Chapter Text
How many times have you read the line, "their tongues battled for dominance" or "she stared into his deep green orbs."
Too many times, huh.
(Note how I didn't add a question mark at the end. This should well in all be considered a fact.) we are fanfic readers after all.
Or how many times have you started a story where (Y/N) wakes up and turns her naturally curly hair into a messy bun?
Too fucking many times.
Now, if I were to do that- I'd look like shit. Like hasn't the author ever heard of dandruff? Or Black Women's hair?? It ain't that easy chief. No sir.
If I had a dollar for every time I have ever come across fanfics like that, I'd be as rich as motherfucking Jeff Bezos.
But like still, fuck him.
Anyways, eat the rich.
But back to my point, there's so much left unsaid when it comes to fanfics. Our author does know that mixed, Asian, Hispanic, and Black women read their stories, right??
It just doesn't add up.
Now the reason why I'm writing this is because I'm at a group therapy session.
Chill...I'm not like in a psych ward or anything lmao, but it's a group therapy session for College students who struggle with maladaptive daydreaming. How did I get here you ask? Well I work at my school's office at Shiganshina University. I found out that through my job, my job is covered through this insurance thing and apparently, I can get therapy. So yay!!
Time to fix up all these daddy issues -am I right?
Anyways, our counselor (Mr. Moblit) wants us to journal down our thoughts and frustrations for the day. We meet every Tuesday and I think he's just giving us more than the 10 minutes he said he would. I mean, look at how much I've written so far? You'd be surprised to look back and see how much you've read of my trash. I hope Mr. Moblit doesn't read this, and if you are, hey Mr. Moblit! Don't mind me-just me writing my thoughts. I promise I'm not crazy tho lol this is just my personality. Anyways, stay hydrated!!
Where was I? Oh right, therapy. So yeah, I guess it does help. It doesn't mean I won't stop reading fanfics at like 2am or daydream about my fictional crushes here and there, it's just going to be about me controlling these "intrusive" thoughts as Mr. Moblit calls it.
Nothing intrusive about getting railed by my fictional crush, but go off I guess.
"Hey guys, I think I'll give you a minute to wrap this writing. Then, we can share what we've written."
SHIT
FUCK
Literally the thing I hate most about group therapy sessions. Like do people really have to know what I've written?
"(Y/N?)" Mr. Moblit asks, startling you from behind. You jump, and place a dramatic hand over your heart. He offers you a polite, small smile.
"Gah! Hi Mr.Mob Boss, what's up bro?" You turn to see your therapist with a nervous smile. He catches that.
"How many times have I told you not to call me that."
You frown. "Mo litty?"
"No."
"Mr. MoBo?"
"No."
"Mo-Bamba?"
"Sicko Mode!" Shouts a student from the other side of the room, earning a few chuckles from nearby students.
"Mr. Springer," Mob-Boss turned to him, "I appreciate the backup comedic relief, but this is not the time for joking." He turns to you.
Within the circle-like shaped room that resembled a Socratic Seminar, the Buzz-cut student crossed his arms in enjoyment. His outfit was all black, except for the white words on his long sleeved shirt. You frowned when you couldn't read what the words said.
"No, Miss (Y/L/N). Just call me Moblit. Or Mr. B-" he says before reaching for your paper. "Let me see what you've written." his hand dives in to pick your paper up before you can protest.
"I can tell you're a fast writer-" stopping in midline, he holds an unreadable expression you're afraid of. Holding onto your heart (metaphorically) you notice his eyebrows slowly scrunch in and out as if it were a pattern.
"I swear those are just my thoughts!" You blurt out, instantly regretting your words.
He's gonna think I'm crazy. Now I'm really going to the Psych Ward.
"I just brain barfed. It doesn't have to make sense-"
"So," he asks, pulling his glasses down.
"Eat the rich?" Looking for an answer you nod.
"Fuck Jeff Bezos!" Shouts the same buzz-cut kid, his hands are cupped around his mouth, as if he were holding a megaphone.
"Yeah fuck Jeff Bezos!" Joins a girl with a brown haired ponytail who happened to sit next to Springer. I think her name was Stasha? You ask yourself.
When you redirect your gaze to Mr. Moblit, you notice that he fails to hold back a smile.
"Nice. I love it." Handing you your paper back, he turns around, hands behind his back as he heads for his seat. He changes the topic of the lecture.
You sigh.
Close one.
"Remember everyone, we won't have another therapy session until the week after. Me and my wife are going out on our Wedding Anniversary for the week." Your therapist turns his look to the frame that promptly stands on his desk.
You already had the picture memorized. The picture was of Mr. Moblit, his wife Hange, a (crazy) medical and social scientist, and their Australian Shepherd named Sage. You had learned from Moblit that the two of them were college friends. The two separated from each other (as friends) when they had internships in different cities, but the two of them were surprised to find each other stationed in Peru while Hange was doing a project on stem-cells. Moblit was completing a Psychology internship. That's how their story started. You sighed dreamily.
++
"He.Did.What." you say as you tightly grip onto the phone that is placed there.
"Uh huh." says your mother from the line. You could already feel her nodding. "He spent all of your savings."
You slap a hand to your forehead, trying to not freak out. Trying to find a rational explanation, a solution for this mess. But instead, you blurt out. "Please don't tell me he used the money on bills and his sisters back in-"
"-He did."
"Grrrrr." you exasperate. "That was really all my money for the MA Program mom! I need that money in less than two Quarters."
"I know, that's why I talked to him." you shook your head after hearing your mother's words. How was she so calm? You knew that whenever she'd say 'I talked to him' always resulted in no resolution. Nada.
"Look Mom, I'm gonna have to call you later." You explain holding tears back. You lie. "My roommate is at the door. We'll talk tomorrow ok? Ok bye." pressing the 'end call' button, you release a silent screech before grabbing one of your pillows and repeatedly smashing it against the bed.
That's when you remembered a friend of yours gave you some keys. "Use these keys whenever you need to exercise and de-stress." she said. "Only 4 people have the key to this room so it's pretty safe. All people I trust. Plus, I heard it'd be good for your therapy so why not try it out?"
You cursed under your breath, already dreading what you were going to have to do. Picking up the lanyard that rested above your desk, you whipped out your phone before texting your roommate.
You: Brb. Gonna be out for some time. Dw about me.
Ymir: You sure?
You: Yeah. I'll be out for a bit. LMK if anything happens.
And with that, you you close your phone before grabbing a pair of dark sweats.
(Y/N) wouldn't do this shit, you thought to yourself grumpily.
Here we go I guess.