#exercise is not this end all be all cure

[caitofcaithall]

when your mum has CFS and your sister is ADHD and you're AuDHD and you try to share about how little energy you have and how you're trying to change that and your family who is also disabled is just like 'you need to exercise more' and 'what chronic illnesses do you even have??' and you're just like

[dirtytransmasc]

trying to explain to those around me how I can't just "get up and move around a bit" or "just do some light exercise everyday" because it's technically beneficial for chronic pain.

like. I'm tired. everyday, after going about my life, whether that has been school, or work, or going shopping, or simply existing. I'm tired. and not a tired they seem to understand.

when you're in pain, you're tired, a special kind of deep, achey, in your bones and your flesh and your soul, type of tired. and when you have chronic pain, especially when your going on decade number 2 of constant, unending pain (especially considering my pain started when I was young), this tiredness is just forever with you, I doubt it will ever truly leave me even if I was cured of all my chronic sickness and illness and pain, I would continue to be this tired.

so no. no. I can't just do a little bit of exercise after I get home, I can barely stay on my feet to do anything more than make myself dinner. no I can't stretch a bit before I go to bed, I've been there for hours and getting up sounds like torture. no I can't go on a walk, my insides hurt because they're tired of doing their job and I would probably fall into the street.

and for me personally, I look healthy, very few of my symptoms present to the eye in any way, so they don't understand how I can be in so much pain, so tired, so done.

it's also not like I don't do anything all day, they say this after I've been out of the house since 6 and back after 4-6 in the afternoon, after I've had to PT appointments this week and come home with PT exercises noted with the words "only if possible" by the physical therapist cause she, the trained professional can acknowledge that sometimes, most times even, I just. can't. it's not like I do nothing, but living, on its own, takes everything from me and more.

but they just can't understand and I'm glad for that, I don't want them to know, I don't want them to experience it, but I would just like them to take what I've begged to understand to heart for just a second.

[sportscheddar]

i wasted 90+ mins of my life and in the end i watch real madrid win

[pallas-cat]

discord server lingo made "im gonna kms" jokes worm their way back into my vocabulary alas but honestly im part caring

[mosspapi]

Hhhh back in my once-every-few-months funk of wanting to work out and get buff, then remembering I literally cannot do any sort of cardio or strength training or anything even remotely physical, and getting sad abt it for virtually no reason

[writers-potion]

Writing Mad Characters

Okay this is a bit awkward because I had this question copypasted into Google Docs I use to draft my answers, and I realized I've lost the question in my inbox (which is being flooded).

So...I'm so sorry for whoever asked this question. Sorry for the delay because I was struggling with life in general for the past month and definitely SORRY for losing your question (－‸ლ)

Q: I'm writing a story where a major character is slowly spiraling into madness where small details kinda hint into the downfall right before the bigger details appear and then it the floodgates open. Is there anything I should avoid? Anything that I should keep in mind? Anything that I should research?

Things to Avoid

“Mad” or “Insane” is too general. Writing a cliched ‘crazy’ character who randomly talks to imaginary people and lashes out at strangers, you’ll offend a whole bunch of people who've gone through/have mental illnesses. Read up on existing mental conditions (schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, post-traumatic disorder and borderline personality disorder, etc.) to see what your character might have. 

Words like “mad” “crazy” or “insane” aren’t enough when you’re describing their status. As mentioned, these words hardly mean much when it comes to providing a clear description.

Contradicting yourself. Throwing random unhinged symptoms here and there wouldn’t work. In fact, you must have a clear arc on which they’re traveling and ensure that your “hints” are all getting at something.

Making the character overly destructive or harmful to others (when nothing really justifies it)

Justifying damaging behavior with this “madness”. Mad or not, your character will still have motives and goals that drive them forward. 

Making them look incompetent just the fact that they have a mental condition that makes them appear “mad” to others shouldn’t prevent them from achieving success. In fact, they may be even more cool-hearted and logical when it comes to their obsessions/goals. 

Research Tips

Narrow down the mental conditions your character experiences. Even if it’s a fictional condition, try basing it on existing ones and building on top of them. 

Take some time to study characters and/or real clinical cases that resemble the kind of madness you’re going for. 

- Anxiety Disorders: excessive fear and dread (ex. phobias) - Mood Disorders: persistent swings in mood or persistent feelings that interfere with daily life (ex. Depression, bipolar) - Psychotic Disorders: disordered thinking (ex. schizophrenia) - Eating Disorders: extreme emotional attitudes toward food (ex. Bulimia, anorexia) - Impulse Disorders: unable to resist urges (ex. Kleptomania, pyromania, gambling) - Personality Disorders: extreme inflexible personality traits (ex. Anti-social disorder, OCPD) - Past Traumatic Stress: persistent, frightening memories leading to emotional numbness 

Does your character have empathy?  

A sociopathic kind of madness is different. 

General Writing Tips for Spiraling into Madness

Establish a Baseline 

A lot of factors (stress, family history, innate personality, trauma, etc.) can contribute to madness, but it is not going to happen in a week. Define the existing mental and physical conditions your character has, and start from there. 

If you’re aiming for suicidal tendencies at the end, you want to start with symptoms of depression (a condition that may lead to suicide) - growing apathetic, erratic sleeping patterns, irritability, etc. 

This is also the stage where you want to plant some triggers that’ll go off later.

Trigger Events

A perfectly sound character suddenly spiraling down the madness route due to a single accident or traumatizing event isn’t convincing. 

A madness “snap” denies the reader the experience of watching the character’s journey into madness and how they feel about it. 

Internal Conflict (antagonist in himself) 

You must remember that madness is incurable. If someone could “cure” themselves by eating healthy, exercising and taking a few pills, it wouldn’t be much of a madness, would it? This means that the worst antagonist is going to be the character themselves, or the part of them that’s been taken away. 

Show how they are frustrated with themselves, scared of themselves, angry at their “alternative self”. The experience of not knowing yourself is a whole journey of its own.

Physical Manifestations/Quirks

If your character has a routine, show how they break down. 

They might develop habits that they otherwise would never allow themselves to have, perhaps as an effort to “keep this madness out”

Deteriorating Relationships

Depict how the character’s madness impacts his closed/loved ones. In the earlier stages, those close to him might be faster to notice and accept the signs of madness, even if the character denies it him/herself.

The first signs of madness might show when the character is trying to deal with difficult relationships - like losing patience and being unable to pick up subtle social clues.

Choosing Obsessions Over Primal Urges 

For these characters, obsession can take over a person’s normal urge to eat, sleep or even live. This can lead to, more or less, suicide. 

Example: In Black Swan, Nina’s obsession with becoming the perfect ballerina drive her to insanity, to the point where she doesn't mind dying on stage for the show.

[seung-scrittore]

what it’s like dating FELIX !

📻 … hel- … can anyone … kkchh .. WC: 295 … GN! READER … GENRE: fluff … WARNINGS: none — just tooth rotting fluff … -over … kchhh ..

the two of you are huge on pda, but nose kisses are a personal favorite for felix 🫶 they make him feel so loved and cared for, pepper his face with kisses honestly

when you come home from a long day, a back rub from lix cures everything !! he’ll sit you down and work away the tension in your shoulders while you vent about your day to him

PLEASE bake with him 🙏 it’s one of his favorite things to do and i just know he’d love it all the more if he shared that with you ! i’m sorry in advance if you end up having flour all over your kitchen…

begs you to play video games with him… he calls it a team building exercise, but really it’s his excuse to show off the skills that hours of gameplay have given him

as mentioned, he’s huge on pda!! which means he’s also big on taking you out on dates, one of your personal favorites being picnics 🤍🧺 he has a special blanket specifically reserved for picnics with you

100% brings you breakfast in bed, it doesn’t necessarily have to be any special occasion. you just deserve it, felix wants you to know that

consider leaving a like and reblog ? ^^

… is anyon- … kkkch .. TAGGING: @liumoonlight , @sunoo-bby , @tbzloonar , @noramoons , @hangyeomcult , @septabuspass , @kflixnet , @kwritersworld , @k-labels @straykidsland-main , @kdiarynet … pleas- … -you copy? … kchhh …. 📻

[mollywog]

Something I find funny about Jane Austen is: she doesn’t f*ck around with dialogue she doesn’t want to write (AKA: end-game main character proposals/acceptances)

Emma/Mr. Knightly

She spoke then, on being so entreated.—What did she say?—Just what she ought, of course.

