#or even refer me to a psychiatrist who could

[threefuckencrowsinaleatherjacket]

Is it mental illness or neurodivergence when I get stuck only ever watching the same shows bc they’re the only ones I can find interesting and I can barely start new shows bc I don’t know how they end

[vvelegrin]

another funny thing is how every single thing produced or written by a doctor on something that is not commonly diagnosed is like, come on, we're trying!!!! remember that we're trying!!! if a doctor doesn't have the information you need, it's not necessarily their fault, they're working with whta they have :(((( come oooonnnn, it's probably that doctor's birthday, he's just a little doctor birthday boy. you're going to be mad at him on his birthday? wow. did you know every doctor was born on the same day so when you are mad at one you're mad on ALL of our birthdays? we're trying!!!! remember that we're trying!!!! we don't have the resources!!!! and we're not going to look for them <3

[binders-and-beanies]

If u tell a trans disabled person to call the cops or tell someone else to call the cops abt them u do not care abt that person’s safety

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

I love your writing am and i always seem to go back to your sally face fic and i would love something similar to that but with sally and i would love to see if you could incorporate substance use (ex. weed) not to a dangerous extent but almost seen as inviting. with ftm reader again! ofcs you can take this request and do what you like with it!! i just love your writing sm and i want to see more sally face content:)

❝ If you think I’m pretty put your hands on me, know I can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout it ❞

Sal Fisher x ftm!reader | fluffy, NSFW, slight angst | reader has had top-surgery & bottom growth | vers. bttm. reader | NOT PROOFREAD + written on phone | wc: 4K

warnings: recreational use of marijuana, some guilt from Sal because he vowed not to smoke as a child but r! reassures him, Sal mentions painkiller addictions, mentions of hospitals and wounds, mentions of scarring, shotgun kisses, handjobs, fingering, AFAB terminology (clit referred to as dick/cock)

masterlist ; "I was the boy who was on your side"

authors note: I FORGOT TO FILL THIS UHM UHHH IM BACK?

*song on repeat: Romeo by Until The Ribbon Breaks

He's been drumming his fingers across his knees for a full 20 minutes now. A never-ending symphony of thumps occasionally disturbed by pauses of silence as he picked at the ripped edges of his jeans. You suppose you understand the anxiety that was racking through him, despite the reassurances you'd given him, he was bound to have some second thoughts. "Hey, baby," you tap the steering wheel, an elbow propped onto your window sill panel. Despite your eyes being glued on the road, you're acutely aware of his gaze on yours.

"Ya' didn't have to come along if you didn't want to," at your words he shakes his head. "No — Sorry, I didn't mean to come off that way, baby." Sal reaches out and places a hand on your knee, squeezing it just enough to have you decompressing your nerves.

"No, no. I didn't mean to make you feel bad," you clasp his hand and squeeze him back, the road will be fairly emptier now that you've driven past the bridge. "You just look a little nervous is all, I was jokin' 'bout you needing to follow along. I was just teasing you, Sal." "I know. I wanted to spend time with you, (Y/N). Which is why I followed along even though I knew you were just fucking with me," he sighs, allowing the song playing on the radio to filter in the silence for a few seconds. "It's just, buying drugs, makes me a liiittle nervous."

A chuckle escapes you and you risk staring at Sal for a bit. "You've dealt with poltergeists and the like, the baloney incident, and buying a little ganja is making you sweat?"

“Shut up,” he groans as he slips his hand up and lands a muted smack on your thighs. “Poltergeists can land me in a psychiatrist's office, this could land us in jail.”

“At least we’ll be together in a small cell,” you coo and Sal rolls his eye with a scoff. “We’re not gonna get caught, ya’ big baby. I’ve done this a thousand times with Larry, Todd, and Ashley — we’ll be fine. Promise.”

It went more than fine. Underwhelming actually. He had expected a more intense, whispered, exchanges with some weirdly firm handshake while the other dude slipped you the weed. He had even lifted the hood of his hoodie up to make the both of you less identifiable. It was adorable.

Your dealer had come down from their apartment. Sal seeing her brightly coloured pink tie-dye sweatpants from the slat of the stairs, and the cheerful wave she gave you once she took notice of your car.

“Was wondering when you’d text. I got your favourite.”

She’s leaned on your rolled-down windows, discretely holding the pink paper bag of weed in front of her chest and bouncing it around. She extends her other hand first, and Sal is silent as you reach for the cash from the cup holder.

In that pause of conversation, she takes notice of him and recognition is crystal clear.

“O-M-G, is that Sal, the boyfriend?” You chuckle while Sal stutters in surprise. Handing her the cash, she graciously exchanges it with the bag.

“Yeah, he’s following along with me running errands.” “Cute,” she coos. After a few pleasantries, she leans away. That small pink paper bag between your legs barely able to distract your boyfriend from her excited wave of goodbye — that you return obviously.

“You talk about me with her?” you glance at him for a second then laugh. “Dude, most of us get our weed from her. She eventually gets to know the side characters in our lives the longer she interacts with us.”

He scoffs, crossing his arm as he leans back in the seat.

“Side characters? Seriously?” “Duh,” you pick the bag up and shake it in his face teasingly. “Everyone knows the main characters participate in drug culture and the side characters don’t.”

“This is the peer pressure my father warned me about.”

You giggled at his joke as you place the bag between your thighs again. This time, Sal’s eyes follows it.

He’s seen you and Larry smoke before. Hell, most of his friends smoke on the back porch while he’ll be mindlessly cleaning up as he waits for all of you to herd back inside. He’s never felt left out, you guys were simply respecting his wishes is all. He wasn’t much of a fan of drinking or smoking. But he wouldn't stop anyone from doing it, as long as no one got too inebriated.

Though, for some reason, he just can’t take his eyes away from that pink bag.

“Mhm, next thing you know, you’ll look like those anti-bullying posters. All the stoners will point and laugh while you have big ole’ sad cat eyes.”

The imagery makes him laugh softly and he glances at your face as the scenery zooms past beside you.

When you reach home, the house is empty. A note was left on the kitchen fridge by Todd, something about him and his boyfriend going on a date.

Just you, Sal and Gizmo.

It makes his palms clammy and his nerves turning up his sensitivity a few notches.

You greeted Gizmo with a few chin scratches. Settling on the living room couch with crossed legs, you open the bag one handedly while you lean over to the catch-all bowl on the coffee table for the lighter and your MP3 player.

All the while, he stands in the kitchen threshold. Like a kid who knows they’ve done something they’re definitely shouldn’t have done — the guilt was just radiating from him. It made you toss your head to the side when you took notice of him, a joint hung loosely between your lips.

“You good, baby?”

He nods, your words setting him into motion as he sits on the couch.

“I’m not gonna smoke inside,” you reassure with a smile. Why else would he stare at you like that, right?

He nods again. Oddly quiet. Gizmo yawns and sinks further down onto the couch, watching the TV show with an almost human-like concentration. Nobody says anything about it anymore. He’s just a little guy, really.

You lean over, joint plucked out and resting between the second knuckle of your pointer and middle finger this time, and give his cheek a kiss.

“See you in a bit.”

He watches like he always does. There’s nothing to clean. It’d be weirder if he attempted to look busy. So he glances at the TV, then at Gizmo and then at your back as you sit down on the porch. He can hear the muffled sounds of you flicking the lighter, and shortly after he sees the white smoke that slithers upwards into the air along with the sounds of your favourite band quietly playing.

You thought you hadn’t closed the sliding doors properly when you hear the approaching footsteps. Turning your head to check, you’re surprised to spot Sal walk through the doors to move and settle next to you.

You cough out some smoke. Attempting to fan it away with your hand while you reach to put out the joint in the ash tray that Ashley had made. But Sal stops you as he knocks your knees together, his thigh pressing against yours as he peers at you.

“Sal?”

“...Say hypothethically, a side character wants to dip his toes in some drug culture." Your eyes widen considerably at his confession.

“Huh?” you squeak out. Sal sighs, regret creeping up on him as he scratches the back of his head. The smell of the weed doesn’t exactly help either — it was so distinct.

“Wait, no, sorry. I’m just, this isn’t because of peer pressure is it?” You did mini-hops, getting close enough to him for your thighs to press together. Yet you still held the clay ash tray an arms length away, especially as you note the sharp inhale and exhale he'd made.

Sal’s deadpanned expression makes your eyebrows jump.

“This was dumb,” He admits. “No — no, it isn’t. I was just caught off-guard. Are you...curious?”

Sal nods sheepishly. You lean back on the heel of your hand, the other still holding onto the tray, your finger mindlessly keeping the still-lit joint perched between your digit and the rim of the tray. You think for a moment, then huff in amusement.

“Damn, you still manage to surprise me even after all these years.”

“You’re making it sound like we’ve been married for 50 years,” he retorts. “We will be, I’m just practicing these phrases out loud so you don’t get heart failure in the future.”

This time, Sal’s shoulders shake as he laughs. It dies down as he sees you take a drag, and breathe out the plumes of smoke. Not directly at him, but in his general direction. The smell isn’t something he’s used to. Not this close anyways. Usually, it’s just stuck on your clothes but you reach for the bottle of Febreze strategically placed near the sliding doors anyway so it's more muted.

It. . .doesn’t completely suck. The earthiness of it making his shoulders less tense. You watch his reaction closely, the corners of your lips in a gentle curve as he leans back onto his hands.

You take another drag and Sal’s enraptured at the way the end of your joint glows bright orange. He feels almost envious of the way you swallow the smoke, how you harbour it within your mouth before it slips past your lips. You’re looking at him, just basking in the moment for a little longer before you ask him to play your favourite songs.

It was just beginning to get dark, the sky was setting up for its finale of the day and he was enraptured as you explain what shotgun kisses were.

"I have smoked a cigarette before," he says, brows furrowed as he unbuckles his prosthetic. "Yeah, and nearly coughed up both of your lungs. This will be smoother for you, trust me."

"So I just inhale what you exhale?" "Mhm, easy as pie, right?"

His placed his prosthetic next to him, turning his head and immediately seeing your face invading his vision. "Hi," he smiled at your attempt to keep your smile at bay by chewing on your lower lip.

"Hi," he replies, his anxiety lessening at the sight of your confidence and giddiness. You bring the joint to your lips. He can hear the paper burning and sees tendrils of smoke escaping through your lips. Your words echoed in his brain as you lean in further.

“Just breathe it in slowly, baby."

He feels the smoke across his face, your lips pouted as you blow it his way. Sal breathes it in, sucking the smoke in just like you’d demonstrated earlier. He coughs like you said he would. His eye-watering as he moves to sit and you carefully pat his back as he does.

“Shit,” your eyes squish at his flustered expression. His first time trying a cigarette playing briefly through your head. Though this time it wasn’t even half-bad.

“You did great. Didn't burn on the way down if you smoked it yourself, right?” he got what you meant. He was coughing but he didn't feel like the back of his throat got thwacked by a whip of burning paper and tobacco. The ride was smoother, way smoother with your help. “It feels like the smell is stuck onto my teeth." Sal only complains to see you look at him with that fond gaze. You took another drag as he smacks his lips a few times. Your eyes flutter close, sighing in relief, and tossing your head to the side as you feel yourself loosening up.

“Why do you think I always brush my teeth before I kiss you?”

Sal protests softly as you take another hit and you laugh as he leans in.

“Isn’t that too much — “

You breathe out and Sal seems stunned for a moment, so you apologize but he simply leans in further.

“If this'll be my first time getting high, I want it to be with you.”

"Slow down, baby," you bumped your foreheads together, cupping his jaw in your hand. "What's the rush, hm?"

Curiousity was a valid enough reason to start smoking, but your Sal wasn't the kind of guy to jump into these things head first. It wasn't anything special to him, all of your friends smoked and drunk. He wasn't some pre-teen being excited to finally "grow up" and get in with the cool kids.

Hell, even during his 21st birthday, he'd taken his first drink and smoked his cigarette and decided that he didn't enjoy any of them.

Sal sighs, dropping his weight on you. His head balanced between the curve of your neck and shoulder. You simply thread your fingers through his hair, combing out the indents of his buckles and straps from his hair.

"You think I can't take it?"

"Oh, I definitely know you can't."

He protests with an indignant but whiny 'hey' but settles. His arms wrap around your waist and despite the uncomfortable angle of your torso facing him while your legs faced ahead as they rested on the stairs, you stay like that for a bit.

He eventually pulls away and leans back onto his arms again, reaching for his prosthetic though only to fidget with it on his lap.

"...Is it bad I feel bad? Not physically, just...morally?"

Your silence urges him on. So he continues; “Drinking fucking sucks, and cigarettes don’t make sense to me. But weed as a concept always seemed...appealing to me.”

He feels your chin on his shoulder and he subtly breathes in the smoke that teases him as you exhale.

“But?”

“Argh, it’s stupid. But as a kid, in the hospital there weren’t a lot of people that got as messed up as I did. But the ones that were? Christ, babe, they were in so much pain. Even when the wounds were already scars.”

Your brows pinch. You squeeze his hand and he stops toying with feeling the shape of the bolts to instead gently press the pads of his thumb over your nails.

“The doctors scared me with the whole speech. Painkillers being addictive and all that, it made me scared to ask for ‘em even when the skin grafts felt like they were on fucking fire.”

He shuts his eyes and brings your hand to his face, the pressure and warmth across his jaw and cheek making the phantom pains ebb to nothing.

“I made a promise to my younger me that I would never end up like the adults I saw. I just, don’t want to be in constant pain.”

“You aren’t, Sal. And you won’t be.”

You put out the joint, turning his face to you and planting a kiss on his lips. He breathes out a sigh of relief through his nose and you tilt your head to deepen it. When you pull away, you both linger in the afterglow of it for a second.

