#my psych brain leaking into the post

[norrizzandpia]

We’ve seen rabid lado’s girlfriend but what about rabid Lando about his girlfriend

Hi hello welcome back to the universe of feral!reader

Y/n’s Biggest Fangirl (Lando’s Biggest Fangirl Part 3) (LN4)

Summary: A look into the times when Lando was feral for his own girlfriend.

Warnings: suggestive comments, language, the drivers being scared and nervous for the sanity of lando and y/n, Alex says “kms” once and its very loosely used plz don’t do anything like that ever ty

Note: Here are the links to the other parts! Part 1 Part 2 also there is no face claim for this its just blonde, faceless women but you can imagine anyone <3

landonorris if i speak….

Comments:

y/nnn oh! so j to fill everyone in, i sent this to him (one of my friends took it on a girls night) he responded back with some very… um… not safe for work messages

- Mclarensgirly leak them.

- landonorris she leaks them and my entire career is ruined fr

- f1fan2024 y/n. leak. them.

- y/nnn guys. yall know how crazed i am but even i wont leak these texts.

- Mclarensgirly 😟

- f1fan2024 🤨📸

oscarpiastri you are aware this is your MAIN insta account right?

- landonorris yes.

mclaren calling the psych ward brb

—

landonorris who wants to guess where i wish my hand was

Comments:

oscarpiastri THIS IS YOUR MAIN FUCKING INSTA ACCOUNT

danielricciardo mate…

maxverstappen man wtf im just trying to enjoy my winter break

- f1fan34 MAX 😭

y/nnn lando i sent this picture to you out of kindness….

- landonorris and you think I’d do what with it??? Keep it in my camera roll??

y/b/f_username there’s something off balance in your brain but im happy you know how hot your girlfriend is 🔫

- landonorris SMOKIN. DROP DEAD. MOUTH WATERING. DELICIOUS. EXQUISITE. GODDESS. BEAUTIFUL. STUNNING. GORGEOUS. GOURMET.

- y/nnn why am i a meal

- landonorris cause i wanna eat you up

- alexalbon this interaction has made me want to rip my skin off #vomiting 🙁

—

landonorris mommy

Comments:

alexalbon #kms

- oscarpiastri #😟

- danielricciardo #maininstaaccount

- landonorris #mygfishot

y/nnn alr babe that’s enough screen time for you today

- landonorris no <3

mclaren can we live?

Mclarensgirly uh…..

- op81andln4 ok but like… i want him to call me mommy

- Mclarensgirly that’s weird (I’d kill for him to call me mommy)

- oscarpiastri see what you’ve done landonorris?

- landonorris I don’t see a problem.

- maxverstappen GET THIS MAN TO THE ER JESUS CHRIST

—

landonorris prettier than the Trevi Fountain 🫶🏻

Comments:

y/nnn i got the notification he posted, got terrified, then opened it and my heart warmed ☺️

- Mclarensgirly HER INSTA NOTIFS ARE ON FOR HIM 🤭

- landonorris so are mine for her tf

mclaren this works

- landonorris I’ll be back at it again soon dw

- oscarpiastri i will never get a chance to experience what true peace feels like.

F1fan2024 get you a man who will call you mommy and prettier than the trevi fountain on separate occasions in the span of a week

alexalbon i like this one!

- landonorris that’s my gf back off bitch.

- alexalbon damn.

y/nnn dw guys i just sent him another pic of me getting ready to go out with the girls

- landonorris BARK BARK

- danielricciardo #whereisthenearestbombshelter

- maxverstappen #itsover

- oscarpiastri #landomakesmescared

- landonorris #youwishyouwereme❤️

[deep-space-netwerk]

please please please PLEASE share more on your Thoughts about gas giants!! i'd love to learn in a way that doesnt leave me baffled and half my brain leaking from my ears! you explained things so well in the psyche post and also i think things are generally more fun to learn from someone who is Excited To Share than from Published Research Papers where everything has been dried out For Professional Reasons- understandably so, mind, but i am not In The Field and dont know the terms lol

Okay it's taken me forever to get back to this but I AM SO GLAD YOU ASKED.

Like other planets, it all starts with a disk made of gas and dust orbiting an infant star, called a protoplanetary disk. Like these in the Orion Nebula, discovered by the Hubble!

To form terrestrial planets (rocky planets with relatively thin atmospheres like Mercury, Venus, Earth, and Mars), the gas in the protoplanetary disk coalesces to form hundreds and hundreds of rocky bodies called planetesimals, about a kilometer across. These planetesimals collide, and form dozens of protoplanets about the size of the moon. The protoplanets then collide as well, and stabilize to form the solar system as we know it today.

But, in the case of gas giants, colliding protoplanets don't form fully-finished planets. Instead, they form a core, or a seed.

We think the only thing that determines whether a planet will be terrestrial or a gas giant is simply how far away from the sun it forms - that's it. As a new sun warms its evolving solar system, it heats up the material in the protoplanetary disk. Close to the sun, the disk gets hotter, and things like water and other ices melt and evaporate into gas, making them difficult for the protoplanets to gravitationally capture. However, further away, the icy compounds stay cold enough to remain solid and coalesce along with rocky particles.

That boundary in the solar system - where ices evaporate to gas on the sunward side, and remain solid on the other - is called the "Frost Line". In our solar system, the Frost Line is right between Mars and Jupiter.

The protoplanets that form past the Frost Line turn into gas giant seeds, and are able to (kinda literally) snowball, picking up both rocky and icy material. With all that solid ice available, they grow far larger and far faster than planets in the inner solar system, and their gravity gets stronger and stronger. More gravity causes them to collect even MORE material until they're heavy enough to capture extremely lightweight elements like hydrogen and helium. Which, of course, makes them get even bigger and even heavier! Runaway growth!

But weirdly, as we study more exoplanets (planets that orbit stars other than our sun), we keep finding these huge gas giants incredibly close to their stars! Like, even closer than Mercury is to ours, which is insane. These "Hot Jupiters" break so many rules - gas giants "should" only be able to form where ice stays frozen, but here they are up close and personal with their stars, like this artist's concept!

It's possible that these planets are in the process of migrating closer to their stars, and we're managing to see them before they evaporate, but we just! Keep! Finding them!

One of my favorite parts of planetary science is how much we still have to learn. We'll think we have a pretty good idea of how things work out there, and then suddenly we'll find something that we can't explain. And there's an entire universe of weird shit - we've barely begun to scratch the surface!

[lacytumbles]

Blood Lips

(short thing I wrote up) (features a somewhat toxic lesbian relationship, and vampires, with blood) (also I'm too sleepy to edit but I want to put it out NOW so) (it's inspired by a couple posts linked at the bottom)

Ugh. The disgust with this doldrum report was marring my face.

“Leave.” I kept my gaze fixed on the mirror, counting the seconds of hesitation until the dimwit stuttered his acknowledgement and left.

I huffed, resting a couple fingers on the tender skin of my neck. The soft beat of my bloodflow, gentle breaths, get my face relaxed back to something prettier, more befitting my station.

When I focused on my reflection, my gentle, teasing little smile was back. The furrow had left my brows, giving my green eyes that intelligent charm I so enjoyed. The dangerous slant of my gaze had returned to its subtlety. I liked that most. I hadn’t once, back when I was confined by a society of fools. I had hated how people had avoided me and called me unsettling. I should have relished it like I did now.

A gazebo in a garden, surrounded by showers from the heavens that soaked the earth itself, and a voice that sliced between droplets. “Your eyes have nothing to do with how you behave. They’re prettier than all the emeralds in the world!”

My smile nearly twisted away at the memory, and I glowered at the rain outside the tower window. It was making me recollect … unpleasantries.

I reached over to the wooden case beside me and snapped it open. In that single moment, my body relaxed more than I could ever achieve simply by myself. My hand stroked the golden pendant of the necklace, its obsidian stone smooth under my thumb. Gently, I gathered up the black cord from the velvet-lined container and lifted it up. The flickering red light twinkled from the dark recesses of the gem, flashing images of the worlds beyond, dimensions beyond comprehension, sights that could never be envisioned by the mortal mind.

Simply looking into it had shattered the psyches of many fools, reduced them to blabbering idiots. My brain churned in its skull, attempting to process all of the images it could glean, and I silenced it. Why try to understand it now? I would grasp them soon enough. It had chosen me, after all. Only I could witness its depths without losing all senses. What more proof was there of my worth than that? What more proof was there that I could not, would not gain everything I strove for.

I kised the stone and set it back in its case. “Tomorrow.” I clasped it back shut.

The shuffle of feet on carpet, and a new burst of joy struck me. “Anastasia, I do love how you know to wait your turn.” I turned, paused at the sight in front of me. “You’re getting blood on the carpet.”

“My apologies, Lady Elowen.” Even now, the poor girl was panting soundlessly, tongue nervously licking her pointed canines. “There was an intruder, an assassin coming for your life. They were more skilled than I anticipated, and I could not avoid injury.”

I rested myself on my chair, crossing my legs, and looked at her in contemplation. “Come here.” I patted my lap.

“I will stain your nightgown, my lady.”

I let the tone of a smirk enter my smile. “Then why have you already crossed over?”

She half-crouched, half-leaned against me, her bloodstained clothes pressing against my clean gown. “Because they often stain when I feast, my lady, but you continue to wear such clothing regardless.”  Her mouth snapped open, four sharp fangs coming out.

“How bold.” I rested my finger on her lips. “But wait just one moment.” She whined, but I ignored it, letting my gaze linger on a deep cut on her arm. Red trickles continued to leak from it, signs that they had come prepared to fight a vampire and brought holy weapons to deal greater damage and slow her regeneration.

“How beautiful.” I touched her open wound and she whimpered in pain. My other finger slid into her mouth and pressed on her tongue. “Don’t bite now.” I continued stroking her injury, letting a few moments drag by and feeling her gentle spasms. “I find your effort on behalf of me beautiful, Anastasia. So very beautiful.” I dug my nail in, and she let out a hurt moan. I gazed into her crimson eyes as I released her mouth. “As reward, you may have as much as you wish tonight.”

She lunged forward, her teeth sinking into the tender flesh that hadn’t even fully healed from last time, and I had to bite back my gasp. I couldn’t stop my breath from hitching as I glimpsed the ecstasy on her face, the way all tension left her body as she eagerly dug in. Cute. Cute. Cute. So very cute. It’s adorable how she just loses sight of everything else for my blood. Only for my blood. I love her -

My hand began to stroke her head as she feasted, rivulets of blood winding down my clavicle. “What a messy eater you are -!” I shuddered as she paused to lick me before returning to my body.”Wh-what a good girl.”

She paused and detached her mouth, looking up at me with hazy eyes. “Love you,” she mumbled.

I tilted her chin up and gazed at those pretty lips, soaked in my blood, and kissed them. “When did I tell you to stop?” My hand grasped the back of her head and pushed her back in. “Keep going. I can take it.”

She clamped down, writhing as she sucked and sucked and sucked. I tried to maintain normal, steady breathing as I looked at her cute, pathetic, needy little face. I love this thing. She’s mine. All mine. All, mine. 

Oh, oh my. I am glad I chose to sit down this evening.

She drew back, eyes still dilated. “How are you feeling, Lady Elowen?”

“Like you might need to carry me to bed tonight.” I grinned. “But I did not tell you to stop.”

She shook her head. “You need your strength for tomorrow, my lady. My injuries have subsided anyway. I can use animal flesh for the rest.

Annoyance. “When did -” my dart forward made the world spin, and she had to catch me before I fell over the chair. I glowered. “When was a chicken an appropriate substitute for me?”

She hesitated, hesitated again. “My lady, the woman we confronted the other day … she spoke as if she knew you. Knew a different you than the lady I know.”

“She is unimportant,” I snapped. “A nobody with foolish ideals who once tried to lead me astray. She preyed on my isolation and told me that solace could be found in helping ohers. As if happiness could be found there.” I snorted “Do not let her claims fool you.”

“They never did!” Anastasia’s hands tightened, almost uncomfortably so. “My lady is perfect. But she spoke of another you, and I - I failed to strike her down then and there. I - I’m a failure of a servant.”

I stared at the tears gathering in her eyes. “My foolish little pet.” I reached out and wiped them away. “You’re all right. I know you’re weak, and stupid, and don’t know what to think. That’s why you trusted yourself to me.” I tilted her chin back up, and saw nothing but blind devotion in them. “I apologize for not explaining my anger immediately. It was my duty to comfort you, and I failed you.”

“No!” She shook her head vigorously “You can’t err! It’s my fault for letting such thoughts enter my head in the first place.”

“No, Anastasia.” I brushed away her hair. “Listen closely. There is nothing left between me and that woman. Nothing but a chasm that separates the two of us irreconcilably. She would reject me and the path I’ve chosen. But you?” I kept my gaze affixed on hers. “You are perfect. The world can scorn you for your nature all it likes, you can scorn yourself, but know this: I find beauty in you. Each and every one of your flaws only makes me adore you more.” My hand rested on her cheek. “Nothing else in this world can make me feel that. Take pride in being truly special.”

She shuddered. “Yesh.” She flopped atop me, and with a trembling hand I resumed stroking her head. “My lady?”

“Hmm?”

“That man from earlier, he mentioned that the astrolgers foresaw a familiar misfortune coming. Do you think it could be that woman?”

I chewed my lip. “Perhaps,” I reluctantly allowed. “They are fools in their own right, but they do know their craft.”

“You will be busy with your ritual, Lady Elowen.” She gazed up at me. “Would you permit me to kill her in your place?”

“Of course.” I pressed a finger against her fangs, feeling a pinprick of blood leak out and slide across her white teeth. “Fate can say whatever it want, but you are a vampire. A defier of fate. There is nothing that you cannot do, that we cannot do.” Oh, the exhaustion was starting to creep up on me. “Put your faith in me, as I put my faith in you, my dear servant.”

Her face broke into a joyful, feral grin as blackness swarmed my vision. “Of course, my beloved lady.”

[confessionsofa-roleplayer]

This is gonna' be a girthy one guys. First: I left tumblr in 2019, I couldn't stand it. When I tell you I had an awful experience using this app for 9 years for roleplay, I really fucking mean it. It was fantastic from when I was younger, I started using it around 2012 or so and it was when things were enjoyable. I saw the CREATIVITY that a community could create when it was something like [REDACTED.] Somewhere along the lines, it all died? Like, it was so s sad to see such a fun concept die along the way, I still don't know why.

Somewhere around when I turned 18, I was noticing people were horrible on here. I had friends that would tell me they screenshot dms, discord, and anything that could be a recipt "just in case" I was like "Just in case what motherfucker? Huh?" And then I got hit face first with callouts on my dash, people leaking dms, private conversations, ex friends posting their "testimonials" -- keep in mind, this was not me or in relation to me, and some of these were very much valid and warning of REAL LIFE dangers to others, while others were about shipping incest. I don't care if you think it's gross, that isn't the point. The point was never that callouts let people know X user writes X and to avoid / block, it's that every single time this happened, someone would add a completely irelevant factoid about X user like " they did this to me 2 years ago and I did not like it!" Okay? Alright? A lot of this could have been discussed in dms or just not posted to get 200 notes and somehow end up calling X an abuser. I've seen this so many times, it's not some isolated incident.

For some reason, friends could not part ways without having a mt. of dirt on the other and dumping it all out when the time calls for it. It was like everyone wanted their 5 minutes of fame. It was made infinitely worse when this site became extremely self-sanatized where if you wrote anything that was "probalmatic" or "toxic" you were REQUIRED to be a victim of that same event. Imagine, for three minutes, a self-rightous 17 year old has the gall to ask you if you've been SA'd before because they found you rping this with your rp partner. Even if you think this is gross, there is literally MOUNTAINS of evidence that shows healthy exploration of these thoughts, kinks, and experiences in an enviorment you control is cathartic. Weather or not YOU, the uneducated individual without the psych degree, start yelling "SEEK HELP" as if this was not already a proven method of controlling and facing trauma. Let me tell you: you're not. It's fiction. It is writing. It is fake, a real life occurence, but it is still fake. I have seen people sexualize their fantasy-murderers on the same level as anyone who wanted to write SA porn. Again, this isn't about if you find it acceptable or not, it's about NOT BEING your place to dictate how, when, or who can write it on any grounds, especially demanding to know someone's HISTORY of assault, like imagine being so utterly brain dead that you think you, a stranger, deserve to know anything like this LMAO? it was incredibly common! It was crazy!

Shit, Im getting to the bottom of the box lMAO. Okay.. but yeah, I left tumblr for 4 years to try different sites. I've been on Aniroleplay, and let me tell you. The sanatization the anti crowd wants leads to that. A christian-promoted rp site where if your character is shirtless or has big boobs you get banned because it's "indecent" or "obscene." Twitter has the same amount of problems since most of the minors and obsessive repressed losers left for it. Actually worse than tumblr, it is now peak 2017s tumblr.

I've been on other rp sites where i've had some of the best rp, rich roleplays, GREAT partners, and fun little oc creation experience I ever had. Everyone listed their interests, if you didn't like, you didn't BRING IT UP. You continued like adults, and if not, you block. Boom. The site literally ip bans you if you harass someone. That's what tumblr needed, but instead, all we got was people using statcounter in the midst of 2017-2020 to show who was "stalking" or who left the page open by accident, or something. I was so anxious id have my ip leaked, even if it wasn't a precise location, the idea of someone finding my name and ruining my life was horrifying. I've seen it happen, I've seen people lose jobs from it, I've seen what someone awful with INTENT can do.