Lizzie/Mr. Darcy

Elizabeth, feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of his situation, now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though not very fluently, gave him to understand that her sentiments had undergone so material a change, since the period to which he alluded, as to make her receive with gratitude and pleasure his present assurances.

Elinor/Edward

How soon he had walked himself into the proper resolution, however, how soon an opportunity of exercising it occurred, in what manner he expressed himself, and how he was received, need not be particularly told. This only need be said;—that when they all sat down to table at four o'clock, about three hours after his arrival, he had secured his lady, engaged her mother's consent, and was not only in the rapturous profession of the lover, but, in the reality of reason and truth, one of the happiest of men.

Anne/Captain Wentworth

Charles was at the bottom of Union Street again, and the other two proceeding together: and soon words enough had passed between them to decide their direction towards the comparatively quiet and retired gravel walk, where the power of conversation would make the present hour a blessing indeed, and prepare it for all the immortality which the happiest recollections of their own future lives could bestow. There they exchanged again those feelings and those promises which had once before seemed to secure everything, but which had been followed by so many, many years of division and estrangement. There they returned again into the past, more exquisitely happy, perhaps, in their re-union, than when it had been first projected; more tender, more tried, more fixed in a knowledge of each other’s character, truth, and attachment;

Catherine/Henry

Some explanation on his father's account he had to give; but his first purpose was to explain himself, and before they reached Mr. Allen's grounds he had done it so well that Catherine did not think it could ever be repeated too often. She was assured of his affection; and that heart in return was solicited, which, perhaps, they pretty equally knew was already entirely his own;

Fanny/Edward Edmund

I purposely abstain from dates on this occasion, that every one may be at liberty to fix their own, aware that the cure of unconquerable passions, and the transfer of unchanging attachments, must vary much as to time in different people. I only entreat everybody to believe that exactly at the time when it was quite natural that it should be so, and not a week earlier, Edmund did cease to care about Miss Crawford, and became as anxious to marry Fanny as Fanny herself could desire.

[flowery-mess]

Noah and reader at puppy yoga

You have been feeling down for some time and when Noah noticed that, he tried to cheer you up in many ways

Homemade meals

Massages

Flowers

Bubble baths

Cuddles

Kisses

And it always did cheer you up, but it still wasn't enough

Until you saw a tiktok with puppy yoga, you felt like that was it

✨the cure✨

You found one near your home, booked it for both of you, because how could Noah say no right

He was actually very excited

To make the day even better he agreed to wear matching colored clothes with you and stop by for starbies on the way

In the class it was the two of you, few older women and few little girls

Not going to lie Noah kind of stood out

But also, non of them recognized him, so it made the class more comfortable for him

When they let the puppies in, it felt like all of your problems got lifted from your shoulders

They wandered around, sniffing everyone for a few minutes while the instructor started the class

You and Noah were in the back, where the puppies seemed to settle

Not by your side, but by Noah's side

Some of them were lying down on his mat, some sniffing his legs, some trying to jump on him

He would try so hard to keep going with the exercise, but he couldn't resist petting those babies on their little heads and letting them lick his hands

At one point one of the puppies would bit on Noah's shorts and almost took them off of him

No one really goes to these classes for the yoga, so everyone's attention was on puppies AND Noah

We all know Noah seems like a shy person, so he would get all shy and blushed when everyone would look at him interacting with the puppies

Also, can you imagine those older women showing pictures from the class when they come home and their teenage sons just screaming 'THAT'S NOAH FROM BAD OMENS MOM!'

You would also get cuddles with those little cuties

Your cheeks would hurt at the end from the constant smiling

You couldn't decide what was more cute, Noah, the puppies or Noah with puppies

Noah gave up like halfway through the class, because it would be impossible for him to do most of exercies

Puppies would jump on him and lick his face without a break

While doing exercise that included lying on your tummy, on of the dogs would lay on his back and fall asleep

SO CUTE CAN YOU IMAGINE

You two would stay for a while after the class ends, just to chat with the instructor and cuddle some more

Booking another class just seconds after you leave the yoga studio

It would boost both of your happiness through the roof

Back at home you would spend all night cuddled on the coach showing each other pictures you took of the dogs or the other one interacting with them

The picture of Noah laying on his front and the little black puppy sleeping on his back made it to your phone screen

And agreement was made, that anytime one of you would feels down you would do it again, or before/after Noah's tour to spend time together

And maybe you would get your own puppy hehe, to keep you company when Noah's away and so you could do puppy yoga any time

[blueishspace]

Last Life if everyone had only one life (and failing a boogey meant instant loss)*

*(Since the Boogeyman loses importance with only one life I made it so failing means dying right there)

The random lives things doesn't happen because of the premise of the au, everyone gets 1.

Without life trading Grian never scams Scar, this would change a lot if Scar had actually stayed bitter about it past session 1...but he didn't so the change is for now irrelevant.

Bdubs kills Grian as a Boogey kill... Grian is out, just like that. He's the first player out the game, a big difference from his second place in my version of Third Life.

Without the life trading mechanic Tango never makes the "You bet your life" game.

Without life giving there is no Southlanders trust exercise, they are slightly less close... With Grians absence they are also very much weaker.

Mumbo still dies when raiding the bastion, he's the second player out. Jimmy, Martyn and Impulse only have eachother now.

Joel still targets Lizzie as a Boogeyman and still falls to his death in the process, Joel is the third player out. Both Grian and Joel are out before most other players, this has huge ramifications.

Lizzie also still dies killed to a zombie, I doubt anything else could have happened. She is the fourth player out.

As Mumbo is dead Scar can't kill him to get a boogey kill... Considering it was middle to end of the session I doubt Scar can find somebody else... Scar fails to get a boogey kill and is fifth out of the game.

As Joel is dead nobody comes for Scott, he and Pearl continue building their base in peace.

Lizzie is dead so she can't become the boogeyman, this means that the boogey scales a session, making Ren and BigB the boogeyman in session 3 instead of session 4.

Neither Ren and BigB are as trusted by Pearl as Lizzie, Pearl Isn't killed by a boogeyman instead staying safe with Scott.

Unless the find someone else which is dubious Ren still kills Skizz, BigB still kills Cleo. Skizz and Cleo are the sixth and seventh out.

It's likely Martyn allies with Ren and BigB in a sort of very premature version of the shadow alliance but bringing Impulse and Jimmy along.

"We can still be friends" never happens since Grian, Mumbo and Joel are all out of the game... The fandom is an entirely different place.

Bdubs still dies by falling from the nether fortress... He's the eight player out.

Etho can't kill Scar because of the Boogeyman curse since Scar is out already, he can't kill Bdubs either (the person closest to Scar when he was killed in canon) since he's also out so... Etho fails and is ninth out... BEST is now only ___T.

With the Impulse, Ren, Jimmy, BigB and Martyn team on one side Scott and Pearl recruit a newly allianceless Tango... Similiar to what they did Cleo in the og timeline.

Of the 6 only Scott and Jimmy become boogeyman as the other four are already out by this point of the game.

Tango is never killed by Bdubs, he just chills with Scott and Pearl. Scott flirty nature means that Flower Ranchers is born a season earlier with Scott as the middle link instead of Jimmy.

Scott still kills Impulse to get rid of the boogey curse, Tango appreciates the loyalty despite the curse. Impulse is tenth out.

Jimmy doesn't accidentally kills himself since Lizzie died before making the trap that killed him... Still, with how few people are left he definitely fails to get a boogey kill and is out eleventh.

Scott never has to escape Mumbo or Joel so he never kills himself by accident.

Pearl still makes the Boogeyman trap, BigB still opens it and dies... Since the boogey curse has scaled a session Pearl doesn't have to leave halfway and remains the boogey... Until BigB dies twelfth curing her. This means the boogeyman curse is no longer scaled by a session as it catches up.

Martyn still kills Tango, Tango is out 13th.

Only four players remain: Ren, Martyn, Scott and Pearl. No matter what happens it seems they are meant to be...

...However it happens earlier then canon and Scott is boogeyman. Scott still doesn't turn on Pearl out of principle but doesn't willingly refuse... Despite this Scott fails and is either killed by Martyn and Ren while trying to get them or just fails and is out. Either way he is out of the game 14th.

Pearl still boogey kills Ren, leaving her and Martyn as the last two players... Pearl is the clear victor between them.

Last Life is won by The Moon.

(Third Life but with only one life)

(Double Life)

[nanowrimo]

4 Ways To Cure Writer’s Block

Every year, we’re lucky to have great sponsors for our nonprofit events. NovelPad, a 2023 NaNoWriMo sponsor, is a novel drafting software designed to make it easy for writers to write. Today, they're sharing a few tips to help you beat writer's block:

NovelPad loves NaNoWriMo because we have the same goal: Helping authors get the thing done!