“I’m here for you, Sal. If you ever stray from the path, I’m here to guide you back, right? You’ve got me and Larry, Lisa and your dad, Ashley, Todd, Gizmo —” his smile widens as you go on about the precious people in his life.

“Thanks,” he kisses you again and you happily reciprocate.

“By the way, you’re right, you should always brush your teeth before you kiss me when you’re done smoking up.”

Sal laughs as you shove him back, watching admiringly while you light the joint up again.

“...Can I have another hit?”

“You just said my breath smells like ass —”

“You’re overreacting!”

By the time the two of you walk back inside, Gizmo’s nose is twitching. You hadn’t taken too much too be completely useless, just to start feeling that buzz and take the edge off. Sal had expected more of a droopy, drowsy, feeling when he entered the house.

He still feels like himself. A little light on his feet, but still himself. You had paced him from his little smoke-sucking sessions — teasing that he just wanted to kiss you which wasn’t entirely untrue. But you always pulled away just as his eyes would flutter. Most likely you getting back at home for saying your breath smelled like weed. Little tease.

You spray your clothes down, then ask Sal if he’d like to chill on the couch. Something in his brain perks up hard enough to make his penis do the same. He feels a bit shameful of it, but then again, everything you do could make him hard.

The other day you’d been wolfing down some cheesy fries with Ashley and somehow it made Sal have to think of baloney to shut his penis down.

Gizmo’s tail flicks knowingly as Sal sits at the end of the couch, which was his cue to set off to the basement instead. When Sal hears the TV turns on from there, he simply decides to never question how dexterous Gizmo's thumbs were.

You're laid out on the couch with your tummy showing and your eyes just a bit hazy. He knows weed affects people differently; why does it make his lust for you feel so thick? Like cloying, thick, honey dripping down from the back of his throat. Fuelling him in an unfamiliar, alien, way. He climbs over you and the half-lidded gaze you look up at him with makes his mouth feel drier than it is.

This lust is new. It’s more languid in it’s desire — akin to a beast stretching its back only to flop down to its side and show its belly. Still undeniably dangerous, yet so inviting with its soft underbelly and demure paws.

You seem to recognize this beast, lips stretching into a toothy grin.

“Need something handsome?”

He narrows his eyes at you. Then, he places a hand on your chest, fingers brushing along your collarbones before it slowy slips downwards.

“...I really wanna finger you.”

He seems to catch himself. Through that haze that makes him caught between wanting to curl up next to you for a nap or fucking you nice and slow, he finds the part of him that remembers embarrassment.

But before it could throw away his new lazy bravado, you surge up to kiss him, moaning the second your lips made contact.

Stoned Sal decides pants are way too annoying very quickly on. He huffs and puffs at the obstacles that are called buttons and zippers. When he finally undoes them, he pulls your jeans below the swell of your ass and brings the heel of his hand to your clothed cock.

The pressure has your teeth brushing over your lips.

“I love your dick,” he murmurs, “it’s just s’fuckin’ pretty.”

You moan airily, wishing he’d pull your pants all the way down but he is just too entraced at the sight of the wet spots he’s seeing. He traces the fold of your cunt and your breath hitches as he presses a finger through. Not enough to be inside of you, but enough to have your dick twitch.

He brings his thumb to rub against it and you groan.

“Let me take my jeans off, Christ, Sal.”

He chuckles, suddenly abandoning your pussy to pin your hips down. “Barely touched you and you already wanna spread your legs f’me?”

You glare at him, feeling your cheeks heat up as you hitch yourself up onto the couch and stubbornly shimmying out of your pants. He simply watches, uncaring of the less-than-delicate display. You toss your jean away and your underwear follows along, piling onto the floor somewhere.

“The weed is making you so chatty, hm?” you don’t get much out of you after that as Sal immediately claims your lips again. He doesn’t even wait for you to lay back down as he brings his hand between your legs.

Not exactly hasty but not taking his time either. He pulls away enough that the spit between your lips break, but you can still feel him groan when he feels the dewdrops of moisture on your cunt; the slick that coats his finger makes him whisper your name.

“So wet,” he marvels. Your legs twitch at his movements. Sliding up and down, pressing in just to make your breath hitch but never fully slipping inside.

Oh fuck.

Stoned Sal likes to tease.

Your dread is shortlived as he descends his kisses to your neck. You groan, clutching onto the back of his shirt as he mottles your neck with unapologetically languid kisses.

You’re whimpering underneath him as he hums and groans. Using his teeth and making hickey after hickey, dark and tender — he’d even brush his teeth along them just to hear you gasp.

Meanwhile, he continues to torture your poor cunt. Bringing his thumb into the fray again as he rubs circles on the tip of your cock. The tip of his fingers spreading your slick around your lips, making it messier and messier.

“Sal, please just fuckin’ finger me already,” you whine out. Turning your head away and arching your back as he sets his eyes on your nipples.

“I’m already — Shit, Sal. I’m already so hard.”

He knows. You don’t have to remind him.

“Don’t make me beg, baby, please.”

Sal bites down on your nipple just as he pushes his finger inside of you. He groans at the feeling of your boypussy clamping down. Fuck, you felt good.

So soft and warm and wet and tight.

He slips another finger in and neither of you are surprised at how eagerly your cunt lets it in.

Sal’s lips pause in their conquest as he looks down between your legs. Fuck, what a sight it was. The happy trail you have that always makes his cock jump in his pants — there it goes again — and that beautiful dick that he always loves choking on to that boypussy that he’s convinced is made for him.

He starts pumping his fingers. In and out in a steady rhythm. Adoring every noise that comes out of you. You take them well, all the way down to the base and when he angles his palm just right your hips buck to grind your cock against his hand.

Fuck, you were perfect.

He kisses you. Breathing through his nose as he bites down on your already swollen lower lip — relishing in this. In you.

He adds another finger and you mewl. It makes him laugh.

You were usually much more headstrong. When he teases, you tease back. The weed is working in his favour, you were so pliant. Melting under him and already close to your first orgasm.

When he curls his fingers, you toss your head back, mouth opening in a silent scream. Your hand dives between your legs to rub your cock and Sal watches your face as you jeek yourself off.

“Just like that, just like that — Oh, oh—ah! Fuck!”

He doesn’t falter his pace, moaning out curses as you clamp down around his fingers.

“Come on, baby. Cum for me, cum for me.”

His voice undoes you.

You buck your hips as wetness covers his hand. He groans, praising you as he continues to pump in and out. You let him, simply curling your toes and panting as you just kept on cumming and cumming.

When he kisses you this time, he doesn’t even let you breathe. Just swallowing your noises as he finger-fucks you through your orgasm and makes you barrel to your second with no breaks.

You clutch at his shirt, feeling lightheaded but unwilling to ask him to stop.

“Keep going, Sal. Please, please.”

How could he say no?

[thesocklesswonder]

Ohio's mental health authority is trying to ban transgender healthcare - esp for people under 21 years of age, BUT they are asking for public input! Hurry, though, as it's only through 5pm local time (US Eastern Standard Time) on January 19th!

Changes to the Ohio Department of Mental Health and Addiction Services rule, "5122-14-12 | Private Psychiatric Hospital: Program, Specialty Services, and Discharge Planning", are to prohibit any kind of transgender care for those under 21 in a psychiatric hospital. Full document here, but be aware it is to a pdf

The rule includes the text, "Medical services shall not include any of the following: ...the prescribing, administering, or furnishing of any prescription drug or hormone...", which means if someone under 21 enters a private psychiatric hospital and who is already on puberty blockers or hormones, the doctors there would be prohibited from giving them the prescription they already have.

A new proposed rule for the same Ohio department, "5122-26-19 | Gender Transition Care" states the requirements for anyone needing transition care under this department. They are targeting the most vulnerable with these rules: young people who have mental health issues who also need transgender care. Full document here, but be aware it is to a pdf

Included in this rule: A doctor may only provide transgender care after three requirements have been met - a psychiatrist who has experience with the patient's age group must be employed by/contracted with the provider, an endocrinologist who has experience with the age group, and the provider has a comprehensive written plan that includes a detransitioning provision.

It also requires any such patient to have a thorough mental health evaluation and counseling period of at least 6 months prior to any transgender care. It also appears to become part of their medical record.

In addition to a ban on any transition surgeries, even if the patient jumps through all of those hoops, is a curious item that prevents doctors from referring patients out to other doctors that can provide care:

Another thing that made me pause was what seems like a scare tactic:

The terms "orchiectomy" and "penectomy" mean the removal of testicals and penis, respectively. The word "castration" could only be redundant or referring only to chemical castration, which seems to not fit in with gender reassignment surgery (correct me if you know it does fit). "Castration" is a scary word for most people with penises. I think it would likely provoke a knee-jerk response, like, "Oh, no, castration is bad. No castration! Enact these rules to keep people from being castrated!"

⚠️ The time is now to tell the Ohio Department of Mental Health and Addiction Services what you think about this! ⚠️

The option to comment on these needless restrictions can be found at the link in the first paragraph, but it's just an link that takes you to your email app. You can also just email them directly at MH-SOT-rules@mha.ohio.gov no later than 5 pm EST on Friday, January 19, 2024.

Please reblog to get this message out! We all have a stake in how rules and laws are enacted. They often lead to more in other states/countries. So, even if you don't have a stake in this personally, please make sure others see it.

Why do I care? I don't live in Ohio, but I have friends all over, including Ohio, who need transgender care. You might know someone like that, too.

[slash-me-please]

Hey,

could you please write a Hannibal one-shot, where fem!reader teases him while he‘s working?(with nsfw?)

warnings: inappropriate work dynamics, cunnilingus, cheating

A/N : I got a little distracted with this one omg...

Your heels click against the floor of your psychiatrist's office, as soon as he hears the familiar tap, he looks up from the stack of papers in his hands. Hannibal greets you with a soft smile, gesturing towards the couch in front of him. "How are you doing today, Miss L/N?" A sigh falls from your parted lips, shoulders shrugging to not only answer his question- but to also rid the thick coat from your shoulders. "Tired," You pause, eyes rising to meet his. "Unsatisfied, I feel it in my bones."

Hannibal nods, watching as you adjust your pencil skirt to cover more of your thighs. You had a white button down tucked into it, the top three buttons undone to reveal a bit of your chest. "And what is it, that you feel in your bones?" He asks, flipping through a few pages to get to your specific notes. You tilt your head slightly, fingers moving to fiddle with the buttons on your shirt. "You remember what we talked about last time?" Of course he remembered, you had a sundress on last time- hands rubbing up and down your thighs as you vented to him about your poor, poor lover. You had your hair down that time, looking at him with dark eyes as you explained how no matter how long he went down on you- he was never enough man to make you cum.

Hannibal nods to keep you talking, his eye contact never faltering. You swipe your tongue against your bottom lip and start to continue your story. "I took your advice, I told him what to do, I communicated. I really took action, but he was so offended Dr. Lecter. He looked like a kicked puppy. He didn't even want to touch me that night, or any other nights this week." Your lips pull into a pout, which Hannibal can't look away from. "Do you think, maybe, I should look into couples counseling?" You lean forward, giving him a view of what it looks like down your shirt. "Sometimes when a man's ego is wounded, he retreats into himself. Is that how you feel Mr. L/N reacted towards you?"

You push back, chewing on your bottom lip now. "Mr. L/N hardly had any ego to start with, that's the problem. You keep referring to him as a man, when in reality, a man could please his wife." You huffed, noticing Hannibal's mouth contort into a twisted smile. Not like the one he gave you when you first arrived. "It gets old when all you do is give, give, give, all for an inadequate husband." He nods at your confession. "Would it make you happier to be with someone else?" At his question, your legs unfold and your fingers begin to play with the hem of your skirt once again.

"Maybe... Sometimes I think about being with someone who knows their way around a woman."

Hannibal stands, placing his papers down on his desk. He stands there for a moment, leaning against the wood. "Would that help you solve some of your problems?" This time, his eyes are focused and locked on the three buttons that weren't clasped. You swallow hard. "Yes, I think so." He begins to walk forward, and you sit up eagerly in the chair you had made yourself comfortable in. He stops in front of your shaky legs and props one knee to the side of yours. Hannibal leans his weight onto it, his right hand coming to caress the left side of your jaw. "Miss Y/N, I believe it's my job to provide you with all of the opportunities you may need to be your best self. Do you agree?" "Yes, I agree, that's what I am paying you for."

Fingers dig into the plush skin of your cheek, and he laughs silently. You aren't given any time to question his intentions before he's pressing his lips against yours. You moan pleasantly, his mouth a warm contrast to the air-conditioned room you had your sessions in. Surprisingly, he makes no move to force his face against you the way your husband does, instead, he kisses you softly. His lips melt perfectly within yours, like you were destined to touch this man. You feel his hand fall lower, taking a firm grasp around your throat. You gasp excitedly, his fingertips pressing firm into your muscles. You felt he knew exactly where to press, what to manipulate.

His kissing ends with a sigh, and he pulls back to take you in. He finds you much more pleasing than Alana at this moment. You watch him close his eyes and breathe in for a moment, your eyebrows furrow in confusion. "Dr. Lec-" He cuts you off, the hand wrapped snug around your throat, forcing you back into the leathered chair you had been sat in. The force knocked the breath from your lungs, without time to recuperate, his hands wrapping around the back of your knees and yanking your bottom half forward. He ignores your yelp, forcing your pencil skirt to a bunch around your hips. Hannibal watches with amusement as your face turns bright red. You try to grab your bearings, turning your head to the side and coughing awkwardly.

Hannibal pays you no mind, looking inbetween your legs at the lack of underwear you had worn. He smiles, running a hand through his hair. "Miss L/N... is this something you were hoping for?" Luckily he isn't expecting an answer from you, instead he grabs your thighs and pushes them against your chest- baring you to the empty room. He drops to his knees and still has to bend down, you blush excitedly, this was the man you were looking for. His mouth latches to your pussy, tongue gliding against your wet heat with a hunger your husband didn't have.

