i just don't have anything better to do in my life....

anonymous asked:

hey would you ever do a "what if harry potter had been a girl" story? or a trans girl? i don't know how much gender would change things except other people's perceptions but...

Hermione went to the library, when Harry first confided in her. Whatever the faculty, the administration, or the Ministry believed or didn’t believe, the Hogwarts library gave the children what they needed and always would.

Hermione came back with books and books on gender in wizarding history, on the spells and words wizards had used for centuries or decades or mere years, and she and Harry bent their heads together and figured out what words Harry felt best told her story. From her hometown library, after that first summer, Hermione brought back memoirs and brightly-colored pamphlets that Harry read through instead of finishing her Potions homework.

When Harry looked in the Mirror of Erised, she still saw her mother, her father, all her gathered, lost kin. The specter of her father gathered up her hands in his. Her mother pushed back the long dark hair Petunia had always made her cut short and she called her beautiful.

When she looked into it again, after Devil’s Snare and winged keys, giant chess and Ron lying prone on the floor, Hermione wringing her eleven year old hands in the potion riddle room– When Harry looked into the Mirror again, she saw herself, just herself. The girl in the mirror winked and smiled and slipped the Stone in Harry’s pocket. No matter what other wishes and want laid on her narrow shoulders, at the end of the day the thing Harry wanted most was to help. Harry brushed one hand over the lump of rock in her robe pocket, and then brushed her other over her mess of hair, which was feet shorter than the girl in the mirror’s.

She woke up in the hospital wing, bedside table piled high with candy.

Once Harry and Hermione had sussed out between them what the words were for what was going on here, they had explained it to Ron. Harry didn’t come out to anyone else until partway through second year, though, at the height of the Heir of Slytherin nonsense.

She was fed up, then. She just wanted to be left alone, and this wouldn’t help with that, but they were all already staring. Keeping this to herself felt like a vice around her chest. Hogwarts was supposed to be better.

After, Ron came almost to blows with anyone who goggled or sniffed or rolled their eyes. Seamas learned to swallow his tongue. Draco Malfoy didn’t. Hermione wrote up an explanatory note about appropriate pronouns in her best penmanship and then copied it with flicks of her wand. With Harry’s embarrassed permission, she gave it to every professor Harry had or would ever have.

Colin Creevey stopped her in the Great Hall with a tug on her sleeve. She turned, shoulders rising, and the kid said in his piping voice, “You’re still my hero.”

That was better than it could have been, but she wasn’t sure she liked the “still.”

Peeves, though he was nasty about everything else–ickle firsties and orphan girls–got it immediately. For all six years of her Hogwarts tenure, he dropped water balloons on the heads of anyone who misgendered her. Professor Binns never quite figured it out, but he didn’t know any student’s name. Nearly Headless Nick gallantly and somewhat awkwardly called her lady and tried to hold open doors for her, despite the fact that he couldn’t open them.

Snape called Harry “Mr. Potter” for all seven years that he was in Harry’s life. Around year three, Ron stopped counting the detentions he got for his increasingly sarcastic responses to this.

The whispers about the Heir of Slytherin grew louder and louder, keeping pace with “Uh, I thought it was the Boy Who Lived?” Fred and George Weasley took it upon themselves to walk Harry to and from class when they could, talking loudly enough to drown everything out.

Then Hermione got Petrified and the Heir whispers stopped abruptly. Harry, if she hadn’t been busy with Ron trading off reading their assigned textbooks aloud to Hermione in the infirmary, might have felt gratified that the whole school knew how much this bushy-haired kid meant to her. Alright, so they thought she might murder Muggleborns with a mysterious monster, or sic a snake on her opponent in a dueling club? But they knew she wouldn’t hurt Hermione for anything.

In the Chamber, she met Tom Riddle. He was supposed to be her mirror, though she didn’t quite know that yet. He was supposed to be her shadow, the chain around her ankle, the other half (or another eighth) of her story and his soul.

Ginny had been trying to speak for months– to tell someone, to open the diary and the bag under her bed full of chicken-blood-stained robes and to thrust them into the light. But Percy had shushed her, all his assumptions orbiting his own importance to her story. The teachers had patted her on the head. She had been frightened, eleven years old with Tom whispering in her ear, guiding her hands.

Harry had been trying to speak for years– to explain to someone the way she did not feel like Dudley, like Vernon, like the boys in the locker room at school. Hermione had listened. Hermione had given her books and books of people who felt like her. Ron had listened, and taught her wizard’s chess, and kicked Draco in the shins.

But here Harry was, standing alone– a red-haired lump at her feet, dark robes sodden with moldy water. Hermione was frozen. Ron was trapped behind a rock fall and Tom was pacing, gloating, glowing. Ginny was breathing. Ginny had to be breathing. Harry was going to save her. She had to, because no one had listened to the kid, not even Harry.

The phoenix tears left no scars on Harry’s arm. Riddle, the Chamber, the life going out of her, everything that had happened in that long year– none of it left scars on Ginny, or at least none that anyone could see.

When Harry got back to 4 Privet Drive that summer, she suffered through Aunt Petunia’s annual hair cut and then she curled up with Hedwig and wrote a letter. She wrote about the Muggle candies she missed when at Hogwarts, and how her cousin thought she was weird for being excited about summer homework. She asked Ginny how she was.

Ginny wrote back after a long week. She didn’t answer the question, but she wrote about helping Dad on the car, about the apple harvest coming, and Fred and George playing pranks on the ghoul in the attic.

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[All of this happened because I wanted to write something about Stiles not being able to sleep without his pillow. Spoiler alert: his pillow is Derek.]

-

Derek tries not to look too hurt when Stiles says he’s going back to Washington, but when the Sheriff claps his back and Scott offers him a friendly hug, he knows he failed. But after everything, after the other night - it just doesn’t feel fair.

-

“It was a nice road trip, wasn’t it?” Stiles had said after they’ve won, after everything was done, their friends were alive and fine and Derek finally got his loft back. “I mean, we had some fun, right?”

Derek smiled without looking away from the flowers the Sheriff got him as a housewarming gift. “Yeah.” He answered, finally turning around. “It was nice to spend time with you.” It was more than nice and he cursed himself for not being able to say it, still, after everything, after the nights spent driving and talking and fucking in deserted roads.

“Yeah.” Stiles agreed easily. He was the one who started it after all, always showing up to save Derek - despite Derek saving him back plenty of times - always being there, trusting him, smiling and laughing like Derek makes him happy. “What will you do now that you’re a free man again?”

Derek shrugged. “I always wanted to start a farm, maybe raise some sheep?” When Stiles blinked at him, surprised, Derek let out a snort.

“Fuck you, I almost believed it!” Stiles said, punching his shoulder.

“You’re ridiculous.” Derek shook his head, still smiling. 

You’re ridiculous.” Stiles stressed, his hand still on Derek’s shoulder, touching, teasing. “I’m -“ Derek didn’t let him finish then, turning around and just pressing their lips together.

He didn’t want to listen then - and in hindsight maybe he should’ve - but without the haste, the guilt of having a nice time whilst their friends could be dying, Derek couldn’t wait, he just wanted to worship Stiles’ body, just wanted to kiss all the places he couldn’t reach before when they were squeezed in the backseat of Stiles’ car. 

And so he did, he made Stiles moan his name the entire night and he moaned Stiles’ own just as louder. Just to have his heart crushed the morning after.

-

“I’m gonna miss you.” Stiles says, his Jeep packed and ready to go. To leave everything behind.

It’s unfair, Derek knows. Stiles didn’t make promises and neither did he, but he can’t help how he feels. He understands Stiles doesn’t want to be in Beacon Hills anymore and that’s his choice, but Derek made his own and he’s tired of running away.

He’s never felt closer to his family than when he’s here, he’s already lost enough and he doesn’t want to lose his home. But somehow, as Stiles drives away, he feels like he just did.

-

I miss you, Derek thinks every day, staring at the black screen of his phone and wondering if he should actually write those words and send them to Stiles. He decides against it and despite the fact he was joking before, on the third day after Stiles left, Derek buys a farm.

He tells Lydia first during lunch at her favorite restaurant - she was adamant they had to become best friends and Derek enjoys her company so he lets it happen easily - and she tells him he’s not allowed to wear plaid around her. Then he tells Scott and two days later, he shows up at Derek’s front door with all kinds of seeds - “We need pumpkins for Halloween, Derek. Make it happen!”.

It’s something to do with his hands, something to work on. Create life, instead of ending them, build things, instead of destroying. He feels good, better and healing. Cora says he’s calmer now and Derek smiles, despite knowing she won’t be able to see him, and tells her he is.

Some days Stiles texts him, others he doesn’t. Derek reads the ones he has every night before going to bed, but he never answers them.

