#i want to get my brain back from this constant onslaught of new content please

[binomech]

In Viktor and Jayce's first encounter and the subsequent Hextech discovery was motivated by a desire to use science as a tool to put the power back in the people's hands (understanding the people as the proletariat, mostly in Zaun), and there is clearly a class component that stands out in a narrative that, for all of that first season, leaned really hard into both-sides-ism. Part of the appeal of the conflict for me was that it was specifically them that were working on it. We are shown science and a common goal as an equalizer and an excellent tool for "progress" (a vague keyword that we frequently use in the real world as well in relation to science at the service of capital, but that's a post for another day). But it soon becomes apparent that science is ideologically neutral and that their personal backgrounds are at odds, with Jayce being from a piltovan petit bourgeois background (while still existing in a plutocratic industrial metropolis) and Viktor being a disabled zaunite whose presumed working class background is nevertheless light years away from those of other zaunites who are in the same circumstances as him but still living in the Undercity. And of course, the industrial use of the arcane soon becomes tied to the economic interests of said industry, namely weapon manufacturing and international trade (led by the plutocrats governing the city.)

The Arcane as a corrupting power (someone playing god and being punished for taking what isn't rightfully theirs) is a theme that is being hinted at throughout this season. While I do think it makes for a very good background for a tragedy, we love the Greeks, etc., I'm not sure it's a narrative I find all that compelling in the context of a story where the main point of conflict is class war. If taking what is not rightfully yours results in punishment, the underlying thesis is that the Undercity was punished for trying to take something that wasn't rightfully theirs ("welfare state" would be the more clout-friendly term I could use, but I won't: They were trying to seize the means of production that were hinging on the use of exploited labour of Zaunites and all the social and physical consequences that are born from this oppression).

I am hoping that the depiction of imperialist endeavors as something negative (at times cheesy in its obvious visual signifiers) through Caitlyn and Ambessa, as an aristocrat on the police force veering right in a moment of political turbulence and a general in an expansionist empire's army with a material interest in Hextech weaponry, is treated not as a "they also flew too close to the sun" but as people whose economical interests need that there is an oppressed class (be it Zaunites, Ionians, or whomever) whose labor sustains them. But my hopes about this also tie into Jayce and Viktor and their shared plotline.

I think it's a delightful, painful irony that the Zaunite guy who has been working in Piltover for over a decade comes back to Zaun all full of magical wisdom and cures the disabled addicts who inevitably turn to worship him for ending their plight. There is a side of horror to this when you consider Viktor's personal relationship with disability and professional goals in the Hextech investigation, and I'm very worried about the implications of both "the disabled guy gets punished for curing his disability with magic" and "using magic to improve human lives is playing god and one must die to restore the balance of the universe" which right now, one day before act 2 of season 2 airs, seem increasingly possible takes. I hope I'm wrong. Jayce, on the other hand, is facing the consequences of having understood their investigation and invention of Hextech devices as an isolated endeavor when he realizes all the industrial detritus has been an active component of mass death in Zaun. And the soundtrack and his horror at the anomaly put the audience in a spot of thinking that once more the horror lies in trying to control the Arcane, in human hubris and ambition, and not in the class horror of killing poor people by the hundreds in the name of an abstract value of progress that clearly only benefits the proverbial patron.

The Act 2 posters for Viktor and Jayce have been released, I've written extensively about how I think making Viktor's narrative about bodily autonomy and agency is a possibility and also what I think the character deserves, but I am wondering about the design choices for Jayce hinting at the fact that he embodies some of Viktor's pre-cocoon traits. I understand the appeal of Jayce also getting "infected" by the hexcore, sustaining matching injuries to Viktor as he heals him (the leg brace, the bracelet's gem embedded in his forearm, the glove, the glow of hextech in his chest and pauldron). But I dislike the thought that this whole exchange once again exists in the premise that the Arcane is punishing human hubris and demands.

The Arcane is nothing, it has no essential properties, it's not sentient. The Hexcore heals because Viktor spent months teaching it how to heal. The Hexgates transport ships because that's the input they have been given. I would maybe like to consider the environmental aspects of Hex crystal harvesting as more of a "hubristic endeavour" rather than an "angering the gods" story (I miss you, old Skarner). I want to focus on the social structures the discovery has supported, on how Viktor's and Jayce's current predicament is a product of socioeconomic neglect because they believed in the certainty of science as the objective truth, as politically neutral, as inherently good, and now they are trapped, injured, losing themselves and their very mortal and human bodies because they were cogs in a bigger machine convinced of their importance.

This story is at the same spot it began: With Zaun crushed under Piltover's boot for demanding dignity and freedom. Will this anomaly trip change the stakes at all? Can we understand the literal, physical transfer of Hextech-induced sickness onto Jayce through Viktor as a narrative of accepting the demands of the oppressed as one's own to finally work for liberation? To become a class traitor as an act of love?

