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belokhvostikova · 10 months

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤: 𝐂𝐥𝐮𝐛 𝐏𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 | The day has come when you finally return from your suspension, and Eddie is there to provide the detailed account to the tribulations that occurred, but one thing is to be noted: Eddie Munson stayed by your side through it all.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | Swearing, yelling, crying, therapy, bullying, sexist slut shaming, brief allusions to an eating disorder, slight mentions of unwarranted touching, strained parental relationship, harassment, minimal violence, mentions of domestic abuse, and mentions and childhood neglect and abuse.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 | Watched Harry Potter during writing, so I inserted a reference that totally didn’t exist in the timeline, lol. But I do wonder, do you think Eddie Munson would have liked Harry Potter, and what house is he in?! I hope you all enjoy this chapter!

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 | One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐕. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞

“I’m tellin’ you, Ms. K, it was like straight out of a movie!”

Ms. K, he had gotten comfortable. It was good. Great even. Because that Thursday morning, the entire hour-long session consisted of I don't know’s, maybe’s, and I guess’. And yes, Ms. Kelly is a licensed counselor, but she’s also human, and it was starting to frustrate her a bit. Just a teeny tiny bit. But it was progress, nonetheless, and she had let Eddie Munson know that he had her full attention and that there was no judgment. And for that, he was forever grateful. Now, she’d never compare nor expose the intimate details of other students’ tribulations to anyone, but my god, was Eddie Munson a unique character in comparison to the others. There was a switch in him, and evident one. Because that impromptu talk that Thursday morning, she had seen the hardening exterior of Eddie Munson that he casted on the daily basis. No conversation. Blank face. Vehement resentment to vulnerability. But she had studied this field for six years of her life, and she took notice of the yearn in his eyes that was telling him to just speak. Talk. Let it all out. And fortunately it came. By Friday afternoon, he had detailed the events of his life, the weakness of his mother, the ruffian character of his father, and the mistakes of his life as a result. You. Though, he chose to refrain from using your name. There was still some slight embarrassment from telling a school faculty member about his crush. The last thing he needed was Ms. Kelly grinning across the parking lot to him when you returned. And by Monday afternoon—today, the day you came—he’d spoken to her like she was his best friend.

“Was it now?” There was a lingering smile on her face, as Eddie confided about his day, completely relaxed and comfortable with speaking. No tense shoulders. No rigid posture. No nasty tone. “In what ways, Eddie?”

“Well, you should have seen the way she walked in. I mean, my god! Complete badass- oh, I’m so sorry,” He corrected his word choice, “I mean, like totally cool, like she didn’t care what anyone had to say.”

If you knew how Eddie was describing your return to Hawkins High, you would have wished it to be that glamorous. But as it’s been established before, reality is the biggest pain in the ass, and you were terrifyingly panicking in the front seat of your father’s BMW.

Ms. Kelly chuckled at his revelation. “I’ll take your word for it, Eddie.” She nodded. “But while I’m sure this particular person made their grand entrance, I want to know about you. How did seeing them make you feel after taking that needed time apart? Take me back to this morning.”

“Okay.” Eddie agreed. “Uh, this morning…”

This morning.

The crowded parking lot had been filling with the cars and bikes of students loitering before the shrilling ring of the commencing bell. Yearbooks. Yearbooks were everywhere, in the hands of teenagers eager to have their friends commemorate the ending year with the valued signature of friendship and camaraderie. It fucking disgusted him. Everyone smiling about as if they didn’t cast out the one person who dedicated their high school years to taking the very photos everyone was gushing about: the Homecoming dance, the Winter Formal, spirit week. Everything. Every memory that made the school year so great, captured by your work, yet everyone was seemingly ready to throw you away because of him.

It was why he was camping out in the grand lavishness of his van. Black Sabbath was yelling beyond the walls of his vehicle, prompting to receive the dirty looks he’d been all too accustomed to, as he sat back with a lit cigarette hanging from his dry lips. Grant Goodman and Gareth Emerson had been stationed by the bike racks, where Jeff Best had just arrived on his trusty wheels. His friends. Conversed like normal, probably waiting for the arrival of Eddie, as they did everyday, but Eddie had no plans of coming out of his car. Yet, at least. Looking a little to the left, he took notice of Dustin Henderson spewing nonsense to the once infamous "King" Steve Harrington, who once actually bumped into Eddie’s shoulder in the hallway and threw him a dirty look during their shared years. He always wondered what Dustin Henderson saw in “The Hair,” maybe he’s changed? I mean, he does seem to be the personal chauffeur of Robin Buckley, who he was once in a band with before he abruptly quit after seeing the mandatory outfits. And she was always cool. Weird, but cool. Mike Wheeler had joined their conversation, alongside Lucas Sinclair, which is when he caught wind of Nancy Wheeler rushing into school with her quiet friend, he believed her name was Barb Holland. Looking at them walk away, Eddie wondered what would be the possibility of convincing Nancy Wheeler into letting you rejoin the Yearbook Committee. Surely with the way sales were booming, more help was needed, right? And she had to feel bad for what unfolded for you, right? And with the quickest glimpse away, he followed the shy figure of Chrissy Cunningham, who walked with her books held tightly, and a talkative Jessica Lewis trailing behind, seemingly attempting to question the cheerleader. Because when Eddie looked to the other side, he saw Jason Carver longing for his leaving girlfriend with a look of dejection, and Andy McAvoy on an endeavor to hype him up. Trouble in paradise? Eddie Munson could sit and ponder on the endless possibilities of the lives of his peers, but his meaningless thoughts were adjourned under the sudden stop and stare of every student.

You.

“Hey, look at- look at me, damn it!” Your eyes peeled from your entangled fingers that sat trembling on your shaking legs, and looked over to his stern glare. He pierced his disappointment into you, drilling into the anxiety of already returning to school after everything that had occurred. “You go in there and stir up any more trouble with your school work or that filth I caught you with, you’re dead. You understand me, young lady? Huh?!”

“Yes, dad.” You mustered up a whisper.

“Go. Don’t be fucking late and ruin for your future more.” Your hand clutched the door handle, and for a second you stopped. God knows what would happen when everybody saw you. Monday’s cafeteria scene didn’t exactly leave everyone with the greatest impression of you and you knew exactly how high school students operated in a small town like Hawkins. You were branded with a title, a degrading one that was farther from the truth, but what good does the truth do when claiming that the sweetheart of a cheerleader with a bright future of success gets fucked by the satanic cultist in return for a favor is far more entertaining for the gossiping lives of high school teenager? By now, you were either pregnant with the devil’s baby or coked up with drugs on the side of the street, or both. People had their bets, the more twisted the better. But not a single thought of your pain. Not a single thought that you were hurting at the sheer size of all that went wrong, just because you were simply being nice. Because thinking of the repercussion of their words took the fun out of everything. And to them, people like you don’t deserve the time of day. You were like Eddie Munson now. And Eddie Munson deserved the pain of the world because he was… different. That was Hawkins, Indiana. That was reality. You begrudgingly pulled the handle. “Remember,” your father stopped you, “those kids say anything, just remember you put that on yourself, and you better take it as a lesson. Go.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. His words were his words, not the world’s. You had shed enough tears over the years of childhood, and his reign over you wasn’t going to continue. You could repeat that mantra over and over, and maybe in the long run it would finally cement that his words were not the truth. But for now, you could only pretend it didn’t hurt until it would eventually not. But inside, there was a little girl asking what was so wrong with her that her daddy couldn’t do the one innate job that came with parenthood: to love her. You wouldn’t know it, but a seven-year-old Eddie Munson was wondering the exact same thing.

You got out with a slam to his face that verbalized all the screaming you couldn’t do. Your eyes met his through the window, and it was different. What once used to be cordial civility, where he asked and you did, had now entered its endgame. Something so severe it lacked the chance of recovery. And maybe that was okay. Maybe that was for the best. Because like he did with his emotions, he ran. And the screeches of his tires left the remnants of a relationship that was once so profoundly beautiful when your tiny fist curled around his finger. This would be the end between you and your father. And you were ready to accept that.

You blinked any tears away, as you stood suffocated by the exhaustion of his BMW, leaving you vulnerable in the empty parking spot. Because when you peered it up, your chest heaved at the sudden realization that everyone was staring at you. Glares. Whispers. Snickers. The pointing. The so obvious pointing that your peers were conspiring against you. The ones who once smiled and waved at you. The ones who once greeted you so kindly. All of them, whispering and pointing followed by their teasing laugh just at the mere sight of you.

Everything was bombarding you so fast.

The clamminess of your hands. The constriction of your throat. The pounding of your heart. The deafening ringing in your ears. The stinging of your nails, as your hands balled so tightly against themselves, but you deserved the crescent shape burns to your palms, you deserved the pain, because you put that on yourself, you better take it as a le- no.

For years, you endured and cemented the hateful words of your father as veracity, letting his speech be the reason why so badly ached inside to perfect every endearing mistake about yourself. Thursday, you scrubbed your body with the refreshing scents of your shower routine and ate full dinners. Friday, you purged your room of any remnants of your old life—polaroids, scrapbooks, notes, memorabilia—discarded to let you know it was okay to move on. Saturday, you wake up in the early hours of the morning, long before the sun rose, and followed the path Eddie Munson once rescued from—onto the roof, over the trimming, down the trellis—and you ran, ran down the dark streets of your neighborhood until you excreted all your pain of your body through the glorious sweats of a morning run. Sunday, you swore to never accept your father’s words ever again.

You were you, and that was perfectly okay. You make mistakes, but that’s what makes you profoundly magnificent. You saw that in others, and you were going to see that in yourself.

Eddie’s head whipped in the direction of others, and through the smudges of his dirty window, his eyes melted at your frozen stature. This is what he was waiting for. He jumped out of his car, the rattle of his door echoing, following the slam he didn’t intend to be so harsh. But it got your attention from across the parking lot, and that’s all that mattered.

You met his kind eyes, ones so round and deep, you couldn’t believe they once glared at you with such seethe just last week. But they weren’t now. In fact, they creased at the corners, as his small smile plumped his cheeks. And though small, that smile was the very reassurance you needed. He looked great- healthy, even. The dark circles of his eyes were not bruised mauve from a drunken haze of staying up all night and hungover throughout the afternoon. No, they were merely there from the natural pigmentation of his skin, as the scleras of his eyes shined white with innocence. His cheeks were rosy and full, letting you know he’d stuffed himself with some needed food outside a six-pack of beer. And though it was a habit he knew many were not fond of which honestly made him want to do it even more, he plucked the smoking cigarette from his lips and put it out with the step of his foot. You recall the moment from early September, long before you knew Eddie Munson, when he stalked up to you and Chrissy with the biggest grin on his snickering face asking if you had a lighter on hand. You, the goody two-shoes cheerleader who had the healthiest set of lungs, as the idea of nicotine made your nose scrunch with grimace. You and Chrissy Cunningham would have been the last people on Earth to have a lighter on hand. While you answered him with a shake to your head, Eddie ticked his tongue in disappointment, but before he could begrudgingly leave, you softly spoke, “Be sure to be careful, don’t want you getting sick from those. That’d be awful.” You had heard the news of what led down the road of cigarette smoking. And while Eddie would have typically told anyone who tried to place their unwarranted input on his life choices to fuck off, his grin merely grew ten times its size at your consideration, “‘Preciate that, sweetheart, I’ll keep that in mind.” Eddie felt like his heart was going to lunge out after you as you walked away. You didn’t know it, but Eddie had driven himself up a wall debating on whether or not to ask you that simple question. You were always just so breathtakingly mesmerizing, it was nerve-racking.

Yes, Eddie Munson has had a long time crush on you.

Your nails released from their stabbing hold into your palms, as your hands relaxed. Eddie saw your softening composure and sighed with relief, seeing that torturing breath that nestled in your throat finally escape into the spring air. As much as Eddie Munson would have loved to tell his fellow schoolmates to fuck themselves and leave you alone, he knew his interference was the last thing you would have wanted. So in the most gentle way possible, he subtly threw you a thumbs up with a stupid grin that made the twenty-year-old metalhead look like a jolly child trying to cheer up their friend.

But it made you quietly giggle, and that’s all he cared about.

You readjusted the straps to your backpack, and took a deep breath. And though you were internally screaming inside, you strided past the gossiping clumps of judgmental teenagers, and their choice to deduce you into degrading, misogynistic names held no merit against your faux confidence. Head held high with a stern gaze to the school, you walked through their whispers with a straight face to let them know they couldn’t get to you. And it was convincing enough. Because Eddie Munson was bouncing on the balls of his feet with bursting gasconade at your powerful strut. Eddie wishes he was half as cool as you.

“So, yeah, it, uh, it made me really happy. Like, just seeing them being so… okay with themselves and not taking any of the crap that other people were saying was great. I, uh, I loved seeing that.” He lips smiled tightly into a thin line to restrain from busting out into a hearty grin, though Ms. Kelly could see it in his face just how important this moment was for him.

“That’s wonderful, Eddie. So the break was good?” She leaned over her desk to ask.

“Yeah, yeah.” He nodded his head. “Um, I’ll be honest, at first- that first day I really wanted to call them to let them know I was taking the steps to be, um, y’know, better, but I figured them seeing me now would have been more important, I guess.”

“Yes.” Ms. Kelly agreed. “That was a good call on your part, Eddie.”

“Yeah, so as much as I wanted to just talk to them, I made sure I didn’t.” He assured. “And I really liked that I held back. Um,” Eddie nervously chuckled, as he picked the threads of his jeans, “would it be stupid to say that I’m proud of myself for that? That I was actually able to work on my self-control and boundaries even if it was just something small?”

“Of course, not, Eddie!” Ms. Kelly flashed him a kind smile, which had Eddie shyly grinning. “That’s an incredible thing to make progress on, and nothing in your journey will ever be too small to recognize, okay? I want you to understand that. I know it’s difficult to acknowledge these steps as a win, and I know it’s even harder granting yourself the right to be proud, because you believe you’ve committed too many wrong to ever feel for yourself, but remember Eddie, those hesitations are merely the result of the words that were placed upon you with intent to hurt you, and they don’t dictate your life. You do. Don’t give those words the power to hurt you. You deserve to be proud.”

A fervent nod to his head proffered the understanding that he was taking in her truth with deep care. The insistent curses of his dad and the bullshit rhetoric of students or the townspeople held no value to the words in which Eddie thought of himself. And if he wanted to be proud, he should be proud.

“Yeah, um, I am proud of myself- I know it’s like the bare minimum, but I’m happy.” He smiled. “And um, it was pretty amazing knowing that they were in the same boat as me, like, while I’m trying to get better, they are, too. I know that they struggle with what other people say about them, too, and seeing them walk in with all the confidence in the world was really… it was quite literally the greatest thing ever. I’m happy they’re getting happy; that we’re working on ourselves.”

“And how’s that going with you specifically?” Ms. Kelly attentively asked. “What else have you done to progress?”

“Well, um, I took your advice and opened up more with my uncle.” He huffed a laugh at the memory. “You should have seen the look on his face when I told him that I was basically in therapy.”

She questioned, “Was he angry?”

“No, not angry. More, like, ‘I didn’t even know this kid knew what therapy was’ kinda shock. He definitely didn’t expect it when I sat him down, but he’s a good man, and he, uh, listened to me. The whole time.”

“And how was it?”

“Hard and strange.” He gulped. “See, my uncle, he’s endured a lot for me; he’s an old man who works his ass off to pay the bills and provide basic, crappy dinners and I- I honestly feel really fuc- bad. I feel really bad. That, y’know, he has to do all that stuff for me when he didn’t even want to, like, have kids in the first place.” Eddie sighed. “And, truthfully, I just didn’t want to burden him with anymore of my problems, like I did to my mom and dad. I’ve already caused enough issues with the cafeteria incident, not graduating twice, getting in trouble with the cops. I just- I just know he has to be tired of me, so I was scared to talk to him.”

“Eddie,” Ms. Kelly grabbed his attention, “do you feel that if you hadn’t acted a certain way, talked a certain way, your parents wouldn’t have… touched you as a child?”

His once relaxed composure stiffened under her sudden interrogation. His eyes bolted around the room, trying to refrain his mind from wandering into the suffocating memory of his chubby hands spilling the last of the juice that was supposed to last his family for the rest of week all over the floor. He wanted to be a simple baby who was capable of listening to his mommy's words and just wait a minute, but his tiny throat was hurting from being dry and mommy had forgotten about him when daddy came home screaming about the place being a mess. His little mouth gasped in fear, running to the counter, his short arms reached and reached and his efforts had to turn to opening the bottom cabinet that was a couple inches above the floor and provided him the extra height to finally retrieve the paper. Feet pattering back to his proliferating spill, his hands haphazardly ripped a multitude of sheets and threw them to the floor. But the juice was not absorbing as fast as he wanted, and his tiny body was beating with terror, as daddy’s voice was booming through the walls of their house as he yelled at mommy in their room. He whimpered in panic as he tried to clean and clean, but the $3 pack of store brand tissue merely bled through, the jumble ball of paper causing his sticky mess to spread. It was to no avail, and daddy soon marched his way back to the kitchen. The second Eddie heard the towering footsteps, he peered up through his neglected hair that barely made life visible over his eyes, and saw the big scary face that hurt him every day. Eddie cleared his throat and murmured, “I don’t know.”

She signed a sympathetic breath, “What your parents did to you as a child has nothing to do with who you are or your personality, and it is absolutely not your fault.” Ms. Kelly spoke her declaration with firm gentleness. “You, Eddie, were not and will not be a burden in anyone’s life. You were dealt a misfortunate hand in life, but you were nowhere near the cause of it. You merely survived.”

Rubbing his eyes before his tears could soak his lashes, Eddie sighed, and sat back in his chair quietly. “I, uh, I said it was strange, and it was, because my uncle and I don’t really talk of that matter. When I was younger, he’d tell me it was okay to just let that life go, that I was okay with him, and it did help in that moment. But I kinda feel like it just gradually grew to become this big elephant in the room that we always avoided for the sake of peace. But during the weekend, I finally got the balls to just do it, and well, it was definitely uncomfortable but in a good way. I told him what was happening with me and how I felt, and he did the same, which honestly I wasn’t expecting. I-it was good. Great even.”