Leaving was the best thing ever. I came back only recently because I wanted to try and find a few partners and imagine my fucking shock when I see " NO drama, NO callouts that aren't SPECIFICALLY in reference to A REAL INDIVIDUAL who poses a danger to others " it was insane. It wasn't an isolated incident, but every profile I follow has this, it's all around blogs I wouldnt even think of following, but when I check, I see it there. It's like they all got exhausted with the constant "THIS PERSON WRITES X AND X" like alright? BLOCK THEM, you clown.

This was really just something I've been thinking about. Sorry if this is too long, but thanks for being active for so long guys.

[sevicia]

That Average Caniac post has ruined my psyche because "Puppy's leaking." has been added to my brain's gap rotation* and it throws me off SO much.

* things that appear when I'm blanking between thoughts.

[lavoixhumaine]

see my brain wants to write my WIP but my brain’s multiple personality kind of acts out and one of its moron alters takes the driver seat and wants to joyride and drive donuts in the parking lot of my psyche to plot out a whole fucking fic about athena post-storage unit incident and how she doesn’t process it because denial is a river in egypt while also coincidentally turns into her temporary default and she kind of starts figuring out real fucked up ways to not deal with things including learning how not to scream herself awake from a nightmare because it scared the crap out of the kids one too many fucking times that she sends them to michael more and more nights but then she couldn’t cope without them either and being alone in the house when bobby’s at work for 48 hour shifts also kind of starts fucking with her brain to the point that yeah she almost shot bobby and nearly shooting two spouses in the span of one month is probably a bad look and she’s losing weight because she’s really okay and no she’s not talking to the shrink because she’s fine but yeah she kind of also doesn’t like being grounded but her arm is driving her crazy and no she is not pissed off and no she did not just see jeffrey in the house and maybe some of this is triggering some real old shit like emmett and no just because all the lights in the house are on does not mean something is wrong so yeah she’s totally fine and fuck you very much for asking, bobby.

my brain’s just broken so hopefully this will just leak out of my ear at night and go away.

[mysterious-dark-shadow]

I sometimes re-read posts from "The Before Times": from before the Sewage Flood of '22, before we discovered the Slow Methane Leak that had been gassing the house for YEARS, before Felix was officially diagnosed with HOLE IN THE BRAIN.

This specific post was during a time when we were desperately trying to figure out why things were getting better in some ways and so much worse in others. Felix especially was dealing with mental and physical issues that should have gotten better after he quit his super stressful job.

The information we have now doesn't invalidate the conclusions Felix came to in the original post: his hormones were all over the place & his diet needed changing. And responding to those issues helped eliminate some symptoms that were specifically related to those problems. The changes helped him have a clearer head a year later when I ended up going crazy* from methane overexposure.

The fact that we had been working with doctors for several years actually helped us out a lot when it came to Felix's migraines. When we finally got to a neurologist, he could see that we weren't chasing painkillers. He ordered the MRI for Felix's head that we had been trying to get for soo long. And fought insurance to give us the prescription that actually made a difference in the severity of the migraines Felix suffers from.

And today we have a much better handle on our physical and mental health. We learned how to talk to each other about what's going on in our heads. We learned so much about how to help each other physically. We know what it looks like when one/both of us are suffering from methane exposure, and how to get the gas out of our living environment, so we can actually unpack boxes of stuff that we haven't touched since early 2022.

We are literally getting our past back. There are art projects that Felix was in the middle of that were boxed up alongside the reference books that were sitting on the same table. Trinkets and keepsakes that were on the shelves of bookcases and cabinets from our adventures, separately & together, are finding new spaces in our apartment. Our dried boutonnieres from our wedding day were briefly on display and then quickly put in a cabinet because our cats are rose-eating monsters.

Sometimes I wish I could reach back in time to 2020-2021 us, but I don't know what I'd say. What we went through in 2022 was horrific. We are still picking up the pieces. What kind of warning could prepare past-us for what was to come?

And then I remember a strange encounter we had early in 2021. We were in the beginning stages of our channeling experiments. I was the channeler for a specific entity that had previously given us advice that had turned out to be prophetic, so Felix at some point asked them, "What is the most important thing we should know for our future?" The entity made a painful grimace that made my face ache for a few hours afterwards, then said, "Keep going. No matter what happens, just... Keep. Going." They refused to elaborate, and Felix dismissed the entity soon afterwards. We were puzzled by the cryptic nature of the message and the swirling mass of negative emotions - anguish, fear, anger, regret - that my body felt at the moment the entity grimaced. But we followed the advice, reminding each other that we should "keep going" when times were difficult and situations seemed impossible to overcome.

I now realize that I don't have to reach back in time to warn anyone. Someone else already did. And now I pass on that advice to you in hopes that it helps you as it has helped us so many times:

Keep going. No matter what happens, just... Keep. Going. _____________

*I'm not using that phrase lightly. I completely lost touch with reality and ended up in a hospital psych ward for 12 hours. The hospital didn't handle me well (symptoms hand-waved as "THC overdose" with no tests confirming that diagnosis...), but the event did shock me back into reconnecting with reality again.

Having Mental Illness

It’s hard to talk about my experience with mental illness sometimes because I’m not diagnosed by a professional for “everything I have.” For instance, in my household we all know that I have depression and anxiety, but it’s not really nailed down on my medical chart whether I have Generalized Anxiety or Major Depression. I’ve talked to my doctor about my anxiety, my “moods” as it is usually termed in the doctor’s office, and had my spouse at my side during the discussions, and been prescribed Zoloft for my symptoms even, and the takeaway has been:

My doctor doesn’t want to diagnose me with a mental illness, because no one wants to figure out what the insurance will do. Or what the protocols for it are. Or what the exact diagnosis should be. My therapist had further insight there: finding someone who can make the right diagnosis for me is one thing. But there could be several different diagnoses for what I could have, depending on what treatment plan they wanted to bill for, or what my insurance covers, WHICH CAN CHANGE.

And all this time, we’re just trying to live this and figure out how to do right by me and the body and brain I have.

It’s why I keep thinking I need to explain myself here. There’s no catch-all term for whatever it is that I have. There’s a lot of medical interactions between my hormones, my mood, my sleep cycle, and my information processing ability. Sometimes at 2AM I decide it’s time to read a paranormal encyclopedia, and that’s just because my body is not going to be good at doing anything else at that time, because that’s what the chemicals in my body say to do.

So, I mentioned my hormones–one reason I’ve been quiet is because I don’t want people to think that transitioning will cause you harm or that transitioning people are “crazy.” But I’ve had some severe mental health effects from my hormones being way off-balance at times, and I’m finally able to talk about it. One reason I’m able to talk about it again? I’m finally GETTING my hormones.

Last year when I switched to topical rub-on testosterone instead of intramuscular injection, it was because I was unable to do the shots anymore. My needle fears ramped up and I had to switch over. Well, turns out the absorption was never working right for me because I was getting allergy injections in the same area as I was rubbing the cream on, and apparently the testosterone got into my bloodstream instead of the lymph system, and made my levels seem incorrect? Gods it was nuts. Anyway my insurance cancelled rub-on hormones on January 1 with no warning anyway, so it’s a good thing I was planning to switch to subcutaneous injection. Which I did yesterday after being without my rub-on hormones for 3 days.

My body feels like a submarine that goes up to get air and down to dive below at times completely dependent on my hormone levels and nothing else, and my hormone levels basically all last year were bonkers. It destroyed my sense of time right as I and everyone else were all locked in our homes. My stress has ramped with the news cycles, making me unable to sleep some nights until my body finally exits hypervigilance.

There’s not a cure for this, or any single diagnosis, or a treatment other than to take care of myself and keep going.

I’ll keep going.

I want to open up more about my mental illness experience, and what it does and how I get through it, but I’m going to warn you that my mental illness doesn’t follow the discourse. It fucks the discourse. I’m a person who has decided to stop driving because I don’t like how I might react to the unexpected behind the wheel, and I still vote, I make big financial decisions, heck I make winning investment picks. Sometimes I can’t walk out my front door, and it’s not for any logical reason, and I even know logically with my brain at the time that nothing bad will happen if I go outside. Still, sometimes I can’t walk out my front door, and in those times I realize that I don’t actually have to. Because last year we as a household realized that I could no longer do the things I’d done all the previous years before, that something in my mind and body had drawn a line and said I couldn’t go ignore those boundaries anymore.

I can’t watch TV like a “normal person.” Ads really mess with me and so I often avoid commercial television, for instance. But I also have trouble sitting down and absorbing something on a screen, I’ll often have to walk around, or I’ll need to watch the show out of order, or see it “filtered” through commentary or memes, because that’s how my brain decided I was processing that day. But the conversation I have with my spouse about the subject at the end of the day is still rich and fulfilling, because I’m still having an experience of the subject, be it a show or a video game or a news event. I just take it in in a very particular way, and sometimes that way changes depending on my mood and a bunch of other factors.

Heck, my diet changes how much I can focus and think. We’re still figuring out what does what. There’s a lot of rabbit holes to chase down. At some point we discuss what’s worth putting up with versus what actually needs treatment, because when things aren’t very clear-cut you need to prioritize. Also, having a lot of different medical issues at once means that you sometimes get overwhelmed and don’t know what order to address it all in.

I communicate in GIF and youtube format on here sometimes because I don’t really have a way to articulate the feeling or thought I have other than to show something that seems to encompass it all in an abstract or more psyche-oriented way. I really enjoy being able to do that here, and to get out the things I really want to express in an environment where people let me experiment with communication. Thanks to all of you for that. Except the bots. You’re not sentient, and that’s kind of weird.

Oh yeah. Mental illness and its interaction with hormones. Are completely ruining my ability to plan things and have been for like half a year now. So thank. For your pati. Ence.

[lovethediseasedkillerpuppy]

Sam doesn't have NPD. I don't like him either but saying he has NPD is inaccurate. I usually agree with your Psych commentary but that reblog you did is way off.

Did you even read the title of that post? Covert narcism. And the op even said in tags they weren’t saying Sam has NPD they were saying more likely DNP. There’s a difference.

DNP is merely reflective of NPD but the person’s symptoms are less severe. Would I dx Sam with NPD? No, absolutely not. But I sure as hell would say he was a good fit for covert narcism/DNP. 

Passive aggressiveness, overly sensitive, air of superiority, lack of empathy, self-obsessed, trouble genuinely connecting w ppl or maintaining relationships smugness...does this sound familiar? Now if you're a Sam fan you’d argue he has any of these but these are signs of a covert narcist. 

[vizhi0nw]

Biting Down

Summary: Silco’s scar is causing some problems.

Silco/Reader

Warnings: Descriptions of chronic pain

Word count: 1.5k 

This is my first Arcane fic and my first fic that I’ve posted in a...while? Binged Arcane and now I’m obsessed because of course I am - this is just a short little idea that I thought of the other day, and slightly inspired by my own chronic pain (yay for nerve damage!) Also, I very rarely, if ever, writing in second person, so hopefully I didn’t do a poor job. This is basically just pure fluff. Anyway, enjoy!

                                                          ~~~~~~

It always started as a slight tenderness, a soreness that didn’t seem to dissipate, even when Silco rolled over onto his back. The heaviness of sleep would keep the sensation at bay for a while, but it would always crawl back up to the surface like an ant. Unrelenting. Uncomfortable enough that he’d snap his good eye open and let out a shuddering breath, keeping it soft enough so not to wake the figure next to him. 

Tonight, you were sprawled across the bed with one arm thrown across Silco’s chest. He gingerly lifted the appendage, gently moving it to the side. The only response he received was a soft hum from you, and the noise brought a small smile to his lips - it was fleeting, for a moment later, raw pain seemed to erupt from every pore of his scarred facial tissue. His teeth clamped down on his pillow - an action he’d hammered into his psyche, as he’d once reflexively and unintentionally bitten a chunk out of his own tongue - and he felt his limbs tense. He had to just ride it out. The pain would go away. His injection wouldn’t help. This was only temporary -

A soft groan worked its way from the depths of his stomach and into the pillow, the sound muffled by the soft fabric. His fingers and toes flexed on their own accord, as if the movements would somehow distract his mind from the tortuous pinpricks of fire circling his wounded eye. It throbbed in tune with his heartbeat, drowning out the noise of the small portable fan you liked to keep in the corner of the room. It would go away. It had to go away. The pain had to go away.

Another sound was pulled from him, this time a strangled gasp. You stirred, but remained asleep. Silco’s jaw was aching from how hard his chipped teeth were latched around the pillow. Tears leaked from both eyes, dotting the sheets with damp pearls. Finally, after what seemed like hours, the pain began to ebb away. His muscles uncoiled, and he felt the tension seep from his body. Shoulders first, and then hands, feet, legs. He let the pillow fall from his lips and immediately began working his jaw. It would be sore tomorrow, he mused. 

Throughout the entire spasm, you’d remained asleep. Save for the rise and fall of your chest and the occasional moan, you looked ready for the crypt. Silco resisted the urge to reach out and touch you, instead opting to slide from the bed. He knew he looked monstrous without even having to check the mirror - drenched in sweat, shaking, pale - but he struggled into the bathroom anyway, thin fingers gripping the edge of the sink. He took a moment, his nerves still on overdrive. It wasn’t until he felt…stable, that he mustered the energy to crawl back into bed. He’d probably stay awake the rest of the night, his body on high alert for the possible return of a flare-up. Settling his mind would be an immense task that he really, really wasn’t up for. He prided himself on his mental fortitude, but it seemed like every time he fought against his own brain, he lost. 

In his absence, you’d rolled over and were facing his side of the bed. Your fist was loosely bunched up and resting in front of your face. Your eyes were active beneath closed lids. 

Whatever dream you were having, Silco hoped that it was a good one. 

                                                        ``````````

You swirled the last bit of coffee around in your decorated blue and pink mug - courtesy of Jinx - watching it slosh against the sides. You’d eaten breakfast, but your stomach felt hollow. Your eyes kept darting to the stairs leading to Silco’s office. His own coffee mug sat, full, on the bar. His movements had been almost zombie-like - he’d kissed you on the cheek (ignoring an audible and exaggerated ‘ew’ from Jinx) before completely forgetting his cup and walking, as if in a drunken stupor, up the stairs and into his office. 

“He’s not been sleeping,” You said. Jinx lifted her head from where she’d been resting it on the bar. “Did you see his expression? It was like…he was looking through us. Plus, he looks pale.”

“That’s just his face.” 

“Paler than usual,” You nudged Jinx with your foot. 

The teenager giggled, slipping from the barstool. She jabbed a finger in your direction and said, “You’re his partner. Plus, I don’t know how to deal with…lack of sleep, or whatever. I sleep just fine, when I’m not having nightmares.”

“Nightmares…” You glanced over at the abandoned coffee cup once more. It would get cold if he didn’t drink it soon, so you reached over and gripped it by the handle. “I’ll go talk to him.”

“Tell me how it goes!” Jinx said enthusiastically. The girl bounded from the room as you made your way slowly up the stairs, the wood creaking beneath the soles of your feet. You were careful, keeping one palm positioned in front of the steaming cup. You removed it only so you could knock lightly on the door to Silco’s office as a quick warning that you were about to enter. As you pushed the door forward, you caught a glimpse of him slipping his injector back into his desk drawer. A rivulet of sparkling purple was making its way from his tear duct. 

“Here,” you placed the coffee cup down on his desk before reaching out to wipe the liquid away with your sleeve. The scarring around his eye was unconcealed. It seemed to stand out even more than usual due to the fact that the untarnished half of his face was uncharacteristically washed out. He moved sluggishly, his good eye flickering up to your face.

“Thank you,” the words were short, clipped. You raised an eyebrow, reaching over to pull a chair around. He stared at you, waiting for you to speak. 

“Are you okay?”

Silco blinked, as if he hadn’t been expecting the question. After a long moment, he sighed and leaned back in his chair, resigning himself to expressing his exhaustion. It wasn’t like he could hide it from you, anyway. You slid closer, leaning against the arm of your own chair. 

“I’ll be alright,” Silco managed a half-smile. “There’s no need for you to worry.”

“You’re not sleeping. I can tell. Is it nightmares?” You spoke softly. 

To your surprise, Silco shook his head. He pointed to his mangled skin and eye. The gesture was enough - You clenched your teeth, saying, “Your infection is spreading?”

“Neuropathic pain,” Silco replied tiredly. “It’s decided to stick to a schedule, unfortunately. The injections are to stop the infection from claiming the last of my good flesh.”

“Oh, Silco,” You let out a breath. His head was tilted back, legs and arms slack. You feared that if he closed his eyes, he’d fall asleep right then and there in his office chair. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“It didn’t seem relevant. This isn’t something you can fix, and I didn’t wish to worry you.”

“I can talk to the doctor!” You exclaimed. “Singed and I are friendly! I…I’ll talk to him-”

“You don’t-”

“I’m talking to him. I’m sure he could make modifications to your medicine to help with the flare-ups.”

On any other day, Silco would have argued with you, but the fatigue won out. You were a fixer, and deep down, he knew you were right. His medication needed an upgrade. He reached out, long fingers curling over your own. His thumb stroked the tops of your knuckles, and he said sleepily, “You’re wonderful.”

