Okay, an anonymous question wanted to know how Theraprism works in my AU, okay, this is it.
As is known, Theraprism is a neutral zone located outside of time and space, whose purpose is the rehabilitation of deceased beings who will eventually be reincarnated. It is located in the neutral zone of Dimension 5150.
Bill is confined to the Dimensional Tyrant Ward of the Maximum Security Wellness Center. There, he undergoes "indefinite karmic rehabilitation." He must attend mandatory therapy sessions with other beings in the same situation.
Bill has been a unique case. On his first day, he attempted to riot alone, and no one helped him, so he was confined as punishment in the "Solitary Wellness Void."
One of the employees explains that: "At Theraprism, we believe that death can be the beginning of a new life. With good behavior, ancient mages, world-devouring titans, and even Cipher have many exciting options for reincarnation. Unfortunately, Cipher recently used his Arts and Crafts "Therapeutic Journal" time to contact someone with this book, violating our policy on contact with outside dimensions".
Theraprism has facilities such as:
- Maximum Security Wellness Center
- Dimensional Tyrant ward
- The Solitary Wellness Void
And activities such as:
- Karmic Rehabilitation (in Bill's case, this is "Indefinite")
- Mandatory group therapy sessions
- Arts and crafts for therapeutic journaling
- Puppet's time
Visiting hours (this depends more on the patient and their contacts)
It has also been mentioned that within the Interdimensional Tyrant Pavilion, they have a subdivision for those who are more dangerous (the area where Bill enters).
Aside from the information we already know, I will add my own information about how Theraprism works.
The Theraprism also houses other areas, such as a recreational chamber so the patient feels like they're in another place (sometimes used to help them find a comfort zone if necessary after a crisis).
There's also an area for complete scans of patients, although this likely applies to delving deeper into the patient's subconscious (something similar to what Bill did in mental space).
Since you're probably already scanned as soon as you enter the Theraprism, after all, I never stop thinking about the larger structure of the Theraprisma, which is literally a brain. Entering there means you're already partially part of it, and you've already been scanned.
Now, what I've written about "moral ambiguity" within the Theraprisma has its limits. I don't believe there's a "dark" side, but certainly some treatments can be perceived as invasive or hostile, but almost all have a unique condition.
"A patient will never be physically harmed unless it is in self-defense by the staff and their life is in danger."
Or
"You cannot intentionally physically harm a patient so that they suffer."
An opposite example is when force is used to administer medication. However, this is applicable because the use of force is not to harm the patient but to help them take the requested treatment, and the patient has resisted.
Another thing worth mentioning is that Teresa is a behavioral therapist and treats Bill.
This sometimes doesn't apply to all patients, as many only need the aforementioned activities to progress. However, those who need more attention are assigned a behavioral therapist to help them reintegrate, carry out their activities, and provide follow-up private therapy outside of daily activities.
The therapist in charge should be aware of their patient's needs and areas of improvement. They should contact their colleagues who teach some of the activities.
(Like Nova in recreational activities, Lime in group therapy, Mark in dealing with staff, and eventually with the Pines.)
The patient's progress or decline will reflect the therapist's efficiency and whether they should be reassigned to another therapist.
An external fact about Theraprism is its space-time speed, as it moves at a much slower pace than expected.
In the AU, I wanted to have a brief chronology of the events surrounding Bill's book.
The end of Weirdmageddon, Lost Legends, and Dipper and Mabel's departure for California.
Some friends and I decided that the number of days that passed before the children left was approximately 7 to 10 days. (As an example, I believe in the AU)
Taking that into account, the book explains that Bill is already in session number 3455 by then. (And we're talking about the group therapy shown in the scene.)
If we were to use as an example that it's one session per day (since the schedule consists of: "group therapy, recreational activities, private therapy, and rest").
Bill, at that time, had been in Theraprism for approximately:
9 years, 5 months, and 20 days (meaning each day would almost be a year older, depending on the time).
Taking into account that those are 10 days (again, I'm only using this as an example for this AU), by the summer of 2014, when Teresa appears (2 years after canon), 691 years had passed in its facilities.
Something to clarify is that you can't age inside Theraprism. However, you can feel the fatigue (mental) of the passage of time if you've never gotten used to the place. It can cause some headaches and dizziness if you stay there too long if you're someone who's never been there. (Why do you think Teresa drinks so much coffee or is constantly trying to rest in the few minutes she has available?)