“These moments of clarity are valuable, Eddie.” Ms. Kelly spoke. “These times when speaking is all you do with another person are important to have and the uncomfortableness, the rawness, of it all paves the way to recovery. And it may be disturbing, absolutely not linear, but these are the steps that matter. And you’re doing an amazing job, Eddie.”

“Th-thank you, really, Ms. K.” He nodded his head gratefully. “I, uh, I always knew I talked a lot, my friends always teasin’ me about it, but I’m really enjoying it. Talking these things out with you and others.” He smiled.

“I enjoy it, too. Wouldn’t have spent thousands studying it just to hate it.” She joked, which gave him room for a small chuckle. “Want to tell me about the rest of your day?”

“Oh, yeah,” he sat up, wiping the sweat from his palms onto the worn denim of jeans, “lunch was pretty great, too, so basically…”

That confident facade of yours had broken in the midst of third period.

There was only so much scrutinizing stares you could handle from students- even staff who had sipped their coffee and gossiped about the day of your demise, discussing how their perfect student fell under the wrong influence right under their noses. Having to hear their patronizing “We’re here to help you catch up after your… circumstance” that was seemingly always followed by a grimacing look casted by a fake smile of sympathy that made your mouth want to heat up and hurl the stew that was your breakfast.

But third period had been different. Worse.

Unlike your previous classes—where you’d been indebted for having sane teachers who let you choose your own seating, prompting you into picking the back desk in the furthest row that provided some shielding to the obtrusive scowls—your third period had not been granted that same privilege, as your third period had Mr. Fitzgerald holding the reins to the functionality of the class. A bitter bitter old man who denounced the teenagers of Hawkins High as the devil incarnate, you should have seen the sheer look of terror and disgust when he first came face-to-face with the Eddie Munson.

And that infamous look matched that of the look he gave you when you stepped into his AP Calculus class that midday for the first time in a week. “Ms. Y/N, back already?” He stopped you the second you stepped foot in his dungeon classroom.

“Uh, yes, sir-”

“I sure hope you are well aware of the fact that this Advanced Placement class holds no room for coddling, and I can assure you no one will be holding your hand through the lessons you deliberately missed during your vacation.” He pontificated in your face. Your cheeks flared in a crashing heat as your settling classmates chuckled at the spotlight he casted upon you. “Come on, front and center.” He pointed to the empty chair that was surrounded by students in the center of the classroom, and meticulously sat right next to Andy McAvoy, who was daggering a provoked face of wrath at your presence.

Mr. Fitzgerald had practically placed a dunce hat on your head for everyone to laugh at.

You shrunk in your seat every passing minute, as glares laser beamed into you from the front, side, back. Your palpitating heart had no room to rest, as Mr. Fitzgerald took it upon himself to randomly select you—every single time—to answer questions about a lesson you weren’t even present to have learned about, enabling the other fourteen students to snicker at every stuttering I don’t know you had to mutter with shame and embarrassment that flared your body with burns of embarrassment.

The ache in your head had pounded your focus into oblivion, making the numbers and letters of your worksheet blend into incomprehensible blurs that had your hand twitching with the belief that you were already failing, and that dazzling A+ that made your father pat you on the back when he demanded your report card would slip into your biggest fear: an A-. In retrospect, an A- was a highly respectable grade, but when you’ve been conditioned to dictate your self-worth on the basis of academic validation, having your grade slip seemed like the biggest indication that your father's words were the truth. You were going to fail in life. And right now, all you wanted was the thumbs-up of a particular boy to let you know everything was going to be okay.

And everything started crashing down when you heard it.

“Freak’s whore.”

Andy McAvoy had full intentions of letting everyone hear his vile conviction, murmuring for the surrounding people to hear but taking advantage of Mr. Fitzgerald’s aging ears and whispering it so it went unknown to the authoritative figure.

“Can’t believe she tried to get with me.” He smiled to Karry Koven, as she giggled and stared at you.

It was a lie. It was the most loaded lie you ever heard. For the past two years, Andy McAvoy had made it his life's mission to claim you as his own, after Jason proffered the idea of double-dating with him and Chrissy. The idea hadn’t been too bad of an offer, until you actually went, and his sleazy hands felt the need to wander your body despite your consistent attempts to keep things at a platonic level. With Chrissy Cunningham and Jason Carver coupling up, it only seemed fair for their best friends to follow suit, and such belief left Andy’s arrogant mind to believing to be entitled to your body.

“Such a gross slut, can’t even imagine what that freak gave her.”

In the last ten minutes of class, you excused yourself to the bathroom and silently cried in the lonely stall.

It was a setback. A major one. And your old self would have cursed at you for letting some meaningless words get to you, but you were allowing yourself the mistakes that came with the experience of being human, and if being hurt by the sexist comments of a jock who got a shot to his ego because a girl rejected them, then so be it. You were distraught, and words were bound to get to you. Crying was the release you needed to let yourself recuperate and continue your day.

The bell had rung for lunch, you quickly wiped the remaining tears of your face with the rough paper towels stationed at the sink, and caught yourself in the reflecting glass of the mirror. Truthfully, how embarrassing would it be to give yourself a pep talk in the grimy bathrooms of your high school? Last time you entered the lunchroom, hell had broken loose, and your image was severed with the humiliating speech of Jason Carver and the deafening punch of Eddie Munson’s fist.

But before the optimistic phrases that you gathered from every movie you ever seen could be spoken to yourself, the cacophonous laughs of a group of girls pummeled their way into the bathroom, but they were quickly silenced upon seeing your presence. You knew what would come if you stayed, and you genuinely did not need more nasty comments thrown at your face, so with grace, you flashed a friendly smile that they predictably did not return on their scowling faces, and walked past them into the bustling halls.

It was now or never.

“C’mon, you don’t even like peaches!” Dustin slumped in his chair, as his efforts into devouring Jeff’s fruit side came to bust.

Jeff smiled with pleasure. “Yeah, but there’s something about not letting you have it that just makes me really happy.” The table chimed in with laughter.

“You guys are all mean.” He huffed with crossed arms, which simply elicited more laughs. “Mean, mean, mean people.”

“Don’t pout, Henderson, I’ll be sure to have Jeff’s character fall off a cliff in this week's campaign.” Eddie chucked down a pretzel with a teasing grin.

“What?!” Jeff sat up, as the laughs turned against him. “You can’t do that, you’re totally just bluffing!”

“You might as well.” Grant chuckled. “It will make it more interesting, and we deserve interesting after you bailed on us Friday.” He sternly pointed his spork at Eddie, which quickly met the table when he smacked it away.

“I told you,” Eddie sighed, “I was busy.” One day he'd tell his friends of his therapy sessions. But at the moment, they were acting like high school boys, and today was not the day to reveal so.

“Aw, were you pretending your guitar was a girl?” Gareth snided with kissy faces, that made the boys obnoxiously laugh harder, and Eddie rolled his eyes.

“Please, Emerson, I can’t remember the last time a girl spoke to you that wasn’t your mom.” He retorted back. “And I’d be careful if I were you, Gareth the Great could have the same demise off that cli…”

Eddie had trailed his words into silence when his eyes landed on you.

There, through the heavy doors of the crowding cafeteria, you were once again making an entrance that was completely out of your control. If you had it your way, your figure would be dismissed, like a ghost people could not perceive. But that was never an option for you. Even before, happy waves and nice greetings were always following you, but the current trend in the bubble of Hawkins High was picking the next girl to surmise as a slut because you made the decision to be nice to a group of boys, and how dare you do so, especially when those boys were no good satanists who would perform human sacrifices in woods in the middle of the night? It’s funny how high school worked in the isolation of a small town.

So once again, the stares were happening, as everyone decided to switch their hushed conversations to the entertaining topic of you; laughing their harsh opinions to their circle of friends or seeing how far they could fabricate more rumors. Your eyes landed on the table you once sat at, your designated chair no longer reserved for your being, but rather piled with sneakers of Jason Carver who decided to use your seat as a footrest. It didn’t take a genius to know you were no longer welcomed within that group, their blatant stares making it beyond the realms of obvious.

But you didn’t need them. You didn’t need Jessica Lewis’ patronizing comments. You didn’t need Andy McAvoy’s unwarranted touches. You didn’t need Jason Carver’s pesting control over everyone.

The neglected half of the lunchroom table where the kids of the drama club took residence on the other end would be perfectly okay for you. Ignoring their judgmental looks, you sat quiet in desolation, as everyone around you chortled at the downfall of the perfect cheerleader.

“Eddie!” Gareth waved his hand in his face, snapping Eddie back to reality.

“Holy shit, you were totally checking out Y/N!” Mike laughed.

“N-no, I wasn’t.” His hair fervently moved with the vehement shakes to his head. “Everyone is fucking staring at her.”

“But you were staring staring, Eddie.” Jeff teased with a big grin. "Like how you stared at that one older chick with the huge boobs at the Hideout that one time."

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were.”

With heavy sigh, you decided the best option was productivity, and the sweetness of your precisely cut strawberries were fueling you with the needed energy to focus on the piling stack of missing work you were due to accomplish. Equations and word problems could provide enough distraction from the myriad of bullying that was hurtling against you, and in a very unlikely case, homework was easing your mind into a peaceful state. If this is how you had to finish out your senior year, then it was something you’d be okay with coming to terms with. Aloneness could be a scary thing, and you were facing it in the terrors of your dark room where you were shut in and locked away, as you held yourself while the tears dampened your pillow case. But aloneness was also a wonderful thing, where in moments like these, when it felt like everyone was against you, you could lavish in the company of yourself—food and task at hand—because you liked the way your mind worked, you liked the way you perceived the world, it was unique to yourself and it was a beautiful thing to explore on your own.

But a soft tap to your shoulder had pulled you from your studies, and you peered up, being met with a comforting smile.

“Hi.”

“Hi, Chrissy.”

“Is it okay if I sit with you?” She pointed the chair across from you.

Your agreeing nod led her to plopping down and pulling her lunch out, as though this interaction was something of normality. You looked around, the stares had intensified with the sudden movements of Chrissy Cunningham joining you for lunch. While the act of two best friends eating together was everything but abnormal, the events of last Monday had foreseen your rumored recent fuck punching her boyfriend, and the idea of you and Chrissy would have assumed to be severed.

But here she was, sitting with you without a care of the world.

You watched her dejectedly sigh at the sight of her pre-packed lunch clearly made by the hands of her mother. Green. Bland. Portioned so small it wouldn’t stuff a toddler. You pushed your tray of food to her. “Have some of mine.” You smiled, switching her plate with yours. “Maybe we can give yours to Mrs. Durberry’s pet lizard.” And she laughed that grateful laugh that you always seemed to cause whenever you’d save her appetite from the terrible choices of her mother with a joke to make her feel better. And she comfortably took the other half of your sandwich.

“Have, um, have people been saying stuff about you?” She delicately asked with a mouthful of food.

With a smile on your face, you nodded. “Yeah. Nothing I wasn’t expecting, though.” You shrugged. “Are you, uh, are you okay sitting with me? Like Jason might-”

“I broke up with Jason.” She interjected.

Looking back, you met his disbelief scowl that was certainly blaming you for the ending of his relationship. “You did? Already?”

She nodded her head. “I didn’t want to wait it out, because I knew that if I took too long I would just procrastinate, and I probably wouldn’t get the courage to actually do it. But I did.” She sighed.

“Are you okay?” Three years of a relationship, filled with young love, innocence, and first times were all gone in a matter of seconds when Chrissy arrived at the doorstep of Jason’s house. But a revelation Chrissy had to come to terms with was the fact that years together, the length of a relationship, holds no merit to the satisfaction of one’s mind and heart, and Jason Carver was simply someone he used to not be. The once skinny sophomore who sat the benches of all games had grown to be a young man with screwed priorities that came at the expense of his girlfriend’s comfortability, especially when she was becoming someone she didn’t want to be.

“Yeah.” She quietly answered. “Um, he didn’t exactly take it well, and my mom can’t seem to wrap her head around the idea that I just didn’t like who he was anymore. They both keep pestering me about it.”

“Don’t listen to whatever they might be saying.” You advised. “Really, if getting away from him is what you want- what you need, please don’t let them take that away from you.”

“I won’t.” She smiled. “Hey, are you still coming back to practice? Coach has been dying to have you back. As much as Jessica likes to think, she is not a good flyer.”

You giggled. “Ugh, I would have loved to see that. But yeah, I told my dad I’d be staying for practice. Though, I’m heavily expecting to come out with a broken leg, because those girls are totally dropping me for, you know, associating with he who must not be named.”

“Don’t worry, coach has literally been on a frenzy ever since you left, she’ll take care of them. Seriously, Y/N, as much as they’d like to admit otherwise, we have been a mess without you.” Chrissy reassured. “And um, how are things… w-with your dad. I, uh, I saw the locks when-”

“It’s fine, Chrissy, really. Don’t worry about it.” You murmured, more as an excuse to forget about it. “I’m learning to deal with it. But let's just talk about something else.” You swallowed the lump in your throat.

Chrissy agreed for your comfort. Because for once, speaking with Chrissy about the miniscule things of life felt like the stability of normalcy you had been yearning for.

“You’re totally staring at her!” Jeff laughed, as Eddie once again was caught up in the glimpses of you.

‘Wh- How many times do I have to tell you I’m not?” He slid back in his chair in embarrassment. There was only so much lying he could do to cover his averting eyes, but the truth was screaming past any attempts of delusion.

“Oh, so you were staring at Chrissy, you like her then?” Gareth smiled, as Eddie sauntered right into his trap.

“No! Not Chrissy, Y/N’s the one- ugh!” Eddie’s head dropped into the safety of his hands, as his friends’ laughter echoed around the table. While he truly had nothing to be embarrassed about—he quite literally drunkenly admitted his feelings to you already—the discomfort of letting his feelings be known was still new territory for Eddie, and building a friendship on the basis of teasing the living shit out of each other didn’t exactly make his progress any easier. Though, under that frustration, a small teetering curl to his lips and blushing cheeks were appearing behind the cover of his hands. Talking about you did that to him.

“You should totally talk to her.” Dustin reached over to hit his arm, but a switch had flipped in Eddie, and his head shot up with his hand grabbing the boy’s arm before it could make contact.

Everyone was taken aback by his sudden reflexes. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Don’t tell me you're nervous.” Dustin laughed, as he pulled his arm away with sass. “It’s not like you haven’t talked to her before. Granted you were basically an ass and she probably hates you.”

If only they knew.

“Wait,” Mike interjected, “is that why you punched Carver in the face last week?”

“And why you left lunch to go find her friend that one time?” Grant added.

“Okay, okay, okay.” Eddie sighed. “Not that this is any of your guys’ business, but yeah- and that’s all you're getting out of me, so knock it off with the interrogation, please?” He shoved a handful of pretzels into his mouth to cope with the stress.

“Why not just go talk to her and apologize?” Jeff suggested.

“Do you honestly think someone like her would like someone like him- ow?!” Gareth chuckled before a crushed can of soda hit the side of his head.

“I did apologize to her.” Eddie disregarded Gareth’s comment, answering Jeff with a mouth full of mush and crumbs. “Just don’t wanna bother her with anymore of my talking.” His denim sleeve wiped his lips.

“Well,” Dustin sighed, as he retrieved something from his backpack. “I’ll go bother her.” He smiled, and Eddie cocked his head to the now standing kid.

“What?!”

“You heard me.” Dustin affirmed. “She’s the only reason why my sexy photo is in this yearbook,” he patted the glossy cover to the infamous book, “might as well get her to sign it.”

“Wait! No, Dustin!” Eddie gritted through his teeth, but the young freshman had a goal in mind, one that his Dungeon Master could not interfere with. Even if it meant his character would be doomed with a fateful death at the bottom of a cliff that coming Friday. “Please, Henderson!”

The curly tendrils freed from the cap on his head bounced as he happily ignored the stressed calls of Eddie from the table. In truth, Eddie’s tensity came from a place beyond whatever stupid comment Dustin might make about him to you. He had spent the last four days respecting your boundaries despite his desires to talk to you, and Dustin’s presence might lead you to believe this was his way in getting someone to speak to you on his behalf—something you strictly told him not to do when he was crying hungover on your bed—he’d definitively ruin his chance at ever getting you to trust him again.

But Dustin Henderson had all the confidence in the world, something you would come to admire in the boy as you got to know him, and he placed himself at the end of the table, where you and Chrissy had resided, interrupting your talks of dinner plans.

“Uh-hem.” He cleared his throat with precise certitude. “Ladies,” Dustin then turned to you, “Hi! I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Dustin Henderson. You took the photo of my club, Hellfire.”

“Yeah, yeah, Dustin, I remember you." You smiled.

“Awesome!” He squealed on the tips of his toes. “I didn’t actually think you’d remember me.” He giggly confessed. “But anyways, I was wondering if you’d like to, um- would it be okay if you signed my yearbook?” He opened the page to the appointed spot where signatures were entitled to, his page particularly filled with the names, messages, and small doodles of his friends.

“Oh, Dustin, I’d be so very honored.” His grin consumed his face at your acceptance.

“Oh!” Chrissy perked. “Here’s a pen you could use!” Handing over her trusty pink pen that had recently grown accustomed to the tribulations of your friendship.

Muttering a small thank you as you took her pen, you uncapped the lid to meet one of the many large spaces of white that surrounded his page. Your heart had gently ached at the realization that not many people had signed his yearbook. The sophistication you oozed defied the laws of coolness in the Dustin Henderson Doctrine. While Eddie Munson’s ability to create and personify some of the greatest campaigns of Dungeons and Dragons he’d ever seen was downright incredible, and Steve Harrington’s ability to sway any cute girl’s Friday night plans to now revolve around him was thoroughly unbelievable, your coolness was surpassing those of the men he looked up to. Maybe it was because you were a beautiful girl who was actually nice to him. Maybe it was because he knew you could play into his antics. Either way, you were ranking yourself to the top of Dustin Henderson’s Favorite People List. And if he ever found out you made way better chocolate chip cookies than his mom, he would have placed you above the woman who birthed him. Because you wrote a, albeit short, cute little message just for him:

Has't a most wondrous summ'r cutie, t's been the greatest privilege knowing thee, kind solid'r - Y/N

“Thank you so much!” He gushed at your writing, making you laugh.

