#not only do i have every mental illness and a ton of problems to solve

[travellingseal]

also, i did the fool thing and succumbed to my craving of chips while knowing full well they send me into the tummy hurt territory

[punderdome]

The Fine Print

Ok, so this is the first of many things for me: this is my first fic, this is my first time writing romance (no I do not count whatever weird smut I tried to write at 13) , and I've literally never posted on Tumblr, so you're going to have to just help smooth the edges a little. I would love any amount of help, but here is my first chapter and it's a good thing it's SFW

Major edit: The exposition (Chapter 1) should read a little bit differently now and a lot clearer. Huge thanks to @bitethedevil, @a-true-neutral, and @mslanna for help with tons of different things like writing structure, POV, and tumblr in general. I was able to start many of their corrections for Chapter 2, but I went back and gave another round of polish for Chapter 1.

Read on AO3: [Chapter 1]

Synopsis:

Rapidly running out of options, Tav signing Raphael’s contract was the only way to free herself from the tadpole and defeat the Elder Brain and save her love from his eventual ruin. She should have paid closer attention to the wording of the contract before she signed it. Now, Tav gets more than she bargained for, and the devil has come to collect.

Chapter 1: The Devil's Den

The Devil’s Den.   She had met with Raphael many times before but was never filled with this much dread.  He was some sort of evil cambion bard, verbose but not foreboding, versed in iambic pentameter not ill-omen.  He was rhymes and lullabies, cherries and sulfur.  He seemed like he should be a character in a play whispering out his dastardly plans to the audience while standing on stage right.

The desperation of the Illithid voice in her mind raged and howled as she walked across the balcony to the ornate door carved with the likeness of a devil.  The rage shivered down every vertebra one after the other, demanding to be heard.  She refused it.

“What are we doing here?” Gale demanded.  “You can’t honestly want to make a deal with the devil.”

Tav eased him gently, running her hand down the Karsite scar on his chest.  “He helped Astarion understand the Rite, he might have other information at a price we’re willing to pay.”  She knew what he wanted the last time they visited: the Crown of Karsus.  Gale’s latest obsession.

“You know what he wants,” Gale pounced.  “He wants the Crown.”

“And my Prince requires rescue.” Lae’zel reminded him firmly.  “The perfumed trickster inside will provide us the means to rescue him for only a small price.”

Gale’s jaw clenched firmly.  Ascension.   She knew Gale thought that would solve all their problems.  In his mind they would be together for eternity, wanting for nothing, infinite in power.  Gale had dreamed of what Goddess that Tav would become.  At night, when they lay together, he told her of his imaginings of her as the Goddess of Regrowth.  The Goddess of Winter.  The Goddess of Snow.  She was all of these goddesses, currently residing in flesh in his mind, and he wanted her to pick one.  He would trace the path of her white scales on her human form and regale her with stories of how much they would shine when she was with him in Elysium.

“This deal will only spell trouble for all of us,” Gale countered.  “You will save your people from the Grand Design only to doom them further.”  Tav could feel the pinpricks of the Emperor’s eager agreement to her paramour, but she did not care to remind him mentally that he never gave a shit about Lae’zel’s people or any of them at all.

Raphael’s prior deal had been tempting.  They would gain the tools needed to defeat an Elder Brain and would finally be free from the looming dread.  The Grand Design would be over.  Raphael even promised to throw in a lavish dinner at the House of Hope at the conclusion of their adventure, allowing her band of mighty heroes to celebrate their victory in style.

Gale couldn’t ascend.  Gale couldn’t have that power.

Gale couldn’t leave her.

She took a quick look behind her and saw the panic on his face.  He was trying to hide it behind a mild scowl and his glorious beard.  Tav knew Tara hated that beard, but she melted every time the lips within went to her neck and the bristles tickled.  He quickly shook his head in warning not to knock at the door.

Tav didn’t want to lie to Gale, but she knew the terrible row they would have if she told him the truth.  She had come to read Raphael’s deal, and likely, sign.  Their terrible predicament would have a path to resolution.  A path to redemption , Raphael had called it.  Forceful eviction of their other tenant.   She had purposely left Wyll and Karlach back at camp, knowing how disapproving they would be of what was about to occur.  She wanted to have left Gale back as well, but he forcefully demanded that wherever his beloved went, so he too would go.  So, she reluctantly agreed to drag him along to a meeting that would break his heart and destroy his dreams.  The dread pooled deeply in her abdomen.  This was the only way to be free of the tadpole - or it was the only way that relieved the guilt at her lack of faith.

Lae’zel stood proud, eager for her to knock on the door and grant her the path to Prince Orpheus’s freedom.  When Tav hesitated, she urged her on.  Enter.  Go.

Tav could feel the sweat on her palms.  She took a deep breath and whispered silently to herself.  You know Infernal.  He won’t be able to trick you with hidden loopholes.  She researched Cania and Hellfire magic at the university, though sorceresses were often not accepted in academic circles.  Her research was about to be put into practical use, though she wished the stakes weren't so high.

Gale’s face had drifted from furious into stony.  His rage had hidden but not extinguished behind his eyes.  He knew they were there about the Crown, despite whatever story she tried to tell him. 

Tav ignored his gaze and placed three firm knocks on the door.

She had to do it.  Gale would just have to deal with the consequences.

“Come in,” the deep voice purred from behind the door.  Tav opened it and entered.

“Ah, my most cherished client.” Raphael’s face was smug.  He was wearing his human guise and gave a grand gesture of welcoming with a smile.  “Please, please, come partake of the Devil’s Den where we have no shortage of sins to enjoy.”

Raphael strode to his desk, crossing his legs as he lounged in an ornate chair behind it.  He gestured again to three ornate chairs opposite him.  Tav seated herself in the center, but both Gale and Lae’zel elected to stand.

“Now tell me,” he purred.  “What can I do for my most favored client?”  He cocked a brow and leaned back, relaxing into the silence.

Tav wasn’t going to be put on the back foot so early into a negotiation.  She leaned forward and rested her head in her hands.  “I thought you always claimed to be a good host.”  Raphael’s eyes narrowed before widening again with a smirk.  He snapped and a bottle of wine appeared with four goblets.  He waved and a mage hand poured and served each glass.  Tav took hers but the the mage hand had to leave the other two in front of Gale and Lae'zel.  Tav and Raphael each took sips from their own goblets, but the ones before the other two were left deliberately untouched.

“I imagine you are not just the famished coming to feast, but there is a reason you have come knocking at my door.” Raphael countered, now that his abilities as host could not be challenged.

“We have come to deal,” Lae’zel finished for her.  “We have come to negotiate for the Orphic Hammer.”  Raphael’s brow lifted quickly and his smug smirk brightened.  Tav stiffened, and she thought she could audibly hear Gale turn to her in betrayal and anger.  What she had wanted to hide from him was now completely out in the open.  She was going to accept the devil's deal.  Tav tilted her head slightly to Gale and saw his face completely red and his hands shaking.  His eyes were forced closed.  Tav winced at how much this must be hurting him.

“Aha!” Raphael exclaimed triumphantly.  “Are you now?” His voice held a cocky musicality.  He always knew they would come knocking at his door, and as much as it hurt to admit it, he was always right.

“Yes, Devil.  We have come to negotiate for the Orphic Hammer," Lae'zel repeated, becoming more annoyed and impatient at Raphael's lazy interactions.

Raphael turned to Tav directly, still holding her goblet and asked again.  “You are the only one with whom I wish to make a deal.  Are you here to make a deal with me?”  Smugness radiated off of him.  Tav paused, and Lae’zel gave her a look that was surely going to result in Gith expletives if Tav wasn’t forthcoming.

She swallowed and refused to look back at Gale who was likely trying to summon multiple Scorching Rays into the back of her skull.

“Yes, Raphael, I am here to make a deal for the Orphic Hammer.”  Tav spoke plainly, knowing that any attempts at subterfuge would result in a much more complicated contract to read when the actual signing came.

Gale immediately stiffened, and she knew she there was no way to deny that she had lied to him on several occasions.  She knew him well enough to understand that his fears were contorting and consolidating into a verbose rage that probably would require a dictionary the morning hence.  He stormed out of the Devil’s Den to return to camp without another word spoken between them.  Tav hadn’t wanted him to be here for this, and she felt a heavy pang of sadness that he had decided to join.

“My Little Mouse,” Raphael started, the excitement in his voice palpable.  “Then I believe we should get started with the contract I prepared.”  He snapped his fingers and a pitch black piece of parchment appeared in his hands.  Even in his human guise, his grin widened and his eyes glowed.  Tav felt like she could feel flickers of his cambion gaze break through his glamor.  He handed her a document aglow with the fiery runes of an Infernal contract.

“I had this prepared for you, in hopes you would return.”  Raphael rolled up the scroll and passed it to her.  She unfurled it, starting to read the runes within.  The infernal script danced in front of her as she tried to parse its meaning, but this wasn’t her first time reading and translating Infernal language.  She rolled it out fully over the desk to get a better scope of what legalese awaited her.  Raphael leaned over, amused at her reading.  Her fingers traced firmly over the runes, reviewing the translations.

“Do you require assistance?” Raphael taunted.  He leaned back in his chair again, waiting for a reply.

“No.”  She didn’t need his help.  He would have demanded additional clauses if she agreed to any additional services.  Raphael would never do anything for free.  The devil always received what was owed to him.

Lae’zel was waiting eagerly but impatiently.  Her armored boot tapped against the wood floors of the Devil’s Den.  Tap. Tap. Tap. Orpheus. Tap. That energy seemed to radiate from her impatience.

Tav blinked and took a deep breath, hoping Raphael wouldn’t notice the momentary lapse of focus.  His brow raised slightly, before he relaxed again, appearing disinterested.  The language was intentionally complex, written to confuse rather than educate.  She took her time and traced each rune.  She occasionally sipped at her goblet while ruminating on the meaning held within the runes.  They were sharp and jagged and angular - nothing like her Common language writing which was looping and gentle.  As with all Infernal text, the true meaning was held deeply within.

Raphael’s smile widened as she persisted.  His Mouse was a clever one.

“Shall I translate?” Raphael taunted.  They both knew that he had to be honest in their dealings, but every moment of weakness would set her back some sort of irrational and irritating demand of his.

“Raphael, I am only taking my time.” Tav breathed in and out deeply, internally trying to regain some sense of control over the accursed document while remaining calm in front of the accursed devil.  The distracting foot taps from her Githyanki colleague were not helping.

“Of course, my dearest Mouse, we have all the time of the Hells.”  Raphael sat back and continued to drink his wine.  He studied her with uncomfortable concentration as she continued to read.

“Crown for Hammer… Unable to invade mortal realms…” Tav started to roughly translate aloud as she read her contract.  Raphael raised an eyebrow but didn’t say another word as her monologue continued. “Soul collateral… Tavara Aureum.”  Tav looked him straight in the eye, though she was numb from so much horrible legal writing.  “Why just my soul?”

Raphael checked his nails uninterested in her question.  “Why would I want the others?”

“Are they safe from you if I fail?” Tav responded nervously.  The Little Mouse was fatigued and nervous, and Raphael found this state delightful.

“Would you like them to be collateral, my darling?” he responded again, still uninterested in her concerns.

“No,” Tav responded firmly.  Lae’zel gave an affectionate and approving noise, though it seemed more like a tut than a hum.

“Very well.”  Raphael finished falsely examining his nails and continued to watch his favorite client read.  She paused at the bottom of a page on some sort of footnote referencing an appendix.  Oh Gods, how many appendices did he include?

“Something wrong?” Raphael challenged.  The Mouse bit.

“No,” Tav fought back.  She thought back to all of her wizard colleagues who disregarded her because of her innate sorceress gifts of winter and storms.  Ignorant sorceresses could not study Hellfire.  Dragon Children were too spoiled to be able to truly understand Hellfire.  Raphael clearly believed in the same fashion that Little Mousies could not understand his writing.

There was one clause that caused a multitude of rereadings.  She had a hard time deciphering it and didn’t know its meaning.  “Pater….” she almost tried to sound it out, the rest of the word huddled in her chest, locked in ice.  “Pater…” she repeated again.  It was part of a line, a subclause for Raphael’s duties to her.  He had agreed to protect her something something pater something.

Tav could do this by herself, and she definitely didn't want his help.  He was not going to translate, and he was not going to read it to her like she was a child. 

Raphael watched her intently.  Lae’zel’s foot tapped impatiently.

“Give me the quill, I’m ready to sign,” she declared triumphantly.

Wordlessly and with an unreadable expression, Raphael handed her a quill and ink.  Lae’zel’s eyes burned through her as she signed the contract.  The resident devil clasped his hands in joy before snapping and handing Lae’zel the Orphic Hammer.

“Thank you,” Tav deadpanned, fatigued and still frightened of Gale’s reaction.

“Thank you, Devil.” Lae’zel didn’t bother waiting for a response before heading back to camp.  She was out of earshot before Raphael responded to her.  Delight was a new look on his face that she had never seen before.

“You are most welcome, my Lady.”

*****

When she returned to Gale at camp, he was hiding: fuming in his tent.  Tav approached him, hoping she could lure him forth so they could speak.

“Gale, please come out.  I want to talk,” she pleaded quietly, so the entire camp couldn’t hear her.

“You didn’t want to talk before, and I certainly don’t want to talk now,”  He bit back angrily.  She paused, sadness biting at her and a horrible feeling of tension lay beneath her sternum.

“Please, Gale.  Please talk to me.”  Her voice became lower, and before she realized it, she was softly begging him to leave his tent or welcome her inside.

The reply became short and stiff.  “There is nothing for us to talk about.”

“Gale…” she took a sharp breath.  “I did it for you.”

Incensed, he sharply stood up and ripped the tent flap open to stare at her in the face.  Fat tears were rolling down her cheeks and her look pleading.  Mocking, he raised his voice so everyone could hear him.  “For me?  You threw away everything that I wanted and dreamed of.  You discarded all of my gifts and all of my ambitions for what ?” His voice was now a shout, emphasizing his final question.  All of her companions in the camp turned to stare at the two of them.

“Prince Orpheus!” Tav could hear Lae’zel call from behind her.  Gale’s face became red and angry.  He was obviously not expecting a third party to intrude.

“My love,” Tav pleaded, her voice missing the any confidence she might have had at her negotiations with the devil.  The confident, competent front she wore meeting with Raphael had eroded, leaving behind only a weak vulnerability.  Tears continued to fall, freezing on her cheekbones when they hit patches of scales.

“Do not call me your love.  I gave, and I promised.  You took, and you keep taking.  You stole godhood from us, Tav.  We could have been together for eternity.”

“Gale, Mystra would have ended you.  I couldn’t let her hurt you.”

“Why will I never be good enough for you?” Gale challenged.  He prodded his finger at her, which lightly struck the sensitive patch of scales on her chest that mirrored his own scar from the Orb of Karsus.

“You were always more than enough…” Tav continued to cry, but her pleas went unheard.  Gale’s face became red again and he turned away quickly.

“I will help you defeat the Elder Brain, but then I never want to see you again, Tavara Aureum.”  He threw his hands up in a grand gesture of exasperation.  “I’ve wasted too much of my energies on you.  We will get rid of these tadpoles, and then that’s the end of us.”

“Gale… Waterdeep…” Tav started to wail.  Some sort of dam inside her broke, her magic swirled angry and chaotic.  Her fingers crusted with ice that she could no longer control.  

“When all of this is over, I am going back to Waterdeep.  You are not coming with me.” 

Gale retreated back into his tent, closing the flap with an unmistakable huff.  Tav slowly retreated back into her tent, gingerly closed the flap, and lay motionless on her side for some time.  Long after the darkness was heavy in the sky, she continued to cry hail on her pillow.

[mrthoughtbubbles]

I admit that I have problems with regard to handling difficult situations. It's true that I just brush negative emotions aside and I just try my best to think positively like I'm in my own little world inside my head.

When you go through depression, the fear of failing one's subjects again because you're under a ton of pressure, feeling out of place in college and almost everyone makes parinig to you every now and then, going to more than a handful of wakes for your deceased family members or friends for a couple of years straight, hearing that your cousin was ambushed by gunmen, hearing that your tita took her life and fearing that your house might burn down minutes or an hour after hearing the news about your tita, and having a bald spot on your head for a time because of the pressure, my only recourse is to live inside my head, to lean more on surrounding my feed with happy and uplifting messages, to make everyone in my immediate surroundings happy and laughing because you'll never know when they'll die or regretting that you lost contact with them at some point.

I dread that if I let myself grieve or feel a deep sense of sadness, my head would focus on the said feeling for a very long time and I won't be able to sleep, which could lead to my mental illness getting worse.

When grandma/lola died, I was lost in my thoughts and I was looking somewhere and I wasn't paying attention to everything that's happening around me.

I understand that bottling one's emotions is bad, and there were times wherein I have a sudden feeling of immense emotions, like sadness, out of nowhere, especially when I listen to different types of music, but for me, it's better to regulate my emotions that way and being able to change my mood by changing into a happy one once I feel that I'm getting engulfed too much sadness.