His tongue slides between your folds, pressing firm against your clit and pulling it between his lips to suck on. He relishes in the way you whine and arch your back against his face, nails digging into the leather upholstery of the seat you were folded against. Hannibal's right arm moves to hold both your legs, so he can bring the fingers from his left hand into your tight hole. They push into you deep as his tongue laps incessantly at your swollen clit, his goal to satisfy you externalizing. "Oh... God!" You whine, hips pushing into his mouth. And he obliges your every need, taking you further into his mouth, the burn of his passion enveloping your every nerve ending. You feel his fingers begin to thrust inside you, prodding at the spongey spot your husband couldn't find. "I... That feels so good.." He hums against your clit, fingers curling and pushing with all his willpower. With one more push against that spot, and his mouth against you- you gush against his face. You cry out for him, tears pooling down your face and onto his chair. But he doesn't even stop.

Your legs fall onto his shoulders, and you realize he's moved his arms. His left hand continues pushing against your sweet spot, but his mouth is no longer latched onto your clit, instead he rolls against it with a pad of his thumb. Hannibal's teeth sink into the soft skin of your thigh, sweat falling from his forehead as he works at you. HIs fingers work at you in a clockwise motion- and he fights against your hips as they grind against his fingers. "Oh!" You cry, teeth pushed together and jaw clenched- no longer worried about how you looked to him. You bring your hands to hide your face, whimpering when he doesn't let up the pressure. "Give me one more, I need to know that you're leaving pleased." He watches you nod, hands falling from your face to make eye contact. "Okay... I will!" You moan, pushing against his thumb. He gets the message, his thumb rotating against your clit faster than before. You feel the fingers inside of you speed up too, massaging your insides with a growing need to feel you clench around them once more. He memories each moan he pulls from you with a growing obsession, mentally noting to go through your lives work later. With one more forceful push into your hole, you're crying into your hands and cumming around his fingers once more.

-

You hand him the cash payment for your visit, which he waves away. "Just this once I won't be taking payment, We have yet to discuss this new course of treatment, so it'd be inappropriate of me to accept payment before we have talked things over." You blink at him, nodding in agreement. "Let me know if this new type of therapy helps you and your relationship, and we will discuss our actions from there." "Will do, Dr. Lecter. I will see you next week."

[velvetures]

Helluuuu!! I saw your post about sending requests and mine is actually a really simple one cause I don't have a creative but I just though about a ghost hurt/comfort story

Little Secrets

A/N: So this is very self-indulgent... I hope you don't mind. I think there are quite a few people who struggle with taking meds for depression/anxiety or feel guilty for it. Me included. Hopefully, this helps everyone feel valid, seen, and supported. Summary: Task Force 141 is where you belong. But it doesn't make the work easy by any means. You finally get the help you need and try hiding it. Ghost notices and is the one who sets you straight. T/W: depression/anxiety themes, medication, guilt, insecurity of reader, fem reader, and I'm sure I've missed something, so let me know.

photo by: pedropcl

You couldn't keep fighting it for any longer.

Staring down at the two orange bottles of pills in your hands and the directions packets in the other, you felt like you'd failed despite the psychiatrist you'd spoken to reassure you that this was certainly not a failure. Your brain kept refuting that this was a step in the right direction. Working as a professional and legal murderer should've meant you had no feelings. No failures of regulating your emotions or having such miserable trouble falling asleep at night. That nice woman who'd put the prescription in for you said it would take two to three weeks to see a difference. It felt like no time, yet an eternity all at once. Relief felt so far away, but insignificant compared to other people you often compared your personal struggles with.

You weren't homeless, you could eat without worrying, you had clothes and shoes all of the time, and never needed to wonder if you would have enough money to take care of your responsibilities. Education hadn't been a problem, you were well-respected despite being a woman in such a male-dominated field and kept up with your work extremely well. At least, when your brain decided to deny that you had the ability to do anything. Or... repeatedly try to convince you that nothing you did was worth a damn or actually made you useful. Vicious cycles of fighting with your own brain, knowing that you shouldn't feel or think this way but have no strength or way of stopping. None of the "hacks," meditations, or affirmation bullshit touched that panicky feeling you had mere minutes after laying down at night.

The pills shaking around in your hands were your last resort. And they made you feel so fucking embarrassed as you tucked them in your pockets before entering back into HQ. Praying to god that none of the 141 would see you with them or hear that slight sound of them rattling in their bottles. By grace or luck, you were able to avoid all of them and got back to your quarters to stash them under your bed in a small ammo box repurposed for some personal belongings. The directions you'd thrown away on your drive back, just taking a picture of them for reference and ditching the paper copies so you wouldn't have to keep track of those.

"This better fucking help," You breathe out heavily to yourself.

Staring up at the ceiling and almost dreading having to take one tonight before bed and the other when you wake up the next morning. Daily reminders of how you couldn't be hard and cold like the others. Cool and collected like Gaz, confident like Soap, unaffected like Ghost, or just so very reliable like Price. It made you feel like the weak link needing support. You'd never needed it before, and within two years you'd suddenly realized that your own mind was winning in a fight you'd never even been aware of fighting in the first place.

Keeping all of them in the dark about this would be safest. If they didn't need to question your stability, then it wouldn't feel like such pressure to perform. And hopefully, after a few weeks, things might start to shift a little. Maybe enough to where you could begin sorting out the other problems without the image of a cluttered attic representing the state of your head. Taking care to not raise the alert of the 141 wouldn't be easy. Always noticing everything out of sheer training and sharpened instincts. Having no other good ideas... You just settled on doing everything you could to keep your little secrets under wraps.

In the following couple of days, you’d become adjusted to the routine of taking your medications on the surface level. While the one tasked with easing you anxiety and depression wasn’t going to take effect for quite a while longer the other -a sleeping aid- was definitely making a significant impact. You were able to actually fall asleep and stay that way, problem was, with a couple missions impending in the near future, you were getting concerned that if you took them when you were supposed to -on a schedule- that staying awake would be next to impossible. And if you didn’t take them at all… you didn’t want to deal with the consequences of breaking a much more healthy habit.

And the reason you were so worried about the missions was because of a reoccurring problem that the 141 began finding you falling victim to. Thankfully you were all on leave, making it a lot more acceptable, but they still began walking into different rooms around HQ to see you sleeping soundly. No matter the noise level, temperature in the room, or the space you’d fit yourself into. And no one was quite as intrigued with your sudden change in behavior was the Lieutenant.

Ghost liked things to have order, and often used regiment or habit as a very small form of comfort when he felt that his physical situation was one that could be trusted. And while the others just thought you’d found a new safety in HQ and enjoyed sleeping somewhere safe, Ghost could see that something much different was happening. Your sleeping wasn’t a new habit.

It appeared far too quickly, and you oftentimes didn’t look like you had much control over it. There had already been three times where he’d watched you fall asleep on one of the guys late in the evening without as much as a single attempt to fight the drowsiness. While Ghost didn’t like to think that he cared that much about you, he found himself paying even closer attention to you than he had before.

“There she goes…” Soap chuckled quietly, pointing to you on the couch; head laying in Captain Price’s lap, eyes closed and sleeping deeply with your arms tucked against your chest and lying on your side.

Price had a loving hand on your head, and had been idly petting your hair much like a father would despite being hardly of age to act it. Yet, Ghost felt that Price’s warmth towards you wasn’t the entire reason you had yet again fallen asleep before 11 o’clock. Purposefully he’d been keeping count, and this was the fifth time in a week. More than enough to raise alarm with the others… but he was still waiting silently for someone else to bring it up.

Price chuckled, glancing down at you. “I carried her to bed last time,” His pointed look at each of them was more than enough to guess what he was about to say. “Someone else needs to, otherwise you’ll be voluntold.”

Ghost internally groaned. Not only was that kind of behavior what made people soft, but it also made seeing through the mask of affection far more difficult. But before Soap or Gaz took initiative, the Lieutenant was up on his feet and approaching Price with every intention of being the one to take you back to your quarters. Looks got thrown around the room, and Ghost wasn’t stupid enough to not notice. It was the first time he’d gotten this involved, and there was certainly a spectacle of him picking you up carefully enough to not wake you.

Even though he was quite certain it would take a lot more to get you up than that.

Your door opened up into warm, glowing light from a little lamp you’d left switched on. He catches sight of your quilt on the bed and the little rug that made the polished concrete floors look so much less like the jail cell his own quarters resembled. The whole room smelled like you too. Sweet, and a lot like cinnamon rolls. Probably some type of candle or other smelly thing that you had thought was worth spending money on. Plenty more reasons added to the list of what separates the two of you. Debating your differences or the reason you preferred your quarters smelling like a bakery wasn’t his purpose for bringing you back to your room.

But even with laying you down on your bed and pulling the sheet and blankets over you, Ghost wasn’t seeing any of the possible signs that could lead him to better understand what was going on with you. Nothing is out of place though. Your room is pretty much spotless save for a sleep outfit you’d laid out for tonight, but wouldn’t have the chance to get changed into. And right about the time Ghost decided he’d been looking into your business too much, he bumped into your nightstand.

It knocked something off into the floor, bouncing under the bed and clattering a bit.

Ghost sighed, eyes rolling up towards the ceiling and having quite the frustrating experience of dealing with the sudden responsibility of making sure you were cared for. And that meant picking up whatever shit he’d been too busy watching you, to not knock somewhere under the bed he’d have to fish around and find. So he knelt down and pulled his phone from his pocket and used the flash to spot a tube of chapstick near the bed frame foot.

That, and an ammo box with your initials spray-painted onto the side of it.

Compared to everything else, it didn’t look like it fit amongst the rest of your things. And damn if Ghost didn’t have a sudden gut feeling that it was the reason you’d been sleeping so much. Why you’d been so out of character; Setting his teeth on edge. Reaching out… Ghost grabbed the lip balm and got back to his feet and sit it down on the nightstand where it couldn’t be as easily disturbed again.

“G’night kid.” His whispers fell on your unconscious ears as your Lieutenant dismissed himself from your room and back down to his own space.

***

You woke up in your bed after falling asleep somewhere unintentionally, for the who-knows-which time. Just like before, left in whatever clothes you’d been wearing and all of your blankets tucked up tightly around you. It left a lingering sense of disappointment in yourself. A little pinch of sadness rested like a rock in your stomach. You couldn’t really remember falling asleep to begin with. If you ended up keeping this little habit going, there’d be no doubt you would risk everyone on a mission falling asleep at the drop of a hat.

All because of this damn medicine.

One that you needed to grab from under your bed, and sneak into the kitchen so that you could have some water and food. You'd seen one of the tens of sites -during your research of your pills- that it would help digest it better... whether it actually worked or not wasn't something you could tell. But either way, a doctor had said it, and plenty of people taking it agreed. So you grabbed the pill, shoved it in your pocket, and went out into the kitchen to find a glass.

The floors felt cold even with socks on. And while a steady rain poured from the sky, you were more heated with concern that someone would notice you. Notice your sleeping issues, the way you crawled around in the morning for the first couple hours before the pills began working, or the shady way you hid your face in the refrigerator while swallowing down your medication. Surely the stuff had to be working since you'd not been struggling to get your work done throughout the day. But maybe that was the hard part. Taking pills to fix your head, but needing your brain to recognize whether or not you felt better.

"Oh god help me..." You mutter quietly, searching past Soap's energy drinks and Gaz's revolting jug of green juice to find something you could make for breakfast.

A cabinet door shutting behind you nearly stopped your heart. Seeing Ghost's dark eyes evaluating your reaction didn't make your heart rate drop back to normal either. In his typical day-off wear, a pair of well-worn jeans hung low on his hips and an old SAS t-shirt you'd seen him wear countless times stretched tightly over his chest and shoulders. No doubt he'd been up since four. Quite certain he never actually slept, you wondered momentarily if he could benefit from the sleeping tabs you took. But quickly that got covered in anxiety when his eyebrows furrowed at your expression.

"Nothin' to eat?" He asked with a smooth voice, nodding to the refrigerator door you still held open dumbly.

"N-no... just a bunch of shit drinks." You reply, letting the door shut and noticing that he's got a brown bag with grease spots at the bottom corners. He just nods, looking off into the empty common room. Like he's trying to think of the right way to talk shit about both Gaz and Soap's bad choices in hydration.

"Sit. I've got enough to share." He jerks his head to the other side of the counter, turning that wide back to face you, leaving no room for argument.

You're swallowing down a thick bite of a bagel with god-knows-what in British style as Ghost brews tea. Silently making you a cup as well and standing stiffly with both milk and sugar on the table with the expectancy that you tell him how you like it. Not really unusual behavior from him... typically you get along just fine. But it's the fact that he watches so heavily.

"Just sugar, please." You say through a mouthful, covering your mouth with your hand.

He nods, but then starts putting the sugar in, mentioning something about fucking Americans before sliding the mug closer to you with a couple of fingers. Those damned eyes are just as observant as ever when you crumple up the finished sandwich before he even steeps his own drink. It made you nervous. Wondering if those pills were helping with your appetite too. The psychiatrist said it could; Something about feeling less stressed can give your body more opportunities to worry about being hungry. It was one of those facts on the medication packet you'd taken pictures of.

"Plans for today, L.t.?" You ask, sipping the tea, eyes grazing over the cup rim as you stare at the back of his head.

Mask rucked up high enough to eat and drink freely he nods his head. Leaning his lower back against the edge of the kitchen counter

and resting one hand back.

“Yeah, you?”

You shake your head uselessly, “No. Maybe some laundry, but I’m not really even due. Wouldn’t be worth the water in the machine.”