“Anytime, Dustin.” You gave Chrissy her pen back. “Anything else we can help you with?”

“Ooh, yeah!” He got extremely excited at the open invitation. Your kindness was placing him at a vulnerable spot, that vulnerable spot being the potential strangling hands of Eddie Munson if he ever found out what Dustin was about to do. “So, uh, y’know, Eddie, right?”

Your burrows furrowed playfully. “Hm, yeah, I know, Eddie.”

“Well, uh, see don’t tell him I told you this, because he would totally kill me, but he kinda sorta has a crush on you.” You turned around and briefly caught Eddie Munson staring at you before his eyes went big and he snapped his head to the other side of the cafeteria as if he didn’t get caught. Ugh, he was just so-

“No way!” Chrissy gasped with fake dramatics as she squealed. “A cute boy likes you!” She sprightly spoke.

“You’re totally messing with me, aren’t you?” You joined in on her theatrics for the sake of letting Dustin Henderson believe he was the brains behind the union of his two friends—as if the confessions of last week's events didn’t happen at all. “The Eddie Munson likes me?! There’s no way, he’s way too cool!” You rhapsodized.

Oblivious to it all, Dustin jumped with excitement for his friend. “No, he actually does! He totally blushes and everything when we talk about you!”

“That’s so cute!” Chrissy effused. “You guys should, like, totally get married, you’d be so cute together.”

“Oh, totally!” You playfully giggled before turning to Dustin. “Dusty, be sure to tell Eddie to let me get my nails done first before he proposes. I can’t have my hands looking ugly for our engagement photoshoot.”

“Uh, y-yeah, okay!” Dustin shrugged along, completely heedless to the idea that you and Chrissy were just joking around, but his lack of communication with girls had him believing whatever this conversation was transpiring to be was merely the normal gist of what girl talk had to be. Also, there was a small part of you that wanted to give Eddie Munson a heart attack when Dustin returned with the grand news.

“Great, it’s settled then!” You smiled. “I have full trust that you will relay the message, good sir.” You popped a strawberry into your mouth, as Dustin swiftly shook his head.

“Yes! Yes, totally!” His curls shook with his head.

“Alrighty then, Dustin, maybe you can talk Eddie into letting you be his best man.” You smiled. “I’ll see you around, okay?”

“Yeah, thanks again for everything!” He waved you both off excitedly, eager to run and tell Eddie the good news.

Chrissy and you watched him nearly trip over his own two feet as he speed-walk to the table he had came from—not wanting to fall victim to Mr. Long’s threat of no running on the school grounds, as he monitored the lunchroom. “He’s so adorable.” You two giggled as you both watched him flee.

Dustin had plopped in his chair with a heaving chest, as his table began torpedoing an onslaught of questions, Eddie’s queries being the harshest. “Do you literally want to die?!” The metalhead slammed his hand onto the table, ignoring the stinging burn that came right after. “Why would you go up to her?! What did you say?! What did she say?!”

“She said…” Dustin huffed too long for Eddie’s thinning patiences, “she said that I was a cutie-”

“What?!”

“-and that she wants to marry you.”

“What?!”

You and Chrissy Cunningham laughed across the cafeteria at his booming voice.

“So yeah, that totally means they want me, right?”

Ms. Kelly had suddenly turned into a love coach.

“Uh, well, I’m sure the feeling is… mutual between the two of you.” She hesitantly answered, not sure how to exactly approach the love life of her teenage students, but glad enough her response made Eddie smile.

“Okay, good, I think that, too.” He giddily adjusted in his chair.

“But remember, Eddie, don’t determine your happiness on the basis of this person.” Ms. Kelly reminded. “Root that within yourself, because if things don’t… work out in a sense, we don’t want you losing that progress.”

“No, I know.” He quietly muttered, as his hand rubbed the slight stubble of his chin. “That, uh, that’s actually one of things that really scared me into getting help, I guess. See, remember those, um, terrible things I did when, y’know, they said they didn’t want me around?” She nodded her head gently to allow him to continue. “I, um- my dad would do those things. Like, whenever my mom had done something he didn’t like, he would just get plastered, say these gross things, and then, um, start…hitting.” Eddie huffed out a large breath that burned his chest. “And seeing me be that- be my dad- becoming him was just a scary reality check that I’m just like him, a-and I don’t want to be. I spent years wishing so hard that I wouldn’t be, y’know, that I wouldn’t be those kids who turned into their parents, that Wayne taught me better than that, but there I fucking was scaring her- them, scaring them. Sorry.” He cleared him through shamefully as he got worked up.

“Don’t be sorry, Eddie.” She smiled. “This is your moment to let your thoughts and feelings be known. And by hearing you, I want you to leave today’s session vitalizing the importance that you are not your father. You’re not your mother, either. Or your uncle, or anyone for that matter. Eddie, you are you. There is a pattern within you that wavers from trying so hard to stray away from hurting others like your parents did to you, to straying away from the possibility of getting hurt like your parents did to you. And it’s wonderful that you’re recognizing that, but you need to understand that you’re merely getting stuck in an endless cycle of trying to satisfy those end goals, that your mind is running in circles and blurring the line between what's working and what’s not, and it’s doing harm.”

Eddie chewed on his thumb nail taking in the revelation. “I don’t know how to fix that.” He defeatedly admitted.

“You need to not be driven by fear, Eddie.” Ms. Kelly answered. “That image of your father is a scary thing to come to terms with, and I’m not saying you’re wrong for being terrified of it, because it truly was a dark part of your life, but you need to face it rather than run from it. You mentioned that you and your uncle rarely speak of the life you once had with your parents, and that suppression- that shut in, that’s what’s inhibiting you from growing to be someone that is not like your father or mother. Your upbringing has rooted a fear in you that’s scared of being hurt, and it’s not unusual, the majority of the world is scared at the possibility of being hurt, but the majority don't acknowledge that that fear is the cause of why our personal progress is being stunted. No one wants the uncomfortable conversations. No one wants to face the reality of the world. But the truth is Eddie, it’s better to be hurt organically by the troubles of the world rather than self-destruct our minds under the guise that we’re protecting ourselves. It’s good to focus on oneself, but we need to understand when we’re crossing that boundary into self-immolation, which is far more scary.”

Eddie Munson had sat in silence for a minute to digest her words. “And that’s what I’m doing.” He whispered to himself.

“But you’re getting help.” Ms. Kelly interjected his thoughts with a delicate smile. “And that’s far more progress than most people get to.”

“I think, uh, I think it really, I don’t know, frustrates me that I didn’t understand that in the first place. Because, well, I mean, even you know I’m not the smartest person around-”

“Academic intelligence has nothing to do with this, Eddie.” Ms. Kelly assured. “Even the smartest people have difficulty understanding their problems.”

“Yeah, I guess what I’m trying to say is that… I just get angry that I can’t be smart enough to figure this stuff out. Like, I know you said this isn’t based on intelligence, it’s just that when things don’t work out the way I want them to, and it turns out my plans were actually stupid, I just get so aggravated with myself, and then I get so aggravated with the other person for not doing as I want, even though it’s not their fault.” He released a puff of air from his cheeks at the admission

“Would you say your anger has become an issue?”

Eddie huffed a shameful chuckle. “God, how much of an ass would I be if I said yes? Sorry for the language, Ms. K, but I really am such an asshole. Pretty cynical, too. And nihilistic. Pessimistic. A person even said I was a sulking asshole if the picture wasn’t clear enough for you.” He nodded with a tight-lipped smile.

And though it may have been a little unprofessional, Ms. Kelly allowed herself a small chuckle at his words. “Well, those are quite some characteristics to have.” She kindly joked. “How often do your efforts result to violence, Eddie? Is it a gradual transition from yelling to hitting for you?”

“Uh, yeah, it definitely is.” He sighed. “I mean, I think you’re aware of how many fights I’ve been pushed into-”

“Would you say you cause most of them?”

“Um, not necessarily cause, more so… provoke.” He laughed.

“Instigate for a reaction?” Ms. Kelly questioned.

And with a snap and point of his finger, Eddie agreed. “Ooh, yeah! Instigate for a reaction sounds a lot better.” He smiled before doubling down. “But, uh, totally know I shouldn’t. It’s just… kinda fun.”

“Fun?”

“Well, yeah, y’know, most people at this school don’t like me.” Eddie emphasized. "Even the teachers don’t. And, I guess, poking fun at the groups of people who hate me kinda shows them I don’t care, if that makes sense? Like I can make fun of them just as they do to me and my friends. So, I guess getting angry does kinda happen often, and it does always seem to escalate. If people aren’t listening to my yelling, then they’ll definitely listen to me fighting them, y’know?”

“Is that what happened during last week’s cafeteria incident when you hit another student?”

“Basically.” Eddie nodded. “The dude, he was just spewing a bunch of bullshit about someone, and well, when I told him to shut up and tried to “save the day,” I guess, my anger definitely got out of hand and I punched the guy. Honestly, I hate the guy, so I had no problem doing it, but I also thought that I was, uh, stopping the other person that he was talking about from getting hurt more. Like we, uh, talked about- the thing that I do. And obviously, my judgment was severely off, and well, it only made the situation worse that I only ended up hurting them, too.”

“So you’re seeing where these patterns coincide?” Ms. Kelly asked.

“Yeah.” Eddie acknowledged. “And if I’m being completely honest, I almost made the same mistake again today.”

“How so?” Her eyebrow raised.

“Uh, well, I almost hit the same guy for bothering that person, again.” He sighed. “Kinda happened right before I got here, actually. It was after school…”

The once crowded halls had dissipated into quietness, as the final bell had rung to announce the coming end of the school day fifteen minutes ago.

Stalling. Stalling is what you were doing under the guise that you were merely reorganizing your locker, and any straggler who walked by would have seen that, given that your locker never approached the definitive line of chaos. But your heart was hammering at the thought of returning to cheer practice, and the coolness radiating off the metal lockers was enough to keep your forehead from sweating. There were no butterflies in your stomach, no, those insects had turned into the pesky creatures of crickets who bounced around with an end goal of causing turbulence in your worrying stomach, like the annoyance they cause during an attempt at peaceful sleep during a quiet night.

There was something deathly petrifying about high school teenagers. Their judgment. Comments. Bullying. Rumors. You knew now why groups of adults thoroughly went through the endeavors of avoiding them in public spaces. You’d just spent an entire day on the receiving end of their hate, and it was draining.

At the south end of the hall, the familiar faces of the members of the cheer squad pummeled out of the girls’ bathroom in loud conversations and giggles. You watched them walk together, laugh together, like you once used to do before they made the ultimate decision to lavish in your reputation’s demise. But as you followed their movements into the grand doors of the Hawkins High gymnasium, your attention had diverged you from the impeding steps of an deranged man’s end goal in mind, and the sudden slam of your locker door closing left you snapping your head to meet Jason Carver’s huffing breath before he cornered you against the lockers.

Nostrils flared with heaving sighs, his forehead pressed down against yours until your head shoved harshly onto the metal. “You think you’re funny telling Chrissy to leave me?! Huh?!”

Eddie Munson had been on his second cigarette of the day, waiting in the sanctitude of his van, just as he did in the early hours of the morning before school started. But where a pervade of parked cars and students once rested, just an empty parking lot stood, and it provided him the peace of mind to gather the thoughts he want to speak about before he entered the counselor’s room and sat down with Ms. Kelly for what had become their fourth daily session. He grew to like Ms. Kelly a lot. So when the digits of watch striked green of the numbers of 3:45 p.m, Eddie put out the shortening cigarette onto the pavement of the ground, and entered the school building, so as to not be late for their meeting. He’d grown to respect her too much to contempt the time she chose to work overtime just for him.

“Get off of me!” You pushed his chest away, allowing him to stumble and put some distance between you two. “I didn’t tell Chrissy to do anything!”

“Bullshit! Everyone saw you two hanging together at lunch, and conveniently right after she broke up with me! Do you really think I’m that stupid?” His reddening face started walking closer to you, but you kept up with his movements, as the adrenaline in your system moved your feet back with every inch of him coming closer.

“Chrissy broke up with you because you’re an asshole, not because of anything I told her!” You stressed. “God, literally look at what you’re doing, what you did to me- to anyone who’s different from you, of course, she doesn’t want to be with you anymore!”

“Everything I’m doing is for her! It’s your fucking fault I have to stoop this low!” He screamed. “You wanna be a slut and fuck around with that freak, then fine by me, but I will not let you drag Chrissy down with you!”

As unfortunate as the situation was, Eddie Munson strolled in at the perfect time. Upon opening the double, glass doors of the school, he was impaled by the screaming match happening between you two. The second his eyes landed on your fraught face, that anger- that anger that seethed with vexation at the need to protect you from getting hurt was coursing through his bloodstream with a strangulating wave of worry that was going to hurtle its way through any obstacle to make sure you were okay; just as it occurred when Jason Carver ambushed you in the cafeteria, just as it occurred when your father ambushed you in your bedroom.

Eddie was desperate to ensure your safety and security.

Too distracted by the yelling words of Jason Carver, and with the jocks back turned away from Eddie’s stature, his presence went unnoticed until his ring hand clenched around the collar of his letterman jacket, and threw him up against the lockers with a bang.

“Are you fucking bothering her?” His calm voice gritted through his teeth, as Eddie pinned him to the wall. “Because last time that happened, it didn’t turn out so well for you, did it?” The threat lingered heavily in Jason’s head. The Hawkins High Tigers were paving their way through playoffs, and the championship game was right at their fingertips, but the crashing sting of Eddie Munson’s ringed fist on his face or body could hinder the basketball team's progress.

“Eddie.” Your quiet voice lulled him away from the worries of Jason, and he watched your distressed figure of cinched brows and a chewed up lip trembling feet away from the violence of angry men.

Eddie dropped his hold from Jason’s jacket, and stared down at the comb-over that peered up to him with irritated eyes. “You come near her again, and you’ll be fucking dead.” He whispered, far too quiet for your ears to pick on, and he did that with honest intentions.

But before Jason could curse the words he wanted into Eddie’s face, the heavy doors of gym opening turned everyone’s attention to Chrissy Cunningham and cheer coach, Coach Hannigan, who walked out with large smiles—though Chrissy’s dropped faster than the speed of light upon seeing the three of you uncomfortably together.

“Oh,” Chrissy squeaked with confusion, but enough pep to let Coach Hannigan believe all was good. “Um, there- there’s Y/N.” Chrissy hesitantly smiled, as that had been the entire reason why the two of them walked out in the first place, to find you.

“There’s my girl!” If there was anyone who truly showed their support for the girls of Hawkins High, it was Coach Hannigan, who dedicated her faculty years to teaching the inner workings of American Literature by day and coached her girls to be the best representative of the school, because she believed you all deserved to be seen by night. “It’s been far too long! That Higgins doesn’t know what he’s doing, am I right?” Her boisterous laugh echoed through the halls, as you, Eddie, and Jason tried to appear as normal as can be. “When I got news of what he did to you, I was like "man, excessive much." I think we’re all counting the days until he retires, ha!” She spoke enthusiastically, as she patted you on the shoulder, which is when she took notice of Jason Carver and Eddie Munson looking nervously uncomfortable. “Woah, odd pairing.” She joked to you, to which you had to join in with an awkward laugh, Eddie and Jason abruptly separated under her comment. “You lot, okay?” Her colloquial use of British slang with her deep Midwestern accent was surely fitting to the oddity that was Coach Hannigan, but my god, was it comforting in a time like this.

“Just fine.” Jason muttered. “Better get to practice.” He raked his hand to adjust the hairs Eddie had disturbed during their minor push and shove, before walking away past everyone.

“Well, I guess we should, too!” Coach Hannigan signaled over to you and Chrissy to get along. “I’m tired of seeing that dang Jessica girl tryin’ to stay steady in air, dangnamit.”

As the three of you walked away, you turned back to meet Eddie’s anxious eyes. His fears racking in his mind, wondering if he’d just done the very thing you asked him not to do, overstep. He didn’t want to scare you anymore. He didn’t want to hurt you anymore. But he believed his being was doing you more harm than good, and his stomach churned at the possibility that maybe you’d be better off if he just got out of your life and left you alone. But in a blink of an eye, Eddie watched your small hand aim him a subtle thumbs up with an ever so tiny grin. Eddie released the breath he’d been holding in.

Everything was going to be okay.

“You know, Eddie, if you’re watching someone be harassed, it’s okay to tell me.” Ms. Kelly calmly responded.

“I-” Eddie dejectedly sighed, as he leaned back in his chair. “I know I should, it’s just, y’know, they don’t even know I’m talking about them to you, hell, I haven’t even had a full conversation with them today. I don’t know how long they want to continue this “no communication” stuff, and I really don’t want to make them feeling like I’m, I don’t know, betraying their boundaries. I’ve done a lot to them already.”

“Well,” Ms. Kelly huffed, “if you do get a chance to speak with this person, just know it’s okay to encourage them to speak to me.” She smiled.

“Yeah, yeah, thanks.” Eddie relaxed.

“Can I ask you, Eddie, is the reason why you didn’t choose violence with this bully because of this particular person?”

“Uh, yeah.” He answered. ‘Like I said, last time I did, it really hurt this person because of how much the situation blew up. And, uh, I just really don’t think they like the… hatefulness that comes with hitting. Like they're scared of it, and I don't want to scare them anymore.”

“Are you scared of it? The violence?” She questioned.

“Honestly, no- the, uh, physical stuff, no, I have no issue with it. When I was younger, yeah, obviously, I was a kid, but now, um, I know getting violent kinda let’s people know not to mess with me, I guess.”

“Because it gets you your way.”