[bigbadredpanda]

Chapter 111: Wangxian - Everyday means everyday (extended)

I noticed when I received my MDZS box set in Traditional Chinese that the ‘Everyday’ sex scene was a bit longer than what I had previously read so... here we are ^^

Overall it’s written in more explicit language and rearranged differently compared to the other existing version. The first half of the fragment below is almost entirely new and features Wei Wuxian riling up Lan Wangji while the rest is interspersed with more details.

If you notice inaccuracies or mistakes, please feel free to point them out!

Warning: Explicit sexual content

I strongly advise reading the beginning of the chapter first to refresh your mind and continue here when you reach the first line below. Else it will probably be a bit disjointed.

----------------------------

[...] "... Does it feel good? Inside me?"

Lan Wangji was a man of action rather than someone inclined to flirtation. His words were scarce but his strength was tremendous. Biting his lower lip, his onslaught turned fiercer to answer this question. Soaked with sweat from the forceful thrusts, Wei Wuxian mumbled, "Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan… I like you to death. I'm yours, yours alone… Gently!"

He had been rejoicing too soon and implored again, "Gently, that part is sensitive, don't thrust so vigorously, your strength is too much, your thrusts are too powerful, it hurts a bit… yes… like this…"

Gripping Lan Wangji's shoulders, Wei Wuxian deliberately wrapped his legs around his waist. Lying on the ground, his body was getting worked up in the wake of Lan Wangji’s undulating movements. The continuous grinding against his insides and the brushing of the grass on his skin elicited a low moan from him. After taking a moment to catch his breath, he resumed running off at the mouth, "Lan Zhan, you're really great. How can such a gorgeous beauty play the guqin so well, have such proper penmanship, possess such strong spiritual energy, be endowed with such high cultivation base and even be so amazing in bed? How can you be so outstanding? Tell me how I could not love you…"

Lan Wangji, "..."

Wei Wuxian seemed to be blessed with the innate ability to not feel the least bit ashamed at a moment like this. The more unequivocally he spoke, the more excited he became. "I only want to be fucked by you alone, you can thrust as deep as you want…"

As he spoke frankly, he spread his legs even wider apart and continued, "A bit deeper. All of me is yours through and through, the deeper you go the more I enjoy it. You can also come inside me… Oh!"

Just as he was getting carried away, he suddenly felt the person above him prodding him in a distressingly deep place that had never been reached before. Wei Wuxian's eyes instantly widened. He had never expected that Lan Wangji could in fact go even deeper. He let out a wail and faltered, "Ooh... Hmmn, help, not, not like this, it's too much."

He wanted to curl up to avoid being pounded again but there was no way Lan Wangji would allow him to escape. Pulling out and implacably pushing in, Lan Wangji kept doing him like this and angrily retorted, "You… reap what you sow!"

Wei Wuxian opened his legs in earnest to withstand the rough fucking while whimpering, "Ge, er-gege, I'm going to die, you'll screw me to death. I was wrong, my mistake, don't punish me like this. I'm a virgin, treat me better…"

Drops of sweat dripped down from the ends of Lan Wangji's hair. This person habitually impassive to the point of coldness betrayed at that moment a discomfit expression as if he was on the brink of falling apart, "Are you really begging or are you… purposely… Your hips! Stop writhing!"

Wei Wuxian raised his head and yelled at the top of his voice, "Someone! Help! Hanguang-Jun is… ah! Hanguang-Jun… I can't anymore…"

As Lan Wangji kissed away the tears he had wrung from Wei Wuxian, he uttered through gritted teeth, "... Wei Ying, I am… speaking seriously, do not do that again. I… I will truly... lose control. I fear I… Sorry."

Even at such a time, with a flush spread across his face, he did not forget to apologise, his brows were slightly knitted and his countenance remorseful. Hearing this, Wei Wuxian's heart softened and ached from the havoc he had wreaked, he said gently, "Why are you saying sorry? Even if it hurts, I'm still glad because it's you doing it… aah..."

The two of them were drenched all over in glistening sweat. Wei Wuxian had always forgotten the taste of pain as soon as his injuries had healed. Despite having just suffered the consequences of his actions, he soon opened his mouth again to pant some more nonsense, "Hey, Lan Zhan… I just remembered, you are done for. We're still missing the last of the three bows, we're not married yet. Do you know what is called doing this kind of thing outside marriage? If your uncle knew… ah… he'd drown you in a pond."

Lan Wangji's tone was almost ferocious, "... I was done for long ago!"

His words were accompanied with an abrupt thrust. Wei Wuxian flung his head back in both discomfort and pleasure, exposing his vulnerable throat. Lan Wangji latched onto it to bite him.

The overwhelming pleasure triggered Wei Wuxian’s climax. His mind blanked out for a moment before a fit of lightheadedness set in. The first thought that crossed his mind was, "... I can't believe it, damn it, why didn't my 15-year old self do this kind of stuff with Lan Zhan? My time really went to waste…"

At the same moment, Lan Wangji held him even tighter and released deep inside him.