Starting a book is usually fun and easy—your fingers dance across the keyboard as you explore an exciting world, meet your characters, and stir up intrigue for the coming plot. But once you get into the weeds of how that all works, and how you and your characters get from Point A to Point B, you might find yourself losing momentum. You might find yourself so encumbered with obstacles that you might get a case of the dreaded writer’s block.

The very good news is that writer’s block isn’t terminal, and I certainly don’t think writer’s block is as enigmatic as some people seem to think. I believe it’s actually quite a simple problem, and usually due to one of a few common factors. Let’s look at four ways you can push yourself through your case of ye olde block.

1. Check in with yourself.

Step one is always to check in with yourself. 

Start by reviewing your basic self-care needs:

Are you staying hydrated?

Do you feel hungry?

Would a shower or a nap be beneficial?

Is it time for a walk or some stretching exercises?

Consider your environment as well. Maybe you need:

Noise-canceling headphones

A change of scenery

A babysitter or someone to help around the house

To open or close some windows

Next, evaluate your level of focus. Is your mind wandering elsewhere? It can be useful to create a "dump list" to jot down anything that's causing you stress, such as work-related issues, pending tasks, or upcoming events. Setting that list aside can give you the tangible feeling of pushing those things off your desk to worry about later.

Once your body, mind, and environment are sorted out, you'll likely discover that writing becomes a bit easier!

2. Look back at where you’ve been.

Even if the first tip did or did not do the trick, let’s take a look at the project itself.

Sometimes writer’s block is a blessing in disguise! Your creative gut might be telling you that something went awry. Try reading your project back and pinpointing where it became difficult to keep going. Consider alternate plots or paths to get your writing flowing again.

If you're managing multiple plots and subplots, identifying the moment you deviated from the main path can be quite challenging. To pinpoint which plot line is causing issues, you can take advantage of NovelPad's handy feature: Plot tracking.

On the Plot Board, you can review every scene of a particular plot in order, making spotting those errors in your plotlines much easier.

3. Rewrite a problem scene.

Once you've identified the scene causing issues, it's time to make improvements! This can be challenging because there are countless ways to approach a scene.

However, don't hesitate to embrace revisions. Often, a scene benefits from a thorough rewrite. With NovelPad Revisions, you can save limitless scene revisions, compare them side by side, and effortlessly switch to the one they want in the live manuscript. This keeps your different versions safe, well-organized, and readily accessible.

4. Freewrite to free yourself.

Freewriting is a great way to get your creativity flowing again. Write some poetry, compose a letter to a friend, or simply let your thoughts flow without judgment. Freewriting without judgment can help turn on your writer mode and even help you solve some problems! It's especially beneficial when you're stuck on something specific, because we often find brilliant solutions when we stop being so critical of our ideas.

Kick writer’s block off your desk with NovelPad! It's free to use throughout NaNoWriMo, and we offer discounts to participants and winners afterward. If you find that NovelPad isn't your cup of tea by the end of November, don't worry—you can still access and download your project at any time. Just write!

Our team at NovelPad believes in making it easy for writers to complete their books. That’s why we built an uncomplicated, intuitive system that stays out of the way until you need it! We want writers like you to #JustWrite without burdening you with excessive features. Speaking of features, software updates at NovelPad are based entirely on user feedback from authors to keep our features sharp, relevant, and minimalist.

All NaNoWriMo participants have access to a 15% discount on NovelPad with code WRIMO2023 — use the code during checkout to redeem your discount. Offer expires April 1, 2024.

Top photo by Richard Dykes on Unsplash.

[yannaryartside]

Carmy will have to decide between two types of love

I keep thinking about why Carmy (possibly) deciding between Claire and Syd is taking so much time on the overall plot of the series. We have used a entire season of him falling for Claire, and my theory is that in this season the Syd vs Claire is gonna be toe to toe, and then in the final season he goes for Syd.

Now, if that happens this way, I have been analysing it from a writers perspectives, how this love stories create Carmen ultimate character arc. I am gonna propose to you two narratives and why I would go for the later. Character analysis ahead.

The Claire option

Walk with me here. If you ship Claire and Carmy and believe the trailers, you could say this whole thing is about Carmy learning to accept love and good things. That is why the last season ended with him rejecting the relationship out of trauma just to realize that Claire loved him. This season could be about him healing to a point where he learns he deserves love, apologizing to Claire, and getting back together. And you know what, that does make sense, writing this show as an exercise for learning to heal childhood wounds. It is clean and makes sense. Then in s4 his new self can make all the good decisions, have a couple of kids, bum you have an arc.

But the background noise, or the clues floating around, to call it something, doesn't make sense. Here insert all the Sydcarmy clues the fandom has talked about.

The show is trying to tell us that Claire is the love Carmy wants because he is trapped in his wounded self mentality.

As I said in this post, Claire's behavior looked extremely naive but manipulative sometimes. Her relationship with his family and the trauma surrounding it. How everybody seems more enthusiastic than him about the relationship at times.

The reason: the wound.

Claire is uncomplicated love, love with no expectations or boundaries, with only space for his needs, never hers. That is the kind of love a child expects from a parent. My theory is that Carmen, being with Claire, wanted to experience that kind of love, the one he didn't get from Donna. with a touch of his teen self fantasies and sex included.

And that also makes sense. Everybody that has been abused, particularly in childhood, will tell you that picking a partner without relying on your wounded self is very difficult.

A little bit of TMI on healing from abuse when you look for a romantic partner: One of the reasons I got into therapy is because I was terrified to end up marrying a man as abusive as my dad was with my mom and me. I had a problematic episode with one of my exboyfriends that made me realize I was repeating specific patterns, even when consciously, I thought I was picking men who didn't act like my father. It is something difficult precisely because you are not aware of it. It is all happening subconsciously.

So maybe that is why the writers want to give Carmen the chance to choose a partner as a healed person (Syd) and not as a wounded person desperate for love (Claire)

You cannot choose a romantic partner looking for the love of a parent, because parent to child love is the only type of unconditional love that can exist. Some therapist will tell you that the only way to cure that lack is with self love and forgiveness, but that is besides the point of this post.

Romantic relationships cannot be unconditional, it is a partnership. There needs to be expectations of grow, sacrifices and compromises, the two people need to get their needs met. You may heal together, but you partner may trigger your wounds sometimes, the same as your other relationships.

Syd definitely forces Carmy to evolve, while Claire enables him and keeps him in his past self.

Now here is where I think the twist of the series will come.

Remember when I said that Carmys core wound is ther he felt he was not good enough for Donna to love him? Because he could not be like Michael? This is the post

Syd is Carmy’s anchor and his peace. She is also characterized as someone who helps people to grow, who gives grace and sincerity when mistakes are made. She is the actually healthy woman/parent he never experienced.

Carmen has not healed his core wound. The lie he believes that he has to go the extra mile to earn people's love. The way he became the best chef in the world, dreaming of just getting a “good job” from his older brother.

But because his wounded self doesn't feel like he can be enough for somebody he actually wants (Syd), he felt for a woman that didn't asked anything of him (Claire).

That (never giving but always receiving) dynamic is what allowed Carmy to accept the relationship in the first place.

Thinking of all this made me realize that not only has Syd been the only person Carmy had chosen for himself (as other posts have brilliantly pointed out), but Syd is literally the only person who can make a relationship with him work. She had seen the worst of him (Donna) and had the capacity to make him think of himself beyound all that, hence the peace that she brings him “you are the best cdc” as in “you are great, you are good, a good partner, a good leader, you are my friend” you are not just the bear (your wounded self). He smiles because the person that he wants can see this even if he doesn't dare to belive it yet.

So I don't know how they could make Carmy realize all of this. I also could be wrong and the meaning of all of this could be something completly different. I also don't know of this opinion is controversial. Let me know what you think. Thank you for reading.

[macgyvermedical]

can you talk a little about wegovy and muonjaro for weight loss?

The answer is maybe.

If it were just the drugs themselves, I'd say absolutely. But there is a surprising amount of cultural baggage associated with these medications, and I don't really know that I can do them justice.

So first, let's talk about weight. There's a fantastic book called "Fat Talk" by Virginia Sole-Smith, about being overweight or obese in an age that prioritizes thinness, and how diet culture in particular is a threat to young people. Another, called "Intuitive Eating" by Elyse Resch, discusses how calorie restriction- commonly cited as the "way" to lose weight along with exercise- only works once or twice, because our bodies get wise to it and want to hold onto fat.