Theraprism workers may come into contact with Axolotl.
There are two ways to contact Axolotl within the facility. The first is through dreams (only if Axolotl agrees to contact them), and the second is through permission from their superiors in the ward, who can send the desired letter/request. However, on many occasions, no one dares to contact Axolotl unless it's something truly important and urgent. Otherwise, you're doing something "unnecessary" that could be used for something more important in the future.
It's not known exactly what all the requirements are for a patient to qualify for reincarnation and for their stay at Theraprism to end. Some take longer than others, and it depends on the development they needed. Typically, these patients or the behavioral therapist are notified.
They can be reincarnated in different forms:
perhaps as a newt, a shrimp, or a mushroom spore cloud.
However, regardless of the form of reincarnation, the location of this will always be something that the patient deeply desires to be in, but is never asked; his subconscious already knows it even if the patient does not believe it.
Okay! I hope this helps you understand some things about the AU. Tell me what you think? Do you like it?
I hope I haven't confused you and that you understand what I'm doing! LMAO💖💕✨️
series masterlist
<- Chapter 16 ✦ Chapter 18 ->
word count: 4551
author's note: strap in yall we've got a rhys POV
Fuck.
No—
No, that—
Fuck.
Rhys blinked. Once. Twice. The image didn’t change. Cassian—his Cassian—stared back at him from her phone, frozen mid-laugh, head thrown back slightly in a way Rhys knew too well. He’d seen that exact expression a hundred times—across bar tables, across gym floors, across late nights that belonged to a version of him that had nothing to do with this room. It hit him all at once.
His stomach dropped so fast it felt physical, like something inside him had shifted out of place. No. No, that wasn’t—he didn’t finish the thought before she swiped again, already moving on.
“And this was when I went ice skating with him and Gwyn—oh, wait—”
Another picture. Clearer this time. Closer. There was no room left for doubt.
Fuck.
His grip tightened around his pen—too tight. The plastic pressed into his fingers before he forced his hand to loosen, like he could undo the reaction before it meant anything. Years of training locked his face into something neutral, something passable at least. Attentive, composed, unchanged. Nothing that reflected the way the ground had just dropped out from under him.
He should stop this.
The thought came clean. Immediate.
He should stop the session. Now. Right now.
Conflict of interest. Dual relationship. Immediate termination of care. Referral out. The words lined up automatically, clinical and precise, the way they always did. He knew the script. Knew exactly how it should sound—calm, measured, non-negotiable. He’d said it before without hesitation, without room for argument.
There are lines you don’t cross.
And this?
Fuck.
“—oh my god, wait, this one’s actually so bad—”
She laughed softly, still swiping, still talking like nothing had changed—as if the moment hadn’t split cleanly in two. Rhys nodded at the right times, made the right sounds, slipped seamlessly back into the role he’d built for himself over years of practice. He played the part without missing a beat, because the second thought had already followed the first, sliding into place before he could stop it.
You don’t have to do it now.
His jaw tightened.
He could finish the session. One hour. Nothing inappropriate, nothing actionable, nothing that couldn’t be documented and handled after the fact. He could still fix it—terminate after this session, refer her out, deepen the line in the sand once he had time to think. Clean boundary. No harm done.
It made sense.
It almost felt reasonable.
His gaze flicked to her. She was leaning forward slightly, one ankle crossed over the other, completely at ease—comfortable in a way that had taken weeks to build, piece by careful piece. He’d watched that progress happen, tracked it in small shifts and quiet moments, the gradual loosening of something that had once been tightly held.
And there was the other thing.
He’d never named it. Not even to himself, because that would force him to acknowledge it as more than coincidence, or projection, or something easily dismissed if he didn’t look at it too closely.
It hadn’t been consistent. That was how he justified it.
Just moments. Small ones. Easy to overlook if he chose to. Moments where her attention lingered a fraction longer than it needed to, where her gaze didn’t just meet his, but stayed. Where it drifted without her seeming to notice—down to his hands when he moved them, to his forearms when his sleeves were pushed up, to his mouth when he spoke.
Small things.