He hums lowly, taking a drink of his tea. You can hear his swallow and a steady exhale of air that follows. Whether it’s him cooling off the steaming cup or just breathing, you cant tell. But it’s so steady that you actually mimic the tempo of it. Feeling the way it expands and contracts your lungs smoothly. Almost settling. Much like L.t. himself in that way. Terrifying until you see just how easily you can be around him. He’s always quiet and composed, even when there’s plenty of reasons not to be. You wished it was something you could do too. Maybe it would help the task force if you didn’t have to spend your energy keeping yourself at an unnoticeable level of consistent panic.

“Know anythin’ about cars?”

“No,” You’re quick to add on. “But I can learn fast.”

You watch the way the back of his mask slides down further and how his head tilts from side to side to settle it comfortably. Seeing the rest of the tea get dumped into the sink and his own sandwich bag get crumpled up. He’s silent as he washes the cups used and methodically cleans up after the pair of you. Even reaching across the counter to swipe a couple of crumbs off your t-shirt with a subtle nod to his own satisfaction.

“I like to hear it,” His hand palmed at the back of your neck. Gently tugging you off the barstool, and grabbing your jacket to toss it to you. “You’re comin’ with me then.”

Learning about cars actually became quite easy… when Ghost was teaching.

He explained the parts clearly, what his goal was, and didn’t get pissed when you handed him the wrong size socket wrench on the first try. On the other end, you’d only been working next to him -well, sitting on the wheel well- for a couple of hours when you started getting tired again. Almost helpless to your own frustration, you yawned. Fighting the sleepy feeling valiantly, and taking as detailed of mental notes as possible while watching Ghost’s greased knuckles tighten a bracket holding his master cylinder in place. Surely it was a cosmic joke. L.t. was fixing his brakes, and it felt like someone had stomped on yours.

“Hand me that,” He muttered, head stuck down in a gap between his engine block and alternator, still effortlessly pointing at a pair of channellocks. “And get in for me.”

You did as he asked, yawning one more time. Trying to blame your sudden exhaustion on the rain pelting the metal roof above you. Sliding into the back of the car and kicking off your boots to let them rest on the concrete floor outside of it. Attempting to be polite by not getting any dirty spots on the mats of the -very original- DB4 GT Aston he’d given you trust to even sit in. The leather seats help you glide into the driver’s seat, giving you a very slim look at Ghost through the gap in the hood.

“What exactly am I doing in here?” You ask, loud enough so that he can hear you.

It prompts his head to pop up from inside the engine bay, giving you those same, observant eyes from earlier. He looks back down, reaches in and taps on something harshly, then looks back to you.

“Roll it over.”

The car starts effortlessly. Practically purring under you, and echoing in the metal hangar making it sound all the more ruggedly beautiful. The whole car hums, and as you watch Ghost go back to focusing on something in front of him, you feel the heat come through the dash. It’s a perfect storm that lulls you even closer to sleep. A dangerous thing, considering the one man who could figure out what was wrong with you was the only one close enough to see. Hell, you weren’t even sure he didn’t already have it figured out, and wasn’t planning some way to tell Price about it and have you removed from the task force.

Unfit for duty.

You could just picture it now. Red pen in Price’s handwriting detailing your medications and how it was grounds from honorable discharge. Perfectly common in the military, but it felt like death in your hazy mind.

Not that you could fight it for much longer.

Because by the time the Lieutenant had finished his little bit of work, he came into sight of you, slumped over in his driver’s seat with you lips parted and your arms wrapped around yourself. Nothing short of a pretty sight for sore eyes. His car had damn near rocked you sleep, and for once, Ghost felt his heart couldn’t take the feeling of waking you up. He’d watched you all morning. Gauging your reactions, your lack of conversation, and the way you tried to keep from showing him any sign of being tired. Initially he wanted to be angry. Mad that you were hiding something from the team… from him. But seeing you sleeping there, he knew there was a fight in your head. A fight he knew well. So he left you there to sleep.

Turning off the engine to keep from filling the garage with exhaust, but pulling up one of the small space heaters close to the open door to keep you from getting cold while he worked. Making small adjustments, looking over future jobs, and even entertaining the thought of adjusting you over in the seat a little bit so that he could drive-test his handiwork. But that didn’t come, because Soap arrived with a grin on his face and no idea that you were sleeping.

Until Ghost told him to lower his goddamn voice.

“Sleepin’ again bonnie?” Soap chuckled to himself, looking at you before back to Ghost. “How long’s she been out?”

Ghost shrugged, “Few hours.” Really he hadn’t been watching the clock; far too comfortable to concern himself with it.

“I know you’ve been tryin’ to figure it out,” He started back, resting his hands on the hood. “Why she’s doin’ this so much. Have ya’?”

Ghost shook his head. “No. Not yet, but I’m not concerned.”

Johnny laughed softly, slapping Ghost on the back and beginning to walk away. “I never took you for the type to be worried, L.t.. But since you’re so reassurin’ I’ll take it t’heart.”

Any way Ghost came at that statement, he felt himself on the end of a losing battle. Maddening. Losing a fight wasn’t in his nature. Even if that meant he had to take some of the most fucked up torture to reach it. But what bothered him more than Soap knowing he was concerned about you was the knowing you weren’t okay.

Days out in the field were bad enough. But when they got worse, you were always there. And maybe you didn’t feel much better than he did, yet you always held softness. For everyone. For him. A kind of understanding and acceptance that wasn’t required, or exactly approved of in this line of work. You could keep a secret better than anyone he knew, and while he didn’t burden you with a single one of his, there was always the foreign comfort in being able to come with them if he wanted to. Hiding your own feelings wasn’t right though.

Selfish maybe. Thinking it was okay to linger in his own issues and still demand you give him yours.

But hiding behind his rank and position over you meant he could make that kind of decision without any questioning. A type of don’t fucking ask why that saved him face when carrying you from his car back to your room after you still hadn’t woken up nearly seven hours after passing out in his car. Shouldering open the door just like the night before, he expected to see nothing out of place. The same lip balm on the side table, the same rug, and maybe a different night shirt since you’d mentioned doing laundry. But there was something out of place. And damn if it didn’t make his gut twist up in a ugly kind of feeling. One he’d not felt in years, but certainly recognized as soon as he spotted the orange pill bottle sitting on your bed.

It made sense.

The sleeping. The different behavior. The reason you’d practically swallowed a whole fucking sandwich for breakfast when a cup of tea would typically be all you stomached until afternoon. And thank god… you were finally starting to look a bit fuller. Getting prettier every day, and he finally had something to place the blame on. All hesitations about you being able to handle the upcoming missions faded once he got a good look at the bottle. A medication, funnily enough, that Ghost was well-acquainted with. It wasn’t part of his own personal line-up in his medicine cabinet, but it was one he’d taken for a while.

You’d been in need of some help, and luckily for you, it hadn’t been nearly as hard for you to get help as it had been for him. Actually asking for what you needed -and while frustrating- decided to try and manage it without anyone else’s knowledge. Ghost couldn’t think of a better scenario. Realizing that the only thing he needed to know about was your side effects, and how to best manage them alongside you. Thank fuck you weren’t sick… well… sick in a way that someone couldn’t help you with. A way that he couldn’t help.

So, he sit down in on the floor in your room and waited.

Your wake-up call came in the form of sleepy eyes opening to see the massive silhouette of Ghost sitting in your floor. Dark eyes much softer than you’d expected, and a much more concerning sight of your pill bottle resting in his massive hand. A sight that sat you up ramrod straight in your bed, gasping softly and staring at him with wide eyes.

“Don’t tell Price.” You sputter, rushing to get the words out of your mouth. Terrified that he’s going to get up and run out the door. Just sitting long enough to let you get a good look at his plan before exposing you to the Captain as some sick kind of satisfaction.

His eyes narrow a little, “Don’t tell Price?” His voice sounds hoarse. “Don’t tell Price?”

It sounds that much more broken and gritty when he repeats it. Standing up to meet you a bit more level, fisting the pills in his hand, and lightly making them shake. He can’t understand your fear. Completely blind to the fact that -much like him- you’re fearful of being shamed. Misunderstood for it. Or worse. Ghost can’t recognize why you’re looking at him as if he’s going to be the reason your life ends. When in all reality, you don’t see how he’s trying to figure out why you didn’t feel safe coming to him.

“You’ve been takin’ these… fallin’ asleep on everyone, and-and struggling for who knows how the fuck long…” It’s hard for Ghost to keep his tone even, thinking about it. “Why didn’t you tell me. you should’ve told me. Said something. Anything.”

Caving in on itself, your chest burns. Eyes locked on his and scanning every confusing moment of emotion and each shift as it comes and goes.

“You wouldn’t…”

Ghost takes a fast step closer, “I wouldn’t what?” His hand drops the pills on the bed and quickly grabs your face, soft fingers pressing into your jaw. “I wouldn’t get it? I wouldn’t do what you needed me to? Wouldn’t let you sleep on me?”

Your lips open in surprise at the softness in him. All of him. The gentleness of his fingers, how his eyes lay silkily on you. Even his voice, falling so softly despite it’s rough tone and deep sound, feels like he’s terrified of you being scared away from him. Like that gentle hold on your face is all he can manage, and he’d rather do anything other than let you pull away from it.

“You have to know…” he starts weakly. “You have to know that - that I would do… anything you needed me to. Anything to make this easier for you. Even somethin’ small, I’d do it for you, honey.”

reblogs & comments are appreciated 🤎

[wheelie-sick]

so, just spouting some anti psychiatry thoughts

a good psychiatrist does not negate that psychiatry as an industry and a system is inherently abusive

I would say I have a good psychiatrist- I have never been institutionalized against my will (even when standards would suggest it) I have never been forced on medications I did not want to take and I have not had my mental illnesses or the effects of the medicalized (my psychiatrist recognizes that these exist in a societal context and only manages what I want managed and what I see as a problem)

I would say that all of these things make my psychiatrist one of the better psychiatrists

and yet the system forces him to be a bad psychiatrist. the system forces his hand on things like institutionalization, refusing to participate in the abusive system could get his license revoked. there is no denying that despite the fact that he has avoided institutionalizing me in situations where other people would he has without a doubt institutionalized other people because his job requires him to do so. he has fallen victim to the pharmaceutical industry and its abuses against mentally ill people (and no, I'm not anti-medication, I am on 6 to manage my mental illnesses. I just recognize that the pharmaceutical industry is rife with abuse) because he has no power to exist outside of a system that seeks to profit off of and control the lives of mentally ill people. he is forced to give into the therapy system as well, referring people to providers that proceed to abuse (and rarely help) their patients whether he knows this or not.

and that makes him a bad psychiatrist. because the system is bad, all people within that system are bad. you either give into the system and become a bad psychiatrist through harming your patients or you defy the system and become a bad psychiatrist by breaking the rules. either way the result is the same- bad psychiatrist. I'd also argue that to some extent if someone truly was a psychiatrist without harm they wouldn't be a psychiatrist at all because the abuse is present in all aspects of the job.

and while I do not believe my psychiatrist ever meant to do me harm the system he exists within has undeniably harmed me. I have been shuffled through 4 different therapists who all failed to help me and, for 3 of them, made me worse. I will never forget my last therapist who held institutionalization over my head to force me to share information I was uncomfortable sharing. I was referred to these therapists by my psychiatrist. my psychiatrist might have no interest in institutionalizing me but if that therapist had reported that I was imminently suicidal or vaguely "a danger to myself" (regardless of whether it was true or not) it would have forced my psychiatrist's hand in the matter.

and I want to make it clear that the damage of psychiatry as an institution goes so much deeper than this, this post is a surface level view of it and surface level examples.

there are no good psychiatrists in a bad system

[brettanomycroft]

Signals from Somewhere Else

After episode 22 of Protocol, there’s one thing (okay, maybe two things) that everyone is going to be talking about. But I don’t want to talk about that thing (yet. Okay, I lied, it might come up). Instead, I want to dive into some of the implications of this week’s case and how they might relate FR3-D1 [Error], and even Isaac Newton.

Spoilers for TMAGP episodes 21 and 22 below the cut. CW: we’re gonna talk about the brain stuff; probably overuse of the words “fleshy” and “wet” by I blame AJN for that.

Our case in this episode, graciously recounted by Peepaw Augustus, focuses on real-life German psychiatrist and neurologist Hans Berger, whose work led to the invention of the EEG and furthered our understanding of how brainwaves work. The experiment described in the case mirrors actual experiments that Berger completed while working at the University of Jena, including experimentation on a subject with a deformity that allowed easy access to the brain and the placement of silver wires under the scalp to measure electrical activity. Even Berger’s disappointing initial results seem to be in line with history.

Like in real life, the cosmic horrors of this case begin when Berger takes a little depression nap.

The description of “an ocean, deep and unforgiving… full of dark secrets” creates a striking image to be sure, but what’s more interesting to me here is what he recalls next: the “radio signals, invisible and unknowable.” Berger laments that it’s a “shame these two things would never meet,” and then proceeds to enable such a thing to happen, whether he realizes it or not.

He wakes up and is immediately “inspired” to alter the setup he is using to record Herr Schmidt’s brain activity. While Berger is unable to explain how he came up with the idea (we could tell him: it was The Horrors, bud), he transforms his recording device (an early version of an EEG) into a two-way wireless telegraph, using poor Herr Schmidt’s brain as the receiver for the very radio waves that, perhaps, were never meant to make contact with the world below. Berger sent a politely phrased request into the void, and the void screamed back.

Who or what was on the other side can only be guessed at. Was it John/Martin/Jonah, individually or Frankensteined into some horrid chimerical conscience (please read this great post and have your heart broken like me)? Was it The Fears of the Archives-verse, recombined and tossed about like naughty pears in a pear wiggler? Or was it something or someone else entirely? I’m leaning towards JMJ, in parts or as a whole, specifically because I suspect that Hans Berger’s strange (and wetly explosive, thanks Alexander J. Newell) discovery provides a clue to how [Error] and possibly FR3-D1 operate.

