy sobs. It was always tiring when I finally let everything out. I had a habit of bottling everything up for months, and it always ended up in a Campbell hug, where I completely broke down and couldn’t even speak. I was so grateful that he put up with me, every single time. I never had to worry about him being annoyed or angry and I loved him so much for it. 

“I don’t know what happened.” I told him, speaking into his favourite multi-coloured hoodie which I had almost definitely stolen more than one time. “I just… couldn’t take the noise. Then I came in here and couldn’t take anything at all. Everything went fuzzy and I couldn’t hear or see and I just wanted to curl up into a ball and disappear. You were in a show, I didn't want to interrupt you.”

He looked down at me and cupped my cheeks. “You can always come and find me, whether I’m in a show or not. Eddie barely needs me anyway, and you’re more important, especially when you’re like this.”

“I know, I just get nervous. And the worst part was it felt like I was getting better.” I admitted, licking my lips and looking down at my hands which were now settled in my lap. “I hadn’t had an attack for months, and I wasn't even in an episode, it just happened suddenly.”

“Aye, but is anyone really getting better here? I’d say you’ve recovered the most out of all our loonies. And you get panic attacks a whole lot less than when you first came here.” He smiled slightly down at me, reaching a hand up and wiping the tears that ran down my cheeks. “Now, I’ve got nothing left to do for the rest of the day, how about we stay in here until dinner and mess around? Just us two, doing whatever we want.”

A wet chuckle spilled from my lips. “Sounds perfect.” I spoke, sniffing and wiping my nose against my sleeve. Just a second later he pulled a tissue out from practically nowhere and handed it to me. When I pulled away and looked at him he just smiled. 

“They told me you stormed off. I thought I’d come prepared.”

A small, minuscule smile curved into my lips, and I took the tissue. “Thank you. For everything. Not just the tissue.”

“S’what I’m here for, isn’t it?”

“I love you, Campbell, and I’m sorry I don’t say it as much as I should.”

He smiled down at me, pressing a soft kiss against my lips. “We talked about that, honey, stop apologising.”

“Alright.” I agreed hesitantly, nuzzling back into his arms.

“I love you, too, by the way.” He murmured into my hair, pulling me deep into a hug that I never wanted to leave. 

[sirianasims]

Chapter 26

Love Me Anyway

“Welcome back, Eric, doctor Holland is ready to see you.”

“Thank you, mr. Holland.”

“Hello, Eric. How have you been doing since last time? You’re still staying sober?”

“Yeah. I think I’m doing pretty well, actually. I mean, it’s still rough sometimes, but I mostly struggle when I’m alone for too long. And my neighbours check up on me regularly and invite me over for dinner, and my parents call me at least twice a week.”

“That’s good. And the antidepressants seem to be working too – do you want to try lowering the dose a little?”

“I don’t know… actually, no. It doesn’t feel… safe. Not yet. I really don’t want to relapse.”

“Understandable. We won’t touch them yet, then. How’s your daughter?”

“Oh, Freya’s great! She’s doing well in school, she plays football and basketball and wants to go back to Mt. Komorebi so she can snowboard again. But the best thing is, I just finished renovating the house – and she got a new bedroom!”

“Her mother and I finally agreed that I’m doing well enough that she’s comfortable with Freya living with me every other weekend.”

“That’s wonderful news, Eric! I’m happy for you. You deserve it, you’ve worked very hard in the last year. What about your job then?”

“Well, I’m still running the clinic alone, and it’s hard, but it also means I’m too exhausted to lie awake for too long at night, so I guess that’s positive. I’m still debating whether to hire a nurse or a vet. But I promise that it will be a man either way.”

“Good. I don’t usually approve of hiring someone based on gender, but I don’t think it’s wise for you to be working too closely with women just yet. You still have some work to do.”

“I know. It gets lonely, though. I mean, I haven’t… been intimate with anyone for almost a year now. Not since the vacation to Mt. Komorebi.”

“I know. And I’m no stranger to mixing love and work – after all, my husband is my receptionist. But until you’ve dealt with your tendency to use sex as a distraction, I think it’s better this way. Have you given some thought to what we talked about last time, about figuring out what you really want?”

“I’m trying. It’s just… I thought I already knew, right? I had everything planned out since I was a teenager, so there was never any doubt or insecurity to deal with. And then I met Katherine and suddenly my carefully planned future looked completely impossible. I felt lost.”