Humans evolved to gain weight. Fat is how we store energy for times when we might not have enough to eat. And if "not having enough to eat" (whether because of famine or because of calorie restrictive dieting) happens repeatedly, we have evolved to change hormones and metabolism so we a) don't need as much food to stay alive and b) are primed to eat more food than we need when it is available.

Aren't human bodies cool?

In the medical world, there are a lot of things tied to weight. For example, statistically, being overweight or obese means you're more likely to have health conditions like high blood pressure, diabetes, and heart disease. It is unclear, though, if those problems are caused by the weight itself, or other dietary, activity, and behavior patterns that may also happen to contribute to the weight gain. Things like a sedentary lifestyle, frequent consumption of foods with low nutritional value, avoidance of medical care due to stigma, or even chronic calorie restrictive dieting.

Unfortunately, due to this statistical tie, there is a lot of effort made in the medical world to get patients to "lose weight at any cost" instead of recommending dietary, activity, and behavior changes for health reasons alone.

Culturally as well, we prioritize thinness as attractiveness. I remember in high school there was a poster in my health classroom that read "Ideal weight- or it might be hard to get a date!". There are lots of negative associations with people who carry more weight, including that they are lazy or stupid- things that have nothing to do with body size.

Now, that doesn't mean that there aren't things that could be benefits of losing weight. For example, joint and back pain can be improved with weight loss. But weight loss is probably not the end-all be-all cure-all it's touted to be.

Because it is really hard for most people to meet this standard of "lose weight at any cost", there has long been medications that purportedly help people lose weight. Most of these medications have been stimulants, which decrease appetite and make it more comfortable to engage in calorie restrictive dieting. They also increase energy, which can make it easier to exercise or tolerate more exercise than would otherwise be possible.

Before we talk about the drugs, I want to say- there are risks and benefits to all medications, including these! The discussion you should always have is what risks are you and your healthcare provider willing to tolerate for the potential positive outcome. Also, this is a discussion of the drugs when used for weight control. The same drugs used for diabetes are at different dosages and have potentially different risk/benefit comparisons.

Ozempic/Wegovy (semaglutide) and Mounjaro/Zepbound (tirzepatide) are both a type of medication called a GLP-1 agonist. GLP-1 agonists are also called incretin mimics, because they mimic a type of hormone (incretin) that tells the brain and body that it is full. This makes it easier to eat a small amount of high nutrition food and feel satisfied. They also work by increasing metabolism. Between the decreased consumption and the increased metabolism, weight is lost.

Over the course of a year and a half, tirzepatide causes about 15-20% average reduction in body weight with continued use. Over the course of about the same time, semaglutide causes an average of about 15% body weight reduction with continuous use. Say, for example, you weigh 100kg. A year and a half on one of these medications could get you down to 85kg.

The problem is, as soon as that drug is withdrawn, the body realizes it was starving, and tries to compensate. These drugs are good at getting rid of weight, but maintaining a new weight usually means staying on a lower dose of the drug perpetually. Most people regain all weight (and potentially more than they lost) within 5 years of stopping the drugs.

Some studies suggest that repeatedly regaining lost weight may be more detrimental to health than remaining overweight or obese when it comes to statistical risk of type 2 diabetes, heart disease, and other "weight-associated" illnesses.

The main side effects are GI-related. Most of these are nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, gas/bloating, constipation, dizziness, and abdominal pain. More severe side effects include pancreatitis (inflammation of the pancreas) and gasteroparesis (paralysis of the stomach and part of the digestive tract).

[aydience-world]

Kai Chisaki's past headcanons

Since we won’t be getting any additional info anymore and for the sake of my own sanity, I have decided to create my own headcanon of Kai Chisaki’s past in detail and how he came to be the man we know as Overhaul based on the few crumbs we got in the manga. 

*Kai was born to a less than average income family and his parents also have similar deconstruct or reassemble quirks, although to much more limited matter.

*Overhaul is a complex quirk and young Kai initially struggled, especially with the reconstruction part. He would attempt to break down and repair his toys but fail more often than not. His parents were uncaring and did not make any effort to support or help their son improve his skill.

*A freak accident happens one day and Kai accidentally deconstructs one of his parents. Frightened, he tries to undo this accident but fails and his parent ends up completely disfigured. The remaining parent freaks out and says some atrocious things to him, similar words Overhaul used to say to Eri. (Ex. “Your existence is a curse”, etc.). I hc this happened when he was around 6-7 years old.

*Following this incident, the remaining parent takes their broken spouse and Kai to a quirk doctor, Dr Garaki, or another doctor associated with him. The doctor takes great interest in Kai’s ability and sees him as a potential candidate as one of AFO’s spare children. The parent wants to get rid of Kai asap and the doctor gladly takes him into the orphanage. Kai would be living there for several years.

*In the orphanage, Kai has to undergo a series of tests and exercises by making him use his quirk on objects, lab animals and sometimes even other children. This is where Kai begins to become more proficient in using his quirk, on both physical and living matter.

*The abandonment from his parents and the grotesque nature of the experiments causes Kai to fall into deep depression and existential crisis. At this point in his life, he hates his quirk and wonders why he was born with it, why was he born at all? He starts questioning everything. Where does this ability come from? Why do people like him exist? Why is the world this way in the first place?

*During one of the experiments, Kai brings up one of his questions to Dr Garaki, who answers what scientists currently know and while there is no concrete evidence, there are several theories, one of them being the mice theory which deduces that quirks are a virus originating from mice. He refers Kai to the small library in the orphanage.

*Kai then proceeds to read several books and science journals about this quirk phenomenon to understand the origin of quirks and the current state of humanity and studies the mice theory. To him, it all comes together. Quirks are a plague, a virus which comes from dirty animals which explains why quirks mutate so rapidly. Among all the material he has read, this had to be the truth because it made the most sense.  The reason why he’s the way he is and the reason why his parents abandoned him. He realized they are all infected and quirks don’t have any cure. This realization drives him into a frenzy and he develops a germaphobia, specifically against quirk users, since they will always remind him of the mice theory.

*Due to his phobia, Kai develops a further disgust for people and keeps to himself, avoiding other children in the orphanage.  He prefers to keep to himself and read books, learning new things about science and the world. He never formed any meaningful relationships in the orphanage.

*After some time Tenko was born, AFO began searching for the right quirk in the orphanages that he could give him to make Tenko an ultimate weapon of destruction and hate. Thanks to all the tests and experiments, Kai’s quirk catches AFO’s attention and he instructs Garaki to make a stronger copy of Overhaul but remove the reassemble part since the quirk should only be used to destroy.

*This time, Garaki needs to restrain Kai in order to extract his quirk genes to make a copy that focuses on the deconstruction part and enhance it, which would eventually become Decay. This would be done by Dr Garaki extracting blood and small pieces of flesh from Kai.

*Now, this experiment was not simply just to make a copy and remove the secondary function, the deconstruction part needed to be much more destructive at a much faster rate and unlike Overhaul, which only affects a single target, Decay has to affect multiple targets through a domino effect. It takes numerous tries to achieve this outcome. Other children would be given the copy to test it and many would perish in the creation of this quirk.

*The continuous pain and physical contact during the experiment leaves Kai in a frenzy and he completely breaks out in hives multiple times throughout the process. Regardless, the experiment continues until Decay turns out the way Garaki and AFO envision. This trauma continues until adulthood and he now breaks out in hives whenever someone touches him.

*At last, Decay is complete and AFO proceeds to give it to Tenko. Garaki doesn’t bother healing Kai because he knows Kai can fix himself. He is released back into the orphanage but has to stay there in case AFO needs any adjustments. He is still traumatized from the experiment and hates his quirk even more. He blames his quirk more than Garaki.

*Tenko’s quirk activated for the first time which meant the experiment was a success for AFO and Garaki. AFO informs Garaki about the progress and he leaves the orphanage to help him with the preparations of grooming Tenko. (Tenko was 5 years old when this happened so Kai is 12 at this point). A substitute is assigned to the orphanage during Garaki’s absence but they don’t really come through. Only a handful of kids are left since most of them died during the creation of Decay. With all the attention on Tenko, the children left at the orphanage are neglected and left to starve.

*Eventually Kai has enough and uses his quirk to escape. He runs into the night, not looking back or stopping until his legs can’t take it anymore. He wonders why he didn’t escape sooner but realizes he has nowhere to go and wanders aimlessly alone through the streets at night.