Let’s start with [Error]. Here’s what we know about them so far:

They were locked up in tunnels or a basement space under the Archivist’s office at the Manchester Magnus Institute

Something about them causes people, dead and alive, to recount their fears or horrible things that have happened to them (I am not using the word compel here, even though it is used in the transcript for episode 21, and that is on purpose)

They seem very invested in getting the entire story out (this is, admittedly, speculation, as it’s unclear as to whether “THERE IS MORE” is in reference to more victims or more of Gwen’s story)

They have some really weird dogs

I’ve seen a lot of folks speculate that [Error] is or was the Head Archivist in the Protocol universe, and I’ve also seen a lot of folks speculate that [Error] is or was John (and therefore also The Archivist). I think either of these could be true, but more than anything, I think [Error] is a high-powered antenna with the ability to turn the people around them into speakers. Or maybe Speakers? I do love a good capitalization.

What if the “esteemed brethren” of The Magnus Institute were all too aware of the unusual results of Berger’s experimentation, and hoped to tap into the unusual consciousness(es) floating around in the radio waves and ether of the universe by creating their own version? Perhaps they thought they could create a direct conduit (think almost like a psychic medium) through a person, someone who might be able to communicate with whatever is out there and be able to relay its/their esoteric knowledge to help further the Institute’s goals of “Universal Transmutation.” We know already that the Institute was interested in doppelgangers and perhaps alternate universes and that they had a lot of irons in the fire (the Millenium Dome, the gifted child programme, Welling’s Mutare Materia research program, the various outreach centres), so it would hardly be surprising if they were also experimenting in communicating with “the beyond” to try and gain more knowledge.

And maybe it worked. Maybe they were able to create or transmute someone into an antenna, capable of receiving these strange signals, except these mixed signals were too powerful and ultimately took over. Perhaps [Error] is the natural consequence of who or whatever was speaking to Berger finally getting “OUT.” And if who or whatever was speaking to Berger happened to include the fractured consciousness of a hungry Archivist, well then, we have an interesting case for [Error]. [Error], whether or not they were an/The Archivist in this universe, could now be directed by the desires of The Archivist, channeling The Archivist’s thoughts and abilities but with a power greater than that we ever saw in John (or, perhaps, the same power but completely unrestrained by his remaining humanity). Or [Error] could be channeling The Fears themselves, bringing parts of them through not unlike they were brought through in The Magnus Archives.

Either way, I doubt that creating a connection between whatever was out there and the physical world led to the results the Institute was hoping for.

[Error] is receiving the signal to feed, but the signal coming through is so loud and so powerful that instead of politely asking to snack on some horror stories, coming into contact with them instead allows them to pick up on a person’s horrible experience and forces them to broadcast it to the world. It’s possible that, upon creating [Error] or losing control of [Error], those at The Magnus Institute locked them up and cut them off from the dangerous signal they were receiving… Sam accidentally poking a big hole in the floor (and the alchemical signals inscribed in it) could have reestablished the connection between [Error] and the force guiding them.

Now let’s talk about FR3-D1. We know that FR3-D1so far is that it

Is a “bespoke” internet software developed sometime in the mid-90s, apparently designed to search the internet for spooky stuff

Has German source code

Crashes, constantly, much to Colin’s dismay (? Or maybe he’s helping those crashes along to stop it from listening in… but that’s a theory for another time)

Has, within the last year or so of Sam joining the O.I.A.R., started running a text-to-speech program that reads certain cases out in one of three voices, two of which are familiar to anyone who has listened to The Magnus Archives

Occasionally has some unusual .JMJ errors

Seems to be “targeting” Sam with specific cases related to The Magnus Institute

Is believed to be “listening in” by Colin, Alice, and Sam (which is supported by what we know as the audience)

Has been working “better” since Colin has been on mandatory mental health leave

May have some connection to the Stasi, the secret police force of Communist East Germany before the fall of the USSR

Is assumed (by us as the audience) to have some kind of sentience

There are some other items (notably the spreadsheets found in the ARG that appear to be from or connected to FR3-D1and the emails Sam and Gwen have received) that could be connected to FR3-D1 but have not yet been confirmed. Yet aspects of FR3-D1 do seem to share some commonality with [Error], namely a level of sentience and the ability to locate the stories of people who have had horrifying supernatural encounters.

My speculation here is that FR3-D1 and [Error] were both constructed using the same premise or with the same goal in mind: to receive and channel the signals of entities or consciousnesses existing in or coming from “Somewhere Else”: FR3-D1 through a supernaturally or alchemically conceived software program, and [Error] through a supernaturally or alchemically conceived transmutation on a living human.

If this proves to be the case, then the results seem… distinct, albeit with the potential to be equally dangerous. FR3-D1 is more “controllable” and could potentially be better able to separate out the signals being received, manifesting as “Augustus,” “Chester,” and “Norris.” Now these “three” could still be part of homunculus-esque JohnMartinJonah consciousness, but perhaps the computer program is a little more stable and delineated than the fleshy wet mess of the human brain, and therefore what remains of each individual consciousness is able to act more distinctly and independently. In contrast, [Error] (and their fleshy wet mess of human brain) is receiving the signals all mixed and jumbled together, with no failsafes to keep them from “overloading” or being entirely taken over by The Horrors or JMJ or The JMJ Horrors. Given their spectral descriptions, it’s possible that fleshy human brain and body couldn’t take it anymore and, pun intended, gave up the ghost.  

[Error] could be, in some ways, a bodiless, mindless soul acting on a confused mess of instinct and hunger; FR3-D1 is then, perhaps, the elevated mind, in (more) control but disconnected from a body and perhaps from a soul. Given the heavy influence of alchemy in The Magnus Protocol and the importance in alchemy of the number three, the Tria Prima, and the balance of mind, body, and soul, there may be a third entity we have yet to meet who, like FR3-D1 and [Error], are tuned into these signals from beyond and is eager to reunite with the rest… or perhaps FR3-D1 and [Error] are looking for a body of their own to inhabit and find balance (Sam, anyone?).

I feel like I myself am beginning to mix the signals I started with, but before I attempt to wrap this up, I do briefly want to throw one more piece of spaghetti on the wall, because I think it’ll wind up being something: the mention, specifically, of the silver wire the Berger used in his experiment.

It was Dr. Caton who recommended that Berger use the silver wire, as silver is known for being an effective conductor of electricity. Silver also holds importance as one of the seven metals of alchemy and as a possible base metal in the creation of a Philosopher’s Stone. Perhaps equally important here is that the Diana’s Tree, also known as the Arbor Philosophorum, is created using a solution including silver (or more accurately, silver nitrate) and mercury (one of the elements in the Tria Prima)… yep, the (sort of) same spooky tree created by Newton in TMAGP 19, where Newton gave his dog an existential crisis and Robert Hooke was like “burn it all down.” The conclusion we could draw here is that silver is used in both TMAGP 19 and TMAGP 22 to connect organic life to the unseeable Knowledge of some other plane… with potentially disastrous effects.

Whether it ends up being the case that FR3-D1 and [Error] are big antennas wirelessly receiving The Horrors or I’m totally off base, it seems pretty clear that Hans Berger “tuned in” to an unusual—and dangerous—signal, and what’s more, enabled that signal to connect with the Protocol world in a way that likely never should have happened.

[nightcolorz]

i feel like it’s acceptable to headcanon disorders like ADHD or autism or personality disorders to fictional characters but it feels like there is a taboo about dissociative disorders, making me hesitant to say this (even though im pretty sure ive said it before)

But i really do feel like Armand has some sort of dissociative disorder (DID or OSDD) because it just seems so clear that he is not really one person, one fixed identity. Arun, Amadeo, and Armand are all distinct personas, formed by intense trauma and kept apart by traumatic amnesia. I won’t pretend to be a psychiatrist but from what I do know of these disorders that is very much how they manifest and their defining feature.

It seems more this way in the show, especially with the scene where he refers to Amadeo and Arun in third person, and speaks of how he can’t really remember details like names or exactly how things happened (like how he says he was sold by his parents in 1947 vs how he said he was chased by slavers in 1973 (both could be true but it feels contradictory))

And how he does visibly act differently based on if he’s Armand (the cult leader, coven maître, the one being interviewed), Amadeo (who he was in Venice, rebellious, teenaged, who he has to be to Marius), or Arun (the child, slave, who Louis brings up to obey him)

You can definitely lean in with the Rashid thing as well, taking up different identities was easy for him because he’s so used to it, and being Rashid he was a servant, something he was already used to. Being Rashid was like being Arun again before he had to become Armand to counter Daniel.

It’s somewhat the same in the books but less clear, though Andrei, Amadeo and Armand are all definitely separate.

Anyway I really do think Armand has some kind of dissociative disorder with Arun, Amadeo and Armand being separate alters, rather than him having any sort of personality disorder.

Thoughts?

I ABSOLUTELY AGREE 100%. I have also been hesitant to talk about this, but I’ve been using it to influence how I write Armand in my fics!! but yes, all the way yes. I’ve had this headcanon since before amc iwtv s2 came out and I loooooveeee how they just solidified it with their characterization.ur incredibly right all the way.

even if u don’t think Armand literally has a dissociative disorder, it’s undeniable that he has the core symptoms needed to be diagnosed with a dissociative disorder. Not only does he have separate identities that carry separate memories, he also has huge gaps in memory and repressed memories, to the point where he can’t remember his entire childhood, which is like essential to having DID.

I think whether Armand could literally be diagnosed with a disorder like this is up for debate, but I think what matters more is that thematically Armand’s character resonates very close with how these disorders function and affect people. A core part of his character is that Armand doesn’t know who he is, doesn’t have a clear or consistent identity, and can not function as a complete person bcus his identity was fractured before it was able to form. This is like, the essence of what it’s like to have a dissociative disorder lol. So regardless of whether he technically has did or Ossd, I think he definitely does thematically. Armand is all about how trauma can break the brain from ever forming an identity correctly, need i say more, lol

THANK U SMMM FOR THIS ASK AHHH!!!

[yama-does-art]

Magic on the Lost Light - Part 2

Lost Light x (gn)reader

Part 1 | [Here] | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | End

Content: mtmte human oc insert, discontinued

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1.4k

Buddy I

You nodded, gaining a smile from the metal giant before you. This was the third alien you have met today. The first being Perceptor, the science officer who found you suffocating to death. The second being Ratchet, the medic that saved you, and now this psychiatrist, Rung.

This one was smaller than the first two, lanky in both stature and build. It was nice to talk to him. Perhaps it was his profession shining through, but he seemed genuinely concerned for your welfare. It helped put you at ease, somewhat. 

Now you were just tired. One moment you were dozing off against a tree, the next you were on an alien ship unable to breathe. While you were grateful that they saved your life, it was rather jarring to see these holographic avatars interact with you. Entities that were not quite human. It was much easier trying to communicate to their true forms, even if they happen to be three stories tall.

Apparently, this species referred to themselves as Cybertronians, hailing from a planet called Cybertron. They are an autonomous group of  lifeforms, inorganic in nature, and composed of living metal. non-binary organisms, though masculine oriented when dealing with organic races. Referring to them as AI, robots, or machines is considered highly offensive, preferring to be called mechs instead.

This particular group is on a quest through deep space to find the alien equivalent of the Holy Grail. And you just happen to land on their ship that recently underwent a catastrophic engine failure that is being ‘handled’ by the current commanding officers. They don't even know where they are due to the ship's failure. In other words, nowhere near this world's Earth.

They said they meant you no harm. You hope that it is true. You want it to be true, yet there was no way to know until you meet the captain. At least the commanding officers had been to Earth before, so there was hope.

Hell.

You already missed the feeling of grass.

Rungs voice broke through your thoughts, “This must be an incredibly surreal experience. How are you feeling?”

That was a loaded question, if you ever heard one. Frustrated. Alone. Afraid. Overwhelmed. You sighed, "Tired, if I am being honest,"

It was fascinating how his facial expressions seem to mirror that of a human. A slight downward tug to his lips accompanied by furled eyebrows. “I still have to wait here but if you need to rest, don't let me keep you."

It was touching to see him actively worry about your needs. You wave him off, "it's fine, I won't be able to sleep anyway. Not until I meet your captain, that is. Do you have any water by chance?"

This time you heard something akin to an engine stall. “No I don't… I apologize, given the current circumstances, we would have to wait for Ratchet," his voices laced in static,"Is it life threatening?"

You have a small smile, "It is fine for now. Ask me again in another day or two."

Another engine stall and somehow he looked even more worried.

"Easy, there," you say, "Just a joke. Kind of. I still need water, but death by dehydration occurs roughly around 36 to 48 hours. Plenty of time."

The mech let out a stream of warm air. Was that a cybertronian equivalent to a sigh? "It pains me to admit that I know very little about organic races, let alone humans. Now that I am in your presence, it frightens me how fragile you are compared to Cybertronians. Something as simple as a lack of a critical resource could be considered fatal."

He cared. It was so touching, you could not help but walk over to where he rested his palm. You smiled, placing your hand on his. It surprised you that the metal was warm. "You are very kind Rung. Given the circumstances, I am glad you were one of the first mechs I got to speak to."

You could see his luminescent eyes flicker behind his glasses. More hot air was blowing in your direction. Perhaps it was an involuntary reflex to being uneasy? You backed away just in case. "Sorry, I didn't know how else to convey how grateful I am, I won't do that again if it makes you uncomfortable"

He frowned, tilting his head slightly. "What made you think that?"

"You emit more warm air when you frown, or during emotional parts of the conversation. I also saw your antenna twitch when I touched your hand, I didn't mean to be rude."