Lifting his slightly limp and sore arms, Wei Wuxian held him close in return. The two of them remained locked in this peaceful embrace for a while. Wei Wuxian regained some strength and feeling perfectly contented, he wiped away with his hand the smudges of come he had left on Lan Wangji’s body. As he did, he asked, "Second young master Lan, when did you start liking me?"

He was rubbing an inappropriate place at an inopportune time and Lan Wangji's expression turned strange.

Wei Wuxian continued, "If you liked me before, why didn't you do me a long time ago? The back mountain of your home in the Cloud Recesses is a nice location. If you took advantage of the times I sneaked away alone to hunt wild game to tie me up and drag me away, you could have pinned me to the grass just like now and do whatever you desired to me… aah... Gently..."

Lan Wangji had not yet pulled out completely before he started pumping again.

Wei Wuxian became aware that a warm liquid was trickling down from the part of his lower body where they were connected together but he kept rambling a steady torrent of obscenities in Lan Wangji's ear, "Your strength is so great that I would have had no way to resist. If I shouted, you could have silenced me and no one would have heard my muffled cries. Your Sect's Library Pavilion isn’t bad either, we could have spread some books on the floor and rolled around on them. We could have laid out some erotic pictures and compared positions, any position would have been fine. I would bully you during the day and you would bully me at night. You'd fuck my brains out as soon as the door closed... Ge! Ge! Er-gege! Spare me! Mercy, please spare me. Fine, fine, I'll stop talking, you're amazing, you're the best. I can't bear it anymore, I really can't, don't be like this..."

Lan Wangji was incapable of withstanding his teasing at a time like this. This last dozen thrusts seemed to scramble Wei Wuxian's insides, making him beg for mercy in a pitying tone but Lan Wangji exerted more strength instead. Wei Wuxian had been pinned down for almost an hour without changing position. His waist and ass felt numb from the constant pounding. The numbness was then replaced by a tingling pain as if countless insects were gnawing his bones. The pleasure that had coursed through him subsided and gave way to the spreading sensation of being stretched painfully open. Facing at last retribution, Wei Wuxian kissed him cajolingly while pleading without a shred of dignity, "Er-gege, please have a heart and let me off, we have ample time together, let's fuck another time, you can lift me up and fuck me next time, all right? Please won't you spare this inexperienced one today? Mighty Hanguang-Jun, Yiling Laozu has suffered a crushing defeat. Come on, hurry up and come inside me again, let's fight another day."

The veins lining Lan Wangji’s forehead slightly stood out. He forced his words out, articulating clearly each of them, "... If you truly wish to stop… then hold your tongue and stop talking…"

Wei Wuxian said, "But I have a tongue so I can't help using it. Lan Zhan, what I've said before about me wanting to go to bed with you everyday, can you pretend you never heard it?"

Lan Wangji replied, "I cannot."

Wei Wuxian's heart shattered at this, "How can you be like this? You've never refused me anything before."

Lan Wangji smiled faintly, "I cannot."

At the sight of this smile, Wei Wuxian's eyes lit up, he felt for an instant as if he had ascended and he lost track of his surroundings.

However, the next moment, a stream of tears was forced out of the corners of Wei Wuxian’s eyes by the fierce movements that were at odds with this smile like the pure light reflected by the snow.

Hands clutching the grass, he shouted himself hoarse, "Then four days, let's make it once every four days, all right? If four days won't do then three is also fine!"

Finally, Lan Wangji concluded in a powerfully resolute voice, "Everyday means everyday."

[another-stark-sub]

His Lap Part 2 - Tony Stark Imagine

Summary: Part 2 to His Lap

Warnings: explicit content, full-on smut, kinda voyeurism, denial, thigh riding, bit of degradation, bit of overstimulation, some aftercare and fluff at the end

Word Count: 1864

Notes: kinda hate the ending but also couldn’t help myself so hope its not horrble

Steve and Tony were still talking, and there was a dark spot on Tony’s jeans. You knew because there were only so many places to look to try and distract yourself. Closing your eyes just intensified the sensations of your pussy rubbing against the denim. Looking at Tony’s face didn’t help, because you wanted to kiss him senseless, but he was talking to the damn captain. 

You don’t how long it’s been, but you were getting tired. Your hips and legs were starting to ache, and as much as you wanted to please your boyfriend by riding his thigh while he was on the phone, you weren’t sure how much longer you could do it.

As Steve talked about numbers and publicity and other boring things, your hips started to slow. You began to drag out each roll of your hips, pressing the entire length of your sex against his thigh before coming back up and doing it all over again. Becoming more and more lethargic, when your pussy was pressed up against him again, you stayed there and let out a satisfied “Mm.” Sure, you weren’t coming, but this was the closest you could get, and you were getting sleepy.

“Hey!”

Startled, you sat up again. Tony’s eyes were on you, and he didn’t look happy. 

You didn’t dare say a thing though. Steve was still on the phone. “What?” he asked.

Tony’s gaze didn’t leave yours. “Sorry, Cap.” He cleared his throat and, gently, placed his hands on your hips. “My new kitten needs attention.”

Your breath hitched. You put your hands on top of his, but Tony just slapped your hands away. 

