#self defeating personality disorder | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

nickywhoisi · 1 year

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Oh god, it’s been a million years on my tumblr. I have still been getting followers steadily, despite my abscense. I’ve gotta admit...it’s felt like I near abandoned it, and I also feel like the follower amount I have is undeserved.

An incalculable amount of things in life have happened. I only have a short amount of time to make this post, and it would be a night mare to read. It has assuredly been a nightmare to experience. I’ve had precious items lost that I’m still trying to reclaim, stinging traumas and upsets that have fallen on holidays when I was planning to have these times as any other would, to relax, countless amounts of chores and errands that I have had to shoulder by my lonesome once again, disquietingly bad interactions with people in any amount of authority, and only recently have I had the miniscule chances to be creative again. I am so glad that I got what I did saved somewhere beyond my now lost laptop...though I only wish I didn’t have to reforge so much of what I didn’t. Still, I’ll try my best.

It may be frowned upon to do a self-diagnosis, but I have just today truly learned about the topic of borderline personality disorder. The condition of feeling giant amounts of emotion at any kind of trigger you could think of, and the intense reactivity that comes with it. I think I may have been showing shades of this quite a few times in the past, and all collected within my gypsy diaries. Something highlighted about bpd that I resonated with far too quickly to ignore is the discomforting trait of having people tend to be overwhelmed by you to the point of losing relationships with people. I had thought that taking a really long time to step away from my poor blog and not have it be a venting station, and not do anything to upset the few healthy interactions I had with people, and give myself time to focus on improving my state of living and build up on my creative works would be the right thing to do. ...Well, I guess it was half good but half bad to do that? I have indeed felt like I can’t ever be wanted, far worse than just like nobody wants me. That there’s this great and terrible internal thing that keeps bursting out during times in which I desire to be more focused and level. Or that I come across truly toxic individuals whom bring out this internal reacitivity in me, but then it gives them a perfect excuse to gaslight me into villainy and they paint themselves as the victims of me. Like I’m the motherfucking big bad wolf. As if that’s realistic behaviour.

But far more important than anything I’ve described is the friendships or small moments of pleasant conversation I’ve had with people here, who also did everything they could to bring me out of the intense misery I was feeling. I’ve never felt more aware of myself now that I almost made them seem sour in my head because of this idea that “they still weren’t seeing the full picture, or reaching the full scope of what I truly need, or still not connecting fully with the sheer capacity of my heart.” But then...I apparently have bpd. Who can match it but me? I shall not say this to sound as if anyone’s supposed to, or dictate anything. I certainly would appreciate it if somebody came along who could, but that’s not my point. I am saying this to record my epiphany, that I was being accidentally unfair to my friends, even while I genuinely love them and appreciate what they’ve tried to do for me so much. I want to be able to grow a little more as the person I am, not to try and reach a state of being that I can never seem to hold on to, and then try to parade this perfected version of myself around to my own friends. I also want to be doing more too; being far more creative, not get overwhelmed by my own projects, not get pre-lethargic about who’s going to like it (though I really do worry about that and I do hope some of you out there will like me and what I do :< ), and then GET IT OUT THERE. Right? It’s high time I steer my focus the right way this time.

#also message my friends #but in a few days sadly because I have life business too that will take a bit of time #but for gods sake N get it together and make something again #ramble brambles #bpd #being borderline #borderline personality disorder #nearly 30 and only just now do I pick up on my own glaring issue #on top of the other diagnoses I have that I did know about #jesus...how dumdum am I #so all in all I lost things #and I gained a little #but the crushing defeats have been really bad to bear #but maybe finally I won't be wailing and being sent into s-word feelings anymore #I'll legitimately be strong enough to self regulate? now that's a goddamn goal kiddo #also I REALLY WANNA KEEP MAKING MORE THOMAS GEM STORIES AND FNAF AND I'VE GOT SOME WILD SHIT WITH MARIO AND GARFIELD #AND MAYBE TALK ABOUT ANIME I JUST FUCKIN MISS YOU GUYS OKAY WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH

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prozach27 · 2 years

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#my therapy today was SO GOOD YALL LIKE SO GOOD #now that things have settled down I’m no longer constantly in survival mode trying to manage symptoms #it’s really weird actually experiencing stability for once and having a medication routine that works #it took six months but even when major stressors hit I’m able to adapt without major symptom flare ups #and so we talked about my history of when this defeated and flaky personality really came to the surface #bc my therapist assumed it was always there #and so we dove into how great things were for me in hs and even undergrad and what I was like and my positive perspectives on life #like how I really thought I was destined for something great and nothing could get in my way #and then we sort of found the exact year where my symptoms began to flare up and how that ultimately led to me falling flat on my face #during year 1 of my PhD #bc spoiler my bipolar disorder really escalated the year prior with the stress of grad school applications #and from there we dove into how that falling on my face shattered my previous view of my self and returning home felt like cementing it #and so I began heavier drinking and more risky behaviors because I felt like my life was over #but thankfully providing hospice service for my grandma forced me to snap out of it #and then reluctantly come back to finish my PhD #and I was able to regain confidence in academics and schoolwork and stuff. and sought out mental health help #so now my diagnoses are on point and it took six months but so are my meds #and I can reframe this as once more spiraling towards success and being destined for something great #it just took a while to get over the biggest hurdles life could throw my way but I DID #idk it was such an amazing therapy session I could cry I’m so happy #bc I really feel the difference and the change and am starting to see my old self more and more #I still have work to do and I can’t shirk it off but I’ll be damned - I really have gotten through some deep serious shit #and I’m gonna come out the other side smelling like roses once again

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brain-rot-central · 5 months

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A preview of something I'm currently working on.

Born from an idea that Astarion would struggle immensely in the first few months after the events of the game. Healing trauma is rarely ever linear; there are many ups and downs to trek through before making it to the other side with newly found knowledge and strength.

Astarion's story encompasses so much of what one does to just survive when that's all they have left. This is a take on what his first few months post-main story might be like.

TW: references to disordered eating, abuse, adult themes, depression, poor mental health. Absolutely not "cute, cuddly Astarion." Our boy is sad, here.

You've saved Baldur's Gate from the Cult of the Absolute, destroyed the Netherbrain, and removed Cazador from the realm of the living. You both weren't sure what would come next. Your feelings for one another bloomed on the battlefield, fighting side by side. Neither of you knew if you'd see the following day, or what that day would bring.

Your fires burned brightly, intertwining out of a mutual desperation to live. To be free of every puppet master pulling at the strings of your destiny. To return to living a life that was truly your own.

Yet, now that it was here…

Both of you were clueless how to navigate the aftermath.

You'd agreed to an attempt at cohabiting. Astarion had his reservations at the beginning, though he’s since thawed to the idea. As for yourself, it took a bit of time for you to adjust to living with another person.

You lived alone prior to the Nautiloid. You were an urchin, having grown up on the streets of the Lower City for much of your life. You kept various blades hidden throughout your dwelling on the off chance an unwelcome visitor decided to drop by overnight. Astarion found most of them not long after moving in with you. He was slightly unsettled, but stated whimsically that he'd think twice before upsetting you going forward.

It had been months since the defeat of the Netherbrain, though Astarion still harbored many doubts. He'd often struggle with intense feelings of inadequacy and shame. He’d be ridden with such intense guilt that he'd lock himself away in your study for days, slipping out quietly during the night to hunt. He didn't dare let you see him in such a state.

And he didn't hunt often during these particular odd spells. Astarion will use his insatiable hunger as a form of self-discipline, purposely starving himself for days on end.

It's a repeating cycle. You don't quite understand why he does this to himself, and your attempts at getting him to speak never succeed. You settle on giving him space as being the best course of action.

When he inevitably emerges from his isolation, a different sort of hunger envelops him.

He seeks you out from your place within the house. Arms wrap around your waist from behind, and you feel the weight of him fall against your back. He buries his face in your neck, and you hear him inhale a shaky breath.

“Oh, hello,” you say to him, softly. “Are you feeling better?” You turn your body within his arms to face him. You push yourself onto the tips of your toes and nuzzle your nose against his.

He groans in mild protest and closes his eyes as you kiss the tip of his nose. “Somewhat,” he replies. He casts his eyes to the floor. “Missed you,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Guilt clouds his eyes as he stares at the ground. “I missed you, too, Astarion.” He winces his eyes as you speak, his brows furrowing. Your words pain him, though you never quite understand why.

“I… I-I’m sorry,” he says with a shaky breath. You feel his hands begin to roam up your back. He grasps handfuls of your dress within his palms.

You step back from his hold, his expression dropping and his eyes staring wildly into yours. He's beginning to panic, overwhelming feelings of disgust and rejection displayed on his face. He's ready to run. He needs to hide again.