His mouth hung for a second before he shook his head, "You just startled me, that is all. Are all humans physical when conveying their emotions?"

You laugh, "yes, some more than others. It's actually detrimental to our psyche if we don't touch another living being for long periods of time."

More hot air drifted from the mech. "I cannot fathom living in such a precarious state, yet I am awestruck by your resilience to it all."

You slowed to a chuckle, "You underestimate my ability to compartmentalize my emotions. A part of me is absolutely terrified right now. "

His antenna twitched again. "Yet you still laugh."

“Heh, another biological response to stress,” you say, shrugging, “I talk and I joke because it is the only thing I can do. Without your continued kindness, I am incapable of  surviving on my own, at least in this environment. Don’t get me wrong, I am eternally grateful, but it leaves me in a rather uncompromising situation."

He frowned, the realization seemed to hit him. “Is that why you’re afraid?

“Oh sure, that’s a big part of it. I hate being trapped in general, so being here in an unknown location, surrounded by strangers, without any sense of agency definitely rubs me in all the wrong ways. It also doesn’t help that the lizard portion of my brain insists that you’re going to chop me up and cook me for dinner.”

Suddenly, you felt a rumble through your body. “That’s absurd! I would never do something as cruel and abhorrent as that to you. A cybertronian cannot even process organic matter, regardless of substance.” His frown deepened at the hearty laugh of the individual.

You tried to choke back your giggles, “Sorry, human joke. I know you’re not going to eat me. I mean, I’d be rather impressed if you could, but I figured as much.”

 He let out a long sigh rubbing his.. Nose arch? Do Cybertronians have a sense of smell? In one swift movement, he removed his glasses to place them to the side.

“I can see now, that your sense of humor is a defense mechanism. While I may not understand the biological mechanics of it, or the context of your jokes, I can see the pain behind it. Even though there are parallels between our respective species, it only confirms my belief that I would be unfit to serve a psychiatrist for one such as yourself. However,” He held his palm in front of you, his cyan optics met yours, "I, Rung of the Pious Pools, swear to you that I will do everything I can to help you through this.”

Fascinating, he managed to identify your coping strategy and acknowledge the similarities between your two species. He was also aware of their differences to admit that he could not serve in a professional capacity. So what was he asking of you? To believe in him? To trust him? You wanted to. Never in this entire conversation had you felt threatened. Even the medic and science officer was adamant about your safety.

You looked up to the copper toned Cybertronian, you realize that his optics was the same brilliant cyan as his core. Eyes were said to be a gateway to the soul. Was it also true for these giants? Why else would he remove his glasses if not a gesture of trust? You looked back towards his hand. You could hear faint ticks emanating from it and see plating shift even in its relative stillness, all reminders that it is a part of something very much alive. As you walked near him, a terrible thought came to mind. It was reckless, foolish, and insane. But it would also prove a point.In an instance, you swung your body into his palm, settling at its center. You grinned in satisfaction at the bot above. Taking careful note of the increased air circulation around you and how his antenna twitched violently while the rest of his body tensed. “Alright Rung of the Pious Pools, I am trusting you with this. My life is in your hands.”

Next ->

[growing-home]

i spent nearly two decades of my life severely depressed and suicidal and for so long i believed wholeheartedly that it was my fault. i believed that the reason no medication or therapy had ever worked for my depression was because i wasn’t ACTUALLY depressed— i believed i was just lazy, bad, manipulative, and just using depression as an excuse for the inherent badness i thought was inside me. this was a story that was told to me and reinforced over and over again by treatment providers.

this past summer, i tried my 30th+ psychiatric medication, not expecting to see any results. the day i realized it was working was the day i realized that i was…planning my future???suddenly i no longer wanted to stay in bed all day and never go outside. i no longer wanted to isolate. i wanted to see people, talk to people! i started spending more time with friends and facetiming people and talking on the phone, things that i rarely did in the past. when i had been depressed, the only movies/tv shows i could focus on were super intense, fast paced, and scary or disturbing because that was the only way to hold my attention. after starting this medication, i started enjoying SITCOMS! i no longer felt like i was fighting to just get through every single day of my life.

there was such a clear and measurable difference in the quality of my life that i started to question why i believed that my depression had been my fault. it became very clear to me that a large part of my depression had been biological. i had not been lazy or bad. i had been sick. my brain was sick the same way other organs get sick sometimes. this brought up a lot of grief for me— grief for all the lost time that i’d spent trying to find something that worked, grief for how much pain i had been in for so long. but it also brought up sheer FURY at all of the therapists and psychiatrists who had treated me like i just wasn’t trying hard enough to get better.

i had been labeled treatment resistant, of course, and the only recommendations i had received after being given that label were TMS, Ketamine, and ECT. once i had tried all three with no success, i believed i was just a lost cause. i thought i was out of options. i was made to feel that way by so many treatment professionals. i was told that nothing was working because of my complex trauma and that once i healed from that then i would stop being depressed (as if it’s that easy to just fully recover from CPTSD!) i was told that i just needed to do more DBT, i just needed to live and breathe DBT skills and then i would get better, even though i’d done intensive DBT programs for years with no improvement to my depression. (yes, it helped me to change my behavior and quit self harm, but behavior change isn’t necessarily indicative of a change in mood. i could do all the right things all the time and still be in excruciating mental pain.)

i was told that i just wasn’t trying hard enough, or that i must have a personality disorder, or that i just needed to exercise more, or eat less, or eat MORE, or eat differently, or get a job, or get a dog, or do yoga, or acupuncture, or biofeedback, or find purpose in my life— psychiatrist after psychiatrist looked for something to blame everywhere but in the mirror. instead of admitting that they weren’t equipped to help me, they made me believe that it was MY fault i wasn’t getting better. and i believed them. for SO long, i believed them.

and now after finding a medication that works for me, i see everything so much more clearly. psychiatrists need to put their enormous egos aside and actually treat patients with treatment resistant depression instead of blaming us for suffering from a (partially at least) biological illness. if you’re a doctor and you know that a patients illness is outside of the scope of your abilities, either do more research and get more training to help them or refer them to someone who specializes in what they need. don’t keep them around letting them pay you thousands of dollars while you make them try the same thing over and over and over again and expect to get a different result. people act like things like ECT are a last resort option, and in doing so make people believe that if it doesn’t help then you’re out of options. but nobody ever tried me on tricyclics. nobody tried me on MAOIs. nobody told me about how some dopamine agonists like Pramipexole have had some success in treating treatment resident depression. instead i was made to feel like asking to not be suicidal daily was asking for too much. if you’re a clinician who thinks that’s asking for too much, you’re in the wrong profession. we can do better than that. we NEED to do better than that.

in my experience, out of every profession, doctors have some of the biggest egos i’ve ever seen. i say this as someone who is both mentally ill as well as physically disabled. many doctors HATE it when you do your own research. they HATE it when you have suggestions, or when you ask for what you need. it’s almost as if they feel threatened by it, like they need to believe that they are superior to their patients because of how much time and money and energy they put into going to med school— they need to believe they hate their hard work was worth it so they have a tendency to dismiss any ideas their patients might have. i don’t care how many years you’ve been in school. you do not get to tell your sick patients that it’s their fault they’re sick to justify your laziness and refusal to learn new things. put away your god complex and actually listen to your patients.

and the strangest part to me is that the longer you have been suicidal for, the less seriously they take it. the same way that the more chronically ill you are the less people believe you. it’s bizarre— when people see pain that is beyond what they can fathom, instead of feeling empathy, they tell you you must be faking it or that you must be looking for attention. i’ll never understand this. it’s as if they think that suicidality doesn’t need to be taken seriously unless the patient has successfully completed suicide. and i think it’s very clear how that logic is flawed. i was treated like i just wanted attention whenever i asked for help with my chronic suicidality and it made me terrified to ask for help with ANYTHING. i still constantly am afraid that if i’m too honest with clinicians then they’ll think i just want attention. attention isn’t a bad thing to want, all human beings need some degree of attention, but regardless that doesn’t negate the severity of a person’s suicidality. i wasn’t attention seeking by asking for help. i was STRONG. i was really fucking strong, far stronger than i should’ve had to be. i fought for my life every single day and i am lucky to still be here but it’s not luck that got me here. it’s ME that got me here.

i don’t want to make it sound like i speak for everyone who has suffered from TRD, because i don’t think that would be fair. i can’t tell you if there’s a med out there that’ll work for you. all i can tell you is that most psychiatrists prematurely tell chronically suicidal patients that there is nothing they can do to help them or that they’re out of medication options. if you’re a psychiatrist or doctor and you feel yourself getting defensive while reading this, i invite you to get curious about where that activation is coming from.

and if you are someone with treatment resident depression or chronic suicidality reading this, i am telling you now: your illness is not your fault. i don’t know if it’s going to get better or not, but i can promise you— it is not your fault and it never has been.

[keen-li]

Only one | 01

Warnings: toxic relationship trauma, trauma in general, mentally broken oc, manipulation, yendere jungkook. [Still more warnings to be added]

Psychiatrist jungkook x patient reader

.......

"I just wanna be good enough for someone you get" you play with the hem of your hospital gown.

"But no one is ever good to me" you take a deep breath feeling the tears coming but you hold them in.

"It's okay to cry, don't hide your emotions from me" your psychiatrist, Mr jeon, says having noticed you holding back. Once he says that your tears fall drop by drop until they're leaving your eyes like a waterfall. Mr jeon doesn't say anything, he just notes down what he observes.

"I know I'm good girl, don't you think I'm a good girl?" Good girl, a word You’ve been trying to stop referring to yourself as. Ever since your last relationship, which is one of the many reasons you're in this damn hospital, where your boyfriend would use it so often and even make you refer yourself as that, you haven't been able to let it go yet. Mr jeon hasn't addressed it yet but you're so sure he's noticed it by now.

He's silent to your question, "don't you think I'm a good girl" you ask so genuinely it's sad. Mr jeon simply smiles at you.

"I think you're a good person" he says no emotion behind it.

You scoff.

"I'm sorry, is there something else you would've liked me to say" he sits attentive and alert. His tone is gentle though the question feels sharp.

"I-i just..." You fail to speak and he gives you a reassuring look to help you speak.

"H-he always told me no-one will ever find me good enough apart from him" jungkook knows who the 'he' is, he's been a major topic of your sessions.

"Mmm" Mr jeon acknowledges as he takes note of something. Sometimes you spend your nights wondering what he's writing about you.

Could it be about how much he doesn't want to work with you anymore. Or maybe you're just insecure.

.....

"No please take me back" you flop around in the nurses hands.

"I'm okay, I promise." You don't sound okay and the nurses know better. It's one of those days where you have a mental breakdown. You don't see the damage you cause but others do and that's why they have to take you back to your room to cool down.

Mr jeon watches from afar as they take you away. You were having a session with him that's when you had your breakdown. You weren't even done with the session only in an hour out of the two hours you always have set. Mr jeon has seen your breakdowns before and even took notes of what you said while in that state.

Guess he has to see you next week.

......

You're sick of this place, its so plain and boring. You've been here for eight weeks and even though you feel you're getting better, the hospital thinks otherwise. Mr jeon hasn't given you anything on your progress, only praising you for your strength and openness. You want to know when you can leave this place. You wanna go back to your home, where your can rest peacefully with your dog and pet fish. Oh, you remembered your mother took your pets since you can't be there to take care of them. You just wanna be around them. And they've been on your mind lately.

"So how have you been?" He starts as he settles in his seat with just notepad, glasses glued to his face.

"I'm sorry I wasn't with you for the last two weeks" it's true, he's the only psychiatrist you trust and he hasn't been with you for two weeks. That caused you to have to speak to another psychiatrist, she honestly didn't understand you like Mr jeon does and that made it harder for you to express your true feelings.

"I had an emergency I had to attend to" Mr jeon doesn't talk about his personal life with you only focusing on yours. He doesn't need to tell you anything about his personal life and you don't need to know.

"I've been thinking about home more often lately." You say avoiding Mr jeon's eyes. He noticed you always did this when you expressed something to him that you weren't sure he'd be interested in. But he's always interested in what you say to him.

"Mm, what is it that you're missing at home?" he says in his ever present professional tone.

When he asks this question you remember the cute dog that's probably missing you right now, and the little fish you kept fed and clean in the tank, you hope whoever is looking after them is doing a good job cause if they aren't they're gonna feel it. Those animals have been the only source of comfort and joy in your life, until you were separated.

And now that he's asked that question and you realise the answer, the tears begin to form.

Mr jeon notices and smiles "its okay" his voice is so comforting that it aids your crying. Next second tears are flowing down your face as you try to control your sobs and breathing.

"I-i-i m-miss.." he can see you struggle with your words and reminds you of the breathing tactic he taught you.

You cool down a bit from the tactic, enough to say your words atleast.

"I miss my pets. My dog, my fish" you say and he can see how much they mean to you.

"Why do you miss them?" Seems like a bad question to ask someone in tears but because it's Mr jeon you don't mind.

"They were my only comfort, my only joy and my only hope" you sob as memories of them, especially your dog, make it to your brain.

He watches intently as you sob, he takes down some notes but you're too emotional to notice.

"I just wanna go home " you confess. "I'm tired of it here, I miss home" you sob intensely forgetting about the tactic.

"I'd honestly do anything to leave this place" Mr jeon stops at that.

"I just wanna leave this place" you confess all of this unconsciously. You feel so free around Mr jeon that you don't even think before you say anything.

"I just wanna go home" you whisper finally calming down.

You can see as you wipe your tears, Mr jeon places the note book down and even takes his glasses off. He only takes them off when he's leaving after his shift. He stands going to the door checking outside and locking it when he finally gets back.