“I just…I don’t like that you’re in pain. It bothers me,” You shifted in your seat. Silco rolled his chair closer, keeping a firm grip on your hand. He lifted it to his lips and kissed it softly. 

“I’m no stranger to pain. You know this.”

“That’s not reassuring,” You snorted. Silco’s fingers shifted to interlace with yours. “Maybe Singed can add in some sort of painkiller. I don’t know. He’ll figure it out.”

“Indeed he will. While I find him…unsettling, at times, the doctor does deliver,” Silco said. He slumped back in his chair, and you chose that moment to stand and place a hand on his shoulder. 

“You should sleep.”

“Impossible. Duty calls-”

“Even if it’s for thirty minutes, hop back into bed and sleep. Jinx is out doing her ‘chores’ and Sevika should be back from her patrol soon. She can cover while I go talk with Singed.”

Silco’s head lolled to the side. While his injured eye was wide, as always, his good eye was half-closed. You leaned down and pressed your lips to his, and you giggled when you felt him smile against your mouth. When you pulled away, he gave a tired, yet content, sigh. 

“You take care of me. I hope you know…how much you’re appreciated,” Silco said softly. “How much I love you.”

You glanced down at him. He had a dreamy look in his eyes, as if he were already beginning to drift off to sleep. You hooked an arm under his and helped him stand. He leaned against you, and you felt him absently brush his lips across your temple. 

“Love you, too,” You smiled. “Let’s get you to bed.”

[symptoms-syndrome]

Ok TWs def apply for this one. Heavy shit. Implied abuse stuff?

A lot of what I've been experiencing lately reminds me of back when I identified as "kin" and had "kin memories." It often felt like working backwards, I would be struck by a feeling or sensation or something and try and piece together what it might mean, but it kinda felt like trying to navigate a maze in the dark by just holding out your hands. I think I wanted to cling to the idea of kin because reality was scary. These couldn't be my feelings, my experiences, my trauma. That didn't make any sense. Better to assign it to another self, a different life. Nothing in my real, here and now life could make someone feel that scared, hurt, vulnerable, etc. It felt like such an unrealistic, dramatic level of terrible that it couldn't have happened in the same world I was living in currently, the same life I was living.

Looking back it's fairly obvious that I was just experiencing flashbacks. I feel like on some level I knew then that they were flashbacks. I guess I just put them off as flashbacks belonging to that other self and other life. Bad Things didn't happen to me, they happened to [Tomas] and were just leaking into my psyche.

And I guess why I'm making this post, apart from my incessant need to overshare constantly, is because it feels like it's happening again. Which doesn't make sense, because if I know it's happening I should know that's not what it is. But yet here is my brain, presenting me with an unpleasant body memory and emotion, and saying "it's not you though, this is who that belongs to, this is who that happened to." But it doesn't belong to them! Or I don't think it does! Or I guess it could, but if it did it belongs to BOTH of us. This is made even more complex due to the character in question being an OC, to whom I gave that sad story years ago, so it's like. Am I inflicting this on myself then? What's up here. I know his story reflects my own trauma (though is far from 1:1) already. I don't need to hide that from myself anymore. So why go through the bother of obfuscating this like this.

Or maybe I just have an unpleasantly vivid imagination.

[littlefreya]

The Way to Hell - Part 6

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it or parts of the source material and claiming it as your own*

Summary: Post Mi6 - August manages to escape with his face intact and just won himself the title of being the most dangerous man on earth. With every agent in the world on the hunt for him, life became a living hell, but that’s okay because hell is where he reigns.

Too bad for the woman who’ll stand in his way.

Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10| Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 |

Pairing: August Walker x OFC (Ingvild) | August Walker x ofc Suzy

Word count: 5K

Warnings: Dark themes, rough oral sex, gagging, hinted anal, mentions of rough sex, and August twisted thoughts.  

A/N: The adventures of August and Ingvild continue 💖 thanks again for reading and giving me your feedback, it keeps me fueled so keep it up :D! Of course thanks @agniavateira​ for editing my work and being my muse.

Title: Stargazer

The love boat sets sail through the icy water of the North Sea. The apostle, Knight_of_Cockn3ss, or whatever that kid’s name is, wasn’t joking when he mentioned a romantic cruise.

The traitorous sun hangs mid-sky as August trails across the deck. A beige fedora covers his dark curls and a matching cream-coloured suit over his sturdy body. In his right hand rests his laptop, he is not daring to leave it out of sight even for a minute. His eyes observe the surroundings; he must be the only single person on this trip, surrounded by timid couples on the verge of divorce and sugar daddies with their sugar babies.

‘At least the young girls are pretty.’ August greets a tall blonde, holding one hand behind his back and giving her a small bow before continuing on his way.

He’ll have to endure this trip for a couple more days, which isn’t ideal by any means, but he can’t risk getting caught or killed. Airports all over the world are swarming with security guards, agents, and assassins on really fucking high alert by now, all of them waiting for him.

The irony of the situation is that a long time ago used to be one of them. A wanted target on a scale of world catastrophe would spin a web of agents worldwide and Agent Walker would always get there first. That’s why they called him “The Hammer” - he nailed each target on the head, among other things.

No one cared about torture and extreme violence. He once brought back a target in such a dire condition that Erica was forced to send him to psych evaluation. He bluntly told the psychiatrist he enjoys the violence for no particular reason why, and then fucked her over the desk.

He scoffs at the memory, breaking into a wolfish grin.

Standing on the rail, his gaze is glued to the blue horizon, following the trail of sea-foam left by the boat as it slices through the water, disturbing the peaceful life beneath the sea. Slowly, his chaotic mind begins to drift, reveries of the CIA reminding him of her.

Golden locks of hair glow like hot sand on a summer day. Sweetly, she jokes about buying a yacht, telling Erica to fuck off so they can leave everything behind, and sail into freedom.

Memories are perfidious. Why has she been on his mind so much as of late? She’s been dead for years, flesh eaten by worms and the insects.

She is no more but a sack of rotting bones.

To condemn her memory is more than she deserves.

August’s nostrils flare. For whatever reason, his mind wanders to the girl who lived. Gently snorting, he shakes his head, remembering the condition of how he left ‘poor little’ Ingvild; half-naked, wrists tied up to the bed, probably crying to whatever father figure she has.

After what he did to her, she’ll probably retire from Icarus.

“I’m coming after you,” he mimics her voice in his head, and laughs while making his way toward the stack of beach lounge chairs. The section is nearly empty as most of the lovebirds are dinning in the main hall and unlike the degenerated visitors of this cruise, he is here solely on business.

Much work is left to be done. “Knight” has promised to meet him in London’s sky tower, suggesting he may or may not have a source of plutonium. Whether he’s a broker, a source, or a possible troll matters very little to a man on the run. Desperate times are ahead; he may be sticking his neck out, might be stepping into an obvious trap, but choice is scarce at the moment.

‘This is not the type of anarchy I dreamed of.’

That little girl, Ingvild, was the first to come. There will be others, endless more until the world will fall apart.  

“I’ll keep coming after you.” Her voice hinges on his troubled mind.

He opens his laptop with a groan, trying to ignore the truth that lies on his mind like a pile of heavy brick.

‘You should have left her pretty face to die in the bottom of the lake.’

“Oh, but to miss out on all the fun that followed in that bedroom?” he speaks to himself quietly, unlocking his laptop with a retinal scan.

Luckily, his old drive is still accessible on the cloud he encrypted. Years of work and dirt collected on the CIA and the government nestles on a single server. The ugly truth, the lies, the corruptness. Thick and black like a pit filled of tar.

Erica Sloane has her own dedicated special folder. Personal vendetta was never on his agenda, it was never about revenge, it was about a cause but sweet Erica deserves whatever damnation he could think of. He hopes that when he detonates his nuclear bombs, that once this world falls apart, she’ll sit on a front-row seat to see her failures raining down like fire from the sky.

A vicious smirk paints his face as his fingertips slide onto the touchpad. August scans through his many folders, seeking a specific one regarding illegal weapon deals. It would be a lovely afternoon at the CIA had one of these recordings or documents would find their way to the public eye.

August slides the cursor around, entering one of the CIA’s subfolders when his smile fades away.

He thought he deleted her folder a long time ago, but it seems like mistakenly, he placed it in another section instead.

And now here it is. A name he thought he’d never see again: Lacey.

Strange, he hardly remembers what she looked like. How long has it been? Six? Seven years ago? In his dreams, she’s nothing but a rotting corpse, but the mind has a tendency to alter one’s memory, doesn’t it?

Was she even sweet at all?

‘Manipulation was her strongest trait anyway.’

Without mustering a mother breath, he deletes the folder, and proceeds to search for the files he means to leak. He muses if they caught up with the notion that it was him who poisoned the well this entire time. Years of stirring chaos while sitting with his laptop of his bed while Sloane and her high-ranking management freaked out and did all that’s in their power to cover shit up.

It was so hard to keep a poker face and pretend he is trying to help. One particular time, he got so ecstatic he had to go and jack off in the men’s room.  

‘That was a good one.’

Something abruptly disturbs his attention, making his heart nearly drop.

‘It can’t be, is that...?’

A petite brunette passes through the lounge, joyfully trodding along the deck. Her hair is tucked back into a ponytail. No, it can’t be her, not in the situation he left her at. By what sort of dark magic would she exactly appear here out of nowhere?

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if the little Valkyrie turns out to be some sort of a witch.’

The brunette feels his gaze upon her figure and turns. He is met with a brown, warm gaze, rather than the sharp icy lustre that is Ingvild’s trademark. Less pretty as well, but looks about the same age, perhaps a year or two younger.

Another sugar baby, weary and discontent.

August realises he must have been staring with a dumbfounded look as she decides to smile back and make her way to him.

“Good afternoon,” she greets in a Midwestern accent. August’s eyes focus on her painted lips and in his mind, he imagines wiping that cotton candy pink lipstick by his thumb.

“Afternoon,” he smiles kindly, tipping his fedora with a welcoming bow.

Always the gentleman.

The young woman moves to sit on the seat in front of him, crossing her legs together as she takes in his sight. She observes and assesses how old he is and how much money he must own.

Probably looking for a new target.

‘Not old enough to be your daddy, but you can still call me that if it floats your boat.’

“Are you a secret agent?” She jokes, peering at his laptop before he smooths his hand on the lid to shuts it. He pretends to be intrigued by her senseless, obvious seduction when his mind once again forced him to go back and compare her to living-dead girl.

It seems like he can’t get away from her. Perhaps her threats were a curse? Even halfway across the sea, this total stranger reignites his curiosity.

‘Does Ingvild has any values? Any empathy toward others?’

She did experience fear in those little moments when his knife penetrated her soft little gut - that look in her eyes; like a virgin, fucked extremely rough for the very first time.

Thinking of those big, terrified eyes light up a snarl on his bewhiskered lip.

There was an inch of vulnerability in that sweet farewell kiss, a sense lost look on her face as if she couldn’t fit that emotion into any drawer inside her brain. It made her look so much more beautiful.

He wonders what she would have looked like if he went ahead with his besser urges and fucked her.

‘Maybe she’d finally break into tears. Fuck, I’d love to see her cry.’

“Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?” He interrupts the sassy brunette as she speaks of Lord-knows-what. It seems that she doesn’t even realise he wasn't listening to her for the last 5 minutes she been babbling . The girl smiles sweetly, tucking a brown lock of hair behind her ear. The diamond bracelet that decorated her wrist dangles as she does.

“Suzy.”

“Suzy,” August repeats and smiles charmingly before giving his lips a quick flick of a tongue. “Would you like to join me in my room?”

The brunette pretends to blush beneath the layers of foundation on her face and fakes an argument inside her mind as if she actually considers refusing his bold suggestion.

~*~

Back in his room, he pushes the petite brunette to her knees. He wipes away her makeup, smearing the pink paint with the crudeness of thumb. Suzy giggles, thinking she probably had men do worse than that by now.

‘Oh, darling, we haven’t even started yet.’

August’s large hand traces her rounded face, knuckles brushing against her cheek tenderly while running down to meet her lips again.

“Open up sweetheart,” he commands in a relaxed voice, his index finger demanding entrance to her velvety mouth. She spreads her lips open slowly, allowing him to slip in his long digit to explore the wet cavern while his thumb caresses her chin. Much to his delight, she sucks on his finger obediently, moaning as he slowly pumps in and out of her hot mouth.

“Good girl,” he praises, his free hand reaching to unbuckle his belt urgently and free his aching cock from his trousers. He tugs at himself for a second, staring how she suckles on his finger with fake devotion. She probably do want his cock, but it’s his money that she’d care for more later.

‘Oh, how disappointed you are going to be once I’m off this boat, baby.’

“How about I’ll fuck that pretty little throat, hmm?” August asks and without waiting for an answer, pulls his soaked finger away and clasps his hand around the hollows of her cheeks instead, forcing her to keep her mouth open.

She voices no protest, only her eyes staring at him wide and helpless. He pays no attention, preferring the sight of his cock sliding in between those puffy lips and pushing into the warm depths instead. A prolong groan slips out of his mouth, emphasising the relief of finally getting his dick wet.

Usually, he loves to watch, yet he lets his eyes roll back and shuts them tightly this time while she in the background. It only makes him fuck her throat more vigorously, his hands cradling and saddling her head, forcing her to meet the violent thrust of his hips.

“Don’t touch me,” he rasps breathlessly, as her her dirty paws snake for his waist. Terrified, she pulls away, intimidated by his voice. August’s eyes remain shut yet he can feel the wetness on her cheeks as his thumbs dig into them. Those tears are enough to send him over the edge, and he comes into her throat without any warning, grunting a couple of times and lingering inside her mouth to make sure she’ll swallow him clean.

‘That’s right little Valkyrie angel, you’ll take what I’ll give you.’

The mists of fantasy fade as August blinks his eyes open. Debunked by the plastic-type of woman. Slowly, he pulls his cock out, impressed by the mascara that’s smeared beneath Suzy’s now glassy red eyes. He wipes her lower lip clean and then gives her chin a gentle pinch with a soft grin.

Suzy gives out a weak smile in return, trying to look satisfied while remaining on her knees. He can tell that her little brain is pretty much half-through into realising she made a mistake by following the devil into his room.

Tall and menacing, he looks at her drenched by vile mischief. August moves to sit on the queen sized bed, petting the empty spot next to him. She follows, fighting her instinct to put a hand on his knee as she is used to, afraid that he will bark at her again.

“Tell me, Suzy,” he coaxes, reaching for the wallet in his pocket and drawing out a Trojan condom.

“Have you ever tried anal sex?”

****

“Ingvild,” the old man calls her name once he brings her to her new home. It’s a simple, minimalist apartment with naked walls and generic black IKEA furniture.

Silent, she peers at him, holding her small luggage between sinewy fingers. Everything that she possesses in the world is in that suitcase; a bunch of plaid skirts, white buttoned shirts, and a few books about fairies and monsters.

This man called Liam, is he to be her new father? He never even offered her a smile and hardly bothers looking into her eyes. Instead he grunts and sighs while making his way around the house and gesturing for her to follow.

At least he is kinder than Mother Superior. At least in here, no girl is going to pick any fights with her and get her into trouble.

“This is your room,” Liam gestures. The pubescent girl sneaks closer, peeking inside with curiosity. It’s not what someone would call a girl’s room by any means, very much like the rooms they had at the orphanage. It contains a single bed with a thin mattress and white metal bars and on the bed rest some casual clothes for her to wear.

At least she won’t have to wear skirts anymore.

As little Ingvild continues to scan the room, she picks on a small library housing some books and a learning desk with a computer. Probably for her to gain some knowledge of the world. She never had any of that at the orphanage, just the bible and the “forbidden” books of fairytales she stole from one of the nuns.

“Today you can rest,” Liam speaks, watching the little girl as she moves to place her luggage inside and sits on the bed.

“Tomorrow, you will start your first day of training.”

‘Training?’

Ingvild says nothing, only glares at him back quietly. It’s quite clear no woman is present in the house which makes her wonder; the orphanage doesn’t allow single parents to adopt, especially not men. Was Mother Superior this desperate to get rid of her that she decided to throw her at the first person who asked?

“Just so we’re clear, girl,” Liam grumbles, “I am not your father. You call me Liam and that’s that.”

She nods silently and watches him leave the room, shutting the door behind. Sighing, she falls back to the mattress, her silver eyes fixing at the ceiling in wonders of what sort of new life has she been sold ito.

“Ingvild...”

A low, velvety voice calls for her again, the mattress dipping, shifting with the weight of the one who joins her. As she turns her face aside, she is met with hungry eyes and a smile so cold it makes her heart shrivel.

August.

*~*

A loud thud wakes her with a sharp inhale. Though her face remain stoic, quickly readjusting to the sight of moving ground as the plane’s wheels make their landing. ‘Arrogant August Walker, invading my dreams’, she curses but pays no more thought to why he was there. Analysing dreams was never her thing. They were just memories of random things that happened to her in her childhood and August is no different as he had been on her mind for the last 72 hours.

He was a job.

One that she needed to get over with.

Liam was at her throat with this one specifically, nagging her like an old shrew. He wasn’t used for her taking her time with it, not his special girl.

Massaging her strained neck, she waits for the last person to leave the plane, observing the empty cabin and noticing how used it appears with all the crumpled, empty snack bags lying on the floor.