You bring your hands up to clasp each side of his face. “Astarion, listen to me,” you tell him, sternly. “I don't know what's going on in your head all of the time, but I'm here.” You guide his forehead down to rest upon your own. “You do not need to apologize for your darkness. I am here.”

The panic in Astarion's eyes begins to settle, and the tension ebbs from him. You step closer to him, still holding his face. Your lips graze his, and suddenly he's on you. One of his hands holds the back of your head and he crashes his lips onto yours, pulling at your bottom lip with his teeth.

He asks to deepen your kiss with gentle passes of his tongue, and you part your lips and accept him into your mouth. Your arms come up to wrap around his neck and you moan into his mouth.

“Need you,” Astarion begs between kisses. “Please, darling.” His voice is hoarse and rushed.

You pull your mouth from his, a small string of saliva connecting your lips in a brief moment. ‘“Do you hunger?” you ask, resting your forehead once more against his.

“Always,” he breathes out.

“Take me, then.” You kiss him gently once more. “Lose yourself in me, tonight.”

He shutters above you, hearing the same words he's deceived you with once before. He played a game in the beginning. Had a carefully thought out plan, designed to have you within his thrall. His plan fell through horrifically, and these same honeyed words now carry a more significant meaning.

Living with Astarion is intense, to say the least. Cyclical.

Nights of passion come in waves where you lay panting together, letting the breeze cool your sweat-soaked bodies. The only sounds heard during your couplings are the repeated slapping of his thighs meeting your behind with each of his thrusts, and your wanton moans as his length drags deliciously against the inner walls of your cunt. He fucks his apology into you thoroughly, and you couldn't be more happy to accept it.

This part of the cycle always starts off the same. You inform him that you're going to freshen up, and make your way into your shared bath. Astarion takes this as an opportunity to make your otherwise drab bedroom inviting for the coming main attraction. He places candles around your bedroom, lighting them as soon as he hears you stepping into the tub.

He blots on a bit more of his signature cologne: bergamot, brandy, and rosemary. He knows you enjoy this scent, knows that it brings you comfort. He strives to please you in every way possible, especially if it means making such a selfless act more enjoyable for you. He wears his ruffled blouse untucked, and loosens the laces of his trousers just enough to allow for what's to come.

You’re freshly bathed, a towel wrapped around your torso as you emerge from the bath. You enter your shared bedroom while drying your hair with a smaller bath towel, looking around to survey the soft ambiance of the room.

You see Astarion laying out on your bed. He's laying on his side and your eyes meet, the flickering candlelight causing his eyes to shine like gemstones. His eyes are hooded as he watches you move toward the bed.

You sit on the edge of your shared bed, feeling a faint flush spread across your face as you hold his gaze. Astarion glides a hand over the space on the bed next to him, a clear invitation for you to come closer. Your breath hitches and you bring your hands up to undo the towel covering your body.

You watch his eyes narrow as he follows the towel fall freely off your chest. His chest rises as he sucks in a sharp breath, his eyes scanning over your now-bare form. You feel paralyzed within his sight, though also proud. His reaction to viewing your naked form is similar with each encounter, solidifying that this is likely genuine. The thought brings you a sense of peace, willing you forward.

You begin to climb onto the bed and toward your vampiric lover. The bed dips beneath your palms and an all too familiar scent floods your nostrils, becoming stronger as you inch closer to him. You realize then that Astarion had reapplied his cologne while you were in the shower, just for you. The smell is intoxicating. So enticing, that you mindlessly continue crawling toward yet another brush with death.

A rush of uneasy energy surges through you as you reach Astarion. You fold your legs under you, and shaky hands come up to gently cradle both sides of his face. His eyes are molten lava that is melting through your core. He’s refuted your past claims of him charming you prior to these encounters, and your doubts continue for this very reason.

On these nights, your body becomes his. His to possess and manipulate however he pleases. You subjugate yourself to him, trusting him to take only as much as he needs from you. Trusting him to take you through the night and deliver you safely to the dawn. He's been honorable, thus far.

Though, there is always a time for everything.

His hand comes up to cover your own on his cheek. Astarion turns his face into your hand, kissing your palm. “Are you sure you want to do this, love?” he asks. His voice is a soft whisper.

Ruby red eyes glare up at you through hooded lids. His expression is soft, pleading. You quickly realize he's asking for more than what he's said. It's the one question he's never dared to put to words, though asks repeatedly in other ways.

You sigh and nod your head. You know the question he truly is asking, one that he's yet to ever form into words. “Yes, Astarion. I trust you. I trust you to not lose control.”

He seeks the constant reassurance that you accept him as he is. A constant reminder that he is more than the monster Cazador created.

#Astarion #astarion smut #astarion angst #astarion x reader #astarion x female reader #astarion x tav #fanfiction #drabble

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plusvanity · 18 days

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Yesterday, I wanted to say that people who blocked me did the wiser thing, but today, I want to touch on a recent issue, a hugely (intentionally) misinterpreted and degrading problem.

The controversies that people started to spread about me literally make me sick to the stomach.

They don't give a fuck about my countless explanations of how this ship is my comfort ship, designed to help me heal from severe abuse, self hatred, body dysmorphia, depression and anxiety.

I try to switch from unhealthy coping mechanisms to something that is both productive, helpful and most of all, harmless (because it's imaginary).

They felt the need to turn something that I created as my own personal fictive escape into a gross sadomasochistic, abusive and extremely toxic 'excuse' for 'why is this ship and not that?'. My guts twist for seeing such cruel assumptions when I have one thing that makes me happy (a story, a healthy narrative) viciously turned into a gruesome scenario that is not what it is at all.

The fact that they accuse me of shipping fair-skinned, blonde people is also the biggest hypocrisy that they could come up with when they themselves forget that Øystein's natural hair is blond and his eyes are blue in their own double-standard ship.

The fact that accuse me of romanticizing self-harm while they themselves 'like' (I have proofs) and approve art of EuroDead self-destructive romanticism shows their duplicitous and impostor nature. This is not to be taken as an insult, but an obvious fact concluded by their behavior.

My ship has little to do with physical looks and everything else to do with the in-depth psychology. It's not me, PlusVanity who says that there's a gigantic overlap between highly-autistic traits and trauma response (in personality disorders), it's Freud, Jung, Lacan's teachings and many other's scholars, neurologists and psychiatrists came to this conclusion many many years before you and I were even born. If you, dearly-opinionated friend, think that you can prove to these honorable psychoanalytical figures (and me, of course) otherwise with credible and well-documented research and not your 'I don't like that just because' synthetic opinion, I will gladly listen to what you have to bring up. I am well-versed in the philosophical and psychological domain, and I can provide solid arguments to everything I claim.

It's more than just unfair to point the finger at me, accusing me of a ludicrous sadomasochistic and 'subliminal racial element' in my art just to satisfy your late frustration with an ' good-enough explanation' for something that you never even bothered to look into because otherwise you would know that you are wrong. I'm not spiteful, I'm just pointing your flaws in logic as straightforwardly and inconsiderable as you seem to point mine, but it's not like you will actually try to understand what I'm saying because this must imply 'admitting defeat' and a kick in the ego, so you don't even bother with my transparent explanations. That's alright.

This message is for the people who are open and mature enough to read the motive behind my art and writing. This monologue is not for the ones who blindly accuse me of horrible things or a hidden agenda that I don't have or try to promote.

If you think that you know better than me, you simply don't. Why might that be? Because I am the author, because you don't think with my brain and you have no access to what I stand for, other than my words and actions and neither my words or actions stood for any type of abuse or political extremism.

You also put words into my mouth by calling me a fan of Varg, when I'm most certainly not, but I mean you hate me, of course you will say such things. Everyone who's following me knows that I not only hate Varg, but mock him daily for his spiteful persona.

I do not engage in any drama, I am not here to fight anyone.

I will only have civilized conversations (if openness exists). I am here to be and share with my friends the one thing that makes me happy. To subjugate me for simply having a different view than yours is tyranny and black and white extremism.

Pairing real people is morally bad, but this includes all real people. Not just Varg and Pelle, but Øystein and Pelle too. Doesn't sound fair now, does it? I understand why.

Anyone is free to believe anything, but a conspiratorial opinion will never compare to the ultimate truth that only the author can provide.

Please block me if you wish for. This is a far more mature approach than lurking here or sending hate. I hope this is constructive.

To sum it up, I'm beyond hate and ingoing frustration. I will gladly wish my late-proclaimed haters a wonderful day even if they roll their eyes. 🖤

You cannot change options, you can only provide your insight.