A quick press of her lips together, then the faintest flick of her tongue across them, like she’d caught herself a second too late. The way she’d sit a little closer to the edge of the couch on certain days, posture more open, more engaged. The subtle shift in her tone—lighter, warmer—on days when she’d clearly taken more care getting ready, like she’d decided, consciously or not, to meet him there instead of holding herself back.
Nothing that could be called out.
Nothing he could—
Should—
Interpret.
He’d let it pass every time, filed it away neatly under misread body language. Transference, maybe. Projection. Normal. Expected. Manageable. Easy to contain as long as he didn’t think about it too hard.
Until now. Because now it felt—
He cut the thought off before it could fully form.
Rhys’ jaw tightened slightly, the shift small, something internal slipping just slightly out of alignment.
She was comfortable. With him.
He shouldn’t take that from her mid-session. How could he? Not like this. Not without any warning, not without giving her time to understand what had changed.
That was the justification.
He clicked his pen once again, a quiet, habitual motion. He willed himself into the image of calm composure, indistinguishable from any other session. On the surface, nothing had changed. His posture was easy, controlled, his expression neutral in a way that read as attentive. If someone walked in, they wouldn’t see it—the shift, the fracture, the fact that something had already gone wrong.
“Walk me through that night,” he said evenly. “You mentioned you knew he’d be there.”
A beat passed before he added, “Cassian.”
The name sat wrong in his mouth, heavier than it should have been, like it didn’t belong in this room. To be fair, it didn’t. As soon as he’d come up, Rhys should have—
Across from him, she didn’t seem to notice.
“Yeah,” she said, shifting slightly as she set her phone down. “I mean, I figured he would be. We’ve been—” she hesitated, “—not no-contact, I guess.”
Rhys nodded slowly, like there was nothing unusual about any of this.
“And being around him,” he said, “what did that feel like for you?”
It was a neutral question. Standard. Safe.
“Fine,” she said too quickly. Then softer, “Normal, mostly.”
Mostly.
“And the rest of it?”
“It’s just… complicated, I guess.” She exhaled, glancing down at her hands. “We get along, he’s an easy guy to be around. It’s just… not exactly stable.”
Rhys hummed, the sound quiet, thoughtful.
“Not stable,” he repeated, letting the words settle for a moment. “Do you mean unpredictable,” he said, “or just… consistently unsatisfying?”.
The second it left his mouth, he knew.
Too leading. Too narrow. It gave her language she hadn’t chosen herself, pushed her toward an answer instead of letting her find one. He knew better. He’d been trained not to do that—to leave space, not fill it.
He didn’t take it back.
She blinked once, like she was considering it, then—
“...yeah,” she said slowly.
Something in his chest loosened.
“Consistently unsatisfying,” she repeated, like she was trying the words on for size. And for a split second, he felt it—sharp, instant, gone just as quickly as it came.
Satisfaction.
“Not in that way,” she added quickly.
Rhys went still.
She huffed a small, almost self-conscious laugh. “He’s… he’s not bad,” she said, a little awkwardly. “Kind of the opposite. Generous, if anything. Like, almost annoyingly considerate.”
His jaw tightened.
No. Stay in it. Stay in it. Stay—
He couldn’t.
“So he’s attentive,” he said. “And that’s… the bar?”
“Well—no. It shouldn’t be,” she said.
“You’re right, it shouldn’t,” he replied, tone smoother now. His pen rolled once between his fingers, something to do with his hands. “There are plenty of men who can give you that.”
A beat passed.
“And more.”
Her mouth parted slightly.
Rhys felt it land somewhere low in his stomach, sudden and disorienting, before he could stop it.
She leaned back a little, just enough to put space between them, but her attention didn’t go with it.
“Okay,” she said slowly, “That felt a little… targeted.”
Rhys let out a quiet breath through his nose, the corner of his mouth threatening something that didn’t quite qualify as a smile.
“Did it?”
He should have walked it back. Smoothed it over. Redirected the conversation somewhere safer, somewhere neutral.
Instead, he watched her.
The way her fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeve like they always did—but looser this time, less guarded. The way her shoulders stayed open, even as she leaned back. No real attempt to close herself off. No retreat.
If anything, she was leaning into it.
“You said he’s generous,” he continued, more evenly now, like he was choosing his words with care this time. “Attentive. Easy to be around.”