“You guys got a cat?” Steve asked.

Tony smirked before undoing his belt. “Yeah, fostering.” He smiled at you. “I just need to give it a toy.” He shimmied out of his pants, just enough to pull out his cock. “Gimme a second, Cap. Gotta make sure little kitty’s satisfied.” With his hands back on your hips, he pulled you closer. “Come here, sweetheart.” He kissed you quickly. 

Tony did everything for you. He lowered you onto him, and you couldn’t help the sigh turned moan that escaped your lips when his cock finally slipped into you. “Tony,” you whispered. 

“Sh, darling,” he said. “I’m still on the phone.”

“Aw, I’m glad you two are fostering a cat,” Steve said. 

“Yeah.” Tony lifted up his hips, and your cunt was stretched over his thick cock. 

“Ah, fuck,” you tried to keep it in, but you knew you couldn’t. You fell onto Tony and hoped that by burying your face in his neck would help mask your moans. 

“Me, too, Cap,” Tony added. And just like that, Tony thrust up into you over and over again like his life depended on it.

You clenched around him, and the pleasure you had been craving was finally yours. Your moans got louder and louder, and it was too hard to hide it. When Tony started to groan, you could feel your resolve breaking. You wanted to scream. There was no other way to express the barrage of feelings that hit you over and over again.

In the background, you could hear the captain saying something before hanging up. 

“Fucking finally,” Tony said. He pressed his lips against yours. “I was waiting for you to make some sort of fucking noise.” 

“You were?” you squeaked. It was hard to say anything coherent while he was bouncing your up and down his cock.

He laughed. “You really wanted to be a good girl for me, didn’t you? Staying quiet and- Fuck! You’re so tight for me, aren’t you?”

“Mhm,” you said. “Always- Ah! For you, always for you.”

“Such a good little kitten.” He exhaled sharply before holding you close. Without pulling out of you, he flipped you over so that he could fuck you right into the couch. “What. A. Slut.” He scoffed. “Rutting all over my thigh like that while I was talking to Cap and loving every single moment.”

Tony stretched your legs so they were over his shoulders. You cried out, the sweet pain of being stretched over him combined with the constant in and out, in and out, hitting that spot inside you every single thrust. “Tony,” you moaned. “Fuck, Tony, please!”

“You didn’t even care that Cap was on the phone, didn’t you?”

“No!”

“Exactly, cause you’re my slut, aren’t you?”

“Yes!” you screamed. Your breaths came out in pants, and you couldn’t think about anything besides being fucked. “Tony,” you panted, “Tony, I’m gonna-”

“Finally gonna cum?”

You nodded.

He smiled. “You needed me to cum, how sweet.” He thrust up into you and stopped.

“Tony,” you gasped. 

“Nuh-uh, sweetheart.” He leaned down and said, “I want you to hear how wet you are first.” He circled his hips into you, rubbing and pressing against your clit as he did. “Because most of that was just from riding my thigh.” He smiled oh so devilishly. “And remember that you couldn’t cum without my cock.”

Slowly, he pulled out, inch by inch, and you could hear the squelching of your wetness. You moaned, your poor abused cunt not sure if it wanted to be full or not. But you did know one thing, you wanted to cum. 

“Fuck, you’re dripping, darling.” Tony left the tip inside of you and asked, “You wanna cum?”

You nodded. 

“What do you need to cum?”

You inhaled deeply, preparing yourself for the onslaught that you knew you were going to get. “I need your cock.”

He raised his eyebrow. 

“Please, Tony,” you whined. “Please, I need your cock to cum.”

“That’s better. Ok, sweetheart. I’ll make you cum.”

He thrust back into you, and your jaw dropped. You didn’t have time to process anything, the fullness, the feel of his jeans against your ass, his hands on your legs, none of that. It was just his cock pounding into you again and again until you were screaming. 

The knot in your belly snapped, overwhelming you with the pleasure you had wanted for so long. Your pussy clenched around him, and for a moment you had relief. Just for a moment. Because while you had already reached your high, Tony had yet to reach his. 

So, he kept thrusting into you, grunting and moaning, as your satisfaction turned back into a torturous pleasure. “Tony,” you gasped. 

“Almost there, sweetheart. Wanna clench around my cock again?”

You didn’t have any energy left to nod or say yes. You just clenched around him, and his reaction was immediate. Your name fell from his lips in a sensual groan, and he finally stilled inside of you. 

You may not have reached your high, but, god, to see your boyfriend gasping and speechless because of you, it gave you a sense of calm bliss that nothing else could. 

As Tony relaxed, you stretched your legs and removed them from Tony’s shoulders. Your boyfriend nearly fell on top of you, but he caught himself. It was a sight to see. Tony Stark was practically glowing, and he was so handsome. You smiled and kissed him softly. “Hey,” you managed to say.

He gazed at you in awe before gulping. “I fuck your brains out and that’s all you could say?”

You laughed. “Well, that and you did it while on the phone with Captain America.” Captain America, golden boy, had heard you have sex with your boyfriend over the phone. Already feeling the heat pool in your cheeks, you covered your face. “Oh god.”

