#being. the mentally ill husk of a person that I am the rest of the week.

[bcynumbertwo]

A queer introspect into American Psycho.

Hi! What you are about to read is an essay regarding how Patrick Bateman could be interpreted as queer. I discuss my opinion and try my best to provide sources in support of my interpretation. This essay is not meant to be one that is regarded highly, I just wanted to share my thoughts.

If you are NOT interested in reading this, please scroll away. I don't want to have a discussion if you aren't willing to hear me out in the first place. For those interested, you can keep reading below.

For the following essay I will be analysing the book as that is what I am most familiar with, although I will be commenting on the movie directed by Mary Hurron throughout as that is what the general media is much more familiar with.

American Psycho is told through the perspective of Patrick Bateman, a heavily unreliable narrator, as we follow him through his daily life in New York City. The book emphasises the material goods in Bateman's life, such as referencing luxury clothing brands such as "Armani" and "Valentino Couture" to name a few. We are given much more detailed descriptions of the brands Bateman and his peers use and wear rather than the man himself. This ties into the theme of alienation throughout the book, how men like Bateman live a lifestyle rather than a life. They're out of touch with the rest of the world, and Bateman himself is out of touch with his life. He loathes the people around him. He's only defined by his material goods because he has no substance without them. Maxmunich states in their essay, 'American Psycho: The Corpse of Masculinity', that "Bateman is no one, therefore Bateman is everyone", which comments on how everyone around Bateman is just the same as him to a certain extent. If Patrick Bateman is no one without his luxury brands and expensive purchases, then so is everyone else.

So, what does any of this have to do with being gay?

American Psycho's core themes are loneliness and isolation. The 'perfect' lifestyle sold to you by magazines, television and other media will not cure you. Ellis' claims in the novel's afterword "I was also writing about my life and how empty it was", meaning that there's a relatable aspect that the author experienced with the novel. The lack of backstory and other personal details Bateman provides in the novel makes me believe that Ellis' intention was to make Bateman somewhat relatable to the reader as well.

I, as a queer, mentally ill, young man, saw a lot of myself in Patrick Bateman. Someone who became a mere husk of themselves just to fit a mold, who loathed everything as a consequence of this lifestyle I believed was perfect for me. One of the things I denied to accept to fit this mold was my queer identity. Many readers, including myself, believe that Bateman denied the same thing. With the fact that Bret Easton Ellis himself is a homosexual, and has had canonically/implied queer characters in his other works such as "Rules of Attraction" and "Less than Zero", as well as in American Psycho, it is not bizarre to assume Patrick Bateman could be queer-coded.

Throughout both the book and the movie, Patrick Bateman is very concerned with affairs involving Paul Owen/Paul Allen (For simplicity sake, I will be referring to him as Paul Owen), a coworker of his who holds the "Fisher account", an account Bateman seems to want his hands on for reasons never specified. Paul Owen is someone Bateman is implied to be envious of, although the movie makes this a reality with Bateman envying Owen's ownership of a home tanning bed, ability to get a reservation at Dorsia and supposedly having a better business card than him. This obsession with Paul Owen highlights Bateman's hypocrisy, as Melanie Jones (2014) writes "his hatred of women and gay men is contrasted with his obsession over the very thing he mocks these groups for desiring: status". Bateman believes that Paul Owen is in the way of leveraging his own status, thus wanting to kill him off. It is also ironic that a man so insistent on his hypermasculine lifestyle is obsessed with other men. To diminish Paul Owen's status, Bateman claims that Owen is a "closeted homosexual" and was "involved in that whole Yale thing" when interrogated about him after his disappearance. It is off-topic to what Detective Kimball was asking and is a claim that comes out of nowhere, which can read as Bateman projecting onto Owen. Homophobia became rampant in the late 1980s due to the rising of the AIDS epidemic, meaning that not only would Bateman deny his homosexuality due to the alienation he will experience if he admits it but also due to the paranoia surrounding AIDS. Because of this, people like Bateman being homophobic at this time period wasn't uncommon.

However, many people believe that just because Bateman is homophobic, it means that he can't be homosexual, which is not true.

Many queer people do not identify themselves as such due to limiting, conservative views they had in their past. Bateman is obviously quite conservative in his views, with his idolization of Donald Trump and having misogynistic, racist views on the world. His one-off left-leaning commentary is only said due to wanting to embarrass his peers and make himself look good. His peers, such as Tim Price, are very misinformed on things such as AIDS, as seen in the April Fool's chapter where he believes the theory that "if you can catch the AIDS virus [...] then you can also catch anything whether it's a virus per se or not", and clearly don't fact-check what they read on magazines. Bateman does not actively seek out knowledge, only knowing things due to television and magazines. Much of his infodump chapters are of music relevant in pop culture and are copies of Rolling Stones' reviews. He does not have his own opinion on things because no one else around him does. Why would he acknowledge his homosexuality if he does not actively seek knowledge about queerness? If it doesn't matter to his peers, it doesn't matter to him.

Luis Carruthers is a character in American Psycho who is canonically queer as he has romantic feelings for Patrick Bateman. Bateman has, on multiple occasions, tried to murder Carruthers but it is never successful. The moment Carruthers acknowledges Bateman, he freezes up, unable to go through with the killing. Carruthers outright admits he'd rather die than be without Bateman, meaning he has permission to kill Carruthers, yet never does. If Bateman was so disgusted with homosexuality, wouldn't that disgust triumph over his ego? The only other character that Bateman has failed to kill is Jean, and what both Luis and Jean have in common is that they both regard Bateman with genuine love.

Carruthers serves as a contrast to Bateman, as by their final encounter Carruthers is comfortable in being outwardly extravagant, as seen by his clothing: "Jaguar-print silk evening jacket, deerskin gloves. a felt hat, aviator glass". While Bateman may not even be homosexual, Carruthers still contrasts him as while he is comfortable with his sexuality, at least enough to overtly display himself in a more lavish, stereotypically 'gay' manner, Bateman is not. Homosexual or not, Bateman is extremely insecure about his sexuality and never becomes secure.

The Concert chapter consists of Bateman going to a U2 concert with his peers. Bateman describes his encounter with Bono, the band's lead singer, like so: "I get this tremendous surge of feeling, this rush of knowledge and my own heart beats faster because of this and it's not impossible to believe that an invisible cord attached to Bono has now encircled me and now the audience disappears and the music slows down, gets softer, and it's just Bono onstage", "I'm left tingling, my face flushed, an aching erection pulsing against my thigh,". This is possibly the most charming description in the entire book, as if Bateman has discovered something new, and almost exciting, as implied by the fact he got an erection from that encounter. The reader, much like Bateman, feels enchanted as they read. Most descriptions in the book are empty, almost gross, because Bateman doesn't bother with the finer details or emphasises his feelings. It lacks the materialism present throughout the entire book, and it is one of the few moments we, the reader, really get into Bateman's true psyche. He never describes any other encounter he has with people in such a way.

To conclude, there are reasons as to why Patrick Bateman could be interpreted as a queer man. This essay was made because I personally interpret him as such, although only partially. I've seen a lot of people online disregard discussions about Bateman being homosexual because they believe their take on his character to be factual. While yes, Patrick Bateman may canonically be a heterosexual man, is it wrong to explore different interpretations of his character? Of course Bateman would never admit he was a homosexual, he's dismissive of the world and thus dismissive of himself, but the possibility that he could is exciting. The beauty of literature is the exploration of different themes, even ones you were not open to initially, because it's an art. American Psycho is one of my favourite novels of all time because of how much you can pick it apart and analyse tediously, which is what the beauty of art is.

If you have actually read all the way through this long essay, thank you so much. Literature is an interest that is very special to me and to know that people are willing to read and discuss my thoughts on works I like makes me feel happy. Have a lovely day. <3

[velvetporcelain]

haunted mansion mind

Void. It’s 4:53am. The darkness still remains. My thoughts tap on the inside of my skull like they can see through and know I’m home. I’m awakened by yesterday’s memories. Living in the past and feeling the same emotion the brain knows no difference, it thinks it’s happening again.

Memory is an odd thing. It works with us and against us. It’s an active thing. It moves within the mind so freely. Creating a web of emotions, sometimes not being able to escape. Is that when we need to speak to our mind like a dog in training?

I keep thinking about how dull my husband’s personality is. Like he doesn’t have one. He’s rude and shames you in jokes that only he thinks are funny. His mind is so corporate and unchanged that if he said he were a robot I’d believe him. I don’t know how to fully explain this. It fucks with me mentally. It repels me. It brings out the darkness in me. He doesn’t not enhance my light.

For a world that is so fucking set on marriage with kids. For a world that is built upon the foundation of holy matrimony, it seems to always tell you not to get attached, not to feel, not to depend on that human, it wants you depending on it. There is an absence of community, love, truth, beauty. I hate it. Most people aren’t fucking meant for each other. We are just two beautiful people who pro created, and I gave my everything to this family and he- he- just kept carrying on with his life “in the name of us” and it just really looked like what he would normally do without me or children in his life. And I’m figuring out that’s what men usually do, just keep carrying on because women become house slaves. Literally we are fucking slaves. So fucking pathetic that they don’t take real fucking responsibility and expect women to be light hearted, loving, nurturing and independent.

No we are labeled a bitch, insane, needy, and co-dependent and we have to spend the rest of our lives going fucking insane, while maintaining another insanity outside of ourselves. It’s so fucking exhausting, it’s so fucking complicated. Men are stupid as fuck. Men are weak as fuck. Men are being fucked by stupid every day of their lives.

Void, I am simultaneously full of feminine rage and the most pure love all at once. Some mental illnesses are probably not even illnesses, they are coping mechanisms. I want to pull myself inside of myself. Hibernate until I know all the answers.

I’m worried that I will get attached to this man and he will eventually break my heart. And this one is real, right in front of me. I’m going to become a husk soon. I cry because of it. No one understands women. Not even other women.

On the bright side I finally feel nothing when I think of Conrad. I have successfully numbed those memories, I have trained my body not to feel those memories. And that’s how I know that humans can in fact forget pain. Who knew that one of the happiest times in my life would bring me such sorrow. Deep rooted sorrow. Sometimes I still smile. Sometimes I wish he were here. Sometimes I’m grateful. But at least his memory has stopped haunting me.