Each word was softer than the last, but he didn’t miss the weight of them.
“And still…” His gaze held hers. “You don’t want to stay.”
She didn’t answer right away, but her eyes flicked—brief, almost automatic—to his mouth before returning to his eyes, like she’d caught herself doing it a second too late.
His grip tightened slightly around the pen in his hand.
“Yeah,” she said finally.
“Right.”
Rhys paused before continuing.
“And that doesn’t… bother him?” The question came out smoother than he felt.
Her brows pulled slightly. “What do you mean?”
“That you don’t stay,” he clarified. “That you’re there, and then you’re not.”
He watched the way she processed that—how she bit her lip, slow and absentminded, like she wasn’t even aware she was doing it. Another sharp pull hit low in his stomach. The thought came just as fast—what that would look like directed at him, what it would feel like to earn that reaction while his face was between her legs, tongue—
No.
“He doesn’t say anything?” he added, clearing his throat.
He knew exactly what he was doing, turning Cassian into something smaller, something easier to dismiss, piece by piece. Taking what she gave him and shifting it just slightly, reframing it until it sounded different coming back to her than it had when she first said it. He didn’t need to tell her what to think. He just nudged. Let the silences stretch in the right places, let certain words land heavier than others, until the conclusion felt like it was hers.
And Rhys knew it was unethical. Indefensible.
She hesitated. “I mean… not really.”
He exhaled again, gaze dropping for half a second—tracking the way her fingers twisted slightly in her sleeve again—before returning to her face.
“That’s convenient,” he said.
Her head tilted slightly. “For who?”
He didn’t answer right away. He watched the way she held his gaze now, not skirting around it, not dropping away from it like she used to. Holding. Matching.
“You tell me.”
She let out a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh under it, though it didn’t quite land.
“I don’t think it’s that simple.”
“No,” he said. “It usually isn’t.”
His eyes drifted lower then, catching the faint press of her lips together before she wet them, slow and unthinking.
He held there a second too long.
Then forced himself to look back up.
“And he’s fine with that,” he continued. “With you showing up when you feel like it. Leaving when you don’t.”
“I don’t know about fine,” she responded, finally pulling her fingers free from her sleeve and resting her hand against her thigh.
Rhys tracked the motion.
His hand twitched with the impulse to close the distance, to rest his own palm against her thigh like it belonged there, like he had any right to touch her at all.
“But he hasn’t said anything to me,” she finished.
“Seems like a pretty low-risk situation,” he said. Then after a beat, “For Cassian.”
He watched that land—the shift in her expression, the way she tensed just slightly.
Rhys leaned back slightly, one arm resting against the chair now, his posture looser than he felt. But his gaze didn’t waver.
“Men aren’t too complicated,” he said. “He gets consistency without responsibility. You show up when you want to. You leave when you don’t. No expectations. No real consequences if it doesn’t go anywhere. He doesn’t have to risk anything.”
He looked at the way her skirt had ridden up just enough to expose more of her thigh, the fabric shifting higher with the way she’d adjusted in her seat. His eyes traced it without meaning to, following the line of her leg before dragging back up.
“He still gets you.”
Her brows pulled slightly, something in her posture shifting. Still not defensive or closed, but recalibrating.
“That’s not—” she started, then stopped, adjusting mid-thought. “I’m pretty sure we’ve talked about how I think he wants more than that.”
Rhys’ jaw tightened.
“That’s what he says,” he replied without a second thought.
What are you doing?
The thought cut clean through him. This was fucked. On so many levels. He was steering the conversation, pushing it, shaping it into something that had nothing to do with her and everything to do with him.
He was manipulating her. Worse? He found himself unable to stop.
Her eyes narrowed just slightly, like she was trying to place where that had come from. It wasn’t how he usually responded.
“No,” she said, more certain now. “It’s not just what he says. He’s—” she exhaled softly, searching for the right wording, “he tries to be… more. I’m just not… available for it. The personal stuff.”
Something in his chest shifted at that. Something distinctly not relief.
Rhys leaned forward slightly, forearms resting against his thighs, the pen forgotten in his hand.
“Personal,” he repeated.
The word sounded different coming from him.
“You get personal with me every week.”