Be kind, be open, be alright 🖤

I wish this post can be shared so a lot of people can read this 🙏

#my ramblings #pelle ohlin #varg vikernes #burzum #per yngve ohlin #true norwegian black metal #dead mayhem #mayhem

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thenixkat · 4 months

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It's still just wild to me that between

-> the setting (fantasy medieval-ish europe-y place where it's established that sometimes folks don't get to eat between lack of funds and bad harvests)

-> the worldbuilding (stuff like heavier adventurers likely being more skilled/too skinny means risking being unable to be revived)

-> and the themes (having a healthy relationship with food)

you would think that Dungeon Meshi would actually be kinda fat positive. But no. There's an undercurrent of fatphobia that runs through it that feels so jarring that once you notice it it's hard to stop seeing it.

And it's not just the two really blatant places that it happens in the manga, like characters deciding to insult the only fat noble/rich person in the setting on their weight (which never gets counterbalanced by any character like complimenting a fat character on their figure in the whole manga) or our main characters going 'oh no he might get fat' about the hero gaining what is effectively a disorder (that could very easily kill him due to accidental self inflicted injuries due to no longer being able to feel certain physical sensations) from the defeating the biggest bad in the setting.

But also the smaller stuff like the gag about Izutsumi being shocked to see the fat-looking succubi after it was drilled into her head that the things are mindbreakingly hot. (Hmmm)

Or how you see folks point at characters like Nemari, Dia, Senshi (and Leed) as examples of positive fat rep but like. If you actually pay attention to like the examples of fat dwarves in the extras or in a few minor characters, what they look like if they were turned into tallmen (more or less if they were built like real world humans), you'd notice that they aren't fat at all. They're just muscular and not dehydrated, much like how Laios isn't fat just built and not starved.

Or even looking at like Leed and Zon (named and important) compared to the unnamed background orcs after the artist changed their orc design by the second time orcs show up in the story. And you just notice how much thinner Leed and Zon are compared to every other orc in a scene.

(And of course, the extras that reveal that orcs and dwarves actually have a lot less body fat than it looks like they have b/c they are *literally just big-boned*. They are leaner than a irl human would be at their height and girth due to literally having thicker and broader skeletons.)

Or the whole thing where apparently fat elves just... don't exist. Not even fat civilian elves or fat adventurer elves. Like we know that there's fat half-foots even though none of the half-foot major characters are fat b/c being able to do their job in a dungeon means they have to be as light as they can to not set off traps. but we at least see some thicker half-foots. But elves? Apparently only come in noodle.

#nix meows #dungeon meshi #fatphobia #dunmeshi criticism #dungeon meshi has the perfect recipe for being plump as hot bitch shit and yet the creator chose to do that #spoilers

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theredofoctober · 3 months

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MANNA- CHAPTER TEN: RABBIT

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse, self harm, fatphobia, body dysmorphia

This is chronologically the tenth chapter in the series.

Read beneath the cut...

Napalm is the slow fire of waking from a terrible dream, blind, gasping, burnt. The pain, though delusive, is made actual by the action of nerves.

Only a hand at your shoulder, vigorous in its attentions, hauls you up from the putrescence of slumber into the light-dark of four in the morning. You find Hannibal's shape through lashes gummed with sleep's adhesive.

His face is as impassive as a star, but his hair, ever coiffed, is displaced from the friction of his pillow.

“You were screaming,” he says, as you sit, stunned, in his arms. “What were you dreaming about? Do you remember?”

“No,” you say, although the scenes remain briefly in your vision, doubling like silk screen prints upon the walls.

Hannibal fills up a glass with fresh water and bids you to drink, his eyes pensive, unconvinced.

Only the notion that he may suggest you share his bed or else intrude upon yours impels you to honesty.

“I dreamt that I was trapped in one of the Silicone Lover’s dolls. That he was trying to squeeze me inside, and I wouldn’t fit. He said, ‘You’ve gotten so big since I last saw you. I’d better do something about that.’

“Then he started cutting me up with kitchen scissors, and I couldn’t stop him.”

You pause, choking on a breath, a verbal stagger.

Dr Lecter offers you the water again, which you take in both hands and drain to its end.

“Take your time,” says Hannibal. “When you’re ready, go on.”

Lying will fail you before the all-seeing eye, so it is with a flat honesty that you say, “It wasn’t what the Lover did in my dream that scared me. It was what he said to me. Because he was right.”

You reach down to pull the quilt up across your stomach, which Hannibal, with a subtle gesture, prevents.

“To agree with such a statement there must be some basis of comparison for you,” he says. “You knew the person standing in as the Lover in your dream. Can you name him?”

Hannibal could guess it, from the little you’ve told him of your unclean past, but if memory conjures the name from the gully of silence he does not say so.

Instead, he comments, “I think it’s unwise for you to sleep again until your mind is settled. Perhaps we may take advantage of the hour to continue your therapy, in an informal fashion.”

He sits in a chair by your bed, producing a notepad and pen from a pocket of his dressing gown.

You see that he will not move.

"What if I don’t talk?” you ask, softly. “What if I say I'd rather take the punishment?"

Hannibal's slender lips upturn.

"I wouldn't be inclined to take such a claim seriously.”

In sullen defeat you flounce back against the pillows.

Dr Lecter takes his cue.

“I’m curious about the friendships you’ve formed throughout your life. Have there been any notable examples?”

“Not many,” you answer, looking at the raw edges of your fingernails. “I was kind of the weird kid. It was like looking through a dusty museum window at everybody passing by, not really knowing how to get out there and talk to people. Like I was too old and too young at the same time.

“I got bullied, kind of. Nothing worth talking about. Just dumb kid stuff.”

“Even persecution of a childish nature bears painful resonance in later life,” Hannibal comments. “Moreover, isolation from one's peers may disrupt development in those vital years.”

You think of dolorous hours patrolling a fallow playground alone, three hundred children staring through you with adult hostility.

“I did make one friend,” you say. “First year of high school. Amy Glass. She was a weird kid, too.”

Hannibal scratches deftly on his notepad.

"Describe how you met."

Closing your eyes, you find your way back through the forests of the past to a corridor whose tiled floor squeaks under your shoes. You smell textbook paper and saccharine body spray. The sweat of young bodies, and the stale cafeteria fare you’d never tasted throughout your time there.

“Between classes Amy would sit in a window listening to music, or reading,” you say. “Stephen King, usually. Sometimes Ann Rice. She seemed to be up there all the time. I don’t think she was getting shit from the other kids or anything; she just preferred hanging out on her own.

“I wished I was like that, not caring. I wished I was her, period.”

“In what way?” asks Dr Lecter, and in the hallway of your mind a slender figure appears, brown of skin and eyes, blue hair cut roughly to the chin, its roots seeping in atop it like a stain.

Amy.

“A lot of ways,” you say. “Before I really knew her, it was about how she looked. She had piercings— ears, lip, nose, eyebrow. Teachers would tell her to take them out, then the second she was out of their eye-line she’d put them right back in. And even back then she had these awful stick and poke tattoos of bats and crosses she covered up with band aids for classes.

“She did all of them herself with a safety pin. God knows how she didn’t get an infection or anything.

“Then there was the fact I knew we liked some of the same music because of the patches on her bag, and her t-shirts and stuff. Nothing you’d approve of,” you add, as interest touches the face of your listener. “Jesus, I can’t even imagine playing stuff like that in this house. Anyway, I didn’t want to just be like, ‘hey, you like that band, too’. It would have been too weird. Stalkery, maybe?”

“Music isn’t such a terrible way to form a connection,” says Hannibal, amused. “I was once approached in friendship through a shared taste in cheese.”

Picturing his restrained derision you cannot help but laugh.

“Oh, god,” you say. “What were they thinking?”

“It was a naive assumption of commonalities. Besides, my commitment to professionalism would never have allowed us to be as close as he would have hoped.”

You give a little start of affront.

“You’ve made friends with other clients.”

Dr Lecter’s smile remains.

“Only with those whom I feel my presence benefits.”

“Benefits you, you mean,” you say, pettishly. “Whoever it was, you just didn’t like him that much. That’s why you turned him down. Or maybe he was too like you.”

Without appearing offended, Hannibal turns a page in his notebook.

“I'm unconcerned with debating my personal relationships, little one. Let’s return to Amy. Who initiated the friendship between you?”

“Amy,” you say. “It was after this councillor was trying to get something out of me, and I didn’t want to talk. I walked out that room feeling so... heavy, and grimy, and embarrassed. Then there was Amy, heading to the same office I just walked out of. She looked at me, scrunched her face up, and said, ‘Wish me luck.’ Next time I saw her I made the same face back and asked, ‘how was it?’