‘Ungrateful’, she thinks before exiting her seat and tip-toeing to get her luggage.

The arrivals terminal is infested with agents. Having been trained for years, she sees right through their casual attire, so fake they almost look like B-movie actors. It’s those badly selected outfits and their observant gazes - eyes obsessively fixed on every gate. Every airport in the world must be the same right now, desperate to catch this nightmare of a terrorist.

‘As if he would be stupid enough to travel by plane.’

With a high profile target like August on the loose, it almost feels like the world is on the brink of war.

‘Is that what he wants? To be an anarchistic god that plows chaos everywhere?’

Maybe that’s why he gave her back her life, to humiliate her, to show her how easily he can twist everyone’s life and disrupt the world people know.

‘Mephisto, Lucifer, Hades, Hel.’

“Remember that you’re only alive because I have allowed it.”

A sudden shard of pain sears through her torso, the wound reacting to the phantasm of his low timbre which plays in her mind. It makes her slow on her steps and chews on her inner cheek to suppress a moan that has been begging to escape her lips since yesterday afternoon.

“August Walker”, the name rolls on the tip of her tongue.

Her very first failure, the very first man who killed her.

It almost feels like a bond now, intimate and twisted. August went deeper than any other man ever did - he fucked her internal organs.

‘Is that is why you “performed” for him in the shower? Why you thought about him, slipping inside you with his cock rather than his knife?’

Ingvild huffs tenderly and passes in-between a couple reuniting with passion, her shoulder sharply bumping against the woman, who yells at her while she remains indifferent, never bothering to look back.

Putting on her shades, she continues to head for the exit. The wound in her gut throbs even further, all of a sudden and just when she is tempted to give into the pain and acknowledge it, the new mobile device in her jacket’s pocket begins to vibrate.

Liam, who else?

“Papa?” She answers, the big exit sign finally flickering in front of her eyes.

She can see Liam rolling his eyes without having to see his grumpy old face.

“What progress do you hope to make with this lead? Someone says they saw him in Singapore yesterday, you should be following these threads instead.”

Ingvild holds her breath, knowing very well the lead is false. August was with her a night ago, so close she tasted him, so near his fingers dug deep into her flesh, leaving an imprint on her bones and even though there is something quite demonic about him, she doubts he can be at two different places at once.

“I need access to his world, I need to pick up the clues,” she explains, yet the sad truth is that she has no idea what to look for. August is not a rookie idiot, he did a fine job leaving zero clues back at the bed&breakfast room they “shared”. Not even the receptionist who ogled her oddly when she left could tell her where he was heading.  

“Just get it done, Ingvild. You’re acting like a child, this isn’t like you,” Liam mutters before hanging up.

‘He is right, this isn’t like you.’

Ingvild feels hooks clutching her guts, not just the pain August inflicted upon her, but something deeper, something desperate, leaving a void in that same spot. The fact that he slipped between her fingers seems to torments, just as much as the fact that she lied to Liam for the first time. It makes her feel like a rebellious teenager. She never keeps secrets from him and there she is, lying through every word.

Absentmindedly, her fingers press against her lips as she exits the airport.

~*~

The address led her to a small suburban house in southern London. It’s the type of house that has large glass windows where anyone standing outside can ogle freely. Rich people houses, as she likes to call it. She had a few missions in the past with people living in homes like this one - always an easy kill.

A blond woman meanders about inside the house, wearing a grey silk nightgown, preparing for bedtime probably. According to Walker’s file, she’s the most recent ex - Sydney. They broke up a couple of months before he decided to go on what he thought would be his final mission, his deathstrike.

‘If only.’

Glancing from the gravel path that leads to large metal doors, she learns the woman’s delicate manoeuvres, her mind reciting every graceful gestures as she crouches down to place food for a large Maine coon cat.

‘Is that the type of woman he likes?’

August would strikes her as a man who would fuck anything with a heartbeat but he did have more than a few relationships. She can’t help but wonder if he has a type, noticing how Sydney is more of a woman than a girl; solid income, big name lawyer, a woman who can take care of herself, a woman to start a family with.

Not that she imagines Walker starting a family anytime soon.

She is pretty too, with her mid-length straight golden hair, bright eyes and a shapely body. Ingvild looks at her own outfit: jeans, sneakers and a black sleeved shirt, nowhere as classy as beautiful Sydney.

The hour is late, still she walks toward the door and rings the bell.

“Can I help you?”

Ingvild is greeted by green eyes and a subtle Welsh accent. She gives her one of her fake smiles, trying to look as charming and pleasant as a sweet doll.

“Sydney Bedford?” She asks, while briefly scanning her body. She tries to imagine what August liked about her the most; her figure? Her angelic face? Her emerald stare?

“I have some questions about August Walker, he used to…”

Sydney shakes her head vehemently, waving her hands in the air. Something in her eyes drastically changes the moment the name “August” slaps her across the face.

“Are you MI6!? Please, I don’t want to speak about that psychotic loser anymore.”

Ingvild smiles calmly, a soft chuckle leaving her throat.

“Oh you see, he disappeared…”

“Good riddance!” Sydney replies, her eyes filling with anger, her face turning red within seconds. “Listen. I already told them everything I know.”

“Please,” Ingvild begs, batting her long lashes and tilting her head like a cute little kitten. “I’m new in this and my superior will be mad if I don’t at least speak to you. May I please come in? It’s important for my investigation.”

The same childlike charm that works on men might as well work on women, for different reasons in this occasion. Sydney is a single 36-38-year old woman who lives alone with her cat.

She must have wanted a family, perhaps with Walker, no wonder she’s furious.

Leaning against the door frame, Sydney scrutinises the young girl, believing she is younger than she really is with that pale smooth face and big innocent greyish eyes.  

“Come on in, dear.” She opens the door wide, letting Ingvild step inside before closing it behind her.

The main entrance leads into a large living room, furnished with a black leather sofas and a glass coffee table. She owns a TV that is larger than Ingvild's entire living room and the walls are moulded with grey bricks, shiny from some cut stone.

Ingvild imagines how lovely it would feel to crack the shimmering stone with August’s skull.

“Would you like some tea?” Sydney offers while heading toward her luxurious kitchen.

“Please,” Ingvild answers, walking around the house and examining every corner to learn of the woman who invited her in. She nearly stumbles as the large cat rubs against her foot. “Oh,” she exclaims, lowering herself to pick the chubby feline to her arms.

She never owned a pet. Liam said it’s unnecessary.

“So like I said,” Sydney calls from the kitchen, putting the kettle on the stove. “I don’t know anything about August and where he is. All I can tell you is that he was weird.”

“Weird? How?” Ingvild asks, stroking the cat behind his ears and while it purr against her chest.

Sydney places two mugs on the black marble counter in the kitchen and opens a cabinet, looking for some tea bags. “He would disappear and then return after weeks, telling me not to ask any questions. Then, he would go away and come back in crazy hours. He was a gentleman of course but arrogant and demanding, never taking no for an answer.”

Ingvild turns to look at Sydney, arching her eyebrow as if she is surprised to learn this about the man who stabbed and drowned her in an icy lake. “Is that so?”

“Yes!” Sydney shouts back, her chest heaving as she throws the bags into the mugs and turns toward Ingvild.

“Everything had to go his way, and I won’t be surprised if he had a mistress or another family, or god! Maybe an illegal drug practice.”

The cat jumps down from Ingvild’s embrace, and she brushes the grey hairs off her black shirt. “What makes you think this way?”

“Like I said; disappearing in the middle of the night, coming back... I knew something was off so I went and... wait I… I shouldn’t tell you this, you’re an agent!” Sydney looks around her, as if she’s afraid someone might be listening to their conversation.

Ingvild takes a step forward into the kitchen, her grey eyes seeking Sydney’s, giving her a warm, kind smile. “You can tell me anything Sydney, you are not in danger, I promise. We just want to locate Walker, he hasn't reported to HQ in a while.”

Sydney observes her gaze, trying to determine her personality. She thinks the young woman seem gentle with those unique eyes and the hair that’s tucked back to a strict ponytail.

“I had him traced,” she whispers. “I know I wasn’t supposed to because he is CIA, and trust me I was scared but I had to know.”

“How did you do that?” Ingvild asks, tilting her head with curiosity and slight disbelief. It seems odd that a man like Walker was bugged by some dumb lawyer woman.

“I did his laundry, it wasn’t hard to hide something inside the pocket of his jacket. I mean, inside the fabric, where he can’t find it.”

Ingvild can’t help but let out a small snort, amused by the fact that the infamous CIA agent got made so easily. She covers her mouth with her fist, shyly smiling into it, but it’s noticed by Sydney who stands in front of her, staring oddly.

“Where would he go?”

“Some place in South Kensington, almost every day for the last month of our relationship. He would vanish there for hours and then come back. I have the address, hold on.” Sydney leaves the kitchen and walks through a long corridor.

Not bothering with politeness, Ingvild follows her, easy off her feet like the big grey cat, carefully exploring this new territory. She imagines the fights August would have with this woman and then the passionate sex afterwards while her hand runs against the texture of the garnet.

“Oh!” Sydney exclaims, confused to see Ingvild in the doorway of her bedroom. The young woman looks around curiously, trying to find any memorabilia from August; a photo, a clothing article, man cologne. It seems like he was never even been here, though there is a certain coldness in this room that feels strangely familiar.

‘No, not August, his touch is warm.’

“He did trading or something,” Sydney says as she hands her over a small yellow note that was hidden in her purse. It has the address to August’s “secret lover”.

Ingvild takes the notes, memorizing the address before placing it in her jeans pocket. “Trading? Can you elaborate?”

She shrugs. “He asked me to not disturb him while he was doing some dealing, I don’t know what it was… it looked fishy but it might just be CIA stuff.”

Ingvild nods silently, scanning the room again and again and eventually taking in the sight of the empty bed. Her mind fills in the gaps, painting an image of August fucking Sydney into oblivion, his muscular body ramming into hers, one leg held over his shoulder while the blond little bitch screams in ecstasy.

“How was he in bed? Would you say he performed well?” Ingvild asks, her eyes gesturing toward the mattress.

Sydney frowns, giving her a slight repulsed face as she finds her question remarkably rude.

“How is this relevant to the investigation?”

She means to berate her when she witnesses Ingvild’s kind smile growing remarkably cold.

The young woman remains silent, taking a step closer and making Sydney almost stumble back as sudden fear creeps in. Grey frigid eyes, like icy shards, her nostrils slightly flares as she catches up the scent of her expensive perfume.

“How is this relevant to the MI6?!” Sydney asks again, trying to dismiss the tension yet continues to draw distance from the young agent.

“I never said I am MI6.”

Sydney’s back hits the wall with a soft thud, she attempts to flee but Ingvild’s hands lock around her shoulders, forcing her against the wall with a thud. As small as this woman is, she is way stronger than she appears.

“How was he in bed?” she repeats, her voice becoming more demanding while her glare threatening to spear into Sydney’s skull. “Would you say he satisfies you?”

Puny gasps peal from Sydney’s mouth, her green eyes becoming moist with pure fear.

“Please, don’t... He was... Rough.”

“Bondage?”

“He... he..he choked me,” she answers in a trembling voice, her lower lip quivering, much to Ingvild’s delight.

“He was too rough, he was big and he didn’t care, it was as if he enjoyed my pain...”

Ingvild licks her bottom lip, imagining Sydney thrown on the bed with August treating her like a rag doll, wrecking her completely. Bruises left everywhere, tattoos on her skin for the world to see this fine artist’s work. A cold flame licks at her spine, crawling down to the small of her back.

She’s uncertain why.

“Would you say he loved you?”

Sydney’s peers at her quietly, thinking of her answer for a few seconds while Ingvild’s fingers bury into her collarbone, voicelessly demanding a response.

“August Walker is incapable of love. He is dead inside.”

________________________________________________________

Disclaimer: I don’t own August Walker or the Mission Impossible Frenchise

[charmergirl2468]

Past Life AU!

Blue Lions

Alright, so I got this idea from looking at fanart in the Ashe tag that featured the blue lions in their school outfits and in modern attire. The basic premise is that the game is essentially everyone’s past life and in modern day they’re past lives are starting to leak in.

Dimitri:

He’s still a prince of Fargaus but the monarchy has sort of become figure heads while other politicians help make decisions. Dimitri gets final say but he definitely knows shit gets filtered out.

He grows up with the dork squad of Ingrid, Felix, and Sylvain because I want those shenanigans!

He still gets ptsd and survivors guilt, but it’s from more of a 9/11-Ish event. Like he was at a political building when it got bombed to shit.

But since it’s modern day, our boi gets some mcfucking therapy and meds and he’s properly taken care of. He still gets audiovisual hallucinations but he’s more easily able to cope

Then he started getting dreams of his past life. His therapist can’t make heads or tails of the dreams since it sounds fucking bonkers. They try and say maybe it’s an elaborate relapse but Dimitri knows that isn’t the case

He tries to deal with the dreams, and the eventual flashbacks that happen, by himself. He didn’t think anyone would believe him if he tried to explain it.

He does eventually tell Dedue and, hey howdy hey, Dedue’s been going through the same Ra damn thing!

Ashe

Baby boy is an online voice actor who does fantasy roles in RPs like Minecraft Diaries. He’s definitely got a knack for voicing protags!

It’s mostly freelance work as he goes to culinary school. While he does live with lord Lanato, who is more of an entrepreneur, he wants to make money on his own than beg for it.

In the past, me mostly shop lifted from places like Walmart so he could feed his younger siblings. Lanato actually catches him one time and he’s like “this child is an awful victim of circumstance, I’m adopted him right fucking now”

When he starts getting all the dreams and flashbacks, he shrugs them off as his online work bleeding into his psyche. He’s played plenty of knight-like characters for that to be true.

Sylvain

He’s a fucking Instagram influencer and you all know it

He mostly posts selfies, albeit with a different person in each photo.

Nobody really calls him out on it because he’s not a scumbag about being with a lot of people and he’s upfront about it so it’s like even if someone’s mad at him, it’s their fault since they knew going in that he’s a serial flirt

He does have a private account on Instagram and Tumblr so he can be a fanboy without anyone getting on his case. He ended up becoming Bernadetta’s friend without knowing it :P

He doesn’t think much of the memories from his past life, since they pretty much the same. The biggest difference being that he’s straight in his “dreams” and open Pan in the present

Once Felix confides in him about his own dreams is when Sylvain realizes its a Problem(tm)

Felix

He’s a trans man and I will stand by that

After Glenn’s death and Rodrigues being a boomer, he nopes out of there and lives Sylvain. Oh Sylvie will get on his nerves, but he’s tolerable

He does stuff like fencing and mma fighting, basically anything to do with old school fighting

He freaks out when he starts getting memories from his past life. He’s never really cared for history or the Holy War. So once he starts getting dreams and flashbacks of that time in gorey detail, he’s emotionally fucked up for while

Annette

She’s an ADHD icon an I stand by that

She mostly hyper fixates on magic and magic history. She’ll try to do spells but modern magic is really small scale so the most she can do is blow a small gust of wind or light a piece of charcoal

She also brushes off the dreams, concluding that her hyper fixation was getting the better of her

When Mercedes told her about her own memories, she knew shit was going down

Mercedes

She’s a devout believer of Sothism (that’s what I’m calling the religion)

Her dad kicked her and her mom out when she told him she’s Heteroflexible. He didn’t care if it was a small percentage, gay is gay

She found comfort in a progressive and caring church

She knows Emile exsists but doesn’t know anything about him. She can’t even afford a DNA test to find out so she resigned to being shit out of luck

When she starts remembering the Death Knight and Emile she freaks out because A) this is what my brother is like? and B) I know nothing of my brother so how is all this info in my head!? Nani the fuck!?

Ingrid

She’s kinda stuck with her dad trying to be a “nobleman” with arranged marriages and shit. Our Girl Ingrid is just “it’s 2020 dad, all that nobility bullshit doesn’t matter”

She also does mma fighting, but she’s more serious about getting into mma tournaments and stuff then Felix

She’s secretly a horse girl, but doesn’t say shit about it because she doesn’t want to be reduced down to a stereotype

She has more of a low key freak out since she’s started to remember Pegasi first and that’s a “wtf!?!?” Situation all on its own

Dedue

He works as part of Dimitri’s secret service except he’s not so secret. Dimitri sees him as one of his best friends and if a prince can’t bend the rules for friends then wtf is the point?

He also low key helps make sure Dimitri is fed and taken care of because the poor boi will forget his meds and will need his friend

He doesn’t think much of his memories, rationalizing it as his brain being weird. He then thinks otherwise when Dimitri goes paler than paper when he casually bring it up

I’ll do the other houses separately so it’s easier to digest but I already love this Au!

[ramblinganthropologist]

N7 Challenge - Indoctrination

Summary: Alistair muses over indoctrination, Reapers, and the possibility of wet tail as he visits the Council chamber after his final battle with Saren. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he couldn’t stay away. Lucky for him, he wasn't the only one with that feeling.

(Post ME1, pre ME2)

---

It was amazing just how fast they were rebuilding the Citadel.

“You'd hardly believe the place was blasted by Reapers... but maybe that's the point.”

Alistair knew he was talking to himself, but that was ok. There was nobody around to hear him, and even if there was the noise of construction would drown out anything he had to say. After surviving what he had... he had earned the right to a small conversation with himself.

