folks, foods can absolutely be triggers and are triggers, stop giving people shit for having triggers that are foods, it’s so fucking tiring 

when i was admitted to a psych ward for the 2nd time a year or so ago they treated me so much worse than the first time because we had less money for them to suck out of us and they threw me in a small room with three other people, we had all less than a few hours ago been ripped out of our homes and shoved into this tiny room and forced to sit in these reclining chairs with curtains between us so we couldn’t make direct eye contact and they didn’t turn the lights off. we weren’t allowed to do anything, we were only allowed to talk if the security guard happened to be ‘nice’, they rarely let us go to the bathroom or get up at all and would threaten us

we were fed rotten food, they forced one of the vegetarian kids to eat meat or starve, a lot of other things happened that i can’t really say because it brings back so many painful memories but… the only things they’d give us to do anything with were these cheap saltines, there were a few in these plastic wraps yknow and they had like a surplus of them

we’d ask for saltines and they’d give them to us and that was all i had for several days. i ate saltine crackers, i sat there completely silent, i didn’t move, for a week. i wasn’t allowed to walk around, i wasn’t allowed to go outside, we didn’t see the sun, every time we tried to talk we were screamed at, other things happened that made me so much worse when i did finally get out of there (which i should not have, they purposely lied to my mom about what i was saying and lied to me about what my mom was saying so that i wouldn’t want to go home and my mom wouldn’t want to get me out, they almost sent me to a place that actually fucking kidnaps people and the people who ran it have now fled the fucking country) but i can’t forget about those crackers no matter how hard i try

it’s not funny and everything comes flooding back whenever i see saltines. i can’t eat them without feeling sick mentally and physically, i can’t do it. you don’t know someone’s story, you don’t know why someone might not be able to stand a certain food, don’t give people shit for it. fuck off

Do the Yoga

Summary: With the other Avengers aid, a jealous Clint Barton will finally break and admit his feelings to his crush. Oneshot, smut.

Warnings: language, unprotected sex(duh)


“How is you riding my ass helping again, Stark?”

Even the strongest of the beers being passed around the room couldn’t relieve the bitter taste that had melded itself into my taste buds. So, I sought out something solid in the bottom drawers of Tony’s fridge hoping to distract myself from the current bane of my existence.

Clint lounged away on the couch tucked neatly between the overwhelmingly broad shoulder of one super soldier and one god. Natasha reclined on the coffee table, refilling their shot glasses with something she promised their grandchildren would feel. Bruce respectfully declined and entertained himself with watching the other three men choke back the lethal concoction.

“Because he wants to ride you,” Tony replied, snatching up a roll of cookie dough.

Keep reading

A Little Reunion


Chevali was still as he opened the door and stepped in, calling to his family eho called back.

She followed him into the manor and looked around. This was… a bad idea… she knew it was, but here she was. She was quiet when someone said they were almost ready, rather happy to just follow him than lead for once.

Aamon nodded, keeping hold of Chevali’s hand to assure her everything would be just fine. Walking through the main entry way, wherein a few absurdist and minimalist paintings hung, Aamon and Chevali soon found their way to the main living room - and adjoined to it the Kitchen. For the night, it seems that Aamon’s mother was handling dinner, leaving his father to be encountered first.

Standing from his seat in a leather recliner, The full-blooded Stygian moved to stand, his skin seeming almost as though made of some material halfway between smooth skin and gravel - with a shimmering, gem-like substance appearing around areas where this substance grew in abundance. A tail behind him, covered in crystalline spikes, carefully swung behind him as he looked up towards Chevali. Despite the somewhat monstrous appearance, his wardrobe was immaculate - a dress vest, rolled up long sleeves, and dress pant combo that seemed tailor made to made his broad chest seem a bit thinner and try to distract from his height ; a full five feet.

“So… you are Chevali?”