“‘The worst, just like always,’ she said. ‘Where’d she get her certificate, anyway? Clown school?’

“I burst out laughing. ‘She’s so bad, right?’

“And that was it. Friends. We went everywhere together. Amy really liked me. I don’t know why. I think maybe she thought I was sort of mysterious and interesting rather than just depressed, probably because I didn’t want to talk about what was going on with me.

“She told me everything about her. How her dad didn’t believe in mental health issues even though he was just like she was, and how her mom just ignored everything, hoping it’d just... go away. But I didn’t tell Amy even one little thing about me, really. Not one.”

Guilt you’ve never truly confronted falls like a petal from a late summer bloom, cloying the dark with its flavour.

“Did Amy ever indicate that she’d recognised your particular illness?” prompts Hannibal, and you shrug glumly.

“A couple of times. I ignored every hint. Changed the subject. Acted like it wasn’t a thing when it obviously was. I knew that she knew. That was the dynamic. She was softer, around me. She got it. She got me.”

Suddenly your breath feels very high in your chest, catching on a rib.

“I can’t help but notice your use of the past tense,” says Dr Lecter. “Might I assume that you are no longer friends?”

“We grew apart after school,” you mutter. “I think she would have liked it if I stayed in touch, but then sometimes I wonder if that’s just wishful thinking, and maybe she didn’t care all that much when we drifted apart and stopping talking.

“I have her on Facebook. That’s all, really. She was never a social media person anyway, but still. I could have tried harder. I don’t know why I didn’t.”

Hannibal allows the silence between you to ferment before he speaks again.

“Looking back, what do you think prevented you from maintaining contact?”

“I felt like after school was over she’d find other friends, and I’d just end up being left behind. So I got out of there before I had to see it happen.”

"You abandoned a friendship on the basis of a prophecy that might never have come to fruition."

"It would have,” you insist. “All my life I've had senses about things. Like, if I get a feeling something will or won't happen, I'm always right. Like I was right about you."

Swanlike, Dr Lecter’s hands move across his notebook, tactfully punctuating a note.

"It's common for sufferers of complex post-traumatic stress disorder to misinterpret their hypervigilance as psychic premonition. A heightened awareness of your surroundings and the behaviours of people in your vicinity develops in order to predict danger before it occurs. Pattern recognition is more mathematical than clairvoyant."

"What about my dreams?" you ask, sharply. “Are they math, too?”

"You've had other nightmares?” asks Hannibal, and leans forward, poised to digest you answer.

Canny, you hoard the matter like a serpent its glittering lair.

Hannibal accepts his defeat with grace.

Gathering up his notebook and the empty glass, he says, "That's enough therapy for now, particularly so early in the morning. I'll make you some tea, and you may return to sleep. Peacefully, this time, I hope."

Later, there is a meal that sits, sinking in a bath of bronze on Dr Lecter’s dining table, so much of it that you’re gorged merely from the arithmetic of its makeup.

“Arroz de Cabidela,” says Hannibal, as he pulls out his own chair. “A Portuguese dish made with rice, chicken, or rabbit cooked in its own blood. Today I’ve chosen rabbit. Have you ever eaten it before?”

It occurs to you that he expects you to be disturbed by the notion, but you are not. Meat is meat, all of it equally cruel. That life must end for the furthering of your existence has driven you to veganism many a time.

Little chance of sustaining such a diet now that you sleep in the devil’s slaughterhouse.

“No,” you say. “I’ve never tried rabbit. I heard it’s really... gamey.”

Your palate is scarcely educated enough to comprehend the statement. Still, it is apparently accurate, for Hannibal makes a low hum of agreement.

“It has similarities to poultry, in flavour, though it’s rather lean and dry. The blood stew adds a richness you’ll find complimentary, however.”

The scent is certainly inviting, but you are so committed to rejecting whatever is served to you that you feel lightheaded, succumbing to the altitude of starving heights.

“Couldn’t you have given me a smaller portion?” you ask, piteously. “I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s so... much.”

Hannibal glances from your plate to his own, his visage neutral.

“I’ve served you a great deal less than I’ve given myself,” he says. “That said, I’m sure we can settle our differences. I’m not unyielding, if I can see some effort is being made.”

You look him in the eye, hoping you appear more bold than frightened.

“Dr Lecter, you make me all these courses, and they’re crazy even for a normal person. I feel like you do it on purpose. And afterwards my stomach hurts.”

“That’s normal, after a period of fasting. Your body will adjust. Now, please eat.”

You don’t. The cut on your plate makes you think of the Lover’s dolls, how even at your slightest you wouldn’t have fit into such a shell. How, changed as you must be through Hannibal’s cooking, you would ooze over every edge.

“I could use the feeding tube, if you’re unwilling,” says Dr Lecter, rising from his chair to stand at your back. “It would be relatively easy for me to administer. But I’d hate to sour an otherwise pleasant meal with brute force.”

He cups your throat in his smooth hand, and you envision how lovingly he’d coil about you in restraint, guiding the pipe down through you as you choked and flinched in his grasp.

“I’ll eat a quarter,” you say. “That’s it. Then... then nothing else until tomorrow. I won’t sneak out of bed, and I won’t do anything that breaks the rules. Please, Dr Lecter. Uh... Daddy?”

Your confusion between roles endears you to him, as does your breathless, eager willingness to beg.

“Should I allow you to barter?” Hannibal muses, still caressing the wand of your stiff neck. “It’s a symptom of your illness, after all.”

“Just let me choose how much and I’ll try anything you offer me.”

Dr Lecter releases a small breath of laughter.

“I wouldn’t like you to eat your words, little one.”

Gnashing your teeth, you say, “I won’t. I can do it. Please let me. You’re supposed to dote on me, aren’t you?”

You feel Hannibal’s lips against your hair in a kiss of paternal indulgence.

“Always so spirited,” he says. “Very well. I cannot deny my little beauty her request.”

What beauty does he refer to? You’ve only recognised it in the mine shafts of furthest hunger, mistaking a shadow for some precious stone.

Yet clearly you are not so low quality as you believe if both men have fucked you so freely over other women, whom they could conceivably draw into the net of the house.

Then again, there is no accounting for the tastes of madmen, and mad they both are, even Hannibal in his gelid divinity.

From the topiary of his language and flippant games you are beginning to see that you interest him in your very opposition to his being. Were you to succumb completely you would not be so worthy: all men bow to Hannibal, after all, seduced and deceived until they’d lick his fingers like lambs for the milk of his approval.

You, like Will, resist and evade enough of his passes to set yourself apart from the flock.

You may yet throw a halter over the head of the horned man, if only in as much as he allows himself to be reigned.

Quartering your meal as neatly as you're able, you glance up at Dr Lecter, afraid that, by some caprice, he’ll break his code and force you to eat down to the bare plate. But he merely stands by, retaining his honour, and as you look at him you picture his mild hands breaking the neck of the rabbit to drain as though for a ritual of blood.

Frequently through your days with Hannibal he immerses himself in hobbies and work about the house, cultivating a necessary solitude after the long hours of ingesting others’ anxious thoughts.

He reads, or writes music, sketches, telephones his friends and past lovers—of whom there are many—or else sets his pen to journals, having seen you safe to your locked room, where he need not prepare for misdemeanour.

In this way your residence in Hannibal’s home does not impede upon his individual pursuits, but rather compliments them, an accent of his sempiturnal glamour.

You are, after all, but one of his many pastimes. It is indulgence, then, when he insists on attending your evening bath.

As he kneels beside the tub to dampen a washcloth his intentions surface, another infringement upon the flesh.

“I don’t need you to help me,” you mumble, arms taut across your chest. “I’m not your baby.”

“Your inner child wails for the tenderness your illness has long obstructed,” says Hannibal, calmly. “Your independence would have you die like an infant abandoned to the forest. Let me carry you, at least in this small act of service.”

You look at him with eyes as dull as old blades and picture the futility of your struggle, his lithe arms holding you, kicking and airless, beneath the foam.

“Don’t you have your own daughter you can do all this with?” you ask; you’ve not yet needled him on his familial relations, and feel yourself more than entitled to know.

Hannibal begins to work the flannel over your naked form, paying no heed to your twitching affront.

“Abigail would have served the role admirably,” he says. “But it wasn’t to be. As for my own children, I have none.”

The revelation passes you without surprise. It’s only possible to imagine him having elegant, adult offspring, absent of the soiling indignities of rearing an infant.

“So you took me away for you and Will to raise,” you say. “Guessing he doesn’t have kids, either.”

The washcloth folds beneath the water, and you gaze studiously at the opposite wall so as not to think about the hand behind the fabric, how it has touched you in other ways, pleasantly, horridly.