Another way in which I express my pent-up emotions would be to write them here and organize all those jumbled-up thoughts and emotions in such a way that I'll be able to express my sadness, my anxieties, my worries, and my adrenaline-filled paranoid thoughts. after doing so, I'll feel much better after writing everything down.

I understand that I should get out of my own little world in my head, and go outside the house more, and my family and I are slowly making progress with that with our family trips and such.

I have a ton more issues to solve, like my inferiority complex, my fear of failing, and many more. Most of the time, It's happening in my head, wherein I try to counter them by countering my negative thoughts with positive ones, but it gets tiring and sometimes my negative thoughts win. I hope that I'll find a way to overcome them.

[sawyer02dk]

Mental illness really is affecting every damn part of my life.

I deeply struggle to believe anyone who cares about me has good intentions and isn't hiding things from me. I have to put extra effort into my relationships because I can break down or lash out over these worries in my head.

My self esteem in terms of body image has been so awful lately that I've started avoiding acknowledging mirrors, because I start criticizing myself and obsessing over what I want to change about my appearance, especially things that I don't have access to easy ways to change, every single time I look in the mirror. Nothing about me is safe, not even the things I never used to be self conscious about.

My resumes not looking too hot due to some very short term jobs I've had along with gaps in employment, tons of which can be credited to feeling unstable in work environments or tumultuous relationships with those I had to work around. I learned to stand up for myself but not to let shit go.

I'm constantly convinced I'm not good enough, and that I'm weak and all my problems end up getting solved by others that could hold the time they've spent helping me against me if they ever choose to leave and break me.

Many things I find comforting or even arousing involve giving up my autonomy, because I feel like I can't do much good with it anyway. I would rather be helpful to someone and feel like I had a purpose than to hate myself like I do for needing help all the time and being childish and lacking independence.

Connecting myself deeply in emotional bonds to characters from media I like so that I can get in someone else's head with someone else's problems.

Having to mask the differences in my OSDD alters around family and most people because I know how few of them would ever believe me.

Falling back into wanting to be high constantly yet finding that it neither solved nor does it numb today. It only passed time.

[hjellacott]

What I find insanely worrying is that, so, studying psychology I had to learn these statistics, and it turns out that tons of research is showing evidence that a lot of people who "out of the blue" suddenly being to think they might be trans do so out of having lots of mental health issues. I met one girl who openly told me (she was 17 I think) that she was suicidal, self-harming and self-diagnosing with depression and other mental health disorders and conditions, and that she didn't want to go to therapy because she didn't trust therapists, but she wanted to transition without them because "perhaps that'll solve the problem". Like, she didn't even feel trans, but she was mentally ill and hoped transitioning would fix it. And she hoped that with 0 therapy. And I thought perhaps it was a one-off case, until I saw in the psychology research that there is a growing trend (this study was particular to the Western world, so I won't speak for the non-Western countries) among high-schoolers of one girl identifying as trans, and then her entire social group will also suddenly identify as trans, suggesting it's just become trendy. So I went back to my country of origin, where I know many teenagers in different cities and I asked them if they felt there was a trend in their high schools of identifying as trans just because it's become "cool" where they are. All of them agreed it was the case, and some, to my enormous surprise (I mean, I stayed in the closet all through high school because it was the whole other end of the spectrum!) added that it's also happening with gays and lesbians.

I went back to psychology books to see if there was any current research going further into this and I didn't find much (to be honest I've been busy so I haven't searched more in depth, so if anyone did find some study, please pass it to me) but I did find that the rate of people identifying as trans is higher among the high-school age (14-18) than in any other age group, and that the rate of detransitioners is highest in the age group 18-25. So this suggests that there is a social trend among teens to identify as trans, begin transition, regret it when high school ends, and go en-masse to try to detransition. This fits with many of the detransitioner stories you can read here in Tumblr.

And when you talk to trans people, at least in my experience the vast majority of people I know who identify as trans were people with lots of mental health problems. In fact my friend from my OP is the only one of my trans friends who never had mental health problems (she goes to therapy because she thought it was essential to undergoing such a life-change as to have surgeries and transition). On the other hand, every single one of the rest of my trans friends are people who have struggled with their mental health for the majority of their lives. And then countries such as my birth country decide to pass laws to remove mandatory therapy before beginning transition, which I think is criminal. Because they say that otherwise it's treating being trans as an illness. I disagree fundamentally on this.

Being trans isn't an illness, but there are enough studies to suggest that the vast majority of people who identify as trans in their teenage years are simply suffering from lots of mental health issues that make them believe they're trans, when they probably aren't. So even though being trans isn't an illness, enough people with mental illness are going on an identifying as trans to make one convinced that maybe they should go to therapy before self-diagnosing as trans. And to proper therapy, not therapists who make tremendous amounts of money out of validating your thoughts. Like, imagine if therapists told people with schizophrenia that their hallucinations are real, it'd be madness. Similarly, when someone is telling you they're convinced they were born in the wrong body, you should first, always, assume there are deep issues underneath, and not encourage them to make life-changing decisions that have no way of being fixed afterwards until you're sure they're fine.

It is precisely a big mental health mantra that one should never make big decisions while struggling with their mental health.

I was speaking with one of my closest MtF friends, who I've known for well over a decade now, and I noticed an interesting difference between what I call "true, actual trans people" and "people who think they're trans but they just have issues they hope transition will fix".

My friend (mtf) told me that to her, she was always a woman. That she knew from the second she was born. That growing up, she just always knew in her heart she was a girl. She was just waiting for the opportunity to live as such, to tell everyone she was a girl. So until that moment came, about twenty years into her life, she had to make an effort to pass as a man, to be a man, to do "manly" things, to convince people (and try to convince herself) that she was a man. So she'd try wearing short hair, even if she hated it, and would try dressing like a man, and doing all these things... But obviously, she didn't quite pass as a boy, so everyone called her gay. When she was a little boy, everyone called her gay. And she had a fraternal twin, a cisgender gay man, so she could look at him, and do what he did, and try and pass as a gay man because at least then he could do more "girly" things and nobody would bat an eye. For example, every Halloween she'd dress as a woman, and it'd be the only day of the year she was herself, but to everyone else it'll just be a gay guy doing gay things.

So now she's living life as a woman, she never tries to "pass as". Or to try and figure out how women look and behave. She just stopped trying to do men things and pass as a man, and did surgeries and hormones so her body would look like she already felt and who she in her soul was, and being a woman comes relatively effortless (except for needing the treatments), became mentally and emotionally, she ALWAYS was a woman, going through tremendous lengths to hide it and be seen as the man she was supposed to be.

That's what I consider an authentic trans person. And then there are people who are always taking about passing as. About making huge efforts and going through tremendous stress to find out how women/men think, behave, move, feel, dress... So that they can "pass". And those, I think are simply mentally-ill people, not actually trans.

Anyway, you know who you are love, thanks for being so eye-opening and making the world so much clearer for me. Xx!

[soulvomit]

How many people in actual deep poverty are "neurotypical" to begin with? Leaving aside that our standards of neurotypicality but especially allistic behavior are based on a specific class of people, and the problem goes deeper than "too many autistics on TV are skinny rich white boys."

Once you factor in all of the issues that people have with socialization and neuro functioning that are just sequelae to statistically poverty related illness, drug addiction etc? I feel like every household i know of in this shit town has an "ND" family member, in many cases, they have just never been labeled that and ended up in the drug addiction spiral or the prison pipeline. Or they end up homeless. (Autistic women's spaces love to resent autistic men because they "get to be autistic" but WHOA not only is this is ONLY true of a tiny handful of super exceptional rich men. Nobody cares about or acknowledges the existence of non-rich men as anything but cannon fodder and we've even found ways to give THAT job to the robots.)

People who don't go to therapy, don't label or talk about their issues the same way as people who do.

And a ton of mental health and ND idpol seems to revolve around learning the right therapized language more than solving actual problems on the ground.

[fencesandfrogs]

hi my name is matthew and i have some thoughts about haes

okay disclaimers: i’m a little jumpy around the subject so while i don’t feel i’m being unnecessarily harsh/unfair, if ur firm on haes w no yielding, and you don’t want to argue about it? either skip this or don’t respond. i don’t really care. but i’m putting the body under a read more.

[3k words, 10 minute read. sections headers, some text italicized for emphasis/some readibility. no images/videos, a few links.]

second disclaimer: i’m not planning on going heavy on sources. i will happily provide sources to people who want them, and i haven’t written the actual post yet but it’s unlike me not to cite anything, but doing an in depth well researched and sourced post on this type of subject is not something i’m up for right now.

like i said, i’m jumpy around this subject. and on the off chance someone decides this post is Bad and i must be banished to the Bad Blogs Bin, i’d rather not put a lot of work into it.

third disclaimer: i’m not particularly interested in reading X study that says actually no people who way 700 pounds are healthy and people who weigh less than 200 are going to die early deaths. i know that’s a straw man i needed to a) get it out of the way now and b) i just am tired all the time and don’t have a ton of itme for it. that said, if you do send one to me, i will probably read it at some point, and i may or may not provide my thoughts.

right then. moving on.

with no more waffling, my thesis is as follows: weight stigma is bad, however obesity is killing people and i really would like people to stop pretending it doesn’t.

i. really hate that that’s a controversial opinion. i mean i hold a decent number of somewhat controversial opinions, most of which i keep to myself because i’m a firm believer that what i think about something should not interfere with how other people live their lives. as a noncontroversial example, i think mormons are in a cult. children, being minors, being indoctrinated is a problem, one i myself am not dedicated to solving because i have other issues but as far as adults involved, that’s their business.

(*please note that i’m not expanding on my thoughts because this post is about haes but i do have a more complicated opinion i’m just trying to demonstrate something please don’t at me about cults i know that they’re bad and adults in them also need help getting out that’s not the point of this post & i’m anxious enough so like, please.)

anyway so. obesity. is bad. it is bad for your health. if you are obese, you are not healthy. that said, i am not going to tell you to lose weight. no one should tell you to lose weight except for your doctor and maybe your immediate family, and that should be from a place of “you are not living your best life and i care about you.” i, an internet stranger, along with pretty much everyone you know, does not get to tell you about how terrible your life is and what a horrible person you are for existing, because you are not a bad person for being overweight. you do not deserve discrimination or mistreatment. even if you’re not actively trying to lose weight. it doesn’t matter. you are a human being like any other and i will fight like hell for you.

i’m not planning on going heavy into eating disorders because a) that’s a triggering topic for me and b) it’s going to muddle the point i’m getting, but since it is a large part of the arguments re. haes, it’s certainly going to come up, so i’d like to list the officially recognized eating disorders.

Anorexia Nervosa (AN)

Bulimia Nervosa (BN)

Binge Eating Disorder (BED)

Other Specified Feeding and Eating Disorder (OSFED)

Pica

Rumination Disorder

Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder (ARFID)

Unspecified Feeding or Eating Disorder (UFED)

Other (aka “we are considering making this its own category but for matthew’s purposes it fits into AFRID or UFED well enough because the details aren’t important”)

so yeah. we’ll circle back to this.

section one: haes

haes initially stood for heatlh at every size. that doesn’t really matter anymore because people say healthy at every size now, however, the distinction is important. because.

okay. when i say being obese makes you inherently unhealthy, i am not saying you are having health problems for being overweight. i am saying you have a chronic illness. i have asthma. that makes me inherently unhealthy. i don’t necessarily have an health problems because i am asthmatic, but i have a chronic illness and it certainly would, say, make me more likely to die from covid. that is a fact. saying healthy at every lung functionality would not change that.

but you know, i can still be active and like smell plants and interact in the world like anyone else. i just try to keep my inhaler near by.

so similarly, if you are overweight/obese (i’ve been saying only obese because its less letters so i’m sticking with that), you can, like, live ur best life and take care of your health. you can feel good about your body and eat good food and move and again, i really don’t want anyone reading this to feel that i think everyone who’s obese needs to lose that weight because adults can do whatever they want.

what i’m angry about is that a good thing (encouraging people to make good choices no matter what so they can feel good in their bodies) got turned into a bad thing (telling people they don’t need to change what they’re doing because they’re perfectly healthy).

section two: but what about...?

see my third disclaimer. but as a fast rundown of things i probably won’t talk about in detail later:

the obesity paradox is a specific thing about a specific type of illness in the elderly. it’s also not about obesity, it’s about being slightly overweight. it’s a complicated thing, but it’s not true most of the time

sumo wrestlers have major health problems as soon as they stop exercising like crazy.

did you know there are countries where girls are force fed to become overweight? diet culture goes both ways

if you want to say healthy at every size, you have to mean that every. that means you are not allowed to say shit about underweight people. i’m sorry, is someone you care about wasting away? are they 5′10 and weigh  90 pounds and their hair is falling out because they aren’t eating? i’m sorry, you said people are healthy at every size. you can’t make fun of skinny people. you have to suck it up because you can’t have your cake and eat it too.

section three: self care

a hypothetical that is blindingly obvious to where i’m going: if a small child wants to play with a knife, are you caring for them by giving into it? what if they want to drink some vodka? what if they want to run away from home to live with a stranger in a white van?

i really really hope all those answers are “no, you’re neglecting that child, and also possibly actively harming it.”

so my point is pretty obvious: giving yourself something because you want it does not mean you are caring for yourself.

you know what i want  to do all the time? sleep and rewatch twilight every day. but that makes me feel worse. so even though it’s terrible and i hate it, i have to take care of myself (because there is only one of me that i ever get) and go outside and talk to people and eat something that isn’t popcorn because you need protein to live.

(sorry i tried to keep nutrition out of that but i have to actively seek out sufficient salt and protein due to my campus doing a lot of low sodium food, which is bad when u actually need to eat a good amount of salt to keep ur body working, and also i’m vegetarian. so i’m constantly making myself seek it out.)

that doesn’t mean self care is always supposed to be work, but i mean. i’ve always not really gotten into it. i think because i’m hella depressed and i’ve been depressed long enough i can recognize it as this separate entity when it comes to a lot of the mental stuff. like, why do i feel like everything is meaningless? that’s just the depression.

but i digress, this isn’t about me. [proceeds to talk about me again]

one phrase i like a lot for myself is “bad food makes me feel bad.” now, i’m not a fan of putting moral judgements to food. but this works for me, personally. sure, eating a bunch of ice cream right now is good, but it’s going to suck when my stomach flips the fuck out because of all the sugar. and so it seems quite obvious to me that eating that ice cream is not, in fact, caring for my body.

and i think we’d collectively be a bit better served if we could learn to distinguish between self-care and self-kindness. ask anyone who does caregiving (childcare, nurses, etc): it is hard, often thankless (at least for children they’re devils who don’t realize that their toys will get wrecked if they don’t pick them up) work. you care for them not by doing what they want, but what is best for them.

section four: diet culture

as i’ve already played my hand up above with underweight vs haes, i think it’s kind of obvious that i have strong feelings about underweight not being healthy also. so i just want to take stock of what is and isn’t diet culture, and what i think about it. this is probably the most subjective part of this essay.

things i think are diet culture

people trying ridiculous diets. obviously diet culture in the purest sense. it’s real dumb. you need all the food groups to live. sometimes it’s okay, like cutting out sugar, but i’d say its a net negative

not trying to do lifestyle changes. that’s the sustainable way to lose weight. so. yeah.

weight cycling. actually still up for debate if this is bad. this paper says no, along with a lot of others, but i’m not sitting down and reading through all of them, and all of the ones that say its bad, to offer my opinion. i’m leaning towards “it’s better than nothing,” but we’ll see

a lot of other stuff i’m doing this off the top of my head and trying to avoid issues w eating disorders so.

things i think aren’t diet culture

women being pressured to look a certain way. that’s been going on for a long time. being skinny used to be bad. it’s a fact of the patriarchy.

most things? idk i have this impression that like, anyone exercising or eating healthy is a part of diet culture, when in reality, people just have different lifestyles. (also, again, if you’re going with haes, as in HealthyAES (hyaes?) you can’t call it unhealthy or you’re not respecting that damn E)

in conclusion: diet culture has issues, but the correct response to them is not “fuck you, i’m eating fourteen pounds of sugar.” eat fourteen pounds of sugar because you want to. (also it should be fat because if you really want to stick it to the man you should be eating fat, big sugar is responsible for a huge amount of todays dietary problems, both on the under/overweight side)

section five: discrimination

yeah no fuck people who discriminate about fat people. that’s all i’m just moving along to a transition since i was drifting away from my point about health.

section six: weight stigma

...is not responsible for your health issues. being obese is. accept the consequences of your lifestyle.

well. okay. that’s a little unfair. accept the consequences of not treating your chronic illness. and i feel i’ve probably lost people for calling obesity an illness but that’s the whole point of my post.

just like carrying externally heavy objects hurts your joints, so does carrying a lot of weight inside. fat does not cushion your organs, it kills them. getting rid of weight stigma will not make these issues go away.