It landed between them before he could reshape it into something safer, and he felt it immediately, the line he’d just stepped over. But instead of pulling back—
You’ve come this far, Rhys.
“You show up,” he continued, voice lower, rough around the edges in a way he didn’t bother correcting. “You sit here, you tell me things you don’t tell anyone else. You let me in—”
Too far, he knew it.
“So it’s not that you can’t do personal,” he finished, more measured now, but not enough to undo what had already been said. “Just not with him.”
She didn’t look away. Didn’t deflect.
And that—
that was new.
Rhys felt something dangerous tighten low in his chest, curling and making a home there before he could stop it, unwelcome in how easily it took hold, how little resistance it met once it was there.
Across from him, she hadn’t shifted.
“What is this?” she asked, her gaze narrowing slightly. The way her eyes held his—clear, searching, trying to pin him down in a way she hadn’t before. The faint crease between her brows, the slight tilt of her head as she studied him, like she was skeptical.
She should be. She should be.
He traced the line of her face, the curve of her mouth where it had just parted around the question, the way her sleeve had slipped back just enough to expose her wrist, her hand still resting against her thigh.
Rhys knew exactly how he should answer the question.
“What do you mean?” he said.
Wrong.
“You know what I mean.”
Rhys exhaled quietly through his nose, resting his elbows on his knees like he could reset the space between them if he just moved enough. Like posture could fix tone. Like he could put himself back behind the line.
“I’m asking you questions,” he said, measured, even. “That’s not new.”
She didn’t respond right away.
Rhys watched it happen—the pause, the way she sat with it instead of brushing past it. Her gaze stayed on him, steady, assessing in a way that felt new.
“That’s not what this feels like,” she said finally. Her voice was quiet, but it landed heavier than it should have.
When he’d first started seeing her, there had been something softer in her—uncertain, a little disillusioned, like she was still figuring out how much space she was allowed to take up. But now she was really looking at him, like she was assessing him, weighing him in a way that felt new. More sure of herself. More steady in the way she held his gaze, in the way she didn’t rush to fill the silence he’d left behind.
His attention dropped to the long sleeves pulled slightly up her forearms, the fabric bunched up just enough to expose the line of her wrist, the subtle shift of movement as her fingers flexed against her thigh.
Then slightly higher, to where the hem of her skirt had ridden up an inch, maybe more, the fabric pulling higher with the way she’d settled into the couch. A sliver of bare skin, nothing that should have mattered.
He could pull it back. The conversation, not the skirt—but, God, did he want to.
He knew how.
Reign in his tone, widen the question, give her space to reframe it herself.
Instead, he said, “Then what does it feel like?”
Her lips parted slightly, like she might answer right away, but she didn’t. She leaned back just a fraction, that damned skirt pulling up just a bit further, giving herself space to think.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Different, I guess.”
Different.
The word settled between them, vague enough to leave room, specific enough that it didn’t need clarification. Rhys got the impression that she wasn’t entirely sure what this meant, but knew something was there.
He should have left it alone.
Should have let the ambiguity sit, let it diffuse on its own.
“Different how?”
Rhys watched the hesitation settle in—not searching for words, but deciding whether to say them.
“You already know the answer,” she breathed, blinking, like she hadn’t meant to say it like that. The flicker of surprise in her eyes, like she might take it back.
But she just looked at him.
“Do I?” he said.
It wasn’t a real question.
It didn’t sound like one.
“Yes,” she said immediately.
And Rhys felt something like a door closing, slamming behind him without the option to open it back up again. There was no clean way to step back from this now, no version of the conversation that could be pulled back into something neutral.
Because she wasn’t hesitating anymore.
And neither was he.
“Then say it,” he said.
Her fingers pressed lightly into her thigh, grounding, but the rest of her stayed open—facing him, not retreating.
“You’re not asking me anything,” she said. “You’re telling me.”
“And you don’t like that?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No,” he said, just as quickly. “You didn’t.”
The words barely had time to settle before the silence snapped back into place, tighter than before. It held—thick, unmoving, charged with everything neither of them was saying.
Neither of them moved.
Neither of them looked away.
A sharp chime cut through the room.