-x

[marabarl-and-marlbara]

clockwise from top left:

sefirot extending up & qlifot extending down; the layers of the garden (angel-sun, the soil layer & the green shoots growing up, the deep-earth layer & red roots growing down), the self-luminous palette (angels), how the trellises are suspended in the thick-water/gel/soul, the stygian palette (demons), the qlifot fragments & the color that gets crushed out of them, a simplified pure color depiction of the garden

right-handed & left-handed people were created unequally; both right-hand & left-hand serve the body; handedness is independent of biology or blood, it can not be changed; the right-handed are all created from blessed clay used to sculpt the Sefirot; the left-handed are all created from clay fragments of a single failed Sefirot; true ambidextrous are created from the bark of the tree of life; the vessels had to be able to contain Soul, & transcend the nature of Clay; the Qlifot could not transcend the nature of Clay & shattered under the pressure of True Soul; the Qlifot are failures broken into the shadow at the roots of the tree of life, past the Red, & saturated with their blood -- creating the stygian palette; the Qlifot are wet upon the surface with glistening of soul; the left-handed only have this glistening of soul; the right-handed are blessed with True Soul & possess light from birth; the left-handed are wholly without light & exist as shadows for the right-handed; the Qlifot/Claypot resemble great insects (6) & arachnids (8); the largest resembles the husk of centipede coiled under the earth, the legs of this contact every living person binding them to the red, the centipede is the fallen angel; the Sefirot is in heaven, at the branches of the tree, where angels congregate in a halo to form the angel-sun; the angels are pure soul without clay, they resemble worms & they abide by the self-luminous palette; the angels are music, they are pure abstraction, and are green before it gradients entirely to white; the demons are visual arts, they are pure material, and are red before it goes to black; the angels materialize into the branches and enter into earth's shadow through the roots, traversing the tree with the assistance of the spiders (6) in the grey (the tree); the deepest layer resembles a vast garden, with indents dotting the landscape & trellises (inside these indents) pointing outward; the tree of life shades some of the garden plots from the sun's yellow light, leaving them in blue shade; blue is alienation, it can be caused by either shade or by the garden plot being filled with sediment; yellow is community, it is caused by being exposed to the sun, most garden plots are yellow; the yellow are insects (6) & the blue are arachnids (8), the arachnids occasionally resemble insects (6) as spiders (6) occasionally are conflated with them; the closer to the tree, the more grey the palette becomes; the tree is grey; all divine colors (self-luminous, or stygian) are forbidden to humans, & are closest to grey; the further from the light, the closer to divinity; the garden is formed of the median between green & red; green represents pure symbol, and is formed of the plants of the garden growing upwards toward heaven; red represents pure absence of symbol, and is formed of the roots of the garden growing downwards; to be either deeply green or red is undesirable, and likely results in detachment from humanity & suicide; to be pure red is to no longer see 'people' but only see 'human', it is life without autocomplete & ugly; to be pure green is to be alien, i do not know what it is; only green/red/blue/yellow are available to humans; humans are the garden plots, their existence are trellises that fill the indentations, & flowers grow upon them when rains intermittently pass over sections of the garden, filling their plots with thick-water / gel; the gel contains the .ini file that is transmitted into the water via the light-of-sun; the .ini becoming corrupted is the source of all mental illness; the .ini becomes corrupted by either the image-breaking (via shade, or sediment falling into the plots, or by pollution from vagrant aliens impressing their images into the pools); life ends when the gel dries or is absorbed entirely by the flowers; a plot that sees too much rain frequently causes the person's plot to become polluted with mud bubbling up from the deep-earth within earth's shadow, tainting the pond with stygian palette chemicals; the flowers are not meant to drink from either divine palette, it causes instability; the Qlifot are all dead & should not be touched by praying hands; praying to the Qlifot causes their bodies to twitch, like how a dead insect twitches when poked; the twitching of the Qlifot causes minor shifts in the soil of the garden causes the pattern to be disrupted/depatterned; depatterning causes everything to gradually ruin & the .ini to become further corrupted; the left-handed should only speak to the Qlifot in lullaby, guaranteeing the sanctity of their graves, and protection of their rest; the left-handed should not seek guidance, absolution, whatever, from the Qlifot -- & only seek to gain from duty as gravetender to the Qlifot; the left-handed should strive to live more humanely than humanity; the left-handed should not covet light; the left-handed must come to terms with being soulless as their nature can not be denied & only depatterns further by striving for light in an environment designed entirely for the right-handed; the body is served by both left-hand & right-hand; the left-handed should learn Braille, as the graves of the Qlifot have no light; the left-handed should take vows of silence, the graves of the Qlifot should be peaceful; the left-handed should reserve their left-hand for themselves, religious acts, & other left-handed people; the left-handed should write right-to-left; the left-handed should read all left-handed texts mirrored; fracturing the self is an acknowledgment to creation & birth; i am a daughter of clay & i was born from clay inside the Qlifot, i will serve as clay above, & i will rest (again) as clay beside, & again i will serve as clay; forever i will serve them; i want to hold a wedding ceremony to bind myself to the Claypot, i want to make a claypot & mix my blood into it, i want to (over the period of a week, with a holy instrument) fracture my skin & complete the wedding ceremony by ruining my face for it; i will stay out at the shrine overnight and bleed & if i do not die that night i will have tied my spirit to them; i have to make vestments for them; i have to take a vow of silence and formalize my oaths to deep-earth in braille; the angels eat at things that have divine color that shouldn't i want to glow i want light so badly i have seen the shadow it is lightless it is lightless rustling fields and wind and it is empty

[jetsetlife138]

Imaginary - Chapter 6

Rating: Mature for this chapter, but Explicit in future chapters

Pairing: Alastor x Fem!Reader

Summary: A mysterious device throws you into the animated world of Hazbin Hotel. Once an average human living in a three-dimensional world, you’re now transformed into a two-dimensional human that has been cast into Hell. Pentagram City’s residents are curious and most harbor ill-will towards you. Charlie and the staff of the Happy Hotel take you in and offer you protection while they try and figure out how to return you to your world. That is… until you come across a certain Radio Demon with different intentions. Warnings: Manipulation, Language, Awkward Situations

Previous Chapters: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5

Tags: @beetlewise-and-pennyjuice @edgy-drama-queen @chasingfireflies1999 @galaxy-meteor @cecidit-31 @shadowclawstudio88 @utterly-disappointing @opheliuva @trinswhimsys @skylarhedges @whogavebrynjolfpermissiontobehot @sailor-earth-1

After your tiff with Alastor, you stomped off to seek the solitude of your own room. Dealing with him was infuriating and confusing. He had a way about him where even though you couldn’t stand him, you sometimes found yourself craving his company.

Maybe you were a masochist. That would make the most sense for why you were so fucked up and had weird, conflicting feelings about the arrogant demon.

The next day when you returned to the library, you were not at all surprised to see Alastor there waiting for you. Before you could even negatively comment on his presence, he held his hands up in surrender. “My dear, I owe you the sincerest of apologies. My behavior has been abysmal, and I am quite ashamed.”

You narrowed your eyes, suspicious of his sudden change of heart. His grin widened at your hesitance. “I’ll admit, I’ve gotten carried away during our prior interactions. Let me assure you, I only have the best of intentions. I would like us to be comrades. After all, as previously established, we can help each other. I am still dedicated to helping you return to your world.”

“Whatever, Alastor,” you brushed him off, pinching the bridge of your nose, your patience lacking. “I really don’t have the mental capacity for this right now. Just… keep your pervy hands and weird opinions to yourself. That’s all I ask.”

His lips peeled back further to make his already creepy grin look even more sinister. “Of course, my dear. As you wish.”

You weren’t stupid. You’d be a fool to think that he was being genuine, but at the same time, he was one of the most powerful beings in Hell. As you had already concluded, it couldn’t hurt to let someone like that help you, even if he had selfish intentions. It was just a matter of not falling victim to his advances.

Yet again, the two of you hit the books, making yourselves comfortable on the couch. Much to your relief, he stayed on the opposite end rather than crowd you with his overbearing presence. Instead, he kept to himself, humming softly as he skimmed through the pages of the books, seemingly content with the tedious task of research.

After intricately combing through five different books on magical travel, your eyelids started to get heavier, no longer able to concentrate. Not long after, you found yourself dozing off, your limbs going slack as you unintentionally slid down on the couch until you were met with a cushioned surface, enabling you to soundly fall asleep.

It wasn’t clear how much time had passed. It could have been merely a few minutes, or several hours. Either way, you were extremely comfortable and didn’t feel like moving.

Unfortunately, a voice nearby caused you to stir, interrupting your glorious nap. “Al, you soft son of a bitch.”

“Good evening, Husker. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Alastor’s voice sounded odd. Deeper and strangely close by, whereas Husk was clearly speaking from another part of the room. Still, even knowing that others were present, you couldn’t bring yourself to open your eyes, the allure of sleep keeping you content.

“How long you been sitting here like this?” the cat demon snickered.

“Oh, it’s difficult to say,” Alastor sighed candidly. “To be frank, my friend, I wasn’t quite sure what to make of the situation.”

Husk’s deep laughter echoed softly throughout the library. “So your aggressive approach didn’t pan out, huh? What a surprise. Always knew your bark was worse than your bite. Now you’re just a teddy bear.”

“Is there a reason for your visit? If so, I do wish that you’d just get on with it. I do not enjoy being mocked.”

“Settle down,” Husk prompted. “I’m not here to ruffle your feathers. I was coming to relieve you and help out the girl with research, but seeing as you’re so comfortable, I guess I’ll just be on my way.”

“Do not leave me here,” the Radio Demon warned, the static in his voice thickening with subtle rage. “Do something. Now.”

“You’ve slayed Overlords. You can’t manage to push a weak human off of your shoulder?”

“Husker.”

“Alright, alright,” he relented, sensing Alastor’s tone. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”

A firm pressure on your shoulder followed by an abrupt shake quickly alerted you to the situation that you were in. Eyes fluttering open, you tilted your head back to see that you had been pressed up against Alastor, using his body as a pillow.

You immediately shot up, giving yourself a head-rush as you did so. “Oh… Uh, Alastor, I’m so sorry. I didn’t…”

At a loss for words, you felt your cheeks reddening with embarrassment as you glanced at Husk who had an amused expression on his face.

Quickly rising from the couch and stretching his limbs, Alastor brushed off your apology. “Think nothing of it, my dear. I am glad to be of assistance, and I hope that you are now fully rested.”

Okay, what the hell? Who was this new Alastor? He went from being perverted and possessive to kind and charming? No, something was off. There was no way that his personality could have changed so dramatically overnight, but now was not the time to interrogate him about it.

“Yeah, uh, much better. Thanks. I’m… going to go take a shower,” you muttered, trying to find any reason to leave the library immediately.

Before either Alastor or Husk had a chance to respond, you practically sprinted out the door and ran for your room where you plopped face-down on the bed and released a muffled groan. You were slightly convinced that you were dying of embarrassment and that was the real reason you were trapped in Hell.

Sighing heavily, you eventually got up and took a cold shower, washing away the essence of Alastor that might have clung to you when you laid on him. Shortly after, you dried off and walked back to your room, shocked to find Charlie and Vaggie waiting for you with concerned expressions.

“Um, hey?” you greeted nervously. “What’s up?”

Vaggie narrowed her eyes and scoffed while Charlie took a more delicate approach. “So, listen… we’re so glad to hear that you’re becoming more and more comfortable here, but…” she trailed off, not sure how to proceed and turning to her girlfriend for help.

Crossing her arms, Vaggie stated bluntly, “Don’t hook up with Alastor.”