the treatment for obesity is eating the number of calories you need to sustain a healthy weight at your current exercise levels. (*please consult with your doctor this is more complicated when you have to lose a lot of weight.)

section seven: cico. or, why your metabolism is fine

your body does not break the laws of thermodynamics. it cannot magically create more energy out of a given amount of calories.

there are issues with calorie counting, yes. i think it’s usually done in an unsustainable way that isn’t teaching people to make decisions, just to do math. it can be hard to get an accurate count.

but you are not a miracle of science. you have not discovered how to create and destroy energy. i’m sorry to be the one to break if to you.

if you don’t believe me, if you’re really sure your metabolism is different, go on and get it tested. tell your doctors. because it’s a major problem if it’s not working right.

similarly, i’m sorry, but if someone is the same height as you and a (very, like, +- 50 pounds) different weight, and neither of you have exisitng health conditions, you are not eating the same things/doing the same exercise. you have not broken the laws of physics.

possibly, one of you have untreated celiacs or something of the ilk meaning your body is actually malfunctioning. but if that’s true, i excluded you already, so shoo. get out of here and play in the sun with the other kids.

if you don’t believe this, there’s not much i can do to convince you. but i encourage you to count your calories for a month. find some tdee calculators. weigh yourself. make sure you count everything, it all goes down. check the math. (you can do any amount of time but a month is what you need for weight to be meaningful imo otherwise you’re just proving weight fluctuates a lot).

section eight: cico. or, why counting calories is not disordered eating

it can sure be a symptom of disordered eating, and it can certainly make disordered eating worse, but it isn’t an eating disorder.

also, assuming you’re not trying to verify the laws of thermodynamics, i don’t think counting every calorie is necessary. i have approximate values (500/meal, and around 300 in snacks), which i try not to go over or under.

yeah. i actually use calorie counting to make sure i’m eating enough in one sitting. some of my medication screws with my apetite and then i only eat like 300 calories and suddenly its like 11 and i need to go to bed but i’m hungry but eating before bed makes me feel terrible and it sucks.

but hey, according to some people, avoiding that is unhealthy.

okay i’m moving on before i get salty because the next section is touchy

section nine: eating disorders.

the three main eating disorders are listed way up there. they’re the first three. AN, BN, BED.

oh, yeah, binge eating? that’s actually disordered eating too. it’s not normal.

i’m not going to elaborate on the point because i absolutely know i can’t do it without getting really fucking angry that people call calorie counting disordered eating, like i haven’t watched a fifth grader eat one meal a day because she’s scared she’s overweight. like i haven’t watched a sixth grader cram food into his mouth until he’s sick because he’s worried he’s not bulky enough for sports. like i haven’t watched an eleventh grader tell me he hasn’t eaten anything since lunch yesterday, but it’s fine, he doesn’t want his mac and cheese anyway, since he needs to lose weight.

you think someone keeping track of some numbers is an eating disorder? then either you’re lucky enough to never have to deal with eating disorders on a personal level, and i’m very happy for you, or you have, and you should maybe reevaluate that.

alright i’m cutting myself off now whoop.

section ten: intuitive eating

you know, much like haes, i want to like this. it fits in with my bad-food-makes-me-feel-bad mentality. i’m angry and tired and hungry because i ate like, a late breakfast/early lunch and now i need to eat again because if i don’t eat every six to eight hours i have a medical condition that makes me feel like shit (an aside: unless you’ve been told by a doctor, you don’t need to eat every 2-3 hours. unless you’re a child or have an applicable medical condition, you can probably eat one meal a day and be firne.)

but much like haes, it now has a meaning i can’t in good consience endorse. i can’t stand for a movement that tells people who acknowledge weight makes their joints hurt that they just need to keep eating until they feel better.

section eleven: conclusion

i have a lot more thoughts but again i’m hungry. i meant to talk more about IE and my problems with it but maybe that will be its own post.

i won’t say i’m happy to talk about this because i can’t promise i am (see: eating disorder issues.), but i will most likely respond to constructive discussion if someone sees this and wants to. i can also provide sources. i hate going, “sources available on request” but i tried to provide some stuff for some of the heavily disputed/i already had a source for it and didn’t have to dig through google scholar to find information that’s been peer reviewed.

and i do sincerely wish everyone, at any size, that they fracture the disconnect between them and their bodies (oop didn’t talk about that either another time then) & that they find peace with who they are, and that they get to live happy & fulfilling lives.

[xxtha-blog]

Traits People in the Fandom like to give Dream that instantly turn me away from their comics.

Wow, that's a long title. Okay, did you ever just want to hear me complain? If so, you came to the right place!

Im on a little salt bregade right now with my exasperation at lack of enjoyable Dream content in this fandom so this isn't some in depth analysis post or some if you give Dream these traits, you're a bad writer and need to stop. No. This is just a: here's some character traits people commonly write Dream with that severely conflict with the character I love him for, thus making me incapable of enjoying whatever 'Dream' they're writing because to me it doesn't look like Dream at all. And also why I don't like it and why I think this happens so frequently. And because this is just my opinion, you can either agree or ignore me. (And I mean, second one is a good option lol)

Jerkish - The classic asshole Dream. The one that says 'all this bad things that happened to me? Pffttsgsf I don't want to be a better person so I'm going to be a dick to everyone else.' This is probably the most common and usually comes with a lot of the other traits I'm about to mention

Sarcastic - This ones not that bad and if it's the only one I'll usually be fine with it, but he isn't sarcastic or passive aggressive, his closest trait to this is that he's stubborn. He's not going to shoot back something to make someone upset or because he's mad at them, even Nightmare, he's going to say something that might contend with someone for the purpose of making that person think about the bad or negative thing they're doing and won't stop until the person is either rethinking their originally negative position or is growing too negative for it to be rational to keep pressing and will try something else. In one it's a good intention, and with sarcasm it's this 'I need to get back at them and I don't care if it helps the situation or makes it worse' intention. And Dream is always the former.

Violent - The Dream that's always ready to get into a fight no matter what. Talking calmly? what's that?

Unsympathetic/Insensitive - this one is super easy to slip by the radar of a lot of people, so I often get people who ask me why I don't like certain ways people write Dream and it's usually because of this. This is him not understanding or sympathizing with someone else's situation even if it differs from his own, mainly for harmless things. People not wanting to do something because they're uncomfortable and Dream being written as trying to get them to do it to the point they get upset. A negative or toxic stubbornness, so to speak. Which really sucks because Dream is one of the sweetest most sensitive character I've seen and it gets rid of all that nuance.

Egotistical - :( I really don't like this one. It's your typical, I'm better than you, (usually toward Nightmare). It makes me sad. Combine unsympathetic and egotistical together and you get the jerk Dream that hates negativity and thinks negative people are bad.

Ableist - Hear me out, this isn't the same as people saying canon Dream is ableist for like, not being friends with Ink? (Wheeze). it's the type of Dream that purposefully targets someone's mental illnesses in cruel or unfair ways, usually Nightmare.

Neglectful - The Dream that says fuck protecting positivity lmao. And I need not say more.

Cowardly - The Dream that either won't own up to the problems he caused, pretends he never caused problems, and/or won't do anything to stop problems occuring.

Underhanded - the type of Dream that won't talk shit to someone's face but will make either subtly or blatantly mean comments about them behind their back.

Stupid - The type of Dream that makes decisions that will clearly cause the suffering of a lot of people for stupid reasons and/or the type of Dream that couldn't solve a 2x2 rubix cube and relies on everyone else to solve things for him because people think lack of knowledge = stupidity in the original. Which isn't true.

Selfish - The type of Dream that makes decisions that will clearly cause the suffering of other people for selfish or self absorbed reasons.

Controlling - I see this one so much and it hurts me. It's most likely due to people trying to make his desire to do good negative in this way, but directly conflicts with the fact it does no good if he becomes a toxic asshole with it. It's the type of Dream that won't let anyone do anything he doesn't deemed 100% positivity approved and becomes a toxic, controlling, manipulative asshole. Usually with a relationship bonus. ;')

Dense - Another negative stubbornness. A Dream that can't see when something's clearly making someone upset.

Overbearing - a branch of insensitive and stupid. the 'Everything is great! Isn't everything great! You're suffering? No! Everything is great and happy, be happy! I'm ALWAYS happy' Dream. Toxic positivity.

Irritable - The Dream that gets really angry at people for some reason? Normally because they're being negative or just not taking him seriously. This contends with Dream's canon in the sense that instead of getting angry he gets more sad/upset rather than some dry anger, and only when someone is being really cruel. I never like seeing a purely angry Dream. I'd rather him break down into tears, asking quietly why someone is doing this, instead of scream insults at them. Because we all know taking your anger out on someone helps solve problems and doesn't escalate situations.

Venegeful - The Dream that won't stop until the people who have wronged him or are doing wrong are either punished or dead. What's helping people be better, am I right?

Unforgiving - The Dream that never forgives people for wrongdoings and/or actively brings up past mistakes for no good reason, or just to get back at someone, usually to Nightmare. Often used as some moral superiority complex.

Smug - whenever he's right, he'll make sure you know it.

Overlycompetitive - the sore winner that wants to challenge people all the time, that'll rub it in their face when he's better. A subcategory of smug. This isn't to say canon Dream is never competitive, its just to say he isn't a dick about it.

I think a lot of people give them these traits because they think he's not 'flawed' enough. Like, they don't see to understand that 'good' traits can be flaws, or as we've seen here, think Dream's other good traits should be made into even more flaws, which directly conflict with his core morals and motivations.

I know a lot of people just write him like this for fun, and that's fine. I like Swap Dream by song-song-a actually, I think he's cool. There are a couple of exceptions where it's set up well enough that this isn't the Dream I know that I dont get fucking whiplash while reading. I'm not saying its wrong to write him like this, I'm just saying it's not enjoyable for me.

For the most part, it turns me away from the comic, or au, or am, almost instantly. I'm not interested in reading about Dream becomes an asshole edition 600. and it wouldn't be a problem for me if almost anyone wrote him well like every other character gets the liberty of.

Like, I also hate Chibi Blueberry but at least there's a ton of good Swap content out there so I'm not here talking about Chibi Blueberry lol.

Anyways, I'll probably add more traits if I think of any, so if you're trying to write Dream close to canon, you can use this as a what not to do post I guess. Otherwise enjoy my rant xD.

[loquaciousquark]

Cut for talk of COVID and irresponsible failure to social distance (my own). Also, some updates on what’s been going on here for the last month or so.

part one:

Very very long story that I am truncating as much as possible. As you all know, I am an optometrist and professor. When we shut down in March, our university made a huge, painful shift to remote learning and our student clinic ceased operations altogether. Neither students nor faculty saw patients from March 15 - the the middle of May. At the end of May, faculty began seeing patients directly in an extremely reduced schedule, and at the beginning of June, we began adding in very limited numbers of students in a rolling schedule that minimized exposure to all involved.

Three weeks ago, my dear friend Jasper contacted me and said that an old friend of hers, whom I will call Carol, was in dire straits after losing her job overseas. Carol has an extremely rocky history: a terrible car accident that left her legs and feet permanently damaged which directly led to a very bad divorce, significant student loan debt (just shy of six digits I think, compounded from the accident, since she used her student loans to pay her medical bills--for anyone reading this, do not EVER EVER EVER DO THIS--student loans are never touched by bankruptcy declarations and you will owe them until you die), and something of an inability to put down roots. She is an English teacher who has taught and traveled all over the world: Prague, Bahrain, Czech Republic, Los Angeles, Rio, etc.

When I first met her about ten years ago, she had come back to Alabama from Prague because a job had fallen through. She was completely broke and living out of two suitcases and a carry-on. She lived with us for three months for free, sleeping in Jasper’s bed because we had no other room for her, and eventually got a job in Boston and moved on. She lasted--I think--about two months in Boston before quitting and taking a job in the Middle East.

On top of her student loan debt, Carol also has significant IRS debt and is in debt to several of her friends. Over the last few years, she took several ill-advised positions overseas back to back without ever consulting a lawyer on her contracts, and did not realize until recently that one of her positions classified her as an independent contractor instead of an employee, so she owed US taxes on all her income for that period of time. Her most recent job in Prague she lost in February because she filed her visa (again, without a lawyer) incorrectly, and what should have been a brief three-week stay outside of the country became a six week stay on the couch of strangers in the Czech Republic while she waited for her visa reapplication to process. However, it was denied, and then COVID hit, and she returned to Alabama with only a portion of her possessions and tons of important paperwork left behind in her Prague apartment. She then unfortunately had two emergency surgeries on her stomach for an acute, unpredictable medical issue, and while she is well healing now, it also added on another forty thousand dollars of medical debt to what she already owed.

She stayed with her mother and sister while she was recovering from the emergency surgeries, but her family is emotionally abusive and very unkind to her, and after a few weeks she left their home and went to stay with Jasper. However, Jasper is also 8 months pregnant with her fourth child, and they both knew it was a temporary thing. Jasper knows that I have a large home with several spare bedrooms, and asked if I would be willing to host Carol for a period of time while she got back on her feet. I knew what I was agreeing to when I said yes, and Carol and I settled on a period of two months. She has now been here almost three weeks.

Frankly, I do not like Carol very much. We are unbelievably different people in every way--personality, temperament, proclivity to crying in front of other people, hobbies, interests, religion, all of it. She is a very nice person, and I think she truly does mean well. But she is the most emotionally needy and energy-sapping person I have ever met, and I cannot tolerate her company in more than small chunks. It is not possible to hold a conversation with her about any subject tangentially related to her difficulties; if I try to sympathize with her loans by mentioning my own, she shuts me down by saying at least I will have the chance to ever pay them back. If I just try to listen without commentary, she’ll wrap herself up in her own stories and talk for hours without ever needing more than “mm”s and “hm”s and my undivided attention the entire time.

She will often work herself up into sobbing tears over her situation(s), and she always informs me immediately of any new development in any of her numerous trials: which are usually negative, considering the situation, and usually resulting in more tears. She has cried on me probably more than a dozen times since she moved in, and she wields “I love you” like a weapon, more to hear the validation of the response than to truly express the sentiment. She constantly asks for advice on her situation but does not listen to any of it--seems more to just want to relive each tragic detail of her life over and over again with an audience, wondering why she’s continually “screwed over in her life.” (Really, really poor financial decisions and constantly trusting her own “intuition” over getting competent legal advice before signing contracts, are I think the biggest contributors.) She has told me so many private details about her personal views, relationships with her ex-husband and mother and sister, her financial choices, and her extensive travel and job history over the last few years that I probably know her history better than my own at this point.

I think she thinks by sharing so much that she is justifying to me her need to stay with me. What is actually happening is that I am forced to help shoulder this enormous emotional load that compounds my own mental health problems I’ve been having since all this started. I have told her more than once that she does not need to justify herself to me and that my home is open to her for two months, no strings attached. I believe she is making all the steps she needs to and do not need reports on her daily activities to “pay” for her lodging or electricity or internet or whatever. This has changed the behavior a little for the better but not stopped it.

There are moments that are not bad. As I have mentioned, she does mean well and want well for most people. She likes Hamlet and loves Jasper, who is extremely important to me. But she is extremely difficult to be around in so many other ways, and the way she constantly exclaims over how we basically think alike on all things (absolutely untrue) makes me think she either will not or cannot read my reluctance to engage on any of these topics.

(An example: I was watching footage of the SpaceX launch and despite my feelings on Elon Musk, really excited about the implications for space travel. She came in, and after misunderstanding for some time that I was not watching Space Force with Steve Carell, decided that the SpaceX program was morally bankrupt, obviously borne of shady backroom government deals, and everyone involved should have used the money to solve world hunger instead. For the record, she had not heard of the shuttle launch, SpaceX, or Elon Musk at all before the seeing the footage.)

(She also until last week had not heard of Playstation, Xbox, streaming as a concept, or any game more modern than the original Mario. Trying to order a grocery delivery online was an excruciating torment for her [took her over four days to get through selecting the items, selecting allowable replacements, and actually paying] and I will not ask her to do it again. She frequently makes comments about video games being a waste of time, and when she sees children playing outside, comments on how glad she is they are not inside playing video games. She doesn’t seem to realize her comments are a direct commentary on me; I think she genuinely does not understand that those games are what I am playing most of my free time.)

Right now, everything seems to hinge on her passing some teacher recertification tests next week and the week after. She spent $150 to give herself less than a week to study from scratch for a test she described as the hardest she’d ever taken. There were several other dates later in the summer she could have chosen, and her deadline is December, but she picked the soonest option for reasons I can’t fathom. She is also in the process of trying to get a car--right now I’m driving her everywhere--and she was ready to hand over $3800 yesterday for a ten-year-old Hyundai with a check-engine light on without even thinking of getting any kind of inspection. She is far more concerned with the color and “energy” of the car than its function, and would not have even checked the headlights and blinkers if I hadn’t prompted it.