He said matter of factly, rolling the name along his tongue. His father’s speech was slow and enunciated, waxed over with an ethereal drawl that seemed to carefully consider each individual syllable. The room boomed with the echo of his voice as he spoke. A clear speaker indeed. A claw swiped back his slicked-back hair as he continued.

“A pleasure to meet you. I am Abraxis.”

Here’s your sex scene

Vladimir Putin coos softly as he softly strokes Donald Trump’s well-fattened stomach. Trump had some extra weight, but he was one of those men who knew how to carry his excess flesh sensuously. Putin himself’s apparent paunch was merely a cover for his thickly corded muscles rippling under his skin, built from years in the Russian wilds wrestling with bears.

“Ohhh, Donald, my poofing, sagging, orange plasticine love” he purrs into Donald’s gently perspiring ear. “The way you invited me into America’s e-mails makes me want to invite you into my…..gulag,” he said with a wink and a lick of his pallid laps.

For his part, Donald reclined on the mauve silk sheets he shared with his lover and gazed wistfully at the mirrored ceiling as he took a deep sip of champagne from a crystal Waterford™ glass. His face scrunched in that way that Putin knew showed concern, every ligament and tendon straining to its fullest to keep his rough facsimile of human skin attached to the flesh beneath. 

“I just don’t know, Pooty. That….those Mexicans and that….” Vladimir had always found his stuttering endearing, except in bed when he struggled to talk dirty, dancing around the subject and repeating nonsensical variations of “Daddy’s gonna get that honey money” again and again. But I digress.

“That….WOMAN Hillary….with her disgusting…” Here Donny gestured wildly and spasmodically at his general groin area in a motion that clearly demonstrated a complete lack of basic knowledge of female anatomy. He sighed deeply, seeming to somewhat deflate.


“Yes, Trump hump?”

“Do you think i have small hands?”

“Baby!” Putin rolled on top of his paramour and cupped his face lovingly in his hands, staring deeply into his cold beady little eyes. “You never NEVER let ANYONE tell you you have small hands. You have the biggest hands i have ever seen in my life. And men in Russia…their hands are like the paws of polar bearwolves. Do you understand me?”

Donald remained silent, pouting slightly. Possibly. Even for Putin, it was hard to tell.

“Baby…would you like me to wear the mask?”

Donald smiled coyly up at his well-muscled sex fiend. “You’re hired, baby.”

Putin excitedly rolled off and opened the drawer, producing an orange latex mask with a blonde toupee affixed to it.

Donald grinned as he quite literally reached into his own ass and pulled out several dozen hundred dollar bills, throwing them up in the air in jubilation.

“Let’s make this bedroom great again, you pale Ruski bastard.” 

Oil on Linen

nocturne oil on linen
I’ll lean on the window, nothing
will be outside of darkness
which has a reverse side, lying
words all words all’s lying
I’m a lie, I’m a leaning shadow

a shade reclining

I’m vain, I’m bored, and I am cruel and shallow,
a riverbed of silver and alloy,
quick mercury,
and viscid, liquid shining

I miss everything about you. I miss everything about us. I miss the way you would tackle me to the bed to cuddle me with your big arms wrapped around me. I miss the way you would hit a bong and blow the smoke in my face with that sexy smirk of yours. I miss the way you looked at me. I miss our hikes when it was just you and I smoking out of our to-go piece by the water. I miss how we could just lay in bed embrace each other and make out for an hour. Fuck I miss the way your lips felt against mine. I miss your touch. I miss when you would let me cram my way into the recliner with you because I couldn’t stand to be a seat away. I miss me packing you bowls so that you could chat with the boys while playing live on Xbox. I miss the feeling of being so in love with you that I was blind to everything on the outside world because in my eyes all I saw was you. You were my world. I miss the feeling of it being us against the world because that’s how we started and sadly that’s how we ended. The world, this life, it got the best of us and we started to turn on each other. I wish we didn’t let them win. I miss the way you called me yours. And I would feel insecure and ask you if that’s really how you felt because I really didn’t see what you saw in me and you would just look at me and sincerely say “baby, you are my rock you are my everything. It’s us against the world and don’t you forget it.” I miss how crazy we were. I miss how you accepted everything about me. I miss us. Fuck I fucking miss everything about us! I want us back! I want you and me, I want it all back. I don’t want to feel like I’m having a heart attack every time I get anonymous messages about your love for her. I don’t want my head to spin every time I think about how I lost you. I don’t want to sleep in your god damn sweater just to make up for your body not being able to keep me warm at night! I don’t want to go day by day with every damn thing reminding me of you. I don’t want to get a head ache when I contemplate between whether or not if I should move on or stay waiting…… I miss it when I didn’t have to question our love. I miss our love…