“Will is also childless,” says Dr Lecter. “He has never known family, as you have. His mother left him when he was only an infant, and his father was a distant figure, though present. Now it seems that they’re estranged from one another. One can only imagine the loneliness Will has known in his life. Perhaps, with your assistance, this will change.”

Cloth, skin, hands, touch. Gentle and beguiling their trap, to distract from the permanence of this suggested triptych as fingers play against you underwater.

Unsteadily, you ask, “Is Will your boyfriend?”

Hannibal turns you an indecipherable look.

“Do you perceive our relationship to be romantic?”

A strange question, considering the violation with which you were inducted to their company. But not once did either man kiss or grasp the other— a technicality, certainly, yet one, it seems, that holds weight.

“Yes,” you say. “For you, anyway. I don’t know about Will. I know he thinks highly of you. He just sees me as something that’s in the way.”

You kick a foot testily, splashing water over the rim of the bath.

“What are you in the way of?” asks Hannibal, as he begins to lather your hair.

“Not sure. Your friendship, I guess.”

“Do you believe him when he implies that you're only an obstacle to him?”

Water pours over your head, and you close your eyes, enduring the sensation.

“He told me I’m unwanted,” you say.

“When you attempted to kill him?”

Fear bowls over you with a black suddenness.

“He told you?”

“I came to my own conclusions. You weren't quiet, either of you, that night."

You look at Hannibal, at the stag man of your dreams, and taste something like dirt, something like blood, at the back of your mouth.

“Had you seriously injured him or succeeded in your bid to end his life I would have been forced to conclude our treatment,” he says. “But you did not. I’m thankful to have been provided with a truth I hadn’t yet drawn from you: I know that you are not a killer, at least not at this present moment.”

In a strengthless whisper, you ask, “What do you mean?”

Hannibal draws a comb through your hair, unmoved by the conversation.

“As time changes the continents, people come apart through circumstance into new being. That shift may one day lead to the birth of murder’s country.”

A thought stings you like the cold: Will and Hannibal want you to be capable of killing, if not of them, then someone of lesser consequence, the hereditary illness emerging in the child.

That is the secret under this house, the whisper in the walls, its present haunting.

“I hope that never happens,” you mumble. “Never. No matter what you do.

“And yet the whetting of your blood thirst didn’t begin with Will and I,” says Dr Lecter, mildly. “Until you admit your liking of its flavour you will remain unsatisfied, little one.”

You do not ask how he knows you’ve thought of killing, once before, which you yourself had forgotten; having been in your home, the chill sanctum of your childhood bedroom, he may have learned, of you, a myriad, his interrogation merely a practice in contextualising his findings.

“I’d rather starve,” you say, at last, and sink your chin beneath the water.

Dr Lecter takes a razor from a nearby cabinet and begins to shave you with slow precision. He does not ask if you wish for it, only glides the razor across your underarms, groin, and each leg until you run silken beneath his hands.

That done, Hannibal rises, brushing unseen dust from his knees.

“I’ll bring you some fresh clothes,” he says, and leaves the room, a ghost departing the stage.

You look at the razor, entrapped in its plastic guard on the rim of the bath.

Had you a pair of scissors you might have cut the metal free to make a weapon, or else an escape into realms unknown to the living. Though its edge is still wickedness manifest, it would take a great deal of pressure to pursue death by this angle, though it would not be impossible.

It is not death you want to meet, however, but another, nameless coward.

You take the blade to your arm, and the pain is like eating, a sin that sates the freak of misery.

The bathwater turns like a devil’s baptism, and though they are but shallow cuts you feel suddenly faint. Lying back, you lay your arm against the porcelain, thinking murky thoughts of your mistake.

Hannibal returns carrying a muted lilac dress and pale stockings, stilling at the sight of you, of the water, red as autumn mud.

He sets down the clothing and kneels beside you again.

“Let me see.”

You let him take your arm and touch the crude little gashes softly.

“Shower, quickly. Then I’ll treat your wounds. Fortunately, they aren’t so deep.”

How gentle he is with you, this beast dressed as a man in his pressed shirt and waistcoat, guiding your numb form about with a soothing authority. You’d once yearned to be handled like this, to be absolved and set free of any and all expectation. That it comes from him is like being spit in the eye by the Fates, one after the other.

Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos: what have you done to so offend them?

It’s only after having bandaged your forearm and settled you, dummy-like, upon his bed, that Hannibal speaks again.

“What motivated you to do this?”

“You know.”

“Elaborate.”

You lie, face down, in the pillows. The cotton smells like him.

“To feel better,” you say. “Amy said it helped her, sometimes. Cleared her head.”

The mattress tilts slightly as Dr Lecter sits down beside you.

“You mirror her pain to feel closer to love lost. Has it helped you?”

“No. I feel stupid. I feel—”

Restless, you turn onto your side and feel a tear, compelled by gravity, mark your jaw.

“I feel like a kid,” you say. “It’s humiliating. I hate that I always feel this way. Don’t make me live like this.”

Dr Lecter presses a tissue into your hand, as much to save his bedclothes as to comfort you.

“Fighting the expression of necessary emotions will only stunt them further, little one. Will and I would dearly like to see you flourish. Amy would surely wish that for you, too.”

Cradling your wounded arm to your chest, you flick the used tissue to the floor with the other.

“Screw you,” you say. “Both of you. That’s what Amy would tell me to say to you, Dad.”

Hannibal stares at the tissue, and you sense the inward twitch of his irritation as he bends to pick it up from the ground.

“Your parents called again, this afternoon,” he says, offhandedly. “I informed them that you were struggling with your treatment. I advised that we continue your residence here a month longer than previously agreed.”

He casts you a pitying look, and you’re reminded of the futility of going to war with Hannibal Lecter.

“It seems that I made the prudent choice,” he says. “Don’t you agree?”

#hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal fic #yandere hannibal lecter #manna fic #tw eating disorders #tw fatphobia #tw self harm #dead dove do not eat #darkfic #hannibal darkfic

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inamindfarfaraway · 5 months

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It's both funny and increasingly annoying to me when Hatchetfield fans associate Bill with Blinky, the way Paul is associated with Pokey and Ted with Tinky, but leave out Alice. She was there in Watcher World too! Her eyes were also purple! She was also controlled to try to kill her family! There is no way you can think of “Watcher World” without remembering Alice's equal involvement in Blinky's scheme.

I'd argue that she's a much better fit for Blinky's special human. He forms a grudge against her for insulting and disobeying him ("Fuck you, Blinky", "You'll be sorry"), just like Pokey's fixation on Paul because he defied him. She has a theme of watching going on herself, in contrast to Bill's naivety and obliviousness: being perceptive enough to notice the creepy, suspicious elements of Watcher World; trying to use observation as a tool to control Deb's behaviour, Blinky's modus operandi (though I personally like to believe that Deb didn't actually cheat and Blinky was tricking her); and having a connection with social media in general, which Blinky is thematically similar to and embodies the worst, most harmful elements of. She's deeply self-conscious, concerned with her reputation to her peers and has an anxiety disorder. The result that she's always worrying about how people see her and feels pressured to act in certain ways by that is exactly what Blinky wants in his prey, just like how Linda is Nibby's ideal hungry Honey Queen. She's interested in theatre and wants to be a playwright, to write shows where people will passively watch characters struggle and suffer for their own entertainment. Blinky creates live plays too - he even proudly says “Welcome to the show!" when the father and daughter's duel begins. She knows how to manipulate people by showing them what they want to see, giving her script draft a tragic ending for the queer main characters that's more likely to get it accepted in the discriminatory industry, when in fact she wants to change the ending once she has more power.

And she alone defeats her Lord in Black. Pokey assimilates Paul. Tinky breaks and owns Ted. Nibbly consumes Linda. Wiggly completely enslaves Linda and leads her to her death, and Wiley is unshakeable from his allegiance to him. But Alice? She overcomes the mind control, pushes through her panic attack, shoots Bliklotep in his all-seeing eye and goes home with her dad. And lets go of her independent issues with perception and image by putting down her phone.

She is so much like Blinky, and so much his perfect victim. Except that she wants happy endings. For the characters in her stories, for herself and for the people she loves. And she has the strength to make them come true. She's Blinky's equal and opposite. The hero to his villain. She can do everything he can, on a human scale, but she believes in happy endings.

I know the fandom likes the 'CCRP eldritch horrors’ favourites gang', and that is fun. But give Alice the respect she deserves! I see her as Blinky's Ted while Bill is his Pete; also a valued toy, but more by proxy than in his own right.