Eddie winced at the truth behind the comment. When you had hung up on him that fateful night, aggression had surged within Eddie, because you were slipping through the cracks of weakness. Doing your own thing. Making your own decision. Doing the right thing. It was great, but it was something Eddie couldn’t come to terms with. It was why he chose the inebriations of alcohol to throw him over the precipice of sanity and persuaded him to do the actions he knew were wrong. But he couldn’t do that sober. His moral compass wouldn’t allow that. It’s the only reason why he showed up to your window in a drunken haze. Because Eddie Munson couldn’t understand. He couldn’t understand his feelings. His thoughts. Why his mother always stayed with his father when that man was doing far worse, and you were choosing to give up on him so easily. Verbalizing the words in his head made him want to throw up, because he knew how disgusting it was to think like that.

“God, I hate hearing that.” He murmured in shame, as his fingers stressfully brushed over his eyebrows.

“But it’s true? At least to some extent?” Ms. Kelly delicately asked. He could only nod his head in agreement to her statements. “Your mother, Eddie, if you don’t mind me asking, what would she do whenever your father got violent?”

He sadly sighed. “She’d just, y’know, take it. Would only get worse if she didn’t.”

“Yeah,” Ms. Kelly shook her head along, as his words confirmed the ideas in her head. “Eddie, seeing that at any age, let alone as a child, can be truly detrimental to the mind and its development. What I’m evaluating is that your father’s intolerable acceptance to the word “no” has manifested onto you. Witnessing your father’s beratement and abuse, and your mother’s inability to leave has decisively skewed your perception and ego to lead you to believing you are entitled to have things- have people do as you say, and when they don’t, you lash out… like you were taught to do.”

Eddie’s stomach sank at the admission of Ms. Kelly’s findings. The truth laid in her words, and Eddie Munson was coming to terms with the fact that there were aspects of his being that truly did not make him a good person. Was there room for improvement? Yes, there was, and that was the whole purpose of Ms. Kelly’s evaluation. It was not to point the finger and ridicule him. No, it was to lay the foundation to discovering the ugly truths behind what makes us us, and unfortunately for Eddie Munson, his upbringing of hatred and abuse had developed him into an angry man yearning for what? Stability. Maybe you and Eddie Munson were a lot more alike than you both realized.

“Eddie, I’m going to revert back to what I previously said, I want you leaving today’s session vitalizing the importance that you are not your father.” Ms. Kelly reiterated, and Eddie shuttered a breath. “Your decisions may reflect his, but you’re seeking help. You’re talking about your problems. You’re ready to put the work in and make a change.”

“I’m not him.” Eddie spoke to himself.

“No, you’re not.” Ms. Kelly smiled. “You’re a good person who was left to make bad decisions. Don’t let your father take control of your life. Don’t give him that power. Face your fear of him, and don’t give him the authority to let you become a bad person. You are not him.”

Eddie nodded his head, absorbing the words of today’s session, as their hour-long conversation was coming to its last minutes. “Thank you.” He softly gave his gratitude, just as he did at the end of every meeting.

“Like always, Eddie, it’s no problem. Was there anything else you wanted to mention before you leave for the day?” He gently shook his head, spilling all that he could and digesting every truth and advice his brain could handle. Today had been a good day. And he really needed that.

“No, I think I’m okay.” He assured her with a small smile, as he stood and adjusted her chair back to its original position.

“Can I expect you tomorrow afternoon?” She asked.

“Uh, yeah, I can make it.” He answered after slight deliberation. Corroded Coffin wasn’t expected until well into the night, and he was surely certain his buzzing crowd of five drunks wouldn’t mind if the guitarist ran a little late for their weekly taste of garage metal.

With a bid farewell, Eddie left Ms. Kelly's office with a heavy mind.

Ms. Kelly had delicately put away his file before making a mental note to speak with Jason Carver first thing in the morning about his harmful actions. Eddie’s attempt at anonymity hadn’t thoroughly worked out in his favor. Ms. Kelly knew of the cafeteria incident, and who it involved. Ms. Kelly knew of Jason’s infamous reputation. She’d received a number of saddened students in her office who had fallen victim to his words. She was able to place the puzzles of his story with ease, though never announced it for his comfort. She would be sure to have a long talk with Jason the following morning. And she’d be sure to be on the lookout for you whenever you were ready to talk. Again, Eddie was quite oblivious to the obvious nature of anonymity. But at least he meant well.

Approaching the doors to the school, Eddie was already yanking his pack of cigarettes from his jacket, ready to finish the evening off with his third of the day. That was until he stepped outside, and saw you waiting at the entrance in your practice clothes, leading him to getting flushed with a wave of deja vu, as you looked exactly as you did the day you took his picture.

You turned at the opening of double doors, an endearing smile posing on your face as you saw him abruptly stop at the doorway. “Oh, hey.” You waved to him kindly. Holy shit, you were actually speaking to him. You know, Eddie Munson had dedicated the entirety of his weekend rehearsing what he wanted to say to you, the right words and everything, he’d even came up with a short script of lines as to what to say that were currently residing in the back pocket of his pants, but it was long forgotten by this point, and he couldn’t muster up a single word. You giggled at his frozen state, “You can say “hi” back, Eddie, it’s okay.”

But instead of a greeting, Eddie had walked up to you frantically. “Look, I’m so sorry, I swear I’m not, like, following you around or anything. I was just coming back from a-”

“Hey, Eddie, it’s okay, really.” You softly nodded. “I didn’t think you were.”

He swallowed thickly, unsure of what to say exactly, so he landed on a simple “How have you been?”

“I’ve been… decently okay.” You shrugged.

“Getting okay?” He awkwardly asked.

“Yeah,” you chuckled, “slowly but surely. Trying to, at least.”

“Y’know, if you wanted to, you could always talk with Ms. Kelly.” He sincerely spoke. “She’s, uh, she’s helped with a lot. I just, um- we just finished my fourth session. I’ve been seeing her since Thursday.”

You cocked your head in surprise. “Really?” He nodded his quickly. “You’ve been talking to the counselor?” You briefly spoke with Chrissy about her weekly sessions, but it had never been something you dived into for the sake of her privacy. Seeing Eddie Munson turn to therapy was exceeding beyond the expectations of what you had subconsciously set for him when you told him to get better.

“Yeah, it’s been helping me process things- my emotions n’ all.” Eddie smiled, because just last week, that would have been something he would have been embarrassed to admit.

“That- that’s really great, Eddie. I’m proud of you.” Your eyes twinkled with admiration for his effort. “Yeah, I’ll definitely think about it.”

Once again, Eddie’s brain was short-circuiting under your highlighted features that were glowing from the setting sun. You could visibly make out his eyes raking your face before quicking peering into the parking lot, as to not look so creepy. “So… uh, did practice- is practice over already? You waiting for a ride? Need one?”

“Coach Hannigan let us out early after Jessica Lewis puked all over the field.” You laughed, as he grimaced. “The school’s lunch choice of lasagna was definitely not cut out for tumbling. But, uh, I’m just waiting for Chrissy.” You pointed across the parking lot, where Chrissy was speaking with her father. “I convinced my dad to let us have dinner at Benny’s Diner, and now she’s trying to convince hers.”

“Ah,” Eddie nodded, “y’know, speaking of lunch, uh, Dustin had some pretty- pretty interesting things to say about his little visit to your table.” He smirked behind a piece of his hair that he decided to play with to ease his nerves.

You giggled at his antics. “Did he now?” You played around.

“Yeah, he said, uh- the little shrimp said you called him a cutie. Like absolutely wrote it out and everything.” He felt giddy inside that he was making you laugh right now. “And, hey, y’know me, I’m totally not the jealous type or whatever, but that little shit sure did have a blast rubbing it in my face.”

Despite the burn in your cheeks, you couldn’t stop the giggles that were coming out. “Oh, that reminds me,” you opened and dug around your cheer bag, pulling out a damn yearbook, “Nancy had stopped me before the end of the school day and gifted me this bad boy. You wanna be the first to sign it?”

Eddie’s eyebrows had creased his forehead with their sudden rising. “Really? Me?”

“Yeah,” you handed him the book with a retrieved pen from your backpack, where he began his work, “it’ll also give you good leverage over Dustin, and he’ll be begging to sign mine once he finds out you did.”

Eddie laughed, as he scribbled onto the white page of the book. “Y’know, if you need me to talk to Nancy, I could probably convince her to let you back on the committee.”

“Are you crazy?” You huffed out a chuckle. “I committed treason against Nancy Wheeler, I’ve been exiled from the land of Yearbook Committee, there’s no hope of going back for me.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He smiled, as he continued his writing.

“Do you have a really long middle name I don’t know about?” You tried peaking over the book, but he simply scooted away. “Hey, what’s taking you so long?”

“I gotta make this special for you, sweetheart.” He grinned over to you. “Not every day a pretty girl asks me to sign their yearbook.”

You bit your lip to suppress the ever growing smile on your face, as your cheeks heated with fluster. And soon after, Eddie finally handed back your yearbook, where you were met his three-worded message, and an adorable little sketch of a pretty princess being protected by her knight in shining armor—coincidently sporting the lushes locks of a very metal hairstyle—who was saving her from the scary, large dragon:

For the prettiest princess in the land - E.M

Your finger delicately traced his harsh lines, and Eddie melted as he noticed your beaming smile shining brighter than the sun. “I, uh, I would totally let you sign mine, but see, I’m actually protesting the Yearbook Committee for the human rights violation they oppressed onto their ex-member. Totally standing in solidarity for her. And it’s definitely not because I can’t afford one.” He smirked.

“Oh, yeah, no, I totally get it.” you giggled. “Don’t worry, we’ll revolt against the tyrants of the student body government for their complicit association, and overthrow them for the proletariat.”

Oh my god, you were going to make his knees give out.

Eddie rubbed his face with his hands to get it together, but his reddening face was peaking through his cracking facade of staying collected, and you loved it.

“Y’know, Dustin had also mentioned something else during lunch… something about you wanting to marry-”

“Y/N!” Chrissy shouted and waved over. “He said yes, come on!”

You turned to Eddie with the biggest teasing grin on your face. “Oh, saved by the cheerleader. Guess we’ll never know.” You smirked.

“You little-”

“I’ll see you around, Eddie, bye-bye!” You waved him off.

“Have a good night, princess.” He smiled back.

“Be careful,” You pointed to the pack of cigarettes that lingered in his hand. “I don't want you getting sick from those. That’d be awful, Eddie!” You shouted, as you walked away to Chrissy’s father’s car.

Eddie Munson had to run away immediately, his knees were beginning to buckle.

𝐓𝐚𝐠 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭 | @sierrahhh @harrysgothicbitch @niallerlover8022 @aunicornmademedoit @spring-picnics @sleepy-bunnie @eggo-segual @bambi-horror @aheadfullofsteverogers @sademoloser @freakymunson @princess-eddie @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @negativity4you @nope-thanks @allsortsedits @callingmrsbarnes @f0rgggg @hurricane-abigail @sweet-sunflower64

@redlovett @goldstars-to-all @eddiesguitarskills @goslytherin @sashaphantomhive @maxinehufflepuffprincess @emeritusemeritus @angel-upon @middle-of-the-earth @scarletwitchwhore @my-tearsricochet @pixiepaintt @ericasdumbworld @animechick555 @gewrgia-black @hookandchain @roseanddaggerlarry @prestinalove @sebismyhubby @maddsunn

@zoeymunson @corrcdedcoffin @sweetmariihs2 @thefemininemystiquee @monserat @findmeincorneliastreet @sheneedsrocknroll92 @silent-stories @batkin028 @btbabyy

#stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson angst #the yearbook: club pictures

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depressopax · 3 months

Text

Dating Berlin headcanons

Fandom - La casa de papel/Money Heist

NSFW version

SFW version can be found here

Pairing: Andrés de Fonollosa x gender neutral reader Genre: Smut, headcanons Warning(s): Sexual content. Semi-public, oral, cuss words, degradation, penetration Words: 1.2K Summary: Dating Berlin/Andrés would include… English is not my main language, if I make any spelling mistakes please let me know so I can improve my writing! AO3 link soon

Andrés is a switch… You can’t change my mind

He loves being on top of you, making you beg for him and his cock

…But he also loves being under you, letting you have your way with him while he submits to all of your wishes.

It totally depends on what you like in bed

And what mood he’s in.

He has much stamina and a high sex drive, but sometimes he just likes being lazy, letting you take control while he lays down.

Basically a bit of a “pillow princess” lmao

When he’s being submissive, you’re all his.

He appreciates you being loving, of course

But he also gets turned on by you being rough, with degradation/insults and moving in a fast pace

Fuck it, he gets turned on by you choking him and “light” slaps on his face.

As long as you don’t leave big marks on his skin, he doesn’t mind.

When he’s in control, he has two moods: - Passionate and slow - Fast and rough - No in between, usually.

He loves seeing you all helpless underneath him, making you a moaning, whimpering mess with his hard thrusts and fast pace

Just slutting you tf out

Heads up - if you ask him to be rough, homeboy will NOT hold back.

Seriously, when he says: “I’ll fuck you so you can’t walk straight” He means it.

But of course he also loves to show his love to you with slow, passionate love-making sessions, so he calls them.

Long strokes, lots of praise and kisses

Sex with Andrés means a lot of foreplay and some damn good aftercare.

He likes to really prepare you before penetrating you.

…Which you probably need. He is bigger than other men.

Which he brags about. ;)

He could (and probably will) tease you for hours.

Foreplay with him is usually cheesy.

He lights candles, gives you massages, kisses you and rubs you in oils

He knows what he does with both his hands/fingers and mouth 👀

He takes lot of time to make sure you’re ready

He wants you to beg for his cock before he gives it to you.

He uses condoms, but only if you ask him too.

Otherwise, he probably “forgets”

But sometimes he simply skips the foreplay and goes straight to action.

Usually this is when he’s frustrated, angry or really excited to see you (after being away from you etc)

Where he takes you doesn’t matter

He’ll bend you over anything, at any time, thrusting his cock into you whilst whispering praise

Or while ranting about why he’s in a bad mood - using sex as “therapy”.

When he’s in the mood, he’s a needy/clingy bitch

Sorry not sorry lol

Kissing your neck, playfully spanking your ass… You name it.

Doesn’t matter if you’re around people, he will not hesitate to tell you just how horny he is.

He doesn’t hide his boner from you, either.

Stands behind you, his clothed erection against your ass

You think he’s being annoying? “Do something about it” He’ll murmur with a big ass grin

Won’t stop until he gets to fuck you

OR until YOU fuck him.

He likes riling you up, getting you a bit mad only so you’ll be aggressive with him in bed.

During sex, he is either very serious, but can also crack a joke or two.

He tries to be “funny” especially if you are nervous during sex etc.

Your comfort is his top priority.

Lot of reassurance and questions “You ok?” “Does that feel good, mi amor?” “We’ll stop if you want to.”

He also praises you a lot “Fuck… Taking my cock so well.” “You’re so beautiful. So damn perfect”

When it comes to oral, Andrés doesn’t really have a preference either.

Like I said, this man is a switch.

It’s pretty easy to make him submit to you

Definitely will get on his knees if you ask him too - ready to please your needs

He likes squeezing your thighs, slapping your ass or stroking your stomach and chest when his lips/tongue works down there.

When he gives you oral, he’s very passionate and teasing

But if he’s really turned on tho - he’s messy.

Sloppy oral sex where he uses a bit too much tongue- (I’m sorry 😭)

He could - probably would too - spend hours between your legs, tasting you

…Talks a bit too much “I could spend hours between your legs” “You taste so sweet, mi amor.” “That’s it… Lay back down and let me take care of you.”

Hot, but sometimes annoying lmao

When he’s the one receiving it? Lord have mercy-

Berlin tries to be nice and wants you to feel comfortable.

But how can he not push your head a bit?

If he feels mean, he pushes his hips up, making you gag on his cock.

He likes hearing you choke on him, and the tears in your eyes is a turn-on.

He likes finishing down your throat, holding your head still and basically fuck your face

But if YOU take charge - he’ll lay back down and let you control everything

Just tell him to “Be still”/”Don’t fucking move” and he’ll obey like a good boy <3

This is also one of the times when he’ll whimper and beg for you.

He thinks you’re so damn good at blowjobs, and legit begs for them all the time.

He’s extra sensitive when your mouth is around his member, and making him whimper and moan is easy peasy.

He’s very rewarding after you give him heads, too.

Andrés is a bit of a kinky mf.

He def has some kind of daddy kink, wanting you to call him “daddy” in bed.

Honestly? He wouldn’t mind calling you mommy/daddy in bed too (if you’re into that lmao) - or he will do so just to tease you

He’s into light BDSM, and owns some nice pairs of blindfolds, ropes/handcuffs, a gag and some whips-

The scene where he was tied up? Homeboy enjoyed that a bit too much Iykwim ;)

Sorry, but Andrés is definitely into cockwarming 👀

After finishing, he usually doesn’t pull out but instead keeps his softening member inside of you.

If you are into that too, he suggests for you to cockwarm him during nights.

He just loves being inside of you

When it comes to aftercare, he loves it.

Running you a hot bath, giving massages etc.

He is not the guy that asks for aftercare from you, but he does appreciate you taking care of him after you’ve topped him.

He likes to cuddle you

Also likes having late night conversations with you, talking about dreams and the future, or just random bullshit.

He is very affectionate afterwards.

He loves and cherishes you and always tries showing it to you.

But after sex he is extra loving, which you can tell by the way he looks into your eyes

Or his smile.

To summarize… This man appreciates you no matter what and doesn’t care if he’s over or under you. He is a very passionate man and loves sex with you.

Did I just spend like 2h straight on writing a very detailed Berlin smut? Yep. No regrets 😭

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 9 days

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I don't know uf this counts as ghosting but here goes. 😶‍🌫️

I had a friend group of real smart wise and creative folks, very professional and know everything about the world. We were friends for a few years until I hauled ass to therapy for my ADHD, and realized that I was not being treated as an equal in this group. I'm the only one disabled both ways and it takes me longer to create so my output is nowhere near as high as them, maybe that was a reason. I didn't ask.

What happened is the 2 leaders of this group had insisted that I join, that we'd have so much fun together. Then I ended up being the only one who was talking to them, they never started a conversation on their own since January 2023! My fanarts would go unnoticed, they'd ignore if I sent them news about shit like KOSA, they had their private jokes even. When we were chatting together they'd often ignore or shrug to my comments which felt weird too. I felt like a kid they were being forced to babysit sometimes but they were having a party when I was in another room.

