i am not fancy

Mental Illness in the Horror Genre

Something that pissed me off the other day.

Talking to a guy who knows my parents but doesn’t know me very well, and he tells me that his friend (indeed, a very nice and talented actor) recently put out a horror movie. And I’m interested until I hear the words “So it’s about this guy with OCD…” and at that point my mom and I give each other a sidelong glance.

I say, “I don’t know, because I have OCD and it’s a pretty serious thing for me.”

To which he follows up, “Oh, you don’t have it like this guy! You’re totally functional!”

Okay, dude. Yes, I am standing before you in a fancy club, dressed nice, and looking relatively balanced. But you do not know me. You do not know OCD.

You do not know that I have been non-functional, and that in order to maintain my current balance of sanity, I take daily medication and see a weekly therapist, and I still have downward spirals and panic attacks.

OCD can add to a story, for sure. The Aviator is a great example–albeit, it was on the voyeuristic side, kind of “check out what a weirdo this guy really is”, but his condition was portrayed in a realistic and *sympathetic* manner, because it focused so hard on his anxiety and entrapment.

I don’t need a horror movie about my disorder for a couple reasons.
1. I already live the horror movie that is OCD.
2. Just like people with psychosis, schizophrenia/schizotypal disorders, dissociative identity disorders, and any other number of mental disorder that makes us act in unusual and yes, sometimes frightening ways, I don’t need it to be the hinge for your horror flick, a handy device that makes more people like you scared and misunderstanding of people like me.
3. And for people with the above disorders who may not be diagnosed, they don’t need to be told that they are dangerous monsters and cause them to avoid treatment out of fear. (This goes double for people who experience paranoia or delusions as part of their symptoms.)

This post ended up way longer than I meant, but really, truly, hear me out creators:

MENTAL ILLNESS IS A TRAIT AMONG AN INFINITE VARIETY OF PEOPLE. IT IS NOT A CHARACTER FLAW, AND IT IS DEFINITELY A POOR PLOT DEVICE FOR THE HORROR GENRE. YOU CAN DO BETTER.

Mr. & Mrs. Eric Richard Bittle

and

Mr. Robert Zimmermann &

Mrs. Alicia Carter Zimmermann

invite you to celebrate

the marriage of their sons

-

Eric Richard Bittle Jr.

and

Jack Laurent Zimmermann

-

Saturday, the twenty-ninth of June

two thousand and nineteen

at eleven o’clock in the morning

-

Reception to follow

2

Bribery tactics..

If people will be named after colors, I’ll call you purple. The kind of purple that melts in the sky when the sun is about to set and take a rest for awhile. The type of purple that makes my heart jumps a little and lits up the excitement in my eyes.

If people will be named after flowers, you’ll be my rose, no matter how painful your thorns. I’ll embrace you with my arms open wide and cage you in a warm tight hug. Even if it makes me bleed red that’ll surely tear my heart apart.

If people will be named after seasons, I’ll choose Summer among all of those four. You’ll be the sun that kisses my skin, and made my day goes lighter along the way. You’ll make me love the ocean more, and dance to groovy songs. You are the season which will never get tired of warming my heart when Winter tried to cool it with its cold breeze and snowy hands.

If people will be named after places, I’ll call you home. Not Paris, nor New York. You are the place that will always make my heart aches when I’m away—because I’ll surely miss you the moment we took our separate ways. You are the shelter that protects my heart, the one I will always run to no matter what I’m feeling. Happy, angry, sad, jolly, grateful or in love. Because you always understand and know the real me. You’ve seen me— on my ups and downs, and still accepts me— for who I am. I’ll name you after a place that doesn’t have a fancy name, yet will always be the one that will tell me that it’s okay to feel. That it’s okay to be me.

You will always remain in my heart no matter where I go.

And because people have identities, and so are things.

But you and your name will always be my favorite.

—  ma.c.a // Maybe I should Call You Mine
#eighth year #angst #bed sharing

Prompts: @the-yellowsubmarine
Author: @queenofthyme

Harry woke up to a half-naked Draco Malfoy standing over his bed. At first he thought he was still dreaming until Malfoy called out to him:

“Potter. Potter, wake up.”

In Harry’s dreams, Malfoy always called him Harry.

“What the fuck, Malfoy?” Harry had been having a delightful dream in which Malfoy – although he was known to Harry as Draco in the dream – had confessed his affections to Harry and asked him to ride on a unicorn with him into space.

True – Harry was pleased to wake up to the real Malfoy’s naked chest. But it left him with an inconvenient problem beneath the sheets which he couldn’t really take care of with Malfoy staring down at him like that. Well, actually, that was another fantasy of his, but he expected in this situation, Malfoy would probably just punch him, rather than join in.

“I want to switch beds.” Malfoy said.

Harry frowned, looking over to Malfoy’s vacant four poster. The sheets were thrown wide, the pillow on the floor beside it. “Why?”

“There’s something wrong with that bed. I think it’s haunted.”

“You think the bed is haunted?” Harry repeated sceptically.

Malfoy crossed his arms over his (naked!) chest. “Yes.”

“And you want me to sleep in it?”

Malfoy shrugged. “Better you than me.”

“Absolutely not.” Harry rolled away from Malfoy. He was tired. And he wanted to finish his dream.

“So, you believe me that it’s haunted then?” Malfoy asked. A clear challenge.

“No,” Harry clarified into his pillow, “I just don’t see why I should have to be inconvenienced because of your paranoia.”

“You’re already awake, and I’m going to stand here until you agree.”

Harry knew he would too. Malfoy was persistent.

“Fine.” Harry jumped up and scrambled into the other bed. He retrieved the pillow from the floor, readjusted the sheets and settled in. Haunted or not, Harry could tell he was going to have a good sleep now. The bed smelt like Malfoy. That would complement Harry’s dreams nicely.