She will be here another five weeks or so. We move around each other now better than we did before, and I hope it will continue to improve. But it’s a lot like a rock grinding a groove in the streambed from the repetitive friction, and it’s not the struggle I wanted to be having right now.

part two:

As I mentioned above, Jasper is having her fourth child in a month or so. One of her friends, someone I don’t know, contacted me and said she wanted to do a drive-by “baby sprinkle,” where no one gets out of their cars. You drop off the gifts, talk to the recipient a few minutes from the car window, and move on. I told her that I work in health care and am exposed to patients, so that sounded good to me.

The shower was this morning. Carol and I got up and drove the thirty minutes to Jasper’s house. There were four other families in cars right around the corner, and the “hostess” gave us all balloons to tie on our side mirrors. She told us we would drive around the corner, drop off the gifts, and loop around. Jasper’s husband would arrange for her to be in the front yard at the right time.

Cute enough. We go around the corner with little honks and Jasper sees us and starts crying, and it’s all wonderful and emotional and a fabulous surprise and I’m genuinely excited about it. And then people start parking and getting out of their cars, and Carol and I start looking at each other. They’re full families, too--three of the other moms brought all their kids, and soon enough they’re playing with Jasper’s three boys in the front yard and coming up asking to pet Hamlet through the car window. No one was wearing masks.

And what’s worse, when they all started looking at us expectantly through the car window, we didn’t know what to do. They were handing Jasper her gifts and obviously settling in for a good long chat; the women were hugging, talking about how they are “so over this COVID stuff, please come visit soon,” and Hamlet of course recognizes his original owners in Jasper and her husband so he’s freaking out, and after a few moments, we decided to just get out of the car.

It was the first time I really felt the social pressure to participate in an event I wasn’t comfortable with. I have no issue maintaining my social distance and my mask and my handwashing at work because that is where I have the position of authority, and I have the responsibility to model it for the students and patients--but here, I was a guest at someone else’s house at someone else’s event, and I really, really felt how they might perceive me as rude. While I didn’t know the other women, my relationship with Jasper is extremely important to me, and I didn’t want to make this special event for her difficult in any way.

So we got out of the car and joined the group. I tried to keep my distance as much as possible, especially since I had Hamlet on the leash and there were a half-dozen small children around, but at least twice I looked up and there was someone right at my elbow, and we made small talk for five minutes or so before either she drifted back to the group or I moved Hamlet into the shade away from the rest.

Cars drove by and slowed down more than once to look at us. Jasper’s husband made a comment about rolling his eyes if he saw their family on Facebook that evening. The women planned play dates, all standing very close together, and Jasper opened her gifts (that part was excellent). All in all we were probably there about twenty minutes. 

I should mention that on the drive there, we passed a public park that has a very pretty waterfall right next to the road, and there were probably a dozen families out playing. There was a festival/outdoor market right outside the the park that had a sign up about social distancing, but the fifty or so people we saw shopping there were not adhering in any meaningful way. No one wore a mask.

And what annoys the bejeezus out of me is that I didn’t either. I didn’t even think about it until after we finally got back in the car to drive away. This is the first social event I’ve gone to since the first week of March, and while I wear masks for eight+ hours every day I go in to work, it didn’t occur to me even a single time to put on even my little cloth one that I keep in the car until we were driving away afterwards. I was so flummoxed by every little thing happening differently than I expected--people getting out of cars, how surprised I was by my own susceptibility to not rocking the boat, how normal everyone else made it to stand so close they could bump elbows so that Carol and I became almost excluded from the circle--that it never once crossed my mind. I know masks are more for the protection of those around you, not to keep you from catching what other people are carrying, but I could have set an example. I could have been the health professional I should have been in the moment.

I’m just so disappointed in myself. Disappointed in my own carelessness, irritated that I didn’t say anything, continually frustrated in a deep, gut-wrenching way by the whole situation that requires this in the first place. Bewildered that so many people are “back to normal” while this thing is still spreading, and in brutal honesty wishing I could be like them and just give up the fight myself. I’m not even mad at them. I WANT TO BE THEM. Why am I continually bothering to care and sanitize and mask and stay at home when no one else is? Literally no one would judge me in this state for it more than I’m already being judged (in most cases impersonally, though I felt the potential for it today in specific) for still watching the recommended guidelines.

I am really, really sick of this. I am so sick of feeling alone in this (of being alone in this, and Carol doesn’t count). Hearing other people saying “there there, you’re doing the right thing” honestly makes it even worse. I want people to stop patronizingly telling me to do things I already know are the right thing to do. I want other people as mad as I am that I can’t do the things I want to and need to do instead of being endlessly patient and noble about all the lives they’re saving by staying home. I’m top-of-my-head-blowing-off furious that so many people are shrugging and saying “well this is just the way it will be forever and alas, so it goes” and acting like those of us who did the right thing and cancelled our plans and our trips and our visits to dear friends but who are mad about having to do it are overreacting. I’m so fucking mad about it. I’ve stayed home for two months and I’ve isolated and I’ve quarantined and my hands are cracking from the constant sanitizer/washing at work and except for today I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do for this, and I don’t want to do it. And seeing people be so heroically virtuous and longsuffering on Facebook feels as alien and upsetting to me as the people who go to the beaches with a hundred of their closest friends.

That’s probably unfair in myriad ways. I’m really too angry, including at myelf, to soften it right now.

I want a vaccine and I want to be back in my classroom teaching to fifty faces instead of a screen in my living room, and I’m honestly freaking sick of waiting at home for them to figure this out. And watching everyone else move on with their lives back to the normal I would kill to have is just one more crack in the dike.

[deafaq]

(1) Hi! I am a hearing author, and I wrote a story about a goth-flavored magic high school disguised as an alternative private school for deaf and blind teenagers called Blackwood High. It teaches students how to use and hide their unique and somewhat creepy powers. The students are not blind or deaf in ordinary medical ways (not all of them, anyways), but they do appear and interact with others as if they are deaf or blind. One of the students, for example, always wears ear plugs or headphones

(2) headphones because he constantly hears the voices/screams of the dead. He appears deaf, and in a way, he is, since he cannot hear like a hearing person. Another student wears special glasses that almost completely block his vision because he possesses folks by just looking them in the eyes. All of the characters sign consistently My concept was that the main character would be an ordinary deaf person without powers who was accidentally enrolled in this goth-hogwarts, and he has to deal with

(3) and he has to deal with the fun characters and powers he runs into, and he even falls for the boy who hears the voices of the dead. They work together to solve mysteries. Overall, it's a sarcastic found-family adventure with a Tim Burton aesthetic. For the MC, ASL is his first language, and for the other main characters, ASL is their second language, because their powers developed around the age of 6. I would love to know your thoughts on the powers and if it's harmful representation.

Hello,

my main thought is :  Please get a sensitivity reader - someone who is deaf, knows ASL and studied at school for deaf in USA.

If your main character in story is deaf student in deaf school, and you are hearing (and I presume you have no or little experience with how such schools functions, unless you are a teacher there?), there will be tons of little and bigger stuff to get wrong, which is why its ideal to have sensitivity reader who will be able to spot it.

As for the overall theme... Hm. I am not a fan of “oh, actually, this character isn’t *really* disabled, it just their magical ability!”  Why can’t they be both disabled and with magical powers? You can be deaf and hear voices of dead, I do it with tinnitus every day... Okay, tinnitus isn’t quite voices of dead people, but it sure sounds like it sometimes.

This very much depends on how you write it - if you write them as “we are disabled, only the cause isn’t broken hearing nerve, but screaming of the damned”, I could see it working - if you include the limits and problems real disabled people face. But if its “oh, they are not like those *real* disabled people, ya know, its actually their awesome magical abilities!”

I have seen non-disabled writers using similar tropes before (aka, she isn’t actually mentally ill/blind/etc, she sees dead people!/shoots lasers from her eyes!) and it usually... wasn’t well handled. 

And I don’t understand how you want to have all signing characters, yet also blind characters? Blind people cannot learn ASL, since its a visual language. There is of course tactile ASL, but thats mostly used by deafblind people (and usually only by those who were first deaf and only later lost vision).

Anyway, could be a cool book - if you do get sensitivity reader. 

Mod T

[eroticcannibal]

What's recovery rhetoric? I think I have a basic understanding of it, but I feel like I'm missing the nuance of it, if that makes sense?

Ok I’ve learned my lesson, I’m typing this up in wordpad too and also I’m lazy so I’m cribbing from previous posts  (which I will link to in case anyone wants some further reading). Also it might not be necessary for u but I’m gonna cover basics in this in case any newer followers are curious.

So, SUPER short version, “recovery rhetoric” is the eugenics-lite way that recovery is discussed and pushed on mentally ill/mad/neurodiverse people. Recovery rhetoric is essentially the intra-community version of neurotypical ableism and their ultimate goal of eradicating neurodivergency. It’s an ultimately harmful attempt to try and assimilate into neurotypical society. Now I don’t think those that perpetuate it are intentionally malicious, I completely understand the desire to get better and be “normal”, but nonetheless the impact is ultimately harmful.

Things that are typical of recovery rhetoric:

Constantly changing redefinitions of “recovery”. Recovery means the problem is gone, which for most people is not possible, ever. Most people engaging in recovery rhetoric recognise this but rather than give up on recovery, which is demanded of all of us by ableist society, they attempt to redefine it, which creates a situation of one side telling a vulnerable person that “recovery is possible!”, which sets them up for the trauma of constant and inevitable failure for not living up to The Actual Definition Of Recovery, which will usually be internalised as a personal failing.

The insistence that their is One Way That Recovery Looks. To make this easier to discuss here I’m going to define this as “improvement” rather than “recovery”, but recovery rhetoric ignores the variety of people and their situations and experiences. The standard for improvement tends to be go to therapy, take your meds, “healthy” (read: respectable by ableist standards) coping mechanisms only etc etc which is inherently harmful for prioritising respectability over what is actually helpful for an individual.

One example would be the earlier discussion on my blog regarding addiction, the recovery rhetoric approach would frame replacement and even addiction itself as “unhealthy” coping mechanisms, therefore things that should be eradicated immediately regardless of the individuals situation. Their is no consideration for those who would be worse off in their current situations without their “bad” ways of coping. No consideration for those that respond differently to different things (insulting myself is FUN it doesn’t actually damage me, the same is true of others, please leave us be). Their is no consideration of the fact that “healthy” is subjective. Their is no consideration of the fact that for some “healthy” is UNACHIEVABLE. Their is no consideration of those who would be harmed by “respectable” methods of improvement, such as therapy or meds (abuse within mental health fields exists and is rampant). And this tends to breed a lack of compassion for those in worse situations than those who can just drink a glass of water and take their meds to feel better. It’s respectability or you aren’t trying hard enough and you just want to be ill. Because recognising that personal improvement is actually antithetical to the expectations of ableist society, those entrenched in recovery rhetoric will tear down anyone who is a threat to their viewpoint so they can hold on to the hope they will be “normal”.

(Also, I’ve just realised this parallels the CBT approach: removing a negative behavior results in the problem it is a response to being solved. Which is… not how things work but given how CBT has been pushed lately above all other forms of treatment due to low costs, to the point where some other treatments have been cut away completely, I’m… much less suprised by this aspect of recovery rhetoric. I’m copywriting this insight /j)

The idea that to be neurotypical and sane is the default, what we should all aim to be, and that existence outside of that is a deviation to be fixed no matter the cost. By God You Better Be A Productive Cog In The Machinery Of Capitalism Or You Have Failed. This links in a little with the previous point, in that what is considered “healthy” and “recovered” doesn’t always correlate with what is good for someone.

The pathologising of Every Damn Thing Even If It Is Harmless. Not texting back is because you are traumatised. Don’t do toooo much self care because that’s indulgence. Don’t trust people? It’s because you’re crazy, not because people have shown you can’t trust them. I could go on.

Coercive loss of autonomy through intra-community pressure. You are not allowed to be ok with being ill or mad. You are not allowed to disagree with professionals, you must submit to them and seek treatment from them. Recovery is not optional. Don’t you dare suggest there is nothing actually wrong with you. And of course listen to some random blogger who knows nothing about your life, they just want the best for you, you aren’t anti-recovery, are you?

The denial of outside factors in mental illness and madness. If you have a problem, it’s because of you, your brain, you have to fix it. Your recovery is down to you. Homeless? Abused? Can’t get medical treatment? RECOVER ANYWAY.

It leaves no space for those who have been harmed by recovery attempts and the mental health field. Certainly no space for those that have been killed by them.

(can u tell I’m getting lazy towards the end here? My hands hurt, sorry)

Recovery rhetoric may seem quite lovely on the surface, but the end result is a few uwu recovery drink-water-take-your-meds blogs feeling all morally superior because it’s easier for them, and a culture of attacking anyone who has life a bit harder.

MORE POSTS ON RECOVERY RHETORIC, PRO-RECOVERY CULTURE AND RELATED TOPICS )some are more serious, thought out posts like this, some are fairly casual exchanges of experiences)(check the notes, there’s some good additions)

[Example of the hostility towards those who cannot perform to the standards of pro-recovery culture]

[The value of “toxic” communities like pro-ana]

[Pathologising normal behaviors]

[What is recovery culture]

[A positive approach to personal improvement]

[The cost of recovery]

[Personal accounts of psychiatric abuse][Theres a ton more on my blog if u search “psych”]

[An alternative view on living with a weird brain, which I include mostly due to the hostility in the notes as an example of the behavior directed at anyone who does not perpetuate recovery rhetoric. IDK if the worst of it will show up in the notes cus a lot of people blocked me over that post lmao]

[Pathologising healthy behaviors]

[How recovery culture can cause a lack of trust in yourself]

[”What is recovery?” a perspective by a psychiatric survivor, I’d also recommend that whole site for anyone interested in anti-psych, recovery-critical and Mad perspectives]

[An alternative vision of treatment]

My blog is not the be all and end all of reading, I’m just not looking further lmao

[ephemeral-afterlight]

Mourning at Midnight

(UwU so Hey. i’m back with some more trash)

Word Count: 7480

Summary: It’s scary, in a way, how in moments like this one, Logan feels as if his consciousness floats away from him, leaving behind only a wave of white-hot, searing anger that drains out of him just as quickly as it comes. There’s sleet running through his veins, and his brain has frostbite, and his fingertips are numb in the face of the ringing resonance after his outburst. The pain comes next, a simmering heat blistering below his fist until it’s coated and red and the beginnings of a bruise are starting to form. He can’t help but stare helplessly in front of himself, eyes burning and filling and blazing with how much they beg to close.

He doesn’t want to look up, to face the suffocating silence that’s fallen over the room. He doesn’t want to see their faces, their disappointment, their anger, their contempt. He wants to yell. He wants to sleep.

Logan sinks out.

Warnings (could potentially be small spoilers, nothing too big, but if you don’t have any triggers I’d suggest you skip reading this!):

There are no u!sides in this, nor does anyone have malicious intent, but the other main three (Virgil, Patton, Roman) and Thomas, to a lesser extent, treat Logan unkindly (not on purpose) and don’t realize their errors. This will be resolved! Just… not yet OwO

Being ignored/talked over

Mental/emotional breakdown

An unidentified illness with symptoms including: [extreme persistent nausea (lots of mentions), vomiting (once), bile, weakness/weariness, shaking, lightheadedness, double vision (once), headache, body aches/pains, breathing difficulties]

General negativity including: [self-doubt, self-deprecation/depreciation, feeling worthless or unloveable, self-hatred]

Anger management/temperament issues

Unintentional self-harm (not anything like c-tting, Logan gets a bruise as a result of an angry outburst)

Separate small, vague allusion to self-harm, but it’s not outright and not detailed in the slightest. Could be read as not even talking about self-harm

Potentially triggering descriptive imagery (metaphors and similes to describe how a character feels or percieves a situation, not anything that actually happens) including but not limited to: [glass, sharp things, blood, injection, live wires, loud noises, screaming, general mentions of pain, masochism, sound torture, knives/blades, wounds, drowning/suffocating, pressure]

Temporarily unresolved tension between Logan/Deceit/Remus and the other sides/Thomas (there will be a happy ending in the next fic, though, don’t worry!)

A few vulgar threats of violence (somewhat explicit, be careful) to the other sides from Remus (out of protectiveness; Remus means well but he does Not express it in a healthy way) that is not carried out or even humoured

Remus’ morning star and descriptions of its destructive capabilites

Loceit as a romantic pairing (for now…. UwU)

Sympathetic “dark” sides

That should be it for warnings! Let me know if I need to add anything!

A/N: So! This is finally done :D !! I’ve been working on it on and off for the past week or so, and although I know it could be way better, I think this is where I’ll keep it! This is technically a sequel to my other fic Tea at Twilight and it takes place in the same universe, and although you don’t need to read that before this to understand the story, I strongly suggest reading that first to get more of a feel for the dynamic! 

This is inspired by @illogicallyinclined and her absolutely amazing Disaster Trio™ headcanons/au, and was prompted by this post so I just started writing! I meant for it to be a bit shorter, but of course my brain would Not let it go, even despite my ADHD, executive dysfunction, and massive amounts of writer’s block. 