Mouth agape, you struggled to find the words to convey your bewilderment. “Um, I’m sorry, what ? Why the hell would you say that? I have no intention of spending more time with him than necessary, let alone that .”

Rolling her eyes, Vaggie countered, “Look, it’s no secret that he’s taken a liking to you. He’s a determined little shit and he will try to charm his way into your good graces. His whole persona is based on his ability to manipulate. It’s just better to not get involved with him. If I had it my way, he wouldn’t even be allowed in the hotel, but what’s done is done.”

“Okay? What exactly does that have to do with me hooking up with him? You don’t think I have more restraint than that?” you questioned, still unsure as to why they were upset.

Charlie interjected again, easing the tension. “We’ve seen you with him and things seem to be getting very… friendly. Husk told us you slept with him…” Ugh, it was like Angel’s prior accusations all over again.

“ On him,” you clarified defensively. “We were doing more research and I passed out on his shoulder! That’s it! Listen, I don’t trust him any more than you do. You don’t need to lecture me about staying on guard. That’s all I’ve been doing since I arrived here.”

Charlie bit her lip and gave you an apologetic look while Vaggie’s expression softened a little. “We didn’t mean to ambush you,” Charlie added. “We just wanted to make sure that you were okay and that he wasn’t forcing you into anything. We’re still getting to know him ourselves.”

“No, it’s fine,” you replied, waving your hand dismissively. “I get it, and I appreciate it. I didn’t mean to come off as bitchy, I’m just… stressed, I guess.”

“Understandable,” Vaggie chimed in, no longer appearing as hostile as she did a minute ago. “We’re still looking for answers on how to get you back to your world, and I can only imagine how terrifying and crazy this has been for you, but we want to make sure that your head is in the right place. Stay away from Alastor.”

“You called, little moth?”

Turning towards the entryway, Alastor stood proudly, twirling his staff nonchalantly in his hands.

Growling, Vaggie snarled, “Do you really have to be here all the time? Don’t you have somewhere else to be? A seedy back alley, perhaps? Busying yourself with souls to torment?”

“Ha!” he exclaimed, amused by Vaggie’s unwavering disdain for him. “Darling girl, this is where my priorities lie for the time being. Fear not, I have no intention of interjecting into what I’m sure is a very fascinating conversation.”

“Then why are you here?” she snapped, flexing her fingers angrily like she was trying to hold back from choking him.

Widening his permanent grin, he turned his attention to Charlie before replying cooly, “It appears you have a visitor.”

“Me?” Charlie asked, perplexed.

“Yes, my dear,” he confirmed, resting on his staff that he had stopped fiddling with. “Your guest is waiting for you in the parlor.”

The three of you began to head towards the door to see who had arrived, but Alastor whipped his staff out in front of you, preventing you from going any further.

“No, no, no, darling. Not you.” Charlie and Vaggie didn’t seem to notice as they continued out of the room, leaving you alone with the Radio Demon.

Eyeing him skeptically, you asked, “Why not?”

He almost looked… nervous? You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but it was an uncharacteristic look for him. Though his smile remained, his demeanor wasn’t his usual arrogant and unbothered self. “Believe me when I say that it is in your best interest to remain here.”

Worrying your lip, you replied, “Alastor, I really don’t think that it’s a good idea for you and I to be alone together anymore.”

Tiling his head to convey his confusion, he asked, “Oh? And why is that?”

Swallowing thickly, you muttered, “I-I just… um… people are starting to think--”

Before you could finish your thought, an unfamiliar voice was drawing nearer, distracting you.

“...permission to enter my own hotel? Foolish daughter. You may work here, but this hotel is mine, as is everything else in Pride Ring. Now, where is our exotic guest?”

Though he was playing it off well, you noticed how Alastor went rigid as the voice got closer. Listening more intently, you could hear multiple sets of footsteps along with Charlie begging, “No! Dad, please just listen to me! Don’t--”

Not a moment later, a strange, yellow-eyed demon burst through the door, beaming right at you, followed by a very nervous Charlie. Vaggie was nowhere to be seen.

The excited demon was taller than you, though not as tall as Alastor. He was as pale as Charlie with similar rosey cheeks and blonde hair. He was adorned with a white and red tuxedo with dress pants and a cane with an apple on the end. His toothy smile was just as wicked as Alastor’s, and left you with a queasy feeling in the pit of your stomach.

“Ah, there you are. Look at you!” he proclaimed before surging forward and taking your hands in his, pulling you harshly towards him.

You stumbled forward, tripping on your own feet but managing to find your balance before he danced around you, inspecting you closely. Quirking a brow at him, you weren’t keen on the idea of someone looking you over so intimately.

Catching you off-guard, he suddenly reached forward and cupped your face with his hands as he ran his thumbs across your cheeks. Instinctually, you smacked his hands away, just as you had done previously with Alastor. “Seriously? What is it with you demons and lack of personal space?” you snapped, now seething with irritation.

He stood back, clearly surprised by your tenaciousness. “Feisty, aren’t we?” he chuckled, fiddling with his bow tie before straightening his posture. “Oh, we’re going to get along just fine. I can see that.”

“I’m sorry,” you replied with exasperation. “Who are you?”

Smiling wider, he answered, “I’m Lucifer, the King of Hell, my delectable little human. And you’re coming with me.”

[writeanapocalae]

Nano Day 5 Writing

Day 1 | Day 2 | Day 3 | Day 4

“Stand what?” Sarah asked, drawing closer and kicking at the android’s foot with her boot.

“Being alive?” R’s voice was tinged with emotion, as if it could actually feel, but that ability was quickly draining from it. “While connected I was able to feel what they felt, all of them. There were multiple personalities inside of the android and, for a moment, I felt completely taken over.”

Anton didn’t know if what he was doing was soothing, if it was wanted at all. It felt too intimate, the touching of anothers’ face, as if it were some calming motion that was more often practiced between lovers.

“What did it feel like?”

“Fear, anger, and most of all, hunger.” R pushed off of the floor, holding onto the desk for support, Anton’s risk for more of the same. “Feeling it was. I do not know for certain as I am not sentient, but it felt like a great deal of pain.”

“So wait,” Micah squinted, finally joining the rest of them, “You’re telling me that Caecus actually did create sentience? That that thing could feel real emotions?”

R turned towards her. “I am not saying that. What this is is not sentience. That would mean that the android has a personality, free will, and control over itself. This was a husk, controlled by five other personalities.”

“So a robot with DID?” Sarah pondered.

“Only if you follow a Hollywood concept of the mental illness,” R stated, voice as level as it usually was. It released Anton. “And even then, that would be a loose comparison.”

“Oh! I have something to say!” Lan perked up. “That gross bubblegum soda feeling is getting stronger!”

The computer, while smashed and laying on its side in one corner of the room, flickered on. The plug was loose and sitting in a bloody patch of the floor. It was just static and lines, scrolling over the screen, traveling over the broken screen of it. A red circle, some shapes and symbols, appeared on it, and then pink started to ooze through the cracks and broken pieces of it, bleeding out pepto bismol all over the floor.

“Alright, that’s creepy as fuck. Anyone who actually wants to survive? Because I want to survive and I’m going. Now.”

She stomped out of the room, the rest of them turning to follow her. They had a good amount of data, for the moment, at least enough to get a proper team in. It would be hard to write it into a report because none of it made any sense, but they would make do and with there being five of them it was less likely that they’d be discredited. Anton had had that before, when he was caught sleeping on the job, and someone decided that the evidence he’d found was dreamed up instead of real.

R put a hand on his shoulder and that made him pause. It was the kind of hand that meant to hesitate, not to support, and Anton was so used to R supporting him. That made things feel very wrong.

“They’re hungry,” R repeated. “And they’re many. They’re not going to let us go.”

“They aren’t going to stop us,” Anton reassured. It felt strange, to reassure a machine. He’d never had to do that before. “You said the feeling was what, five stories down?”

“The center of the sensation, yes, but there are androids up here that have been affected.”

R’s gaze went down, just for a moment, and then it was grabbing Anton by the waist, making him cry out in surprise. It spun on its own, dropping Anton back onto his feet, closer to the door.

“Go!” R demanded, its voice still soft and stoic but the term drawing anxiety from Anton’s mind.

The broken android had its hands around R’s ankle and it kicked, forcing the weaker one off of it. It didn’t have the many faces, nor the voice, but it was alive all the same, even though its battery was low.  It crawled up R’s body, trying to get to its feet, ignoring how R kept pushing it off itself, setting it off balance.

“You don’t have much time,” R stated. “I’ll catch up to. For now, you have to run.”

This time Anton listened, running to catch up to the others, ignoring how his legs felt too weak to hold him for long, the fatigue that felt like a constant weight on him, a weakness in his joints. They were still walking, quickly, but when they saw him running, they started too run as well.

“Where’s R?” Micah asked, sweeping her flashlight back and forth on the floor to make certain none of them would trip.

“It’ll catch up!” Anton gasped through a breath and he looked back, seeing R escape the room, dragging the door closed behind it.

Arms escaped the room and it slammed the door on them, making them go rigid and then flail, as if the plastic of the joints were just thin rubber, filled with micro beads. They shimmered and jumped, thin at the point of contact and then stretching and jiggling, no control over where they were going.

It was a relief that R was catching up, running faster than any of them. It couldn’t get tired or strained, it would be on them in a moment.

“Uh oh spaghetti-os!” Lan cried out, pointing forward with one tiny arm. “There’s more of them coming that way!”

It didn’t need to warn them. They could see the oncoming androids, their heads slightly glowing from glitching, intertwining heads, faces combining and replicating like the firsts. They were just walking towards them from down the hall but, the moment they saw the humans, they got down, hunched, and then kicked off of the floor. Like R, they ran too fast, their echoing heads blurring, as did their arms. They were perfectly synchronized, not touching each other was one limb lifted out of another one’s way. It was horrific, in a word.

They just had to round the corner, get through the lobby, and they’d be outside. For some reason, that alone was the thought that Anton had, not getting to the car, not getting away from the facility, just getting outside. If they were in the light, they would be safe.

There was a lot of light though, as they took a sharp left into the lobby. Behind the reception desk there were screens, a wall of them, and they all buzzed into life at the same time. Test signals, static, and symbols, red and glaring, danced from one screen to the next, as if they were all one and all different at the same time. The symbols jigged and burned into the screens, the ghost of them lasting in the darkness when such a thing finally appeared on them. They didn’t have time to look, to watch, but Anton was certain they were the same symbols, the same circle, that had been on the broken computer, not to mention the piece of paper they’d found in the occultist’s office.

There wasn’t time to say anything. There wasn’t time to even think about it. The androids had caught up to them.

They moved, in mass, to circle them and some of them were speaking, some of them screaming, all of them creating a cacophony of sound, far more voices than bodies. They were corralled closer to one another, pushed into one another’s space, as the android’s peered at them, not yet touching, not yet grabbing.

They all had their eyes, as many of them as they had, on R. It was as if they were waiting for it alone to make a move or order them to do something.