It was in the Alliance hand book. Page 3, subsection 4 – if the Citadel lands on you and you don't beef it, you get to talk to yourself without anyone saying shit. There was of course a “but” if someone of higher rank was around, but he was pretty sure as a Spectre that didn't apply to him anyway. Hooray for screwing the rules.

Today, his walk was taking him near what used to be the presidium. Normally, he wouldn't have been able to get in there, but again he was a Spectre. Maybe he had mentioned that to get past the guards a ways back, or maybe they had just recognized him as the twink in the armor who looked like a child next to the second human Spectre. It was kind of a toss up. Anyway, he was walking around a much less occupied part of the Citadel.

His goal was the old Council chamber, where he and his squad had squared off against Saren before it had all gone to shit. Just getting close to it made his bones ache, but Alistair kept going. Something like a morbid curiosity had possessed him, he supposed.

After all... towards the end... Saren had seemed like himself.

“You ok, Shepard? They said you got out of the hospital, but nobody's seen you around.”

Joker's message played in his earpiece. Alistair had left it turned on in case anyone found any living geth. So far, it was sounding ok – lots of dead robots, but also plenty of dead people to go with it. They had kept the Citadel, but the 5th fleet had taken quite a hit. That one had hurt – the Hong Kong had been a part of that. Now... well he had lost friends.

“Yeah, I just needed to clear my head. Are we cleared to go?”

He could hear Joker patching into something on the other side. “In about an hour. Totally psyched for our next destination, though. Who doesn't love the Terminus system?”

The sarcasm in his voice could had stripped paint, and the remains of the Council chamber needed it as Alistair finally started his approach. Here the ground was marred with fragments from bullets and energy blasts, but any bodies had long since been cleared away. There was still blood and oil, though – that the Keepers hadn't gotten to yet. They were trying, though. He had to give them that, even if it made his stomach turn.

“Hopefully it'll just be a quick trip. Now that the Council know...”

He paused, frowning. “Scratch that, knowing them they won't admit we almost got defeated by a Reaper invasion on the Citadel.”

“No doubt. They're probably just sending us to look good.” There was a beeping on the other end. “That would be someone from the Alliance. Talk to you when you get back, Commander.”

The line went dead after that, leaving the Spectre in silence as he climbed the broken steps, surrounded by the debris. When he closed his eyes, he could still see Saren pointing his gun at his head and firing. The wind carried the sound of his broken body hitting the ground yards below, and the sigh of relief they had all felt once it was over.

And then the bastard had popped up for round two.

Saren's Reaper-modified body was gone now, though. It had long since been cleared away to wherever they had taken it for study and disposal. The turians were probably furious about that – or they were sweeping the whole thing under the rug. In some aspects, they were very much like his own species when it came to one of their own fucking up.

Though, to be fair, Saren had been brainwashed.

Alistair frowned as he came to a stop at the top of the stairs. Here, he and Saren had talked briefly before the end had come. The man had been struggling – they had been so close to convincing him. Who knew what information they had lost with that bullet? Just thinking about it made him grit his teeth as he gripped the broken railing.

“How the hell could he have let Sovereign implant him?”

“I dunno... weird fucking Reaper bullshit? You're the tech expert, not me.”

A human voice caused him to pick up his head. It was coming from his blind side, so he had to do a full body turn. There was someone else in the Council chamber, sitting on a chunk of ceiling that had fallen in the final assault. When they locked eyes, she hopped off and joined him at the railing.

Bo had gotten out of the hospital about an hour before him, so it was no surprise she was here too.

“Figured you'd show up sooner or later.” She kicked a rock and watched as it sailed across the chamber. “It wasn't sitting right with me either.”

No... they had both discussed it in the hospital after the investigators and the Council had cleared out. Everything Saren had said and done before the final shot kept playing through his mind as he stared at where the turian had once been. It was like it was burned into his memory.

“What kind of power would it have taken to get Saren to agree to the implantation process?” He frowned. “Just how strong is indoctrination?”

It was a dumb question – he knew from Noveria that it was strong enough to take out an asari matriarch like Benezia. If it could get to Saren and allow what had happened, then anyone was a target. And lucky them, the Citadel was still covered in Reaper fragments.

How long until a child picked one up and started the process all over again?

“I still think you should've just shot him. Even I could see there wasn't a way back from what he'd become.” She shrugged. “But we know-”

Alistair rolled his eyes as he added, “I know. I'm a paragon of virtue and a save the day superhero. What can I say, there was a moment where it looked like I was getting through to him. Maybe he could've helped us with the Reapers.”

But even as he said that, he knew better. Their control was too perfect to allow for something like that. Even if he had talked Saren down, it wouldn't have lasted. Eventually, the Reapers would have taken control. He would've been dead, either in the Council chamber or in a cell.

That didn't help his guilt any, though. It never did.

Still, he sighed as he glanced around. “What a mess.”

“Yeah, the Keepers haven't gotten here yet.” Bo stooped to pick up a fragment of something. “Hey, I think I found that piece of armor Vakarian was missing. That should cheer him up about the whole Reapers are coming to kill us thing, right?”

Oh, totally. Anyone would be happier after seeing a former Spectre shoot themselves in the head to avoid control by the Reapers.

Still... it was a mess. No denying that. He kicked a rock with his foot, watching it bounce into what had been the podium at one point. Honestly, it was hard to believe this was the same chamber where he and Bo had both become Spectres such a short time ago. Part of him had to wonder if the Council was regretting or celebrating that choice. Since they were still alive and fucking owed the Alliance a 5th fleet sized favor, maybe he would ask them sometime.

That was after hitting Terminus, however. They had work to do.

“Hey... do you think we're going to run into anyone else like Saren?” Bo was still picking through the debris. “You know, souped up with Reaper tech and with scrambled brain?”

He shrugged. “Most likely. The Reapers don't seem the type to give up after one attempt. We're going to have to figure out a way to know.”

Bo found another piece of armor, though it looked like it belonged to the geth. “Besides the weird tech sticking out of them and the zombie look?”

Yeah, besides that.

Alistair sighed and shook his head once more as he turned his back on the podium. Maybe he had been hoping by coming back, he'd get some insight into Saren. Unfortunately, all he got was a headache and a look at the Keepers trying to rebuild everything. At least he was up and walking, which was more than the doctor could have hoped for.

Everything still hurt, but he could walk.

“We should get back to the Normandy. The Terminus system is waiting.”

Bo rolled her eyes as she fell into step behind him as they started to walk. “Last I checked, you were still the Normandy's CO. Unless they kicked us both out and gave Pressley the job while we were out, that means we're not going anywhere without you.”

“Well, at least we wouldn't get lost in the system if our navigator was running the show, though I doubt our newer crewmates wouldn't appreciate that much.” Alistair found himself chuckling weakly despite everything. “Sometimes I forget it's my ship still.”

His XO nudged him in her version of a light joke, but it almost launched him. “Then paint a fucking hamster on it or something. We could make it a tribute to Fluffytail.”

Ah, yes. Poor Fluffytail. Wet tail had gotten him just before Ilos. He'd lived a good life, albeit a short one. It still hurt to look at his empty cage, but it wasn't like Citadel Critters was open for a replacement. Besides, he wasn't ready.

Maybe in 6 months...

“There's an idea. I'm sure we've got some paint somewhere.”

“Fuck yeah, that's the spirit.”

Both squinted as they exited the presidium. Around them, recovery and construction were in high swing. To say it was noisy was putting it mildly as they started to walk back to the docks where the Normandy was. It was hard to even hear himself think as he avoided a pile of rubble that still leaked oil.

Would he know what indoctrination looked like, though? Benezia had looked ok, and so had Saren until he had gotten souped up by the Reapers. If it was that subtle, anyone they ran across could be under their control. Hell, the crew themselves were suspect...

Maybe he needed to come up with a scan or a test or something. Like check question one if your thoughts aren't your own...

“He's not paying attention to me, is he, Shepard?”

“Nope, totally in his own world. Hang on, I gotta keep him from eating shit.”

A strong hand suddenly yanked Alistair back. He blinked, and realized in his thought spiral had taken him down the path and almost into a light pole. Luckily, Bo had two working eyes and was strong enough to haul a 145 pound weight back before he collided with it. It was moments like these he was glad she was there and able to wrestle krogan.

Bo rolled her eyes as she put him back down. “Quit doom spiraling, there's more shit to beef it on that usual.”

“Right... sorry.” He shook his head. “Sounds like I'm missing something from Joker too. What's up?”

The pilot chuckled in his ear. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Commander. I was just telling the Commander that we're getting the coordinates for our first location. We're waiting on you, unless you really want us to stage a mutiny or something and leave you on the Citadel to brood.”

Well, he'd be pretty impressed if Joker could stage a mutiny without breaking anything, but that was beside the point.

Alistair nodded as his feet found the path again. Details were already starting to stream into his omni-tool about where they were heading. Doubt still ate at his stomach as he read them over, but he pushed them aside. They had a job to handle, and since they were the only living Alliance members that knew what indoctrination looked like that meant it was on them.

Maybe in time, he'd be able to develop something for the rest of the Alliance. Though he doubted they'd accept it... well, it was easy enough to hack their email server without them knowing about it when you knew where a few back doors were.

“Looks like someone's feeling better. What, you planning to hack the Council or something?”

That time he chuckled as they started to approach the docks, the Normandy waiting in the distance. “No, just remembering where I kept my key to get into the Alliance email server. Figured we might need it to get a message out one day.”

“I always knew you were a little chaos gremlin under that mask of civility.”

Indeed, and the chaos gremlin was itching to go find some Reapers to study. Maybe this next mission wouldn't be too terrible after all. Besides, what was the worst that could happen while they were out there? It wasn't like a Reaper was going to appear out of nowhere and blow his damn ship up while they were planet scanning.

That be weird. Luckily, nothing like that was probably going to happen.

[crunchyspicysalmon]

I’ve one again thought about things with a sober, clear mind, have been trying to use my psych degree brain as well. First off the whole post was... bad that’s something I hope all of us Lana fans agree with (RIGHT??). Her response was also not favourable. However we don’t know her circumstances or the context in which she wrote this. It was a random post at 3-4am. Her statement did not have to involve tearing down her peers in the industry. She could be going through something? I want her to grow and learn from this and become a better person and I hope she can achieve that.

I completely jumped off the edge when I saw the screenshot leaks of her telling off her fans. As a Lana fan for 7-8 years now, I just felt completely betrayed. I should have questioned the validity of those screenshots (bc they’re allegedly fake - I hope). I felt due to the tone of entitlement in her original statement, it was hard to think she did not message the group chat those nasty things. I was so upset because I’ve spent so much time and money on her music because it spoke to me. I wish she could realize that she has a fan base who are dedicated to her music and care about her wellbeing.

As an artist it’s vital that you take criticism. It is very evident that she has issues receiving it, and ends up becoming incredibly defensive by lashing out. I want to support her again so bad I genuinely do, but I really think she needs to take time away from social media and reflect on what has just unfolded.

[twigstarpikachutroll22]

Day 3 of #30daysofautismacceptance

April 3: Talk about special interests. Do you have any? What are they? How long have you had them? What does it feel like to have special interests? What does having special interests mean to you? Talk about your past special interests

What comes immediately to mind is Trolls. As one might know from a post a couple days ago...or just from a bunch of posts I reblog...or from my icon and blog header and all that. In any case, Trolls came out November 4th 2016, when I was in 7th grade, and I saw it a day later.

The special interest kicked in FAST. It was, like, all I could think about all day every day, all I wanted to talk about, everything could be associated with it for me. I would blurt out random quotes from it at random times. I would listen to the songs a jillion times over. I would scour the internet for anything and everything related to it that I could find. Read all the wiki pages and memorized all kinds of information. Played the few games on the website over and over until I had the routes of every level of the maze game memorized. Looked at all the screenshots and stuff on Google Image searches. Any clips that were available on YouTube I would watch over and over every day. And the parts of it that had just been completely unexpected and blown my mind in a way no other movie had before leaving me with no idea what to think? My brain would, like, short-circuit at the thought of them, but there were times when they’d somehow fascinate me because of all that and I’d sometimes take a moment by myself just to think about them and start to enjoy the shock they sent through me until I started to understand their meaning more and they became my absolute favorite parts for all that.

Eventually, it started leaking into my life in other ways. I didn’t like glitter until I after I saw Trolls, now I frickin’ love it. I already HAD loved music and singing, but that got taken to much higher levels and became much more important to me after seeing Trolls, and I got a bit less shy about singing in public. Trolls was also my inspiration for starting to throw big, crazy digital parties on a certain website I spent a lot of time on. And what made me more conscious of the importance of positivity, and though I was already a sunny person to begin with (albeit taken down a notch or three by some pretty bad experiences I’d had leading up to this), I like to think Trolls gave me a boost in that area too.

I could go on and on and on about all the ways this special interest changed my life. But this is kinda getting long already.

At this point, I can actually sorta feel the special interest winding down, which makes me really sad to think about. I don’t think about it nearly as much as I used to or spend nearly as much time listening to the songs or just doing anything related to it, and when I do it doesn’t feel as riveting as it used to. But I am still pumped for the sequel coming in...HOLY FRICK IS IT SERIOUSLY ONLY TWO WEEKS NOW?!?!?! NDKLFNSDIOBSDFIODB KDNFKAD FKANFORBGOURBGPISNFSN  FKSLDNGSGBSIOGSBIFO SBGOBGIORBGOIHFOUHROUWEFNSDKLBDSJLGBSDOFSBOGIRBFIONFIONGILNGIBGIOGBOIGBOIFNOGBOGBIOG--

Ahem. Ha ha, sorry, I just....AAH!!!!!!! Anyways, I’m still PSYCHED for that, and I hope it blows me away as much as the first did. Or at least something fairly close to that. And I do still get absolutely ecstatic anytime I see Trolls merch in a store or some little kid wearing a Trolls bag or carrying Trolls toys. And the general impact it’s had on my life has stuck with me. And actually, I think a certain ship from it might be something like a special interest for me now, just that specific aspect and not every single aspect.

Anyways, I should mention some past special interests of mine, right?

Well, I think ducks might’ve been my very first. There wasn’t really a specific reason, though I attributed it to the ducklings being cute, but when I was, like, three years old, and for some years after, I just LOVED ducks. So much. I had this great big collection of hundreds and hundreds of little toy ducks. All different colors, all different designs and, like, costumes, a range of sizes, we had enough to fill BIG plastic bins. I got excited every time I saw a duck. To this day I have a little soft spot for them.

And I was really fixated on the Geronimo Stilton series for some time in first or second grade. For some reason my overly dramatic and imaginative self ended up always pretending I was slowly turning into a mouse because I loved those books so much. I dunno what the heck, I was, like, literally seven years old, okay?

There was also a period of time where I really liked Ash from the movie adaptation of Fantastic Mr. Fox, and he was constantly on my mind. To the point where I mistook it for a crush, because my mom had said having a crush on someone was “really really really really liking him” and thinking about him all the time, and she never specified that it meant in a romantic way. Boy did THAT lead to some embarrassing memories...

Pokemon was a REEEALLY big special interest of mine starting the summer before third grade when I picked up Pokemon White. I can’t give specific examples of anything here, just that I was really really REALLY into this game, and into pokemon battles and pokemon in general. And for years after that I always carried two of those books in my backpack that were like a pokedex and had all the pokemon in ‘em with stats and facts and types and moves it could learn and everything. Because duh, what kind of pokemon trainer would I be if I didn’t always keep one of those on me? I had friends to share that special interest with. I remember one friend had all kinds of stats and facts memorized including what moves certain pokemon could learn and would tell them to me. Me and him actually had a ton of imaginary friends that were pokemon that could talk like humans and all had names and personalities and in some cases outfits and super awesome clubhouses and over-the-top backstories and all kinds of relationships with each other. We’d talk all the time about the stuff they’d get up to together, all the friendships and rivalries.

So, like...yeah, I think this is where I’m gonna end it. MAN I rambled on for a long time with this XD XD

In any case, special interests are AWESOMESAUCETASTIC. Do neurotypicals honestly NOT get this intensely into anything? This level of love/passion/obsession for anything? Because if so, then, like, I feel sorry for them. Really I do. That sounds sad. I wouldn’t trade having special interests for ANYTHING, man.

[aconitemare]

Asylum: The Fixations of Ivan Braginski

Read on AO3 // Read on FFN

<<Previous Chapter 

Summary: “You were close to Alfred prior to the incident, weren’t you, Ivan?” his doctor asks. Ivan’s eyes slide lazily over to her if only to avoid rudeness. He tries to avoid rudeness with Héderváry. Out of everyone here, she probably wields the most power over him.

He suspects she is catching onto him, although that’s hardly relevant when he’s already sealed the deal: he is insane. This is where he belongs.

Ivan doesn’t like these circumstances, but Ivan hasn’t liked many of his circumstances in life. He’s learned to live nonetheless, if not thrive during some high points.