I didn't think they were the socially anxious types at all, in public they're always talking big about good communication and how everyone else sucks at friendship. Naturally I was feeling unwelcome, then the therapist showed me proof of this shit hampering my mental health and job too. It seemed like the most peaceful way out would be to ghost them before softblocking, right?

Wrong, I didn't talk to any of them for a month, then softblocked 5 out of 6 people. The last one was closer to me so I was hesitant, but then she finally decided to send me a text after months asking why I was quitting the group. I tried to not get angry and told her it wasn't the right place or time for me. She said okay and if she could help she would. That is when I accidentally said that maybe treating a friend like you do want them in your life would have helped a few months ago. I said this partially because we have a favourite unpopular ship and these folks often assume someone has switched sides if they aren't actively talking about that ship, privately shading them too.

Anyways the last girl then said Excuse me? Do you not understand how busy we are? Sorry we couldn't cheer for you always but it's not like you were barred from talking to us? You didn't think we could have issues, or that we didn't want to bother you? You couldn't think beyond yourself?

She was still typing when I blocked her. I feel bad and I feel angry. Next therapy session isn't until next month so yeah

AITA for maybe misunderstanding and selfishly ditching friends who may or may not had liked me all along?

#aita #am i the asshole

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em-dash-press · 2 years

Text

Tons of Reasons Why Writer's Block Happens

Lately I've seen a few posts on social media platforms being shared that are (supposedly) quotes from well-known authors. The quotes generally stick to the theme of: writer's block isn't real! No worries! It's just in your head!

Like...

That is so unhelpful for me and if I had seen those people (again, supposedly) saying that when I was much younger and newer to writing, I would have thought something was wrong with me.

So here are a few reasons why writer's block IS real for many people and what you can do about it. (Warning—this is a long text post but I tried putting all suggested solutions in bullet points and have lots of resource hyperlinks!)

You Can’t Write Because: You’re Tired

Sleep affects the entire body. There’s no question that when I don’t get enough of it, my brain isn’t working as well as it normally does.

Let’s start this section with what everyone should acknowledge—mental health conditions absolutely prevent people from being able to use tips like Just turn the lights off earlier! or Think calming thoughts while taking deep breaths!

If those work for you, great. Fantastic! But if they don’t, your doctor is the best person to get advice from. They can work through symptoms with you to rule out conditions like depression and insomnia so you get the best help possible.

Besides your mental health, there are a few other ways you might not be able to fall asleep or stay asleep:

You enjoy drinking afternoon coffee (most have a half life of 3-5 hours, so the caffeine doesn’t actually leave your system for a long time!)

You have a diet soda with your lunch or dinner (most diet sodas have the same amount of caffeine as a half cup to a whole cup of coffee)

You eat a midnight snack or a dessert after dinner (the extra digestion works against your body’s circadian rhythm and prevents a normal sleep cycle)

Potential Solutions

Swap your afternoon coffee/sodas for caffeine free sodas instead

Eat high-protein snacks shortly after or during dinner (protein keeps you full longer so you can eat them earlier in the evening)

Follow some tips from sleep experts with the Sleep Foundation

You Can’t Write Because: Your Routine Is Changing/Has Changed

When my life has gone through routine changes, my creativity has always slowed (if not stopped altogether). Switching from high school to college, from college to graduate life, and even from apartment to apartment is a big deal. My writing slows when I change jobs, see my friends less/more often, and even when the holidays come and go.

If you think this might be a repeat experience in your life, my best advice is to give yourself grace. Your brain is only trying to conserve energy and process everything that’s going on.

Potential Solutions

Resting and gently reattempting to write without expectations of what will come out of that writing session is sometimes the best thing to do until life settles back down.

If you can’t come to peace with changes, I’d suggest talking with someone. You can access help for free at:

7 Cups of Tea (chat with volunteer listeners and professional counselors)

Get in-person or virtual therapy through Open Path ($30-60/session with a one-time membership fee; aims to close the financial gap that keeps people from accessing mental health professionals).

Check out other budget-friendly therapy options recommended by the medical community.

You Can’t Write Because: You’re Grappling With Indecisions

Indecision is a creativity killer for sure. I’ll address a few ways I’ve experienced it and how I know my friends have struggled with it:

You only have a few story ideas and don’t want to commit to any of them in case some idea comes along that’s more interesting (I hate leaving unfinished drafts too!)

You wonder how you should format your story and never start because you can’t decide (it might be the point of view, past/present tense, etc.)

You can’t nail down how a character looks, what sets them apart, what drives them.

You can’t decide on a theme because there’s so much you want to write about.

You don’t know how long the story should be, so it never starts.

Potential Solutions

Try new things to come to peace with unfinished drafts (I have a folder on my computer specifically labeled “Unfinished Stories” because I’m more comfortable when they have a home).

Practice writing one page within your story’s world from a different point of view or tense. See what feels most natural or authentic to you.

Do character research by looking at pictures of people on stock photo websites or Pinterest.

Story length is often found after someone just starts writing. You’ll naturally find a rhythm and come to a conclusion at the right length for your first draft. Revise/add if needed!

My most important tip might be—

Give your gut 24 hours (go with your gut on whatever you’re trying to decide, then set your work down. Come back in 24 hours to see if you feel as strongly about your creative decision).

You Can’t Write Because: You’ve Got Too Many Ideas

When there are too many creative ideas in your brain, it leads to anxiety and potential writer’s block. I know I’ve had the fear that I’ll commit to the “wrong” story and another one will come to life in my mind, but then be gone by the time I’m ready to write it.

Potential Solutions

Write all of your ideas down in a list (bold, highlight, or star whichever ones seem super promising at the time so they stand out when you’re ready for a new project)

Try stream of consciousness journaling for 30 seconds (set a timer! Whatever you write will reveal with emotions/thoughts/issues are on your mind and may create stronger stories with similar themes)

Write 500 words of a story idea (or another number you’re comfortable with; if you don’t like what you write, you know you can move onto the next idea).

Flip a coin (assign one idea heads and the other tails—then flip a coin or use a coin flip generator).

Number your ideas and use a random number generator to pick one for you.

You Can’t Write Because: You’re Not Eating a Brain-Supporting Diet

I’m not here to tell anyone how to structure their diet. Everyone’s body is different and what you eat will change throughout your life. Your doctor and/or a licensed nutritionist are the best people for that job.

However, I can give you a few pointers that I definitely didn’t learn until way later than I would have liked:

Iron: if you don’t eat enough iron, you can feel super sleepy or stuck in brain fog. Iron comes from meat, but it also comes from these foods like spinach, watermelon, beans, whole wheat bread, and many more!

Vitamin D: vitamin D enhances brain function, especially for people with major depressive disorder. Drink that delicious Sunny D juice from your childhood or get it from foods like salmon, tuna fish, dairy fortified with vitamin D, and egg yolks.

Omega-3s: omega-3s are also known as fatty acids, which improve communication between brain cells by fortifying their membrane health. Fish is an excellent source of fatty acids, but you can also enjoy more omega-3s from foods like chia seeds, kidney beans, walnuts, and fortified foods.

You Can’t Write Because: Your Responsibilities Are Too Important Right Now

As you get older, you’ll have varying responsibilities that sometimes you have to take care of on your own. Maybe you’re taking on new roles at your job or you’ve just become a parent. You might move into a new home and have a long list of projects to finish before you settle in.

Sometimes responsibilities are acts of self-care during challenging times. Those are all valid. It’s okay to step back and take a break if your situation is going to drain your energy until your routine becomes normal or you get used to the responsibilities. You’re a writer even when you’re not actively writing. Nothing can take that skill and passion away from you!

You Can’t Write Because: You’re Uninterested In Writing

It’s totally normal to sometimes feel like you’re completely uninterested in writing. That feeling might last for months or even years. I went through a good 5-6 year period where I didn’t think I’d ever write again just because I didn’t care to.

That may indicate that you’re in a period of self-growth. You might be discovering new parts of yourself that result in new hobbies you’d rather spend your time doing. That’s okay too!

Possible Solutions

If that’s not the case for you, ask yourself—are you still reading? My writing always grinds to a halt when I’m not reading a good book. Ask a friend what was the last book they couldn’t put down. Find out which books are currently taking the internet by storm and find them at your local library.

You can even research “Books like ___” and insert the title of a book that’s incredibly special to you. I promise there are going to be articles looping it in with other titles that you might enjoy more than branching out into a totally new genre.

You Can’t Write Because: You’re Bored of Your Story

Life can get boring. People are sometimes boring. Stories get boring too.

It’s okay to step back from an idea if you groan at the thought of spending time in that world or with that character. You can always come back to see if the feeling has passed.

Possible Solutions

If your story is still dull when you come back to it, what can you add or change about it? You might need a plot twist to get things going in a new direction or another character to shake up existing character dynamics.

When all else fails and you still don’t care to continue writing what you’ve got, go ahead and scrap it. Consider what you’ve learned from the experience and move onto your next creative adventure.

You Can’t Write Because: Your Story Is Stuck

Maybe you’re writing a story and it reaches a point in the plot where you don’t know how to move your characters forward. They may have gotten themselves into a sticky situation you can’t think a way out of or the plot device that was working isn’t relevant anymore. Getting stuck is a form of writer’s block, but it’s not permanent.

Potential Solutions

Give your protagonist a different goal at the start of the story or a new goal after accomplishing their last one.

Add a new character (they’ll naturally make different choices than your protagonist and challenge them in various ways that are relevant to your themes).

Pull the rug out from under your protagonist (maybe they think they’re an incredible parent, but overhear their child complaining about them to a friend during a sleepover while walking past the living room).

Other Resources

12 Techniques for Getting Un-Stuck

17 Ideas to Continue Writing Your Novel When You Get Stuck

6 Methods to Unstick Your Story

You Can’t Write Because: Your Characters Aren’t Real Enough to You

Sometimes characters don’t feel real enough and it makes writing about them boring. Everyone encounters this eventually! Think about if your writer’s block is happening because you don’t enjoy spending time with your characters.

If that’s the problem, it’s time to make them more real. There are a few ways to do that! (If you try these solutions or others like them and your characters are still uninspiring, it might be time to walk away for a while/permanently.)

Potential Solutions

Give them something inspired by a real life person (add a personality trait that you love about your best friend, hate about a public figure, want in yourself, etc.).

Add a few flaws (perfect characters don’t feel real because no one is perfect)

Give them a face (this goes back to character research—save a stock photo that looks like your character or draw them. Post the picture on your wall where you write or in your phone for continual inspiration.)

Rework your plot (maybe you’re not starting them at the best possible point in their journey—start with an action scene, shift events around, or add a new twist that challenges their growth in some way.)

Complicate their relationships (maybe they have a fight with their best friend, clash with their teacher, form different opinions than someone they admire and learn from that experience, etc.)

Other Resources

9 Signs Your Main Character is Boring

5 Ways to Make Your Characters More Realistic

4 Bland Character Problems and How to Fix Them

Easy And Effective Ways To Make Your Characters More Memorable

You Can’t Write Because: You’ve Set High Expectations for Yourself

Your creativity will stop feeling as natural if your expectations of yourself or your writing are too high.

When it’s time to write, where do your thoughts go? You may need healthier expectations if your thoughts center around:

Getting every word or scene perfect

Knowing exactly where the plot goes in every chapter

Worrying that your story won’t be receptive to future readers

Wondering if you’re the right person to talk about a certain theme

Making your characters or story the first of its kind

It’s good to challenge yourself, but not with unreachable expectations. Give yourself room to try things, to possibly fail, to learn from your mistakes.

Every chance you have to write is another opportunity to hone your skills by learning from the experience.

You Can’t Write Because: You’re Burnt Out

Burnout happens all the time, creatively or otherwise. Creative minds can push themselves too hard, just like you can throw too much of your energy into work or school.

See if you’re experiencing any of these common symptoms of burnout:

Constant exhaustion, even after a “good” night’s rest

Headaches

Changes in appetite

Frequent illnesses

No motivation

A general negative outlook on life

Feeling trapped

Loud thoughts of self-doubt or failure

Not feeling satisfied with things that used to bring you joy

Feeling alone

Starting unhealthy coping mechanisms

Isolating yourself from people, even your loved ones

Potential Solutions

Talking with a therapist is a great way to handle burnout. Here are the resources for budget-friendly therapy again:

7 Cups of Tea (chat with volunteer listeners and professional counselors)

Get in-person or virtual therapy through Open Path ($30-60/session with a one-time membership fee; aims to close the financial gap that keeps people from accessing mental health professionals).

Check out other budget-friendly therapy options recommended by the medical community.

I have absolutely been the person who can’t afford therapy. I get it. You can also get some mental health help with these resources:

Self care apps—I use the (free) Finch app every day to redirect negative thought patterns!

Burnout recovery strategies recommended by health care professionals

Burnout resources recommended by the American Psychiatric Association (APA)

You Can’t Write Because: Your Writing Routine Isn’t Working Anymore

I used to write short stories literally every day while I was in grade school. Being stuck in classes for 8 hours a day was great for my creative writing because the sounds of the teacher talking, whiteboard markers writing, and students asking questions became background noise that tuned me into my stories. (I highly recommend paying attention to harder classes though 😂)

When I had fewer daily classes in college, my writing basically stopped. After I graduated, the environment that helped me write most easily completely disappeared.

It took a long time for me to learn why I had writer’s block—I wasn’t experimenting with my writing environment.

Potential Solutions

Try changing when you write to see if it’s a time issue. Get up earlier in the morning, write after eating lunch, or sit down after you’ve completed your responsibilities for the day.

Switch your scenery. You might write better at a coffee shop, the library, a park bench, your living room, your bed, or even your bathtub.

Change what you’re hearing. Try writing in complete silence. Use noise-blocking or canceling headphones and listen to lyricless music. You can also try background noises that often help people focus, like:

Background Noise—Coffee Shop

Background Noise—Tavern Fireplace

Background Noise—Rain Shower

Background Noise—Cozy Fireplace and Rain Shower

Background Noise—Forest Sounds

Background Noise—Blizzard Sounds

Background Noise—Interior Plane Cabin White Noise (The pleasant hum of a plane cabin is what I often write to—weird as it admittedly is!)

Background Noise—Christmas Music From Another Room

Background Noise—Lo-Fi

Ambient noise apps

Background noise apps

You Can’t Write Because: You Don’t Feel Motivated

Your story may not feel as captivating as you thought because you’re not as motivated with this one. Does it have a centralized theme? You can always search for your theme or pick one while figuring out what your story is supposed to convey to readers.

Some popular themes are:

Coming of age (discovering something about yourself/the world/both)

Survival

Corruption

Power

Courage

Love

Heroism

Death

Prejudice

You may find your motivation by writing about something very personal to you or something you want to tell other people. Write to the person in your life who needs to see something from your perspective or needs to learn from another person’s perspective.

Write about the thing you can’t stop talking about. Write about what you’re going through or want to figure out. Even if your story goes from a novel to a short story to flash fiction (anywhere from 4 words to 1,000 words), you’ll likely find it easier to write.

Other Resources

10 Most Popular Literary Theme Examples

Story Themes List: 100+ Ideas to Explore in Your Novel

100 Story Ideas Categorized by Theme

You Can’t Write Because: You’re Doubting Yourself

Self-doubt can pull the emergency brake on your brain. You may not think you’re good enough to write a story the moment you think of it. Self-doubt can come into play after you start writing or just before you finish a manuscript.

No matter when it hits you, it can cause another form of writer’s block. You’re the only person who can figure out where that doubt stems from and address the root of the problem, but everyone can practice daily positive affirmations to encourage themselves. With daily practice, you’ll chip away at your writer’s block.

While talking to a mirror or writing in a journal, tell yourself things like:

Writing is my hobby because it’s part of me.

I’m always a writer, no matter how often I actually write.

My voice and ideas deserve to exist.

Every word I write makes me better at writing.

No matter what comes out of my brain, stories are always my artwork.

Other Resources

Positive Affirmations for Writers

60 Affirmations for Writers, Authors, and Creatives

77 Positive Affirmations for Discouraged Writers

336 Affirmations For Writers Who Needs Support

60 Affirmations for Authors, Writers, and Poets

You Can’t Write Because: You’re Literally Out of Ideas

Ideas come and go. Sometimes your brain just can’t think of anything. There’s nothing wrong with your creative spirit—you may just have other things going on (like one or more of the above challenges).

When you really want to write something but can’t come up with anything off the top of your head, use a few generators to get things started.

Potential Solutions

Prompt Generators

Writing Prompt Generator by Genre

Prompt Generator

Random Prompt Generator

Story Generators

Plot Generator (Twists, First Lines, and More)

1 Million Plot Combinations

1000s of Plot Ideas Generator

Character Generators

Character Generator

List of Character Generators (Zombies, Fairies, Ghosts, Murder Mystery Victims, etc.)

Character Profile Generator

Plot Twist Generators

Plot Twist Idea Generator

Randomized Plot Twist Generator

Either/Or Plot Twist Generator

—

I hope this helps someone feel more at peace with their writer’s block, even if you can’t think your way through it yet. Sit with the uncomfortable feeling and it will gradually lose its power over your creativity.

You’ll start writing again sooner than you think. 💛

#writers block #writing resources #writeblr #writing tips #writing community #writers of tumblr #writing advice #writing help #plot creation #character creation #writing prompts #writing generators

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throwaway-yandere · 1 year

Text

Therapy (Yandere Idol!Ayato/Reader)

A/n: The CEO finally let me write “a/n” instead of “mother of Klee, Alice’s note” from now on now that the shareholder is missing! Anywaaaayysss… You look well-rested, Producer fox! What’s your secret? Won’t you tell mother Alice?

CW: hypnosis, panic attacks

Yandere 1k Idol Event

“(Y/n)... (Y/n), (Y/n), (Y/n).”

Kamisato Ayato chanted your name, voice dipping into a borderline death threat.

“My dear producer, isn’t this far enough? I am not playing games anymore. Why don’t you reveal yourself before I make you?”