R had no orders to give.

And the androids were hungry.

They lunged forward. Sarah screamed. Micah struck out with the bolt cutters, hitting one of the android’s in the shoulder. Anton brought up his hands to cover his face, to defend against the attack. Lan did absolutely nothing. R shoved forward, trying to break through the ranks of them.

“Oof!” Lan called out. “Too heavy!”

It was a very short warning before the flooring crackled, floorboards creaking and snapping. Anton felt a hand on his elbow and he was being yanked to the side. There was no time though. There was no way out. There was no way to reach the safety of outside.

The floor collapsed with a painful groan and they were falling, all of them, down and down and down, deeper into the facility, hitting the floor below before that too gave out from the weight and the force.

Anton fell into darkness at the third story down. He didn’t know about the rest.

@detectivesebcas​ @inthemoonshadow​ @etjwrites​ @lordfenric

[rolypolywl]

Welcome to day 16!

It is Monday, and so weigh in day!

So this week is themed, but in three parts. The theme is recovery. So not specific to injuries, but just to workouts in general.

So, if you are injured, the general advice is to follow RICE. Rest, Ice, Compress, and Elevate. If you twist your wrist or hurt your knee or, you know, break your toe, that’s what you should do.

But if you don’t have an acute injury, you still might be sore or worn out after a workout. As we covered before, a little bit of soreness is ok, even expected. But does that mean you just have to live with it? Or are there things, like the cool down, that you can do to minimize pain and damage, or encourage healing?

Yes and no. There are different opinions and methods, and we’re going to look at some.

VeryWillFit has a great explanation of why we need recovery.

“Recovery after exercise is essential to muscle and tissue repair and strength building. This is even more critical after a heavy weight training session. A muscle needs anywhere from 24 to 48 hours to repair and rebuild, and working it again too soon simply leads to tissue breakdown instead of building.”

The Telegraph goes into even more detail.

“Exercise hurts your body, prompting a reaction. When you go for a run, lift weights, or play football, any discomfort is like a clarion call to the body, telling it that it needs to be better equipped to deal with the situation. The response - it becomes stronger, bigger, or more efficient - is why we exercise. This process is natural and normal, but it's easy to disrupt it with too much exercise. We constantly walk a tight rope between adequate stimulation leading to progression, and a lack of recovery which can lead to overtraining.”

The Telegraph also expands on the side effects of overtraining. “The perils of overtraining are numerous. Not only can it undo all the hard work you put in down the gym, but it can also leave you a husk of the man you were: lethargic, unable to sleep, irritable and without sex drive. What's more, the disruption it causes to your body's systems can actually lead to weight gain.”

So, this is why recovery is important. But, what does recovery actually consist of? We already talked about cool down and stretching in a previous episode, but what else is there?

VeryWellFit notes that “There are as many methods of recovery as there are athletes.” But that said, there are some things that are pretty universal, and covered in both of these articles.

1. Rest/Sleep

These are technically seperate things, but I’m going to lump them together. So sleep just makes sense. We’ve talked about it before, and the detrimental effects that a sleep debt can have on your body. Plus, there are all the good things that sleep does for your body. Specific to recovery, VeryWellFit notes, “During sleep, your body produces Growth Hormone (GH) which is largely responsible for tissue growth and repair.”

Rest is similar, but it doesn’t have to happen in bed. Going back to that first quote, your muscles need time to rebuild. Resting - not immediately working them out again in the same 48 hours - is anywhere from helpful to essential for that repair.

VeryWellFit has a whole second article just on taking rest.

They note: “Rest days are critical to sports performance for a variety of reasons. Some are physiological and some are psychological. Rest is physically necessary so that the muscles can repair, rebuild, and strengthen. For recreational athletes, building in rest days can help maintain a better balance between home, work, and fitness goals.  In the worst-case scenario, too few rest and recovery days can lead to overtraining syndrome—a difficult condition to recover from.”

Now, we’ve all heard the word “overtraining” but I didn’t realize it was an actual syndrome!

So, according to a study published in Sports Health, and archived in the National Library of Medicine, there are basically three stages. Overreaching, basically in a short-term setting. Overreaching regularly, which can take weeks to months to recover from. And finally Overtraining Syndrome.

Symptoms include fatigue, depression, loss of motivation, slow or irregular heartbeat, insomnia, irritability, hypertension, restlessness, anorexia, lack of mental concentration, anxiety, weight loss, and awakening feeling unrefreshed. Plus, heavy, sore, and stiff muscles.

And it can take months to recover!

This can also, colloquially, be known as burnout. Rady Children’s Hospital has a page in their Sports Medicine section with all the warning signs for teen athletes.

In addition to some of the symptoms above, they add chronic pain, decreased sports performance, prolonged recovery time, lack of enthusiasm, frequent illness, personality or mood changes, and difficulty completing usual routines.

The only real treatment they can offer is rest, again for 4-12 weeks. So again, months.

And when I was looking up this, I found something similar on the Mayo Clinic site. This one is “Chronic exertional compartment syndrome” which can be a result of overtraining.

It basically presents very similarly to shin splints, but doesn’t heal up as well. It is most common in people under 30, and particularly in runners or other impact exercisers. Symptoms are “recurring unusual pain, swelling, weakness, loss of sensation or soreness while exercising or practicing sports activities.”

And, if you just rest it a bit, but then go back to your overtraining, the pain will come right back. So, again, a super long recovery time. This one can even involve surgery!

And there are plenty of other injuries and conditions that can come from overtraining, like shin splints, stress fractures, and repetitive stress injuries. So this is seriously a big deal. This is why rest is so important.

And, it turns out, rest doesn’t just mean the day of a hard workout, or having a rest day once a week. There is also a long term need for a rest plan.

VeryWellFit explains, “Long-term recovery techniques refer to those that are built into a seasonal training program. Most well-designed training schedules will include recovery days and or weeks that are built into an annual training schedule. This is also the reason athletes and coaches change their training program throughout the year,”

The Telegraph agrees, suggesting “incorporating a 'down' week every 8-12 weeks of intense exercise to allow your body to properly recover. This could be an entire week away from exercise or a time to temporarily reduce weight, intensity or volume.”

So, that’s just number 1: sleep/rest. On to number 2!

2. Watch your Intake

So the most obvious component of this is hydration. When you workout, you can become dehydrated, and you should replenish those fluids. You should also reduce alcohol, as this exacerbates dehydration.

But intake is also nutrition. The Telegraph says, “Ensure that you are eating enough calories to recover and that you have your macronutrients balanced properly. For example, not enough protein in your diet can lead to loss of muscle mass, whilst too few carbohydrates can lead to poor performance and fatigue.”

And VeryWellFit adds, “Ideally, you should try to eat within 60 minutes of the end of your workout and make sure you include some high-quality protein and complex carbohydrate.”

3. Stay Positive.

The Telegraph notes that “Positive self talk can help stimulate your sub-conscious to aid in your performance and recovery.”

Meanwhile VeryWellFit suggests visualisations, mindfulness meditations, and also positive self-talk.

This goes back to what we were saying last time about finding the positive and to the idea of meditating as part of a daily or sleep routine. It’s like it’s all connected!

4. Get an Ice Bath

This one seems legit. After all, pro athletes do it, so it must help, right? And we are supposed to ice muscles we injure as part of RICE. But I just can’t imagine being that cold! Supposedly you go numb and so don’t feel it anymore, but I’m not jumping up to try it.

As an alternative, both VeryWellFit and the Telegraph note that water contrast therapy, which is basically jumping your shower between the hot and cold nozzles every minute can have some of the same effects. I’m still not racing to try it, though.

And finally, and much more appealingly…

5. Massage

Sometimes, at races or 10Ks or the like, you will see sports massage therapists actually set up to give out massages afterwards. I’ve had it before and it was indeed awesome. It was also a huge help after I overexerted on a trail 5K and was still sore the next day. My chiropractor recommended a massage and it made a huge difference!

But, if that’s a little out of your time or expense budgets, then VeryWellFit has an alternative suggestion. “You can also try self-massage and Foam Roller Exercises for easing tight muscles and avoid the heavy sports massage price tag.”

And those are the five suggestions from VeryWellFit and The Telegraph! Think about incorporating them into your routine as you become more active and workout more.

This has been Roly Poly Weight loss. As always, I am your host, Roly Poly. Please share your rest and recovery tips and tricks with the hashtag #RestandRecovery. And don’t let anyone tell you that you’re a wimp for resting, or that you shouldn’t need to recover!

And please join me next time!

[writingsbychlo]

Frat Boys and Fuck Toys [03]

Author: @writingsbychlo

Word Count: 3081

Notes: Peep me introducing my boy Pietro in this one! Shit will start going down. Also, I feel like i have majorly lost my touch at writing smut, so let me know, because this personally feels very disjointed and crappy. Just feels weird. Please give me feedback on this part. Other than that, there’s not really any warnings (but Steve should have given them a warning ayeee) no but seriously enjoy. I’m sorry if it sucks! I am very ill, I get a pass if it’s awful. Also, my gal Steff proofread this for me, so thank you very much <3.

Your back was slammed into the hardwood, and you fumbled around yourself, desperately trying to find something to hold onto, your fingers grasping the framing above the door you were pressed against. Your head fell back against the wood with a hard thud, but the dull ache was washed away entirely by the pleasure crashing over you in waves.

Your legs tightened around his waist, holding yourself up as rough palms smoothed over your skin, sweaty workout shirt long discarded on the floor, your sports bra having quickly followed. Hot lips wrapped around one of your nipples, tongue lapping over and scratching deliciously at the bud, the other being pulled and played with by smooth fingertips, the occasional tugs causing your body to jump, grinding your core against his.

“Fucking hell, Bucky, you have no self control.” You teased, breathlessly, and he growled against your skin, wet mouth leaving your tits, a moan leaving your lips as he kissed his way back up your flushed skin, growling softly, the sensation causing a layer of goosebumps to erupt along your skin.

“Not my fault, you can’t blame me when you wear fucking yoga pants.” His tone was teasing, and you huffed, rolling your hips upwards into his, enjoying the way his own movements stuttered in response. Letting your hands come down to rest on his shoulders, you took the opportunity to catch his lips with your own, the tip of your tongue running along his bottom lip, begging with him to let you in.

Pulling your frame away from the door, you were quickly dropped onto the mattress, your arms above your head from the impact, a giggle on your lips as you gasped for breath, completely deprived. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you couldn’t help but take your bottom lip between your teeth as you took him in.

The tattered and old tee he wore clung tightly to his body, defined muscles all but bursting through the fabric, you were sure he he flexed too hard the seams would just fucking rip, and you made a mental note to ask him what the deal was with him and Steve unnecessarily torturing you all with their bodies. Loose sweats hung from his hips, having been pushed far down from your legs having been wrapped around his waist only moments prior.