A/N: Cowritten with @writingandchocolatemilk

The sun is spilling over into the white-walled, white-floored, white-ceiling common room. Dr. Elizabeta Héderváry has pulled up two chairs for them in a secluded spot right by the glass wall overlooking the hospital gardens. His gaze is downcast; the light, while refreshing, is causing his eyes to ache.            He remembers his father telling him that the sunlight was always worse for those with fair eyes. He remembers asking his mom why that was and her answering, “Because they’re so pretty, the sun wants them for itself.”            Funny, Ivan reflects, how little things from childhood carry over like that. He wonders if it would make sense to his mother, this thing with Alfred. If her explanation would contain the same logic.            “You were close to Alfred prior to the incident, weren’t you, Ivan?” his doctor asks. Ivan’s eyes slide lazily over to her if only to avoid rudeness. He tries to avoid rudeness with Héderváry. Out of everyone here, she probably wields the most power over him.

Ivan cannot circumvent her power like he usually tries to with people, particularly the people in the ward. He finds most people easy to pin like butterflies. Upon their initial meeting, Ivan didn’t think of her as a potential exception. She’s an honest woman, or at least seems to be, and there’s an accidental bluntness to the way she speaks sometimes like she forgets she’s a therapist and not a peer. Yet every time Ivan thinks he might get somewhere with her, the professional boundary slams down between them like a firewall.

He suspects she is catching onto him, although that’s hardly relevant when he’s already sealed the deal: he is insane. This is where he belongs.            Ivan doesn’t like these circumstances, but Ivan hasn’t liked many of his circumstances in life. He’s learned to live nonetheless, if not thrive during some high points.

Ivan’s eyes catch on Ludwig, the guard in his pocket. One of many employees in his pocket. He is talking to Feliciano, the schizophrenic who’s always on the verge of tears, while Feliciano plays a one-man game of jenga on a plastic table in a fold-out chair. Ivan wants to tut at Ludwig for being so transparent, but he knows why he’s being bold as of late. Alfred has thrown the ward into a tizzy over his stunt and it may be awhile before anyone regains the energy to scrutinize interactions that don’t outright involve boxcutters.

“Ivan?” Dr. Héderváry prods. “Are you with me still?” It’s the subtle, unprofessional impatience that leaks into her tone that goads Ivan into cracking a smile.

“I haven’t forgotten you,” he assures, returning to their conversation. He considers outing Ludwig right now, but he tamps the anger down instead. Ludwig is not wholly useless yet. However much it feels that way with an empty, quiet bedroom.

Ivan tilts his head and feigns having to think about Dr. Héderváry’s question. “Yes, you could say we were close. I was closer to him than I was to, say, Lukas. Or yourself,” Ivan throws in for the sake of distancing himself from her in a conversation with such a slippery edge. Revealing his cards now may remove all possibility in the future of reuniting with Alfred. “But whether I was closer to Alfred than Feliciano was, well, that I cannot vouch for. Sharing a room with someone for six months doesn’t make for acquaintances, but neither does it make for best friends.” Here, Ivan smiles politely with the faintest hint of amusement, like the whole situation is silly to make sense of.

He watches Dr. Héderváry’s face. She does not have a poker face so he takes advantage of this by always tracking her expressions when he plays along. She’s visibly mulling over Ivan’s half-confession. Her lips quirk to the side; shrugging with her mouth. “I guess you’re right,” she decides.

Ivan feels some relief at successfully navigating his first session post-incident. Mostly, though, he wants to play jenga with Alfred.

Alfred talks an excruciating amount. Ivan does not welcome it at first. Natalya had sent him a box of his books from home, and although he’s read them all before, anything worth finishing the first time is worth starting again. Ivan is used to time with his thoughts and his books; he hasn’t had a roommate since his first partner requested to be away from him; a request that certainly would not have been granted had Feliciano not mentioned being uncomfortable in the dark alone.

Ivan learned quickly how things worked around here. He didn’t confront Ludwig right away because Ivan didn’t know what he wanted yet that wasn’t already provided, either through his eldest sister Katyusha who worked in security or his youngest Natalya who, since childhood, had a way of getting what she wanted that Ivan genuinely envied. Doors didn’t part for Ivan the way they did naturally to pretty, soft-spoken girls like his sisters. This is fine with him; he trusts them both to always work in his interest.

Nonetheless, there isn’t much else available in a psych ward beyond extra perks in the commissary and a camera that never notices when Ivan takes out items he probably shouldn’t have.

Until Alfred, that is, who is a migraine and a half to share space with. He bounces his knees and taps his feet constantly. He manages to pace the tiny floor of their room every day, which would be impressive if it wasn’t aggravating. It was like living with a puppy that didn’t want to be housebroken. This early on, Ivan has not yet learned how to handle Alfred.

It gets easier when he stops tuning him out. Alfred is not always coherent, but he is entertaining and his company becomes a reprieve from his one-sided relationship with books. Alfred regales him with daring accounts of his firefighting adventures, which soon become touching recounts of the lives he’s healed as a doctor, and occasionally James Bond-esque missions will decorate his memories from spyhood, which are top secret and only revealed to Ivan because the same agency must have deployed them here. Ivan appreciates the spy fantasies the most for their applicability to daily life in the hospital. The General would be Ivan’s favorite character, whose schemes compose much of Alfred’s struggles and quests.

It’s during his doctor phase that Ivan asks for a diagnosis from “Dr. Jones.”

Alfred sits in a chair in the common room, wholly transfixed on the text before him referencing medications and the DSM-5 in every sentence. It’s one of the books Ivan studied for his graduate degree. It’s not a light read by any means, nor an enjoyable one. “If you would allow me to pick your brain,” Ivan asks cordially, standing beside him.

Alfred does not look up from Ivan’s textbook. “Well, you’re a clearly a neurotic,” he says to Ivan’s surprise. “What with your lack of trust and your conspiracy theories.” Ivan has never seen such a direct example of projection. He feels a little pang of excitement, not like how one might feel on a rollercoaster, but — similar, he supposes, to when starting a long trip to a place he’s never been before. “Not to mention your general shiftiness,” adds Alfred.

Ivan quirks an eyebrow. “I’m shifty?”

Alfred looks up at him from the open book. His eyes are round with honesty and a bright blue more genuine than the sky. “Yeah, you didn’t want a roommate, right?” he points out. Ivan wouldn’t call that the case, but he knows by now Alfred is set to believe Ivan was the one with the problem their first night at 3am. “Distrustful of someone new,” Alfred explains, reasoning packed up nice and neat.

Ivan can’t fault him on that last part. Ivan has trusted people’s known longer less. But he thinks he enjoys Alfred nonetheless and, despite himself, finds him to be objectively trustworthy. Alfred can hardly remember anything that doesn’t have his name in it, let alone something he could use against Ivan. “Actually, I’m very pleased with the turn of events that led to my new roommate,” he confesses. Alfred is a novel experience and a reason to look forward to the otherwise redundancy of the hospital. “Thank you, Alfred, this has been enlightening.”

Alfred may have also added something that wasn’t present even in Ivan’s life before the court order. What it is, Ivan isn’t sure, but he thinks he’s getting warmer when he squeezes Alfred’s elbow on his way past.

Alfred is tucked into the arm of the floor’s only loveseat. He’s only reading a comic book, but Ivan has noticed him linger on pages longer than necessary and even flip back a few times. His focus is somewhere else, which is strange, because even before the medications kicked in Alfred was easily engrossed by his reading.

Ivan walks over to him. “May I sit?” he asks.

Alfred’s eyes flicker up briefly before returning to the page. “Free country.”

“For some,” Ivan agrees and takes a seat. The cushions are just a bit small for him, and the way Alfred is sitting with his feet up on the couch makes some touching inevitable. Ivan ignores how Alfred wiggles his toes inside his socks and how the tiny movements brush against Ivan’s thighs. He tries to ignore them anyways. He is not doing too well. “Your brother visits you often,” he comments. It’s not an accurate statement; Ivan actually receives far more visits than Alfred and Feliciano has a visitor every day. Mattie’s visits are irregular and spaced out over the course of weeks. Ivan is looking for a place to start, that’s all.

Alfred scoffs and turns a page too roughly. The thin paper tears in the middle. “If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll stop,” he says stormily. Ivan is mildly surprised; he’s fairly sure Mattie is his only visitor.

“You would be alone without him,” informs Ivan. “Only Mattie ever comes, yes?”

Alfred bristles. “What of it?”

“Family is important, Alfred, you don’t want to risk isolating yourself. Mattie is your only connection to your family.”

“How do you know that?” Alfred eyes him suspiciously. Ivan is just pleased he is gaining Alfred’s full attention.

“Well,” says Ivan, spreading out his palms, “they’re not here, are they?”

Alfred glares at him before looking sulkily at the pages. “Shut up,” he says.

Ivan purses his lips so he doesn’t smile. It is hard not to smile around Alfred. “Where is your father, Alfred?” he pushes.

“Fathers,” Alfred says.

“Hm?”

“I have two. Dad and Pop,” Alfred elaborates. Ivan realizes he was being corrected. Before he can prod, Alfred continues, “Neither of them are my biggest fans.” The admission is an unhappy one that easily betrays the nonchalance he is trying to affect.

“I find that hard to believe,” Ivan lies.

Alfred snorts. “Believe it. Papa never trusted me and Dad is convinced I’m full of it and only here for, I don’t know, shits and giggles probably.”

Ivan leans his head back and considers Alfred. It looks like he’s trying to build a wall around himself. His shoulders are hunching and, to Ivan’s dismay, his feet have pulled in enough to allow space between their bodies. Ivan plucks a brick from the wall. “Do you want them to visit you?”

Alfred lets his issue fall to his lap. He rests his elbow on the arm of the couch and props his head up. He’s facing Ivan, but his eyes are closed. “Don’t know,” he finally says. “It’s been a long time since Dad’s been happy to see me. Seeing me here would make that worse.”

It’s the most sober Ivan has ever seen him. He wishes Alfred would open his eyes for it.

“And Papa?” Ivan says, ever so softly so as not to scare him off.

Alfred does his open his eyes for this. “We gave up on each other a while ago.” Alfred smiles, his feet pushing out.

Ivan lets Alfred return to pretending to read his comic and enjoys the nervous toes pressing into his thigh.

 Alfred is like one of Ivan’s old students. He’s young and mercurial, prone to passion that carries him halfway and then drops off before the finish line. There are glimpses of intelligence that are sparked by special interests, but anything short of exciting is not merely dismissed but rejected with a degree of indignation. Ivan finds himself slipping into lectures around him. At least, he suspects they are lectures because he tends to drone on with little response from his audience. Nonetheless, it is a habit Ivan is not particularly motivated to kick as it fills the silence and lends him an opportunity to explore his thoughts aloud.

           Ivan offers reading suggestions but Alfred shakes his head and says they’re too wordy. “Does every book you own try to use the biggest words possible?” he gripes.

Ivan knows it’s just an excuse of many, but he takes the bait anyway. “Precision in language is an advantage you shouldn’t take lightly. There are languages with far fewer means of expression as well languages with far more. One says ‘extraordinary’ rather than simply ‘great’ because ‘extraordinary’ better captures the breadth of its significance. How else would you say that something is so great that is beyond the ordinary?” Ivan poses.

           Alfred tosses Ivan’s copy of A Man Called Ove back in the box and shoves it under Ivan’s bed. “Just like that, I guess,” he mutters. “Nothing wrong with using full sentences.”

           “Ah, but even those sentences are restricted when we try to eschew words uncommon in colloquial speech. After all, how frequently do humans actually say what they feel in explicit detail?” asks Ivan. “We contain depths that are unknown to even ourselves until we put words to them. Did you know it is philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein who said, ‘The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.’ We conceptualize reality around the vocabulary available to us, and the vocabulary available to us is shaped by the perceptions shared by our unique society.”

           Ivan nearly jumps when Alfred settles his head onto his knee. Ivan pushes himself to continue talking without fully understanding what he’s saying. He doubts Alfred is listening anyway, which is a small comfort. Ivan doesn’t understand how they got into this position; Ivan sitting on his bed with Alfred nearly between his legs, cheek on his knee. Nothing leading up to this point had stood out to him. It was just Ivan and Alfred as they always are, talking at each other more than to each other, each seeking an escape in books that never changed and always let go eventually.

           Ivan looks at Alfred, this ever-changing man who varies by the hour and excites as much as allays him, and thinks he does not want to let go. Carefully, Ivan removes the crooked glasses from Alfred’s nose so they won’t get bent. Still talking, he folds the glasses and sets them to the side. As he waxes on about the expressive nature of language, about its ability to give life to latent thoughts, Ivan thinks that he may not have to let go.

           It was only a matter of time before Ludwig became useful. Ivan definitely did not expect this to be the favor he calls in, but it’s a worthy one all the same. The lights have been out for an hour and Ludwig still has two hours left to his shift. Ivan can be satisfied with three hours total. It is more than he would have with any other guard.

           On the bed opposite him, Alfred is for once blissfully asleep. It is the ideal night to do this. Ivan waits until he hears familiar footsteps nearing his room, then slips out the cover and pads softly into the hall. The lights are dimmed but still on and Ivan meets Ludwig halfway so he doesn’t wake Alfred. “Get in your room, Braginski,” Ludwig immediately orders. Ivan holds his ground and smiles.

          “Security is sparse at night, isn’t it?” he remarks, keeping his hands in front of him so as not to spook the man. It’s not just sparse on the floor, either; Ivan has a sister who works the cameras three in the morning. Most days, she’ll be the only one checking aside from Ludwig.

           Ludwig visibly appraises Ivan, narrowed eyes roaming from his feet to his scalp. He doesn’t reach for his taser, which is a good sign, although his pace has slowed significantly. Ivan hardly had a calming presence as a tenure-track professor with a fiancé and a good home, but it is entertaining to see how much people recoil from him now.

           “Get in your room,” Ludwig repeats.

“Just you in this hall,” Ivan continues.

Ludwig’s hand moves to his utility belt. The warning is not lost on Ivan. “I’m enough,” Ludwig assure. “Now get in your room and lie down.”            Ludwig is losing patience as Ivan’s aberrant behavior gets to him. Best to move things along. “You are enough for Vargas for sure. But sir, who is to watch the rest of us when you are watching our little Feliciano?”

Ivan fancies that Ludwig’s blanched face pair nicely with the bleach-white of the walls. “Excuse me?” Ludwig says, quiet and rough. Danger lies on his tongue like a serrated edge, but the growl is a tell in itself.

Ivan doubts he has to spell it out for him. There’s no confusion in Ludwig’s eyes. It is refreshing, being on the same page so quickly with someone. Ivan thinks he might have liked Ludwig outside the hospital as just two men hiding poor life decisions. “How about tonight — or tomorrow even, if you would prefer a day to think about your situation — you keep an eye on our friend Feliciano and I keep an eye on my roommate?” Ivan propositions. “Think of it as a buddy system.”

           Ludwig glances quickly between Ivan and his room where Alfred is fast asleep. “You think I’m like you,” he says.

           “I know you are,” Ivan replies.

           “I should’ve transferred you out of here the second I saw the signs,” Ludwig says angrily, stalking towards Ivan. “Relationships between patients are strictly prohibited — ”

           “Oh, indeed!” Ivan concurs. “Unfortunately, so are relationships between patients and staff. In fact, any case you could launch against me would soon be pushed to the side when I revealed just why you were so motivated to transfer one of us.”

           Ludwig freezes. He looks uneasily at Ivan’s room. “He knows too?”

           Ivan nods with a sympathetic smile. It’s a lie, of course; Alfred would play Ivan’s cards the second he opened his mouth. But Ludwig needs to fear both of them for this to work.

          Ludwig’s jaw clenches and he shakes his head, slow and pained. “We’re not like you two, just remember that. Feli isn’t like you. He’s fallen on a rough patch but he’s got family and a good head on his shoulders.”

           Ivan lets his amusement play on the cold upturn of his lips. “Oh, he’s special, is he?” he mocks.

           “He is,” Ludwig answers without hesitation. “He’s getting better and one day, he’s going to get out of here and we’re going to be together. The correct way. Whatever sick thing you’ve got going on with that headcase in there, it’s doomed. You can’t afford a lawyer good enough to reopen your case and Jones? He’s only going to get worse in here.”

           Ivan is grinning now with all his teeth. He locks his fists behind his back so Ludwig can’t see him clenching them. “Maybe one day,” he admits, thinking of Feliciano with a clean bill of health in the arms of a man no better than Ivan. “But that day does depend on how well we get along tonight, doesn’t it?”

“Why are you here, Ivan?”

He’s not prepared for the question. He thinks of how to answer without answering. He thinks of the evidence laid out before him, how pleading not guilty just wasn’t an option. He thinks of Katyusha and how relief overtook her in shaking shoulders and muffled sobs. He replays the faces of Tommy’s parents, how they contorted in disgust and grief when they knew Ivan would be okay. He remembers Tommy.

“Because I was ordered to be here,” says Ivan. Before Alfred can inquire further, he asks, “And why are you here, Alfred?”

Alfred is silent long enough that Ivan believes he’s dropped the conversation. Then a voice arrives from the silence, not small but still scared. “I’m not like Feli,” Alfred insists.

Ivan smiles fondly at Alfred even though he can’t even see it through the thick darkness. Ivan finds himself smiling for just himself more than he ever has before. “No,” he agrees. No, you are most certainly not like Feliciano. Which begs the question, doesn’t it?”

“I think Matthew put me here,” he speculates, but it’s no more an answer than Ivan’s. Alfred must not be in the mood to answer the million dollar question either. Instead he asks Ivan, “Do you think that medication works?”

Ivan searches his memory for what Alfred called it. He does his best to stay in Alfred’s world with him. “Flutix?” he recalls.