This is also unfinished! It is the second of three main works, all happening chronologically in the same universe. The first one is Tea at Twilight as stated previously, then this one, and there will be a third and final installment added to finish off this short little trilogy! I’ll be adding this to the series on AO3, so when the final fic is up, it’ll all be together for an easy reading experience. It is also possible that there will be other small fics in this universe (UA, as has been recently coined) that operate outside of the timeline of the main story, so be sure to watch out for that! 

Thanks to Jay once again for creating these lovely headcanons that haunt my dreams every night, and for inspiring me to get back into my writing groove despite a writer’s block that’s lasted for over three years! Hope this isn’t too terrible, Jay! ilyy <333</p>

Also, a huge thank you to @illogical-anxieties for being such a good cheerleader/enabler! You really do help to keep me motivated and on track (and keep my ADHD in check), which is probably why this was even able to become a full-fledged story rather than a WIP to be buried where unfinished fics go to die T~T Love you tons <3</p>

(If I’m being honest with myself, this is just an excuse for me to live up to my IRL title of “Living Thesaurus”, coined by a friend many years ago and has since spread around to other friends and family. My title is thriving, and I suppose that means I should actually have proof of it, so there’s that.)

(Cross-posted to AO3)

(Read Part 1 here)

He can feel it building.

There’s far too much left to be desired when it comes to frustration. The natural helplessness that makes way for anger when you try so hard to do something or be something for someone and you’re pushed down by anything and everything between ignorance and antipathy. The fear that nothing you can do or say will ever be good enough. The buzzing, ticking, pinpricks upon pinpricks of heat injected into you until your blood and heart have been replaced with glass, fragile as a crumbling stone wall. It’s not as if he hasn’t had his outbursts before, spurred on by the familiar sharp pulse of rage that courses through him in a split-second whirlwind. It builds inside him, and he can feel the pressure in his limbs expand until it feels like his muscles are being squeezed out of existence and then he snaps like a rubber band that’s been pulled too taut. He’s not in denial of the fact that his impulsive, blinding reaction when met with frustration is not okay, and only detrimental to the demeanour he’s trying to retain. He knows it’s childish. He knows it’s immature, and pathetic, and wholly invigorating, at least until the adrenaline has worn off and he’s in the aftermath of his knee-jerk reaction to the tension coiled in his arms and legs and head.

It doesn’t mean that Logan is particularly in control of it though, despite his self-awareness being far above the level that most people with anger management issues are at. Maybe there’s a certain quality to it that allows for growth; it’s not as if Logan stays angry, or that he wants to hurt people. He loves the others, painfully so (as much as he loathes to admit it), to the point where he’s so desperate for their approval that he tampers down his passion, that spark that used to drive him to learn and speak and be happy just to avoid being cast out and abandoned, alone in the way he never wants to be. He wants to find a way to temper the fall into those dark, consuming waters, a way to mute the buzzing and ticking. He wants to seal those exposed live wires and release the tension to the point where he never lashes out ever again. He wants to, and he doesn’t know how to, and that fact infuriates him in an ironic, endless cycle of self-imposed and self-directed enmity.

Logan still thinks on this often, even now, wracking his brain for solutions to problems that realistically won’t be solved as easily as he wishes they would. Excerpts and quotes and data and statistics from many different studies about anger and temper management and irritability and everything in between seem to figuratively run amok through his brain, a screaming crowd of witnesses to the chaos and failure found in his ability to filter through the nonsense and come to a satisfying conclusion, any conclusion at all. He notices how his fingers tremble as they slip into the handle of his coffee mug, endures the dull ache in his mid-to-lower back from falling asleep at his desk for the majority of the day under the guise of work so important he holed himself up in his room to complete it. He ignores the way his head pounds, how he feels so dizzy that he might fall over and pass out any second from lightheadedness. He suffers through the loud conversations between the other three that are typical to the dinner routine that Logan cannot deal with today, not with this headache poking at him like figurative needles in his head.

When he senses the summons from Thomas stirring up the familiar but nonetheless odd ticklish sensation on the back of his neck, Logan can feel the tension knot up his muscles, and the combination of the two just makes him want to growl in irritation. The others, having also felt the summoning, seem to get impossibly louder, ringing and stinging and singing in his head. He still persists, despite the fact that he knows he shouldn’t be out doing anything today that’s likely to exacerbate his sickness, because Thomas is important, more so than Logan himself. No matter how much he wants to hole himself up in his room and sleep the day away, his host needs him, so Logan simply forces his mask of indifference to melt into steel. He refuses to budge, not for the first or last time, and he rises up in the real world standing straight and rigid and as put together as he’s always expected to be.

When he’s finally settled into his usual spot, as still as he can possibly be to not exacerbate the roiling nausea disquieting his stomach, he’s able to take in the other four arranged in their usual positions in Thomas’ living room, already having begun a conversation that Logan has missed the premise of entirely through his all-eclipsing, obfuscating malady. His vision doubles, like broken fractals of glass reflecting onto themselves, and then it pulls back together, merging back into something visible, something manageable.

“Well, I’m sure Danny likes you, too! You just gotta ask him, kiddo!” Patton exclaims, high voice pushing through the heavy, suffocating cotton in Logan’s ears, and the words snap the bespectacled side to attention. He needs context, needs to know what they’re talking about, needs to be able to help for once. Maybe he has to endure the bad to be able to put out the good, and this is where the climax is, the top of the rollercoaster at such a high altitude that oxygen is thin and dispersed before he shoots down the tracks in a rush of fresh air, relieving and calm and sanguine as he’s finally able to ground himself. A shiver runs through Logan’s body, between his shoulder blades and down his hip and through his leg, and his eyes flutter under the weight of consciousness. It recedes, the flow is ebbed, and his head clears to a more sustainable level.

“Oh, that’s so boring, Padre! Thomas should hire a band to play! And we can rig up streamers and confetti and there can be a cake and dancing and a party to celebrate!” Roman crows, throwing his arms and hands up into his signature pose to match his full, booming tone. Patton squeals, clutching his cardigan in his hands to pull excitedly at the sleeves as he bounces giddily on his feet. At the suggestion, as the polar opposite to Patton’s reaction, Virgil grimaces, hunching over even further in his jacket as he protests with every way he can think of that the situation could go wrong. Unsurprisingly, Roman takes personal offense to it and refutes Virgil’s points with the same intensity and fervour that’s been present in himself and his interactions with the anxious side since day one. Logan sort of understands, can infer that they’re discussing how to ask out Danny, a new friend of Thomas’ who has very quickly turned into a crush. In that case…

“If I may interrupt? While I don’t share all of Virgil’s worries, I do agree with his position in regards to the fact that there isn’t a need for such extravagance. It might embarrass Danny, for one, and for two, there are many ways such an excessive venture could backfire, such as technical difficulties or general human error. The idea is, while exciting, frankly outrageous,” Logan says, his role as the voice of reason renewed once more. It’s his job to sift through the conversations they have and get to the important parts, and he likes his job. He’s good at micromanaging, mediating the chaos, good at storing information to sort and consider and veto and bolster. It’s how he operates, how he copes. “We can think of something else to–”

“Oh, shut it, Pocket Protector. We all know you don’t care about romance, but this is important! Thomas wishes to find love with the second most handsome prince in the world! After me, of course,” Roman exclaims, in that boisterous, self-aggrandizing way of his, the way that hides his real insecurities he buries so deeply in himself he doesn’t know how to find them again. Oddly enough, it’s not Roman’s defense mechanism that throws Logan off, it’s the way that Logan stopped talking almost reflexively to allow the other side to finish his statement, as if the prince’s words were more important than his own, and it speaks as testament to how much Logan’s been conditioned (or maybe he’s conditioned himself all on his own) into putting everyone else before himself, even when it hurts him or Thomas. Logan is ignored in the face of his implicit trust, and he hates that even as it pours salt in the open wound, he finds himself taking a depraved, spiteful comfort in the familiarity of it all.

“That’s not what I–”

“Awe, c'mon, Logan! Thomas deserves to have a happy relationship and someone he can live out the rest of his life with! Doesn’t that sound nice, to grow old together with someone you love? Isn’t that romantic? Oh, it just makes me so warm and fuzzy thinking about it!” Patton interrupts, hands clutching each other over his heart as he swoons. Logan knows Patton doesn’t mean to be rude, but he still can’t help but be a little hurt by it, especially since he’s now been ignored twice consecutively. He’s just trying to help, and if that means reigning in Roman’s exorbitant ideas that border on egregious at times, then Logan knows it must be done. Although he encourages Thomas to seek a relationship to improve his mental health and provide more financial stability, there is a limit to how much he can disregard himself and others in doing so, and that doesn’t mean that Logan is the bad guy for pointing that out. He knows that. He knows that, so why does the dismissal still feel so sharp in his chest?

“Yeah, romance is cool and all, but what if it doesn’t work? What if Danny actually hates us? What if we ask and he laughs at us or says no and then we’ll be standing there like an idiot and then he’ll never wanna talk to us again because he thinks we’re pathetic and stupid and–”

“Hey, now, don’t be such a Debby Downer, kiddo! I’m sure it’ll go just fine! We’ll just ask him. The worst thing that can happen is he’ll say no, right? Shouldn’t we give it a shot?” Patton consoles before Virgil can go into a spiral. Although his well-meaning reassurances are meant to be comforting, his voice just grates on Logan’s ears, tinny and hollow and misdirected.

“That’s what I’m afraid of!”

Logan wants to keep listening, he really does, but the noise is rising to levels where it’s too much to handle. He’s already sensitive from his illness, but the discussion that is very quickly turning into an argument falls in pulses through his head, sound torture to the broken, hopeless masochist. He’s barely holding onto himself at this point, consciousness like a dangling thread that swirls and dances and twirls with even the tiniest breeze, a hint of movement sending it shivering and quivering as it spins. It wouldn’t take much for the thread to fray from the weight pulling it down, or to saw through it in a clean slice that leaves it floating feather-light upon air currents, petals spiraling to the ground.

Petals. Flowers. Thomas could bring Danny flowers! It’s perfect! Danny is especially predisposed to gardening, and he frequently talks about different flowers and what they mean based on the type and colour. His interest in botany could make this a sweet gift, to show that Thomas pays attention to what Danny enjoys, and can be the perfect segue into asking him on a romantic outing. Yes, this could work! It would appease Roman’s inclination to classic romanticism while still being practical and not unreasonably expensive, give Patton his ideal relationship fantasy (and a “warm and fuzzy feeling”, apparently), and allow Virgil a little more breathing room, so-to-speak. This is something they all should be agreeable towards, and that confidence is enough to supply Logan with enough energy to push past his lightheadedness and offer a solution. He’s proud of himself for taking the others’ feelings into account, something he knows he’s not always been the most proficient at, and for coming up with a compromise that will likely satisfy everyone’s wants and needs.

“What about bringing him flowers?” Logan asks, pleased and antsy as he feels hope well up in his chest. He doesn’t push it down this time, and he thinks maybe, just maybe they’ll finally listen to him, that they’ll tell him that he did well, that he’s being considerate and maybe even say thank you–

“How would you even know, Roman? It’s not like we just go out and hire mariachi bands every Saturday!” Virgil says with furrowed brows, and Roman huffs in indignation, and Patton sighs as he looks between the two of them, and Logan’s words fall on deaf ears. They didn’t even hear. They didn’t listen. They didn’t care they didn’t care–

“Uh, hey, Virgil, what if–” Logan tries once more to speak, nausea rolling angrily in his gut, head spinning dizzy round and round and round and round and Virgil flinches.

He flinches. Because of Logan.

Virgil hasn’t been afraid of any of them for a long time. Sure, in the beginning, when they fought one another on nearly a day-to-day basis, there would be a moment before he could pull on his figurative mask that a flash of fear would go through Virgil’s eyes, and the sadness kept within wouldn’t subside even when he growled and snapped and blustered whichever side had the misfortune of picking a fight with him during a time where his first instinct was to keep away the pain and longing and loneliness the only way he knew how. Over time, that flash of fear dulled, morphed into something more manageable, more trusting. The sadness never really went away, but it was met with warmth, a soft contentedness that danced in his eyes when he realized he had a family to turn to. He hasn’t been afraid for a long time. And yet, he flinches away from Logan, just from him speaking.

Is he really that bad?

Does even simply the sound of his voice have such a negative association for Virgil that it prompts genuine fear and discomfort? Has he really scared Virgil that much? What did he do? How can he fix this?

Maybe he shouldn’t.

Logan’s felt disconnected from the others for quite a while now. He loves them, of course he does, but he doesn’t feel like he fits. He’s the metaphorical jagged puzzle piece, the one that should snap into the final vacant space but is so broken beyond repair that it doesn’t fit quite right. He wants to belong, to feel at home whenever he’s with them, but he doesn’t. He yearns for the acceptance that Virgil earned, the support that Roman is held up by, the respect and adoration Patton seems to acquire so casually and naturally that it’s like he doesn’t even have to try. Logan wants to be like them. He wants to be loved, but… that isn’t really his place, is it?

Love is not an inherent thing. It’s something that’s earned, by doing good things and being important enough to someone that they give it freely. It’s something Logan doesn’t understand, but despite that, still desperately, painfully yearns for. He wants to be loved, the way he loves the others. He wants to be a part of their famILY, to have that implicit trust in each other that only comes from acute, profound, deep-seated love. He wants that fondness directed towards himself, that devotion borne from hapless, radiating appreciation. The humbled esteem, the maudlin, theatrical longing, the passion and yearning and helpless, acquiescent love that bursts from the seams in a manner that will never diminish or fade. He wants that. Badly. And he’s finally ready to accept that he will never have it. He’s okay. He’s okay. He just needs a moment. He just needs to breathe.

The others must have continued with their arguments long ago, seemingly unaware of anything outside of themselves. Logan supposes he shouldn’t really berate them for that since he often falls victim to getting lost in debate as well, but something is wrong with Thomas, going by his expression and demeanour and the logical side can’t ignore it anymore. It’s highly unlikely that the other three will come away from themselves for long enough to notice, and it doesn’t sound like they’re anywhere close to coming to a conclusion amongst themselves, so Logan is perfectly fine with bearing that responsibility upon himself to check up on his host and make sure he’s okay. He’s the most important one here, after all, and it’s Logan’s job to help him, guide him in his life and decisions.

“Thomas? Is there something wrong?” Although the words come out clear and precise as usual, Logan’s throat burns, and he can barely breathe. He wants to sleep, he wants to sleep, but Thomas needs him, and that doesn’t happen often nowadays, so Logan does nothing but wait impassively. His host bites the inside of his cheek, then sighs as he stares off at the wall, lost in thought. Since he says nothing, the logical side assumes he will continue to say nothing for a few more moments, and decides to give him a once-over to gather more information and any possible context. Thomas’ eyebrows are furrowed, and his posture far from adequate. His expression is troubled, and his arms are crossed loosely, a pointer finger scratching at his elbow unconsciously. There is no obvious cause for his confusion and/or upset in himself or anywhere in the room, apart from the current dilemma, but he was fine before, so something must have changed to distress him now. Logan cannot ascertain what Thomas needs simply from observing him, so he concludes that the best thing for him to do is wait.

So he does. And he does so for a minute, two, five. Every second that ticks by feels like a needle is being shoved into his eyes, his brain, his legs, his everything and it takes more effort to stand than he’s used to. Breathing is difficult, but that isn’t exactly a new development, so at least he knows how to ignore it. Eventually, ten minutes pass with only the sound of the other three arguing in the background, and it doesn’t seem like Thomas is really all there. Although the action makes him want to throw up, Logan shifts forward, moving out of his usual spot and into Thomas’ own. He still doesn’t acknowledge any kind of input outside himself, so Logan lays a hand on his host’s arm gently, which snaps him out of his trance in a slow, unhurried kind of way. Thomas gives him a glance when his logical side sighs, tampering down any audible signs of his nausea in a manner that is unbeknownst to the host, but returns to staring at the wall without a second regard.

“Thomas?” Logan murmurs, bile rising in his throat and shoving his hidden suffering even closer to the forefront of his mind, as though it hasn’t been there all along. It’s hard to think, through all of the white noise and weary irritation and the tiniest sliver of hope that he crushes immediately, but thinking is his job, and he needs to help. “Are you alright? You can talk to me.”

And then Thomas is shrugging him off, turning away as he tells him he should “just stop” with piercing words, that he “can’t do anything to help”, and the rejection feels like a metaphorical knife has been shoved into his gut. Logan can feel the pain and the heartbreak and the insecurity materialize into a cold blade, twisting and twisting just to make him hurt more. Logan is ignored for the fourth time today, by the person it hurts to come from the most, and he can feel the sun whipping and screaming in his chest. His breath is stuck, sucked down into his throat, a sharp pain localizing in his neck, and he can’t help but bring his hand up to rub at the spot with trembling fingertips as he unsteadily lurches back to his regular spot. The others don’t notice, of course, or if they did, they don’t care. Then the nausea he’s been fighting against surges like a violent wave at full force, drowning him and the hurt is forcing its way into his mouth, his throat, his lungs, and he can’t breathe–

His fist flashes down from his neck to the banister, punching the railing so hard it echoes in the reverberation created from his vicious, angry snarl.