*He has a small panic attack and hives outbreak but this is overshadowed by hunger and fatigue. Eventually exhaustion takes over and he slumps down against a wall in an alley, falling asleep on the street.

*He wakes up the next morning, covered in dust and dirt from the ground but the raging hunger is too distracting to care. He looks for food but no one is willing to help this dirty kid. He considers going through trash but can’t bring himself to and goes on hungry.

*It’s already afternoon and only then does someone notice Kai. A middle-aged man calls his attention, offering to help him get home. Realizing this child doesn’t have a home, he adopts Kai and makes him part of the Shie Hassaikai.  To Kai, this act of kindness would never be forgotten and swore to himself he would repay this kindness no matter what.

*The life of a yakuza is not exactly the most suitable environment for a child/teen to grow up in, and “affection” would be shown through tough love or ’roughing up until set straight’. (The traditional Asian way).  Pops did attempt to ask Kai about his past but Kai’s answers are very vague so Pops does not pry further. The trauma doesn’t get addressed and shows some behavioral problems from him later on.

*Kai eventually befriends Kurono Hari who grew up with the Shie Hassaikai. Hari shows Kai the ropes of being a yakuza, and also gives him tips about the gangster life. Kai quickly adapts into his new home and Hari becomes his closest and most trusted friend, joining and supporting whatever Kai comes up with.

*Kai truly cherishes Pops and his new home, to the point that he gets into fights with other kids for insulting his new home, or comparing them to villains, who he considers sick. Pops thanks him for defending the Shie Hassaikai’s honor and Kai makes this his life mission. As mentioned before, Pops showed affection through a “tough love” style, so hearing praise like this was rare. Kai secretly craved to be given more appreciation and affection, which is something he never received as a child, and the reason why he goes far and beyond just to ‘repay his debt’ to Pops.

*Eventually, Kai comes to terms with his “infection”. The quirk he blamed for his abandonment and suffering is now seen as a tool he needs to use to defend the Shie Hassaikai. And he knows his quirk makes him powerful. He needs this power to protect his home and become the man the Shie Hassaikai needs. 

*Kai started wearing a facemask during his teenage years, wanting to protect himself from breathing the same air as his filthy, quirk-ridden classmates. 

*The exposure to illicit activities and fights among gangs and other gang members made Kai truly develop his fighting and social skills. He learns how to charm, manipulate and intimidate to get his way. Above all, he leaves his enemies dead or near dead after a battle, instilling fear in not only rival gangs but also his own members. He quickly becomes well-known among the yakuzas as a deadly and fearsome individual who should not be taken lightly. Pops does not approve of Kai getting into these kinds of fights but Kai considers this part of repaying his debt.

*The yakuza influence is diminishing in society as one after another organization gets disbanded. Kai is hurt from seeing their organization backed into a corner and he blames the quirk plague, believing that quirks cause further delusion to use them for heroic or villainous causes. He imagines that the world would be a more ideal place for the yakuza if there were no more quirks. No heroes to oppose them and no villains to take their rightful place in the underworld.

*He proceeds to make the Shie Hassaikai more powerful by gaining more recruits and money. He does so by getting into ring fights to garner more respect and also starts businesses such as loan sharks and drug dealing for more income. Pops also does not approve of this and calls him out.

*Pops and Kai frequently clash about his methods. Pops believes in adjusting to the new normal as a yakuza but Kai cannot agree to this and wants the yakuza to come back to power, standing by ‘the end justifies the means’ philosophy. 

*One fateful day, Pops’ daughter calls him out of the blue, panicked about her daughter’s ability, unceremoniously drops Eri off at the Shie Hassaikai’s compound and leaves to be never heard of again. Pops notices that Eri’s quirk has similarities to Kai’s and (foolishly) thinks it would be a good idea to have Kai look after her and study her, somehow hoping Kai would connect to her and have something else to do rather than engaging in criminal businesses.

*There is an instant aversion towards Eri when Kai first sees her, which is because she reminds him too much of himself. But then he studies and starts understanding her ability, realizing she could actually revert back humanity to their original state- quirkless. After all this time, all the suffering caused by quirks, the hopeless truth of the mice theory- at last there was an answer and Eri could make it all go away. He finds a way to use her quirk genes the very same way Garaki had done to him. He comes up with a plan that not only answers his questions to his former existential crisis, but also a way to help the Shie Hassaikai. If there were no more heroes or villains to oppose their place, the yakuza could rise to power again. In addition to that, they could also make so much money if they monopolized quirks. All the previous struggles he had could be fixed through Eri.

*Kai proposes this plan to Pops and we all know how that ended. When Pops threatens to kick him out, Kai falls into despair, afraid to lose the one thing that matters most to him. He puts Pops into a coma so he can proceed with his plan unopposed but he does feel very guilty about hurting him but comforts himself in the thought that all of what he’s doing is for Pops, to repay his kindness. He discards his name, going by the name of his quirk instead which he formerly detested, and wears a plague mask instead, symbolizing he is on the pursuit to cure the world.

Spoiler alert: no more arms and no more Shie Hassaikai.

[bunnyshideawayy]

cassian. great man, wonderful friend, absolutely terrible mate.

we have seen Nesta’s sisters, who arguably have less of a reason, defend her more than Cassian has ever thought about. HELLO?

my issue with cassian acosf and onward is that we are truly expected to believe they he deeply understands Nesta when he’s been shown time and again to never stick up for her and never fully trust her. he does nothing to help her over come and face her traumas / depression, she’s left to do that on her own, but best believe he’s down to fuck and make her hike! (no sarah sex and physical exercise are not cures)

after reading the entire series once and now twice seeing Rhys threatening anyone who dares breath wrong in Feyre’s direction under the guise of just “protecting his mate” i find it extremely hard to believe cassian allowed or even sides with anyone who speaks ill of/to Nesta or threatens her- all of which Rhysand and most of the IC (besides her sisters and Az) do, most of the time while directly in front of cassian in conversations he’s involved in. the most he does is…pout a little? throws a hissy fit? the two times i can remember him even remotely stick up for Nesta he immednantly backtracks as soon as Rhysand pushes back, both times the final decision being put in Feyre’s hands, this continues even into CC3 (and let’s thank the mother Feyre loves her sisters which is something ik yall nesta haters can’t stand.)

let’s move onto something i know yall don’t want to talk about, his verbal abuse. “oh but nesta also said-“ we know what she said, that is not the point. if this man knew all along nesta was his mate and truly wanted to help her heal from her traumas and depression why did he take every chance he could to provoke her? Nesta called Rhysand an asshole, and he IS especially to Nesta, and instead of keeping silent as he does when Rhys/the IC harshly critique her, he immediately gets angry and in her face to defend him. funny he can’t do that with her, his MATE? or let’s talk about this scene

oh okay! that’s totally something you say unprompted to your mate who is severely depressed and traumatized because she won’t eat! she’s totally not shaking because she’s triggered! then to add the lecture “we’ve been here before, too” oh okay! so you admit you know what she feels like (very doubtful although i’m not going to compare their traumas, both are valid he just does not understand her like he thinks he does) it’s patronizing and a little frustrating. she doesn’t want to be there in the first place, purposely throwing a sensitive subject in her face will not magically motivate her or cure her- she is simply doing what she has no choice in. she has been stripped of all autonomy, humanity, and “normality”- she feels alone and valuable in a way she as never felt before and she has NO HELP. none!

i’ll end with the hike. yay more physical activity as punishment- but if i said that was abuse yall will bring up the pregnancy so ill do it for you! Yes, Nesta was wrong to tell Feyre THE WAY SHE DID, she had every right to tell Feyre about her own body and pregnancy, it just shouldn’t have happened the way it did. everyone knew it was wrong to keep it from Feyre, even Cassian, so instead of forcing her to hike a mountain as punishment to ware her down mentally and physically he couldve stood up for both Feyre and Nesta to Rhysand the moment he threatens to KILL NESTA. a simple “hey buddy you knew it was wrong to keep that from Feyre you can’t kill my mate for telling her even if it was out of anger” would suffice. not once during their entire hike or during her breakdown does he reassure her, not even when she is tearing herself apart because she doesn’t feel worthy. don’t even get me started on what happens in CC3.

over all i think Nessian is great and they have some great moments, the end of ACOWAR lives rent free in my mind but i am incredibly disappointed with Cassian. i do feel like Nesta deserves better from everyone (besides Feyre and Elain who, again, are the only ones who i truly believe love her unconditionally.)

anti nesta’s this is not a safe space for you.