You made no sound inside the closet you’ve claustrophobically folded your knees and arms to fit into. Both hands covered your mouth while your heart beat erratically– but the sensation surely had less friction compared to Ayato’s fingers.

He chuckled darkly. “Not up to it? Oh, but what if I started counting to three?”

You bit your lip, holding back tears.

A moment ago, you saw him rip his pillows in half after realizing you were no longer sleeping in his bed. Cotton materials were littered above his azure sheets and some were swept by the wind, dangerously close to the closet you were hiding in. His elegant demeanor crumbled and you jolted at the sharp sound of torn cloth. Ayato repeatedly clawed through the bed, his breathing guttural and erratic as he fruitlessly threw the rest of the pillows away. Your name no longer sounded right to you. It doesn’t sound like it was yours with the way he mumbles it like a curse or a lost possession.

Although his face couldn't be seen from this perspective, you can still picture his lips being uncannily spread from ear to ear. Your muscles tensed even more at the sound of his feral yet strained laughter. You don’t know where you are but based on how isolated the area was, you’re clued on a bit as to approximately where he’s keeping you hidden.

This is not his estate. This is not any of Teyvat Production’s buildings. The answer is closer to these keywords: Grand Narukami Land Reform Program.

You felt your heart pounding in your chest as his footsteps echoed louder– closer. Nausea started creeping in.

Be quiet… be quiet like a fox, (Y/n)…!

“Come now, Producer (L/n). Do you no longer trust me? I'll start counting. One… Two…”

—---

“It’s three o clock, sir– where have you been?”

Dressed in fine yet slovenly material, Kamisato Ayato enters the room. Looking from afar tells you what you need to know about him. Yes, he’s a byproduct of an aristocratic family who pursued an artistically sensitive path of politics, but by his smile alone, anyone can tell he's a notable outlier.

The corners of his eyes crinkled as he stared at you. As always, his lean body stands firm, not unlike a Hinoki tree on a misty morning. This is precisely the reason why your eyes targeted his wet clothing and not his well-versed smile.

Unimpressed by his absence while you were out working for the entire day, you asked as politely as you could. You've been bombarded with tasks as of late, disastrously to the point that you even started managing the Inazuman food supplies in the cafeteria.

"Sir Kamisato, may I inquire as to why you look positively haggard?"

The idol grins wryly at your voice before squeezing some locks of his hair near his scalp. His pursed lip belied both child-like innocence and weariness of a man without youthful aspirations. Some sweat also seeped between his fingers, which only served to amplify your distress.

Ayato averted his gaze, intent on answering you without giving too much of himself away.

"It was a difficult singing session and the space lacked ventilation."

"It's snowing." You deadpanned.

Ayato shrugged "It's a… mixture of both sweat and snow, I suppose."

You snatched the script off his hands.

Needless to say, he was definitely not practicing a song.

"Didn't Thoma or Childe agree to accompany you?"

Before making the switch to idol work, Childe was once known as Tartaglia in the theater industry. You suspect he's the reason behind Ayato's current fixation on acting. It's not a secret that Sir Kamisato had been eyeing the barren sixth and tenth spots of the Commedia Del Arte troupe for quite a while now…

"Thoma attended a talk show with Aether and Zhongli whereas Childe was preoccupied with his training."

Archery training most likely for that man’s next athletic competition, but you're not Producer Sage so you don't particularly care. Your eyebrows furrowed.

"Do you want to stay in ADDICKTZ longer than necessary?"

For a moment, his expression stiffened before it relaxed back into his usual languid smile.

If a well-dressed atheist quietly sits through a mass, most devotees cannot tell whether they're worshipping or attending. The same reasoning can be used to explain Kamisato Ayato's reputation. The juxtaposition of the perfect princely archetype paired with a stressed-out overachiever– that was your opinion on him the first few weeks you worked in Teyvat Productions. And you were right.

Sir Kamisato had always been open to you about his detachment from the idol group. In his eyes, every ADDICKTZ-related activity is a mere play pretend worthy enough for him to generate fabricated happiness to fuel his agendas. His idol works are not so different from the nihonga pieces the Kamisato Clan collected throughout the generations– a beautiful artwork, but not something he's deeply involved in. His career thrived off countless facework and dramaturgical approaches in fan interactions, false but not cheap. He is what the creative director and his assistant made him out to be, and he doesn't seem content or completely dissatisfied with this arrangement.

It’s obvious that he’s not here to satisfy Ayaka’s obsession with the idol industry– he’s your boss simply because there’s a political gain you aren’t privy to know the details to.

You'd wager a guess that this career shift likely had something to do with the Kamisato clan's land reform scandals… but you're not here for politics. Lady Yae always watches your every move to make sure you know little regarding the “real” paperwork Sir Kamisato does.

However, you can’t help but feel as if you were involved with one of these scandals before… you just can’t remember what incident it was.

"My apologies, Producer (L/n). I will not do it again."

"As you should." You pouted. "You caused me a great deal of worry."

Ayato opened his mouth before quickly shutting it. For a supposed political heir, words had failed him. His posture resembled that of an abandoned puppy as he slouched and sighed.

You laughed softly.

Open mind, open arms– you let him hug you gently as Ayato mumbled something about his workload. You’re so used to this that you didn’t mind how uncomfortably damp his back was. This is a normal occurrence between you two. After nearly half a year, Ayato opened up about missing his sister's hug after a long day and you offered to be a substitute. You ran your fingers through his sweaty hair, feeling him breathing softly near the shell of your ear.

“Producer (L/n)…”

“Yes?”

“I must memorize the script before sundown…”

You shook your head. How surprisingly predictable of him to bring that up.

“I won’t let you pick it up until you have a thirty-minute rest.”

“Why don’t we make this a game then?” He pulled back, a sly smile gloating just a bit to let you know he doubts you’d win. “This will be our second acting game– see which one of us can perform the script best. Win, and I’ll be the one finishing this week’s paperwork.”

As an older brother, Sir Kamisato has a habit of inventing games. The "reading game," "cursive-writing game," and "hotpot game" were all unmistakably created to discipline and make his younger sister Ayaka behave. However, she is now a young adult, and you are unquestionably much older than she is. You're not clear as to why he believed this "acting game" tactic would work.

But the “second” acting game? You’ve never read a script aloud with him before, though.

Oh, well. Picking up a script is worth trading the paperwork you were meant to be doing.

“If it lessens my workload, I don’t see why not…”

Working for the idol industry can be very demanding, after all. If you win, you'll probably squander your spare time to snack on sweets... and work on a few chores– okay, so you're not the best at being still. You’ll probably multitask working on Ayato’s theater work either way. That, or you'd plan a new deck for your next 25-minute TCG game with him.

He grabbed the script from behind you as his smile got bigger. Ayato handed the pages back after swiftly leafing through them and pointing at the highlighted passages.

“Scene IV – Act IV,” he said, his excitement subtly infecting his tone. “This is where my character helps Emperor Edel relax.”

You furrowed your eyebrows, confused. “I was under the impression that Hubert was Kaeya’s role.”

“Ah, I’ve forgotten to inform you but I’ve replaced Alberich since the eye incident.”

You know little about this “We Will Be Reunited” play 4/8 of ADDICKTZ are involved in but based on word-of-mouth, it appeared to be about an emperor and a retainer who had to betray former classmates to win a continental war. Seems like he wanted you to read the emperor’s lines.

He dimmed the lights to set the scene. Thankfully, only the two of you occupied his TeyPro's room. There's no one else lingering in the east wing, including Dr. Albedo's room next door.

“I see…” You muttered. “So, I shall be the first to start, correct?”

Sir Kamisato nodded. “Yes, you can begin with the ‘you think this can help me?’ line.”

You cleared your throat and repeated the phrase with much fervor.

“– I mean, I trust you Hubert, but I’d rather not face another disappointment in life again.”

Just like that, Kamisato Ayato’s demeanor shifted.

“My emperor (Y/n), I know that trusting another person isn’t easy, especially for someone like you with high status,” he spoke, voice laced with compassionate conviction. “But you have placed your trust in me, and of course, I will not let you down.”

As you listened to his delivery, you struggled to contain your grin of pride. For someone who looked ready to sleep on the floor when he entered the room, his voice carried the emotional weight worthy of becoming a professional theater actor. Hence, you decided not to comment on how he used your name instead of “Emperor Edel” for the sake of momentum. He knows what he's doing. This is the first time he called you by your first name– he's trying to fluster you.

“Hubert…” You muttered melodramatically, not knowing how the character should act or sound. “Fine, do what you must.”

“Thank you, my dear.”

You took another glance at the script and noticed that there weren't as many lines left for your character, which annoyed you. It seemed that Sir Kamisato deliberately set you up to fail. How can you win when he hasn't even gotten through one-third of his lines and you have already finished yours?

“Edel, I need you to look at me,” he spoke softly. “I need you to listen to the sound of my voice and follow my lead, understood?"

Since you weren't sure what to say in the first place, you didn't improvise any lines. You continued to sit next to him. He raised his hand near your face while he reads his lines. Your eyes naturally focus on his index and middle fingers as he points them up in the air. You don't understand the reasoning behind it, but there would be consequences if you check the script to see if that's written down. He would make up some nonsensical justification to deduct your points for this "acting game.” It's obvious. He’s not the only person in the world who can plot things like these.

“Are you still listening?” He muttered in a crisp yet low voice.

Your eyes squinted a little in an unsuccessful attempt to focus on his hazy image. You were naturally more inclined to focus on the two fingers between your faces, struggling to keep yourself awake.

… Struggling to keep yourself awake?

He moved his fingers slowly to the left.

“My liege, the pressure you’re carrying is an unimaginably heavy burden…” He slowly shifted his fingers to the right. His voice was barely above a whisper, and you were this siren’s only listener.

There’s a rhythm in his delivery. The charisma that his singing voice would convey remained present in his speaking voice, “even the smallest of tasks have been assigned to you– each minor inconvenience stacking up stress you do not need to carry alone. But you must continue to trust me. Focus on no one else but me and my voice alone. Only I can help you relax.”

… Were you so tired from work that this acting is actually working on you?

His fingers moved to the left again. For unexplainable reasons, your breathing wasn’t as shallow as it was earlier. You’ve made a mental note of how deeper it was compared to when Ayato first entered the room. Still, it’s too much of a draining challenge to focus on his face that you allow yourself to become absorbed in watching his slender fingers instead. You can no longer see his blue hair or face clearly.

Unbeknownst to you, your mouth was slightly agape–

and Ayato had been clenching his other hand tight in an attempt to resist the urge to capture your lips.

He dryly cleared his throat in a nearly inaudible sound.

Ayato needs to take this slowly.

He won't repeat the same mistake twice.

“T-This… ‘method’ may not be as comfortable as I would’ve hoped, perhaps a tad bit extreme, but I assure you that it is effective (Y/– Edel.” He bit the inside of his cheek. “Please, follow my lead…”

Of course.

“Left… Right… Left… Right…”

Your eyes moved as commanded.

“Left… Right… Left… Right…”

He chanted those words thrice and more.

… Why do you feel like you’ve done this several times before?

Sir Kamisato kept talking and talking…

His features blurred and the outline of his lips and nose disappeared, but his lilac eyes were clear. Eerily clear. As if it was the only feature of his visage left. You held back a yawn. You're sloppily reminded that the room remained dark, lulling you without questioning his face’s uncanny emptiness.

Nearly faceless.

You blinked laconically.

What’s going…?

“Sir Kamisato I…” You yawned, unable to keep it in for much longer. “I-I think I might have to take a break…”

Kamisato Ayato smiled, but you couldn’t see that.

“An important dimens… to the concept of hyp…. thera… is how the therap… and their …ient perceive their environment. One impor… set of beliefs the patient must hold is their concepti… of trust they have for their therapi… and the safet… that co… along… with it.”

You could no longer follow his string of words.

Was that… from the script? Or is he talking to you?…

He continued, his grin growing wider.

“It warms my heart to know that you trust me, my b…ved. Trust me enough to beli… I would receive the… lead role– trust me enough to mindlessly believe that there’s a scene in …. that requires hypnosis therapy.”

“Take a break. You deserve the rest more than I do.”

That was the only full sentence you understood.

“Promise…” You yawned again, fluttering your eyes shut. “Promise you’ll wake me up?”

He laughed.

—------

Kamisato Ayato opened the door to the closet and your heart finally sank. You gasped as a pair of empty lilac eyes towered and stared down at you. He bent down and roughly grabbed you by the arm like one of his sister's stuffed animals, leaving you with nowhere to run. Your perception of an upstanding nobleman was shattered and stepped on as his twitching hands yanked you by the collar.

His fingertips were red. His fingertips were warm– and it was all because of the mess he made with the torn-up pillows earlier.

He found you.

The first game concluded, and much like the second game with “Edel” and “Hubert” in the present, Kamisato Ayato won this round.

“There you are. Why, I never would’ve guessed that you’re a sleepwalker–... (L/n)...? (L/n)? Why are you…”

Kamisato Ayato, a broken boy, hugged you. You can’t hear him– you can’t breathe enough– you can’t feel his warmth– all you feel is a restricting pain in your chest that screams this was the end of the line. You could no longer function.

He can't have that. He doesn't want to see you like this.

He loves you. Don't you understand that?

Then why were you shaking?

“No. No, no– b-breathe, breathe… W-Why do you look so terrified? P-Please… “ His hands trembled as he held you. No longer from anger, but from fear.

He doesn't want to break you.

“Please don’t be scared of me, (Y/n),” he whimpered desperately.

"T-Thoma! I need help, right now!" Ayato bit his lip, as he rubbed circles on your shoulders. He doesn't know what to do, but there's only one objective left in his mind–

Kamisato Ayato needed to find a way to put you back together.

---------

He nodded, playing with your hair.

It's been months since that incident now. Thanks to Lady Yae's help, you would've likely forgotten all about it. You're back, almost brand new, and your health had became his priority.

Kamisato Ayato, idol and heir of the Kamisato Clan, will not repeat the same mistake twice.

“Promise, I won't forget to wake you up, (Y/n). After all, it seems I'm close to mastering my skills on 'EM██ th██apy'.”

Ayato cooed and kissed your forehead, but you were already deep in sleep to know that.

“I promise I will no longer break you, unlike last time, my beloved.”

Ansytea: thank you, 🦊 anon for joining the match-ups~ and hehe happy holidays to you as well!!!

#ansy-writes #yandere ayato #yandere ayato x reader #yandere kamisato ayato x reader #yandere kamisato ayato #yandere male #yandere genshin #yandere genshin impact #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #x reader #yandere oneshot #yandere fanfiction #tw: yandere #tw: panic attack #yandere genshin x reader #tag: yan!1k idol event #🦊 anon

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pebiejeebies · 5 months

Text

Uhh weird chat abt why I think nickel’s apology was sketchy

NICKEL.. wasn’t the one who said sorry.

AND BEFORE YOU SCREAM AT MY FACE ANYTHING LET ME SPEAK!! I HAVE A REASON!

let’s talk about clover.

remember an/some episode(s) ago when nickel went on a therapy session with clover? Right?

she told him to rethink his whole life right??

NICKEL DIDNT RETHINK HIS LIFE. CLOVER DID.

It was all clover. Think about it

she’s lucky. She gets whatever she wants because of it too.

if she WANTS nickel to be friends with balloon, she will WISH that he becomes friends with him.

WHICH MEANS. there’s a high chance this whole apology was all just clover’s luck

we’ve seen how that stupid box was forced to do something it mentally/physically couldn’t. And it ended up doing what clover wanted (or at least keep her safe)

think about it. One episode, therapy with clover, next episode? Magically becomes the most nicest man ever and supports balloon while giving him his own space.

His apology felt so off, at first I was like YOOOO NICKLOON!! But in reality it was all clover, it’s just so off to me man.. maybe I just hate nickel or smth

But really think about it, there’s no way ANY person or object would do a full mental switch up THIS EASILY?! I took YEARS to stop abusing my sisters mentally and physically. There’s no way a fucking month will change him this quick. TRUST. ME.

I was as horrible as nickel and even worse too, it took years of struggle and patience to obtain what I have today! But nickel? NICKEL? NICKEL?!?! makes the luck do it all for him.

and that made me so fucking angry. you made me question myself and why I took so long to change, you are making other people think change is THAT EASY. you PEICE OF SHIT. (Not you dw, I mean AE)

Literally to the point I feel like nickel was like some sort of puppet or smth

Clover: do this

Nickel: alright

AND EVEN WHEN HE DOES IT ISNT EVEN HIS FUCKING CHOICE. IT ISNT. ITS HER LUCK. NOT NICKEL. now nickel feels like he fucking achieved something, when it was all clover.

LIKE COME ON. you made the fandom happy over something that could potentially be a lie?? There’s no way he magically becomes all cute and sweet and STAYS like that after her luck goes away. There’s just no way.

and ofc it had to be clover, it was all just to say “Oh he changed so quick because of—“ EXACTLY. they are cowards. they don’t wanna make the character slowly struggle and try to get better

they wanna get to the point and that’s it

so everyone goes WOAHHHH NICKLOON!! YAYY!! (no hate to the nickloon shippers btw) without taking so long, because they don’t know how to write any characters without some big flaw

So let’s just make clover “help” him!! Cause she’s lucky!! Yay!! And he can just change in a day or two!1 YAYY!!!/s

HERES ANOTHER POINT TOO. SHE CAME OUT OF THE FUCKING BLUE IN THAT EPISODE. “oh I just wanted to be a detective” yeah sure ae. Sureee… sure thing mf. Just solve one fucking word puzzle game and call yourself a detective. Idiots. (Again, pointed towards ae)

take a moment and think about this. Because maybe I’m just wrong, I’m usually wrong anyways. I just need to know I can’t be the only one who thinks that clover was the one who apologized, not nickel.

But for once I feel like I’m right about this, and if I am.. AE im fucking onto you. You fucking cowards.

(and before you ask, no. I’m not okay. I hate how they made me question myself. And I hate how they’re saying it’s so easy to change, and I hate how they’re so lazy about someone’s personality shift)

I don’t hate the animators. I don’t hate the storyboarders, I don’t hate the voice actors, I don’t hate ANYONE in ae. EXCEPT these fucking writers. There are so many better writers out there with ACTUAL ideas and ACTUAL talent, and experience and so much more about life and personality.

even I can write better characters without even planning it out. Imagine. Skill issue fr.