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Harry's interview on Quotidien
  • I: Can you hear me?
  • H: Yes
  • I: Welcome to Paris!
  • H: Thank you
  • I: How are you? Can you answer in French?
  • H: Good! A little bit. A tiny bit. Très bien et toi ?(very good and you?)
  • I: Very good, thank you. We start our interviews with “can you give us your five favourites words in English or French. Or a French sentence”. Someone told me you knew a French sentence.
  • H: Comment vous faites un café si délicieux? (How do you make such a delicious coffee?)
  • I: OK, that’s good.
  • H: That’s all I have.
  • I: Do you say it very often?
  • H: No... Yes
  • I: What does France mean to you? Is it something, someone etc...?
  • H: Best people I’ve known... I think her, *shows a fan* I guess. Fabien Barthez.
  • I: Yes, Fabien Barthez. Harry, you’re 23 years old and you’re one of the best known pop-star in the world. Everybody has expectations with your new album and single Sign Of The Times. Why did you choose that song? This is not what people were expecting.
  • H: I think I wanted to.. I've always liked music that made me feel something. You know I think writing it I could feet something I wanted to bring it out. I think it's a good indicator for me of what the album is to me. That's why I wanted to go with that first.
  • I: Billboard wrote that the single was "one of the more ambitious opening statements in pop this decade". Not bad, isn't it?
  • H: Thanks!
  • I: Do you have friends working at Billboard?
  • H: I don't know anyone at Billboard.
  • I: When we listen to the song we think of David Bowie, Queen, who else did you think of?
  • H: I mean, I think everyone, anything, any song you've ever listened to growing up or throughout your life or you've enjoyed, inspired you. There are a lot of different things. I wanted to just write and see what came out. I didn't know what I sounded like to make an album. So this process was as interesting for me as I think it will be for people listening to the album for the first time.
  • I: Do you know French singers other than Serge Gainsbourg? That's a tricky question.
  • H: I know Woodkid. He directed my music video.
  • I: Why him?
  • H: I think his videos are amazing, he's a really talented guy and I love French people so I worked with him.
  • I: When you're in Spain, do you say that you love Spanish people?
  • H: No!
  • I: It seems like everything has been easy...
  • H: Great tie.
  • I: You think so? It's French.
  • H: It's not a Spanish tie, isn't it?
  • I: Can I see your loafer? Oh yes! What is the brand? That's not French, isn't it? It's Italian.
  • H: No.
  • I: That's from the European Union!
  • H: Probably yeah.
  • I: It seems like everything has been easy for you, is it true?
  • H: Was what simple?
  • I: Your life, everybody wants a life like yours, with One Direction...
  • H: I mean, I feel very lucky to be able to make music, I feel very lucky to be able to make this, I feel very lucky today being in France and performing my song. I love this song. I can't complain.
  • I: What were the unpleasant things?
  • H: *thinking*
  • I: I don't know, say only one thing.
  • H: I think when you care so much about something, it's hard to get to the point where you feel like it's finished and it feels like you're adding and it never ends and it adds up. So I think the hardest part was getting into that point and be like "ok that's finished."
  • I: You said to the Rolling Stone magazine that most of the album was inspired by a woman. Really?
  • H: No I think, honestly, the album is much more about me than it is about anyone else. I think if I said the album is about a woman it kind of feels like, I don't know, I put a lot of work into this. I don't feel like it revolves around woman. It's a lot about me and things I've never said before. It's more about me.
  • I: How did you start with a boy band and end with a solo career? Is it complicated?
  • H: It's been a lot of fun. You know we were very lucky to get to do some amazing things and at the moment in our lives, we're in a time where everyone is trying their own thing and have a good time. It's been amazing to see everyone doing their own thing as well. If I can do as well as the others, it'd be amazing.
  • I: Do you call them everyday or text them? Do you use What's app?
  • H: I don't have that.
  • I: Why?
  • H: Yes we talk, absolutely. And everyone is bringing stuff out. It's been a lot going on. It's been a good time.
  • I: This is the album cover! Can you describe it? Why did you choose this picture?
  • H: Yeah. So, I don't know. I worked with photographer Harley Weir, I'm a massive fan of her work. And that's amazing and I was lucky enough to work with her. I felt like this was what I wanted.
  • I: Why is it pink? Why the water? Why your back? Why? It's beautiful but why is it pink?
  • H: I don't know, man!
  • I: Really? You don't know?
  • H: I don't know. I don't think I want...
  • I: Apparently pink is Rock'n'roll's colour.
  • H: Apparently so. I don't know. I think it means something to me and if it means anything to anyone else, I wouldn't want to take away from that by explaining it. I think the cool thing about stuff like photos and art is you can just leave it. You don't have to explain it.
  • I: Everybody sees what they want to see.
  • H: Yes exactly.
  • I: Have you seen this?
  • *video of people reacting to Harry's single*
  • I: Your fans record themselves while listening to the song for the first time. You can hear relevant analysis and apparently they all really liked it. Do you read what people say about you on social media? On Youtube, Twitter, Instagram? Do you use Instagram?
  • H: Yes I use it a little bit.
  • *The public disagrees with Harry*
  • H: Yes I use it a little bit. I mean I wish everyone was having as good time as the girl who was like that with her hands. That's what I do when I listen to the song.
  • I: Are you the one using your Instagram? Do you use your own fingers or someone else does it for you?
  • H: Yes, I do mine.
  • I: Do you still vote in Redditch?
  • H: In?
  • I: Redditch!
  • H: That's where I was born?
  • I: Yes.
  • H: I don't live in Redditch.
  • I: So you don't vote there. Where did you vote?
  • H: London, yeah.
  • I: What do you think of the Brexit? Welcome to Europe!
  • H: Thank you very much, thanks. I mean, I don't really comment on politics. To me, anything that brings people together is better than things that pull people apart. That's ... yeah.
  • I: Yet, you are in favour of equality of rights, men, women, gay people, straight people... That's politics.
  • H: I don't know. It doesn't feel like politics. I think stuff like equality feels much more fundamental. I feel like everyone is equal. That doesn't feel like politics to me.
  • I: Your fans are fetishists. They know all of your tattoos, piece of jewellery, they have heart attacks when you cut your hair. Right now you're playing with their feelings. Do you know that?
  • H: Oh ok.
  • I: Yes! What is your favourite tattoo?
  • H: I think... I have a.. probably. I don't know, actually.
  • I: Which one is the latest?
  • H: The latest is this one there. *shows Arlo* And this one. *shows Jackson*
  • I: Jackson? All of them?
  • H: Yes.
  • I: What's the story behind your haircut? How much did you spend on hair products with One Direction?
  • H: Yeah, like a lot. I used a lot, yeah.
  • I: You're in Dunkirk, Christopher Nolan's new movie.
  • H: Yes.
  • I: How did you do?
  • H: I auditioned.
  • I: Look at you there.
  • H: I am, that's me.
  • I: Yes.
  • H: I auditioned and it was great. It's going to be a really cool movie.
  • I: Harry, it feels like we know you since you're a baby. The whole world discovered you in 2010 on X Factor.
  • *video of Harry's X Factor audition*
  • I: You auditioned alone but Simon Cowell had an idea... he put you in a band with Zayn, Louis, Liam and Niall. You became One Direction. You found the name One Direction and you sold millions of albums. One Direction are soon considered as the new Beattles and you filled the biggest stadiums. The whole world was talking about you. When you go out we prayed for your eardrums. You became UK's pride. David Cameron is in one of your music videos, your sang for the Queen. But in 2015... bang! Zayn left the band, fans couldn't get over it. But don't worry, their favourite is now on the cover of the Rolling Stone magazine, he's in Christopher Nolan's new movie, he's Mick Jagger on SNL... What you don't know is that we've met in 2012. You were in France to promote an album and now I have questions. First one! When you're in a car and fans are all around you, do you see that?
  • *video of fans around a car*
  • H: I think I've actually lost my shoe there. When I got in the car... I got in the car and I was like "how many shoes do I have?" Yes I lost my shoe.
  • I: I have another question! Do you still do that before going on stage?
  • *video of Harry and Lou*
  • I: Can we do it?
  • H: No.
  • *does it anyway*
  • I: What is the weirdest question someone asked you?
  • H: I think it was actually a French interview. I got asked if I would pee in a sink... Yeah.
  • I: Ok, that's weird!
  • H: It was the first question, the first question.
  • I: It puts you in the mood.
  • H: Yeah.
  • I: What is the question you never want to be asked ever again? Did I asked you that question?
  • *Harry asks the public*
  • H: Which one? Oh crush.
  • I: What?
  • H: Crush.
  • I: Oh ok. I didn't ask it! Did you know that a French author wrote a novel about you. It's called "Styles", it's about his obsession with you. It's in French. You can translate it.
  • H: Oh! Is that true?
  • I: Yes it's true. He dedicated to you. It's called "Styles" and it's a really good book. Read it!
  • H: Thank you.
  • I: Thank you very much Harry Styles for coming tonight. His first eponymous album comes out on the 12th May. Thank you Harry Styles.
  • H: Thank you.
  • I: Have a safe journey home.

(long post, sorry)

In spite of everything I love Harley Quinn but, damn, writers treat her so badly. I swear, the temptation to make her actually stupid must be terrible because it’s so often implied, or explicitly stated, that she slept her way through school. First of all, it does not work like that.  Second, she’s not a therapist or a psychologist, she’s a psychiatrist, she’s a fricking MD and a damn young one too. Managing pre-med and collegiate gymnastics that she relied on to keep her scholarship? Harley is fucked up, but she’s not the dumb blonde she plays. (also stop making her stacked, she’s a gymnast. she is 4’11” of pure muscle and is not top heavy)

If you want a good Harley backstory it’s simple. She’s ADHD but medicated and slightly robotic because of it. I want to take special care not to demonize meds but, rather, people’s disapproval of neurodivergence and a lack of focus on what is best for a patient rather than what is most convenient for others. So, maybe, around ten years old Harley is a hyperactive space cadet who’s brilliant at tests but sloppy at coursework, who would be a gymnastics prodigy if she could actually focus on technique and put in practice time instead of fooling around. Then the meds come and it’s actually really cool because she can do the things she needs to do instead of just wanting to do them, doing something else entirely, and getting in trouble. People are proud of her, she’s proud of herself. But now there are expectations. Family and teachers and coaches overschedule her, find worth only in her success and don’t care about her mental health at all as long as she’s performing and castigate her when she does fail. Fuck if you don’t internalize that. But she doesn’t look unhealthy and she’s doing amazing. She actually has to choose between the Olympic trials and continuing her grad studies. She probably has some issues with self-harm but it either doesn’t look like self-harm or is well covered up. 

When Arkham accepts her, fresh from her residency, it’s not a mistake. The woman is amazing. All they can see is a mountain of achievements rather than the seething ball of nerves, self-loathing, and imposter syndrome boiling just under the surface. That’s when Joker comes in. He’s got the Hannibal Lecter shtick down. Where everyone else sees an intelligent driven young woman he sees a frightened overwhelmed girl who is working her hardest to convince the world she’s anyone other than herself. Sending her into a nervous breakdown would be too easy so he doesn’t even bother. Instead he’s open with her, almost friendly. The other doctors are amazed, Harley is amazed, she’s not done anything particularly revolutionary but, for the first time in forever, it looks like the clown prince of crime is showing progress. He unravels her and it’s a challenge, she flinches back and gets very serious when he comes too close to the real Harley under the professional. Still, soon she’s questioning everything. She doesn’t even really like her co-workers. She hasn’t had a real friend in years. She’s forgotten how to have fun. Did she ever want this to be her life or did she just do it for other people? It starts so slowly that it looks, at first, like she’s getting better at self-care. Maybe something totally silly one weekend, a trampoline park where she can enjoy the way her toned body moves without stressing out over landings, a face painting booth at a street fair, some garishly colored downright tacky decoration that clashes with her sensible apartment. Suddenly she realizes how much she hates knowing the difference between cream and ecru. The beigeness of her life is repulsive. She hates the person she’s pretending to be even more that she hates herself which is really saying something.

After her weekend of freedom she would have called in sick if it wasn’t so suddenly important to see him. The relief she feels at talking to one of Gotham’s most infamous supercriminals is disturbing but it is relief and she’s been swallowing a slow-motion panic attack for hours. She admits, though she shouldn’t, that she took his advice about doing something fun and he teases her, what would straight-laced Doctor Quinzel do for fun? Did she realphabetize her sock drawer or buy a new clipboard? It’s not important to impress him, it’s really not. He’s dangerous, cruel, and he looks so proud when she admits that she bought a lamp shaped like a lawn flamingo. The only mistake, he says, is that she should have stolen it. She hopes the wicked thrill it gives her doesn’t show on her face. It does. She almost even laughs. He likes it when he can make her laugh and she likes it when he likes things.

It’s wrong and unprofessional, the relationship she develops, and she knows it but her whole life she’s been so high strung. Nothing she’s done has been for her, she’s not sure she knows how to really do selfish things anymore, but he knows the selfish things she needs to do. It feels good when she follows his advice even when it’s small things like the rainbow striped socks she wears concealed under her very bland slacks and sensible shoes. She’s so happy, almost giddy, and he loves her happiness, he loves her, he loves the real her that she’s had to beat down and hide for so long, the her that even she isn’t able to love. She is able to love him, though, and since he loves her she’s able to love herself for him, to protect and nurture something so important to him.