#she was literally doomed by the narrative in-universe and saved herself #and was saved by her dad #she is a PLAYWRIGHT THEATRE CHARACTER she can rewrite her own narrative!#she SHOT and escaped a lord in black #respect her!#alice woodward #my beloved #bill woodward #blinky #bliklotep #watcher world #nightmare time #hatchetfield

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steventhusiast · 11 months

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more autistic steve with ARFID (avoidant restrictive food intake disorder) projection time BUT this time a less hopeless and sad day for steve because i have had a good two days :] CW disordered eating

part 1 / part 2

since steve’s current period of bad with ARFID started and he told eddie about it, eddie started a nightly routine for them. every night when they get into bed and lay there on their sides, facing each other, eddie does a little check in. it’s always the same question: how do you feel about today?

it makes steve feel different things every time eddie asks it. sometimes it brings instant tears to his eyes because the day was so hard and he feels defeated. sometimes it makes him avert his eyes and pick at the sheets because he’s embarrassed about how his eating habits impacted the day. sometimes it makes his jaw clench in anger because he’s frustrated with himself and the fact that his boyfriend has to act as his god damn therapist every evening. it usually rotates between those emotions.

but today? today it brings a new emotion forward. fear.

because today has been strangely good. he reached his goals of eating a full breakfast, lunch and dinner. and the thing he’s most proud of is his dinner and the hours after.

recently, his dinner meals have been substituted for safe foods; cheese sandwiches, an apple, a packet of chips and chocolate bars. he feels guilty for rejecting whatever eddie’s cooked every time, but the thought of putting a spaghetti noodle or piece of cooked fish in his mouth makes him anxious at the best of times and nauseous at the worst. tonight though, he had felt hungry. the meal being cooked sounded appetising, and he ate it.

sure, it took him longer than a typical person would take to eat a meal. and sure, it was still a very safe version of a real dinner meal (breaded chicken strips and french fries). and sure, he had to distract himself a bit with the TV while he ate. but he ate. the whole. thing. the smile on eddie’s face as steve ate had made him feel so proud of himself, and the anxiety he’s been feeling recently during meal times had been suspiciously quiet. easy to ignore.

after a meal is usually the worst parts of the day for steve. he hates the sensation of being full, and feeling the food sitting there in his stomach, hates the knowledge that it’s going to sit there for hours while it digests. and sure he still got anxious tonight, but not debilitatingly so. there was no pacing back and forth, no self-harmful stims. he managed to just sit with eddie and cuddle him quietly while he practiced his breathing and watched what was on the TV.

so, eddie as usual asks his nightly question.

“how do you feel about today, lovely?”

steve hesitates and mills over what he really wants to say.

“..good.” he settles on, but feels dread pool in his gut as he says it. eddie raises an eyebrow in response.

“you don’t sound sure.”

“today was good. it’s just..” steve trails off, not knowing how to put his thoughts into words.

“what if tomorrow’s not?”

“what do you mean, baby?” eddie props himself up on one elbow as he speaks, brows becoming furrowed as he puts all his attention on steve.

“you were so proud of me today, for eating well. what if i wake up tomorrow and food feels harder again? i- i want to get better so bad and i’m scared that today was just a fluke or something.” he doesn’t fully think through his words as he talks, he just lets them spill directly from his brain.

eddie looks at him for a few seconds as he thinks.

“well, if tomorrow isn’t as good as today, we’ll still get through it, we’ll still try with meal times, and we’ll still go to bed just like this.” eddie says like it’s the most simple thing in the world.

steve makes a slightly confused noise. how does that answer his question?

“baby, all you can do is keep going for me. you’re gonna have good days, and bad days, and in between days. and i’m gonna be here for all of them, okay? i’m proud of you every day for different things.”

steve looks away from his boyfriend.

“it’s scary to not know.. i want this to be.. over. i miss enjoying food all the time.”

eddie gently reaches out and lays a hand on steve’s cheek, thumb rubbing back and forth soothingly.

“i know. we’re a team though, right? today was good, and instead of being scared tomorrow will be bad, let’s try and be hopeful it’ll be good again.” he says.

steve lets himself be guided back to looking at eddie’s face, and sees a wholly earnest expression there. he nods, takes a deep breath, and offers a smile.

he can try this whole hopeful thing.

#me but if i wasnt scared to jinx things by having hopeful thoughts 💀#steve harrington #stranger things #eddie munson #steddie #steddie ficlet #autistic steve harrington #steddie drabble #mywriting #cw disordered eating

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hauntedselves · 1 year

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"In Trauma and Recovery, Herman expresses the additional concern that patients with CPTSD frequently risk being misunderstood as inherently 'dependent', 'masochistic', or 'self-defeating' [personality disorders], comparing this attitude to the historical misdiagnosis of female hysteria."

~ Wikipedia's CPTSD article

~ Judith Herman, Trauma and Recovery (2015), pp. 116-118.

Thank you to @/avoydant, who transcribed these images. The transcriptions have been added to the alt text.

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m-grouped · 2 years

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what r th forgotten/propose subtypes/variants? :eyes emoji:

The forgotten PDs are

Depressive Personality Disorder (DpPD) [a.k.a. Melancholic Personality Disorder (MePD)]

Sadistic Personality Disorder (SaPD)

Self-defeating Personality Disorder (SDPD) [a.k.a. Masochistic Personality Disorder (MaPD)]

Passive-Agressive personality disorder (PAPD) [a.k.a. Negativistic Personality Disorder (NgPD)]

And the proposed subtypes/variants are Millon's classifications! Basically names for PDs with traits from other PDs

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saltygilmores · 5 months

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THOUGHTS WHILE WATCHING GILMORE GIRLS: S3/EP4/ONE’S GOT CLASS THE OTHER ONE DYES (PART 2)

Luke and Lorelai both have "unique" approaches to conducting business, I'll give them that. This chapter was rough for me to write for some reason and then I LOST my draft partway through and had to rewrite everything! Some things that are happening:

-Lane attempts to initiate a conversation with Mrs Kim about her new band. She loses her courage before Mrs. Kim presents her with applications to strict Christian colleges. -Michel suggests that the honor of being named a Successful Person in Business is a low bar to clear when Lorelai's only business competitor in Stars Hollow is a presumably homeless and/or mentally ill fellow who scours the streets for change with a metal detector. I mean, yeah, he has more ambition and a better work ethic than Lorelai does.

-Luke is reluctant about the speaking gig and Lorelai threatens to embarrass him by singing badly in public if he does not comply. He may as well refuse since she's going to embarrass him on a daily basis no matter what he does anyway? -Luke says he went to Stars Hollow High for three years. Huh? I thought he's lived in The Hollow his entire life? High school is four years long. Did he move, drop out or graduate early? No explanation was given at this point in time.

-Luke has "no good memories" of high school. Join the club. -Luke asks Lorelai if she's ever been diagnosed with a psychiatric disorder. No, the answer you're looking for is no. She is unmedicated and dangerous.

My beloved Tomatos Sign is missing! You'd think it was because after 3 years the prop department noticed the spelling error and took it down to fix it. You would be wrong. It'll return shortly to be Tomatos for several more years. Should I ask that Valerie Campbell lady (as "key set designer" is her title, I believe) why it took 5+ years for someone to notice one of the most visible props for the entire run of the series had a spelling error?

Lane is interesting. Yes, she is naive in many ways, that's a given with her upbringing. But she is also painfully self aware and highly intelligent. She is definitely not stupid. She fully realizes how desperately boxed in she is by her neurotic mother. She makes the effort and takes risks to live life on her own terms even though it usually seems futile and AmyShermanPalladino is always lurking around a corner waiting to shatter all her hopes and dreams. Rory on the other hand is such a pathetic people pleaser and so desperate to keep her mother happy that I think she's blind to the fact that she's actually in a similar situation, Lorelai just masks it under the veneer of being a "cool young mom" and Rory is content to remain more stagnant. I have more thoughts on this subject but let's not make this into a rambly mess. On with the ShitCircus.

I can't believe it looks there's another fucking festival going on in the background. I am grateful some of these seasonal events exist because it helps me keep track of where we are in the year. There's pumpkins, it's fall, the Thanksgiving episode is still a ways away so I can assume it’s early October and Rory would have just had her 18th birthday.

Lane and Rory on their way to harrass Queen Shane at her place of employment. Minimum wage in 2002 was $5.15, by the way. Look at that Rory, someone your age has a JOB that makes MONEY.

Stars Hollow, the land where nobody has seen a tv show produced after 1975 but the references to modern pop and rock music flow like wine.

Alexis really does have some spectacular defeated/fed up with everything facial expressions in her acting playbook.