It’s scary, in a way, how in moments like this one, Logan feels as if his consciousness floats away from him, leaving behind only a wave of white-hot, searing anger that drains out of him just as quickly as it comes. There’s sleet running through his veins, and his brain has frostbite, and his fingertips are numb in the face of the ringing resonance after his outburst. The pain comes next, a simmering heat blistering below his fist until it’s coated and red and the beginnings of a bruise are starting to form. He can’t help but stare helplessly in front of himself, eyes burning and filling and blazing with how much they beg to close.

He doesn’t want to look up, to face the suffocating silence that’s fallen over the room. He doesn’t want to see their faces, their disappointment, their anger, their contempt. He wants to yell. He wants to sleep.

Logan sinks out.

There’s a very short window of time where the logical side rushes into the en-suite bathroom after rising up in his bedroom, trembling legs aching with exhaustion. Barely a second passes between him falling to the floor and emptying the meager contents of his stomach into the toilet, the bile burning in his tender throat as a reminder of his failure. The floor is cold and hard beneath him, ridges of tiles pressing unrelenting into his knees through his wrinkled jeans. His head spins, unbalanced as it whirls through itself, words and thoughts and ideas that mean nothing and everything simultaneously existing hollowly in a falling echo. There is pain, and aching, and soreness, and exhaustion, and Logan wants to sleep.

It’s hard to rise to his feet, head throbbing and knees shaking as he wipes the spit from his mouth on a folded square of toilet paper. The pain nags at him, persistent and irritating in its attempts to shut Logan out, almost clear in a way that belies the foggy haze blanketing his nearly incoherent thought process. Marking a clear vantage, a faultline to anchor onto is no easy task, and all Logan wants as he stumbles over to his bed is a landmark to pinpoint and find his way back to. He careens toward the mattress once he’s close enough, finally letting his legs give out underneath him when he’s as near as he can bear. It’s so difficult to stay upright in stiff misery, pangs and twinges of sharp pain coursing through his limbs and his back as his muscles are forced together under pressure.

In another familiar, frustrating bout of anger that seizes his breath before it can escape his lungs, Logan shoves his fingers in the knot of his tie, yanking it forcefully even as the motion jerks his own head forward uncomfortably along with it. His fingers run down the length of the fabric, and it falls apart at the end of its cycle, much like Logan has, and he snaps his arm back to chuck the dark blue, silky length to the ground in a motion that does little to relieve the rage built up inside him.

He can feel it building. The buzzing, the pressure, the glass in his veins running on shards. He feels the pinpricks upon pinpricks, the fire burning in his lungs, and the stone crumbles, and tumbles down, and he’s like a rubber band pulled taut.

He cracks, shrill pressure in his knuckles and head and torso, and nothing happens.

Then Logan hears the telltale squeak of his door swiveling on mildly rusty hinges, and a familiar voice echoes right through his bubble, shatters the stone wall like a bulldozer running at full speed, and then the wetness spills over his lashes and over his stony, impassive face.

“Oh, Lo,” Deceit murmurs, sad and tender as the breath rushes out of him and Logan can’t do this. He wants to throw out his fist in a wide arc and pummel the wall next to him until his knuckles are raw and bloodied and bruised beyond repair. He wants to scream until his throat is torn and his voice is gone, lost in the uncaring, empty void that coldly swallowed up his passion. Happiness has never seemed further away, and he knows he deserves it. But then he remembers all of the times where the pressure in his limbs and the buzzing in his brain forced him to lash out, to hurt others, and he thinks that maybe it’s okay for him to hurt right now to even the score. With the last of the metaphorical wall around him in tiny pieces, fragments of a life he never wanted to live but he desperately fought to keep, he lets his guard down for the first time in years.

Logan’s face crumples under the weight he’s burdened his being with, body immediately drooping under the heaviness that he’s forced himself to fight through. He finally submits, and the tears come in an endless stream over his cheekbones, itchy and hot and terribly, mindlessly relieving. It feels so good to finally let the negative emotion he’s pent up inside him out, to fall out of his cage he’s lived in high above a swirling ocean of release and fear and freedom. And he’s so, so lucky because he has someone to save him from the fall.

Deceit’s kneeled down in front of him, wiping away the tears as they fall with uncharacteristically degloved thumbs, and Logan can feel the smoothness of the scales twisting and trailing down his fingers. Every so often, Deceit’s pointed thumbnails catch lightly on the skin of Logan’s cheek, and it just causes him to cry harder. The vulnerability in the room is palpable, a wispy breath of worry and insecurity and trust trailing over their skin, blanketing the room in a warmth that runs even warmer when Logan reaches up to gently lay his hand over Deceit’s own. He shows his appreciation through tactility when the words he so desperately wishes to say are lost in his throat, blocked by the barrier that separates his newfound submission and the part of him that’s still clinging to the feeble grasp at acceptance he craves so dearly.

Logan can barely tell what’s in front of him through the kaleidoscope in his vision, but he doesn’t really need to see to throw himself forward off the bed and bury himself in Deceit’s chest, of whom lets out a surprised noise but doesn’t hesitate a single second in wrapping his arms tightly around the other side. He strokes Logan’s back comfortingly and offers him whispered reassurances through the heart-wrenching sobs and broken, croaky whines that disappear into his cloak, hand coming up to cradle his head in the overwhelming reflexive instinct to keep the logical side safe and happy. It feels like a dagger has gone through Deceit’s chest at the knowledge that Logan has been suffering for so long and hasn’t been able to let it out or just simply be held, the self-preservation that is at the core of his function as a side going off like alarm bells with every sniffle. Logan curls into the first person who’s ever offered him physical affection and emotional safety, and his fists clench the fabric at the snake-like side’s shoulders as tightly as he would if he were to never, ever let go.

Logan is out of breath even as his heart begins to calm, beating and beating in his ribcage and in his lungs. The lump in his throat prevents him from speaking, but he figures it’s okay to not be heard audibly, just this once, and speak with his actions. Although he doesn’t know what he’s saying when he pulls back and wraps his arms around Deceit’s neck, laying his face in the crook of other side’s neck like a small child would, not really, he hopes that his intent still comes across in some sort of intelligible, hopeful way. Deceit seems to take this as a request, a promise, and slides his grip to a point where he can hoist the smaller side up in his hold, carrying him just like a parent carrying their kid to their bed after they fell asleep during a visit to a friend’s house. This situation is much more loaded, stained with impurities and unsure withering, but it’s just as raw, just as real, and Logan finds himself feeling safer than he ever has before.

At some point, they end up on the bed, Logan having been manhandled into a more comfortable position for both of them, which is laying across Deceit’s lap without ever having let go of his neck. The logical side feels small and vulnerable, something that he would normally hate, squash down, bury so deep within himself that he doesn’t even have to acknowledge it. But honestly, right here, right now, he’s so goddamn exhausted, and forcing himself back into the state of repression he’s been in for so much of his life would take too much of a toll, more than he already has on himself. The wetness rolls down his cheeks, bold, blue precipitation falling in droplets onto his skin and the fabric of Deceit’s cape, sinking and spreading and thinning out into airy nothingness. And the nothingness enraptures him, pulls him in even as he breaks and whimpers and spills wisps of forgotten feelings into empty space, at least until his bedroom door opens once more with a loud click, because nothing Remus ever does is truly quiet.

“Hey, are you guys having a sexy party without me? How c–… are you… crying?” Remus asks, suggestive tone split and watered down into something confused, and surprised, and angry. The younger twin kicks the door shut behind him with his foot, more out of muscle memory than conscious forethought, something that stands with nearly every action Remus executes. Logan turns his head wearily, not lifting it from where it rests on Deceit’s collarbone. The latter of the two takes that chance to clear away some of the tears that didn’t get absorbed into his clothing, hoping that since the stream is slowly dispersing, his cheeks will stay dry this time. Remus slowly approaches, body tense and eyes piercing as Logan’s face is wiped off for the nth time, offering no other sounds or words as he crouches down to examine how the bespectacled side’s skin is rubbed red and sensitive.

Logan just whines softly, stare falling to the bedsheets, observing nothing in particular as he tries to figure out why words are failing him. Something that’s such an intricate part of himself, the communication of thoughts and ideas and knowledge that defines so much of who he is and how he exists, it’s dwindled and diminished into nothing. Deceit seems to understand, he always does, and reads him so perfectly it’s a wonder the two didn’t become closer in the beginning, with how much they truly are alike. A scaled hand makes it’s way up to Logan’s head and cards through the soft, disheveled hair there, scratching lightly at his scalp in a motion that seems to draw the aching tension caused by his distress out of his body, leaving his muscles to relax and melt into the chest that holds him upright.

“Something happened before I came in here. I assume it has to do with the others,” Deceit murmurs into thick, heavy air, stale with shame and tired hopelessness. Remus’ eyes flick to Logan’s own, actively searching for some sort of confirmation or denial. There’s a beat of silence, and Logan’s eyes flutter in a fatigued attempt to stay awake, and the nausea creeps its way into his stomach once again like a predator stalking its prey. Deceit repositions himself quietly, pulling the smaller side impossibly closer, as if he knows that he’ll need the added comfort. With his body squished into a protective embrace, and his tie laying flat on the floor below, forgotten and scorned for what it represents, Logan swallows hard around the sharp block in his neck and nods through his nonverbal affliction.

At the minimal admission, something in Remus’ eyes darkens, bathing the bright craze that typically resides there in something hateful, and vicious, and dripping with chemical absolution. He shifts away, rolls onto his haunches in a way that doesn’t read as entirely intentional, as though he’s been physically forced back with the weight of the confession. There’s so much there, in the way his breath comes out shallow and gravelly and low like a beast biting and snapping at the bars that contain it, fighting against the cage it’s locked inside. Nostrils flare, and jaw sets, and fists clench white as bone, and Remus straightens up to his full height, intimidating and looming and dangerous.

“Who?” he spits, venom coursing through the single word in molten streams. It’s a protective fire, serious in a way Remus rarely is, and the storm in his eyes and aura only becomes more turbulent and intense and solid as he reaches behind himself to slowly seize his morning star from where he keeps it at the ready. Pulling it to the front of him is an unexpectedly slow event, yet still ferocious in its quiet, cold fervour. The silver weapon swings in a steady arc around the side of Remus’ body, catching the dim light in a threatening glint, the gleam alluding to its deadliness in a way that’s almost unexplainable. The spiked mace finally comes to its resting point, hovering in the air just beside the fierce side’s leg, unassuming and ready to drive its way into an unlucky antagonist’s skull.

“I’ll cut their fucking throats. I’ll rip off every single limb from their bodies until they’re nothing but a pile of flesh and blood. They’re gonna pay for this,” Remus snarls, each threat bathed in acrimony and malice and choked by fury ripping through the tempest. Logan stares through misty eyes, half-lidded and concerned but too out of it to muster much of a coherent thought. Thankfully, Deceit is still there, soft and warm and well-equipped to deal with Remus and his behaviour. The snake-like side sighs, reaching out to just barely snatch up a frilly black sleeve, tugging him closer and meeting surprisingly little resistance despite the rigidity of the tallest side’s posture. Each breath from Remus comes out like a bullet, brisk and arduous and punctuated by a pang of impermeable guilt.

Even as Deceit motions Remus to lower himself onto the bed in front of them, the latter of the two is still apprehensive, terse movements and restless eyes that flit between anything and everything they can to avoid stagnation. It’s almost fearful, in a way, primal in its aptitude to think, and cultivate, and vindicate a wrongdoing that was never his fault or responsibility in the first place. Logan hates that they need to save him, hates that he doesn’t truly believe they actually care. There’s a level of certainty with himself and with others that the logical side hasn’t reached yet, and it feels too close and yet too far, kept obscure and secluded and almost clandestine in the way it’s ostensibly unreachable.

With the help of Deceit’s hand to guide his way, Remus slowly lets go of his morning star, tossing it to the side with a pensive, trembling swallow. It clatters to the ground, metallic clang resounding in vibrations, tilde-shaped waves that bounce off the façade and yell out to one another. Muted shrieks upon perfect, flat, neutral paint, sepulchral oscillations attacking the drywall.

“You can’t hurt them. I know you’re angry. I am too. But hurting them won’t solve anything, Rem, you know that more than anyone,” Deceit says meaningfully, smiling in a way that’s sad and distant but caring and compelling and relaxing for the tension wrapped so tightly around the three of them. The snake-like side lifts the hand that’s not in Logan’s hair and reaches out to grab Remus’ own, firmly but gently as he squeezes his fingers in a way that reassures, and consoles, and reprimands, not unkindly. He admonishes, and breaks that anger and frustration, and builds up positivity and alleviation and reprieve from everything that allows that buzzing, ticking, those pinpricks upon pinpricks. His care and concern washes over you, paternal in a different way than Patton operates, and it’s why Deceit is so comforting to be around. He manages a respite from vexation, a refuge in sanctuary, discreet freedom for the flawed, defeated dreamer.

“I’m mad. I’m mad that they hurt you, Lo-Lo. I want them to feel the pain you’re feeling,” Remus mutters, frigid and defeated, head bowed and gaze distant in that transparent manner of his that easily broadcasts all of his thoughts and feelings and wishes. Logan feels the pride welling up in his chest without even realizing it, quietly delighted at the progress Remus has made in being clear and forthcoming with his emotions and impulsivity. A weary grin makes its way onto his face, predictably aggravating the soreness in his cheeks, yet he finds himself indifferent to it, unperturbed by the plight that’s ravaged his body for the day, and probably longer without his notice. He wants to reassure the younger twin, to smile and laugh and brush all of it off, but his eyelids droop, and a pathetic mewl is the only thing able to escape his lungs. Of course, since there’s something Logan wants to say, Deceit somehow knows how to communicate it, just as prompt and courteous and perceptive as always.

“We can talk about this later after Logan has slept. Don’t worry too much, Rem, and don’t do anything stupid. If you get angry again, please go to your paints instead of your legs,” Deceit instructs, more of a suggestion than a demand, but he hopes Remus will listen and be mindful anyway. The latter of the two bounces his leg anxiously, grumbling unintelligibly under his breath as he stands up in one swift, fluid motion. As Remus makes his way over to exit the room, Logan nudges Deceit’s hand with his head gently, trying to bring his attention back to the massaging motion that ceased sometime during the conversation. The snake-like side’s eyes flick downward to meet the smaller side’s own half-lidded, teetering gaze, and he huffs a laugh after a moment of searching. Logan doesn’t know what he finds, but he realizes that he doesn’t really care that much about worrying over every little interaction anymore.

Remus finally turns and glances back as he swings the door open, brows still furrowed and shoulders still hunched, but simply shakes his head and leaves. The door closes much softer than before, thankfully, so as not to be too harsh on Logan’s migraine, an unusually conscientious thought from someone that rarely shows consideration to the needs of others that the logical side appreciates that much more. As the sound of Remus’ footsteps slowly fade with his retreat down the hallway, the two of them left are bathed in silence, one that is marginally less heavy and thick than before.

A small while passes afterward, only punctuated by soft breathing and light scratching noises from nails trailing through messy hair. Logan feels like he might pass out any minute, what with the comfortable, quiet understanding the two have come to rest at, but some part of him says to wait, to push through the mind-numbing exhaustion for just a little while longer. That part of him is probably just being considerate toward Deceit, who Logan can’t imagine would be very comfortable with another side falling asleep on him and laying on him for an extended period of time, but he figures that it’s a good of a reason as any. It’s not about him feeling like a burden. It’s not.

Eventually, Deceit must start to get tired as well, or maybe he’s sore from Logan’s weight on his legs, so he sits forward, apologizing quietly for disturbing the peace, and he moves them into a more comfortable position. The new arrangement is far more snug and cozy than the previous one, Logan thinks drowsily, as his head hits the pillow across from Deceit. They lay there on top of the blankets but make no move to pull them up, just content to stare lazily at one another in the dim, ambient light cast by the desk lamp in the opposite corner of the room.

“Why?” Logan finally asks, and although he loathes disrupting the silence, he needs to ask. The words are scratchy in his tender throat, a charcoal whisper on a steel canvas that scratches and sketches away with nothing viable left to keep through the wind that blows the dark dust off the surface. “Why are you helping me? Why do you care?”

Deceit just hums, sending Logan a weak, distracted smile. He mulls over the words, tossing about the meaning and possibilities in his head and on his silver tongue, rushing in an uncertain river through valleys of golden sand.

“I am self-preservation at its core. I exist to keep Thomas safe and healthy and thriving, and that also means you and the other sides by extension. But… it’s not just that. Even though I feel physical pain whenever one of you or Thomas is hurt, I specifically want to help you because… I care about you, Logan. I love you, and want to see you healthy and happy. I haven’t really been doing a good job of that lately,” Deceit mutters, gaze somewhere on their shared pillow, and there’s a quality to his tone that’s bitter beyond the line of frustration. Although Deceit doesn’t expand on it, doesn’t offer up a single clarification despite the heavy air and his resigned demeanour, Logan gets it. He understands, and he wants to prove him wrong.