When the choice comes between her old self, the tedious endless labor of making the world proud, and Him, the spectacular man that brought color into her life, it’s not even a question. She kills Doctor Harleen Quinzel, she throws away the version of her that let herself burn just for medals and hollow accolades. She embraces Harley Quinn and it’s so much a part of her nature she can’t even see that she’s still living her life for someone else’s approval, except this time that person is a murderous clown. She hasn’t let her hair down, she’s just put it in pigtails instead of a bun.

On trauma aftermaths that don't advance the plot

The way TV shows trauma can lead people to expect every reference to trauma to be a plot point. This can be isolating to people coping with the aftermaths of trauma. Sometimes people treat us as stories rather than as people. Sometimes, instead of listening to us, they put a lot of pressure on us to advance the plot they’re expecting.

On TV, triggers tend to be full audiovisual flashbacks that add something to the story. You see a vivid window into the character’s past, and something changes. On TV, trauma aftermaths are usually fascinating. Real life trauma aftermaths are sometimes interesting, but also tend to be very boring to live with.

On TV, triggers tend to create insight. In real life, they’re often boring intrusions interfering with the things you’d rather be thinking about. Sometimes knowing darn well where they come from doesn’t make them go away. Sometimes it’s more like: Seriously? This again?

On TV, when trauma is mentioned, it’s usually a dramatic plot point that happens in a moment. In real life, trauma aftermaths are a mundane day-to-day reality that people live with. They’re a fact of life — and not necessarily the most important one at all times. People who have experienced trauma do other things too. They’re important, but not the one and only defining characteristic of who someone is. And things that happened stay important even when you’re ok. Recovery is not a reset. Mentioning the past doesn’t necessarily mean you’re in crisis.

On TV, when a character mentions trauma, or gets triggered in front of someone, it’s usually a dramatic moment. It changes their life, or their relationship with another character, or explains their backstory, or something. In real life, being triggered isn’t always a story, and telling isn’t always a turning point. Sometimes it’s just mentioning something that happened to be relevant. Sometimes it’s just a mundane instance of something that happens from time to time.

Most people can’t have a dramatic transformative experience every time it turns out that their trauma matters. Transformative experiences and moments of revelation exist, but they’re not the end all and be all of trauma aftermaths. Life goes on, and other things matter too. And understanding what a reaction means and where it came from doesn’t always make it go away. Sometimes, it takes longer and has more to do with skill-building than introspection. Sometimes it doesn’t go away.

On a day to day level, it’s often better to be matter-of-fact about aftermaths. It can be exhausting when people see you as a story and expect you to advance the plot whenever they notice some effect of trauma. Pressure to perform narratives about healing doesn’t often help people to make their lives better. Effect support involves respecting someone as a complex human, including the boring parts.

The aftermath of trauma is a day-to-day reality. It affects a lot of things, large and small. It can be things like being too tired to focus well in class because nightmares kept waking you up every night this week. TV wants that to be a dramatic moment where the character faces their past and gets better. In real life, it’s often a day where you just do your best to try and learn algebra anyway. Because survivors do things besides be traumatized and think about trauma. Sometimes it’s not a story. Sometimes it’s just getting through another day as well as possible.

A lot of triggers are things like being unable to concentrate on anything interesting because some kinds of background noises make you feel too unsafe to pay attention to anything else. For the zillionth time.  Even though you know rationally that they’re not dangerous. Even though you know where they come from, and have processed it over and over. Even if you’ve made a lot of progress in dealing with them, even if they’re no longer bothersome all the time. For most people, recovery involves a lot more than insight. The backstory might be interesting, but being tired and unable to concentrate is boring.

Triggers can also mean having to leave an event and walk home by yourself while other people are having fun, because it turns out that it hurts too much to be around pies and cakes. Or having trouble finding anything interesting to read that isn’t intolerably triggering. Or having trouble interacting with new people because you’re too scared or there are too many minefields. Or being so hypervigilant that it’s hard to focus on anything. No matter how interesting the backstory is, feeling disconnected and missing out on things you wanted to enjoy is usually boring.

When others want to see your trauma as a story, their expectations sometimes expand to fill all available space. Sometimes they seem to want everything to be therapy, or want everything to be about trauma and recovery.

When others want every reference to trauma to be the opening to a transformative experience, it can be really hard to talk about accommodations. For instance, it gets hard to say things like:

  • “I’m really tired because of nightmares” or 
  • “I would love to go to that event, but I might need to leave because of the ways in which that kind of thing can be triggering” or 
  • “I’m glad I came, but I can’t handle this right now” or
  • “I’m freaking out now, but I’ll be ok in a few minutes” or 
  • “I need to step out — can you text me when they stop playing this movie?”

It can also be hard to mention relevant experiences. There are a lot of reasons to mention experiences other than wanting to process, eg:

  • “Actually, I have experience dealing with that agency”
  • “That’s not what happens when people go to the police, in my experience, what happens when you need to make a police report is…”
  • “Please keep in mind that this isn’t hypothetical for me, and may not be for others in the room as well.”

Or any number of other things.

When people are expecting a certain kind of story, they sometimes look past the actual person. And when everyone is looking past you in search of a story, it can be very hard to make connections.

It helps to realize that no matter what others think, your story belongs to you. You don’t have to play out other people’s narrative expectations. It’s ok if your story isn’t what others want it to be. It’s ok not to be interesting. It’s ok to have trauma reactions that don’t advance the plot. And there are people who understand that, and even more people who can learn to understand that.

It’s possible to live a good life in the aftermath of trauma. It’s possible to relearn how to be interested in things. It’s possible to build space you can function in, and to build up your ability to function in more spaces. It’s often possible to get over triggers. All of this can take a lot of time and work, and can be a slow process. It doesn’t always make for a good story, and it doesn’t always play out the way others would like it to. And, it’s your own personal private business. Other people’s concern or curiosity does not obligate you to share details.

Survivors and victims have the right to be boring. We have the right to deal with trauma aftermaths in a matter-of-fact way, without indulging other people’s desires for plot twists. We have the right to own our own stories, and to keep things private. We have the right to have things in our lives that are not therapy; we have the right to needed accommodations without detailing what happened and what recovery looks like. Neither traumatic experiences nor trauma aftermaths erase our humanity.

We are not stories, and we have no obligation to advance an expected plot. We are people, and we have the right to be treated as people. Our lives, and our stories, are our own.

you know what’s sort of fascinating. the word “feelings”. i think about this a lot. about how it comes as sort of a mocking idea, a shadow of reality. oh, did i hurt your feelings? 

men, of course, don’t have these things. these dirty moths that bang around inside of heads, these girly feelings, these gay feelings, these not-cool-bro feelings. men are drinking a beer and watching tv and not traumatized by anything, not even her and her hair like a noose. when they want to crack open and tell their best friend that they are a million mirrors, all reflecting empty: instead they say nothing. they turn angry. angry is not a feeling. angry is a better place to be, the top of the roller coaster. nobody says you’re a fuck up if you’re angry. it’s sort of brave. at the bottom, because you come down, eventually, we all do, you wake up and people ask. what happened to you. is all this because of your feelings?

women, of course, are only these terrible creatures. ruled by it like werewolves. howling and sad and animalistic, chewed up by them. sobbing as a way to escape, because nobody knows how to handle feelings. this make us weak, flimsy, a bed to lie down on but not sleep, you’ll catch feelings. when it is a bad day, when it is a bad life, when we are complaining, it is because of our feelings. this is how we turn mouse-quiet too, learn to mask anger lest it be mistaken for that-time-of-the-month feelings. we cry over our best friend but we don’t cry in a funeral, unsure how to look strong and sensitive, hating ourselves at seven for crying in front of the neighbor, baby feelings, loving ourselves at twenty for holding it in when he sneers oh, does misogyny trigger your feelings? hating ourselves again when we feel a little colored out of the lines, holding our passion in like a breath, quietly sifting crazy feelings that maybe aren’t so crazy to begin with.

feelings. feminine connotations. impolite in proper society. when they ask how you’re feeling, you say “fine.” don’t cry, it will spoil the cake. don’t be so whiny, it won’t happen anyway. don’t feel, it’s not your place.

how to win an argument is easy. “oh, i’m sorry, did i hurt your feelings?” a spat word. a word that drips with venom, a word you shove the plate away with, no thanks i’m not hungry. empty of them. feeling is being in contact with the world, being stroked by it, having things get into skin and lips and behind eyes. strength is the opposite; the unsoft, the untouchable, the ethereal above-ness, no wound can utter the name of you. 

i’m in my feelings. yeah, i have feelings for you. open word. gaping. an already-forming bruise.

i think it’s time i told you (i’m a fan of your universe) (1/1)

Years after Hawkmoth’s defeat, Ladybug and Chat Noir have a conversation about life, love, and marriage.

Ladybug checked her communicator for the third time that night, and frowned.

The green pawprint blinked idly back at her, resting at a junction between city streets—the same place it had been every other time she’d checked.

They hadn’t arranged to meet up that night. It was her turn for a solo patrol tonight, and there hadn’t been any trouble big enough to make calling for help a necessity. She’d stopped a couple muggings, interrupted a robbery—normal, small things. Nothing that needed an extra pair of hands.

And, sure, they both transformed just for the fun of it sometimes. Sometimes they caught one another out on morning strolls or midnight snack runs or impromptu patrols, but usually those involved moving around.

Chat’s tracker hadn’t moved in the past two hours.

She shouldn’t worry—Hawkmoth had been in jail for the past three years and Chat wasn’t in a bad part of town right now—but…

But…

The green pawprint blinked at her from the same junction, at the same pace, unmoved.

Ladybug abandoned the end of her route and headed downtown.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Okay but just think of the dozens of Sterek fics that will come from that small scene of Stiles saying blindness is his biggest fear and Derek questioning him. I can just imagine one with Derek hearing Stiles heartbeat stutter and later confronting him about it and Stiles being all like 'of course it's not my biggest fear, don't you know me at all? My biggest fear is losing you again, watching you bleed out and not being able to do anything about it, not being able to save you.'

Derek’s eyes linger after Stiles looks away, his body shifting restless, fingers clenching and loosing in a twitch across the exam table. The lie hangs bright and obvious in the air –– less in the absent hitch of heartbeat or the burn of nerves that don’t taste quite like embarrassment or like fear. Derek could explain those things away in context if he tried, but he can’t explain the way the words fail to line up with everything he knows he knows about Stiles.

“Becoming blind?”

“Yeah… terrified of it. Always have been.

He wonders if it’s as obvious to Scott as it is to him, but the rest of the group’s already moved on, not missing a beat, focus shifted back to the problem at hand while Stiles re-centers. His pulse sharpens again and his eyes lift back to Derek, flicking up and away before moving back to Scott again, sliding seamless back into the conversation.

Derek shakes off the strangeness, and follows him.

.-

“Why did you lie in there?”