Please note that this isn’t targeted to you either, your opinion on this is valid, so is mine. Let’s keep this chat friendly though.

#ii neg #clover neg #nickel neg #pb vents

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scoops-aboy86 · 1 month

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Cute hospital date shenanigans for the boys, and a brief shovel talk from Robin. 😊

Part 1, part 1.5, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9 of the love spell no go au

They do have their hospital cafeteria date a few weeks later, and the food is as terrible as Steve promised. Or it looks terrible, anyway; Eddie sticks to jello. Eventually Steve gives up on the saddest attempt at a club sandwich either of them has ever seen (and Eddie has been privy to Wayne’s half-hearted bachelor attempts in the kitchen for years), gets back in line, and comes back with a tray full to capacity with more jello cups.

They attempt to treat them like jello shots until Eddie nearly busts a stitch laughing. Not quite, but It still hurts, and Steve keeps falling all over himself apologizing for the next half hour, but Eddie genuinely doesn’t care. It feels like he hasn’t been able to laugh like that in years, and before he’d grabbed his side and said “Ow” he thinks Steve looked more carefree than he’d seen him in… possibly ever. The existence of Upside Down had been weighing on him for years, and even though Eddie hadn’t known at the time he can tell that Steve holds himself differently now that it’s gone. In just the time Eddie has been awake, the dark smudges under his eyes have gotten lighter, less severe.

And, Robin tells him one of the rare occasions Steve isn’t at his bedside, the obsessive jogging and workout sessions have tapered off.

“Thank god,” Eddie groans, leaning theatrically back into his pillows as if in a swoon. “I don’t think my delicate constitution could handle it if he ever asked me to go for a run with him.” But really, he’s relieved that Steve isn’t pushing himself so hard, running himself ragged to prepare for a threat that has finally been put down for good.

Robin snorts. “Yeah, I think we can safely rule out that happening. He pestered Dustin into helping him find books on physical therapy at the library though, so I’m pretty sure you’re still in for it.”

“… Okay, that sounds ominous.”

“Doesn’t it just.” She leans forward, eyes narrowing slightly. “The dingus is very invested in making sure you heal up as best you can, and I think you know what happens when he sets his mind to something. You’re going to get well to within an inch of your life, mister, and if you ever bitch enough to make him truly upset or feel unwanted in any way, I will destroy your fretting hand. Got it?”

Eddie swallows hard. “Loud and clear, Bucks.”

“Good!” Robin sits back, switching easily from deeply threatening to relaxed and smirking. “Now that that’s out of the way, I can tease you for being just as much of a romantic as he is. A love spell, really?”

That’s when Steve returns from the bathroom, overhears, and groans. “Rob, I hadn’t told him I told you yet! You’re making me look like a jackass…”

“No no, I knew what I was getting into with you two,” Eddie says, recovering from the threat Steve had missed and flashing him a grin—because he does. Even before he was clued in on all the monster hunting stuff, he’s seen how close Steve and Robin have become since last summer. It makes even more sense now that he knows about the Russians (and that as a lesbian and a bisexual dude they’d bonded over a shared appreciation of boobies) but he already knew they tell each other everything and support each other relentlessly, even if it’s something dumb. Maybe especially if it’s something dumb.

And then he turns back to Robin with a gleam in his eye.

“By the way, Bucks, you might want to get used to the door swinging both ways, because I heard about the time you screwed up the laundry and crawled in his window before dawn on a school day looking like a pink marshmallow peep trying to steal some of his clothes.”

Robin whips her head around towards Steve. “You swore you wouldn’t tell anyone about that!”

“Why are both of you doing this to me?” Steve asks with a pout. “What did I do?”

“You’re a gossip, sweetheart,” Eddie tells him with a grin. “But we both still love you, don’t worry. Here, you want my pudding cup?”

“I thought that was the only part of the shitty hospital meals you actually like,” Steve protests, but gamely comes over (via the side of the bed opposite of Robin, who sticks her tongue out at him) and settles himself carefully on the edge of the bed at Eddie’s side.

“The meatloaf is marginally more edible than whatever that chicken casserole thing they usually serve. But we can share,” Eddie offers, and takes Steve’s pleased hum as his answer.

“You guys are going to give me a toothache,” Robin grumbles.

Steve lifts his head a little. “Shit, that reminds me. Help me remember later to call the dentist?” He’s looking at Robin, but quickly redirects his attention as soon as Eddie nudges the pudding spoon against his lips.

“Oh? What happened to Mr. Oh So Superior, ‘I never have to go to the dentist Robs, that whole summer eating ice cream and not one single cavity’?”

At the word ‘cavity,’ a tiny landslide of memory is triggered in the back of Eddie’s head and he clears his throat sheepishly. “Uh, that might’ve been me, actually. The not getting cavities after Scoops, and the, um, getting them again now.”

Steve pauses with his mouth full of a second spoonful, little traces of chocolate on his lips that Eddie is valiantly resisting licking right now. His “Mm-hmm?” sounds like it’s maybe meant to be a ‘Really?’

So Eddie explains some of his panicked spellcasting while Steve was missing beneath the mall. Steve and Robin keep exchanging these looks—”Was it to protect teeth or nails, Munson? Which one?” “Yeah, because I almost got a nail pulled off with Russian pliers, so maybe it was both” is a series of sentences that will haunt him for a long time—and by the time it’s over he’s promised to recast that spell for the entire Party. He declines to mention it’ll probably be a while before he has the energy for that and will leave him with a monster headache whenever he does, because they just saved the fucking world. And yeah, the government is flat out paying them not to tell anyone about it this time along with the usual NDAs, but they definitely deserve to exist free of dental expenses for the rest of their lives.

Also by the end of the conversation, Steve has absentmindedly finished off the pudding. Eddie doesn’t even mind, just chuckles and kisses Steve’s nose when he tries to apologize, because he’d wanted his boy to have it anyway.

Tag list (comment to be added): @hotluncheddie @8em-em-em8 @anaibis @connected-dots @lawrencebshoggoth

Part 11

#wg steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #robin buckley #love spell no go au #scoops words

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abrthephantomq · 2 months

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Soooo....

Turnabout Storyteller.

I had already vaguely known about Uendo having DID due to me not necessarily avoiding spoilers when reading fanfic, but...

I have so many thoughts on this as someone who HAS the disorder they're representing here.

Like, one, I definitely appreciated the way they revealed it -- during a Mood Matrix session. Having multiple sets of feelings and having them switch on and off like that is def a thing. I've/we've experienced that before.

But also -- before that, when Uendo was switching between his "characters" and everyone thought he was just putting on a performance? Yeah, see. They did that really well considering that like -- yes, the way alters hold the body/the face can be really different. They certainly felt like different people, which was really cool to see. I liked the different poses they had because as I played I was like, "Huh... is he the character with DID...? He is, right?"

The thing is, I'm like 80% certain that Uendo is the murderer, and THAT annoys me -- but I'm not done playing through the case, yet. I just started the second half of the trial, so.... I'll comment as I go.

But if I'm right and Uendo IS the murderer, I'm gonna have to roll my eyes because soooo many pieces of media use my disorder to show HEY SOMEONE WITH THIS COULD BE A KILLER AND NOT KNOWWWWW and I hate that. Because like.... no.

OH THANK GOD. Like 3 seconds into the send half of the trial and it's NOT Uendo. Yay. Yayyyyy. I'm actually really glad they did that subversion of the person-with-DID-is-the-killer trope. Thank fucking GOD.

SIMON GRABBING ATHENA when she starts to doubt she can prove Bucky's innocence is just -- fuck. Okay. Yeah, I see why the fandom loves that particular moment. (I love Simon so much omfg).

I am honestly loving this case and I actually really like the way they've presented Uendo -- it's simplified a bit for the sake of the audience, but at the same time, switching DO be like that. And you can certainly be co-conscious and share memory.

Like.... that's legitimately how our System works -- there's usually 2-3 of us up front at any given time, with someone generally more forward, while the other(s) listens / watches. Sometimes others push to the front. And there are 4 of us who more or less have access to the continual life happenings even if we don't always recollect specific details (or what we were feeling) later.

Also Owen being a LITTLE makes so much damn sense? Fuck, idk man, I love it. I kinda adore them.

I really really really got weary when Uendo's diagnosis was revealed because, y'know, the whole oh God pls tell me you're not the murderer even if it was kinda looking like you were.

That fucking balloon girl did it, didn't she? Jesus fucking Christ. I love that, but I also hate that. Also it's so unfair they made this chick so goddamned pretty.

Also man can I also say just how like.... they legitimately refer to Owen as a child, and Kisegawa with Ms., and -- that's actually a nice little piece of the writing here. Like... is it absolutely perfect? No. It's not. But let me tell you -- as someone with this disorder? Writing it and showing it for an audience is hard.

That whole, "everyone is unique" thing applies here -- every System is different. They all develop ways of functioning in order to blend in and protect themselves. Uendo may not have the denial bit that comes with this disorder (do you know how many times I find myself asking if I'm sure I'm not faking this thing? do you??? because like, it's a "rare" disorder, right? and was my trauma REALLY bad enough for me to have alters???? etc) -- but considering the confident way he, Patches, and Kisegawa speak about their experience with the disorder, I would imagine they've been in therapy for it for a while, now.

But also -- the three of them not being aware of Owen? Or denying his existence, at least? Well, they were either protecting him because he's so young, or they legitimately did not know since apparently he may only come forward when the body is drunk.

idk I love that Uendo et al was not the killer. Like so much. Thank FUCK.

Also that was a really fun case even if it was like, not entirely relevant to the overall story happening here in SOJ. I definitely enjoyed it.

#ace attorney #spoilers #spirit of justice #uendo toneido #thoughts of a person with DID #idk I ain't mad at the representation even if I was gonna be pissed #if Uendo had ended up being the culprit #thank God they did not do that

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junglejim4322 · 12 days

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Re: having a psychiatrist and therapist that were married i feel like it did actually cause issues like my psychiatrist was pretty flippant when I switched to a new therapist but the thing that was actually insane and a BIG MISSTEAK!! Is my ex started seeing my psychiatrist as well and we did joint sessions in the same room at the same time. I don’t mean couples therapy I mean I’d have my appointment and she’d have her appointment right after but we’d both still be there. And what really wigged me out is I could tell there was a massive difference between the way she treated both of us, like she acted like I had more severe issues even though my ex was the one there because she had public outbursts. Also because of all of this I immediately felt I had to stop seeing this psychiatrist when we broke up and ended up running out of all of my prescriptions

Also I straight up walked in the first day and said I have adhd but I don’t have a diagnosis on record and she was like okay whatever and immediately prescribed me adderall that day but made my ex go through a several week long process to diagnose her with adhd and neither of us could ever figure out why. Like is this lesbian psychiatrist diagnosing adhd with a misogynistic bias? Hello?

#wall of fucking text and I could probably still say more. sorry if I seem off I’m sober etc #i stopped seeing my old therapist because she kind of defended my exes mom when she kicked her out and I was like ?

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ikamigami · 3 days

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Oh boy, i would love to, if Everyone in show would go see an professianal Thearpist for once.

Like, i love Earth, she is an amazing person. She is trying her best and It makes it even more Sad. However, Earth´s Theapy session from her not helping and i will explain to you guys my reasson alright? So Earth is very kind and she is polite and open to lisstening to the diffrentent kind of issues, which is fine and already been heard can be enough. The after effect is been how everyone who have doing thearpy session with her, refuse to see other Therapy and completly reliance on her. Earth never been trained to be a thearpist and she can help like a very good friend, but people that been having seriousely issues, for example Monty being abusive at times to Foxy is been overlooked. Sure Monty is doing a bit better, but he can´t doing thearpy with his girlfriend. Monty would never admit beeing awfull. (also even if he would, Earth loves Monty, so she blindly ignore it)

If you even analyse every person in the show who been doing the thearpy session with her, let me ask you something real quick, DOES anyone get better from it? No,... really not a single person.

-Solar? right, he have some seriously issues with his Moon, he killed him and he abandoned his Dimention. He replace his people by moveing on to life in another Dimention, but if i take a guss, he surely just want to fix his place and whatever. He is ignoreing his feelings and be nice to others. It only takes a,...(sun death)... moment and he leaveing everyone behind, cause he have trauma and not talk about himself.

-Lunar thearpy session was also less about him, it was more about Lunar and Earth talking things out. When Lunar had the chance to talk about his problem, he switch back to beening worried over Earth, which is bad, it´s not about her, it was supposted to be over him. They should haveing another thearpy session, The whole Lunar is going to die is ignored with leaving Lunar in the dark. With what is he even suppose to do.

-Moon been worried over Sun drinking problem and Earth overlocked this and claim Sun been alright, is also weard. She is not even concidere it that there is a chance of Sun having more going on. I think Moon been afrait to be Old Moon is also wild. People might should be suggest it, Old Moon IS a part of New Moon. They are the same person and they should try to understand themself more. Even if New Moon would go on with his life without Old moon ever be in it, he should TAKE responsiablty with his old self. If he would try that, Then he would understand his BROTHER way better. (SO yea, it just a way of Moon running away from his issues, cause he did it with 1th Moon too who he rip him a part and claim to be so much diffrent, only to come to the point where he believe he is just as bad as him.) The point is, Moon will allways hurt Sun, because he never learned from his past mistakes, he will even with a 99 prozent possiablity kill himself again and give Sun a new Moon (or leave him and give him Old Moon cause he isn´t as smart as his other self) This is not a question of do you want Old Moon or do you want New Moon? You would want the whole Picture and not half of it.

-Sun is suicide and heave mental issues and experience his Brother been dying and think it was his fault. He have now New Moon, but he surely want that New Moon would remember the past times, the times when Sun and Moon bond,.. the times when they getting clouser and build trust. If you would ask eveyone else like Earth if she would be alright to have a NEW Solar then the answer is NO. So how is she not understanding Sun problem with New Moon? Like not even a little bit. Sun also never got the chance to get in himself and be honnest about Moons abusive behaviour. He can´t tell his Sister of how MUCH he suffer from Moon. Sun is just to much of a Good heart person and don´t want anyone to worried over him. So Sun dig his feelings aside till he one day can´t handle it anymore.

To not makeing it any longer, i leave it to be. What Earth is doing, is not principle wrong, she helped her Family, but she isn´t even going to see herself professional Thearpy. Every Thearpist have to see Thearpy too. People that any of thouse people could see is for Example Golden Freddy, but also some Mother/Father figure yk actuall Parents from Pizzaplex is also a good choice.

You're absolutely right! With everything!

I don't have anything to add to that.. I just simply agree with you.

They all have issues so big to resolve them by talking to their sister who even if has good intentions and wants to help simply can't because she's their sister..

They should go to professional therapist and that's it.

But I think that they won't realize that they need serious help till something really bad happen - Sun's death probably by suicide..

That's what I think that all of this is heading towards.. they all need a wake up call..

Thank you for pointing out all of those things, there are even things that I forgot to mention such as the fact that Earth wouldn't want to have new Solar and yet can't understand that Sun had a hard time to accept New Moon and move on from Old Moon's death..

Thank you so much for this input. This is really important and I hope that many people will see this ^^

#sun and moon show #sams #sams sun #sams moon #sams solar #laes #laes lunar #laes earth #mgafs #mgafs monty #mgafs foxy #tw trauma #tw suicide #tw abuse

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lurkingdoll · 1 month

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CHAPTER 3 IS OUT

Summary:

After just barely surviving a near fatal shot to the head, Soap needs some time to heal mentally and physically.

Luckily, his boyfriend, Simon “Ghost” Riley, is here to help

This chapter is much shorter than the others because I spent most of this week trying to do research on making better dialogue. Dialogue has always been my weak point in writing so I wanted to try improving it. I also tried experimenting with implementing their accents into the way they speak, so please tell me if you prefer the dialogue in this chapter or the dialogue from the previous chapters!

Returning home from yet another session of physical therapy, Johnny stumbled over to the small leather couch. He scowled, snatching the remote from the small wooden coffee table, switching to a random movie that his attention wasn’t truly focused on. He glared daggers into the TV, not even bothering to look at Simon, who cautiously treaded towards the couch. Simon sat beside Johnny, close but not close enough for their bodies to touch. Simon removed his balaclava, his light brows furrowing in concern and confusion.

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dropintomanga · 4 months

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Sometimes, Mental Health Pros Suck - On ANN's Pulled Nagata Kabi Review

So I heard something controversial happened in the world of manga reviews. And it quite happens to revolve around a manga figure a lot of people know too well - Nagata Kabi.

Nagata's latest release in the U.S., My Pancreas Broke, But My Life Got Better, was reviewed by Anime News Network. While I normally find their reviews of manga to be fine, something about this one ticked off A LOT of people on social media. Then I heard it got pulled off the website a few days after it was published, but I later found it via Archive.org.

So I read what the review was like and there's a few points that came to my mind.

First, I can see why people were saying the reviewer, who is an actual mental health professional, was condescending towards Nagata's experiences. Throughout all of her works, Nagata always seems to be going through something. It can make someone think that she's not trying hard enough, especially if you're a professional whose job is to help people like Nagata.

Second, the reviewer expressed frustration over Nagata not getting better. Maybe some of the frustration is warranted, but the thing is the reviewer doesn't really know, know Nagata. They're only getting a glimpse of Nagata's personality through her works. While the works do provide a clear and often heavy picture of her life so far, I don't think they tell the whole story. I remember Nagata saying she struggles with how she portrays herself in her memoir manga compared to how she is in person. There's always multiple layers to a person.

Lastly, I know people are saying "How dare they call themselves a mental health pro if they are acting like an insensitive prick." My response to that is because psychiatry/psychology has become a conflict-riddled field where some professionals turn out to be pricks. They are taught a very Western way of thinking in that the individual has no one to blame but themselves for whatever mental health disorder they have. All of the solutions should be placed in the hands of the individual. A lot of mental health professionals aren't trained well enough to strongly consider factors (i.e. cultural/socioeconomic) outside of the individual that cause people to have mental distress.