So he does.

And that comes in the form of surging forward, fighting against the current, the pinpricks in his stomach and shoulders and abdomen, disregarding the exhaustion for just a little while longer so that he can let Deceit’s lips meet his own. Logan’s so close he can feel the shocked rush of air leave Deceit’s nose, feel the vibrations through the air as his body trembles in fear and anticipation and relief. The other side eases in, sinks closer, closer, and finally moves his lips in a careful, emotional dance that leaves Logan dizzy and breathless, for entirely different reasons that have plagued him for the past day.

“Lo,” Deceit breathes, low, wanting, and he pulls back to give Logan a chance to catch up. A scaled hand comes up to caress the logical side’s cheek, a soothing, cool balm for the raw skin beginning to heal there. “I didn’t… I didn’t think…”

“I love you,” Logan breathes, the words he’s refused to say, to acknowledge, to confront welling up through his throat and for the first time, he lets them spill out. The dam has broken, debris left to descend and submerge in the depths of the sentiment crashing through in a roaring, passionate rapid at the narrowest point yet. The words come, and they don’t stop, and Logan almost can’t believe how right they feel on his tongue. “I love you, I love you, I–I love you so much, Dee.”

Logan is like a rubber band, pulled taut and still and trembling under the pressure. And maybe he’ll split, shoot apart, torn in two pieces that will never fit back together again. But maybe he won’t. Maybe instead of snapping in half, he’ll snap back, and that thought alone gives him a quiet comfort that he’s not used to allowing himself. He’s waiting, hoping, and he’s okay enough for now.

[shari-berri]

Let’s have a talk about human decency, respect of other people, respecting disabilities, disorders, illnesses, and overall not being a dick. Oh! And wanting answers as this person was not helpful, PLEASE ANSWER ITS URGENT!

I made a post on Yahoo Answers for an issue I have been having.

This is what my question/information was:

Our kitten who is relatively new, 1 year, keep going to the bathroom outside of the litter box. My mom keeps moving it to where she has used it but she suddenly moved it upstairs. Now, she said that there needs to be on on every level of the house, but there are a few things wrong with that. First off, our house has a half level. The only thing “upstairs” on a “second floor” is the kids rooms and a bathroom. Otherwise it is open space for the living room. Besides that, it said that a litter box shoulder be anywhere near loud areas, like children’s bedrooms. Now, I am right across from it and I already have insomnia. I’m extremely sensitive to smell, sound, all senses, probably my ADHD, and this wouldn’t help. There is also one in the bathroom. I gag/puke at anything. Every smell is amplified by 100 due to my adhd sensitivity. I know what something tastes like from smelling it. I puke almost every single time I clean the litter boxes and the smell drifts right into my room, not to mention my allergies to cats and asthma. Our cats that do this don’t even relieve themselves upstairs and I feel like this would just make them since it happened before in the bathroom but it stopped after putting the litter box downstairs. I fear for my health and that it would cause the kitten to defecate on the rugs again.

This was a person’s reply:

Let’s debunk this, shall we?

-I was accused of, lemme check, faking my MENTAL ILLNESS due to “incorrect symptoms” and such. Apparently, hypersensitivity to surroundings isn’t a symptom of ADHD, only OCD.

This person stated that ADHD only “has trouble focusing and relaxing”

If you were to look at it on the most basic and uneducated level then sure, that’s entirely what the whole fucking disorder is!

Lesser known symptoms of ADHD that as someone WITH this mental illness would know:

-(MOSTLY) transient tics

-difficulty controlling emotions

-anger

-impulsiveness

-OH WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT?! HYPERSENSITIVITY!!!

-Next: “You’re either making this shit up or you’re just a REALLY stupid complaining child” “trolling”

Social rules and norms, yeah?

Apparently they’re nonexistent to this person

Right, so NEVER, and I speak for everyone with a disorder, disability, whatever, NEVER EVER accuse them of ‘faking it’!

Oh, yes, I love pretending like I have (blank), I love the ostracization it gets me, the harassment, the bullying, it’s my FAVORITE part!

Assuming they’re talking about the topic of the question: ummmm...pets 101?

Yes, my cat has never shit on the floor, Princess ALWAYS uses her litter box.

Where the fuck did this happen?! Animals do this for different reasons, why the hell would I “make this shit up?”

You know me, joking about stepping in my cat’s shit, hilarious!

-“I bet you whined and whined for a kitten but now that you realize it includes work you don’t want it!”

At the time we got Fufu, we were in no position to adopt another cat. We already had 3 and were living in a rental house after my house had a fire. We were lucky that our three cars were ALIVE AND BREATHING, having been rescued and given tiny oxygen masks and kept in the vet’s breathing chamber. My sister’s friend had kittens and my mom brought it home to “babysit” for the day. Of course, she ended up keeping it. I was AGAINST the idea, ya hear that?! We were in no way able to take care of another creature, we were settling legalities and such. Did I mention that my mom had done the same thing with the third cat? Just showed up from work one day with a cat carrier and cat. I did NOT at all whine, I had no idea we were adopting our last 2 cats.

About work being involved and me backing out because of it:

For YEARS since I was 4 I have been going to a horse riding summer camp where in order to ride, we had to clean. I’m pretty sure that if I’m able to:

-muck out 20+ stalls

-change all of the hay

-Carry tons of hay bales

-Lead horses time pasture etc

-pick horses hooves

And all that? You think a fucking LITTER BOX is “too much work” and that I’m gonna leave because, “Oh no! Now that I know there’s work, I no longer want to do it!”

-Allergies: Again, I didn’t have a say in whether or not I got this cat

-“Tell your family you don’t deserve this kitten.”

And that helps my cats shitting on the ground, my inability to breathe from asthma, especially from the litter in my room how? Cool, I told my parents I don’t deserve Fufu, problem solved, well done Governer!

-“You’re an immature child making shit up just to shirk the responsibilities of caring for it.”

Again, seeing all of the work I did just for a summer camp, where I shouldn’t have been working in the first place in order to ride horses like I was paying to do, I don’t find this statement accurate, like at all. Not including all of the other things I do:

-Pack Away Hunger

-Summer camp counselor

-Volunteering at animal shelters

Sure dude, sure.

Again with the making shit up?! Are people not aware that animals have accidents? I had to put diapers on my elderly Yorkie! And making shit up, ah yes, I forgot nobody has ever witnessed someone with a strong gag reflex. Yeah, peacefully relaxing, something that I apparently can’t do because I have ADHD, but make me gag randomly.

Let’s also remember that due to my hypersensitivity, I know what something tastes like from smelling it. Taking “eat shit” to a whole new level!

How relaxing is it to fall asleep to the soothing sounds of cats scratching around and throwing litter everywhere, the sweet scent of cat shit lulling you to sleep.

Mmmmm peaceful!

Now: analyzing what I said

It did say that cats should have a litter box on ever floor, but what if it was a half floor? Yeah, the only second floor we have is a slight jutting platform that is enough to hold children bedrooms and a bathroom.

Again, only move the litter box if absolutely necessary

Fufu used to relieve herself on the upstairs bathroom rugs but since we put a litter box in the porch, she stopped doing that. Oh, and the porch is connected to the kitchen, no doors. It’s great trying to eat while smelling cat business wafting through the air like Eddie’s breath going back into his face, big fan!

She started recently peeing outside of the litter box in the kitchen, if we put litter boxes somewhere, wouldn’t she just shit in that area?? (Answer in comments)

Litter boxes should not be by loud areas, specifically, children’s bedrooms. And, there should be a clear escape route.

Being directly in between my youngest sisters’ room who scream loudly when watching anime and my older sister’s room who squeals, not at ALL quiet.

And escape routes??? Our cats could get stuck in so many places, that’s a no!

So, please let me know in the comments what I should do! I REALLY need answers!

[tacittherapist]

((HS2 Spoilers under the cut!))

((For all the shit I give the epilogues, it does have its moments. Specifically highlighting this bit of dialogue here: ROXY: you think you choice mattered so much that no one elses could measure up? ROXY: n then what ROXY: did u get what u wanted? ROXY: did your life end and the points got tallied and you came out on top or like what? ROXY: still p much seems like were movin to me ROXY: and you sure dont seem like ur winnin so wheres all this good shit you got that you gotta go around handin out apologies for? ROXY: also damn dude while were at it!! ROXY: u forgot to actually say sorry in that apology! JOHN: no, i didn’t — i just meant... JOHN: i’m sorry for fucking up your life, or making it not— ROXY: i like my life!!! ROXY: i mean it aint perf and i got my share of fuckups n mistakes in there but you dont get to tell me its fucked up ROXY: or that it isnt real or somethin ROXY: its mine!

First: criticism. The writers wield this little section like a crude cudgel. They use it to underscore the weight of ‘canon’. This is the ‘candy’ timeline, so it supposedly ‘weighs less’ than the ‘meat’ timeline, but its characters still have meaningful thoughts and emotions. Here, John supposedly makes a choice that supposedly invalidates a bunch of supposedly important events, and Roxy here blows it all out of the water by claiming she made these choices too and that part of the blame rests with her in the direction her life has taken... which is total dogshit used to justify a bunch of really overt swings in character thematic. Continued here: ROXY: you wished i was one way the whole time we were married ROXY: but i wasnt ROXY: but now that youre all convinced ur the only real boy in a crowd o puppets ROXY: here i am bein me just like you ordered only i did it without your help ROXY: widen ur zoom my man!! ROXY: im not actin like this now because you want me to or bc you dont want me to ROXY: i was bad at standin up for myself then and im learnin to be good at it now ROXY: ive got my own self actualization train ROXY: ur just pullin in to one of my many roxy figures some shit out stations right as i built it JOHN: but... JOHN: you were never like that before i... ROXY: dude ROXY: where tf do u get off trying to decide what is or isnt me being “like me” enuff ROXY: do u think ppl stay the same their whole damn lives or what JOHN: you’ve really never felt like anything about our lives here was... off? ROXY: off from what exactly?? JOHN: the way things should be? ROXY: what does that mean???

Roxy here argues that there is no ‘one right way to be’ as a half-baked wink to the audience that all this gross mischaracterization is intentional and that it diverges so grossly from the established character arcs in order to demonstrate that nothing is set in stone. While technically true, this also makes for some pretty terrible writing.

Roxy was a caring, almost too involved individual before the epilogues. Her ditching Calliope for John and this messy marriage business and just letting Jane warp into a full-blown dictator makes no sense, even couched within the idea that ‘characters change.’ Yes, characters change, but there’s generally a reason for it! And not a shitty deus ex machina reason such as ‘John makes a choice!’ What even fucking happened to Candy Calliope anyway? She just fucked off somewhere? How do you sincerely throw a character away like that and then have the gall to wink at the audience as if what you’ve done makes sense? Changes in character are generally brought on by catalysts in their life! Trauma, joy, death, new settings, new ideas, events! Not... John deciding to eat a plate full of candy. If we had insight into Roxy’s thought process behind ditching Calliope and marrying John and having a kid on a whim, this might be saved. But we don’t even get a glimpse. Instead we’re pawned this shitty excuse for a very glaring departure from what we knew about Roxy. Character development is just that -- development! As in to become more complex or advanced! Roxy has made wrong choices in the past, yes, but her reasoning was laid bare in such a way that those wrong choices made sense for her to make. She then makes different decisions later because she learned from her wrong decisions. This is development! Her character is learning and changing behavior because of the things they’ve been through! Her reasoning for this awful series of bad choices is just... not explained, despite going against a ton of shit Roxy has learned. It’s slipshod. It’s careless. It’s sacrificing the tree to showcase the topper. The audience isn’t vested in this Roxy because she’s seemingly robbed of her agency, and then they’re trying to foist this idea that she somehow still has agency on us as if they didn’t preface the entire timeline with ‘well, all this shit is going to happen because we decided it and no other reason!’

Now: the praise. This bit of dialogue has huge implications for ‘non-canon’ dynamic. No, not ‘non-canon’ in the cheeky way the epilogues and HS2 claim to be ‘non-canon.’ I mean ‘non-canon’ as in this blog that I run and all the blogs that you, the reader, are writing and reading as well. Roxy’s insistence that characters change can swing the other way, too. Characters can develop in bad ways as well! Not bad as in bad writing, but bad as in flawed character reasoning! Suppose what Roxy learned from her time in HS1 was that most things can be solved by unvoiding fix-all solutions into existence? Then we might be able to see her trying to fix the human-troll-population issue by just... making more planets! Or unvoiding some sort of device trolls could wear that inhibits hivemind tendencies! That would be interesting and perhaps morbid to write about!! It would at least track with her past experiences!!! Or better yet: perhaps she actually takes a side against Jane (as she has done in the past) but instead of using their friendship as the moral plating, she went right into sarcastic arguments FOR eugenics to demonstrate how bigoted Jane was being? That’s a very Roxy thing to do!! She could have made the argument that if trolls need eugenics to suppress their violent tendencies, then so should humans! Having read about the Condesce’s eugenic practices during her formative years, this should have been fairly obvious to Roxy that what Jane was suggesting was from the same playbook, at least.

But I digress. What this bit of dialogue really does is give credence to us, the audience, in exploring these stories we’re currently writing for these pre-established characters. YES, canon Rose likely didn’t dabble so thoroughly in game magics, and she likely didn’t have as much anxiety as my Rose. BUT I prefaced my Rose’s current state with a bunch of events that make sense! She missed her rendezvous with the others! She had to float adrift, alone in a broadcast satellite, for nigh on a decade! She’s had a long fucking time to develop all these anxieties and mental illness because that’s what happens when you’re isolated for years! It is a tool I use to express my own anxieties and explore how someone might somehow overcome them! And most importantly: she’s still Rose. She has unprocessed mother issues. She cherishes her friends. She’s more than a bit gay. And she knows when the meta is using her and when it’s not, because she’s had a traumatic experience being used by Doc Scratch as a plot device. And that trauma isn’t going away (well, unless she gets therapy, but given the setting we’re writing... not likely), so she’s going to be overly cautious when it comes to big decisions involving her friends. What she’s not going to do is suddenly abandon everyone she’s departed from because uhhh Jade ate some bread the wrong way or whatever.

tl;dr: What this section of the epilogues/HS2 (well, really just this bit with Harry Andersen, Tavros, and Vrissy that is somehow more interesting than virtually EVERY OTHER PART of HS2) is telling us, the audience, is that it is good to diverge from canon. Non-canon characters will still have very real feelings and face very real consequences for their actions. Just... don’t do it like they did it. All these characters we’re writing for and all these events we’re writing around them... they’re valid! They matter! Just because they’re not canon doesn’t mean others are willing and wanting to read them, and that makes them important! Unfortunately, this also means the epilogues/HS2 are important, but let’s ignore that for now. What I’m trying to say is: be indulgent! Write the things you want to write! As long as they’re well-reasoned, they’re good writing! Characters can be overpowered! They can be cliche! They can have teenage problems as an adult! Just... give them a good reason.))

[suffering-and-happy-about-it]

The Nutjob Twins’ Message (Pieces of the People We Love, Part 4.)

Series description: Not many people had the chance to see a vault or to mean anything in the world of Pandora. Will a hardly built relationship in the loneliness of the desert have the potential to change anything in the world of anarchy and chaos - or will the friends try to murder each other?

Part summary: After hearing the newest message from the nutjobs of “gods”, Scooter seemed to be sure that his friends and family are in trouble. Well, you knew where this was going and you didn't like it at fucking all. 

Warnings: A lot of guns, violence, reader is a tough badass - not a vault hunter tho. They’re badass and don’t give a fuck. And Scooter is a dumb bitch, as always. All Psychos and Fanatics are various Vine references - oh, what luck that reader can understand them since she is friends with Bandits.

Word count: 2.9 K

Tagging: @notaliteraltoad​

Series masterlist:  H E R E

Series playlist: H E R E

“Are you sure that these new vault thieves are your friends? I mean… Literally, any living remotely-human being on this planet is a fucking vault thief for that duo of crazy asses.” - Half an hour ago, you’ve made it to Pintley’s to hear his perspective on Scooter’s suspicions about his friends being the targeted ones. As per usual, you’ve had a can of Dr. Bob in your hand as you took a long swing of that nasty… Something and then, you gave a short look to Pintley. You took Scooter to Hell’s Cauldron immediately after that transmission to discuss everything. To have someone smart to help Scooter with settling on the plan he should choose. Like, you know, a good guardian.

You took him to the only other sane person in the radius of hundreds of miles, hoping Pintley would figure something out real fast - you still had your suspicions about being the one who’ll end up with Scooter and his little suicide mission project, but… A girl can dream, right? Maybe, these two men will actually come up with a smart plan that won’t involve you in the slightest.