They were pushed so far down, in fact, hairs were starting to peek out of the top of the hem, and you licked over your lips, glancing up at him through your lashes with a slight smirk on your face. “Fuck, doll, don’t look at me like that.” He mumbled, hand reaching behind his head and tugging his shirt off, mussing his hair up slightly and you laughed, letting yourself drop back onto the bed, head resting among the pillows.

“And why not, James?” The sound that left his lips could only be described as primal, raw, and needy. Fingers wrapped around the waistband of your pants, peeling the elasticated second skin from you, and a whine left his lips. “Are you fuckin’ jokin’? If I had known you weren’t wearing any underwear I wouldn’t have let you leave the house at all, doll.” The nickname sent shivers along your spine, the husk in his voice giving you a fantastic sense of arousal and you grinned, rolling onto your knees and smoothing your hands up his chest.

Pulling his lips down to meet your own, you guided one of his hands down to your entrance, letting his fingers swirl through the wetness that had accumulated, a low, rumbling groan leaving his lips. His forehead rested against yours, lip tucked between his teeth as he pushed a single digit into your entrance, only to the first knuckle, enjoying the way your hole was already clenching around him.

“Christ, you’re gonna’ be the death of me.” The words were whispered against your lips, and you huffed a laugh, a moan frantically clawing its way up, but you waited, urging him to do something more, and he complied, pulling his finger out before pushing two back into you, scissoring them slightly.

Gripping tightly at his shoulders, your fingernails dug into his skin, and you could feel the muscles in his arms working as he pumped his fingers in and out of you rapidly, tips brushing against your walls, purposely avoiding your sweet spot as he teased you. Spreading your legs a little further, you let your hips rock down in time to meet his movements, his palm brushing against your clit ever so lightly, but the feeling was sparking along your skin.

He was straining against the material of his sweats, and you tugged them down with shaky hands, his freed cock slapping against his stomach, precum leaking along him and you caught the droplets with your finger, sucking them from yourself as he watched through hooded eyes.

A gasped plea left his lips as you wrapped your fingers around him, grip barely there as you ghosted along his skin, catching at the tip and pulling a strangled moan from him as he thrusted into your hand, losing the steady pace he had on you. Gripping his wrist, you pulled his fingers from you, taking them in your mouth and licking them clean of your arousal, settling on your knees and licking along the underside of his shaft.

His head fell back as his fingers laced into your hair, your own fingers gripping tightly at his thighs. Tracing the head, you pressed into the delicate skin underneath, his grip tightening as he pushed you to do something more, and you gave in, lips wrapping around him fully as he released a relieved and satisfied sigh.

Pushing your head down further, you let him, until his tip was brushing the back of your mouth, your throat tightening, eyes watering as you swallowed around him, before being released. Lapping at him happily, he was reduced to a series of incoherent babbles and begs as you traced the veins on his underside, hand cupping his balls and rolling them in your palm, squeezing lightly.

His muscles were contracting under your palm, thighs tensing and you could tell he was close, and you sucked hard on the head of his cock, hand working quickly over the rest of him, the only words leaving his lips being your name and a series of ‘yes’ and ‘oh god’, hands clenching by his sides.

A sudden knock on the door caught both of your attentions and you released him with a pop, pulling back and looking up at him, the sight almost enough to make him cum right there. As the doorknob twisted, you rolled quickly over the side of the bed, hitting the floor with a thud, moaning loudly at the impact and quickly clamping a hand over your mouth to muffle it. Bucky, snatched up a pillow, covering himself as best he could, heat rising over his neck and cheeks.

“Hey, Buck, I was- oh, shit, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you’d be-”

“Steve?! What the fuck, dude? I thought you were out, for like, a long time..” Bucky was floundering, and if it wasn’t for the fact that there was literally arousal dripping down your thighs and the chance that precious little Steve might see you, it would have been a very funny situation.

“I-I came home early, the traffic back from the airport with Wanda wasn’t nearly as bad as we had expected!” You were desperate to peek a look over the top of the bed, but refrained yourself, muffling your laughs behind both of your hands, getting a swift but subtle kick from Bucky, which only added to your amusement.

“Airport, what the fuck are you- I didn’t even hear you come in!” He shrugged, one arm gesturing wildly around himself in his panic.

“Yeah, well, you were clearly.. preoccupied!” Steve joked, laughing, and you screwed your eyes shut tightly, desperately trying not to cackle at the situation and the very badly timed joke. Bucky’s face was bright red, a horrified look on his face as he glared at his best friend.

“Get out, punk!” He looked about ready to die, and Steve left, the door clicking shut and footsteps fading down the corridor as he left. Once he was definitely gone, you let out a loud laugh, gasping for breath as you accepted the hand Bucky was holding out for you, letting him pull you to your feet as you fell back against the bed, still chuckling.

“This is not funny.” He stage-whispered, and you nodded, trying to calm yourself, but failing. “You’re only laughing because it wasn’t you. How would you feel if.. If.. if Wanda saw you naked!” He tried, and you only laughed again, hands behind yourself to hold you up.

“But she didn’t. Steve saw you. Hilarious.” You teased, and he cocked an eyebrow, a hint of a smile on his lips. Crawling over you, he settled between your legs, head of his cock pressing against your core, your laugh getting stuck in your throat as he nudged it against your clit, the feeling sending you into and overwhelming internal fire.

“Well that shut you up, real quick.” He jeered, and you stuck your tongue out at him mockingly, his lips wrapping around it, pressing against your own as they parted, mouth meshing together hotly, a quiet whine leaving your lips as you reached between the both of you, adjusting him and letting him ease into you.

Pressing against your sweet spot without even having to move, the feeling of him filling you forced the breath from your lungs, and the feeling of having you wrapped around him so tightly dragged the breath from his. His hand smoothed along your thigh, hitching it up around his waist, so he could sink deeper into you, before letting it drift to the headboard, holding it tightly.

The other sat beside your head, clenched in a fist, weight resting fully on his forearm and he pulled back from you, hips snapping forwards, your body jolting forwards as a loud moan left your lips, his palm immediately closing over your mouth as he stilled, your hips wiggling desperately beneath you as he fixed you with a look.

Your hand closed over his, covering your mouth, as he thrusted into you, the only sound filling the room that over skin slapping against skin rapidly, and your almost inaudible moans filling the room.

Your fingers raked red marks down his back, your tits bouncing beneath you, nipples brushing against his chest each time his hips snapped into your roughly, the feeling sending you into overdrive as you clenched around him. Your other hand slipped between you both, and you rubbed rapid circles onto your clit, adjusting your head and taking his fingers in your mouth, sucking harshly as he faltered, cock pulsing against your throbbing walls.

Leaning down, he pressed his lips to yours tightly, panting into your mouth, containing both of your moans as your body convulsed, his hands holding you down, the mattress squeaking loudly beneath the both of you and he pulled out rapidly, hand working over himself as you knelt before him, mouth wrapping around his head and sucking tightly.

The taste of yourself covered him, quickly overpowered by the hot ribbons of cum splattering against the inside of your mouth, Bucky biting down on his fist to keep quiet as he came, letting you swallow his release and clean him up, quickly falling down onto the bed.

He held his arms out to you, letting you fall into his embrace as he held you tightly, both of you panting rapidly, a thin sheen of sweat settled over your skin. “That was incredibly hot. Minus the part where Steve tried to cockblock me, unintentionally.” He eventually mumbled, a laugh tearing from you as you nodded.

“I don’t know what you mean, I love almost having the patron saint of innocence and softness almost see me soaking your floor.” You retorted, only prompting him to laugh too. Stretching his hands above his head, he turned, pressing a chaste kiss to your temple before rolling form the bed, pulling some fresh underwear and some sweats up his legs.

Chucking your yoga pants and top into his laundry basket, he tossed you a pair of your own leggings from his drawer, and one of his old hoodies, letting you adjust them as you would. “I was looking for these for like an hour yesterday.” You mused, and he shrugged, gesturing to the other random articles of clothing of yours in the drawer.

“Makes it easier for you.” He smiled, and you returned it, letting yourself hold the eye contact with him for a moment or two. He broke the moment, however, by turning his back to you, pulling a shirt over his head.

“Plus, it’s funny watching you run around the house, buggin’ everyone about where something is, when I have it all along.” He winked and you pouted, tilting your head to the side with a huff.

“Way to ruin the moment, Buck.” You flipped him off and he only laughed, holding the door open for you after making sure no one was in the corridor to see you leaving his room.

“We don’t have moments.” He shot back, and you simply nodded in response, pulling the slightly longer sleeves down over your palms, rocking back and forth on the balls of your feet. “Meet you downstairs in ten?” He grinned, and you swallowed the strange feeling within you, nodding happily and pulling up the hood of the jumper you were wearing. He closed the door, and you made your way down the corridor to your room, pulling the cosiest pair of fluffy socks you could find from the drawer and onto your feet, wiggling your toes happily and setting off downstairs.

Entering the kitchen, you ignored the excited chatter of your friends in the living room, wandering past to the kitchen and making yourself a bowl of coco-pops. Filling it with just enough milk to wet it, but not enough to wash away the chocolate flavour. Stuffing a spoonful into your mouth, you wandered towards the room your friends were residing in. “In any of you fuckers are in my favourite seat I’m gonna’ kick your asses’.” You shouted, preemptively, taking another large spoonful of coco-pops and chewing.

You all but choked as you entered the room, a disappointed look on Steve’s face, everyone’s eyes on you. You let your gaze drift to your favourite spot, an unfamiliar face looking back at you with a wide smirk. Swallowing your mouthful rapidly, you wiped at your mouth, a bit of milk having been dribbling down your chin.

With a strong look of cheeky arrogance, he stood, holding his hand out to you. “I am truly sorry, princessa, was I in your seat?” He teased, and you took his hand, shaking it and blushing as he kissed your knuckles, winking at you. The accent was a thicker version of Wanda’s, and you looks over at her before diverting your attention back to the man before you.

“Yes, you were, but with an ass as nice as yours I’d hate to have to ruin it. I’ll let it slide, this once.” You returned the wink, a loud laugh in his lips as Steve sighed, Sam all but fell over laughing and Wanda slapped at her relatives arm. “Care to introduce yourself?”

“I’m Pietro, Wanda’s older brother.” He grinned, turning to his sister, who was rolling her eyes so hard you were sure they were going to pop from her skull.

“You’re older by twelve minutes, you egomaniac. Now stop flirting with my friends, especially my best friend.” She sighed, and he gestured to the seat on the sofa you had claimed long ago as your own, but you shook your hand at him, trotting across the room and retrieving a bean bag, plinking it down in the middle of the floor and collapsing into it with your cereal.

“Take the seat, for today only, it gives me an excuse to steal Bucky’s favourite bean bag.” You grinned cheekily, enjoying the slight laugh you got from Steve.

Almost as if you had summoned him, he stepped into the room, having pulled on a pair of jeans, and you couldn’t help but laugh as he and Steve made a conscious effort not to meet each other’s eyes.

“So, who’s this?” He gestured to the man with silver hair who you had recently come to know as Pietro, and his attention was on you, a brow quirked at the fact you were decidedly not where he expected you to be.