While it does suck that Nagata seems to have something going on most of the time, I do want her to be okay. I don't want her to force herself to be happy for the sake of other people. I have a lot of compassion for Nagata. While the reviewer says that she should get the professional help she needs and considering the reviewer's earlier comments, I honestly don't know if it might be the best idea for Nagata.

A long while back, when I was in therapy, my social worker switched me to a different psychiatrist than the one I was seeing at the time. I was originally under a Chinese psychiatrist, but my social worker said the new one fitted my schedule more. So I said alright. The new psychiatrist was a really old white male in his '60s-'70s with glasses. When I saw them for the first time, one of the first questions he asked was "How is my sex life?" I was aghast and questioned why he asked that. Then he went on to say "Maybe you should get a girlfriend. It can help your depression." Over the next few sessions, that psychiatrist's line of questioning about my well-being became a bit too personal to my liking. I told him to stop asking those questions and he apologized. I later told my social worker that I don't want to see him anymore despite her saying that he's a funny guy.

Seeing that review made me think about that awful psychiatrist experience I had and I do not want Nagata to go through moments like that because there's a good amount of bad apples in the mental health industry.

I'm glad ANN took down that review because they're not mental health professionals. And people like that reviewer are one of the big reasons why I got rid of the Manga Therapy name. I don't think professionals have all the answers to life's problems.

Going forward, there was a good question asked on social media - how do you make mental illness relatable to those who don’t have it? That's hard because mental illness is always portrayed as "crazy", "sick", "mad", etc. While it's clear that extreme forms of mental illness can be problematic, I feel that depression and anxiety are normal signs that the world is messed up. You think that people in power want to admit that they're the ones causing a lot of mental health problems?

You know, I think all people living with mental illness want is to not just be relatable - they want compassion, that's it.

And in a way that doesn't come off as something that sounds too much like a professional/expert, but more from an actual human being that doesn't have to act like one.

#mental health #therapy #industry #manga #community #mental health industry #Nagata Kabi

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kjack89 · 8 months

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Back to Where We Started (Chapter 1/?)

For @theworldfallsup for my 10 year/4k follower anniversary, who requested a Mr. & Mrs. Smith-type AU.

It's gotten long, so I'm splitting it into multiple chapters, largely to force myself to actually finish it.

E/R, modern AU. CW: Mentioned character death, gun violence, everything you'd expect from an action movie AU.

Cosette offered the two men sitting on the couch in her office a tight smile. “I’m sorry for being late,” she said as she sat down. “My last session ran over.”

“It’s fine,” the blond man sitting on the left assured her with a faint accent she couldn’t quite place.

She nodded, giving them both a quick once-over as she pulled her pad of paper close to her. For as long as she’d been doing this, it would never not surprise her how much she could learn about a couple before they even got into whatever issue had ostensibly brought them in for couple’s therapy. In the case of the two men sitting in front of her, the tension between them was palpable, mostly based on the fact that they were sitting at opposite ends of the couch rather than directly next to her. And based on the way his knee was bouncing at about ninety miles an hour, the darker-haired man was particularly unconvinced that this was going to work.

“So,” she said, “my name is Cosette Fauchelevent. Which one of you is Enjolras?” The blond raised his hand and she smiled at him before switching her gaze to the brunet. “And you must be Grantaire.”

“I assume these incredible deductive reasoning skills explain the exorbitant price we’re paying for this,” Grantaire said in lieu of an answer.

Cosette didn’t so much as blink. “Then let’s get right into it to justify the cost,” she said pleasantly. “What’s wrong with your marriage?”

Both Enjolras and Grantaire stared at her. “Who said something was wrong with it?” Enjolras asked, his brow furrowed.

“Mostly the fact that you’re sitting here,” Cosette said, still pleasant. “But if you’d rather, we can back up a little. How long have you been married?”

“Three years,” Grantaire said.

Cosette nodded. “And how often do you have sex?” This time, she didn’t wait for either of them to protest. “Sex is a cause or symptom of larger issues more often than you might think, so better to get it out in the open.”

Enjolras cleared his throat. “Sex isn’t really our problem,” he muttered, the tips of his ears burning red, as Grantaire crossed and recrossed his legs, studiously avoiding looking at him.

Cosette just nodded again, scribbling a note on her pad of paper. “On a scale of one to ten, how satisfied would you each say you are with your sex life?”

For the first time all session, Enjolras and Grantaire glanced at each other. “Eight,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire looked back at Cosette.

“Wait, is ten the best or is one the best? Like is ten mind-blowing sex every day, and one is bad missionary once every six months, or—?”

“Just answer instinctively,” Cosette said.

Grantaire jerked a nod, looking back at Enjolras. “Ok. Ready?”

“Ready,” Enjolras said.

They both looked at Cosette and said in perfect unison, “Eight.”

Cosette jotted down another note. “And how often do you say ‘I love you’?”

The question was met with a stunned sort of silence. Then, Enjolras leaned forward, his brow furrowed. “I don’t understand the question.”

“Yeah, I’m lost,” Grantaire added quickly. “Is this a one to ten thing?”

“It’s really not,” Cosette said, circling something in her notes. “But how about I make this easier: do you love each other?”

Again, silence.

Cosette let it linger for as long as she personally felt comfortable with before clearing her throat. “Maybe we should back up even further,” she said, keeping her tone as neutral as possible. “Why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourselves, like what you do for a living? Sometimes that can be a sore spot between couples.”

Enjolras looked visibly relieved at the change in subjects. “Oh, well, I’m involved in local politics—”

Grantaire snorted derisively. “I think she meant, like, your job.” He glanced at Cosette. “Which is a sore spot, because he doesn’t have one.”

A muscle worked in Enjolras’s cheek. “We’re very fortunate to not need a second income, which allows me to focus on things that matter,” he said, something warning in his tone. “And I don’t know that I’d consider photography a real job, anyway.”

“Is that what you do?” Cosette asked Grantaire, ignoring the murderous look he had just shot Enjolras. “Photography?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire said gruffly. “I used to be a wildlife photographer. Traveled all over: Sub-Saharan Africa, the Middle East, the Korean Peninsula, Siberia—”

Cosette cocked her head. “I wouldn’t think there’d be a lot of wildlife in Siberia,” she remarked.

Something shifted in Grantaire’s expression. “You’d be surprised,” he said before clearing his throat. “Anyway, now I mostly do, like, weddings, senior portraits, stuff like that.”

“I’m sensing that you’re not particularly enthusiastic about the type of photography you’re currently doing.”

Grantaire jerked a shrug. “It’s fine. It’s steady. It’s – well, I mean, it doesn’t quite compare to traveling the world, but…”

He trailed off and Enjolras shifted impatiently in his seat. “But we both agreed that we can do a lot of good right here in this community, right, honey?”

“Absolutely, sweetheart,” Grantaire said, saccharine sweet. “Of course, if it weren’t for traveling, we never would have met, so…”

“Oh, where did the two of you meet?” Cosette asked.

“East Africa,” Enjolras and Grantaire said, again in unison.

Cosette nodded. “Were you on vacation?”

“Something like that.”

Three Years Ago

Enjolras wasn’t naïve about what he looked like, so the fact that he managed to slip unnoticed through the crowded market in Bujumbura spoke to how much effort he’d put into learning how to blend in. It was a necessary survival skill, after all, given his line of work.

It was also a skill put to the test when he overheard a snippet of conversation between two men in police uniforms patrolling the outskirts of the market, and more specifically, the name General Lamarque. Enjolras’s step slowed, and he lingered longer than was wise to overhear what they were saying next, hopeful that it would be about the continued rumblings of revolution that Lamarque was stirring in the former capital city.

Instead, what he heard next made his blood run cold.

“Le Général Lamarque est mort.”

And then: “Assassinat.”

Enjolras was immediately aware that these two were not the only police in the market, and that the police he saw were much more heavily armed than usual. And scanning the crowd as if looking for someone.

He backed away quickly, his heart pounding in his chest as he rapidly thought through every exit strategy he had developed over the past few weeks living in Burundi. But he hadn’t thought that this would happen, at least not this early on, so the vast majority of them wouldn’t work, especially if the police were looking for anyone they could reasonably accuse of being involved.

Like anyone foreign, and traveling alone.

He couldn’t do anything about the former, but he could try to figure something out for the latter.

Plan decided on, he turned on heel and strode back in the direction of city centre and the few hotels in the area, hoping he could find someone friendly. It wasn’t exactly a tourist-heavy part of the world, but there were bound to be a few NGO workers who wouldn’t have been evacuated yet.

He managed to make it inside a hotel lobby before he was stopped by two men in paramilitary uniforms who spoke to him in rapid French. Enjolras only half-listened, looking over their shoulders into the bar he could just see, and he breathed a sigh of relief when he locked eyes with a dark-haired man sitting by himself at the bar.

Not that Enjolras particularly cared at the moment, but the man wasn’t much to look at, though judging by the way his shirt tightened across his chest as he moved, he was well-muscled, and that mattered far more given everything. “Cet homme là,” he said, interrupting the man speaking. “C’est mon ami.”

He didn’t wait to hear what they said, just brushing past them and making a beeline for the man in the bar, who smiled when he approached. “I was wondering when you’d be back,” he said, with a kind of warm familiarity that Enjolras wouldn’t have appreciated under any other circumstance. “I was beginning to think I was going to spend the evening drinking by myself.”

“You’re traveling together?” one of the military officials asked sharply.

“Of course,” the man said, as if it was obvious, and Enjolras thanked whatever higher power might exist that he was rolling with it. “Do you need to see our visas, or…?”

A sudden burst of gunfire came from the street, and the officials exchanged glances. “You should get to your embassy,” one said shortly before they both hurried outside, leaving Enjolras alone with the man who just might have saved his life, or at the very least, kept him out of a Burundi prison cell.

“I hope you don’t think that was, uh, forward of me,” the man said, almost a little sheepishly. “Only the bartender just told me that someone was assassinated and the military police are looking for anyone traveling alone, and then I saw you, and, well, you looked a little desperate, so I just figured—”

“You figured correctly,” Enjolras said, cutting off the man’s ramble. He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of more gunfire. “And while I thank you for your assistance, we should get out of here.”

The man nodded and turned back to the bar, grabbing whatever he’d been drinking it and downing it in a single gulp. “To the embassy?” he asked. Enjolras hesitated, because of course he had absolutely no way of explaining that going to any embassy was as dangerous for him as staying put, but thankfully, the man then offered, “Or I have a connection that was going to take me to Kenya tomorrow anyway, and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind an extra passenger.”

“Are you sure?” Enjolras asked, surprised.

The man shrugged. “He owes me a favor,” he said breezily. “Or ten.” He looked at Enjolras expectantly. “So what do you say?”

Enjolras shrugged as well. “It’s as good a plan as any,” he said, aiming to match the man’s breezy tone.

The man laughed. “Not exactly brimming with enthusiasm, but I’ll take it.” He held his hand out for Enjolras to shake. “My name is Grantaire.”

“Enjolras,” Enjolras said, shaking his hand, but before he could say anything more, there was the sound of a distant explosion. “How would your connection feel about moving our trip up to today?”

“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Grantaire said. “I need to grab my bag from upstairs. Do you…?”

“No,” Enjolras said, thinking of his clothes, forged passport and array of weaponry currently stashed in what had been General Lamarque’s camp outside the city. “No, I never travel with anything I can’t afford to leave behind.”

Grantaire smiled at him. “Well,” he said, “just as long as that doesn’t include me.”

Enjolras laughed as well. “Don’t worry,” he said, and it was only after Grantaire had left for his hotel room that Enjolras added, “it absolutely does.”

— — — — —

Three nights later, Enjolras slipped out from under Grantaire’s arm still draped across his waist and held his breath when the other man shifted in his sleep. But Grantaire didn’t stir and Enjolras breathed a sigh of relief before standing and heading over to his bag to grab his satellite phone. He glanced at Grantaire before stepping out onto the balcony, closing the door softly behind him.

Then he called Combeferre.

“Thank God you’re alive,” Combeferre said by way of greeting, and Enjolras half-smiled as he leaned down to rest his elbows on the balcony railing.

“Alive, and made it to Nairobi,” he reported. “Wish I could say the same about Lamarque.”

Combeferre sighed. “I know. It’s a tough loss.”

“Tough?” Enjolras repeated. “It’s going to set back progress in the region by at least a decade.”

“Unfortunately, we’ve got bigger problems than that,” Combeferre said, a little grimly.

“Like what?”

Combeferre cleared his throat. “The Burundi government evidently recovered some of your personal effects, and after connecting your most recent alias to some of your other ones, well…let’s just say you’re being blamed for the assassination. Meaning you’re also now on every terrorist watchlist in the world.” Enjolras had expected as much, not that it made it easier to hear. “Speaking of which, how did you make it all the way to Kenya on your own?”

Enjolras glanced back over his shoulder to make sure Grantaire was still sleeping. “I’m not on my own.”

“You – what?”

This was the part of the conversation that Enjolras had been dreading most. “I met someone,” he said, and when Combeferre was silent, he added, “His name is Grantaire. He’s an American, a wildlife photographer, and he used his connections to get us both out of there.”

“And then you immediately abandoned him in Nairobi, right?” Combeferre asked, and Enjolras could just picture him pinching the bridge of his nose.

Enjolras traced a finger along the balcony railing as he hedged, “Define abandoned.”

“Enjolras.”

“He’s very nice,” Enjolras assured him. “And he thinks he just saved my life.”

“Courfeyrac and I wouldn’t have let—”

“You know that, and I know that, but…”

“But what?” Combeferre demanded, exasperated. “Enjolras, you can’t just sleep with a random American you met in a war zone without us thoroughly vetting him!”

Enjolras made a face. “Tell that to Courfeyrac,” he muttered.

He could practically hear Combeferre roll his eyes. “Courfeyrac doesn’t exactly have the same international profile that you do. And this guy could be CIA, he could be INTERPOL—”

“Or he could be my ticket out of here.”

Combeferre was silent for a moment before asking warily, “What do you mean?”

Enjolras cleared his throat. “I mean, it’ll be, what, three to five years before the heat dies down enough that I can get back to work, right?”

“At least.”

Enjolras nodded. “So I’ll spend the next three to five years with Grantaire,” he said, looking over his shoulder again before telling Combeferre, “He asked me to marry him.”

“He – what?” Combeferre said weakly. “It’s been three days!”

That had more or less been Enjolras’s reaction, though he at least had the benefit of seeing how amazing the sex was before Grantaire asked him the world’s dumbest question. But while Enjolras had demurred at the time, he had also been thinking about it. And now he needed Combeferre on his side. “What can I say, almost dying together has a tendency to accelerate the timeline.”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre said, with the kind of patience a parent used on a misbehaving child, “you can’t marry him.”

Enjolras shrugged. “After a thorough background check, I don’t see why not—”

“Because you are wanted by INTERPOL, the FBI, the CIA, Mossad, Hezbollah, the Russian SVR, NYPD, LAPD, and the Cook County Assessor’s Office for $5,000 in back owed property taxes!”

Combeferre practically shouted the last bit, and Enjolras cocked his head. “I’m pretty sure Courfeyrac added that last one to my file as a joke,” he said mildly, “seeing as how it’s the plot of the Blues Brothers.”

“That’s not the point—”

“No, the point is, I need to lie low until the heat from any and all of those dies down,” Enjolras said, with conviction. “And the sane thing to do is to flee to a non-extradition island somewhere and wait it out.”

“Exactly, the sane thing—”

“And the predictable thing.” Combeferre fell silent and Enjolras paused before asking, “Can you honestly tell me that you think the CIA is going to come looking for me in a suburb in middle America? Let alone Mossad, or the SVR?”

Combeferre sighed, and Enjolras knew he had already won. “I think we can safely assume that the CIA is going to come looking for you wherever they pick up your trail.”

“Then we’ll do whatever we can to make sure I don’t leave one.” Enjolras half-smiled. “Come on, you have to admit, of all the asinine plans we’ve made, this one actually might work.”

“Maybe.” It was Combeferre’s turn to pause, and Enjolras knew he was readying his most convincing argument. “But what happens to Grantaire after three to five years?” Enjolras was silent, and Combeferre sighed again. “I have always supported you, and I’m not going to stop now, but this is a mistake.”

Enjolras shook his head. “I don’t think it is. Combeferre, you know me. You know that I’m not…sentimental. But Grantaire…” He trailed off and shook his head again. “He’s different. No questions, no demands, it’s like he already knows the truth about me and doesn’t care.”

“Then it’s even more of a mistake,” Combeferre said heavily.

“Maybe,” Enjolras echoed. “But the worst that can happen could happen anywhere, with anyone. So why not?”

Combeferre was silent for so long that Enjolras almost checked to make sure the call didn’t drop. Then, reluctantly, he said, “I’ll talk to Courfeyrac. We’ll get started on the arrangements. Let me know when you’re back stateside.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras said softly. He hung up and turned the phone over in his hands, removing the SIM card with practiced fingers before casually dropping the phone off of the balcony.

And just in time, as moments later, Grantaire stepped out onto the balcony, yawning widely. “What are you doing up?” he asked sleepily, wrapping his arms around Enjolras waist from behind and dropping a kiss onto his bare shoulder.

Enjolras turned to face him. “Couldn’t sleep,” he said. “I was thinking about what you asked me.”

Hesitation flickered across Grantaire’s expression. “I know it’s only been a few days—”

“Yes.”

Grantaire blinked. “Yes – yes what?”

Enjolras smiled. “Yes, I will marry you.”

A grin spread slowly across Grantaire’s face. “Seriously?” he breathed, and when Enjolras nodded, he let out a whoop before pulling Enjolras close and kissing him. “You’re not going to regret this, I promise.”

“I know,” Enjolras told him, closing his eyes as Grantaire pulled him in again.

He’d had worse covers, after all.

And how bad could three to five years of marriage be?

>>Read Part 2>>

#exr #enjolras x grantaire #enjoltaire #grantaire #enjolras #cosette #fanfiction #les miserables #mr and mrs smith au #spies and assassins and suchforth

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