“No, the shit they give me,” Alfred snaps. “The same bullshit they give Feli. Do you think it works? Do you think it’s working? Do you — ”

Ivan interrupts before Alfred can work himself into a panic. “I certainly think it does something.” He doesn’t know if this is what Alfred wants to hear or doesn’t, but it is the truth. He’s more focused of late, sometimes for the better and sometimes, like now, for the worst. Alfred is in danger of thinking himself into a rabbit hole. No wonder his mind runs rampant with delusions, Ivan muses. All those thoughts had to go somewhere.

Alfred falls back onto his bed, head hitting the pillow with a heavy thump. He’s pressing his hands into his eyes, rubbing violently, and Ivan is up before he can think his next action through. Ivan gently, gently holds Alfred’s wrist and sets it on the pillow. Alfred jerks his eyes open when he does, but they slip shut in within seconds. Ivan squeezes Alfred’s wrist again, feels the pulse beating beneath his skin before quitting his side. He settles back onto his bed and counts Alfred’s breaths until Ivan falls asleep.

           “My kid knew you.”

           Ivan looks up from his tray to the cafeteria worker. Her auburn hair is tied into a neat bun but otherwise there’s no net. She has more crow’s feet than lines on her forehead, so she’s probably lived a relatively happy life. Ivan says nothing; waits for her to give him back his tray with his order. She doesn’t do that, just keeps looking at him with the order slip in her hand.

           “He says you were a good professor,” she adds. Ivan doesn’t know where she’s taking this but he finds himself slightly grateful that, if he had to find the one person in the hospital directly related to his past, it probably wasn’t the parent of one the students he failed. “I don’t watch the news too much,” she continues, “it’s chock full of sad things and I don’t have the energy for that. I asked Steve not to tell me or it will keep me up at night. Would it?”

           Ivan almost tells her yes. Instead, he says, “I don’t know how appropriate this conversation is.” He glances behind his shoulder at where Alfred is sitting. He always sits with Feliciano. Ivan still hasn’t received a proper invite to sit at his lunch table so he just sits at the table in front of his where he can watch his expressions and movements from a distance.

           The cafeteria worker shrugs and begins assembling his tray. “Not much appropriate left in the world, I’m afraid,” she observes. She fixes the Jell-O cup atop the tray as the finishing touch. “And what little there is, isn’t here.”

           Ivan takes the order when she hands it to him. Ivan hums in agreement, taking stock of the food today: chicken parmesan with a white bread slice, an apple, microwaved green beans, and of course, dessert in the form of Jell-O. Ivan can’t remember a time a balanced meal offered less real nutrition. He’s about to take his usual spot when he overhears Alfred’s voice raising. He stands in the middle of the cafeteria, his curiosity stilling him as Alfred waves something in front of Feliciano’s face. He’s standing on his knees at the table like a toddler, looming over the small schizo and his weepy brown eyes.

           “There’s other shit, too, you get more bathroom breaks at night, and I bet you there’s other shit I didn’t notice, either,” Alfred is ranting. Ivan is actually bordering on appreciative how Alfred’s body, still broad despite the lack of exercise softening his muscles, imposes itself over the frailer creature.

           Feliciano has to look up at Alfred as he tries to defend himself in a shaking voice on the verge of tears. Oh, Feliciano, Ivan thinks piteously, life is ever so trying for you. He has to wonder why no one on the clock has to jumped in with soothing words yet. He glances around but only one of the three nurses usually on the floor is in the room currently, and she’s reading a book at Ivan’s otherwise empty table. “I’m sure if I just tell — ”

           And Ivan steps in before Feliciano can follow that thought to a process and actually raise suspicion on himself. “Alfred,” Ivan beckons. He notices his fingers are clamped around his tray and consciously instructs his body to relax. Between two nervous wrecks and a guard afraid of his own desires, someone has to maintain a degree of poise. “Can I talk to you for a moment?” he says this as neutrally as possible, trusting that if one elevated voice was to carry to the nurse it would be Ivan’s, although makes sure it still comes off as an order and not a request.

           Alfred roughly breaks away from the table and leaves his tray there. Ivan presses a light hand to the small of Alfred’s back, guiding him forward. As he does, he smiles courteously at Feliciano, the poor bastard’s eyes actually welling with tears, and sets his own tray beside Alfred’s abandoned order. The two of them head over to a comparably private corner of the cafeteria, Alfred fuming beside him.

           Before Ivan can open his mouth, Alfred is off like a pop. “Listen, I’m telling you, Feli,” Alfred jabs his thumb angrily in Feliciano’s direction, “is shifty as fuck. I’ve been noticing all kinds of shit but not saying nothing, but that brownie is the final straw. Something is off, okay, I don’t know what but Feli definitely has connections — a key to this place or something; maybe he’s feeding notes through the heating vents to the kitchen — ”

           “Alfred,” Ivan interrupts in a heavy sigh. He’s pinching the bridge of his nose as if he could will his mounting frustration away. He’s finally rearranging the hospital into some resemblance of a life and Alfred is going to topple that with his fat mouth. He counts to three in his head before fixing Alfred with a cool stare. “Do you really think Feliciano could pull all that off?”

           Alfred doesn’t respond, just watches as Feliciano opposite the room tries to control his breathing. Ivan is certain Ludwig will hear about this and Ivan is not thrilled for tonight. Ludwig doesn’t have much on him, but deals like theirs are best maintained with little communication and excess tension. And if either Alfred or Feliciano take this brownie garbage up with staff, Ludwig will be out and there go Ivan’s nights.

           Feliciano may still bring up the matter of his party favor with someone trusted, like a nurse or his doctor, but Ivan is confident Ludwig will nip that in the bud. All Ivan has to worry about his own pet psycho looking like he’s ready to snap off Feliciano’s trembling hands. “Right, see,” Ivan murmurs, hoping to bring Alfred back to him with composure, “it doesn’t make sense for Feliciano to be the one orchestrating any grand brownie heist, does it?”

           Alfred’s brows fold and Ivan can tell he’s hard at work, disentangling his suspicions and trying to make sense of his constructed world again. It was amazing how Alfred just built cities of incredibly history and infrastructure within seconds. Ivan wonders if he’ll ever be able to tear them as down quickly; or if he’d rather live inside them with Alfred.

           “No,” Alfred slowly concedes. “He’s still caught up in something, though,” he insists, and there it is, the cogs turning in his blue-sky eyes; another city being built. “Something he has no idea about that’s right over his head, a mile high.” Alfred’s finger taps his bottom lip thoughtfully and Ivan has to resist the urge to pull it down, replace Alfred’s fingers with his own.

“It’s just a matter of who,” mutters Alfred. “Of course, the obvious answer is whoever’s keeping Feli here and, by extension, the people keeping me here — but why?” Alfred’s eyes snap up to Ivan’s, earnest if not one-sided. He’s not so much asking Ivan as asking Alfred’s reflection. “And what does the brownie have to do with it?”

Ivan rests his head against the wall and decides to wait this out. “Well, it’s obviously a reward,” Alfred says so quickly the sentence may as well be one long word. “Even if poor-stupid-Feli has no idea it is,” he says, emphasizing every syllable of his insult. He’s too close to home now and Ivan is itching to seize Alfred’s shoulders and shake him until all those thoughts fall out of his loose head, but he keeps going. “If there’s one thing Feli is, it’s talkative. He never shuts up, you know? He talks about tile colors and — flowers, dumb shit, so he is a spy, he has to be,” and as he talks, his volume is increasing and the people in the cafeteria are beginning to look at them warily.

“Come on, Alfred, you can do better than that,” Ivan coaxes. He smiles reassuringly over Alfred’s shoulder at Feliciano who is looking at them panicked. “I do wonder the coincidence, though,” he mentions and hopes Alfred’s mind sticks on the key word. “Don’t you?” he prods.

Alfred pauses and actually bites his lip, and that’s a new quirk, isn’t it? Ivan almost bites his own lip in a mirror image. Alfred is so beautiful. Ivan can tell he’s getting closer to another revelation when he starts rocking on the balls of his feet. “Okay, okay. It has to do with me, I bet you. I’m the only guy in this place who’s going to notice something like that, the only one who can put this together. It was a message from…” here, Alfred trails off, clearly frustrated as he hits a wall.

All that matters is that Alfred’s train of thought is on a safer path. “Feliciano as a means of communication,” Ivan repeats in order to cement the belief. “Yes, Alfred, I like that,” he approves. And because he can’t help it, not when Alfred’s eyes are so earnest and his face is so excited, he reaches out to pet his soft hair, smoothing back the cowlick that pops right back up from under his thumb. “Good boy,” he compliments.

The hours following the brownie incident are a practice of patience. The afternoon passes pleasantly for Ivan but Alfred is a wreck of chaotic energy, head swiveling to track the source of every sound, feet tapping, skin-picking. He’s like a dog with a bone and it’s Ivan can do to avoid being bitten when he tries to put it away — “Just for tonight,” he assures. “You don’t want to alert the others that you’re onto the game.”

Alfred nods, albeit with the slightest petulance to the pout of his lip. He sees the value of waiting till there’s fewer eyes even if he doesn’t want to. And so Ivan enjoys his book during reading time, occasionally placing a hand for brief moments on Alfred’s knee whenever it begins to shake too hard, and he even encourages him to play Monopoly with a few others during game time while he meets with Dr. Héderváry. She asks him leading questions while he insists on playing Solitaire. All is well.

The calm even lasts well into Ludwig’s shift starting at 4pm. Predictably, Ludwig hovers over Feliciano more than strictly necessary and only pries himself away when the nurses seem to be paying attention. Ivan is tempted to roll his eyes but doesn’t want to risk drawing any more attention to Ludwig and Feliciano than Alfred already has.

Look at Ivan worrying about eyes on him. Clearly Alfred is rubbing off on him.

Equally predictably, it’s the second Ivan is alone that Ludwig pounces. He sees Ludwig waiting by the door on his way out the bathroom and this time Ivan does roll his eyes. He stops short so there is an appropriate amount of distance between them, folds his hands in front of him, and says, “I take it little Feliciano told you of his day?”

This, apparently, is all Ludwig needs to jump in. “You keep Jones away from him, do you hear me? Your boy is bad news for him and I will not have him risk Feliciano’s progress.” His voice is hushed but not soft. Ivan appraises his body language, how Ludwig is practically leaning forward while glued in place. He’s impressed; he thinks Ludwig may have actually had the nerve to accost him had they been but two men on the street.

           Ivan sighs lightly for show. “I’m afraid you are not in a position to be giving the demands, Ludwig,” he mourns. “But if you have problems with my boy,” Ivan quotes, and though he means it ironically, he ends up liking the taste of it on his tongue, “by all means, take it up with him.”

           Figuring the conversation finished, Ivan walks forward. He thinks he’ll join the knitting circle today for its last half hour, but he is stopped by Ludwig’s hand on his shoulder. He glanced down at the limb like a flea. “Is that such a good idea?” Ivan murmurs, his eyes tracing the tendon in Ludwig’s fist to his arm up to his enraged face.

           Ludwig doesn’t even bother checking behind his shoulder for onlookers. He gets right into Ivan’s space. Ivan immediately dislikes the invasion, is reviled by it, but stands his ground nonetheless. He gazes to one of the cameras meaningfully and hopes that sends Ludwig a message. The attempt is a failed one; Ludwig’s glare is so focused Ivan realizes quickly there’s no use in avoiding his next words:

           “I mean it, Braginski. If so much as a hair on his head is touched, if Alfred does absolutely anything to compromise Feliciano’s progress — I don’t give a damn what happens to me when they find out. I will come for you, and maybe you’ll be safe but you’ll have no one to cover for your sick ass when I’m gone.”

          Ivan stays stock still and simply stares Ludwig down for a while. To his surprise, there is not a hint of a bluff. And if Ivan is being honest with himself, Ludwig doesn’t seem the sort to lie about his pet. Eventually Ivan lets out a puff of air in a breathy chuckle. “Oh my,” he exclaims, “I do believe you’re serious, aren’t you? How touching,” he compliments, removing Ludwig’s hand from his shoulder with only a faint expression of disgust. Ludwig lets his hand drop to his side, still balled in an angry fist. “Alright, then, comrade,” Ivan agrees and winks.

He leans down close so his eyes are level with Ludwig’s. His voice is barely a whisper: “I’ll see what I can do about our boys, hm?”

           This time, Ludwig lets him leave. Ivan’s a tad irritated, he’ll admit, but he’s confident Alfred will do just fine with less one friend.

           Alfred paces their bedroom like a caged tiger. Back and forth, back and forth he goes in the sliver of space separating their beds. Natalya has sent Ivan a new book that was on his reading list, so he keeps his gaze on the pages and tries not to let Alfred’s nervous energy distract him. He is having little success.

           “I just can’t think,” Alfred says and digs his fingers into his scalp. “But I need to think, they want me to think, that’s why they’ve been doing all this, I just need to focus —because there is something up with that brownie —”            Ivan slams his book down on his lap. “For the love of God, Alfred, stop with the brownie,” he begs. He thought Alfred had moved past that, but apparently not. It’s getting difficult to decipher what goes on in Alfred’s head these days. The meds don’t stop his wheels from spinning; they just make the engine quieter. That much became clear during yesterday’s lunch with Feliciano.

           “I have a plan,” says Alfred, halting mid-step and looking Ivan dead in the eye.

           “A plan,” Ivan repeats, unimpressed. If it involves Feliciano whatsoever, Ivan doesn’t know how he’ll get Alfred to back off. He once again can’t help but envision Alfred a dog, this time chewing on a Feliciano-shaped squeaky toy.

           Alfred darts forward and leans over Ivan’s bed, tail practically wagging. “I have big tonsils,” he says like this right here is the key to the world.

           Ivan lifts his eyebrows and waits for Alfred’s usual elaboration. None is provided, but he doubts Alfred’s oral anatomy is going to directly involve his chew toy, so Ivan isn’t alarmed. He picks up his book and sifts through the paragraphs to find the sentence he left off on.

           Alfred squeezes the mattress impatiently. “Seriously, they’re big, Ivan. I used to look at them in the mirror when I was a kid and one time I made Matthew open his mouth and his were way, way smaller.”

Ivan has a brief moment wherein he tries to imagine what Alfred must have looked like as a young boy and not this broad-shoulder, muscular man before him whose world so easily bends to its knees. He can’t, which is a pity. “I hardly see what this has to do with the brownie,” Ivan says, “or more importantly, what this has to do with your special message.”

He wonders if Alfred has any pictures of himself as a kid online that Natalya or Katyusha could find him.

 The next morning comes and the nurses make their med rounds. Ivan takes his first, shifting his tongue this way and that and saying ‘ahh’ until the nurse is satisfied. They’re mood stabilizers and while they may have an effect on them, Ivan hasn’t noticed anything beyond general drowsiness — and even that could just be a symptom of the hospital itself and not the stabilizers. Alfred is summoned into the hall after him. ‘Miss Michelle,’ as she insists the patients call her, inquires into Alfred’s sleep last night as she hands him the pills in a cup. Alfred says he slept fine, thank you for asking, then he goes ‘ahh’ and is permitted to return to his bed.

Miss Michelle is already at the next room when Alfred walks back in and begins hacking into his hand. He holds out his palm and there, sticky and crumbling, are two little pills. Alfred is grinning proudly. “Tonsils,” he explains.

Ivan makes a mental note to guide Alfred towards a hand sanitizer dispenser later. “That was disgusting. But clever,” he acknowledges. He’s impressed by Alfred’s strange ingenuity. Alfred is at constant war with reality. For Ivan, a war like that would feel unwinnable. Around Alfred, though, the walls that build their world seem flimsy. They collapse, fall to the wayside, because what are walls to a man who can climb them?

Alfred puts Ivan’s efforts to shame.

Alfred brags about his cleverness while flicking the chalky remains into the heating vent. He strides over to Ivan, folding his arms over his chest and looking like a fallen king soon to reclaim his title. “Now I can think again,” he says, lifting his chin.

Ivan looks back at Alfred and admires the confidence in his brow, the strong jawline, the sheer way he holds himself as if he knows better and it’s the rest of the world that’s trapped. “And what a delight that will be,” murmurs Ivan.

“Wanna’ see ‘em?” Alfred asks. Ivan hums inquisitively. “My tonsils,” Alfred clarifies and opens his mouth wide.

Ivan places a finger under Alfred’s chin and gently elevates it. “They’re pretty big,” he agrees. He waits until Alfred is done demonstrating and then Ivan drags Alfred’s lips to his. Ivan means to keep it brief, but when he pulls away, Alfred follows in the same fluid motion. Ivan sucks on his bottom lip, reveling in how easy it is to take. He thinks of Alfred biting his lip that day in the cafeteria and nips at him, drags his bottom lip with his teeth. He’s about to go in for another kiss when he hears footsteps. Ivan’s hands come down on Alfred’s shoulders like cinder blocks and he thrusts Alfred off of him.

Nurse Erika, a petite blonde who wears ribbons in her hair like Natalya, pops her head in. “Are you two ready for breakfast?” she asks.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” answers Alfred. Ivan lets him lead the conversation as they follow Nurse Erika down the hall. Alfred’s abrasive voice strips away the moment they shared, giving none of them, least of all sweet Erika with ribbons in her hair, time to speculate where they were going and where they could’ve gone.