Stiles’ step falters on the question, and the resigned set of his shoulders tell Derek he’d been expecting this and hoping every bit as much to avoid it. Derek almost wants to take it back, tell Stiles is doesn’t matter, let whatever horror lives in the darkest place of Stiles’ heart lie there undisturbed… but this is too important.

He crosses his arms, keeping his tone and stance indifferent like that might make this conversation any easier.

“We need to know what’s coming, Stiles. When these things manifest, it’s not just going to be your fear anymore. It could threaten everyone.”

He’s not expecting the laugh that punches out of Stiles, harsh and thin and edged bitter enough to make Derek’s unaffected stance falter.

“Don’t you think I know that?”

Dark masks and fireflies float through Derek’s mind. A too-pale stranger with Stiles’ face and cold, ancient eyes. A huge lizard with paralyzing claws, and too-wet breaths as water threatened to pull them downward. A misshapen wolf with crimson eyes and spittle-laced breath, and an image of ghostly horsemen Derek had never seen, only heard of in Peter’s stories.

Derek could stab guesses at Stiles’ worst fears, could conjure up possibilities in Stiles’ quaking hands and nervous eyes as they darted out to the empty parking lot, looking for an escape before moving reluctant back to Derek. But he couldn’t know, and he needed to know, especially if it was something that could hurt the group.

…Especially if there was a way he could help Stiles prepare for it.

When it comes, he’s the one who’s unprepared.

“I can’t lose you again,” punches out rough and shaken, stunning Derek into stillness. Salt stings the air as tears well, and Stiles looks away on a wet breath, hand raking into his hair and tugging. “You were… dying and I walked away. I had to, there was nothing I could–– And then you were just gone afterward and I knew you were fine, I knew it was better that way but… fuck, Derek. It felt like you’d died some days.”

The tear tracks down and Derek feels his head shaking, arms falling from their faux-casual cross. The words are ringing through his mind, rattling around in a way that makes no sense and makes too much sense, echoes something too raw and honest inside him and he steps forward, “Stiles…” falling out soft, but Stiles is rocking a step back, shaking his head and swiping rough at the tear. Derek lets him retreat.

“My mom died in front of me.” This confession falls out soft, and Stiles’ shoulders shrink in against the sting of them. He looks small again, sixteen or years younger, and it takes an effort not to move in and shelter him from the sting of his own words. “And I just… I couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t save her. Do you know how that––” He cuts off, because he knows Derek knows. Derek understands that feeling better than anyone. It’s a bond Derek’s always wished they didn’t share.

Stiles shakes his head, blinking quick.

“Fuck, I can’t go through that again, ok? If these things are bringing our worst fears to life then I’m better off away from it, for everyone’s sake. What if it kills you because of me, because–– I can’t watch someone else I love die.”

The words hang. Stiles has gone strangely still suddenly. In the clinic, some young pup sets up howling.

“…You love?” Because Stiles had been talking about his mother, but he’d also been talking about Derek. About losing loved ones, and that…

Stiles’ breath hisses out, body tensing up defensive and challenging. His hands ball up, shoulders setting broad again, and it feels like every argument they’ve ever had when Stiles meets his eyes, daring him to doubt the revelations he’d just laid out.

Derek had learned a long time ago not to doubt Stiles.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he says, like it’s obvious. Like it’s some undeniable fact that Stiles loves him, fears losing him, that in all the nightmares of Stiles’ life, losing Derek could rest in anywhere near the same category as possession or dementia, or his mother’s death. But Stiles has always been afraid of losing people he loved, of not being able to save them… and Derek is one of those people. 

Derek is the person Stiles couldn’t look at while thinking about loss.

He moves forward a step, and Stiles doesn’t retreat this time, amber eyes locked with an expression that’s caught somewhere between challenge and pleading.

It’s one of the most terrifying moments of Derek’s life as he lifts his hand to Stiles’ cheek, and the most natural thing in the world once it’s resting there.

“I’ve died before,” he reminds Stiles, softly. “That’s not about to beat me. I’ll always come back… for you.”

“For me?” Stiles sounds breathless, doubt and hope warring as Derek’s thumb brushes over his tear-streaked cheek.

Derek tilts his head, warmth touching his eyes.

“Don’t be an idiot.”

When Stiles grins and presses their lips together, Derek forgets what it’s like to be afraid.

RIVERDALE MEME.
episodes 1-4 / ( change pronouns as needed. )

CHAPTER 1: THE RIVER’S EDGE

  • “i’ve been thinking about us.”
  • “i’m asking you now if you love me.”
  • “of course i love you, ____. but i can’t give you the answer you want.”
  • “one summer can change everything.”
  • “it’s about following your heart, right?”
  • “as long as you don’t give up your passion.”
  • “eventually, there will be a reckoning.”
  • “that entitlement you wear on your head like a crown? it won’t last.”
  • “are you scared, ____?”
  • “don’t freak out. just trust me.”
  • “i’m breakfast at tiffany’s, but this place is strictly in cold blood.”
  • “he was looking for the girl next door. instead, he found me.”
  • “you wanted fire? sorry, _________. my specialty’s ice.”
  • “just… talk to her. it could go a long way. would have gone a long way with me.” 
  • “you are so perfect. i’ll never deserve you.”

CHAPTER 2: A TOUCH OF EVIL

  • “romeo and juliet are the exception, not the rule.”
  • “once again, fate throws us together.”
  • "sardonic humour is just my way of relating to the world.”
  • “what? what are you going to do?”
  • “i’m not. i want to be. i thought i could be. but it’s too much, too fast.”
  • “what do you know about it, _____? or about me, even?”
  • “he wasn’t perfect. but he always tried to do the right thing.”
  • “sometimes a friend is better than a boyfriend.”
  • “why don’t we both just do that bro thing where we nod like douches & mutually suppress our emotions?”
  • “is there something you want to tell me, pal?”
  • “did you & _______ kill him together?”
  • “i’m alone.”
  • “we’re not gonna hug in front of the entire town.”
  • “it’s like there was a train that was going to the rest of my life. & i just… missed it.”
  • “it is not my fault he doesn’t like you.”

CHAPTER 3: BODY DOUBLE

  • "spoken like a true good girl who always follows the rules.”
  • “i don’t follow rules, i make them. & when necessary, i break them.”
  • “nothing this bad was ever supposed to happen here.”
  • “you don’t want to slow down, do you?”
  • “they have zero remorse for the lives they destroy.”
  • “does he not know who i am?”
  • “i’d love to stay. but i gotta shake down an evil adventure scout.”
  • “not bad.”
  • “maybe i don’t know _______.”
  • “you came through for me. in a way no one else ever has before.”
  • “i would’ve done anything to protect _____.”
  • “i saw the way you looked at me. … you’re hiding something.”
  • “maybe we should slow it down a little.”
  • "she’s right.”
  • “would i have complete freedom?”

CHAPTER 4: THE LAST PICTURE SHOW

  • “where did you find all of this?”
  • “oh, i’m already there!”
  • “you’re right. i’m selfish, & i’m stupid.”
  • “make some room, outcasts.”
  • “what’s next, selling her hair extensions?”
  • “it’s off-brand & sends a false message about acceptance.”
  • “shut the hell up, or you’ll find out!”
  • “i just hate when people disrespect my cinematic experience.”
  • "i’ll figure it out. i always do.”
  • “you are not the things you said.” 
  • “you’re not stupid. this wasn’t your fault.”
  • “i have a strong inkling.”
  • “threatened, much?”
  • “i learned that from the nancy drew detective handbook.”
  • “if you really are my friend, you’ll drop this.”

@thunderboltsortofapenny said: No no let’s do this! Why would steve need to be fake married. Or why would bucky need to be fake married to Steve. We need a reason. #Viper do the thing #It’ll be fun!

So I did the thing, and it’s stupid and terrible, but here, have it:


Bucky’s an EMT. Normal guy, just living his life, trying to help where he can. And then one day, all of a sudden, the aliens are invading NYC, and Bucky’s out there helping, right in the middle of the danger zone because of course he is.

There’s a fight going on, and a bunch of freaks in weird suits seem to be fighting the aliens, but Bucky doesn’t have much time to focus on anything other than all the people in dire need of medical attention. He does what he can to help, grabs the first metal bar he can find and fights only the aliens getting in his way, and works himself to exhaustion. Then there’s a blast, and it sends a man flying right into the wall next to him.

“Hey, you okay?” Bucky asks, rushing to help him, and though Bucky could’ve sworn the blow was hard enough to crush anyone’s ribs, he’s surprised to see the man–who must’ve been on his way to a costume party–stand up practically unscathed.

He’s got broad shoulders and a strong jaw and eyes of the prettiest shade of blue Bucky’s ever seen, and even with his face covered in soot and grime and blood, Bucky’s heart skips a beat.

For a few seconds the man seems a bit disoriented, then he finally registers Bucky’s presence. “What are you doing here?? Get out of the streets!”

“I was–” Bucky starts, and is cut off by an explosion right above their heads and a bunch of debris raining down on them, and a hand shoving him aside.

When he comes to, which is a surprise in itself, the dust has started to clear, and the man who’s clearly saved his life is carrying him as if he weighed nothing, concern in those beautiful eyes and a big, warm hand pressed tenderly against Bucky’s neck, checking for a pulse.

He locks eyes with Bucky and sighs in relief, the hint of a smile on his plush lips, but the hand remains where it is. “Hi,” he says. “You all right?”

“Y-yeah… Thank you,” Bucky replies, but he doesn’t move to free himself of the man’s arms. His stomach is doing something weird, and the man surely has other people to rescue, but for a few seconds they both just stay there, shell-shocked and staring at each other like the world around them has stopped.

Then something blows up nearby, and the spell is broken.

Carefully, the man helps him to his feet, makes sure Bucky’s in one piece, and then says, “Find shelter, okay? Stay inside.”

Bucky’s not planning to, but he can’t find it in him to tell that to this incredible man, so he slowly licks his lips and nods. Before turning around to leave, the man offers him a small, shy smile.

- - - - -

During the next few weeks after the Chitauri attack on NYC, every single piece of footage of the Avengers fighting against the aliens and helping civilians goes viral. Phone videos, security cameras, blurry pics.

The most popular, by far, is a snapshot of Captain America carrying a guy, who can be seen fighting aliens and helping people in other videos, bridal style, thumb caressing his jaw, and both looking like lovestruck teenagers.

Bucky can’t go to the grocery store or even do his job without being stalked by the paparazzi or Cap’s groupies or just random people wanting to know what his Avenger name is, and for how long he’s been dating Captain America.

- - - - -

“You’ve ruined my life!!” Bucky tells him, because of course, of course Captain America would pick Bucky’s park for his morning run. Of course Bucky’d slip on wet leaves on the pavement precisely this morning, and of fucking course Captain America would just happen to be around to catch him at just the right time. Bucky’s seeing red.

“I’m sorry,” Captain America says, and it’s extremely unfair just how genuine and how much like a kicked puppy he looks.

Christ, Bucky wants to punch him.