“Ms. Dietrich agreed to our interview on the condition that it could be done in a dressing room at the theater,“ Jay Kent Hackleman recalled. "I certainly had no problem with that and she gave the entire interview reclining on a chaise longue and somehow that seemed absolutely appropriate.”

Check out this animated look of Jay Kent Hackleman’s 1969 interview with Marlene Dietrich, where she discusses the idea of sex symbols, America’s youth complex, and the traps of materialism.  (via @blankonblank)


The dust coated his lungs and he coughed loudly, making an effort to disturb the portraits above him. He felt sick.

But not sick in the way of which he thought he was going to vomit; it was a kind of sickness that was slowly numbing his brain and making him feel dizzy. His green eyed godson bade him goodnight with a small smile and Sirius watched him leave the room. He walks just like his father.

He thought, and sipped the ancient glass of firewhiskey that was in his hand. Everyone had gone to bed now, and it was just him alone with his thoughts. The clock striked three am, and Sirius swore loudly as it made him jump, almost knocking the bottle over. Bitterly, he reclined back on the ancient sofa and sipped his drink, the alcohol burning his throat, it made him feel alive.

He sat in silence for half an hour, occasionally taking sips and staring off at the portraits above who sneered at him. His eyes teared up and his head began feeling fuzzy. The green fire opposite him began to crackle, and he stood up and paced towards it, the bottle of whiskey still clutched in his grip. He swigged from it, and ran a hand through his tumbling black hair.

“Remember when you came out of this fire and rescued me, Prongs?” He stated, his voice coarse

“Remember how I was sobbing and screaming because that bitch had cursed me?”

Tears began streaming down his face, and he knocked back another shot of whiskey

“Remember..remember how she held her wand to Regulus’ throat and said if I went with you, she’d kill him?”

He spoke again, his voice growing louder with each word.

He stood up, and let the burning liquor run down his throat.

“Remember how I left him and went with you? Remember how fucking happy I was, and how in love I was with just being alive? And now look at me..I’m back here, I’m trapped, and where are you Prongs? Ah that’s right, dead! You’re fucking dead!”

Sirius screamed into the fire, and sobbed loudly, tears streaming down his face.

He would of carried on, if it hadn’t of been for footsteps approaching the living room. Sirius jumped and swayed drunkenly as looked onwards at the door.


The voice was tired, and stern. Sirius instantly recognised it to be Remus’.

“Ah, Remus! I’m having a party, you should come join me..” Sirius stated loudly, and again took another full shot of the whiskey.

Remus raised his eyebrows and folded his arms.

“It’s quarter to four in the morning. I was getting worried because you hadn’t of come to bed, and then I heard you talking to yourself”

Remus’ eyes moved to the almost empty bottle of whiskey in Sirius’ hand.

“Put the bottle down, Sirius” He murmured, a line which he had often repeated throughout the time him and Sirius had been together.

Of course, Sirius would deny ever having a drinking problem.

“No” Sirius stated, and looked Remus in the eye as he drained the rest of the bottle and dropped it on the floor.

It smashed instantly.