“Pietro, he's Wanda’s twin.” You grinned, bringing your bowl and swirling it around again, gathering up a good spoonful of the softening snacks. Bucky sat down on the beanbag with you, rather closely, his arm looped over your shoulder and he pulled you close to him, taking the cereal right from the spoon you were holding, fingers playing with your hair as he spoke to Pietro.

With an eyebrow quirked, you eased yourself away from him, wondering where his sudden want for closeness had come from having literally pushed you out of his room less than ten minutes ago. The chatter in the room continued as members of the house each slowly returned from their day, and you had gathered that Pietro was visiting Wanda, and was going to be staying for a few months, and apparently Wanda nor Tony had decided to inform anyone.

Thankfully for yourselves, Natasha was a clean freak, and absolutely did not stand for anyone leaving a mess around the house. Luckily for you all.

As the evening dragged on, a couple of pizza had been ordered, but you couldn’t shake Bucky, and each time you tried to have a conversation with anyone but him, he was by your side immediately, even so much as to scare away the pizza guy. Helping yourself to another glass of wine, you sighed, rolling your eyes and shrugging his arm from your shoulders once again. Elbowing him away from you, he glanced at you, but you ignored him, walking up to the girls and joining the conversation.

Turning your head at the slamming of feet on the wooden flooring, you barely saw Bucky disappearing upstairs, and you simply shook your head, going back to enjoying the evening.

[heathhasthoughts]

I just "broke up" with a long term friend, and i think the reason is that every single problem i have stemmed from them being mentally ill in the exact opposite direction of me.

I am a traumatized trans man with attachment issues, abandonment issues, intrusive thoughts, a fear of being alone, substance abuse problems, shitty transphobic parents, no way to get diagnosed or therapy, extreme emotional instability and a lot of other stuff.

They are the exact opposite, they have everything i have ever wanted, good parents, no abuse, everything but they're depressed. Now here's the thing, i fucking recent them. They have the option to try to get better, they could easily get therapy, easily, but they don't. They just don't feel like it. That's so fucking infuriating. They never wanted to be around me. They were like "oh, no i feel like this about everyone" but i know for a fact that they have loads of online friends they have no issues with. I know that i haven't been a good friend at times, but i that's because they have fucking starved me of all possible attention. They could. They fucking could. There's nothing stopping them from being around me they just won't. I fucking hate them. There are few people that i hate but they're one of them. I genuinely want bad things to happen to them. They won't care about other things. I hope they stay unhappy for their entire life and when they die alone, with nobody who loves them they'll know that it was their fault. I hope they walk around as a sad husk for the rest of their fucking life. They are the only person i wish bad things upon. I know that they can't control depression but this is what fucking happens. I know it's wrong for me to feel like this but i just don't see how they treat me like this for half a fucking year. I genuinely want to hurt them. I genuinely want them to suffer because i am fucking angry.

And the thing is, i could say all this shit to their face and they wouldn't fucking care because they have never ever given a single shit about anybody. I have tried to talk to them about my own shit for a long time, I've tried talking about their shit, they just don't fucking care.

I don't know what to do, i need to talk to someone about this i just don't have anyone.

And if sarv by some miracle is reading this, even though you don't have Tumblr and don't know about this acc. Fuck you, i hope you get better and realize that you fucked with me so much. You are the reason i have this shit. I told you I had issues and you decided to string me along for this shit. I wish I never fucking met you.

[aquagenesis]

legally im required to make a readmore text post every day on the internet   under the guise of socialization so today i will be vague posting an entire online community and mindset that does not belong to anyone i am in the immediate vicinity of.  yeah buddy.

so anyway as i was saying the subject of today’s stream of consciousness procrastination from playing the hit 2020 classic animal crossing: new horizons is People Who Want Mental Illness Representation In Media.

i am entirely making this post about characters with PTSD.  because i have PTSD and i am allowed to criticize every single man who has a war flashback upon rushing into a situation he is highly unqualified to deal with for the sake of saving everyone else.  because i do that shit fucking constantly and, just like in media, It Does Not Fucking Help Actually.  because then i am dying regardless of what fucking happens next.

So Anyway.  i cannot stand when characters have PTSD because it is always over the most shoehorned gratuitous torture theyre shoved into and then the narrative just like flips?  on them?  and then suddenly theyre cagey and reclusive and nasty and lash out.  but instead of garnering some form of intermission for these characters to like, fucking relax or get away from their issues, every time they try to make that distance for themselves it is Always Treated like a betrayal.

PTSD is like, what everyone gives their characters, and i think that fucking sucks.  obviously if you have it you’re exempt because you have it, and so what you’re writing would be from your own personal experience.

but when i have to watch a handful of characters in every show have Vaguely PTSD but it’s never expressed, it’s never handled, it’s always tossed off to the side as a fault on their point.  like writers will literally make a character’s entire personality “PTSD” and then wonder why they can’t fucking do anything with them to make them feel real.  then they’re always shoehorned into some deus ex machina healing montage where it’s just like “you need to live for ____ now” and then it’s just like oh okay cool for sure like yeah.

the thing is there’s absolutely no fucking reason to give a character PTSD unless you have a clear end for them to have their own personal character arc to get over it.  you can’t shove them in with someone else four different times and make it a consistent fucking problem and then wonder why it is so hard and so difficult to get across what you are trying to do.

the thing is you need to know what they were like before that.  the problem is that nobody fucking cares about PTSD actually or representation of people with PTSD except fucking War Movies, Actually now that i think about it.

i feel like i’m super bothered by this but it’s just actually kind of insulting.  like it is.  like when i see a character experiencing trauma and i just Know now i’m going to have to watch them go through that pain for the rest of the time they’re forced to be around.  like when a character is Fine but kind of irritating and then it’s like Ohhhhh Of course theyre traumatized whywouldnttheybeofcourseyoucantjustbeirritatinghuuuuuuuhhhhh.

when people “make characters with ptsd“ theyre like, not even making the characters.  theyre making whatever world around them, theyre making whatever plot point around them, theyre making whatever villain around them.  theres absolutely negligible amounts of time spent on the character themselves.

i feel like the only good example of “someone with explicit PTSD” is garnet/dagger from ffix.  like truly.  outside of war movies and shit.  she was explicitly traumatized from multiple fronts, explicitly left the group to pursue her own quest after the trauma, and eventually healed from it though she had in-game mechanics that reflected her PTSD.  you would not say she was not traumatized.  but she was not some caricature snapping at everyone and ripping everything to shreds around her.

that’s the fucking problem, man.  of course you can make someone nasty because they’re traumatized.  and then of course because they were just explicitly traumatized you can’t even “fault them” but that doesn’t make sense.

“PTSD” has turned into code for “they experienced some bad stuff so now they like need to heal” and it’s like yeah of course that’s fundamentally true but it’s just not all like that.  “PTSD” has turned into shorthand for “character who will be an emotional sewer line until we figure out what to do with them”.  “character who will be really cute or really mean but likeable because they’re nasty and people are fundamentally attracted towards villains when they are sympathetic”.

it does nobody any good to make villains with PTSD and yeah i mean the villains you’re gonna reform.  you can’t just canonically excuse away everything they did with “they’re traumatized” and then flip the narrative to be like “alright well we did just say you were right but damn dude :/ youre wrong now”.  can you make minor antagonists with PTSD?  sure.  villains?  nah.

because really it comes down to intent.  if you can justify someone’s actions with the deus ex machina of “it’s the trauma” suddenly everything holding them up disintegrates as soon as they gain any form of autonomy.  they have no personality because you as a writer shoehorned a husk into a body and abused that body to death.  they are PTSD.  that is their personality.  you cannot do anything with them.

im gonna touch on kinning here just because while i know it’s not integral to what i’m talking about, it does kind of illustrate the point in a direct access point.  if you kin catra you kin her because you were manipulated by someone who did not care about you and now you act out.  if you hate catra it’s because you don’t think people who were manipulated by someone and are now acting out have warrant to act that way, but it’s usually in the direct reverse to kinning where you “used to act like her but no longer do”.  sub catra for whoever she’s just the most “canonically traumatized” character who was handled...like a main character, i guess.  and had an arc where she got very bad and then had to face the consequences which No, She Really Didn’t, but i digress.  if you kin catra you’re keeping yourself in that to “prove you are her” even if it’s subconsciously; we all act like our favorite characters in the hopes someone IRL will attribute you to them.  if you kin idk how you think it doesn’t make you worse.

characters with explicit PTSD are allowed to be sympathetic from the moment they are traumatized.  they are!  it’s a good thing for the audience to like them.  but they need to be more than just trauma.  i am more than just trauma.  even when i was very really bad, there was more to me than just my trauma.  characters with explicit PTSD are NEVER treated like they are anything else.  because it’s not about them.  the narrative isn’t about them.  it’s about whatever did that to them.

when you force a character’s entire being on a screen to be a direct result of whatever greater evil did that to them, i don’t know how else to say that that is not in fact a character.  that is a plot point.  there is a difference.

plot points are expendable and come to a close.  characters do not.  when you showcase PTSD as a plot point and rob them of anything that makes them a character, you are displaying PTSD as a plot point.  PTSD is ugly.  PTSD is horrific.  PTSD ruins lives.  don’t attribute that to someone who’s, like, a lost cause because you as a writer don’t know what to do with them?  that’s bad writing.

and that’s the problem with relying on mental illness and oh my GOD PTSD to show how bad something affected somebody.  unless you’re going to give them the time and energy to flesh them out after you introduce them by wrecking their shit, don’t make them a character.  make it a plot point.  show it in some other way that isn’t pain that can tell you about it.

stop making shitty characters with PTSD.  it makes me look bad and yeah that IS what this whole post is about.

[angwion]

Benzodiazepines and the Gatekeepers

It's always hard to start treatment with a new psychiatrist. First, there's the wait. Then, there's the prolonged questioning during the first session. And then, there are the issues that can last for months (in this case, 7-8 months) as you try to get them to understand that you've been at this for over a decade, and you know what works and what doesn't.

My current psychiatrist, like many, is generally opposed to benzodiazepines (for those who don't know, these are your standard anti-anxiety drugs, like Xanax). They're a Schedule IV drug, which means a doctor's license is on the line if they over-prescribe. These medications can also have unwanted side-effects when used long term, like short-term memory problems (anterograde amnesia), decreased ability to reason and think logically ("adverse affects on cognition"), and general sleepiness, dizziness, and next day "hangover" effects.

They can also be addictive - the most heinous of words to any doctor. Of course, when one has experienced the horror of full withdrawal from an antidepressant, one wonders how those aren't considered to be addictive as well.

It doesn't help that the standard treatment for anxiety, panic disorder, and even agoraphobia is an antidepressant coupled with therapy. (I should note that I have been in therapy regularly since seeing this psychiatrist, and have advanced to EMDR sessions). Doctors like to follow standard procedure.