[yeyinde]

IN DREAMS | Price x GN!Reader

Sweet dreams. Warm knuckles. The ghost of your lips pressing against his crown.  He never tells you he doesn't sleep enough, but somehow you just know.

》 WARNINGS: 18+ – MATURE, SMUT | GN!Reader: no use of pronouns, gendered language or anatomy; very soft smut; soft John Price; established couple; gratuitous fluff (does this count as fluff????)

》 WORD COUNT: 4,6K

》 NOTES: Since there were no gender specifications, I kept everything as vague as possible for the descriptions of MC so this could (hopefully!) be easily read as Gen Neutral Reader, Fem Reader, Male Reader, or whatever you prefer. I did my best to exercise as much of the angst out of this as possible but still found myself having to slap my fingers from typing out legions of hurt. This is my BEST attempt at fluff. Sorry.

This is wholly dedicated to this anon!!! I hope you feel better! 🖤 

Waking, he finds, is often easier than falling asleep. 

It's a quick descent into cognisance, the dream he had—long forgotten, never remembered—fading into smoke in the back of his head. The popcorned wall of his ceiling takes its place. A water stain in the corner—coffee brown. A crack above his head. The hairline fracture is just a small river of black that cuts through off-white. 

Falling asleep takes ages, aeons. Lying on his pillow for hours without feeling the talons of sleep dip into his temple. 

Silence is consuming. Crushing. It makes the threads of his thoughts echo in the recess of his mind, bouncing off the walls until they bruise. It leaves its mark in the shape of burning eyes, restlessness. 

Cureless insomnia. 

It's easier with someone else. You. 

Price isn't a man who needs much outside of a stiff drink or a rich cigar. Cures to an age-old conundrum in the form of vice—vices because Price was never a man who could just stop at one—but nothing batters the errant thoughts into quiet disinterest quite like you sleeping beside him. 

The noises you make are loud enough to drown out the ghosts in his head. Soft snores, the rustle of sheets. Your arm draped over his broad chest keeps him locked to the mattress, forced to forego his usual nighttime ritual of rising after trying—and failing—to fall asleep after a few hours. You stop him when he'd normally pour himself another drink, light a cigar on the deck, and watch the ethereal gloom of midnight swell over this little part of Liverpool he calls home. 

Keep him in check.

Though, sometimes, it doesn't work, and he lays awake all night staring at the damned ceiling while you curl up against his side, chasing lavender in your bare palm (a recurring dream, you tell him, and he tries to remember when he last slept long enough to truly have one. He comes up short each time.)

He rises before you, always. Doesn't have the heart to tell you he doesn't sleep. That he stares at the ageing canvass of the ceiling, mind stuck in an endless loop of inanities that are not worth losing sleep but still rake across his mind with a viciousness he knows won't go away until morning, when he wakes in a daze. A fog. 

So, when you ask him how it was, running rheum from your eyes, he lies and says it was okay. 

But he slept last night. Knows it because he dreamed. 

Falling lavender. Knuckles warm, soft against his temple. A voice—susurrus, low; the sibilant echo of sweet dreams whispered against his ear.

Sweet dreams.

Sleep, as an insomniac, is always a double-edged sword. No matter how many hours he spends chasing REM, that fickle mistress, she always evades him in the end. Dancing just out of reach. 

He wakes up feeling worse each time. Over-exhaustion. The paradoxical conundrum of being too tired to sleep. 

He feels the same clutch of evanescent slumber tangles through his lashes, making his lids too heavy to open, but it's dulled. Lessened. 

Price forces himself to keep his eyes open, staring at the blurry ceiling above. He wakes to this sight every morning. A familiar ritual. Three blinks. He watches the ceiling gradually grow clearer. 

His hand threads across the sheets, and where he expects to find the warmth of your skin, he instead meets empty space. The sheets are already leaking the heat you left behind. 

Price blinks, lashing clinging together from the sleep crystallising along the crease of his eyes. He has a headache needling behind his brow, a tension building from lack of sleep, and—

His tired eyes slide from the empty bed to the half-smoked cigar sitting in the ashtray. The empty glass of scotch beside it. 

He's found a cure for woes in the form of a stiff drink—scotch, neat; and a side of spring water—and a perfectly rolled cigar. Vices, of course: the kind that rots his insides, and stains his teeth. 

Cirrhosis. Emphysema. All the ugly little warnings on the back of a tobacco box. 

But it numbs the ache in his bones, and the ghosts in his head, so he considers it an equivalent exchange. 

(Just one that takes more than its fair share when he doesn't oblige by the rules.)

There is a respite from the steadily growing throb behind his left eye when he grinds the heel of his palm into his eyelids. A brief moment of fleeting pleasure. It rears when he pulls his hand away, letting them fall to the sheets. 

Today feels a little off-kilter. 

Without you grumbling about sleeping in beside him, peacefully chasing after lavender, and the same dream clotting behind his eyelids, he feels distinctly out of place. 

His hand slides over to your spot, fingers curling around the cooling sheets. The blankets are tucked in around him. 

Sweet dreams. Warm knuckles. The ghost of your lips pressing against his crown. 

He never tells you he doesn't sleep enough, but somehow you just know. 

You're not hard to find. He can hear the rattle of the old pipes as you shower; the hiss of the water hitting the title. 

Lured in like a beacon, a siren's call, he follows the breadcrumbs that lead him to you. 

Your silhouette is a dark line against the old curtain he keeps meaning to replace, but even the shadow of you seems to dampen the maligned feeling curling in his gut. 

A sight, he thinks, for sore, tired eyes. 

He rasps on the doorframe, announcing his presence. You scare easily, he finds, and he'd rather not get a bottle of your shampoo tossed at his head for the trouble. 

The curtain peels back. You greet him through the cracks, blinking owlishly through the rivulets running down your forehead. 

"Room for one more?"

A wide grin stretches across your face as you nod eagerly before disappearing behind the curtain once more. The spray of the shower swallows the echo of your laughter. 

"Thought you were gonna sleep all day, old man," you call, loud and exaggerated. He watches your arms lift over your head, fingers threading over your scalp. 

You think you're funny. Charming. 

(He does, too—he'll never admit it, of course, but he laughs the hardest when it's just you and him; when the world around you fades into the background, and all he can hear is your effervescent giggles over the words you uttered, the jokes that always come after the punchline. The ones that fall flat, that miss. 

It's funnier, you say. When it isn't supposed to be, you know?)

You wander through life with ease in your gait, a sense of peace in your mien like the world and everything in it is your best friend. Comfortable in your own skin, content with your lot in life. Happy, he thinks, just to be included. To be a part of it. 

Happy to have him in it. 

"Might have," he mutters, affection blooming in the gnarled remains of his heart. 

You bring a sense of chaos to his life that feels like watching a nasty storm brew in the distance from the sanctity of his window. Laughter that sounds like a whip of lightning striking the pavement, close enough to smell the ozone, to have his neck prickle with danger, but far enough to feel safe. A voice that echoes like a thunderclap. Pelting hail. A torrential rainfall. A gale. 

(All his life he was told to run from storms, but you make him want to chase the calamity brewing in the distance; to feel the hazard against his skin.)

"But I couldn't sleep without you snorin' in my ear."

"I do not—!" 

Your words of indignation taper off into a yelp when he pulls the curtain back fully, letting the chill of the mid-spring morning drift over your slick skin. Goosebumps ripple across your trembling flesh—no longer a tantalising tease behind plastic (ohh, you cooed when you first saw the simple navy and blue striped curtain. Very predictable, cap; very you) but bared to his eager, hungry eyes. 

He takes a moment to appreciate the sight that greets him, a low rumble spreading through his chest. "Well, don't you look cosy?"

"It's my day off," you whine, shivering when he draws out getting into the water behind you. "Let me pamper myself a little bit." 

"Don't you get pampered enough?"

"Do I?" 

His hands settle on your waist, nose bushing against the wet space between your ear. When he breathes in, the familiar scent of you floods his lungs. Warm milk. Honey sweet. A touch of loam, something bitter. The acrid tang of your sweat still clinging to your hairline. It reminds him of sex. Of your dewy skin when he has you pressed into the mattress, head burrowed into his neck, he fucks into the tight clutch of your willing body. 

He stirs. Want smouldering low and heavy in his belly. You feel it when he presses tight against your back, but there's no rush. He feels no urgency to seek release. To get off. He just—

Wants. 

Always, really. There is this distant buzz of desire that sits low in his belly whenever you're around. A constant simmer. 