Jarring in its brightness, in its insistence. Too loud for the space, too abrupt for what it interrupted. For a second—two—Rhys didn’t move. He stayed exactly as he was, gaze locked on hers, like the sound hadn’t meant anything at all. Across from him, she didn’t move either, didn’t break first.
The chime sounded again.
Rhys leaned back then, the movement controlled in a way that felt almost forced. Like he was reassembling something piece by piece instead of slipping back into place naturally. “That’s time,” he said, pressing a button to shut it off. The words sounded practiced, automatic.
It didn’t fit.
He reached for the notepad he hadn’t touched practically all session, grounding himself in the familiar motions. A glance at the clock, a small nod—everything exactly where it should be. Routine. Structure. Distance. All of it back in its rightful place.
Except it wasn’t. Not really.
Because when his gaze lifted to hers again, it didn’t settle the way it was supposed to. It didn’t soften, didn’t create that careful, professional space he knew how to maintain.
“Same time next week?” he asked.
There was the script. Clean. Easy. Automatic.
Across from him, she shifted, but not in the way she usually did at the end of a session—no quick gathering of things, no immediate break in eye contact, no subtle retreat back into her shell.
“Yeah,” she said, just as steady.
Another beat passed before either of them moved.
Then she stood.
Rhys followed a second later, slower than he should have been, like there was a delay between the decision and the action. He crossed the room ahead of her, opening the door with a practiced ease that felt strangely disconnected now, like his body was moving through something rehearsed while the rest of him lagged behind.
He stepped back to let her pass.
She brushed by him, close enough that he felt it.
The hallway stretched out in front of them, muted and familiar, the low hum of the office settling back into place around them. It should have grounded him. Usually, it did. The predictability of it, the routine—something to anchor himself to after every session.
He walked beside her in silence. Neither of them spoke, the quiet stretching between them.
When they reached the waiting area, she left with a quiet, “Bye, Rhysand.” Quiet, but not soft.
He nodded.
Watched her go.
The door opened, then shut behind her with a soft click that felt louder than it should have. Final in a way he didn’t like.
Rhys stood there a second longer than necessary.
Then—
“Dr. Hale?”
The voice pulled him back.
He turned.
A man was already on his feet, phone tucked away, posture straightening like he’d been waiting for the exact moment it would be appropriate to speak.
Rhys blinked once, resetting.
Right.
“Evan,” he said, the name coming easily, and just like that, the confident, polished smile slipped back into place. “Thanks for waiting.”
Evan gave a quick nod. “Yeah, of course.”
Rhys gestured down the hall, the motion automatic, familiar in a way that almost felt like relief. “Come on back.”
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Rhys stared at his screen.
The cursor blinked in the search bar, steady and unbothered. Waiting. He hadn’t typed anything yet, which was ridiculous. He knew exactly what he should type, the phrasing, the terminology, the precise way to frame it so the answers would come back clean and clinical.
He also knew exactly what he didn’t want to see.
Therapist boundaries potential dual relationship client what to do
Enter.
The results loaded instantly—articles, PDFs, ethics boards, all of it familiar. The same language he’d used plenty of times before, sitting on the other side of this—clear, firm, unambiguous.
Terminate care. Refer out. Document immediately.
He clicked one link, skimmed it just enough to confirm what he already knew, then closed it.
Another, same thing. The words blurred together after a point, repeating themselves in slightly different formats, none of it new.
Rhys sat back, dragging a hand over his mouth, the motion rougher than it needed to be. He opened a new tab without thinking too hard about it.
Therapist attracted to client
Enter.
Different phrasing. Same answers.
Normal. Not actionable. Maintain boundaries.
He huffed a quiet breath, something humorless catching in it.
Not helpful.
Another tab.
What happens if therapist crosses boundary with client
This time, he didn’t press enter right away. His finger hovered over the key, lingering there longer than it should have.
He clicked one link, then another, but didn’t finish reading either. He didn’t need to. The outcomes were already obvious, spelled out in language that left no room for interpretation.
He closed them both.
Opened a new tab.
Paused.
This time, his hands didn’t move immediately. They rested against the keyboard, still, like he needed a second longer before deciding how to phrase it—like wording mattered more now than it did a moment ago.
When he finally typed, it was slower.
Why do I feel like this about someone I shouldn’t
Enter.
Forums, Reddit threads, anonymous usernames asking questions that looked a little too familiar when you stripped away the specifics. Different situations, different details, but the same underlying shape.