So far it seemed, that everyone on Pandora, at least those who and working Echos or turned on radios, have heard. Maybe even other planets could hear the announcement, what could you know? Calypso twins were hunting some poor souls again - but just like you said before, that was none of your fucking business. Whoever these people were, they got into trouble on their own. You were just a small screw in the big scheme of things; so, whoever’s the trouble was, they needed to solve it… Right?

“Man, I’m sure-sure that this gal was talkin’ ‘bout my damn friends.” - Scooter answered with a sad tone of voice, making you come back to the present moment. Even if you were one crazy son of a bitch, you could hear the sadness and even understand it’s where it was coming from, to some extent. Maybe the alleged vault thieves were his friends, this time for real, but how could you know? Again - which part of it was your problem? Yeah, maybe it was Scooter’s problem. In that case, you’d be kinda sad too - and, without single regard or ill intent, you’ll wish the dude your best wishes if he decided to go and help them - but you weren’t about to lay a single finger on a thing that was supposedly connected to the vault hunting business. No. You already knew how the business was running; you’ve tried it, didn’t like it at all and it cost you your other arm. At that thought, you shivered a bit and caught to the steel that was now a part of your body.

“And how comes so?” - With a long sigh, you jolted on your chair as you stated Scooter down, trying to get to know what was going inside the small head of his. - “Tyreen didn’t name any names, did she, Scooterboy? Or did I just didn’t hear them? Damn, don’t tell me it’s my time to get an appointment at the doctor’s.” Sooner, way before the COV started to take over Pandora, the VH business was a dangerous and expensive one as well. It was only for those, who had little to lose. For those that knew their way with guns and those who were ready to commit themselves and their existence for the sole purpose of vault hunting. That was more than seven years ago. Now? It was the first sign you’d look for if you were worried that you’re either having some kind of psychosis or a serious mental diagnose, like being insane per se.

Your wish was to be a part of the legends that were told? Honey, you were more than ready to get a diagnosis and a stamp on top of that. The occasional meetings with the fanatics were more than enough for you. If these crazy asses would get to know or even hear a rumor that you’re helping the wrong side, their Gods’ nemesis, the vault hunters? Man, you would have a shit ton of them behind your back and a bounty pinned on your head. That was a no-no situation for you.

“Because there is only one siren on Pandora at the time and that’s Lilith.” - The man gazed back at you with an empty, deadly stare. You didn’t even flinch. What were you? A bitch to flinch under one not-so-nice look? Damn, the fuck you weren’t. “Technically, two and a half sirens are inhabiting the planet.” - Pintley mouthed out silently and progressed with doing the dishes. - “He has a good point, tho.” - Your best bud of the last couple of years finished with an innocent face, not daring to look at you. But you did know what he was trying to do and you weren’t about to simply give in because the old man had said so. Then, quite smoothly, you turned back to Scooter. “So, Scooterboy has a good point. And what? Why on Pandora should I even give a diddly-damn?” - The attitude you’ve given Pintley was more than well-known to him. Slowly, you slid your back to the chair as you waited for the rest of what he had so say. Oh, your gaze and expression were just daring Pintley to come for you and whoop your ass with all the arguments be got in store. At the exact moment and place, you were in your element.

Fighting arguments, that was where you succeeded 99.9% of the time. This was the sort of fight you preferred. - “Should I shit myself because boo-hoo, oh no, the baddies are after Lilith? Because they want to harm poor old Sanctuary? She, her Crimson Raiders and vault hunting ain’t my business, so I ain’t gonna put my nose somewhere where it... Shouldn’t. Fucking. Be." - Every word was accompanied by a thud, as the tip of your finger bounced from the table. - "They never did anything good for me - why would I willingly put my head down for them to get decapitated?” - The time on your voice was ice-cold, just like your eyes. Boy, you didn't realize how wrong you were at the moment, but that didn't slow you down at all. “And as for you, young man… I can pack you a lunch and wish you safe travels, if you wanna. But you should not expect any help from me, are we clear?” - With the last swing of Dr. Bob, you crushed the can with your metal arm, throwing it to the bin as you stood, putting your coat and large hat back on. Yet at that moment, Scooter did something anyone expected him to do. It honestly threw you off the rails.

The man talked back to you.

“Yea, man, ya a pussy, I can see that. Understood and noted. But because ya a bitch, ya goin’ let these people die? I know it's dangerous and beyond anyone's wildest darn dream, but that's the damn thrill, ain't it? That's why we're doin' that, aren't we, huh?” - Scooter was on his feet as well, throwing his dirty cap on the ground with something, that couldn't be described other than a sudden outburst of fury. He wasn't ending, but he had entertained you nonetheless. As you watched him gasping for breath, your metal arm went to grab the shotgun you had in your holster. “Excuse me if I’m wron’, but who destroyed Helios when Jack wanted to erase Pandora from the universe? Vault hunters. Who killed Jack? Again, man, it were the vault hunters. Who killed the darn destroyer not once, but twice, huh? Who's keepin' the COV away? Stop actin’ like a pussy and let’s help them while there’s still time to do so.” - At first, Scooter wanted to be rude at you - yet when you took the shotgun out and pointed its barrel right at his face, he suddenly shut up. The atmosphere got suddenly very, very uncomfortable.

“Listen to this, Scooterboy. I'm going to repeat myself - nobody... Nobody will be calling me a pussy or a bitch, can you hear me loud and clear?” -  Quickly, you put your metal arm for him to see before you hugged your gun tight again. - “This is how it looked the last time I was trying to brave like the vault hunters are rumored to be. So if I will have to repeat myself, then I’ll shoot you down like a practice target. Are we on the same wave?” - The sentence was practically hissed out and now, you were standing two mere feet away from him.

“Vault hunters and Crimson Raiders ain’t my concern at the slightest, you understand? I’m good on my own, I’m a lone wolf, not a team player. So please, go on, run and save your friends and get yourself killed in the process, if it makes you pleased. But don’t make me solve your fucking problems. Because you and I? We aren’t friends, Scooterboy.” - With every word, you made it clear that you might be just the rude asshole you first seemed to be. Maybe the spark of humanity Scooter saw before was an illusion? Maybe you were a nutjob, just like everyone else on this goddamned planet. It was Pintley, who saved the situation. The older man pushed Scooter behind his own back, stretching out his arms to protect the boy from getting shot. For a moment, you were still pointing your barrel at him, but then you put the gun down really fast. Pintley was Pintley; a mentor and a friend.

“Cowboy, that's just enough. Calm down and put the gun on the table, will ya?” - The pub owner said calmly, nodding his head at the table. That son of a bitch. Oh, you knew what bomb he’s about to drop. The m-bomb. Moral bomb. Slowly, you put the gun out of your reach and walked around a bit to calm down. From time to time, you shot a gaze in Scooter's direction, making him realize you're still not done with him. “I know that this is not what you want to hear rite now, but Scooter had a good point in what he’d said. Vault hunters, whether you like it or not, saved your ass more times than you can count on your fingers, and maybe, you don’t even realize any of that. You can’t be very ignorant when you want to, do you know that?” “And you can be a pain in my fucking ass, Pintley. I mean what I said. It's not my damn problem.” - Now, you were speaking with your mind a bit more clear and you knew that the situation went from 0 to 100 really quickly; partially because you could be a damn idiot and partially because Scooter accidentally remained you of the accident with your arm. Again, you shivered lightly and smoothed over the arm, looking away from both of them.

“Hey. I know since you were a small girl, don't I, huh? I know you have some unfinished business with the vault hunters. We all know you don’t like them. But hey, the least you can do is that you can give Scooter a headstart, how does that sound?” - Pintley asked with a small smile, running his fingers on his mustache. He was one sly motherfucker, that needed to be said. - “Nobody wants you to join their little scout troop, you can just... Help him get there, what about that?”

“What kind of headstart are we talking about here?” - Now, the anger turned into tiredness. Without asking Pintley, you slipped behind the counter and grabbed one bottle of vodka, drinking straight out of it. Right. You didn't have to head out on a huge adventure, you could just... Help a bit and then pretend you have never met Scooter before. Sounded good enough to you. “Maybe, you can enable him to travel the Fast Travel network? That should do the trick, huh?” - Pintley looked over his shoulder at Scooter, patting the man's arm. With a sigh, you leaned your elbows into the counter, taking one fucking long swing. No. You took it back. Pintley was insane. Fast travel was one of the things that Hyperion came with as well - a system of teleporting machines that absorbed your DNA, sent you through digital ports to your final destination, and there, the Fast travel station put your body together again. Said network was working all over the known galaxy and inhabited planets. But it wasn't working in Hell's Cauldron. You knew where the nearest working was, and very well, had to be noted. No. You weren't about to get yourself fucking killed.

“Are you seriously out of your mind?” - With another swing, you put the bottle down so violently that it almost crashed in your palm. Then, you stared at Pintley for a bit longer. - “Do you really want me to persuade the boys from Walrus to switch it on for Scooterboy?” - Most of the people in Hell's Cauldron knew who Walrus was. He was one of the few bandit barons that weren't insane enough to sign his boys up to the COV. He was insane and he wasn't exactly fond of you (which was your fault and you knew that), but he could still be considered an ally. “Basically. They like you, Blindy and Rayray owe you a lot. Try it, that’s the least you can do.” - The man walked to you, made you stand up, and then he carefully smoothed your shoulders, shaking you a bit. - “Bandits of Ham’s Creek know you and trust you in their crazy, weird way. Come on, Cowboy. Do it for me. Do it for him. Do it for the universe.” “Pintley, seriously, you want me to talk to the bandits.” - Now, you were whispering with not-so-slight irony. This was like the start of a freaking good anextode. - “These men… They don’t have a functional brain between them. They listen with their knees. I don't even know if they can speak our language and I'm still not the most fluent in psycho. If you forgot, these two nutjobs Rayray and Blindy, are the normal ones out of all the men that live there, and they are like… Batshit crazy, these two. The rest is straightway nuts. Do you even remember the last time they were celebrating? If not, too bad, because I fucking do.”

At this, Pintley stopped for a moment to give you serious look. Then, he smiled. - “Cowboy, come on. We both know you would do that if there weren’t the Crimson Raiders or vault hunters mentioned. You’re just being overly dramatic.” - His index finger flicked your nose and you opened up your mouth, searching for a valid argument. Without any success, you must've admitted. Then, Pintley looked at Scooter as he knew that he already won the moral persuading. “She’ll take you to Ham’s Creek. She’s just being too hot-headed.” - Your mentor winked at the mechanic and switched to his position behind a bar, giving you the vodka bottle you've already opened. The atmosphere inside the room slowly gotten a bit better as you put your shotgun back to the holster.

“Let’s fucking do this, then.” - A low growl came out of you as you finished the rest of the bottle, throwing it to the bin once more. With a surprising speed, you walked to the new functional Catch-A-Ride, asking for a light runner. “Ya mean right now? Like now-now?” - He said with a sign of worries in his voice. You looked at him with a snort and started the engine. “Now. Tomorrow’s late, Scooterboy. Crawl in, I just want it to be over already.” - As you pushed the gas pedal down, the engine howled loudly and you leaned into the leather seat with a long sigh. Then, you looked over to the scooter sitting in the gunner's nest. - “Remember, you’ll stay glued to my back at all times until we set our feet to the place do you understand what I’m saying? You move a foot away from me and they will make a delicious soup out of you.” “And aren’t they like… Asleep now or somethin’?” - He yelled back at you. You almost turned around and gave him an ironic look, but you just make the car rush forward. Bandits and asleep? Those words weren’t making sense when someone used them in one sentence. Those fuckers were running on an hour of sleep per day, or so you heard. That was why almost each one of them was batshit crazy. Good thing was that you didn't need any navigation - you knew the way to Ham’s Creek by your heart. You'd be able to drive there from literally anywhere in the proximity of sixty miles.

And only little did you know that this was the place where your trouble had started... And that it'll get progressively worse over time.

[hellzyeahthewebwieldingavenger]

I promise I’m working on posts about today’s issues but I was informed of the events of Superior v2 #11 and felt I should chime in.

It’s...stupid.

Okay so I was planning on doing a post about this, but Gage in his Superior run has floated the idea that (the mind clone of a mind clone of a mind clone of) Otto is good now because in his new body he’s free of the mental disorder that made him evil.

Ya see the explosion back in ASM v1 #3 gave him brain damage and THAT’S the reason he’s been evil this entire time. But now he’s got a new body free of that brain damage he’s good!

And that is...complete horseshit.

Doc Ock wasn’t evil because an explosion made him evil, Doc Ock was evil because he was bullied by his school peers, bullied by his father, smothered by his overbearing and clingy mother, under appreciated by his peers as an adult, had to give up the love of his life because of his toxic relationship with his mother, felt betrayed by her when she exhibited a double standard, said betrayal led to a heated argument that gave her a lethal heart attack and THEN all this emotional/mental turmoil led to him making a mistake that gave him super powers.

In other words he wasn’t evil because an explosion rattled his brains. He was evil because his life had shaped him into an evil person, the explosion just gave him the final push over the edge. You could easily argue he might’ve turned evil without it altogether.

Plus if you have the memories and emotional connections to someone with brain damage does it really make much of a difference? Like you remember trying to nuke NYC and remember how you felt about that and that hasn’t changed so would having an undamaged brain even matter by that point? Psychologically wouldn’t it reach the same ends via a different means?

Now in fairness in this issue Gage has Mephisto bring up the notion that the whole brain damage thing might be bullshit so we are setting up for the possibility that Otto was full of shit...but we might also be setting up the idea that in actuality Otto was only evil because of a knock to the head which is dumb silver age writing we can forgive because it was actually made in the silver age.

The ball is in Gage’s court on this one but I don’t trust him at all.

Especially when one considers he kicked off Spider-Geddon #1 with Otto threatening the lives of innocent people merely to apply leverage to Count Nefaria. And he used the Inheritors’ cloning tech. And he joined fucking HYDRA! Brain damage my ass, he’s just an asshole!

There are other problems though.

Quite apart from proving further that spider-Geddon was one big set up arc for Gage’s solo series (thanks for wasting our time if we didn’t want to see that Gage), Otto’s logic here is faulty.

As Doc Ock he’s routinely had his ass kicked by Spider-Man, a highly intelligent, 2 armed super hero who typically uses restraint in battle, refraining from killing opponents 99% of the time.

And NOW he’s up against Norman Osborn as Spider-Man. Who has all the power of Spider-Man but is frankly even more intelligent, has SIX arms that can bench press at least 5 tons a piece, DGAF about restraint because he’s a sadistic asshole, has high tech gear that Peter didn’t usually use, has back up from another Spider-Man and has access to a lot of information on Otto.

So...how precisely is being in his original body with his original merciless mentality going to win this for him?

616 Norman Osborn, who was way less powerful than this version, already gave Doc Ock trouble back in Superior Team-Up #11-12 and as far as I know this Spideriffic version of Norman doesn’t have an easily exploitable chest wound that Otto can target.

Similarly 616 Norman owned Otto hard back when Otto was the Superior Spider-Man, which surely this version of Otto has researched.

Basically as Spider-Man Otto lost to 616 Norman and as Doc Ock he only really won against him because there was a huge weak spot for him to exploit.

This version of Norman lacks that weakness and is way stronger so how the Hell is being Doc Ock going to make a difference here realistically?

Couldn’t he just solve this problem by asking for back up from the Avengers or Peter or whoever? Hell he’s got a means to contact Mephisto but not like Doctor Strange????????????

Finally you have the inherent stupidity of ANYONE in the Marvel universe trusting Mephisto at all. Like as far as making deals with Mephisto are concerned there are hundreds of years proving over and over again that those are guaranteed to go badly. Not just that there are unforeseen side effects bad, but like there are unforeseen side effects AND the original thing you wanted will get wrecked too.

Remember Johnny Blaze? He wanted his father figure to be cured of a terminal illness. It worked...but then he died anyway and Johnny got possessed by a demon too.

And that happens with EVERY Mephisto deal EVER! And EVERYONE KNOWS THAT!

This isn’t a situation where if you are Johnny Blaze in his debut issue you are desperate enough to hope that folklore about the Devil is all guff.

By this point in time the supernatural is confirmed fact in the Marvel Universe. Fuck Doc Ock himself was literally resurrected by mystic ninjas (couldn’t he just think about using them to bring back the boy and the people he has to kill to save the boy?). There is no reason why anyone, especially not Otto, would seek to make a deal with Mephisto when they know for a fact it will backfire in the worst way possible.

But hey...aren’t I happy?

This is maybe going to fix Doc Ock so he is classic Doc Ock again and doesn’t have any of Peter’s memories!

Well first of all at this point that is wishful thinking.

Second of all Otto not remembering Peter’s memories doesn’t make sense since Mephisto said he’d still remember everything he’s lived through since taking Peter’s body. But if Otto experienced Peter’s memories then they are a part of HIS memories too at that point so how would he not remember Peter?????????

Third of all...this is still not Doc Ock. Even if he has his mind and body altered this is still nothing more than a clone of a clone (of another clone) of Doc Ock.