You're confused about this new found behaviour, during your sessions he only focuses on you and never does anything else, especially not take off his glasses.

You're confused even more when he squats in front of you as if speaking to a child. He places his palms on the couch on each side of you as you stare at him with raised brows. It's weird seeing Mr jeon like this, he looks different from the the psychiatrist you speak to most of the time.

"Would you do anything to go back home?" he looks at you with so much patience and determination, like you would a child you're trying to convince to go to school.

"You'd do anything huh?" Even the way he's speaking is different, it's more casual.

You remember your previous confession, and even though it was an unconscious confession you still meant it. You can see him waiting for your answer and you unsurely nod.

He shakes his head declining your response.

"I need you to use your words. I need you to be sure" his tone is so soft and gentle and it makes you even more comfortable around him.

After thinking about it, which he lets you do, you have your answer.

"Yes I would." You nod along your words. He smiles at that, feeling to be going in the right direction with you.

"You know I can get you out of this place in a second, right?" He questions you.

You nod. "Words y/n"

"Yes, I know you can"

He nods. "Do you trust me? " It's actually something you've thought about. Do you trust Mr jeon? yes, yes you do. He's the only one you trust in this whole hospital or even the world.

"I do trust you, Mr jeon" he smiles at the honorific. You're unsure to what's he's getting to but you listen close.

"So if you trust me, then let me get you out of this place" why is he asking you this. Does he do this for others as well.

"I can take you somewhere better. I can take you home" and when he says home your eyes light up.

"Home?" You ask and he nods. "I do wanna go home"

"Okay then" he smiles at you. His eyes then turn dark But you can barely notice mind clogged with the hope of being able to go home.

"But you have to do one thing for me"

Next

[rory-multifandom-mess]

i see you've gotten yourself into the rabbit hole that is the transformers franchise! So here's a simple question:

Out of all the iterations you've seen, who's your favorite Autobot and favorite Decepticon?

Oh my GOODDD. Give me a second to even remember all the iterations I’ve seen one second

Ok so MTMTE/LL, Prime, Rescue Bots and Rescue Bots Acadamy, Animated, and Armada. I’ll start with Animated because that was the first one I was introduced to.

~~~~

Tranformers: Animated - Favorite Autobot has definitely got to be Bumblebee, but Jazz is a close second. I see a lot of myself in that lil yellow guy— constantly being picked on for his height, self esteem issues that come off as over confidence, constantly wanting to prove himself— yeah that’s just me but in robot font. And much worse. Jazz being a close second is entirely because he was just really cool.

Now my favorite Decepticon from Animated is 1,000% Blitzwing. I fucking LOVED his german accent and his personality switch gimmick. I hope it’s not disrespectful to call it a gimmick, but like. If you watch the show it really is just a gimmick. You got the cold and calm one, usually the main face, the brute with all the anger in the world, and then the Batshit Crazy guy. He’s so incredibly silly. I love him.

(The rest under the cut, this is gonna get long)

~~~~

Tranformers: Prime - Favorite Autobot is EAAASILYY Smokescreen. How could you NOT like him??? His character arc is one of, if not THE, best in the whole series. He first joins the Autobots acting like a new cadet, arrogant and sloppy, but raring to fight and throw himself headfirst into battle. He was kind of rude to the others, but through experience and making mistakes, he begins to mature and apologizes when needed. He beats himself up when he makes mistakes, no matter how small (me too).

But then, at the end of season 2 and beginning of season 3 I think, he goes through something traumatic. Optimus, nearly dead, presents the matrix to him, saying that it was time for a new prime, and that prime was to be him. And like. You expect Smokescreen to take it. BUT HE DOESN’T. Instead he goes and brings the Forge of Solus Prime to Optimus and REVIVES HIM.

Smokescreen refuses the Matrix of Leadership, not because he was in denial about Optimus dying, but because he recognized that he wasn’t ready. He showed humility, something he hadn’t shown since he arrived, and he showed compassion. Like. Just. LOOK AT THIS CLIP FROM THE MOVIE.

Anyway. Smokescreen makes me ill. Moving on

My favorite Decepticon from Prime is Shockwave. For no good reason other than god he’s hot. His voice…. his walk….. he could eviscerate me and I’d thank him.

~~~~

MTMTE/LL - Now I would call this IDW but I don’t want to be misleading since I haven’t exactly read every single IDW comic in existence, so I’ll just stick to the story I read a lot. ANYWAY. Favorite autobot is Rung, obviously. Who do you think I am. Lovable psychiatrist who gets forgotten about a lot despite being these bots’ psychiatrist for like 6 centuries (RED ALERT). Anyway. And he has a ✨✨Dark Secret✨✨. Which is. The fact he is LITERALLY GOD. But it’s ok because he didn’t know it either. aND THEN HE DIES AND HIS FINAL WISH IS DON’T FORGET ME AND GUESS WHAT EVERYONE D- [gets shot]

Rung makes me ill.

First Aid is a close second. He also makes me ill. Lengthwise…… (<- obscure reference)

Favorite Decepticon… Is really hard to decide because there are so many good options in MTMTE/LL. I’ll pick two for this one, since they’re part of opposing groups within the Decepticons anyway. Those two are Fulcrum and Kaon.

Fulcrum is part of the Scavengers, along with Krok, Crankcase, Spinister, Misfire, and Flywheels. Though he like instantly dies. Anyway. I think I just really like his design and personality, since there really isn’t any arc with this guy. He’s just silly.

And then there’s Kaon, who is part of the D.J.D. (Decepticon Justice Division. To those who don’t know them, they’re a group of Decepticons lead by Tarn who go around the galaxy killing Decepticons who went rogue, awol, or just strayed up betrayed the Decepticon clause. And they don’t just. Bam dead, they torture their victims, killing them slowly and brutally.) He turns into an electric chair and I mostly like him because of his design and he seems like the silliest of the D.J.D. having that attachment with The Pet n’ all. No character arc to ramble about. I just like him.

~~~~

Transformers: Rescue Bots Academy - Favorite Autobot is Easy Peasy! That would be Hot Shot for mostly the same reasons as Animated Bee and Prime Smokescreen. I see A lot of myself in him, and his character arc is absolutely amazing. Basically the same as Smokescreen’s, except he doesn’t witness someone almost die LMAO

There aren't any Decepticons in RBA, but I will say my favorite of the teacher was Blades, which leads me to my next iteration!

~~~~

Transformers: Rescue Bots - Keep in mind, I'm still in the middle of watching this one, so I'm only up to season 2 episode... 4 or 5, I can't remember. Anyway. Favorite Autobot is Blades, as previously mentioned. He's just so silly, and I adore the fact he's such a huge Bumblebee fan. I love the idea of him, a helicopter, being scared of heights. Me too buddy, me too.

Again RB does not have any decepticons as far as I'm aware, and I hardly remember any of the villains.

~~~~

And lastly, Transformers: Armada - Much like RBA, my favorite Autobot in this whole 4 season long series was Hot Shot. I don't remember his exact character arc since it's been a year since I started watching the show, but I do remember I liked it a lot. He was silly and goofy and, much like Smokescreen, matured over time. Oh, and also GODDAMNIT HIS VOICE. It's so soft and adorable and everything but when he yells oh BOY does he YELL. That shit gets GRAVELLY and HOARSE. Oh and also he's voiced by Brent fuckign Miller, the same dude who voices Zane in Ninjago, so... You can say I'm biased because Zane is my favorite ninja.

And as for favorite Decepticon, though he doesn't end up actually being a Decepticon but he is still an antagonist so I'm counting it anyway, is Sideways. And it's entirely because of his voice because I don't remember what he was like before season 4. IT'S SO FUCKING HOT PLEASE HEAR ME OUT ON THIS.