- - - - -

Steve’s been living in PR hell.

He’s spent the past weeks “saving” girls and boys alike from getting hit by a bicycle, or fainting, or a fuckton of equally stupid shit.

The second anyone spots Captain America, there’ll suddenly be some kind of dangerous situation going down, and someone hoping Cap will carry them bridal style to safety and maybe fall head over heels in love with them in the process.

Steve is tired and done and ready to get back in the ice for another few decades, and shares Pepper’s worries that someone might actually put themself in real danger soon.

“We should handle this before it gets worse,” Nat says. And Steve agrees, of course, but he just doesn’t know how.

“Just marry the guy,” Clint suggests.

Steve almost chokes to death on his own spit.

“WHAT?”

Clint shrugs. “Why not? Half the world already thinks you’re dating…”

“Clint, he hates me…”

“Only cause people keep pestering him about this. If you two get married it’ll be a circus, but then it’ll blow over. He can’t even do his job right now, right? So you pay the guy for the trouble, yadda yadda, then when this is over you two get a quick divorce, and that’s it. Problem solved.”

For two minutes, no one else opens their mouth. Then:

“He’s got a point…”

“Tony, no,” Steve whines.

“You saw the footage, how he was helping those civilians… If you have to marry someone, he’s not a bad candidate,” Nat says, and then smirks. “Plus, he’s cute.”

Steve already knows he’s lost this battle, but that doesn’t help him feel any better about this. Yes, he’s cute. Yes, he’s a brave and kind and smart guy. Yes, Steve could very easily pretend to be married to him for a while and yes it’d help them both. None of that’s the problem.

The problem is that he kind of really likes the guy.

The problem is that the guy hates him.

This is a really, really bad idea.

Concept: Magnus gets the idea to train service dogs from watching his friends struggle with PTSD after destroying the Hunger.

Sure, the world is saved and everything is at peace and the entire IPRE crew gets happy endings.  But the events of the past year, past ten years, past one hundred years don’t just go away because you’re at peace.  In real life, it’s when you get out of the shitty, surviving day-to-day situations that you realize you haven’t been coping, just…managing.  It’s then that your survival mechanisms keep going because you’ve needed them for so long, but there’s nothing to survive.

It’s been implied that Taako has trouble with nightmares within the podcast, so imagine him finally settling down, opening up his magic school, reunited with his sister and brother-in-law and in a nice, stable relationship with a sweet boyfriend…but he still has nightmares.  Maybe they’re even worse now, since he can remember the stolen century.

Not to mention, I think he and Lup will have this sort of borderline co-dependent relationship for a while, particularly on Taako’s part.  Lup…well, it’s hard to say she was with Taako, exactly, but she wasn’t without him.  And she never lost him.  It’s also canon that Taako hates being alone, most likely because he knows he isn’t supposed to be.

So Taako is living his life, making public appearances, eating up the attention as he is wont to do, and then at night, he’s got these nightmares.  While I imagine that Kravitz, Lup, and Barry aren’t the only reapers, I do imagine that they keep odd hours and there are times when they are all busy.  So now he has sleepless, lonely nights, spent worrying about his family.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

i'm sorry if you don't answer these kind of questions, but i can't find a reason to live. my fear of death is the only thing keeping me alive. i keep trying to get better and stay positive but it's just one failure after another. can you please help me

My friend, the simple act of reaching out has made a stranger on the other side of the internet connect to you, hurt for you, worry for you. Until you find a reason of your own, stay alive for me, and all the strangers you could turn into reasons to live, all the possible friends and reasons that are out there that you can’t see yet. It is ok to find reasons in anything or anyone, if you can’t find a reason for yourself right now. My reason used to be the whipped cream they put on chillers at Gloria Jeans. I stayed alive for whipped cream. And now I’m living for other, less dairy-based reasons. Those reasons weren’t apparent to me then, but they are now. I promise the same will happen for you. 

I have been there. So many of us have. I am so proud of you for trying so hard to stay positive, it isn’t easy and you are being so brave! The thing about positive thinking is that it isn’t always going to be effective when you’re in a crisis, and it sounds like that’s where you are right now. Mental illnesses take us to an illogical place, and you can’t trust the negative thoughts you have when you’re in a place like that.

Try and get yourself into a mindset where your brain is a separate entity and you have to decide how to deal with it.

You could be its carer: you need to protect this tiny, scared baby. You need to be strong for them. You know it’s going to be ok, and you’re going to cradle it and tell it that it’s alright.

If parental care isn’t your style, let yourself be mad at it; it’s trying to ruin your day and hell if you’re going to give it the satisfaction. It’s a chemical imbalance in your brain, if you could hold it in your hand you could CRUSH IT, and you are a flesh and blood human, it can’t beat you?? Give yourself an enemy to usurp, tell it to go suck a lemon! Use harsher, less PG rated words if you need to. But get angry at IT, not YOU. YOU are just trying to be a living breathing human, here. YOU’RE not at fault.

Either way, it’s so important to keep telling the illogical thoughts “NO”, and those no’s don’t need to be positive right now, they can be methodical; “it’s not practical to be thinking like this,” “I know you feel this way now, but I have to do my laundry”.

Distract yourself as best you can until you’re able to get better help; favourite light-hearted movies, games, something that will take your attention. If there are people around you that can help, let them know you need them. And I will stress that again; LET THEM KNOW. You are not a burden, they NEED to know. Here’s the script, “I am depressed and need help staying logical right now. Can you please help me?”

If you haven’t already, I urge you to see a professional as soon as you can, even your gp can prescribe something that might help. Finally making that call to get professional help/medication opened my eyes. You can live a life where you’re not in constant combat with your brain.

In an effort to get this to you as soon as possible, I’ve copy and pasted a list of helplines and message centres from @codedredalert below (so I apologise for stealing it it and that it is not something I’ve compiled myself). You ARE going to get through this. You will find your whipped cream. You BELONG here, and your life will change for the better. Don’t let your brain win. I love you.

Depression Hotline: 1-630-482-9696

Suicide Hotline: 1-800-784-8433

LifeLine: 1-800-273-8255

Trevor Project: 1-866-488-7386

Sexuality Support: 1-800-246-7743

Eating Disorders Hotline: 1-847-831-3438

Rape and Sexual Assault: 1-800-656-4673
Grief Support: 1-650-321-5272

Runaway: 1-800-843-5200, 1-800-843-5678, 1-800-621-4000

Exhale: After Abortion Hotline/Pro-Voice: 1-866-4394253

Child Abuse: 1-800-422-4453

Text (in case you aren’t up to making a phone call) hotline: 741-741 (Text CONNECT to begin, more info at  http://www.crisistextline.org/ )

UK Helplines:

Samaritans (for any problem): 08457909090 e-mail jo@samaritans.org

Childline (for anyone under 18 with any problem) : 08001111

Mind infoline (mental health information): 0300 123 3393 e-mail: info@mind.org.uk

Mind legal advice (for people who need mental-health related legal advice): 0300 466 6463 legal@mind.org.uk

b-eat eating disorder support: 0845 634 14 14 (only open Mon-Fri 10.30am-8.30pm and Saturday 1pm-4.30pm) e-mail: help@b-eat.co.uk

b-eat youthline (for under 25’s with eating disorders): 08456347650 (open Mon-Fri 4.30pm - 8.30pm, Saturday 1pm-4.30pm)

Cruse Bereavement Care: 08444779400 e-mail: helpline@cruse.org.uk

Frank (information and advice on drugs): 0800776600

Drinkline: 0800 9178282

Rape Crisis England & Wales: 0808 802 9999 1(open 2 - 2.30pm 7 - 9.30pm) e-mail info@rapecrisis.org.uk

Rape Crisis Scotland: 08088 01 03 02 every day, 6pm to midnight

India Self Harm Hotline: 00 08001006614

India Suicide Helpline: 022-27546669

Kids Help Phone (Canada): 1-800-668-6868, Free and available 24/7

suicide hotlines;

Argentina: 54-0223-493-0430

Australia: 13-11-14

Austria: 01-713-3374

Barbados: 429-9999

Belgium: 106

Botswana: 391-1270

Brazil: 21-233-9191
China: 852-2382-0000

(Hong Kong: 2389-2222)

Costa Rica: 606-253-5439

Croatia: 01-4833-888

Cyprus: 357-77-77-72-67

Czech Republic: 222-580-697, 476-701-908

Denmark: 70-201-201

Egypt: 762-1602

Estonia: 6-558-088

Finland: 040-5032199

France: 01-45-39-4000

Germany: 0800-181-0721

Greece: 1018

Guatemala: 502-234-1239

Holland: 0900-0767

Honduras: 504-237-3623

Hungary: 06-80-820-111

Iceland: 44-0-8457-90-90-90
Israel: 09-8892333

Italy: 06-705-4444

Japan: 3-5286-9090

Latvia: 6722-2922, 2772-2292

Malaysia: 03-756-8144

(Singapore: 1-800-221-4444)

Mexico: 525-510-2550

Netherlands: 0900-0767

New Zealand: 4-473-9739

New Guinea: 675-326-0011

Nicaragua: 505-268-6171

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Edit: fixed user mention

anonymous asked:

Hi! You seem to have become a sort of dinner consultant/therapist/cheerleader, which is delightful. I hope you don't mind if I ask a downer question--how do I will myself to make good food when I'm depressed, and feel deep down that I may not deserve proper nourishment? Than you, you're well.

I suffer from Depression, Bipolar, C-PTSD, ADHD and Memory Issues and yeah, I really get that feeling of not having the energy/focus/self-worth to make dinner.  I’m not a therapist or nutritionist, so all I can offer is things that have worked for me, and hope that some of them work for you:

It’s Better To Eat SOMETHING Than Nothing

No really.  There are a LOT of days when I’m too tired, too distractable or just too Blugh to cook.  And for days like that, I have microwave meals, or “put in pot and add water” things, like Mac N Cheese.  They’re not Organic, or Nutritionally Balanced but everything I’ve been told by every doctor and therapist I’ve had: EATING SOMETHING, EVEN MICROWAVE MAC OR CHIPS IS SO, SO MUCH BETTER FOR YOU THAN EATING NOTHING.

Food is not an all-or-nothing deal.  Humans have an amazing ability to take in nutrition from darn near anything that doesn’t kill us, which is part of the reason we’re all over the dang planet.  Any food is good food, esp when you haven’t eaten all day because your brain has been playing a shitty surrealist version of reality for you all day.

So when you CAN cook, cook, but if you can’t, don’t worry too much.  Just get something down your throat, and live to see the next, better, day.

Related: If you can’t do a full meal, but you CAN add *extras* to things to help you.  Tortilla Chips Depression meal? Add Salsa!  BAM! VEGETABLE SERVING!!  Can of beans? CHEESE.  OH LOOK, MORE PROTEIN.  whatever you can add is like, extra credit.  Good job you!