“You were still able to graduate and start a vet clinic, though. That was part of your plan, right?”

“Yes, but it just didn’t… quite live up to my expectations, I guess? My plans hadn’t involved Freya or her mother at all, so everything felt wrong. And I couldn’t even bond with my daughter at first, it was horrible. I didn’t know how to deal with it, I just tried to escape it all like a coward.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Eric. You were only 23, you had a lot to deal with, and postpartum depression in men is woefully under-diagnosed, I’m afraid. But now that you’re doing better, what are your long-term goals? What do you want out of life? What about finding love?”

“Love?”

“Yes, love! I’m not going to force you to be celibate forever, Eric. So what do you want? Do you want to fall in love? Do you want to get married? Have more children?”

“I… yes? I think I do. I’ve just tried not to think about it, not since – I had an ex once, we really had something special but we broke up when we went to different universities. Then one day she came into my clinic, and I remembered how I always wanted to find true love and get married and all that. But I’d just had Freya at the time, and… things turned out differently.”

“Eric, listen. You’re what, 31 now? Take it from me, I’m twice your age, and your life is far from over. You have plenty of time to fall in love again, get married, have as many children as you want.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“Well, that’s all for today, Eric. Keep working on your goals. I’ll see you in two weeks, and remember – no women, no booze.”

“No women, no booze. Thanks, doctor Holland.”

“Same time in two weeks, Eric?”

“That’d be great, mr. Holland. Thank you.”

I left feeling strange. I often felt relieved or exhausted after a therapy session, but this time I felt… excited? Scared? Maybe a bit of both. I hadn’t allowed myself to even consider getting into a relationship for a long time.

Was I even able to fall in love? I loved my parents and my daughter, but I couldn’t even imagine romantic love any longer.

beginning / previous / next

[orphanlavinia]

I’m heavily medicated

It feels as if I’ve been defeated.

I was so happy with five pills a day.

Feels like such a step backwards or several

My psych finally broke down and gave me benzodiazepines, I pick em up today

I can’t sleep my body is exhausted and my eyes are closing but this feeling in my legs is killing me at night.

It feels like hell

I have to kinda journal somewhere so I guess here it is almost nobody knows this account is mine.

Thank you internet.

Anyways I’ve spend these past few days locked in the bathroom binge smoking weed.

It all started really when I got diagnosed with did. I was in very serious denial and what my brain did out of boredom or god knows what is flood me with memories that I would have rather not remember.

Is it my brain or miss Steiner? We don’t know

The portrayal of this illness in TikTok and shit tends to be too cartoony and I didn’t relate with it at all until I found other lesser known people that talked about it.

And then there it was, symptoms that I have that are DID.

The blackouts, the feeling of not having control in my body.

The amnesia

All of them.

And then everything inside me got worse as I watch my life outside of me getting better and I cannot join in cuz the past pulls. Hard and cruel.

And I am so tired

I have so much work to do and I will

I am just so tired all the time

My neuropathic pain medication got switched and it has caused me a great deal of physical pain.

Also just fyi I am in clinical rest.

I do have to do some stuff do.

Everything is very hard I just want to be alone and not think and not be here maybe?

I’m leaving angel alone tho

He very much understands

But it’s still not cool

I am very frustrated, I feel like I am not going anywhere and the more I dig in my history even tho it answers why I get rabid, furious.

I was the kid, I was too young, I was modeled to be the perfect victim, I was too naive, too autistic, too mentally ill.

It is not fair that I have to carry the pain and the hurt that was given to me until this point. It isn’t fair that I’ve lost a decade or decades of my life because of everything that has been done to me.

And for them it was a fucking Tuesday man.

How’s that?

It’s not fair that I met angel and I felt like Molly in the last unicorn.

Why do you come to me now that I am all broken and used? Why did t you come earlier?

I feel broken, defective.

I keep making plans for a healthy sane woman or whatever I am

But no, I am sick and broken and don’t function like someone whole.

So I gave up, I’m trying to follow my clinical rest, sleep and rest, I haven’t dared doodle or go get some sun but I’m working on it, I am taking half a pharmacy, forcing myself to eat even if all food looks like fucking poison,

I am in extreme burnout, I am audhd, have a very serious depression, I have bpd, I have did….

I have more stuff cuz I’m just god’s favorite

But I guess this is a journey or acceptance and exploration.

I am having coffee cuz it makes me happy tho i shouldn’t.

I think I should stop writing here, see you next time, void.