He clicked one.
Scrolled.
Didn’t read closely—just enough to catch the tone of it, the half-answers, the justifications, the way people tried to explain something they didn’t fully understand.
It wasn’t useful. It never was.
He leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose, his gaze drifting up to the ceiling for a second before dropping back to the screen.
The cursor blinked again.
Still waiting.
His fingers hovered over the keys, tension settling into them now, into the pause.
Then—
Is it still crossing a boundary if nothing has happened yet
He stared at that one longer than the others.
He didn’t press enter, didn’t need to.
Because he already knew the answer.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Rhys: Hi. I need to inform you that I won’t be able to continue as your therapist. Please call the office—I’ve already made arrangements for them to connect you with someone else.
He read it twice. It sounded right. Send.
The response came faster than he expected.
(Y/n): what? Why?
Of course she wouldn’t just accept it without explanation. He knew that. He’d expected it. He told himself he didn’t leave it vague just so he could talk to her a little bit longer.
Rhys: There’s a conflict of interest. I’m sorry.
He watched the message deliver, watched the read receipt come in, watched as the typing bubble never appeared.
Rhys exhaled slowly, setting his phone down beside him, like distance might make it easier to ignore.
Hours passed like that.
Not doing anything. Not fully thinking, either. Just… sitting with it, the weight of it settling into something heavier the longer it stayed unanswered. He told himself it didn’t matter. That it wasn’t personal. That this was exactly how it was supposed to go.
It didn’t change the way his attention kept drifting back to his phone anyway. Each time he picked it up, there was still no reply. Just the same single word taunting him.
Read.
He shouldn’t text again.
There was no reason to. He already said what needed to be said.
And yet.
Rhys: You’re welcome to switch to our other location if returning here feels uncomfortable. I would strongly recommend continuing to meet with a therapist on a regular basis, and the office can help coordinate that for you.
The read receipt came instantly.
Still nothing.
Rhys set the phone down more deliberately this time. He wasn’t going to pick it back up again.
He stood, crossed the room, and poured himself a glass of whiskey.
The first sip burned more than it usually did, but he barely registered it. He stared ahead, unfocused, the glass still in his hand as he took another, then another, until it was empty before he’d fully processed drinking it at all.
He poured another.
Downed that one faster.
A breath left him as he dragged a hand down his face, fingers pressing briefly against his eyes before dropping back down.
Another pour.
This time he didn’t drink it immediately.
He took a slower sip, then another, letting it sit on his tongue longer than he needed to before swallowing. It didn’t help. Didn’t dull anything the way it was supposed to.
He set the glass on the counter, the quiet of the apartment pressing in around him again.
I made a doc of every gravity falls au I could remember, here’s the link if you want to add any or if you know who made one of the au’s I didn’t know who made.
gravity falls aus are my hyperfixation.
List of gravity falls aus Handyman bill au @handymanbill on tumblr Euclydia rises @orxinus on tumblr Non euclidean geometry au @the-barefoo
Jack finally convincing Robby to go to see a therapist and when he gets there and does all his paperwork and he's just sitting there exasperated until he gets called back and he's already regretting coming by now. He gets to your office and you go through all the necessary consent paperwork and explain and now he's really just like this is a waste of my time but he's already there and he doesn't want to make a scene walking out. At the end you smile and explain that you're just an intern so you're still a student in observation. After this session he has the option to talk with someone that has more experience if he is comfortable, or he can stick with you, reassuring him that you've finished all your classes and do know what you are doing so there really is no need to worry. Robby has the thought that if you're only a student then you wont be here long so when you leave he could use that as an excuse to quit after a bit and not have Jack not harp on him.
Little does he know, he falls hard. You're just so caring and empathetic and you make him feel heard. He keeps having dreams of you, taking care of you the way you do him, of holding you softly, pressing kisses into your hair and lingering to smell your scent and your shampoo mixing so perfectly.
Then luck is on his side in the way his luck has always been. He has a a BAD shift and he calls to make an appointment because he needs to see you because you are like a salve to his nerves, just thinking about your voice has his heart slowing closer to normal rate just a bit. When he calls after the shift he finds out that you have an opening in 30mins if he can make it, and God does he.