Tony laughed. “You know he’s heard worse.”

“Still doesn’t make it less awkward whenever I see him.”

“Don’t worry.” He kissed you. “We’ll just wait until he hears Thor going at it with Jane, and he’ll forget all about this.”

“Thor’s coming back to Earth?”

“Mhm. Next week, I think.” Tony pushed himself off the couch, his cock slipping out of you, causing the two of you to sigh. After wiping the sweat from his forehead, your boyfriend looked at himself. He was still fully clothed. He shrugged and took off his boxers and pants before holding out both of his hands. “Come on. Gotta clean ourselves up after that round.”

You took both of his hands and pulled yourself up. Your legs were unsteady, as they always were after any round with Tony. Said perpetrator just chuckled. 

“What are you laughing at?” you playfully snapped. “You’re the one with only a T-shirt on.”

“Nothing!” He held your hands and started to walk you to the bathroom. “Just my beautiful girlfriend who I love and cherish.” He smiled and kissed your hand. “The very same one that I’m gonna help to the bathroom.”

“Aw.” You kissed his cheek. “I’ll help you, too.”

“Can you keep your hands to yourself in the shower?”

“No promises.” 

~ - ~

“You guys got a cat?” Steve asked. He was pretty sure Tony wasn’t that fond of cats. Although, he couldn’t put it past you to adopt a stray.

“Yeah,” Tony replied. “Fostering.”

There was something in Tony’s voice that was off. Still, Steve assumed it was because Tony was adjusting to the cat. 

“I just need to give it a toy,” Tony said. “Gimme a second, Cap. Gotta make sure little kitty’s satisfied.” 

Steve shrugged and put the phone on speaker. “Of course, no problem.” He put the phone down on the coffee table before looking at his notebook. He had some notes written down from the news segment. 

“Come here, sweetheart.” 

The captain raised his eyebrow. Usually, if Tony was talking to an animal, his voice didn’t sound so, well, deep. 

“You might wanna hang up the phone,” Bucky suggested.

Steve was about to ask why when he heard another voice from the phone. A gasp of “Tony,” barely audible.   

“Sh, darling,” Tony said. “I’m still on the phone.”

Steve smiled. “Aw, I’m glad you two are fostering a cat.” 

“Steve, hang up the phone,” Bucky said.

“Why?” 

Tony’s voice came again. “Yeah.” 

Then, your voice came through, loud and clear. “Ah, fuck.”

Steve’s eyes widened. Tony wouldn’t. Actually, wait, he would. But you? Actually, nevermind that either. The two of you would definitely do that.

Both men could practically hear Tony smirk. “Me, too, Cap.”

Steve didn’t know what sound he made, but it was one of pure disgust. “Fucking hell, we were supposed to be talking about publicity and how-”

Their moans interrupted him. 

“I’m hanging up.” Finally, Steve hung up the phone and covered his face with his hands. “Why do they do that?”

“Because she can’t keep her hands off him and vice versa,” Bucky explained simply. “I’m surprised it took you that long.”

“You could’ve told me.”

Bucky shrugged. “Much more fun that way. Plus, now you’re prepared. Thor’s coming back in a few days, and he’s pretty insatiable.”

“But, he’s just coming back for the briefing, isn’t he?”

“Which lasts a day.” Bucky put away his book and leaned so his arms were resting on his thighs. “And Thor’s staying with Jane for a whole week.”

Steve’s eyes widened as the horrifying reality of what noises would fill the day settled in. “Oh fu-”

[introvert-celeste]

Oh, I finished my thing for creative writing! It’s called “Anxiety,” and I’m putting it under the cut. I think it might be a little too personal to be relatable, but I don’t care.

I am sinking.

    The floor becomes liquid, the carpet churning and oozing like molten rock, ready to consume me, but it isn’t the heat that gets me. No, the heat would be merciful, it would kill me quickly; it is this cold, unforgiving stone below, turned to a thick and crushing liquified substance that pulls me ever closer to the Earth’s core, only to harden above my head so that other, more fortunate people can cross its surface. These people, I can’t begin to understand them, those who fear not the ground beneath their feet. They look at me curiously, judgmentally, as I struggle against my fate, and the more I fight, the more I long to go under already to avoid their gazes. Now I claw the solid floor beside me in vain, my resolve waning, with the liquid stone creeping up to my waist.

    “Are you okay?” Someone asks, one of the kind, helpful sort of floor-walkers I dread. Granted, I dread all of them at some point or another, but these are keener to notice me. They will see me again in a week’s time and ask the same question, and I will say as I do now.

    “I’m fine,” I reply before the stone reaches my ribs. Please leave me alone. I smile. They smile back. I am alone again.

    The rock crushes my chest and I can no longer speak, not that I was planning to. My heart beats fast, so fast that I fear it has stopped beating altogether. My head feels light, the rock pulling me in faster and faster as the bulk of my weight sits beneath the surface, dragging me downward. I no longer care. The rock slips past my shoulders, up my neck, past my chin, sucking me into the pressing darkness. Finally, in solitude, I find relief, wrapped in Earth’s comforting embrace.