Also, he's voiced by the same guy who voices Sensei Wu also in Ninjago. Take that as you will.

~~~~

I LOVE RAMBLING!!! WOOOO. Anyway uuh. Here's a long answer to a simple question. Enjoy.

[leverage-ot3]

Is leverage redemption worth watching? I love Leverage but idk if i could enjoy the show if hardison isn't in most episodes or if the reboot sells out in some way.

okay so I showed up to this ask like four months late with a smoothie so I'm sorry about that BUT

does redemption have it's flaws? yes, I will be the first to admit that!

however, as someone who deeply loves leverage, the characters and what the show stands for, I still can find myself enjoying redemption.

there's one post that's in my drafts talking about the differences between the og and redemption and the so-called universe physics (how logic works in both shows and how they are the same/differ) and there are definitely some differences. there are some really good posts comparing them in the tags and I'll try to tag them as watch redemption when they come up!

I'm going to be really honest right now and say that (no shade) I feel like redemption s1-2 were lacking because john rogers was not a main writer for them. devlin and the others are great and know their stuff, but redemption was missing some of the grit (balanced with everything else) that the original run had. redemption is more fun and lighthearted (where the og was still fun and had comedic elements but also had a more jaded perspective). I think part of that change is the absence of nate as a character and what he brought to the table, but the other part of that is very much the way the show is written overall

I have seen some criticism about parker being a caricature of what she was in the original run (ex: how she goes to a child's psychologist and uses puppets sometimes, is overtly weird, more loud about stuff, etc) BUT I will say that I think there's some nuance to that

I don't think the child psychiatrist thing is infantalizing- some methods of therapy work for people more than others and that is me speaking as someone who works in mental health. if play therapy and stuff like that work for you as an adult, good for you! whatever works for you is more than enough the overtly and loudly being weird thing I really do think can be taken either way. in the original run part of parker's character progression was that she was learning how to interact with people normally (or at least more efficiently), but her being more out about that now can be taken as she is more comfortable in her skin and acting like she wants because she is surrounded by people who love and support her. maybe she doesn't want to (or have to!) mask all the time and I don't see a problem with that

HOWEVER! there are certain criticisms that are related to her characterizations and overlaps with her autism and I don't want to speak over the autism community about those aspects and how they have manifested in her character in redemption so I'm leaving it there

as for the hardison being absent aspect- I was REALLY afraid of that at first BUT the loss isn't so deeply impactful when you have characters like breanna and harry added to the mix. I went in ambivalent about harry and excited to have breanna (a canon queer) joining the team, but I have come to love and cherish both of them dearly and wouldn't want to replace them or lose them as characters in this found family ensemble. I think the writers handled aldis' packed schedule really well and even though he isn't there in most episodes, his presence is still very much around. parker and eliot talk about him and reference him when he's gone. so do sophie and breanna, even harry. he isn't on the screen but the relationships he's formed with the other characters and the impact he's had on them is very evident.

there are some takes from users about whether or not the ot3 was queerbait, un-canoned, etc in redemption. I have a lot of thoughts about it and a lot of them are incomprehensible but what I can say is that I have renewed hopes for the progression and canon development of their relationship now that john rogers is back as the main writer for s3

[yomogi-mogi-mochi]

Orchid Child, Dandelion Child

Pairings: Riddle & Sibling MC (NOT a romantic pairing)

Summary: This is going to take after Riddle’s overblot, and short and sweet. The term orchid child/dandelion child refer to children who may have very specific/different needs for their development, and those who need less accommodations or specific requirements for their development, respectively. They may grow up in the same environment but everyone’s needs are different, one child may have different coping mechanisms than the other. MC is heavily implied to have dyslexia, ADHD/Autism, and OCD (the latter two of which are often comorbid)

Notes: My brain is so dead. Enjoy this very short piece, sorry it's been a while.

TW: Graphic descriptions of embalming (weird tag I know but listen listen listen hear me out‒), also mentions of blood and human biology; past domestic/child abuse, and mental illness

GN Terms for MC

AO3 Link Here

Masterlist

--------------------------

Adjacent to your mother’s footsteps, you had always had a curiosity for the medical. Though it was never living bodies that enamored you. In death, biology levels all. Cremation, natural burial, or alkaline hydrolysis‒ no amount of money, or intelligence, magic, or talent would help anyone escape the inevitable. Whether able bodied, rich, poor, moral or not‒ all people returned to dust, bones, and decay. 

  Rituals like the embalming process always brought you a strange comfort‒ the draining and ejecting, bathing, refrigeration‒ the body incised, emptied of its filth, and sewn back up. Imagining the dissection of a body into each fleshy component relaxed your own‒ as if your cold body lay on a sleek, steel mortuary table, your jaws and eyes sewn shut and the biology of your body ready to be drained. Even if your insides were scraped out for people to see‒ you would not feel shame. No blood to rush to your cheeks, or your aching heart. Your mother had always dismissed this career choice, urging you to find something ‘more within your reach ’.

  Your body would be clean from its excrement, scrubbed of all the insides that capsized you from this world, and its people.

  Compartmentalization‒ your psychiatrist mentioned. It took you a few tries to correctly register the word in your head when you had gotten the report, you’re not sure if it’s correct. If you did not imagine this scene at least three times a day, you felt like your blood was going to burst forth from your membrane, hot and spastic, like a monstrous clot of nerves. Again. Again. Again. You cleansed this shaking contamination within you with whatever you could do. That’s wrong. You dig your nails into your palm, resisting the urge to lay the papers that were shuffled around by the headmaster on the floor, sorting and checking one by one if they were there. Again, again, again. You imagine an arterial tube weaving through the wounds of your hands, draining the warmth that itched against your skin, the function of your wandering eyes, and the defect of your mind.

  “I’ve signed off on everything. Is there anything else I can do for you, Mx.Rosehearts?” 

  “No, nothing else. Thank you, Headmaster Crowley.” 

  You gather the stack of papers in your file, you check through‒ quickly‒ your medical records, doctor’s notes, psych evaluations, annotated versions of section 504, interpreter documents‒ a variety of other loose papers that wedge inside the old file as best you can, just in case . Even for such a minute accommodation, lacking a legally recognized diagnosis prepared you for the worst. Rejection‒ a tumble and drag into a system not designed for you in mind. These accommodations were an afterthought after that system was built, something to make you “whole”. There were many experiences in your interactions with school boards that warranted preparations like this, which you scrubbed into your mind and routine. No one will help you‒ not the board, the teachers, your peers, your family‒ you must be prepared to advocate for yourself. There was never room for failure, and you made sure that these accommodations made up for your innate nature to do so in this system.

  You bow a perfect ninety degrees before you head out of the office, quietly shutting the door behind you with a soundless exhale. Adjusting the stack of papers in your file, you scurry off to the library to find a quiet corner to reorient yourself. You weave through the various open tables, the large seating area, and the comfortable nooks with beanbags‒ and instead, opt for your usual spot in the corner of the library, where you softly place the file on the desk. 

  That’s wrong. Again. Again. Again. Again. 

  You open and close the file four times, feeling a wriggling, hot feeling in your blood that completely halts your mind from moving forward with your process, despite the short amount of time you have until your next class. 

  No. Again. 

  With the sixth time, it feels right. You sigh in relief, thanking whatever higher being out there that the process didn’t take as long as before. Medical records, doctor’s notes, psych evaluations, annotated sections, interpreter documents. All in order, all there, only for you to see. A weight lifts off your chest as you shift your eyes around the library, and close the file. 

  You browse through the section of the library, running your finger along the spines of the books to spot a new read.  A mauve leather-bound book catches your eye, the gold letter glinting in the dusty light of the library. Smoke Gets in Your Eyes: Other Lessons From the Crematorium you skim the summary on the back. Satisfied, you work your way to the counter, where the librarian checks out the book with a smile. She pulls out the book slip at the front of the book and a pen. 

  Riddle Rosehearts. 

  You almost make a sound at the name, but instead, you quietly chew in your inner lip to provide some sort of grounding for the whirling feeling in your stomach. You feel sick when you write your name in the same cursive as the name above yours‒ just like your mother taught you. 

  “ Again .” Your mother would say. 

  You write. She slaps your hand with a ruler, reaching over your shoulder to erase the word. 

  “ Again .” 

  You write. She slaps, she erases. 

  “ Again .” 

  You write. She slaps, the paper begins to fray from the friction of your eraser, and the tears that run hot down your cheeks. Inertia. Inertia. Inertia. You repeat the word in your mind, trying to mold it with your hands. But the black text above the frayed paper seems to weave together, jumble, congeal. You push the hot coal in the back of your throat, forcing your bruised hand to write. 

  That’s not right. Again. Again. Again. 

  Why can't you just do it the way you're told?  

  Medical records, medical recommendations, psych evaluations, doctor’s notes, annotated sections, interpreter documents. So much extra weight that folder holds that you have to carry everywhere with you‒ just in case . 

  Again. Again. Again. 

  You open and close the locker shut, twisting the locker combination each time. At this rate, you know you’ll be late to class, way past your accommodations agreements. You hope Professor Trein won’t make such a big scene. 

  When you arrive at class, you are miraculously left alone by the professor and your peers. Breathing a sigh of relief, you take your usual seat, finding a practice exam on your desk. 

  You didn’t properly shut your locker. People are probably stealing your stuff now, breaking your things, tearing your extra records into pieces. You didn’t properly shut your locker. The documents are ruined, and you have to start all over again. You didn’t shut your locker. You grip your pencil, bouncing your leg, digging your nails into your palm. Yes, yes you did lock it. Three times in fact. Still, a voice persists‒ you didn’t do it right. Again. Again. Again. You scratch, and pick at the broken skin of your palm. 

  Eventually, as you continue staring at the packet‒ you feel a stab at the back of your shoulder. A student jabs forth the packet of papers that were collected from the back with an exasperated face. The papers are basically thrown your way as you add your half blank packet to the pile, swallowing down your anxiety. Trein continues class as usual, going over the review sheet. 

  “Mx. (Name). A word?” 

  You freeze in your seat, in the middle of gathering your things for next class. Students’ gaze furl towards you, and you pick at the wound of your palm to calm the rising panic in your abdomen. Begrudgingly, you pack up your things, and head towards Trein’s desk. 

  “I will excuse your tardiness for today since you have accommodations, but that does not explain the almost completely unfinished practice exam that we took in class. Do you care to explain?”

  You refuse eye contact. “I…” There was no way to explain it with any sane sensibility, or without alerting your mother. “I apologize sir. I was distracted. It won’t happen again.”

  He sighs, you know he doesn’t believe you. It’s your condition‒ you look to the stack of accommodation letters and agreements tucked under his elbow, and you feel that weight in your chest. 

  “Please, sir. I’ll do anything to make up for it I‒”

  A hand is raised at your response, with a pinch at the bridge of his nose. “It’s…It’s quite alright. I know you are trying your best, considering your… situation . Please finish the packet before you come to class next time.” Trein hands the packet back to you, which you accept with a silent nod. 

  The situation, the condition, the baggage. There have been many terms used to describe your disablement from the world‒ each more alienating than the other. You draw blood on your palm once more, looking inside the crescent-shaped holes in your flesh. You feel nothing but the trembling deep in your chest. 

  You sit in the shared space of the Heartslabyul dorm, hoping that body doubling will allow you to finish your workload. Though it takes you some time, you manage to finish your work before the sun sets, and you scurry back into your dorm room to begin your book. As you try to relax, the thought of a missing assignment, a failed exam, a systematic blunter pricks at your skin, spreading and choking your flesh. You read the same sentence over and over, but understand nothing. 

  Why can't you just do it the way you're told?  

  You hear a knock at your door, seizing you from your thoughts. You sigh, shove whatever scrap paper that had been lying around into your book, and reluctantly open the door. 

  Riddle Rosehearts. 

  You remember him from his perfect handwriting, his words that mirrored your own mothers. You could never get the “R” quite right, something both your brother and mother scolded you for. 

  “Rule of threes, you understand what will happen when you fail the third time.” Again. Again. Again. 

  Riddle had always resembled his mother much more than you had‒ in voice, in appearance, in tone. “ Rule of threes, (Name). You know what mother will do to you when you fail the third time .” He extended your mother's violence with all his likeness to her, in his face that would look down upon you with aberration, and his tightened fists that dragged your head to look closer at the paper, and realize your error. Every way he came into contact with you had been wrapped, tightly as flesh, your mother's violence. 

  You imagine that cold table again, but Riddle’s silvery eyes tethered you to the moment. It was as if you could feel every shifting tendon of your body, every pull of sinew and blood that pumped blood rapidly to your heart, and the back of your ears. But the guilty look on his face reminded you of one of the rare times he had broken mother’s rules. You realized he was as much of a child too, that day. Stretched thin and tall to fill your mothers expectations. 

  His stare is unbearable, you push through the tension in your throat. 

  “Can I help you, Dorm Leader Rosehearts?” 

  You think you see his worried expression, but your eyes dart from his gaze when he looks towards you again. 

  “You left this on the table in the common room.” He extends you the file that you thought had been safely tucked with your belongings. Your vision begins to distort‒ graying and distancing as you attempt to keep yourself calm from experiencing your literal nightmare . “I thought you wouldn’t want anyone to see it.” 

  “I…do not, no. I would not wish to shame you, or this dorm.” 

  Riddle takes a sharp inhale. You unconsciously tightening your body‒ imagining the postmortem stages. Pallor mortis, your blood pools to the souls of your feet. Algor Mortis, your skin feels on fire, and cools dead, limp. Rigor mortis, you stiffen and contract. The nutrients of your body drained, breaking down to gray sludge. You prepare for the breakdown of your body, your psyche, and your soul‒ the wounds on your body are only evidence to your movement through temporality in this system. Livor Mortis, your blood bruises your skin. 

  “I did not…mean that. I only meant‒ I felt…” He sighs, looking towards the floor. “I’m bad at this. But I didn’t mean that this is something shameful. I only wished to protect your privacy.” 

  You avert your eyes, unsure of what to do with him wanting to protect you in some sort of way. Perhaps his overblot changed him, but all you see if your mother’s shadow, when you look towards him. 

  “It’s not important, I apologize for the trouble, Dorm Leader Rosehearts.” 

  Maintaining his grasp on the file, he attempts to keep this connection going. “There’s so much I need to apologize for.” 

  You only manage a strangled sound, afraid to pull the file towards you. Afraid of movement, of air, of space, of time, of him. Everything seems to strangle you, you know that it was precisely designed that way.

  He cups a hand over your own. You try to repress the tremble in your body from the searing feeling of his palm, too afraid to look, speak, or move. You remain still, like a corpse, hastily trying to turn off your nerves and the bursting blood in your body, slaughtering it, and draining all feeling from your body. It’s been so long‒ your body rushes to catch up. You’re always catching up. Always. 

  “I don’t want to upset you. I just came to apologize, but I understand if you don’t want to see me.”

  Your mouth is sewn with silence, your jaw caught in a tremor in your mouth. Quickly‒ your mind makes the decision to speak‒ mother never liked when you didn’t answer to her questions. 

  The words scrape through your throat. “I…” A gulp to lubricate the convulsing motions of your esophagus. “Nothing is wrong. I apologize, dorm leader Rosehearts. It will never happen again‒ I apologize‒ I will make up for it. Please.” 

  His gaze softens. “I’m not asking because I’m asking you to apologize, or make up for anything. I’ve learned some things…I wanted to make up, but, I want to make sure you’re okay first.” 

  “Are you okay?”

  You spare a glance at his face, almost caught in the worried expression adorned on his features. “I don’t understand what the purpose that question serves. I can’t understand…” Still, you worry what will happen if it seems like you blame him for your lack‒ so you shift the weight on yourself once more. “I am incapable…of understanding. I apologize.” 

  “Hey.” He mellows his voice as much as possible, releasing you from his grasp. “It’s okay.”

  “You asked me a question. I was incapable of giving an answer that satisfies you. That is a violation of the rules, is it not?” You retract your hands to your chest, pressing your nails into the wounds on your palm. 

  Riddle folds his hands, almost nervously fidgeting with them. You almost react visibly with awe at the sight. “Our mother may have been wrong about a lot of things. I only recognized that after I attended here, and made many friends who helped me understand that. I am extremely regretful of the things I’ve done to you, and the things I’ve said. There’s no excuse for the things I’ve done, but I’m sorry. I hope you can forgive me someday‒ I want to reconnect, if you’ll allow me.” 

  You push the file against your chest. “...I don’t think it will be easy. For me, or for you. Especially for me.” 

  “Most things that are worth something aren’t. I realized something while I was overblotting.” His cheeks gradually bloom pink, a habit he’s had since he was a child. You remember the color most when he cried, but he looks sheepish. Igniting the same warmth in your cheeks, you look at his feet. Heels, you never noticed. He must be shorter than you. “I missed you. I really did. And I missed what we could have had. I’m sorry I couldn’t have been a better brother to you.”  

  “I think…I missed you too.” You admit. “I think neither of us can ask for help, we’ve been raised that way. We have drastically different ways of coping with that isolation.” 

  “I think so too. I have a lot of work to do.”  

  “ We do.”

  Rubbing your arm up and down, you soothe yourself‒ thinking of bodies and corpses, your skin buzzing from the thought of decomposition‒ what grows from them. The fruits of death lay thick and sweet on your tongue, as you stumble through a small smile. Riddle reciprocates.

--------------------------

End Notes:

Obviously this is only a small glimpse into what healing from abuse and trauma is like. But it’s a start. The first steps count.

I’m also in no way shape or form attempting to justify Riddle’s behavior. He’s a complete and total asshole for sure, but he was a kid‒ I definitely see him as capable of change.

The terms Orchid/Dandelion child are relatively new, and I find the pop-psychology approach to it very distasteful (as pop psych usually is. do your fucking research people. PEER REVIEWED ARTICLES!) But I wanted to use the terms to kind of critique the notion of this divide between "resilient" and "nonresilient". It's just a matter of needs, which are different for everyone. Making this hierarchical distinction is arbitrary and often times ableist, as it normalizes a singular, hegemonic way of reacting/experience/compartmentalization/coping. Anyways read more disability studies if you want to know more.

Because I’m not officially diagnosed (my disabilities are not officially recognized by law because for me the disadvantages gross outweigh the benefits, like literally having your human rights stripped away) I don’t know the specific details of acquiring accommodations in a school setting apart from my position as a teacher, but please let me know if there are any errors in the information so I can fix them expeditiously

I also wanted to write about the systematic issues disabled people (particularly those with “invisible” disabilities or those who are “undiagnosed”), I feel like I’ve been experiencing a lot of issues and push back from a system which is not built for disabled people in mind (and often is used against the community in an attempt to eradicate the category). Furthermore, I wanted to explore the aspects in which traditional psychiatry/curative methods are not built for neurodivergent individuals specifically. We often get diagnosed (especially those who have been socialized or perceived as female) with other disorders because of the perpetual stigma against ADHD, and autism in particular. Mainly why I didn’t go the psychology/psychiatry route, despite (one of) my undergrad major(s). It would have been immoral for me to be one, if held up to the current regulations set by the American Psychology Association, or the regulations in my home country. Anyways, lots of problems I wanted to address‒ not sure if I was able to explore them more at length, but I’d like to do more of this in the future.

The book Smoke in your Eyes is a reference to Caitlin Doughty’s book. I highly highly highly recommend her youtube channel and any of her books tbh. She writes/talks a lot about death culture and our perceptions of death throughout history, and creating a more death-positive culture.

I wanted to avoid some of the common stereotypes and misconceptions of OCD, which is predominantly characterized by excessive handwashing, needing things very neat and in place. I wanted to explore the more internal obsessions, rather than focus solely on the external compulsions‒ as I feel like the external behaviors that are often portrayed in media don’t explore the inner workings that make the disorder so hard to live with (and treat).