In the session he rants, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes and rubbing trying to remove the images and stress of the day, the last few days. Afterwards he looks at you when you ask if he's had anything good from the last few days. He pauses and mentions, without giving away that its you, his dreams and growing affection for someone. You talk it through with him but something about your tone doesn't feel the same. At the end of the session you say that you think it might be best to refer him on to a more qualified colleague, but he fights it, getting upset and asking for a solid reason and finally you say, "Its me, Dr. Robinavitch. You havent done anything wrong, I just feel there is too much countertranference from me-", he interrupts and just says, "No more therapist talk, okay, just tell me please." You sigh hang your head and take a deep breathe, "I have formed...an aff-....Michael I have started feeling attached to you in a way that is not ethical or productive in moving forward with treatment."
.
.
.
Anyway thats how you end up in your last session of the day, in your sound proof office, on your desk with Robby's face in your cunt, holding your hand as he calls you "baby".
if you want more like this or have thoughts to share send me an ask (i have anon)
This is just a snippet of a fic that’s been taking over my head…Enjoy! (Or don’t I’m a rookie so this may be dog shit..)
(Dividers made by @cursed-carmine !!)
There you are standing in a room that once brought you nothing but fear and dread. Realizing that you worked so hard for it to not have power over you.
So much work you put into never fearing it again. While you do feel a certain discomfort being back, it has no real impact. No real hurt or darkness that would squeeze the life out of your heart so many years ago.
“You’re wrong you know” you state not yet making eye contact with the void in the corner. Still looking around the room taking it in “this place doesn’t control me anymore”
You look at the looming shadow “that’s how I know what I do matters. That’s how I know that one day you can live away from the fear”
“Your pain doesn’t have to consume you. It doesn’t have to take every part of you…”
You start taking slow steps towards him, trying not to provoke the void.
“There’s no need to punish yourself for your past actions. And you didn’t deserve the abuse you endured as a child”
“You were a kid that was supposed to be cared for, someone to be unconditionally loved” you pause right in front of the shadow of the man. You can see into the pale moon like glow of his eyes.
“You can still be loved now, if you allow it.” There’s a certain finality in your tone that makes the void stay in place. Seemingly stuck hanging onto your words.
“But you have to let it out. The good, the bad, the even worse”
“Out of the shadows,” you take a breath and latch your hands onto the void. One hand pressing a solid grip to his forearm, the other a shaky caress to the forms face.
In a split second you turn him around out of the abyss.
“Into the light.” Where there once was an endless void and darkness creeps away and leaves the subdued physical body of Bob.
You watched the shadows quickly recede from whence they came, in both awe and dread. How incredible is it that something you spend your life being indifferent to, becomes all the worst moments. All of your worst fears.
And how horrific is it that power was bestowed onto someone with more of those bad moments than the latter.
On that thought you look up to Bob. He’s pale in the face, and through his clenched eyes, tears penetrate.
Slowly you bring the man to the couch. Grip remaining solid, unmoving until you were sure he didn’t need you there. You both sit awkwardly towards each other. Your leg positioned in a way you’re sure will cause it to fall asleep in a few moments, but you refuse to retreat from him. An action that could make it seem like you’re withdrawing from him after what just happened.
Confirming your notion, Bob crumples into you completely.
Whole body racking out gut punching sobs.
Tears making a new home into your sweater. “Im sorry, im sorry, please. I didn’t mean it, I didn’t-“ you envelope him into the strongest hug you can, hand cradling his head. “It’s okay Bob, you’re okay. I’m okay” you press into him harder “you are so much more than the box you’ve been written into all your life.”
You continue “you’re not a monster, you’re not a waste, and I’ll spend every moment I possibly can to ensure you remind yourself of that.”
Okay guys I know I’m supposed to be uploading that Charlie Baker fic that I’ve been cooking up but I had to post this!
For context this is something that I thought up when I was brainstorming about that platonic!therapist reader x thunderbolts fic.
And for even more context on that, I wanted to make a fic about the reader being a therapist for the thunderbolts as a way for them to be a stronger team (a little more about the plot can be found here).
Let it rip and tell me what you guys think about this (if everyone thinks it’s horrible I WILL be taking this down and that Charlie Baker x Reader fic will never see the light of day…)