      It is a hostile environment.

    Pulling my invisibility cloak tighter, I creep through the writhing mass of creatures. I can take this no more, their constant chatter roaring in my ears, mixing together, overwhelming sounds of battle. I must escape, like the coward I am. Luckily, I am proficient in the art of going unnoticed, as I slip in amongst the almost impenetrable wall of people. My only weapons are my cloak of invisibility and my shield of disassociation, leaving myself present but separate.

    I am little more than a ghost, tip-toeing over feet and dancing around wild knees and pointing elbows, aimed like weapons prepared to strike. Their eyes are locked on one another, but occasionally they roam, glaring searchlights, seeking out a new victim. A handful settle on me momentarily, and an instinctual urge to flee grips my body, but I stand firm and avoid their gaze, letting my shoulders slouch in an unbothered, inconspicuous fashion. They soon look away, and I escape further, undetected.

    My physical body drifts among the crush of people, while my shield holds aloft my mental essence. It floats somewhere above my head and a few steps forward, blissfully absent from the violence of the night. My heart is racing, but my mind is focused, not so much calm as it is determined and eager for relief.

    I see lights, real fluorescent lights of an open door and a vacant hallway, escape, escape! I quicken my pace, become reckless in my haste, I trip, a spear is thrust into my ribs in rapid expression. Blood flows not from me, but from the unhappy enemy soldier, who curses as it splashes across the floor, their shoes, and most unfortunately, my cloak. I am exposed. I drop my shield, and my consciousness drops back into my body like a heavy stone. I lay, face-down, on the floor, trembling with mortification.

    “Woah, hey, are you okay?” They ask, already offering a napkin to mop up the mess. The floor smells like carpet cleaner and fruit punch. They grab my arm and attempt to haul me upright, a prisoner of war, forced to stay at this god forsaken party a little longer.

    “I’m fine, I’m fine!” I chuckle, smiling widely, swiping the napkin up and making an effort to clean the sweet-smelling carnage from the floor. Five pairs of eyes stare at me in the immediate crowd. I stay only for as long as their gazes bore twin holes into my body. When, they lose interest, I race for the door.

I am free, but the damage has already been done.

      I suspect that I am not alone.

    Solitude, finally, I extricate myself from the confining garb the people of the party are forced to wear for the pleasure of people I care not to please. With each discarded piece of clothing, I feel lighter, lighter than air, content in the fact that I can float about my own home without fear. My soul settles comfortably in my body once more, and for the first time this evening, I take several self-indulgent, deep breaths.

    I take a shower that is a little hotter than it should be to dispel the lingering chill that persists beneath my skin, warming the tension out of my neck and shoulders. It burns the soles of my feet and makes my skin tingle, but I hardly care. There is nothing better than being alone, except I am not.

    The moment I set foot into the steamy bathroom, and very specific feeling of dread overcomes me. There’s no reason for this disturbance, my semi-rational mind reasons, because the dreadful experience is over. Mentally berating myself for my foolishness, I ignore the feeling and go to bed.

    I lay in the dark for hours, my irrational mind analyzing the evening with a fine-toothed comb, small details that were not even on my radar at the time. All the while, I feel a knot forming in my chest, separate from the bruise beginning to bloom over my rib. A knot, a fist, tightens around my heart, it grips the muscles of my diaphragm and pulls them taut. I begin to hyperventilate, like I have wanted to do all evening, tears flowing liberally. I bury my face in my pillow, anxious not to concern anyone in the house with my sobs.

    Let’s hope you never see those people again, a harsh voice whispers just inside my ear canal. One can only hope they forget all about you.

    You should have been more careful.

    You should have worn more sensible shoes.

    You should have brought a friend.

    You shouldn’t have gone. These things aren’t for people like you.

    But it sounded fun a week ago, I silently plead with the specter, forcing myself to loosen my jaw as my teeth grind together. And I knew almost everyone there!

    Then why did you run?

    I could not see the apparition, but I could feel its presence, just beside my bed. It’s always just beside my left shoulder, informing me of my short-comings and the thoughts of those around me. It looms, reaching through my back, gripping the very center of my being and holding it prisoner, crippling me. I have no strength to fight the onslaught of the demon that possesses me, compels me, intrudes my thoughts with ideas I know are not true, but believe anyway in my weakness. The demon leans closer, crushingly close.

    My rational brain, quiet as it is, speaks clearly this time: It is done. This evening is in the past and there is no use in worryingly about it anymore.

    The demon hisses, yanking its hand away.

    I’m fine. I’m fine. I think to myself, deep breath, deep breath. I don’t want to believe it, but I force the words of my rational mind into focus. The demon, discouraged, leaves me alone for the night, and I can rest easy this time. It is not exorcised, indeed, it is something that I will live with forever, but for now I have won.