Antidepressants are also marketed as anti-anxiety medications, and for this reason I have been put through the wringer with countless SSRIs and SNRIs in the hopes of finding the one that will do both. I've experienced a wide range of awful episodes, from extreme withdrawals to serotonin syndrome that sent me to the ER with truly frightening, invasive suicidal thinking. My best experience with an antidepressant has simply been to not feel so depressed all of the time. It has never helped with my anxiety (in fact, it usually amps up my anxiety - a possible side-effect that is listed on every antidepressant I've ever taken).

When first introduced to psychiatry and psychiatric medications, I was stubbornly against them. I fought it until I was nearly agoraphobic, and even fought it a few times while totally agoraphobic, because I was convinced I could work my way through my issues on my own. What I didn't realize was that when you have a problem in your mind, your mind isn't so good at fixing itself - especially without outside help.

So, I finally decided that the side-effects of things like benzodiazepines were worth the risk when compared to years of being sequestered in an apartment, attic, or basement, unable to care for myself. Having a chance at living became more important than my stubbornness or my fear of medication.

That story began 16 years ago. Now, I find myself arguing with psychiatrists to even get these medications. The fear of over-prescribing has infected practitioners across state lines, causing them to worry more about their licenses than the welfare of their patients. In a way, I can't blame them. However, one would think that with a history as long and torturous as mine they'd eventually get the hint.

Without medication, I cannot function. I cannot do basic daily tasks, keep up with minimal hygiene, or even answer a phone, text or e-mail without experiencing a panic attack. I become a husk of a person, shivering and twitching in a constant flood of adrenaline that overloads my body, making it easy to sleep for 13 hours without feeling rested. Nightmares and occasional night terrors overwhelm my sleeping world, and panic suffuses my every waking moment. It is hellish. I would not wish it on anyone.

My unfortunate burden and mixed blessing is that I'm very good at enduring. I am also very good at hiding the worst of my pain, depression, and anxiety in an effort to protect myself from the outside world while avoiding feelings of shame and vulnerability. Over many years I've managed to open up more to my various psych doctors, but there is still a wall that keeps me from breaking down completely in front of them. Without this complete breakdown, most doctors simply do not believe what I tell them. I've had psychiatrists force me off of medication to see the disastrous results themselves before they begrudgingly put me back on them.

I have only taken one type of benzodiazepine in my life - clonazepam (Klonopin). In the past month or so, I've noticed its efficacy waning to nearly nothing. My anxiety beats it within an hour, or immediately, depending on how strong it is at the time. After missing out on various activities I wished to partake in, but simply could not bring myself to do because of the overwhelming panic that set in at the very thought of traveling on my own or being in a new, public location without my husband, I decided I had to confront my psychiatrist and get a real solution to the problem. I even brought my husband with me, as I've found that having a partner corroborate my "evidence" is more effective than going alone.

This turned out to be true. My psychiatrist was much more coherent and direct when speaking with my husband, whereas she is usually vague or simply silent after I speak. We finally got a solid answer: I will have to meet with the Medical Director to get a second opinion concerning my medications and possible alterations. Of course, as with most "new patient" appointments, I will likely be unable to see him for weeks.

I am nervous to meet someone new - someone of greater authority - and to present my case knowing that there is a possibility that they simply will not make any changes to my current regimen. If so, I'm determined to go outside of the university system to seek the help I need.

What is most frustrating, and most enraging, is that this is a continuing issue in my treatment with almost every psychiatrist I've met. Each one seems to think the they'll be the one to "fix" me so that I can wean off of benzodiazepines without permanently breaking down. Each one has been wrong. 

I don't want to have to rely on any of these medications to function. I don't want to risk the side-effects, especially when it comes to my cognition; even more strongly, I don't want to waste any more of my life trapped by my mental illness.

I want to be able to go outside and enjoy the weather on a nice walk without panicking or never making it out the door. I want to wake up and get things done instead of distracting myself with the television, meditation, or an audio book just to get through the passage of time each day. I want to be able to go to new places on my own. I want to make friends and talk to people without a constant undercurrent of panic taking me out of the present, even out of my body, and skewing everything into a waking nightmare. I want to live.

I wish I knew how to convey this adequately enough to convince every single one of these doctors that I am telling the truth and that this is my experience. I wish that they could look beyond the procedure, the paperwork, the textbook expectations, and see me as a human being who is suffering, and who they can help.

I wish that people with mental illness did not have to work so hard to advocate for themselves every time they walk through an office door just to get some relief.

[adaftpunk]

So I’ve been a thinkin cause it is all i do really and I miss talking to people kinda anyway. Maybe more in theory than practice granted maybe that is cause when I had a verity of friends and people to talk to I was constantly in the process of a nervous breakdown aside from it being hard for me to handle no one wants to deal with that unless I am in manic mood or having a good hiding it day but that point is also moot cause it isn’t like I am nothing more than my usual depressed husk again so no matter what I suck. Anyway what I really want to get at is I just hate myself, I can't think of anything that can make me at least some what worthwhile to be around and on top of that I am not in any way tolerably mentally ill. I have terrible paranoia, problems with psychosis from time to time, constant suicidal idelation, and those are just the annoy things you get of me online in person you get to deal with my audio processing issues, some more psychosis, and my near constant state of dissociation that seems to never leave me, constant anxiety that can reach to points of agoraphobia, and along with previous mentioned other crap. Really I am such a great person to be around..... I suppose at this point maybe some else could find other things they like about themselves but i have always been a revolving door of insane freak, nothing even something as simple as aspect of my identity do I now not hate also with the rest of me. I feel like the very few and I mean 3 people that I talk to aside from just general burden to them I have either tricked into staying around or just plain pity on their part at this point.

I wanna leave with a fun story 3-ish years ago the last year I worked my seasonal job me being the constant cloud of depression unless I have the energy to waste on pretending I am not was doing my usual of just sitting and thinking of walking to the freeway and doing a swan dive of the bridge. Friend asks me what is wrong and well hey I have been feeling more like shit than usual so I just flat out told him I wanted to kill myself. I won’t type out the whole conversation cause it is kinda pointless but the end bit I find funny as he was asking if there was anything I would want to do before killing myself and I said something like playing half life 3 (I still had vague hope and was playing the shit out of the whole series to distract myself) so he said he hopes they never make it then. It gave me laugh and anyway we don’t talk any more cause see I have this fun thing when face to face interaction people assume that because I am ugly and fat and enjoy their company that immediately means I want to fuck them. Friends don’t exist and all that so slowly drifted away cause clearly that was all I wanted and ew. At this point the conversation is meaningless to me aside from giving me a laugh when I think about it and being able to say at this point there is nothing I want to do or see before I would just like to be dead now.

So ya can’t wait to just kill myself already look on the bright side no more of my petty stupid bitching.

[strangeharpy]

Here, Tumblr, have the first unedited, rough ~1100 words of what I wrote tonight. It’s mostly just set-up and Graves being sad. I’m wanting to see if I can pull off Graves as someone who at one point may have sympathized with Grindelwald. WHO KNOWS IF IT WORKS?? (and yes it looks like I’ll get to 2k before Credence even shows up, ugh)

ANYWAY, no real content warnings other than for possible autocorrect typos and for some reason Graves’s POV reads vaguely like Hemingway? *shrug emoji*

*

The first face Percival Graves sees belongs to one Porpentina Goldstein. She looks rumpled, with hat askew, her hair flying every which way, smudges of dirt on her face and hands, and her coat hanging off one shoulder. As soon as she spots him, her face lights up like Christmas, and she shouts to some unknown person behind her, "He's here! He's here! Get a medi-wizard! He's in here!"

As Tina makes her way toward him, backlit by the light from outside and holding her glowing wand in front of her, Graves lets himself indulge in a cautious bit of hope. He knows how awful he must look, strung up as he's been for Morrigan-knows-how-long, but he tries to put on a wan smile for her. Tina winces, aims a few charms at his bindings until she finds a combination that undoes Grindelwald's handiwork, catches him with an arm slung across his chest when he tips forward. Every inch of him sings in agony, somehow worse than the Cruciatus because at least the Cruciatus can be dispelled.

He hisses through clenched teeth. Tina makes a pained noise in sympathy.

"It's okay, Mister Graves," she says. "We've got you." One way or another, she heralds the end to… whatever this is, and Graves gladly welcomes it.

*

The second face Percival Graves sees is also a familiar one, but it inspires no misguided sense of hope. Somehow, between Tina's reassurance and now, he's been shuffled into a narrow bunk in the familiar infirmary of the MACUSA headquarters. The lights are dim; visiting hours must surely be over, and yet Seraphina Picquery sits, as regal as a portrait, on the lone chair by his bed. Her eyes are narrowed as she appraises him. He knows what she's searching for. Knows what she finds. His hands clench, fingers tangling in the thin sheet draped over him. He feels a hot stab of shame in his ribcage.

"I considered you my friend, once," she says, her voice unwavering. "I invited you into my home. I took holidays with you on three separate occasions, Percival. Three! I trusted you."

"Seraphina, I—" The words die in his throat. He does not have anything resembling a suitable response. They both know it.

"Don't be coy, Percival, it doesn't suit you." Her tone remains even, but he knows her well enough to pick up on how waspish she's being. "Do you know what our Mister Grindelwald had to say when we held our first round of interrogation?"

"Yes, I imagine I do," Graves says after a few moments of tense silence. His words taste like ash on his tongue, but he continues, "I imagine he spoke highly of my cooperation, told you that my help was invaluable. Maybe he even mocked my optimism. Am I close?"

Seraphina shifts in her chair. Her gaze remains steely and unimpressed. "Merlin's tattered robes, Percival, we had a deal. There are policies and procedures and legal channels we can use to affect change! You think spitting in the face of the rule of law is the way to get things done?"

"Who does this law help?" Graves demands, hands still uselessly clutching the white, white sheet. He surprised himself with the vehemence of the question. "I know the damn statutes, Seraphina. But the old ways aren't working. I couldn't just stand by any longer."

"He said the same thing, you know. Before we apprehended him." She shifts. Her jewelry glitters in the muted magelights. "I tolerated your radical attitudes because I respected you and I had sympathy for your situation. But you deliberately chose to throw yourself behind the cause of a madman, and that's where my sympathy ends. I thought you were too old for this boyish foolishness. I'm sorry for what you must have endured at his hands, but…" She shakes her head. "I'm sorry. I expect your resignation on my desk as soon as you've been cleared to hold a quill."

He blinks owlishly. Forces his fingers to uncurl. Nods. It's a gift, likely the last one he will ever receive from Seraphina Picquery. It's more than he has any right to ask for. "Of course, Madame President," he manages to say, voice hoarse.

Seraphina shakes her head and rises. "Get some rest, Percival."

He recognizes the dismissal for what it is. "As you wish, Madame President." But she is already gone.