Actually Learning To Cook

So actually learning about food safety, spice theory, what happens chemically to food when you cook it and how to make different styles of cuisine confers a whole bunch of cool benefits for my sometimes-garbage brain:

  • I really like reading and learning new stuff, so making it a “learning a new thing” makes it less like a chore and more of an Interesting Distraction.
  • This doesn’t have to be any form of academically rigorous.  Like, watching cooking shows, looking up stuff online, or hell, googling stuff in the middle of the supermarket if something is on sale and you’re curious but don’t actually know what to do with it.   Good Eats and America’s Test Kitchen are both very educational and soothing to watch.
  • Also cooking shows are GREAT for both my anxiety and stimulating my appetite
  • Reduces the number of Thinking Spoons to actually make dinner.  If I have a general working knowledge of what things taste good and how to make them, it’s a lot less effort than trying to look up and follow a recipe.
  •   GO AHEAD AND USE SHORTCUTS.  No, really.  Those frozen cutlets of fish you stick in a toaster oven? GREAT.  pre-mixed seasoning? AWESOME. Frozen veggies are already cut up and are just as good as fresh.  Like if you don’t have the energy to do something, pre-made stuff is FANTASTIC for getting something healthy into your system for honestly not that much money or less in some cases.

Being Responsible For More Than Myself

The thing that has helped me take care of myself was getting engaged and a dog.  My mental illness has a neat shortcut where when I can’t do things for myself, I can magically do them for other people.  When I cook, I’m cooking for both myself and for my fiance.  Being responsible for making sure he eats a few nights a week is the biggest driving force in getting me to stay on enough of a schedule that I’ll be capable of cooking.  (He cooks other nights and whoever cooks, the other does the dishes.)

I realize that getting hitched is not in the cards for everyone and that’s hardly a reflection of one’s worth, but there are ways to add responsibility to your life if that helps with executive function.  Prior to meeting my fiance, My family had an elderly German shepherd with a sensitive stomach and I cooked him chicken and rice every night for three years on the vet’s recommendation.  Or maybe you cook for a neighbor once a week.  Or tie feeding your cat to you having dinner as well, becuase you can’t take care of fluffy if you’ve got low blood sugar, right?

Eating Is Self-Care, Like Taking Meds or Wearing Comfy Jammies

Another thing that helped me: Realizing that eating made me feel better.  Literally, if I keep my blood sugar stable (Prone to hypoglycemia), my mood’s better, I get fewer headaches, and so on.  What’s Healthy is different for everyone and I recommend talking to a nutritionist at least once to get an idea on what might be unique to you.  Most gyms, community centers or clinics will have someone on staff to help, but you should start by asking your GP for a recommendation.

So when I start too feel poorly, my checklist is “When was the last time I ate? Am I craving something?”  (Along with “Am I dehydrated?”  staying hydrated also helps with appetite issues) and I fin that I usually am.  Sometimes it’s salt, sometimes it’s a whole head of broccoli.  Food is our body’s main means of getting what it needs to survive and giving your body what it needs (even if it’s fat and sugar and carbs, which yes, you need sometimes) will make you feel better, I promise.

Eating Stuff You Actually Like 

Bananas are, allegedly, really good for me.  Potassium, vitamins, good fats etc.   They also taste like satan’s own diabetic mucus and I’m never gonna eat one if I can’t help it.  Just, No.  Don’t force yourself to eat things just becuase they’re healthy.  That’ll only make you hate eating.

Like I mentioned before, you, presumed human, can draw nutrition and calories from darn near anything.  So go boldly, and try new foods and spices and cooking methods and find things you actually enjoy eating.

  • Remember all those veggies you hated as a kid?  Try them again as an adult, because your taste buds literally change over time and things taste way less bitter than when you were a kid.  Try different cooking methods too- anything brassica is like 500% better tossed with olive oil, salt &pepper and roasted on a sheet pan. 
  • HOW you cook things makes a huge difference in both how they taste and how stressful cooking is.  Wanna leave something in a crock pot and forget about it until the timer goes off? AWESOME. Grilling becuase  you prefer something more engaging becuase you’re bored? ALSO GREAT.  Try out different cooking methids to find out what tastes good and is fun to do,
  • Are you one of those people that likes, 3 things, and can have them every night for eternity?  GO YOU, with your pre-planned menu!  Maybe call up a nutritionist to see if you need to be taking some extra vitamins, but really, this is fine too,

Ok this has gotten a mile long and kind of rambling but I hope it helps you!

i have too many feelings about michelle jones so here have headcanons and peter x michelle

this was obnoxiously long because i have no control so lots of stuff is under the cut and it became very fic-like at the end there, whoops. 

one (THIS ONE!) | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine

  • so michelle moved with her family to new york when she started high school
  • and mj was actually pretty sad to leave her friends back in chicago because it had taken a long time to make those friends and she always feels awkward around new people
  • so she isn’t very happy about The Move
  • she comes from a loving family
  • like, she gets kissed every night before she goes to bed, her parents read her bedtime stories until she was ten, she used to wear matching outfits with her mother, family movie nights were every friday
  • her parents were really good to her for the most part and just loved and supported her
  • they’re also pretty smart and since mj has pretty much always been inspired by them so intelligence and the acquisition of knowledge is really important to her
  • hence reading and academic decathlon, but she’s also into math and science too because she’s very driven and doesn’t have that many friends in new york so what else is she gonna do?
  • and her parents are an interracial couple and they’ve encountered a lot of hate and mj was always so sad when she walked out with her mother and people would give them weird looks
  • so she’s tried to end hate whenever she can and fights to give a voice to those who are silenced
  • but now cue mj going to high school in new york
  • she joins academic decathlon ofc because who do you think she is she lives for this shit
  • and then! there is this little shithead on the team PETER PARKER
  • like who the fuck does this kid think he is
  • answering all these questions, acting like he’s sooo smart just because he happens to know a lot of facts and is really good at physics and speaks spanish really well and also happens to be really dorky and adorable and okay maybe he’s kind of attractive too and maybe mj starts throwing herself more into academic decathlon and possible CONSIDERS joining band but that’s ONLY BECAUSE PETER IS A SHITHEAD AND SHE NEEDS TO SHOW HIM HE ISN’T THE ONLY TALENTED ONE OKAY
  • anyway

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

i don't remember if this has been discussed before but do you know why lexa was so smiley and almost playful in that scene in 304 when she was telling clarke about aden?

Alright, my brain is currently melting away because of the unbearable heat, so I hope this will make sense even though I’m not really sure about it. BUT. I wanted to answer this question because we kinda see the scene in a very different way. Maybe it’s my angsty soul, but I actually don’t think Lexa is being that playful in that scene. Actually… there are certain elements about it that I actually find sad, mostly because they speak of how Lexa is, of the way she thinks and sees things. In this particular case, the way she sees Clarke. Or even better, the way she reads Clarke’s reaction to the situation. But let me try to make myself more clear. (x)

The scene begins with Lexa asking Aden to stay so she can introduce him to Clarke. She proceeds to praise him, making sure Clarke knows his value, and to explain what is going to happen in case she should die during the duel with Roan.

I love how much you can read on Clarke’s face here. The initial confusion. Then, most important, the slight panic and worry at the mention of Lexa’s possible death. Her eyes actually go wide at that. Then, the moment when she connects the dots, when she realizes why Lexa is introducing her to this child, because he’ll likely be the next Commander. They’re mostly talking politics, but basically, everything about this scene revolves around one thing: Lexa’s death. And here we get to the part I actually find pretty sad.

Lexa sees the confusion and fear on Clarke’s face and, in a rare occasion when it comes to Lexa understanding and knowing Clarke, she misreads what she sees. 

What does she tell Aden? “Clarke worries about her people.” Clarke worries about her people. This tiny smile, almost resigned in a way, appears on her face, and she explains to Aden the apparent reason for Clarke’s worried expression. And this is what pains me: the thought that Clarke might be worried about her doesn’t cross Lexa’s mind. Her death is a reason for concern in the sense that it could lead to potential danger for Clarke’s people, not a concern because it would mean that, you know, she would be gone. Lexa talks about her death constantly and nonchalantly because she has been taught not to value her life outside of the confinements of her position as Commander. At worst, she sees it as an inconvenience, definitely not as a tragedy. Add the delicate condition of Clarke and Lexa’s relationship to this, the baby steps towards rebuilding trust and growing close again, and it’s pretty easy to understand why Lexa doesn’t think Clarke’s worry might have anything to do with her as Lexa the girl, not the Commander.

This is why she has Aden explain what he would do if she were to die, how he would still protect Skaikru and accept them into the Coalition. This is why I think she smirks. In her head, she has it all covered: Clarke has no reason to worry because she took care of every small detail to ensure Skaikru’s safety in case of her death.

Except that Clarke has every reason to worry, because she doesn’t care just about her people. She cares about Lexa.

anonymous asked:

I know you've gotten a lot of Hades/Persephone asks, but I've spent the last three days listening to Hadestown by Anais Mitchell - I have a burning desire to know how your Hades and Persephone would handle the Orpheus and Eurydice mythos?

The first time he hears of Orpheus is when Ares comes to him, in spring, when his wife his gone. Ares only comes to him when his wife is gone.

“Apollo has a son,” he says, dark eyes darting around like there’s something chasing him. There is always something chasing the god of war, and many of them now reside in Hades’s realm. No matter how many times he’s tried to reassure Ares that he’s safe here, he doesn’t believe him.

“Apollo has many sons,” he returns, dry. He reaches out and places two fingers under Ares’s chin, sees the bone-paleness of his skin against the rich red-copper of the younger god’s, and swallows. “You look tired.” Crescent purple bruises are carved deep beneath his eyes.

Ares doesn’t shrug off his touch, but neither does he lean into it. “I,” he finally meets his gaze, and Hades smiles, warm. Ares’s lips twitch up like he wants to return it, but can’t. “I haven’t been sleeping. There’s a war in the East, and they’ve been invoking me for weeks. I think I need to go there.”

He knows. There’s been hundreds of new people in his realm every day. Thanatos and Charon haven’t slept in weeks. Neither has he, for that matter.

“What will you disguise yourself as this time?” he murmurs, “Another general?”

That was the wrong thing to say. Are’s eyes go impossibly distant, and his skin gains a sickly grey hue. His hands aren’t shaking, so Hades has no reason to take them in his own. He can’t decide if he’s disappointed by that or not. “No. I – no. Just a foot soldier. Less guilt that way. Less – less. Just, less, that way.”

Less nightmares, less fear, less blood on his hands. Less of the constant, inescapable battle-fury that keeps him alive, but also keeps him from sleep, even on his best days. When Zeus declared his son the god of war, this probably wasn’t what he had in mind.

Hades hopes it isn’t, at least.

“Be careful,” he says, and Ares flinches.

He grabs Hades’s wrist before he leaves though, and squeezes it so tightly that it would snap if Hades was a mortal man.

There’s that, at least.

~

Persephone wears not the vibrant red that marks her as queen of the underworld, but the soft green that names her the daughter of spring. She sits on a smooth rock in the middle of the sea, her curly dark red hair brushing her bare shoulders. It’s the last day of summer. She goes home tomorrow.