Sure her customer service skills aren't the greatest, but if Lorelai Gilmore is allowed to leave work in the middle of the day to shop for coffins then Shane should be allowed to read a Seventeen behind the counter and ignore Rory. Her manager, Cynthia, is pretty chill and will look the other way if Shane slacks off. Reminder that while Rory knows who Shane is, Rory has barely been a glint in the corner of Shane's eye. Any time that Shane and Rory have shared the same space, it's been when Shane runs into the diner, makes out with Jess, and doesn't look back. Because she is a god damn superhero.

It's unlikely Jess and Shane ever use their tongue for talking either so I doubt Jess has told her who Rory is. So to Shane Rory is just some random customer who is staring at her weirdly like she's trying to melt her with her eye-beams.

Look at that exemplary customer service. Better crown her Employee of the Month now, before Jess offs her and throws her in the lake next month.

Dirty white aprons with tomato can accessories are the newest sensation on the 2002 Paris Runways. Luke Danes, fashion icon. Time to go to class. Lorelai is there to play Fashion Fairy Godmother. Upstairs we go to get him out of that sweaty flannell.

That's so filthy. L&L barge into the apartment without knocking to find Jess in the middle of pulling up his pants. Walking into any room that a teenage boy might occupy is a risky game, but Interruption seems to be Lorelai's biggest kink.

I know Jess is just a poor little street urchin but can we get him some clothes that fit for once? In 2002 Milo was so smol a stiff breeze could have blown him away. He's wearing a belt and it's not working. Those pants are so baggy they could fit 3 Milos in them. Not that I would mind if his pants fell down. Looks we're on Gilmore Girls Time today, where down is up and right is left as Luke and Lorelai are about to give speeches at Stars Hollow High in the middle of the school day but Shane, Lane, Rory and Jess are not in school and no one cares, so it's Who The Fuck Knows O'Clock.

Stars Hollow High: Jess is not graduating because he never went to class. Luke: How could I possibly know that? Jess settles into a chair with a chemistry textbook. Our Child Labor Kingpin here Luke Danes tells him to go help Cesar downstairs. Jess says his education is more important than Luke's desire to use his nephew for cheap child labor. Luke disagrees. Luke goes to change in his bedroom leaving Lorelai, Jess, and a cloud of awkard silence to mingle in the other room. Luke has a book on his shelf called "Forty Days" but i can't find anything with that title. It sounds kinda erotic, tbh. Lorelai says she's gone swimming with Luke and has seen him shirtless before. Que? Jess: Have you seen him with his shirt off lately? He's really let himself go. Lorelai: *Sneers and ignores him. (to Luke): And lose the baseball hat! Jess: I think his head will fall off without it. Lorelai (snarkily): I think he'll be okay. You wanted Jess to talk, right? You're going to continue bitching to everyone you know that Jess Mariano only speaks in grunts like a caveman unlike your little fucking English scholar there Dean Forrester, right? He just lobbed you two funny quips in a row (and you love funny quips!) but now you're silent and giving him a dirty look and a nasty attitude. WHAT DO YOU EVEN WANT, WOMAN? MAKE UP YOUR MIND! WHY SO SILENT QUIPPY! WHAT DID THIS CHILD EVER DO TO YOU!

I'm just gonna sit here and read my little Chemistry book, and one day I'm gonna make 40 kajillion dollars when my books are made into blockbuster movies, and I will own you, Aunt Lorelai. I will own you.

Lorelai doing the Fry squint at Jess when he asked if something was wrong, because she refused to make conversation with him.

Speaking of Gilmore Girls Time. Let's stop the clock for a minute here. Moments ago, Shane was at work. She rang up Rory and Lane, and they left immediately. The scene then cuts to Lorelai entering the diner and then after he gets a brief lecture about his clothing choices, Lorelai and Luke start to head upstairs so he can change. In order for Closet Girl to be Shane, her shift would have ended seconds after she finished with Rory and Lane, and then she would have to immediately run down the street, sneak upstairs to Luke's apartment without him noticing and would only be seconds into servicing Jess as Luke and Lorelai are about to walk in PLUS he would need time to hide her in the closet and pull up his pants and appear cool calm and collected. I know Shane is a slutty superhero but could she really put that off in just a few minutes? Conclusion? It wasn't actually Shane in that closet and Jess has a rotation of girls who skip school with him to service him in his uncle's closet.

#gilmore girls #denise rewatches gilmore girls #gilmore girls season 3 #OGCTOOD #jess mariano #rory gilmore #shane #queen shane #luke danes

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obey-my-twisted-logic · 6 months

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Soothing what Remains : after avoiding the Pomefiore Dormleader like the plague since you learned of him, you can avoid him no longer. Vil Schoenheit, the most beautiful man you'd met or seen in the entirety of your life, had you alone in a room in Ramshackle Dorm. Platonic!Vil Schoenheit x GN!Reader

Synopsis : He had you take him personally to his guest room during his stay while he leads the training camp for the SDC. As their manager, he needs a word with you. The Fairest of them All is very aware that you've been avoiding him.

Warnings : eating disorder mentioned briefly. There is self harm mentioned and discovery. A lot of hidden scars are revealed. Gentle platonic touching. Difficult confession and a softer side unknown to the reader. Mild cursing and self degradation. Comfort but not coddling. General spoilers of the game up to the beginning to the middle of Book 5 in the game Twisted Wonderland, but the focus is not on the game. Everyone involved is over 21 years of age. Anything in italics is from Vil's point of view.

Author's Note : Vil has a special place in my heart. While beauty and self confidence are extraordinarily important, he's not incessantly cruel or heartless. At least not in my head canons, and based on what I've read and understood from the game. Very personal piece to myself, as someone who has struggled desperately with self harm. Edit - this really got away and personal for me, I hope you enjoy it

---

You escort Vil to his room. His confiscation of the treats from his troupe of dancers fresh in your mind. There was sympathy but despite it all, he hadn't been overly cruel about it and wasn't exactly wrong about why he did so. Still it was a shame you couldn't share the treats Trey had sent. Thankfully he wasn't forcing this new "lifestyle" on you or Grim. Your struggle with food was dark enough, and dealing with Grim would have been infinitely worse.

"So this will be your room specifically-" your explanation cut off by the harsh shutting of the room's door. "What was that about?" You asked, trying to hide you annoyance, despite it being evident in your look.

He did bow his head apologetically. "I closed the door a touch harder than intended, however I do require a bit of a ... chat with you." He said as he took a seat on the bed, poised and legs crossed elegantly. "Tell me little potato, why do you avoid me so much?" His gaze caught your own, seeming to just see straight through you.

"If I was avoiding you I wouldn't allow you to stay in my home." You replied, however it was evident that you were avoiding his gaze.

"I may be pretty Sweet Potato, but that doesn't make me dumb." He cut your excuses off with a click of his tongue, smoothing his forehead as the annoyance crossed his delicate features once again.

"Of course I didn't notice in the beginning. You a trouble making first year, and magicless to boot, and I the Housewarden of Pomefoire. We were not two people who would join face to face often, or really at all." He paused, eyes tracing over your form, an unexplainable look on his face, like he was lost in your form and how you became a part of his life.

"With each 'incident' " Vil resumed, referring to the Overblots. "You became more interesting. Even began to hear professors sincerely sing your praises. Despite your lack of magic, you excelled elsewhere."

"I can't be lazy or lax, headmaster made it quite clear he'll be happy to kick me out." You interrupt. How long had he had an interest in you? Why did it not just fade away? You'd done your best to not stand out otherwise. How did he realize your were actually avoiding him?

"Rook." Vil replied, answering the question you dare not speak out loud. "His interest was different from my own, but he has a habit of... hunting those who catch his eye. And he would cheerfully admit defeat as you used your comrades as a smoke screen to avoid his intrigue." Vil laughed lightly. "Very brave to try and out maneuver Rook. That little trick was your downfall. That's when I knew, yes, the Prefect of Ramshackle Dorm was indeed avoiding me, without a doubt."