“Well done. Not only have you smashed the bottle, you’re also incredibly drunk and have made an idiot of yourself. Happy now?” Remus asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“It’s not like I’m running out. Have you seen how much alcohol my mother forgot to finish before she died? There’s loads of it, Remus. And I’m going to drink it all as favour to her” Sirius chuckled darkly and stumbled as he moved towards to the kitchen.

“Like hell you are” Remus growled, and grabbed onto Sirius’ arm to stop him from escaping.

Sirius turned around and his grey eyes narrowed.

“What’s it to you what I do to my own body?” He said darkly, but stumbled as he did so and put his hand on Remus’ shoulder for grip.

Remus sighed and wrapped his arms around Sirius’ waist and drew him closer to his own body.

He kissed Sirius’ forehead and looked into his eyes, cringing slightly at the state of Sirius’ booze breath.

“So many people love you Sirius, you know that right?” He muttered as more tears started falling from Sirius’ eyes.

“All of them are dead, Moony” He replied, and leaned himself further into Remus

“Harry isn’t dead, Tonks isn’t dead. Andromeda isn’t dead. Dumbledore isn’t dead, Magonagall isn’t dead” Remus stated calmly and put his hand on Sirius’ cheek

“I’m not dead, am I?” he asked.

Sirius shook his head and Remus smiled.

“You still love me after all these years? After everything I’ve done? Being the drunken fucking mess that I am?” Sirius asked, looking deep into Remus’ eyes

“Of course. That’s never going to change Sirius, do you understand?”

Sirius nodded and Remus grabbed the cup full of whiskey that was lying on the sofa.

He tipped it onto the ancient carpet below them carelessly, and pointed his wand at the cup.

“Augmenti” He murmured, and the cup became full of water.

“Down that, and then I’ll braid your hair for you. After that we’re going to bed, and in the morning were taking Harry out. You’ll be Padfoot. Do you understand?” Remus asked, and Sirius nodded, already finishing the water.

what’s your ideal chair? quiz (violin edition)

disclaimer: not a quiz about whether or not you prefer recliners or bar stools. sorry

1. do you have fun turning pages?

a. um … no

b. I mean, I don’t hate it but it’s not like a hobby of mine or anything

c. yes, because it means I get to take a break from playing

d. I don’t really care

2. what do you do before rehearsal starts?

a. tune, ask the conductor questions, confirm bowings with other people, etc

b. tune and practice my super flashy concerto, of course

c. eat a quick snack

d. I usually just tune and then sit there until rehearsal starts because I don’t want people to hear me play

3. do you bring a pencil with you to rehearsal?

a. pencils, pens, highlighters, crayons–everything I could possibly need

b. yeah

c. this is orchestra, not art class

d. usually

4. how often do you practice your instrument?

a. pretty much every day possible

b. often enough

c. never. I hate my instrument and myself

d. whenever I feel like it

5. how often do you look at the conductor during rehearsal?

a. every three seconds. it’s kind of creepy

b. whenever there’s an entrance, a section solo, or a part where the orchestra tends to get lost

c. I have enough trouble reading the notes

d. I try to every now and then

6. do you enjoy playing your instrument?

a. for the most part, yes

b. sure. why not.

c. no

d. as long as it’s not in front of other people I’m cool with it


If you got mostly A’s, your ideal chair is concertmaster. you come prepared to rehearsal and you’re very serious when you’re playing. good job

If you got mostly B’s, your ideal chair is third chair. third chair is great because you don’t have to turn pages, you’re very close to the concertmaster, but you don’t have the responsibilities that the concertmaster has. just please stop playing your concerto before rehearsal.

If you got mostly C’s, your ideal chair is last chair. you’re far away from the conductor and very close to the door. you can get away with doing some stuff. most of the time. 

If you got mostly D’s, your ideal chair is sixth chair. you’re in the middle of the section. sometimes you get mistaken as a second violin. no one in the audience can really see you. it’s like you’re hidden. you’re close enough to the conductor that you can see them, and the conductor probably won’t ever call you out and make you play something in front of everyone like they might the concertmaster. it’s great.