Wanting you, he finds, is the same as craving a draw of nicotine behind his teeth. 

"Always," he rasps, nose running down the length of your neck. The warm spray of the shower rouses him from the last tendrils of sleep, clearing the congealed rheum around his lash line. "You always get pampered, love." 

When you hum, he feels it reverberate through his chest. "You're slacking today then, John."

His hands slide from their perch against your hips, your quivering stomach. Soft skin, slick from the water, flutters under his touch. He dips his hand down to cup your sex in the palm of his hand, feeling the heat of you bleed into his skin. 

"How do you want to be pampered then, love?" 

You lean back against his chest, tucking yourself into the fold of his body where you fit like a mismatched puzzle piece, bent and cut until it slides in. The gaps between your bodies are filled with the steam that curls off the hot water pulsing down around you. 

"Just—fuck, John—," you gasp when his thumb rubs soft circles over your sensitive skin, arching into his embrace. "Just—ah, just this—"

"Want me to wash you?" He presses his hips into the plush softness of your ass cheeks. "Or want me to get you off?" 

His question makes you mewl, thighs spreading to fit more of his hand between them. "A–anything—both—"

"Greedy little thing, aren't you?" 

"Fuck, John—"

Your petulant whine disintegrates into a soft hum when he wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you tighter to his chest. His chin settles on the plinth of your shoulder, watching his fingers trail over your sateen flesh. 

He's content to just feel you. The keen in your naked chest when his thumb brushes over a spot that makes you melt. The harsh pants; soft, languid little noises slipping through your wet lips—uh, uh, uh—interwoven with the hymn of his name. The shudders that wrack through your body when he presses the fat length of him against the plush seat of your ass. Your hips cant, rocking into his hold, as you greedily seek your release. 

Your fingers curl around his thick wrist, thumb and forefinger barely able to lock in the middle, and it's the sight of you wholly in his grasp that ignites a childish sense of glee in his chest. 

He's never been a particularly possessive man. 

The transient lifestyle he led, the one he'd been primed for since he was young, and everyone around him just expected that he'd follow in his father's, his grandfather's footsteps, doesn't allow such luxury. 

And he'd never been the type of man to take it. To want it, to pursue it. He was content with the ephemeral romance that came and went, a flickering flame that bloomed bright before eventually burning out. It was easier. 

Lonelier, too. 

You had been unexpected—a squall. 

Your presence has ripped through his life like a violent tornado, leaving everything turned upside down in your wake. 

You left him wanting. 

It always seemed silly to run toward the thing that could kill you, but when you grinned at him—the recession of water before a tsunami hit—he finally understood why some people chase danger their whole lives. 

He thought he'd have to adjust, to make room for you when there is no more space left. 

But storms don't squeeze to fit. 

They rip through. 

He supposes, then, that there's no need to worry about making room when there are no walls left standing. 

"Give you whatever you want, love," the words are a broken snarl in his throat, bleeding with the tangled remnants of his filthy desire; an aching sense of possession, and hunger. "Anythin' you want. Anythin'. Jus'—"

The empty bed flashes behind his eyes. Your side, now cold to the touch; the heat already fading out from the sheets. Whispered promises in the sleep-stained curl of his hair. 

"Jus' stay—," the mangled plea is a faulty firecracker in his throat. 

His arms tighten around you. Possession, he finds, is a silly thing. Ownership. Covetousness. All of it means substantially little to him when the only home he'd ever known is a duffle bag packed full of clothes he'd never wear. 

And then he comes home to you. The space is saturated with your scent. Little markings around the flat that remind him of your presence. That scream out into the desolate stagnancy of a place that was always covered in a fine sheet of dust, and cobwebs, that you were here. Are here. 

The fridge is stocked. The cupboards are full. 

His bed slept in. Calendar marked with dates that mean something to you—meetings, negotiations, birthdays of people who matter in your life. 

Scented candles run out the stench of disuse. 

The days when your worlds don't overlap, and he comes home to an empty flat in a city he thinks he loves, he's never felt emptier. 

It's harder to sleep those nights, too. 

The whisper of an empty bed haunts him, echoes isolation and loneliness each time he reaches out and can't feel the warmth of your skin. 

"Greedy," you mock, words a breathy mewl that are quickly swallowed by the hiss of the shower. Your fingers tighten around his wrist, clinging to him as he works you through the gentle waves of pleasure, slowly letting you drift toward the precipice of your release. 

It's when the other reaches up behind you to thread through his damp locks, nails scratching across his temple, that he finds himself a little lost under the swell of you. Swept away by your breakneck pace. 

Possession, he thinks, and finds himself drawn to the way your fingers curl around him. How you hold him tight, keeping him locked against you as you take. Syphon your pleasure from the feel of him against your skin. 

Hard, wanting, he barely thinks of himself when he grinds his pelvis into your ass, cock slipping between the globes of your cheeks. Too enraptured by the way you fit in the palm of his hand (in his head, his bed, his house, his life—) to worry about anything else. 

"Tha's it," he slurs the word into your neck, the scratch of his beard catching the droplets that run down the smooth column of your throat. "Jus' like that, love."

You writhe against his hand, strangled noises slipping from between the parted seam of your mouth. It's when his name falls, bitten in half when you snap your teeth together, lips curled, does he realise he's not even kissed you yet. 

His hand slides to cup your jaw, craning your neck until your chin rests on your shoulder. He meets you with a kiss, and can't stop the groan that rumbles out when he feels the weight of your lips on his. 

"You're extra touchy today," you breathe into his open mouth, words curling around his teeth. He tastes you when he swallows, and it soothes the burn in his joints; the ones that ache for nicotine. "What's got you in such a mood?"

"A mood?" He volleys, thumb rubbing the skin of your cheekbone, keeping you locked against him. He isn't ready to forfeit the taste of you, the feel of your lips moulding against his. "What kind'a mood do you think I'm in?"

"You're—," you gasp so prettily when he touches you in tandem with his peppered kisses; back arching in a way that makes him throb. "—clingy," you pant, breath warm and sweet when it ghosts over his tongue. "Needy."

You have this way of pulling truths out of him. Like you know how to crack his skull open, and rifle around inside until you find what you're looking for. A remarkable ability to galvanise his whims into words. 

Price doesn't even try to bite them back when they slip out, syphoned into the air from your pull. A black hole. A vacuum. You consume. 

(And he lets you.)

"Wakin' up," he starts, words trailing off when you buck, clumsily, into his palm. 

He devours you, then, swallowing down each moan and grunt you make as he brings you close to the edge, desperately wanting to see you fall. Break apart in his hold. 

"Tha's it, love." He murmurs, trailing open-mouthed kisses across the smooth column of your throat. His matted beard grazes your sensitive skin until you shiver, whimpering from the coarseness of it juxtaposed to the soft kisses, and teases of his teeth in small nips he plants over your slick flesh. "Come on—wanna see you cum for me." 

It doesn't take much to bring you to the brink. Years of learning your body, of decoding the little places and tricks that make you howl for him, have given him the insight into how to work you to completion. He uses them all, a softer, muted descent up that wobbling precipice, and knows when your toes are dipping over the edge when your nails bite into his skin, and your hips buck into his palm. 

You're a pretty little thing when your eyes snap shut, mouth dropping open as you dive down the vertiginous slope and into the maddening clutch of nirvana. 

His pretty little thing. 

He cups you in the palm of his hand, a fluttering little bird beating against his lifeline, and wonders if he can entice you to crawl back in bed with him, nestled tight under the covers while he spends the whole day worshipping every inch of precious flesh.

Might be able to, he thinks, when you go lax in his hold, chest shuddering with the shocks of pleasure the tips of his fingers bring. 

"God, John—" you whine when he keeps it up, 

 stroking your sensitive, throbbing flesh until your knees threaten to give in. "Stop—I can't—"

You could. He knows your body by now. Knows he could get you off again and again until you were a weeping mess tangled in sex-soaked sheets, begging him for reprieve. He nudges against your mettle each time, rapacious to see how far he can push you until you're overstimulated, and barely conscious. 

Greedy. Always. 

His hunger for you is never satiated. No matter how many times he buries himself inside of you, it's never enough. A ceaseless wanting deep in his gnarled chest to have, to consume. Something in the polluted pit of what was once the heart of a man who didn't think he'd succumb to greed, to gluttony, now wants to devour you whole. Ingurgitate you into his marrow, into the rotted remains of his still-beating heart where you'll stay, safe and sound, forever. 

His fingers itch, even now, to delve deep into your being. And so, he does. 