Demeter does not strain to keep her daughter at her side anymore. Now she’s merely content to keep her away from Hades.

“Were you waiting long?” a voice like lapping waves asks in her ear, and Amphitrite sits at her back. She presses a kiss to her shoulder, and her long green hair tumbles down Persephone’s front and blends into her dress.

She tilts her head, allowing Amphitrite to trail salty kisses up her neck. “No. Have trouble sneaking away from your husband?”

She snorts. “I do not sneak.”

“You said you had news from my husband,” Persephone reminds, does not allow herself to become distracted. Not yet.

“About, not from,” she uses a single claw to cut through the back of Persephone’s dress. It falls down to her hips. “They’ve been waging war for months. A bloody horrible thing. And rumor is Ares was in Hades’s realm. People are saying that Ares sends the dead to your husband as tribute.”

People are idiots. Besides, she likes Ares. She does not mind that he visits her husband; she only wishes he would visit her as well. “Is that all?”

Amphitrite shrugs then bites at Persephone’s ear, “Won’t you come to the sea with me? My palace has many places more comfortable than this rock.”

She leans back, pulling Amphitrite down with her, and does not answer.

She is not Poseidon. She does not forget that Amphitrite possesses, but is not to be possessed, and she dares not follow this personification of the sea itself into her domain.

Amphitrite loves her. She may not give her back.

Persephone is not Helen either. She will not be the cause of any wars.

~

Thanatos, the boy who Hades still calls Icarus, sits with his head in his hands.  Hades reaches out and absently runs a hand up and down his spine, thinks not for the first time that he must have been a sight to see with his golden wings, for that glorious moment before he fell. “Persephone should be crossing the shore soon. Why don’t you go and wait for her?”

“I know what you’re doing,” he says, voice muffled, “Styx can bring her. Or she can walk herself, since there’s not a thing in this realm stupid enough to attack her.”

Hades leans down and kisses the top of his spine, “She likes it when you’re there to help her off the boat. Please?”

Icarus turns and glares at him. Hades kisses him below his left eye, lets his lips linger on the delicate skin there. “You’re cheating,” he accuses, a blush high on his cheeks, “this is cheating.”

“Stop working for a couple hours and go get my wife,” he commands softly, “The armies of traumatized dead will still be here when you return.”

Icarus listens ­– finally – and slips away to the river.

Hades looks back over the map. The problem with the dead is they never go anywhere, so his realm only gets bigger. He’s going to need get Hecate so the two of them can raise another city at this rate.

There’s a push in the air, and he startles. No one enters his realm without permission, but he recognizes the outline of the person trying to push through, and allows it. Ares tumbles from the air, and into his arms. He’s covered in blood, his long black hair is soaked through with it.

“Not yours, I assume?” he asks, gripping Ares’s forearms. He’s strung so tightly he’s nearly vibrating.

“I wish it was mine,” he says, somewhere between a scream and a sob. Hades wishes this was the first time Ares had come to him like this.

Ares locks his wrists around Hades neck and pulls him down, knocking them both to the floor in his exuberance. His mouth connects to Hades’s, slick and tasting like sulpher and metal. “I have to go back soon,” he gasps, dragging his lips along the edge of Hades’s jaw, “they’re invoking my name. Distract me until then.”

He still has hours until Persephone will return home, and besides she would not deny him this. “Okay,” he whispers, and when he rolls them over they’re no longer in his office, but his bed. Ares keens and strains his body up towards Hades, and he grabs the young god’s wrists and pins him to the bed. “Do not worry,” he says, and Ares’s whole body glistens red with blood that isn’t his own. “I’ve got you.”

Ares relaxes, just the smallest amount, under his hands.

He’ll take what he can get.

~

She can tell Ares was there before even steps foot in her palace, and knows it for sure when she enters her bedroom to find her husband naked on their bed and covered in blood.

“How is he?” she asks, and he startles, having been so deep in thought he hadn’t noticed her.

“Persephone,” he greets, his whole face going soft as he pushes himself up. He holds out a hand to her, and she doesn’t hesitate to drop her cloak and crawl over the bed to him. She hikes up her dress and straddles him, arms crisscrossing behind his neck. She kisses him slow, licks over the places where Ares had bitten his lips. “I’ve missed you.”

She rolls her hips downward, and is gratified by the way his hands flex on her thighs, “As I have missed you, husband.”

She kisses mortal blood off his skin, and tries not to worry too much about the man who left it there.

He’s survived every war since his birth, and he’ll survive this one too.

~

Aphrodite enters his realm, her hair piled atop her head and held together with copper pins fashioned in the shape of delicate flowers. “Apollo has a son,” she says, biting at her bottom lip.

He and Persephone share a glance before he says, “Apollo has many sons.” He feels as if he’s had this conversation before.

She quirks her lips in a half smile, “This one is different. He plays the lyre, he plays it better than his father even. He plays it so well that – that there are rumors that he can sooth any beast to sleep. And,” she adds, even quieter, “that Ares himself is soothed by his playing.”

“Why are you telling us this?” Persephone asks coldly. Hades places his hand on top of hers. They like Aphrodite, after all.

“Because I know Ares cares for Hades,” her eyes flicker over to him, “and I believe Hades cares for him as well. I – I could not accept his proposal. My love was not the peace he thought it would be. But I wish him well.”

“We can neither kidnap nor kill a son of Apollo,” Persephone says. Hades feels compelled to add that they shouldn’t want to either, but he can already tell this is a situation which is quickly going to spiral out of his control, if it hasn’t already.

Aphrodite raises a hand to tuck her hair behind her ear, then lowers it when she realized her hair is already up. “He loves a mortal girl, Eurydice. If she were to die, he would be beside himself in grief. Enough to take his own life, even.”

“Really,” Persephone says flatly.

Aphrodite continues, “Then he would be a subject of your realm. You could compel him to help Ares, could you not?”

“I have subjects, not slaves,” he says, “I can’t make him do anything.”

Persephone puts her hand on his arm, eyes bright. “I have a better idea.”

~

Aphrodite’s plan had merit, but this is better. Smarter. It gives Apollo less reason to be upset at them later, since his son comes to them now on his recommendation. Although he’s far too attached to all his limbs to dare cross her regardless.

Orpheus bargaining with her husband now, and she’s given Hades strict instructions, that Orpheus must agree to play in their courtyard for eternity if he fails. He won’t cross her either, even if he wants to, even if he’s not totally comfortable with this plan.

She knew when she married him that he was too soft hearted for his own good. It’s half the reason she married him in the first place.

For now she circles the girl that the half-god had been so willing to risk everything for. She’s attractive enough, but plain, and she has no particular talents nor is she overtly clever. “What makes you so special?” she asks, when she sees nothing but an average young woman.

Eurydice smiles then, and she’s much prettier that way. “He loves me,” she answers, cheeks flushing. She hesitates, but asks, “Will you really let him take him me back?”

“As long as he listens, as long as he leaves the underworld without looking back at you, you are free to follow him and return to the world of the living,” she agrees, but knows that will never come to pass.

Orpheus loves her too much to risk leaving without her, and his doubts will overcome his hope. He will look back, and become trapped here forever.

~

The window of one of the spare rooms is open, and the most beautiful playing comes through. Hades sits at the edge of the bed, and reaches to run the back of his finger across Ares’s cheek.

The war still rages. A war always rages. Yet Ares sleeps, the bruises under his eyes becoming lighter by the day.

He turns toward Hades, straining in sleep for his touch. Hades hesitates, but his realm is stable enough for now. He slips beneath the covers, and almost immediately Ares curls into his side, tangling their legs together and pillowing his head on Hades’s chest so he can feel Ares’s damp exhales on his sternum.

There will always be another war, and Ares cannot stay. But for now he sleeps peacefully in Hades arms, and that will have to be enough.

~

Persephone sits in her garden in the courtyard, listening to the same beautiful song.

“This one is my favorite,” Eurydice says, seated besides her and beaming.

She glances over to Orpheus, who grins wide as he performs a love song for his beloved wife. Behind him is the cottage tucked in the corner of their courtyard where Eurydice and Orpheus live.

“Mine too,” she says.

Hades was too soft hearted for his own good. She’d known that when she married him.


gods and monsters series, part xi

Tastes Like Strawberry

Plot (Requested): Just some smut Draco x Reader.

Warnings: My first smut, sorry if it is bad. SMUT: Oral sex (female receiving), kind of public sex. Let me know if you guys want a part 2!

Word Count: 1.015.

Author’s Note: English is not my first language, so if there are mistakes I’m sorry. Message me and I’ll correct them. Also, thanks for almost 2K followers. You guys are making me really happy. My classes has just started, so I won’t be posting a lot. Sorry about that, but don’t give up on me!

Originally posted by tearswillalwaysfall

Originally posted by moan-s

The hallways were empty, what was quite useful for me and Draco. It was late, and we sneaked out our dormitories to hang out since none of us wanted to sleep. We ended up in the astronomy tower, the cold fresh air sending goosebumps up and down my spine.

“The sky is beautiful…” I said, looking up to the constellations.

“Not as much as you are.” Draco whispered in my ear and kissed my neck, hugging me from behind. I smiled at his silly complement and felt his arms pulling me more into him.

“That’s why you brought me here? So we could be alone and no one would listen if I screamed for help?” I asked, turning around to look in his Grey eyes.

“Believe me, Princess, if I was in intent to make you scream, it would be for more, not for help.”  He smiled sassy and kissed me. In that very moment it was like the whole world has vanished, and there was just the two of us, and I knew he felt that too. Being with Draco makes me feel good with myself and with life. I guess that’s what love means: to feel complete.

We were still kissing (who needs oxygen right?) when I heard an owl. I looked at the side of the tower’s balcony and saw Storm, my owl, with a package. I leaved Draco and walked to her, getting the small box from her hands and reading the note from my mom:

My dear, your idea for our garden worked. I’m sending the results. Miss you.

                                                                                                                              - Mom.

Curious, I opened the box to find it filled with strawberries, my favorite fruit of all. I smiled and felt Draco approaching me, trying to see what was it I had received. “I think I just found us something really good to do.” I said.

“Com’ sit here then.” He said, sitting in the ground and tapping his lap. I rolled my eyes and went to him. Although I would never confess, I loved when he was kinda bossy like that. It was just… Hot. There are not other words to describe it. I sat on his lap and got one of the strawberries from the box, handing it to him. When he went to grab it with his mouth I ate it. “Really Princess, you’re going to play this game with me?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I said, innocently and grabbed another fruit. This time, I actually did teased him, eating that thing in the most sexy and insinuating way I could. I don’t think that looked like I pictured, but Draco seemed quite turned on, so I didn’t mind at all. “I’m just eating.”

“I’m going to ‘just eat you’ out any of these days.” He said seriously enough for me to believe. I knew he was messing with me back, because his words affected me like no one’s else could, but I wouldn’t loose, not this time.

“I bet I taste better than this things…” I said, biting another strawberry.