Sleep came quickly.

Harry was in the Department of Mysteries. At the end of one of the long corridors he saw it – a curtain. He knew Sirius was right behind the curtain. He glided forward. If he could just reach it – but a hand pulled him back. He turned around to find hundreds of inferi crawling towards him, the closest one with a grip on his arm that was tightening, bruising his skin, crushing the bone beneath. He tried to scream but all that came out was a hiss.

Harry was in Little Hangleton Graveyard. The tombstones were so large they towered over his head, the engravings with big wiry letterings spelling out the names of the dead. Lily Potter. James Potter. Cedric Diggory. Sirius Black. Albus Dumbledore. Hedwig. Dobby. Fred Weasley. Collin Creevey. Remus Lupin. Nymphadora Tonks. Severus Snape. And the last – the biggest tombstone of them all: Tom Marvolo Riddle Junior. Beneath it, the earth was shaking, the dirt crumbling away. The Dark Lord was returning.

Harry was in The Forbidden Forest. A high-pitched laughter rang in his ears. The sky flashed green. The trees were whispering, telling him to turn back, telling him to run. But his feet kept walking forward. The trees grew sparse. He was almost at the clearing. And when he reached it, he was going to die.

Harry woke up in a sweat, his heart beat threatening to rip the organ from his chest. He threw the sheets away, and tried to calm himself with deep breaths, but the scenes from his dreams – no, his nightmares – flashed in front of his eyes over and over again. Maybe Malfoy was right – maybe the bed really was haunted.

He pulled himself up, ignoring the heaviness of his head. As soon as he was off the bed, he felt instantly calmer. He could still remember the nightmares but they were no longer pining him down with their weight. No longer crawling under his skin. It was no wonder Malfoy wanted to swap beds.

Harry looked over to his own bed. Malfoy was fast asleep. It wasn’t fair that he got to have the unicorn space dreams (Harry could only presume) in Harry’s bed, while Harry had scary death nightmares in his. He walked over.

“Malfoy.” Harry prodded Malfoy’s side. “Malfoy.”

Malfoy grumbled as he slowly regained consciousness. “Stop it, Potter. I’m sleeping.”

“I want my bed back.”

“I thought you said it wasn’t haunted.”

“I was wrong,” Harry said stiffly. He didn’t much like admitting it, especially not to his ex-rival whom he currently had the hots for. 

Malfoy smiled, his eyes still closed. “Say that again.”

“I was wrong,” Harry repeated with a sigh. “Can I have my bed back now?”

“I’m not going back there.”

“Well, neither am I,” Harry retorted. He didn’t fancy another trip to the Forbidden Forest.

Malfoy rolled over to the edge of the bed, his back to Harry. “Get in then.”

Harry knew he had heard wrong. “Excuse me?”

“Just don’t hog the covers,” Malfoy continued, “and you better not drool in your sleep.”

Harry hesitated, looking back at Malfoy’s bed. He already knew he wouldn’t be going back there. Not tonight. He suspected someone had cursed it, and he was already planning his revenge for when he found out who, but for now, there wasn’t anything else to do but sleep. And he wasn’t going to get much on the floor.

Not to mention, the thought of sleeping with – well, sleeping next to – Malfoy was all kinds appealing. Scary, and awkward and embarrassing of course. But very appealing.

He climbed into the bed slowly, careful not to accidentally touch or jostle Malfoy in any way. He didn’t want to seem like he was taking advantage of the situation. He had no idea what Malfoy thought about it. Thought about him.

Harry managed to orient himself in bed so no part of his body was touching Malfoy’s. True - it left him almost falling off the side, but it was a minor discomfort. A necessity to keep a healthy, platonic space between him and Malfoy.

When he fell asleep, he was pleased to return to a journey of space travel with Draco on their magical unicorn.

But it was nothing compared to waking up the next morning with Malfoy, the real Malfoy, snuggled into his chest, an arm tightly clinging to his torso.

And that, in turn, was nothing compared to when Malfoy sniffled in his sleep and mumbled: “Hmmm, Harry.”

Perhaps he wouldn’t be seeking revenge on whoever cursed Malfoy’s bed after all. 

more like this l @queenofthyme

All Our Secrets Laid Bare (Part One)

Pairing: Peter Parker x reader

Prompt: The reader’s nosy (and quite rude) relatives are coming over for an unexpected family dinner. Long story short, they expect the reader to have a boyfriend, which the reader most definitely does not have. Luckily, they do have a best friend by the name of Peter Parker. One small favor wouldn’t be too much to ask, right?

Warnings: Some angst towards the end.

Word Count: 3,524

A/N: The reader doesn’t know Peter is Spider-Man in this imagine.
Also, I’m sorry if there are any grammatical errors. My usual beta reader wasn’t available and I really wanted to get this imagine posted.
Enjoy!

Part Two / Part Three

Originally posted by hardyness

“You’re my boyfriend now.”

“I-I’m sorry, what?” Peter stammered back through the phone.

This was not how you planned this day to go.

“It’s a long story. Nosy relatives coming over for dinner, may have lied and said I had a boyfriend just to get them to shut up, don’t actually have a boyfriend, typical family stuff, you know?” you tried to explain.

There was a slight pause as Peter digested all of the information you just threw at him.

“Okay, so basically, you broke under pressure and lied about have a boyfriend, and now you need me to be your boyfriend to protect you from your nosy relatives?” repeated Peter.

You rolled your eyes, perfectly aware that Peter couldn’t see them through the phone call, but positive that he felt the frustration anyway, “I didn’t break under pressure, I just… improvised.”

“Oh yeah, totally,” said Peter, voice dripping with playful sarcasm. “So do you need me to be your boyfriend or not?”

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