Tries to, really. But there's a surprising dearth of strength hidden in your body, and he lets you go without a sound when you push against his wandering, hungry hands. 

You twist in his hold, knees buckling as you try to slide down for him, but he stops you. 

"No, love," he rasps, the words ungluing reluctantly from his throat. "Later. Jus' wanna take care'a you for a moment, mm?"

His arm winds around your waist, pulling you taut against him. His cock is trapped between your bodies, leaking prespend over your quivering stomach. Price thinks he could get off like this. Staring at you like this—eyes lidded, cresting in the aftershocks of your bliss; gazing up at him through heated skin, warmed from the molten spray of the shower pelting across your body; lips blistered and bruised from his kisses, and the abrasive scrape of his beard over your flesh—he doesn't think it'll take much to get him there, but he finds he likes the delay a little more than usual today.

Likes the lazy way you lean into him, fingers threading through the damp, matted hair on his chest before sliding your palms down to where he aches. His cock juts up between your soft belly, and trembling thighs—fleshed vermillion, and swollen. Your fingers dance across his weeping slit, catching the thick pre-spend gathering there. The feel of your flesh on him—hot, and softened from the water—sends tendrils of pleasure coiling through his loins. 

He won't last. Not when you rest your chin against his sternum, staring up at him as you languidly work your hand over the head of his cock. Eyes heavy, drunk with the slow ebb of your bliss. 

You paint a pretty picture. One he finds he could stare at all day—every day—if you'd let him. 

Mauldin spools in his eyes. He knows this by the way your hands spasm around him, eyes catching the frisson that flickers across his face, mirrored in your liquid gaze. 

"What were you saying earlier?" You murmur, pressing a kiss to his slick chest. "Waking up—?"

You're teasing him, of course. The impish twitch to your lips gives you away. 

"Wakin' up alone—," he grumbles, hips canting into your grip. "Guess it made me miss you some." 

The impact of the words on you is breathtaking. The sudden bashful dip of your chin, the flutter of your lashes as you drink in his words—it's a sight that tucks away in the fibrils of his heart, kept safe for later when he's all alone in his bed, or off in some corner of the world with bullets raining down on him. 

(You don't have to worry much about bullets, you always quip, the barb in your voice, the teasing nonchalance, dulled by the quiver in your joints. You've fallen out of a helicopter more than you've been shot at.

He's never felt more drawn to you than when you're struggling through the fear gnarling in your eyes to joke about the many ways he'll die just to bring him some iota of comfort.)

His release bubbles quicker than he'd expected, aided when you press a soft, gentle kiss to his thundering heart. A wild storm on the horizon, one that leaves no wall left standing. You break him into pieces without even so much as a murmur. 

Price falls apart in your hands, and he thinks, then, about the promise in his dream. 

I'll catch them all for you, he'd said when you pointed to the whirling lavender petals falling down around you, eyes light with wonder. All of them. Jus' promise me you'll stay—

Your knuckles against his temple. The sun dawning in the curve of your smile. You breathe and he tastes wildflowers on his tongue. 

Stay? You echo, teeth flashing. But—

"I'd never leave you, John." 

He shudders in your grasp, fingers digging into your skin as he pulls you close, slanting his mouth over yours in a clumsy, searing kiss. 

Your name is drenched in benediction when he spills himself all over you, words a hushed gospel over the altar of your tongue. 

You pull away from him, eyes gazing toward the field of yellow sprawled around the hazel boscage. 

When he looks up, he finds thunderclouds on the horizon. A looming storm. 

"It's gonna rain," you murmur. 

He rumbles. "Doesn't it always?"

"Only when you're around." 

He catches a petal in his palm. That shape of it reminds him of the curve of your smile. He tucks it in his breast pocket for safekeeping.

"Best keep me around for a while, then, mm, love?"

The sound of your laughter is swallowed by the crack of lightning.

In life, he finds there is nothing better than a cigar, and a finger of scotch after a round of sex. 

(Or anything, really.)

He sparks the lightener, holding it to the end, and takes quick puffs from the stem. The sound of burning paper crackles as it burns in the flames. 

Price stands on the balcony, eyes aimlessly drifting across the docks. The water is grey, nearly black; shaded by the approaching storm in the distance. A dark cloud on the gunmetal horizon. He tastes ozone in the air; the electric buzz of a gathering lightning strike. 

The morning leaves him feeling off-kilter. The dream—dreaming, even—and the empty bed still sits in the pit of his guts. Uncomfortable, disquieted. 

He's anxious, he notes, fingers trembling around the fat stem of his cigar. Each draw does little to quell it. Nicotine and scotch on little sleep and an empty stomach do nothing to calm his ruffled nerves. A state he hadn't fallen into since he watched Laswell grow smaller and smaller on the horizon. 

He nearly smoked three cigars back to back before Gaz snatched his lighter. 

("Don't think this is helping you much, cap.")

It does. Did. 

But—

Your arms snake through the brackets of his elbows, curling around his waist. He's too tall for you to notch your chin on his shoulder, and so you settle for leaning over, and peaking out around the bulk of his broad back. 

"Lovely morning for it," you murmur. 

He catches your eye, teeth sinking into the stem of the cigar to hold it steady as his hands drop to your forearms. He catches the derision in your gaze. The pointed look you send him, sarcasm dropping from your eyes when they swing, pointedly, between the clock on the wall—barely noon hour—to the cigar in his mouth, and the glass of scotch on the patio table. Wordless disapproval of his mid-morning choices. His vices. 

It makes his lip twitch up, pulling back from his teeth. It's hard to talk around the delicately balanced cigar clenched between his incisors, but years of practice lead him well. 

"Ain't it jus'?"

He likes it when you're close to him. 

Needy, you'd said. Clingy. 

He feels it, too. There's a desperation inside of him, a clawing sense of affection woven with the threads of anxiousness, and it makes him unsettled when you're too far away from his greedy hands. 

His fingers latch around your arms. 

"You should stop smoking so much," you say in that tone he knows well—the one that, despite the subdued words murmured in a soft breath, actually means: stupid old man, you better listen or so help me God—

The same tone his mother had perfected when he was younger. Equal parts hedging, cautious, but firm enough to feel the blooming heat behind them. A caustic warning. One that, translated, means: there won't be another one. 

No more chances when you speak to him like that. None. 

And he gets it. 

He's on the wrong side of forty, and you're tired of the ashes on the sheets, the cigar burns punched through the mattress you just bought (at a steal, you'd said, gleeful and bright, and—fuck). 

So, he says, "sure, love."

(And really, giving up that extra cigar a day seems easy when you smile at him like that.)

You say nothing when he holds you a little bit tighter to his body, keeping you close; but he catches the soft sigh when he relaxes in your arms, and the tension bleeds from his shoulders.

You make a soft noise when he stubs the cigar in the ashtray, and then turns to you, eyes heavy.

Thunder cracks in the distance. The heavens split in two sending a deluge down that rips across the grey docks. Liverpool smells of ozone and wet pennies in the downpour.

Price pulls you in to his chest, hands heavy on your skin. Firm, rough. He's never been a gentle man, but you make him want to try. To be tender. Soft. Whatever you need, and more. Anything, he thinks. Anything.

You echo the call, and place your warm palm on his cheek, lids cresting in that sleepy desire that never fails to make his heart race.

He likes the way you make yourself fit against him - an imperfect puzzle piece - and draws you close when you lean up on the balls of your feet, eager to meet him in the middle. It's a searing kiss, the kind that instantly warms him against the sweeping winds howling through the wet streets below.

Nirvana in whispers. A soft tongue tracing the seam of his lips. He imagines this is the closest to peace a man like him will ever get, and it makes him hold on to you just a shade tigher. A bit more desperate. Unwilling - unable - to let go.

Thunder booms in the aether above, and echoes through his hollow bones. He feels the pulse of it thudding in his throat when it strikes again, and scents the livewire tang of a lightning strike when it cracks across the grey sky in a blinking, evanescent flash that makes you jump a little when it hits.

Price huffs into the kiss when you tremble in his arms, and holds you closer in the bracket of his chest.

"Jus' a storm, love," he whispers, the words a rough rasp pulled from his throat. "It'll pass."

"I know," you murmur, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt when another strikes scorches the pavement.

"Maybe I should distract you, mm?" He peppers kisses across your face, brows drawing together. "Could go for a nap after."

It makes you hum, a soft, honeyed coo. ", Take me to bed, John."

"Gladly, love."

He's never felt more at peace than in the middle of a terrible storm.

(But that should be a given considering they always seem to remind him of you.)