“I bet on that too.” He said, using one of his arms to position me better on his lap. “Actually, I know you taste away much better then these.” He said, kissing my neck softly and running one of his hands through my leg, dangerously close to my pussy. “In fact, I wouldn’t mind tasting you right now.” With that I felt his hand slipping inside my pants. His fingers teased me and I moaned. “Merlin’s sake, Princess. I haven’t done anything and you’re already this wet?”

I knew he was smiling victorious, but I couldn’t care less.

“Draco… Please…”

Say it once more, Baby Girl. You know how much I love it when you beg.” He took the box of strawberries from my hand with his free one and putted it aside as he kept teasing me. I moaned again, and heard him laugh. “Just ask Princess. That’s all you have to do.” He whispered, biting my ear lobe.

“Fuck me.” I begged.

“As you wish, my love.” His fingers found my clit, pressing it gently and earning a loud moan from me. “Be quite, Princess, or you’re not winning anything.” I bit my lip, trying to focus on staying shut, but it was quite hard when Draco’s fingers slowly started bumping on me. I felt myself getting closer as his rhythm speeds up, and when I was at the age he took his hand off me, leaving me feeling empty.

“What the fuck Draco…”

“I said I wanted to taste you, darling. That’s exactly what I’m going to do. I just need a better place…” He held my waist and apparated us to an empty classroom. “This will do it.” He said, trowing me upon the table and laying me down.

“What if someone cough us?” I asked, nervous.

“Be quite and no one will.” He said, smiling as he knew he was going to make it really difficult for me. He positioned his self between my legs, pulled my pants off and started kissing my thighs, slowly coming up. “You smell good. Fuck, how’s that even possible?” He whispered for himself and got to my panties, sliding them down and taking them off me. I was starting to get impatience when I felt him kiss me gently, just to get rough right after, sucking on my clit. I had to bit my lip to the point of it almost bleeding so I could be kept shut. He smirked and inserted two fingers inside me, thrusting fast.

“Draco… Fuck… I’m going to…” I tried to not scream his name.

“Come for Daddy Princess.” That nickname was all I needed to cum hard. Draco licked me up and then helped me sitting on the table. I tried to catch my breath and he smiled, probably proud of the good job he has done. “As I said. Better then strawberry.”

I laughed. How could he go from such a Sex God to a jerk, I’d never understand. But Merlin’s sake, I loved it.

I’m not sure why I hate the epilogue of Harry Potter so much, but I always imagine Harry getting completely BORED of normal life a year into it. He can’t handle it. His life has always been filled with trouble, kind of like Lord Tennyson’s view of Ulysses, and he goes stir-crazy, engaging in reckless behaviour almost daily. Hermione is worried sick because it’s causing Harry and Ginny to fight. ‘You got through all you went through in your 19 years just to kill yourself on some bloody dare?!’

Draco Malfoy shows up on Hermione’s twentieth birthday with a story of how he can’t handle how he was a coward and talks of how he killed a demon that tried to devour an old lady on the outskirts of muggle London. He says he wants to do this again; the thrill of it was amazing but he needs a partner or two. Harry and Hermione are all for it. Hermione, too, has grown tired of the Ministry life. After all, she has already secured rights for elves and goblins if they want them; that only took her a year. Hunting evil things is appealing, and she’ll be helping not only the wizarding community but the non-magical one as well.

Ginny is furious and leaves Harry for Blaise Zambini. Ron is not keen on more adventure, either. He decides he would rather help George at the joke shop than work with a Malfoy, although he, Harry, and Hermione will stay in touch. ‘Write to me every week,’ he threatens, ‘or else.’

Harry, Hermione, and Draco go on to live their lives doing the things Gilderoy Lockhart only claimed to do: battling demons, ghosts, poltergeists, sirens, urban legends, vampires, and more –all with a magical tent and three wands instead of a Chevy Impala and guns.

They call on Luna Lovegood whenever they encounter a creature they know next to nothing about, pop in on the Weasleys from time to time, and even allow Ginny to write books of their travels based on Hermione’s obsessive journal-keeping.

They become animagi. Hermione watches in surprise as her patronus changes into something unexpected. To her utmost delight, they learn about different forms of magic, even gain new magical abilities whenever they encounter a wise tutor well-versed in the more obscure magical arts.

Odd things happening while on the road are completely normal: one time, this crazy drunk American fangirl dressed up like Supergirl, who went by the name of Charlie Bradbury, latched onto Hermione’s back like koala bear when they were investigating a case at Comic-Con and wouldn’t let go, proclaiming as loud as that Banshee that one time in Ireland that Hermione was her idol, and that she was so glad she didn’t actually marry Ron.

'She reminds me of you when you were around Gilderoy Lockhart,’ Harry had said with great fondness afterwards. The backhand he took to the gut and death glare from his best friend, he thought, were completely worth it. 'Look at it this way, Hermione, she was so drunk she got a Princess Leia tattoo. She won’t remember anything.’

Imagine Hermione frustrated and flustered with her head in her hands as Harry and Draco’s school rivalry almost cost them their lives yet again. Then, she loses her temper, and both boys shrink back in fear. 'Has she always been this scary?’ Draco mutters out of the corner of his mouth to which Harry can only nod furiously. The disappointment the both of them feel is almost childlike. Draco and Harry become very close. Killing creatures will bond even the worst enemies together.

It changes Draco. All of his prior prejudice is smashed having spent so much time with his childhood rivals, and he becomes a much better person for it. Harry is reminded of Snape, and how Dumbledore once voiced he thought they sorted too early. Maybe Draco belonged in Gryffindor, too. Though the pain etched deep within Draco is visibly fading, it will never go away completely, and Harry often wonders what would have happened had he been sorted into Gryffindor with them.

Harry, however, is fully satisfied in that moment. They are in the middle of a hunt. Sitting against the front of the tent in a small forest on the east border of Paris, Harry lets out a long sigh. It is the first time he feels truly at ease in a while. Adjusting his glasses, he takes in the loving and relaxing company of two of his closest friends.

Draco is fiddling with the old radio, and tears of laughter escape Hermione as she reads. This is a normal night for all of them. 'Albus Severus?!’ she hollers, unable to keep her grip on the novel that has her undivided attention. The pumkin-coloured book falls, still open, flat on her stomach, and she dissolves completely into a fit of giggles. 'Muggles have quite the imagination these days, don’t they, Harry?’

'It’s not that bad of a name,’ Draco says, rolling his eyes. He turns the dial on the radio, and a hauntingly familiar tune sounds through it. His annoyed frown is replaced by a smirk, 'Your song is playing, you two.’

Harry can’t help but snort. Hermione throws a sarcastic remark towards Draco over the name Scorpious, before Harry finds himself being dragged to his feet by his childhood friend. Green eyes meet brown ones with a grin. They can’t not dance to 'Oh Children.’

Holding Hermione’s body close to him and swaying to the music under the stars, not all that different from the time they did a little over five years ago, he knows he made the right choice in going on the road. He is drinking life to the lees. This brilliant life with all its scars, beauty, and constant excitement is magical. It has made everything well again.

—  Non-Canon Epilogue : Drinking Life to the Lees

i. domesticity

I drink milk every day because my doctor says I need it to grow. Kind of like I need this calcium rush in order to make my bones stronger so I stop cracking them so easily. Preventing them from ever reverting to the weak, knobbly knees of last summer when a boy I had a crush on. Had a crush on, crushed me. Like a pulp. Into grains. Like a spoon grinding up soggy cereal swimming at the bottom of a bowl. I wake up in the middle of the night, remembering I didn’t drink 3 glasses today, and run to the refrigerator in my socks and chug it straight from the gallon, barbaric and yearning like a schoolgirl hitching her skirt up too high, and picture the white flowing through my veins. Softening me. Rounding me out. Giving me curves. I get a brain freeze instead and pray I’ll stop crying over spills and that I can sleep with this cold lurching in my stomach.

ii. vicinity

Maybe one day my hair will stop being so limp in the heat, but I don’t think that kind of thing can be anticipated, so I just have to wait. Girls like me live in the back of an un-air-conditioned convenience store, ratty sweatpants, tight tank tops, and crawl out with week-old receipts bursting from their pockets. Like glued ribcage kind of girls, like elastic hair tie, red marks around the wrist kind of girls. The cashier doesn’t mind when I snag a magazine from the rack and browse through it without paying because no matter how hard I try, I end up looking pre-pubescent anyway. And they let things slide. For a girl like me, at least. I’m saying, lopsided bun, wide eyes, a mouthful of crooked teeth, stars pulling them into their places, I was always too scared to get braces. The cover has some headline about how to enlarge your breasts naturally, which I think might be useful, and another about how to communicate effectively with others without saying hurtful things, which makes me laugh. I flip to the back to check my horoscope and eat that prophetic, adolescent shit catered to the teenage soul up like Eucharist laid under the tongue. Swallow down a spoonful of March’s: “Prepare to face some stress this month, but that’s okay! You’ll be able to get through it and find time to relax.” I want to rip out the page and shove it into my bra, like keeping these soft, meaningless words close to my chest will make them seep into my heart and change me. Stop making me think so much, fill my brain up with Arizona tea and static instead. But I’m cheap, and I shove the magazine back. I think my chest will stay flat forever.

iii. mobilization

I seek healing. Mending. I’m fingernails deep, sitting in the back of a subway at 3 a.m., pressing crescent moons into the leather seat, trying to dig up salvation. You can’t find that here, you can’t find that in the cracks between the tiles, you can’t find comfort in the ground up cigarette butt stamped into the floor. I’m wishing against this fogged up glass I could say anything, anything that would make sense for once, so someone could help me. Like please, my mind is bending in backwards, like please, I don’t think this underdeveloped chest can take any more of this resentment or it’s going to explode through my ribcage, out of my flesh, like please, I don’t want to hurt anymore. And it’s not my fault that I launch myself around like I’m in some sick little competition, pretending I don’t care, like I’m having the time of my life. Of course I’m not, of course I’m not, I don’t think having your hands shake and your brain go fuzzy whenever you think a little too much is fun, something to be documented for the world to see. I guess I’m different from other people that way, I’d rather people think I’m having a good time than actually have one without anyone knowing. I wish I knew how to sew, so I could stitch up my fibrillating heart, no matter how sloppy and crooked, but the needle jabs my finger as the subway lurches left, and I bleed, I bleed, I bleed.

iv. unearthliness

My mom told me not to walk naked in front of the altar. Disrespectful, she called it, and even though I agree, sometimes I test my divinity and emerge from the bathroom, the steam from the shower wafting off smoke like the incense in its pot. Young god, skin tinted green from fake gold. Young god, empty stomach, fruit scooped out of its rind, leaving me seedless. This hatred has roots, and I don’t know whether I want to dig out my insides with my hands or fill myself up until I’m close to bursting. I let people think the scratches on my knees are from a night of alcohol and a boy tugging my hair. Of course, it’s that and not child worship on a scratchy rug, not begging for forgiveness, not praying for glamour and glory, not hoping for. Of course it’s not hoping for something better.

—  this pain lasts in every location