"My only question is why?" The Fairest of them All firmly kept your gaze as he questioned your reasoning.

~~~

You look so very uncomfortable with his gaze. Vil couldn't fathom why, he had never done a thing to hurt you, never approached you. You weren't on bad terms with anyone in his dorm. Why did you tremble like a leaf when he his eyes rested on you?

"Your very being terrifies me. You're beautiful, confident, and you take matters into your own hands." You begin, actually trembling. "You've never hurt me, you've never bullied me, but I've been burnt before and you were too beautiful to trust."

Vil absorbs this in and lets you talk. He's not mad, still confused, but you did have real fear, that much he could tell. His eyes widened when you took off your jacket, revealing a dark secret that most wouldn't notice. "Wait-" he began, reaching a hand out and retracting it when you flinched.

Before him you were exposing something deeply personal and dark. To most, it wouldn't stand out much. To a man with a morning, noon and night skin routine, he could see all the faded scars.

"I'm broken and tired, and that was long before I got here." You began, soft voice still trembling slightly, hands running up and down your arms gently, as if reminding yourself of each self inflicted mark, the history of each one and the ragged reminders that marred your pale skin.

"I knew you'd be able to tell right away. Someone as strict as you with appearances? There's no way you wouldn't be able to tell that these were self inflicted." You laughed bitterly. "And this is just what is visible to the polite eye. The thought of anyone but myself knowing terrified me." Fat tears slowly began to slip and your lip trembled as you continued. "The judgment from someone as put together and confident as you would send me back to that dark space, and I'm all ready desperately trying to survive as is." You smiled sadly.

"So yes, thankfully for me, I noticed Rook's strange interest," you laughed quietly. "Call it experience of being hunted back home. Only this time I had friends. I could blend in with my Heartlabyul boys and Grimm. Azul was easy to use as an excuse, working for the lounge, so I always had 3 or more pairs of eyes, especially when I told the Tweels how uncomfortable Rook made me." You paused with a soft smile. "Floyd especially did not take that well, offering to 'squeeze' him. Of course I declined, Rook wasn't cruel or mean, I was just scared."

"Then there was of course Leona. As lazy as he appears, he takes my comfort very seriously, making sure to be around me whenever I needed 'alone time', using it as an excuse to nap either with or near me. So when Rook did show up, he'd be distracted by the sleepy lion, and Ruggie would help me slip away." You were proud to have found such comforting and genuine friends.

"And despite it all, you're here. I couldn't refuse you or Rook. Everyone is so excited about the SDC, how could I ruin that for them when they've done so much for me?" You used both hands and rubbed always the tears trying to regain control of your own emotions.

"Please Vil, please just leave me alone and I'll do my very best for your comfort and for the SDC. Even beyond the SDC, I'll run myself ragged for you. Please I'm begging you, please just leave me alone." You begged, starting to pull the jacket back on.

"Fuck." Was all that escaped Vil's pursed lips as he pulled you into an embrace, gently rubbing circles on your back with his left palm. "No. I refuse. I won't let you keep carrying your burden alone. I won't STOP bothering you until you see how strong and beautiful you are." He felt your flinch, but what he felt more were your tears as you pressed your face against his chest gently sobbing.

"You won't be alone with your thoughts anymore. I cannot share or bare your burden, but I can ease the affect it has on you. I can be here, I can pamper you, I can listen," he listed off everything he could think of, wanting to assure your comfort. "Sweet Potato, you're more beautiful then you know." He gently ran his hand over a still exposed scar, near invisible with time, but he knew skin better than most. "Each one is a sad story, with a beautiful ending. You survived Sweet Potato. Each is a badge of survival, and you deserved to survive." He assure you as he brushed away tears that he could.

"But you'll never need to hurt yourself again. I will make sure of it." He finished, closing his eyes and resting his cheek on the top of your head, gently humming a gentle soft sound as you both stood there embracing, letting this new feeling and friendship sink in.

#mature #self h@rm #twisted wonderland #twst wonderland #twst Vil #twst vil schoenheit #sad story #exposed to the mercy of another #disneys twisted wonderland #self healing #help from a friend #vil schoenheit #Vil Schoenheit x reader

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grimbeak · 3 months

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on a Serious note: I am very worried the conclusion to this arc will be the boy killing adult kevin, implying that certain people are too broken to be fixed. I feel like if the conclusion of this arc ends with current kevin being dead it'll undermine literally all of his baggage into "just some crazy guy" instead of. a guy with disorders the dsm hasn't even seen yet who deserves to heal from his past

on a more speculative note: it's mentioned talk therapy is illegal in desert bluffs too. the first idea they have for the boy is to take him to a child therapist, which is talk therapy. just thought that was interesting

Well,I had a whole answer written up, and then I looked at a transcript and it was gone. God bless Tumblr. I'm going to paraphrase.

I don't think they would do that. For one, this is a child talking about murdering his future self. He talks about how he is going to do it in explicit detail. While Night Vale has segments that are gorey and occasionally sad, even including the deaths of characters, I think this would be too big a leap. This is a more serious topic- for example, the episode we get where Old Woman Josie has died, and we spend it learning about her and her life. While she wasn't a big recurring character, it was clear that she meant a lot to Cecil and the town. There was so much about her we never got to learn.

Kevin. Kevin is a huge character. While not recurring often after his "defeat", we still hear from him from time to time. However, he's such a big character because of who he is. He's Cecil's double. While we really don't know much about Cecil (so much of what we have is just speculation from the vague hints left in occasional episodes), we know even less about Kevin.

Kevin... We really have no idea what he's up to. He wanted to take over Night Vale with Strex, but they lost. After Kevin got trapped in the Desert Otherworld, we could have easily never heard from him again. We've barely heard anything about Lubelle post-mortem, except that she's probably still under the cow.

You could argue that we didn't know much about Janet Lubelle. However, we did know her motives. We knew what she wanted to do. She wanted to explain Night Vale, plain and simple.

Now? Kevin has a life separate from StrexCorp and even the Smiling God. Lubelle never had a clear life separate from the University of What It Is. Kevin has a partner, a stepson. A kind-of-friend in Lauren. An old companionship with Carlos. Kevin is a character that has been developed outside of his main focuses, and I think that's important to remember. Night Vale interns die because, well, they're interns. Not much we learn about them. The ones we did learn about? Still alive. Dana Cardinal- former mayor, now therapist. Maureen- owns dark owl records with Michelle. Even Kareem had something to distinguish himself- a double, and a family that didn't remember him. All of them are still living.

One of, if not the only character that's been developed to have a personal life and still died, is Old Woman Josie. Dead from a hip infection. And we got a whole episode (several if you count the ones mentioning her worsening condition) about her passing. She was a very important character, especially to Cecil. Based on those odds, and the extreme difference in death cause (natural hip infection vs murdered by your past/future child self), along with the whole topic being extremely heavy for the podcast, I don't think they're going to have Kevin be killed by himself. Kevin's a very developed character that we still know very little about, and we're only just learning more now. Along with that, Josie had a daughter, but they had a complicated relationship. During one of the last few times we heard from Kevin, he got a partner and a stepson. While it is odd that we didn't get a mention of them in the past Adult!Kevin episode, I think it can be easily explained by the focus being on a specific holiday and Lauren suddenly showing up and surprising him/the whole "smiling god doesn't actually love you" thing. The difference in time between the desert otherworld and night vale hasn't been explained fully yet. Who knows if it's still ten times faster? Who knows if the active portal is messing with the time? I think there's a very high chance that Charles and Donovan are still alive, and likely similar ages from when we last heard from them. I doubt finknor would give him a young child to care for and then instantly age him up without letting us see how that's affected Kevin.

If Charles and Donovan are still alive, then would Brinknor really kill a man in front of his child and partner? After the healing he clearly went through to get to that point? I don't think they've forgotten about Charles and Donovan.

Not only would it not make sense for his character, it would also be a very dark turn for the podcast. While Night Vale has had it's dark moments (Go To The Mirror), I think there's a huge step to make between cosmic horror and a child murdering his future self (who we've recently been purposely reminded exists! Who's recently been given more dialogue to a name!). Even if you see the "killing his future self" part as an average night vale plot, this is still a child. A child who we've grown to know both versions of. A child who, a few weeks ago in Night Vale time, was pretending to be an airplane in a park. While The Boy has gotten more serious and seemingly more unstable over the weeks, he's still a child. Cecil offers him goldfish crackers and a root beer.

The way the episode ends, especially with the addition of Carlos trying to help The Boy with symbolism, it feels very much like The Boy saying that he needs to murder his future self, and describing it in detail, is something that is not going to be tolerated by the other characters. Brinknor wouldn't suddenly switch up Carlos's personality and have him help Kevin continue the cycle of violence that he's clearly very traumatized from.

All in all, I totally understand your concerns, but I don't think it's something you have to be worried about. Even if it's his future self, a child commiting murder and that being deemed okay is a huge step for a podcast where the main character refused to work for several days because he didn't know trees grew from seeds. I think a likely ending is going to be about Kevin breaking the cycle of violence, trauma, and abuse. Whether The Boy goes back to wherever he came from, whether he gets to grow up in Night Vale and start again, whether Adult!Kevin helps him through his struggle, I think there's going to be a happy ending for The Boy that doesn't involve murder.

#i hope this helps you feel better!#couldn't rewrite all of what i had but. i think i got what i was trying to say #anon ily and if you want to talk about this anymore feel free to dm me #kevin wtnv #wtnv spoilers #welcome to night vale spoilers

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