[yes-dal456]

The 'Accidental President' And The Heroin Epidemic

Mr. President, what in God’s name are you doing? Your Attorney General, Jeff Sessions, has turned the clock back in our country almost 35 years. Our nation’s heroin epidemic is a health crisis and will never be solved with a lock-’em-up-and-throw-away-the-key solution.

Despite all intelligent research leading to a mandate conclusion that incarceration will not ever diminish drug addiction and the radical negative effects it has on our economy, “My Favorite Martian,” Jeff Sessions, has just ordered federal prosecutors to chase far harsher sentences against drug-addict-criminals.

Mr. Trump, who is going to pay for all these non-violent new criminals? You couldn’t even get Mexico to pay for your wall. Furthermore, I certainly hope you understand that the Appalachian states hit hardest by the opioid epidemic will implode the population of our prisons with an extremely large poor black population. And Mr. President, that is just wrong! In fact, it’s un-American.

Mr. President, you have a daunting task in front of you. But you can’t “Make America Great Again” by sitting back and watching 4,367 American children die every month from an accidental overdose of heroin. That’s right, 144 people a day die from an accidental overdose of opioids.

Mr. Trump, I was born with a brain injury. Doctors at Children’s Hospital in Boston told my parents I’d never be able to walk normally.

Young children are mean. My early childhood was filled with insults and laughs. When I walked into a classroom, a restaurant, or down a street, people didn’t look into my eyes. They always looked down as I limped awkwardly along.

But I overcame and became a varsity athlete at a prep school outside of Boston. As a teenager, I grew strong, and anybody that made fun of my limp or my awkward gate became irrelevant. Frankly, Mr. Trump, as far as I am concerned, the day you mocked a disabled reporter ended your presidential candidacy.

That said, after you won, I was all for giving you a chance to “Make America Great Again.” I was not like my liberal friends who were hell-bent to destroy you before you even took office. Deep down inside my soul, I hoped and prayed you would actually succeed at uniting our great country. Because to be honest here, in the end, President Obama disappointed a lot of us who had voted for him.

Mr. President, I implore you to focus your efforts on the heroin epidemic that is running rampant and crushing the American dream in every state in the Union.

I understand that the stigma and moral issues of heroin addiction run deep. Today’s heroin epidemic parallels the AIDS epidemic of the ‘70s. The old school philosophy back then was, “Men having sex with men. It’s not natural. That’s God’s punishment.��

Although the diction has changed, the sentiment remains constant today. “I didn’t force them to stick a needle of heroin into their arm. Why should I be forced to pay for their rehabilitation?”

But you see, we are not just junkies, Mr. President. I am three decades clean, have received the du-Pont-Columbia as a journalist, written two books, became a WGA screenwriter and worked on “The Fighter,” a feature film that won two Academy Awards.

I have spoken to organizations and recovery centers all across America. And what amazed me the most were the rooms were filled with middle-class kids whose fathers were chiefs of police, firefighters, teachers, lawyers, and doctors.

Heroin addiction is insidious: in several states across this country, young women are selling themselves as sex slaves to maintain their daily heroin habit.

Just recently, NPR did a radio program about heroin addicts who are purposely committing crimes, so they’ll be arrested and locked up to get the treatment they need.

Treatment is just not available on the streets because there aren’t any beds available in recovery centers. The medical community could never have prepared for the onslaught of heroin in their neighborhoods.

But make no mistake about it, Mr. President, this epidemic was given birth by corporate greed. In fact, the Sacklers, the Godfathers of OxyContin, rang in at number 19 on last year’s Forbes annual list of America’s richest families. Just think of the evil, they acquired a fortune with the blood of young Americans.

But as president of the United States of America, you still have an opportunity to change all this. There is a solution. Create a “sin tax” similar to the cigarette and alcohol tax levied by several states. If big Pharma wants to do business on the backs of the American consumers suffering from chronic pain, make them pay a “recovery tax.”

Create a work program for heroin addicts that want help. A simple, we’ll pay for your thirty-day recovery hospital and continued care, and you’ll work cleaning up roads or run down areas of your community to pay for it.

Designate a line on the IRS tax forms for people to donate a dollar or more to help put an end to the suffering brought on by the countless deaths of promising young men and woman.

I have an 11-year-old son who is on the brink of growing up in a society that will be the most dangerous environment in America’s history. You see, Mr. Trump, not since your predecessor, Lyndon Johnson, has the youth of America been more in jeopardy. Yes, not since the Vietnam War has a generation been at greater risk to die between the ages of 18 to 25. Please help them!

Mr. President, I’ll say it one more time, you still have the opportunity to put the right people in charge. You alone can save your legacy. But if you continue on this path of destruction, you will most certainly go down in history as the “Accidental President.”

I Am a Heroin Addict

Follow Ritchie Farrell on Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/ritchiefarrell1

Need help with substance abuse or mental health issues? In the U.S., call 800-662-HELP (4357) for the SAMHSA National Helpline.