           It’s quiet time. Everyone is allowed to do whatever quiet activity they please except nap. That, Nurse Michell explains when she catches Ivan dozing off, would mess with their circadian rhythm. Although the hour has far more freedom than most of the day, the hospital has infected its patients with routine. Feliciano and Lukas rarely talk to each other, but every day during quiet time they sit side-by-side in the common room, Feliciano finger-painting and Lukas drawing with the bluntest pencil the nurses can find. Ivan used to read in the common room, listening to Alfred try to talk to others and getting shushed by nurses every five minutes. Now Ivan reads in their room and Alfred accompanies him.

Unlike the others, Alfred rarely spends quiet time in the same manner as yesterday. He’s tried reading, he’s tried writing, he’s tried drawing and finger-painting and crosswords puzzles and sudoku and every other imaginable way to shut Alfred up. Today, he sits on his bed and stares eerily at the ceiling, occasionally jotting something down in a notepad with frantic speed. It’s probably not the most comforting sight to whoever is watching the cameras today, but it is safe and quiet.

           Ivan hasn’t been a light sleeper since he came to the hospital. The strict routine and the drowsy meds have brought the one shining benefit of uninterrupted sleep. That’s why Ivan feels the need to investigate when he awakes for no apparent reason. Ludwig is on tonight, giving Ivan relatively free range of at least this hall. Alfred is fast asleep in his own bed, limbs awkwardly splayed and tangled in the sheets. Both his feet are out and one is missing a sock. Ivan has to hand it to Alfred — for all his chaotic energy during the day, he is a sound, albeit rough, sleeper.

           Ivan leans down to plant a kiss on his nose. Alfred’s face scrunches and he rubs his nose with a clumsy, flailing arm before rolling to his side.

           The hallway is deserted. Ivan looks at the ceiling for a flickering light or a leak — nothing. He quietly pads over to the rooms around him and peers into each one, expecting someone awake or at least a snore. Everyone is still. And where, oh where, could Ludwig be?

           What is Feliciano’s room number again? Ivan racks his brain. It’s some doors down, he knows that, because he and Feliciano rarely run into each other in the morning or the night. He also remembers hearing his old roommate say the number to a friend when he was transferred to Feliciano’s cell. Ivan keeps walking, knowing this isn’t a game to play and yet unable to deny his curiosity. Would he find them in the throes of passion right there? Would Feliciano’s roommate be asleep beside them as they made love like a silent movie, movements rushed, jerky, mouths open with no sound?

           Doubtful. There are cameras in every room even if night security is lax. Ivan doesn’t worry too much about his room’s camera, not with Katyusha working 7pm-3am, but he’s not sure Ludwig has the same connections.

           He might. But even then, Ivan can’t picture Ludwig being so bold. He imagines Ludwig sealing his hand over Feliciano’s mouth and driving into him, fast before they run out of time, before their luck runs out and Feliks wakes, and – Ivan almost laughs at the thought. No, as dirty as Ludwig is, it takes a different kind of man to commit a crime of that intimacy; to do it where his lover sleeps. Although Ludwig’s lover may be malleable enough for him to get away with it, Ivan muses.

           He does find Feliks in bed, jaw slack and a trail of drool dribbling down his chin. A long strand of hair sticks to the saliva there. Ivan is not surprised, however, to find Feliciano’s bed empty. Ivan is about to head to the bathrooms when he hears voices from the behind the double doors leading to the staircase. Ah, so this is what woke him.

           The doors open revealing Ludwig with a hand on Feliciano’s back. Feliciano is whispering something to him and Ludwig looks at him fondly. Oh, to be young and in love. Ludwig’s gaze is on Ivan in the next instant and all tenderness abandons his expression as his brows come crashing together and his teeth bared. Ludwig hurries Feliciano towards his room, inserting himself between Feliciano and Ivan who still stands by the doorway.

           Feliciano’s hair is well-mussed, lips swollen, and nightshirt crooked over his shoulders. Ivan nods politely to him and Feliciano is clearly about to speak when Ludwig orders him to get in bed with a fierce whisper. Feliciano obeys without a word, which has Ivan raising his eyebrows. “You’ve got him well-trained,” he compliments, already moving away from the door. Ludwig follows him. “I’m impressed, truly. If I tried that on Jones, he’d ignore me or sock me.”

           “Hey,” Ludwig practically spits. “We are not like you, okay? I’m not like you, so don’t start making comparisons as if we’re friends swapping tips.”

           “My mistake,” Ivan quips, “I thought we were both carrying illicit relationships inside a mental hospital with men who cannot separate life from delusion. But no, you are right, we have different concerns. Yours thinks the sky is falling and mine thinks he caused it.”

           “Shut your damn mouth,” growls Ludwig. “You can laugh all you want at Jones but I actually care about Feliciano. That’s what separates us. I love him. We have dreams together. He’s not going to rot in here like you two. He can tell what’s real and what’s not because he’s not content thinking everyone else is out to get him.

           “You can have all the fun you want with your partner – ” Ludwig’s tone catches mockingly on that word, “— but Feliciano and I want better. We’re going to get out of here and do this right.”

           Ivan stops walking a few feet short of his room. He locks his fists behind his back, hides the anger turning his knuckles white, and just stares at Ludwig for some time. He tilts his head at him. He’s learned something new about Ludwig, he thinks: Ludwig is quite good at compartmentalization to humanize Feliciano alone.

It’s frustrating and almost laughable how Ludwig sees Feliciano as special in a hospital full of people just like him; people labeled crazy and then neatly boxed up until they’re presentable enough to be unwrapped for society. As if Feliciano is the exception and not the rule.

“I have a question for you,” Ivan finally says. “You do not have to answer it, but I know you will think about it and I only hope you can be honest with yourself if not with me: what makes your actions so drastically different from mine?” he questions.

“Intent,” Ludwig answers automatically, but Ivan’s next words begin just as Ludwig’s end.

“You think I do not want the same?” Ivan asks. Whatever Ludwig wanted to say, it’s been stopped with a foot to the brakes at Ivan’s question. “You think Alfred and I are content to live in instability without privacy, without intimacy, until one or both of us are eaten alive by these walls?”

Ivan takes a step closer. “Do you think I don’t miss my family, or do you think I don’t have family? Or do you just not think of us at all?” He leans in so he can whisper almost into Ludwig’s ear. “Do not think yourself special for craving your own happiness,” Ivan advises.

Finished with this interaction, he goes into his room and waits for the sound of Ludwig’s departure. Sleep comes slow and bittersweet. He dreams of the house he once shared with his sisters, and of going to work and meeting a blue-eyed boy with a cowlick and wide tonsils.

          Ivan is sitting at his usual spot with Dr. Héderváry. Right now, she’s telling him how disinterested he has come off lately in their sessions. She worries he may be regressing in his treatment and wishes he would engage again. Ivan is vaguely aware of apologizing to her. He’s more focused on Alfred who, as of ten minutes ago, took a seat beside Feliciano. They are just far enough away so that Ivan cannot overhear them. He can only watch as Alfred grows increasingly animated, hands gesturing wildly and his voice becoming violently loud at some points before abruptly dropping to a whisper.

           Ivan is halfway to convincing himself it’s fine, that Feliciano may not even tell Ludwig about Alfred’s conspiracies today, when Alfred throws another emphatic hand into the air and accidentally nails Feliciano in the face. Ivan instinctively stands, but then so does Dr. Héderváry. Feliciano looks okay; the smack must have been light.

           He glances at his doctor and smiles playfully. “Going somewhere?” he asks lightly.

           Dr. Hédérvary’s expression if one of pure bafflement. “I should ask you, Ivan,” she counters.

           Ivan lowers himself back into his chair. “You are lucky I am not the skittish sort,” he teases. “I have seen patients here accuse their doctors of violent intent for less.” It’s an innocent comment, but Dr. Héderváry does not take it that way.

           “Do you believe I have violent intent, Ivan?” she asks, sitting back down as well. Again, with the leading questions, he thinks wearily.

“No,” he answers easily, “I am just pointing out how unconventional you are sometimes.”

Dr. Héderváry does not like how the conversation is unfolding if her checking her watch for the first time is any indication. He’s been keeping track of the time with the analog clock on the wall behind Alfred’s head. They have some time to go.

“Unconventional how?” Dr. Héderváry inquires.

Ivan considers his phrasing. He shrugs. “You are just very genuine, that’s all. Most psychologists prioritize composure above all else, always scrutinizing their patients for any sign of upset.” Ivan stretches his legs forward so they rest against Dr. Héderváry’s chair. “What would you have done had I,” Ivan flicks his fingers, “run off? Would you have chased me down?”

He hears Alfred groan in exasperation. Ivan can hear him exclaim, “No, he’s not… ” before Alfred’s voice drops to a whisper again.

“Would you like to end our session early, Ivan?” asks Dr. Héderváry.

Ivan tears his eyes away from Alfred’s table long enough to take advantage of the out. “You are always a delight, doctor,” he praises, “and we may have just found something in common; yes, I think an early end may be the best for today. Always next week,” he assures, already standing up.

“This isn’t about what I want,” Dr. Héderváry tries to clarify, but Ivan has a deal to make good on. He strides over to the table where Alfred and Feliciano are seated.

“Feliciano,” he greets, resting a hand on Alfred’s shoulder and smiling apologetically. “Would you mind giving Alfred and I some privacy?”

Feliciano’s eyes are wide. Ivan checks his face for the slightest injury, but Alfred’s clumsy enthusiasm has left no mark. Regardless, Feliciano plays the part of kicked puppy perfectly. Ivan wonders how his family manages to leave him here every day after visits with those shaking shoulders and tucked tail.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Feliciano says and attempts a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Ivan briefly worries that his smiles aren’t all the way there either. Ivan dismisses the thought for later as Feliciano scampers off.

Ivan takes his place with no complaint from Alfred. He doesn’t even bother starting over, just soldiers on in his theory that “the doctor” was keeping everyone here against their will. “Really?” Ivan asks if just to see where Alfred takes this. “Why would he want to keep people here?”

Alfred rolls his eyes. “Well, that’s simple, isn’t it? Doctors have egos, everyone knows that, and this is how they can flex. So when doctors like,” Alfred trails off, visibly floundering.

“Dr. Väinämöinen,” Ivan guesses. He knows him to be Alfred’s doctor. It’s doubtful Alfred would have had enough interaction with anyone else’s doctors here to appropriate them into his web.

“Right, yes!” Alfred pounces. “When Dr. V got some people who were misunderstood, it made him feel like he had a big dick to keep me here.” Alfred rests his arms on the table and crosses them angrily. “The fucker,” he spits, looking down to the side. “He’s not completely evil,” he mutters. Ivan watches, enraptured, as Alfred recreates this man he barely knows. “He just wants to see if you’re smarter than him,” he explains, opening his palms and staring at them hard. Ivan wonders what he sees.

“If you’re smarter than him and you can solve his puzzles, catch his clues,” Alfred reasons, “he’ll let you go.”

“You see a way out,” Ivan states. He brushes his fingertips over Alfred’s open, empty palms.

“Yeah,” Alfred says, either to Ivan or himself, and nods. “Shit like that. Shit like the brownie.”

Ivan leans back in his chair with a tired sigh. “You are obsessed with this brownie.”

Alfred slides his hands to the end of the table and grips the wood. For the first time in their conversation, Alfred is looking Ivan in the eyes. “It’s all a part of the puzzle, Ivan,” he says with utmost sobriety. Something tender makes itself known in Ivan’s chest as he stares at this beautiful young man who never learned self-doubt. And then he thinks of Ludwig’s prediction, of Alfred only getting worse as everyone who tries to help him is suspect, and something sad envelopes that something tender.

           Alfred has an appointment with his doctor today. It is schedule during small group activity time. Ivan has joined the modest crocheting circle which consists of Nurse Erika and one other patient besides Ivan. He’s working on a headband which he plans to give to Alfred as a sleep mask because he often complains about the bright lights of the hallway keeping him up at night. The colors are red, white, and blue.

Nurse Erika brightly asks, “Oh, like the Russian flag?”

Ivan frowns. Did he get the color order wrong? He tries to count the pattern but it’s a circle and maybe Erika just looked at the wrong color first —

His thoughts are interrupted by three guards barreling down the hall with one nurse in tow. Immediately the common room erupts in chatter as patients ask what’s happening and nurses tell them all is well, please remain seated and continue group activities.

Ivan watches the spot where the guards just were. Then he looks around, tries to remember all the patients and perform a head count. They’re all here. All of them except for Alfred.

“Don’t you want to finish your headband? It’s looking so good,” Nurse Erika patronizes. Ivan glances down at the sleep mask in his lap, tries to picture Alfred wearing it to bed. Feeling cold, Ivan picks up his hook and winds the red yarn around, around, around.

           Ivan waits two weeks for a word of Alfred. Not a word from — he doesn’t expect Alfred to reach out. Even sharing a room, Alfred struggled with the concept of the other. He spoke to whoever would listen and Ivan simply did his best to be the one listening. Now that Ivan isn’t physically around, he’ll likely fade as a character in Alfred’s universe. Object permanence doesn’t seem his strong suit and as upset as Ivan is, he can’t fault Alfred for being himself.

           Ivan does make inquiries. He hasn’t much to risk now that he’s lost. Unfortunately, hospital staff are tight-lipped. He asks Dr. Héderváry to find out, pleads with her even, and it’s his vulnerability that likely made her give in. By their next meeting on the second week, Dr. Héderváry can confirm he has been transferred to another hospital. He asks her where, but she claims confidentiality about the exact location. When that argument doesn’t work, she tells him the truth: it’s best that he move on.

           So, he asks Katyusha to keep her ear to the ground. She says the people she works with aren’t really the people who would know, but — “well, like I said, I’ll keep my ear to the ground.”

           He asks Natalya who has his answer by Friday afternoon. Alfred is in the same state, just an hour north at St. Peter’s Hospital. Natalya sourced her information from a nurse whom the incident details had trickled down to. “His name is Toris. We had lunch earlier,” she tells Ivan, glancing sheepishly up at him from under silvery bangs. “He’s very manly,” she adds.

           Ivan spends the rest of that day thinking over Natalya’s information. Somehow, Alfred had obtained a weapon — a boxcutter with a half-inch blade — which he used against his psychiatrist, Tino Väinämöinen. The hallway outside Tino Väinämöinen’s adjunct office had been empty save for Ludwig Beilschmidt, a guard who had come in earlier than his shift to drop some papers off. He heard shouting while passing by and ran in to find the doctor backed into the wall with bloodied hands. The guard immediately tackled the patient to the ground, where his weapon was removed and he was chemically and physically restrained by three other guards.

           Ivan’s mind catches on Ludwig’s involvement, naturally. He wasn’t even supposed to be there. His presence, Natalya informs him, is regarded as a somewhat of a miracle by hospital staff. Ivan and Ludwig have not interacted since the night outside the room he once shared with Alfred. Any conversation would be pointless beyond giving Ludwig the chance to openly gloat, and he’s too busy basking in his victory to taint it with Ivan’s two cents.

           Ivan sits back in that one loveseat in the hospital. He sits back and watches Ludwig lingering near Feliciano. He watches Ludwig far more closely than he ever bothered before. He wonders if his face has always been this open around Feliciano, or if this has newly developed from his sense of hard-won freedom. Ideas unfurl across Ivan’s mind like invisible yet hard-to-shake spiderwebs. Once the thought flies into his brain it can’t break free. It spins itself tighter and deeper until Ivan is all but consumed by it.

           Ivan’s bed is perfectly made. The pillow case is smooth, the sheets turned down in a straight edge, blanket tucked in at the corners. It has not been touched since the morning following Alfred’s final appointment with Dr. Väinämöinen. Ivan has taken to sleeping in Alfred’s bed. He pretends to rest when the nurses come by and turn off the lights. He waits there, on Alfred’s mattress, although his warmth and his scent has long since left it, until he hears the familiar footfalls of Ludwig. Then Ivan pushes the blankets to the bottom of the bed, turns his legs over, and walks over to the doorframe.

           Ludwig pauses in his pacing at the sight of Ivan, but his paralysis is short-lived before he quickens his pace towards him. Ivan almost expects Ludwig to grind out an order of, “Go to bed, Braginski,” but Ludwig says nothing as he closes the distance.

           “I do wonder how he got the boxcutter,” Ivan remarks. Ludwig’s jaw flexes beneath his skin. “It’s a small room with not much ground to explore. I would have noticed something like that if it had been there even two days before Dr. Väinämöinen’s little surprise,” he assures Ludwig. “And I know Alfred’s family hasn’t visited him in, gosh, months. Who could have possibly given him a knife?” Ivan raises his eyebrows and stares at Ludwig almost imploringly. “Who could’ve benefited from such reckless endangerment?” he asks softly.

           Ludwig swallows something hard in his throat. “Go to bed, Braginski,” he commands.

           Ivan nods, not surprised. “Good night, Ludwig. I hope you have been enjoying you dreams lately. I know I will enjoy mine tonight.”

           Ivan returns to the room, getting to his knees to remove the box of books from beneath his old bed. He opens the box and retrieves his notebook along with a mechanical pencil courtesy of Ludwig some time ago. Curling beneath Alfred’s sheets, Ivan spends the night writing instead of sleeping. The hours shift from late to early, but Ivan pays no attention to the ache in his tired eyes and bones, only the unfurling of a web onto paper.