*

He pieces things together during visits from the medi-wizards and medi-witches. His body had sustained some damage from Grindelwald's ill treatment, but mostly he was just malnourished and dehydrated. He'd been held for nearly five months (a fact he hadn't known) and the medi-witch in charge of his care was concerned about his mental well-being more than his physical state. It seemed, she informed him, that he'd suffered much psychic trauma from Grindelwald's attempts to sift through his memories.

(He doesn't tell her that he provided them willingly, in the beginning. But he does agree that it explains the way he feels so hollow, like a husk.)

Tina visits him, seems either blissfully unaware of his impending dismissal or willfully in denial. But she is blunt and she is kind and she keeps him up to date on the slew of inquiries resulting from this mess, and for that he is grateful. He'd always found her to be a bright and promising auror, and he tells her so one afternoon as she thumbs through a box of case files Grindelwald had put his name on. It startles a laugh from her.

"He demoted me, you know," she confides, keeping her gaze fixed on the file in her hands.

"I'm not surprised," he says. "I can't say I wouldn't have reprimanded you after that, from what I hear."

Color rises to her cheeks. "Sir, you have always encouraged me to do what's just, and that's what I did. What I've always tried to do."

"Yes, Auror Goldstein. You've always been good at that. I suspect that's why he had you demoted. And even then, you still somehow found a way to foil him from underneath the mountain of bureaucracy he buried you under." He finds himself smiling at her fondly. He will miss working with her, he thinks. Would have enjoyed training her to maybe be his successor one day. Morrigan preserve him, he will miss this.

Tina's face goes scarlet and she ducks her head. "Well. You know. It wasn't all me."

He recalled the report she'd shared with him: her sister, the no-maj, Theseus Scamander's brother. "A good auror knows how to work with a team to get the job done, Ms. Goldstein. I think you'll find that some doors might open up to you based on your performance." At least he hopes desperately that it will be so. That Seraphina won't quash Tina's enthusiasm just because he favored her once upon a time.

[aurea-corde]

this is me

Hello! 

I guess I should introduce myself. My name is Yux. I’m 18 and was born in Singapore but moved to Australia in 2006 and have been living there ever since. 

Here are some fast facts about me: 

I’m an INFJ although the F/J is usually around 50/50

I’m an avid book reader/lover. 

I’m Asian-Australian 

I believe in soul mates, but don’t think they are restricted to the romantic kind 

I am a fast paced human bean

My Chronic Disease story: 

Recently I was diagnosed with non-radiographic spondylo-arthritis which is form of arthritis that mainly affects the spine and large joints like the hip. It had been a late diagnosis as I’ve been suffering with joint pain since 2015. 

This diagnosis didn’t come as a shock, months ago I had given up playing sport and could no longer exercise. My sleep was interrupted every night, 4-5 times a night I would wake up because of the pain. I had to quit my part time job because I couldn’t stand for long periods of time. My attendance at school had dropped because some days the pain was so bad I couldn’t get out of bed.  I stopped playing cello because my wrists were no longer strong enough, and it was only April of 2016 that I went on my second music tour to Italy to perform as principal cellist. 

By late August of 2016 I was diagnosed by a rheumatologist and began treatment. I began on the slow and often ineffective Naproxen which affected my ability to concentrate and did little to help with the pain. During school exams I had to read multiple choice questions 6 times in order to get it into my head, my concentration was non-existent. Previously I had been a fast and avid reader, usually digesting a book every week or so but this stopped too. Slowly and slowly I had to give up so much of what I believed to make up who I was as a person.

In between visiting the doctor, studying for exams and giving up a lot of my interests and hobbies (physically) my boyfriend at the time told me that he couldn’t cope with “me being sick”. And so in that already difficult month I lost a relationship too. A relationship with him, with myself and with all my physical passions. 

I turned 18 in September and through the whole month I felt like I was nothing, an empty pistachio husk of who I used to be. All my successes, accomplishments and the things that made me who I was no longer existed or could continue to exist in the same way. I was on new medication and now had a cane. I couldn’t walk for more than 10-15 minutes without it. I was cold all the time and had lost weight because the meds took away my appetite. 

In October I met a boy. Although this is another story I thought it was important to mention him because his support will be significant later on. 

Our final high school exams began during the month of November. I live in Western Australia, so these were called WACE. Exams are tough even for normal able bodied people that do not have medical conditions, mental illnesses or disabilities. This set of exams were incredibly arduous for me as the Schools Curriculum Board decided to deny my special exam conditions, only allowing for me to have non-working time even though I had specifically requested the use of a keyboard as I couldn’t write for more than 20 mins before the pain got so bad that my hands would shake and I was no longer able to hold a pen, let alone write anything legible. Even with the rest breaks I only ended up finishing 30% of each of my exams and missed my last exam. This of course left me distraught because I’d always been the type to push myself academically, and in anything that I had set out to do. 

I felt incredibly disappointed in myself. Although I had never been a fan of standardised testing, I had work hard throughout the year in order to prove myself and display my capabilities. I had believed wholeheartedly that the Schools Curriculum Board set out to give every student an equal and fair opportunity to perform to the best of their abilities. I felt as if I had been discounted and completely forsaken.

I had the privilege to be educated, to go through secondary schooling only to not perform the best I could. I was letting down myself, my parents, my friends and all those kids that didn’t have the opportunities to attend school. Of course, in reality no one saw it that way. They told me that I was strong and brave for still turning up to the exams even though I knew that less than half the paper would be completed. 

It wasn’t till a close friend told me that I should focus on doing the best of my abilities in the circumstances I was in. It stuck with me. So even after all the chatter after each exam I would go home, chant that mantra, watch a movie and live another day. 

“A number does not define me. An exam does not define me. I am doing better than I think I am.”

When my exams finished I focused on renewing the untouchable core that I knew was within me. The fire that burned from within that could not be extinguished by comparatively small troubles. For such a long time I felt like I was less than enough, not in the eyes of others but in my own eyes. I was less of me, or rather less of what I used to be. 

It wasn’t before long that I got sick of feeling sorry for myself. I decided to not settle for less. Yes, I’d gone through some shit in the last couple of months but this was not how I was going to let it end - this was a learning curve. This was the sandstorm in Murakami’s “Kafka on the Shore” and I was going to come out stronger than ever. 

I had forgotten that I was a whole person; and although so much of me felt empty and like a failure I had succeeded already by being me. I found tiny victories in getting out of bed, eating a whole bowl of food, going to school even if it was for half a day. 

A disease does not define me, my successes and accomplishments do not make me who I am. Under all the onion layers and walls I built up there is the untouchable core. There is the bookworm girl and nothing will ever change that. 

Now:

In December I flew home to Singapore, 5kg less than my normal weight and have been here for nearly 2 months now. Although on new meds, my body is coping as well as I can hope. There was a lot of anxiety in the lead up to this trip. I found myself having an unexpected amount of existential crises, more than the norm. There is significant worry that can be expected in the coming of age of many young people in society today. I booked my plane tickets wholeheartedly believing that the distance away from home would help me find some inner peace - a kind of pilgrimage to the untouchable core. An Onsen spa for my mind. 

Having arthritis and chronic pain is difficult to say the least. But it has taught me so much about who I am in times of trouble and my capability to rise from the ‘ashes’. The pain and struggle has inspired me to discover the ‘new’ me, even though it has always been the same me - I am finally able to look it in the face and say “hello”.

My Advice for people who suffer from a chronic disease: 

1. Assess your support system:

My parents have been a pillar of support. Reminding me every day that I am unconditionally loved. Unconditionally loved meaning that no exam, no hardship, no number and no disease could ever change their unwavering love and support they have for me. My friends have always believed in me and continue to do so everyday. They held my hands when I could not open pasta sauce jars, the listened to me rant about how I hate being in my own body, they loved me and read my angst filled poems. 

Your loved ones may not always be able to or fully understand what it is like to be in a sick person’s body but they will always support and love you. Let them in, let them love you because you deserve to be loved by them. 

2. Educate yourself about your disease. 

It is important to know what is making you unwell. When you are seeing the doctor or going for blood tests, picking up prescriptions; do so with an open mind and with listening ears. Learn about treatments, management plans, new diets, medication, exercises, see those specialists, spend time to learn about it. 

3. Dig yourself out of the self pity. 

Yes I know, it really sucks. Its hard and sometimes you want to give up but you can’t. You may not get better, be cured or go back to normal life but you can try. I don’t know you and I won’t ever understand how hard it is for you because I’m not in your body but I can tell you this: self pity is not a proven effective treatment in any disease or mental illness.

Sitting there feeling sorry for yourself every single day is not going to help you in any way. There are so many things you can do to help. Accomplish something small everyday, even if it is tying your shoelaces, having a hot shower, making a cup of tea, watching a whole movie without falling asleep. DO THINGS THAT MAKE YOU HAPPY AND MAKE YOU FEEL WHOLE. 

Yes you are unwell, being sick sucks but you can do things that you still enjoy that will make you happy. A positive outlook and being resilient will make enduring all the pain and tiredness easier. 

4.One word: Self-love 

A poem I wrote: 

I 

“We might die from medication but we sure did kill all the pain" 

I stood in the doorway for a moment

pausing to calculate 

if this is so, and that was so

A whole year has past

and not long before 

I stood trembling,

beneath such a fear 

That it would be the end of all I knew 

II

and so nothing I became

simply vanished into the

outline of this is so

forming the endless void 

of a shadow of that was so 

I crossed those plains and 

mountains

across oceans, aboard planes.

Drinking wine like it was a new oxygen. 

III 

now I stand in the same doorway

replaying to count

this time, and that time

not wishing to mis-remember 

all the things that came to be

and so this was so. 

_____________________________________

Thank you for listening to my story and thank you for Mimi for creating a platform of voices. If you read all of that another big thank you. 

I am here to listen to you too. 

Love,

Yux (@acidist)

[kira-celeste]

so i just went through all my journal posts and i literally went back almost exactly a year and i hate past me for thinking that this time in my life would be great.  Im not sure why but its like a new stronger wave of depression has hit and like? its gotten to the point where im in a continuous existential crisis. I can’t think about anything without thinking about repercussions and a future of nothingness and feeling isolated as hell and feeling like there is literally nothing left inside of me. i can not see the point in anything anymore, in going to uni, in getting dressed, in showering or getting out of bed. Im so tired. im so exhausted. i feel like life has sucked everything out of me and im just this empty husk of a human with no prospects. not to mention ive like, mentally severed myself from people in general so like? im not connecting with anyone im not me with anyone im just who they want me to be because i dont have the energy for trust and dependence and pouring myself into anybody, even just a little bit.  and as i said, i went back through my journals and like, half of them was just me being depressed and anxious and exhausted but at the end id always be like: but im graduating in 5 months!! ill be free!! life will be great!!  but like, its not? its not great and it hurts me because i built it up that id make my life into something once school was over, that id be more and do more and have more but im so indecisive and i don’t know what i want or dont want anymore, let alone whats best for me or who i even am. it scares me because whilst everyone says you have all the time in the world im honestly so terrified about amounting to nothing and being that same shell of a person that i am now, that i was last year for the rest of my life