-- This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website.

from http://ift.tt/2rcgScJ from Blogger http://ift.tt/2qov01q

[imreviewblog]

The 'Accidental President' And The Heroin Epidemic

Mr. President, what in God’s name are you doing? Your Attorney General, Jeff Sessions, has turned the clock back in our country almost 35 years. Our nation’s heroin epidemic is a health crisis and will never be solved with a lock-’em-up-and-throw-away-the-key solution.

Despite all intelligent research leading to a mandate conclusion that incarceration will not ever diminish drug addiction and the radical negative effects it has on our economy, “My Favorite Martian,” Jeff Sessions, has just ordered federal prosecutors to chase far harsher sentences against drug-addict-criminals.

Mr. Trump, who is going to pay for all these non-violent new criminals? You couldn’t even get Mexico to pay for your wall. Furthermore, I certainly hope you understand that the Appalachian states hit hardest by the opioid epidemic will implode the population of our prisons with an extremely large poor black population. And Mr. President, that is just wrong! In fact, it’s un-American.

Mr. President, you have a daunting task in front of you. But you can’t “Make America Great Again” by sitting back and watching 4,367 American children die every month from an accidental overdose of heroin. That’s right, 144 people a day die from an accidental overdose of opioids.

Mr. Trump, I was born with a brain injury. Doctors at Children’s Hospital in Boston told my parents I’d never be able to walk normally.

Young children are mean. My early childhood was filled with insults and laughs. When I walked into a classroom, a restaurant, or down a street, people didn’t look into my eyes. They always looked down as I limped awkwardly along.

But I overcame and became a varsity athlete at a prep school outside of Boston. As a teenager, I grew strong, and anybody that made fun of my limp or my awkward gate became irrelevant. Frankly, Mr. Trump, as far as I am concerned, the day you mocked a disabled reporter ended your presidential candidacy.

That said, after you won, I was all for giving you a chance to “Make America Great Again.” I was not like my liberal friends who were hell-bent to destroy you before you even took office. Deep down inside my soul, I hoped and prayed you would actually succeed at uniting our great country. Because to be honest here, in the end, President Obama disappointed a lot of us who had voted for him.

Mr. President, I implore you to focus your efforts on the heroin epidemic that is running rampant and crushing the American dream in every state in the Union.

I understand that the stigma and moral issues of heroin addiction run deep. Today’s heroin epidemic parallels the AIDS epidemic of the ‘70s. The old school philosophy back then was, “Men having sex with men. It’s not natural. That’s God’s punishment.”

Although the diction has changed, the sentiment remains constant today. “I didn’t force them to stick a needle of heroin into their arm. Why should I be forced to pay for their rehabilitation?”

But you see, we are not just junkies, Mr. President. I am three decades clean, have received the du-Pont-Columbia as a journalist, written two books, became a WGA screenwriter and worked on “The Fighter,” a feature film that won two Academy Awards.

I have spoken to organizations and recovery centers all across America. And what amazed me the most were the rooms were filled with middle-class kids whose fathers were chiefs of police, firefighters, teachers, lawyers, and doctors.

Heroin addiction is insidious: in several states across this country, young women are selling themselves as sex slaves to maintain their daily heroin habit.

Just recently, NPR did a radio program about heroin addicts who are purposely committing crimes, so they’ll be arrested and locked up to get the treatment they need.

Treatment is just not available on the streets because there aren’t any beds available in recovery centers. The medical community could never have prepared for the onslaught of heroin in their neighborhoods.

But make no mistake about it, Mr. President, this epidemic was given birth by corporate greed. In fact, the Sacklers, the Godfathers of OxyContin, rang in at number 19 on last year’s Forbes annual list of America’s richest families. Just think of the evil, they acquired a fortune with the blood of young Americans.

But as president of the United States of America, you still have an opportunity to change all this. There is a solution. Create a “sin tax” similar to the cigarette and alcohol tax levied by several states. If big Pharma wants to do business on the backs of the American consumers suffering from chronic pain, make them pay a “recovery tax.”

Create a work program for heroin addicts that want help. A simple, we’ll pay for your thirty-day recovery hospital and continued care, and you’ll work cleaning up roads or run down areas of your community to pay for it.

Designate a line on the IRS tax forms for people to donate a dollar or more to help put an end to the suffering brought on by the countless deaths of promising young men and woman.

I have an 11-year-old son who is on the brink of growing up in a society that will be the most dangerous environment in America’s history. You see, Mr. Trump, not since your predecessor, Lyndon Johnson, has the youth of America been more in jeopardy. Yes, not since the Vietnam War has a generation been at greater risk to die between the ages of 18 to 25. Please help them!

Mr. President, I’ll say it one more time, you still have the opportunity to put the right people in charge. You alone can save your legacy. But if you continue on this path of destruction, you will most certainly go down in history as the “Accidental President.”

I Am a Heroin Addict

Follow Ritchie Farrell on Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/ritchiefarrell1

Need help with substance abuse or mental health issues? In the U.S., call 800-662-HELP (4357) for the SAMHSA National Helpline.

-- This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website.

from Healthy Living - The Huffington Post http://bit.ly/2rmW4Mv