#flying by the seat of my virgin author pants

[essieeeeeeeee]

here, have a thing that nobody asked for but I wrote anyway.

shobbs rom-com hollywood au, part 2.

(also, for reference - didn’t want to have to deal with the “TWO MALE LOVE INTERESTS?? OH THE HETEROSEXUAL HORRORRRRRR” in this fic, so let’s say the majority of the world population here is bisexual and it wouldn’t be groundbreaking to have the roles filled that way, ok? ok. yay world-building.

also also, I’ve de-aged Deckard a bit [which is kind of hilarious, because the F&F franchise has already de-aged him from Jason Statham’s age to 46] in order to make he and Hattie’s age gap not so large, so say he’s about *handwave* 40 in this one or something.)

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

It’s a strange feeling, being back on set after so long away.

The hustle of crew members to and fro is a familiar rhythm, though, and Deckard watches it from the solitude of his spot against a far wall. An occasional roving stagehand gives him the side-eye, but overall he’s left alone, and for the most part ignored. That suits Shaw just fine - he’d always been a bit of a loner in the studios, even on the bigger budget films he’d been a part of, and he has no interest in changing that now.

There was some rather specific company he’d like to avoid here, anyways.

Deckard allows himself one more sweep of his gaze over the crowd - and, yes, still no hulking figures in sight, thank Christ - before glancing back down at the script in his hands.

It had obviously been through some edits since the copy that’d been sent with his contract. Shaw didn’t mind; it was a solid bit of writing then, and perhaps even more so now. The wit behind the lines was coy and humorous in a way that he knew the audience would appreciate, and there were plenty of spots where a little improvisation could work well.

The only issue he had was who he’d have to say these lines to.

“Reading your script?”

Shaw barely keeps himself from startling as Hattie is suddenly at his side, hooking her arm into the crook of his elbow. She smiles up at him; it’s got a wavering, nervous twitch to it, and Deckard is instantly suspicious.

“Perfect. Wonderful. Are you dehydrated? You look dehydrated. We should get you some water immediately,” she babbles, and suddenly he’s being pulled away from his spot and firmly guided in the direction of catering.

Deckard narrows his eyes.

“Hattie…”

“Hydration is important, Decks,” she says primly, refusing to look him in the eye while continuing to march them forward. Deckard looks to the ceiling in a silent prayer for patience.

“Alright, what are you on about?”

She puts a hand to her chest, as though offended.

“Can’t imagine what you mean - just trying to keep my brother from dehydration -” Hattie demures, eyes wide, innocent as the day she was born. But Deckard is a big brother, and he knows for a fact that his sister was a devil from the moment of conception, so that bullshit doesn’t fly with him.

“Hats,” he snaps, and stops in his tracks, forcing her to halt with him. "Touched as I am by your concern for the state of my piss - cut the shit. What's going on?"

Hattie wrinkles her nose. “That’s disgusting,” she huffs, unlinking herself from him and crossing her arms. And then, suddenly, the uncomfortable fidgeting starts, and Deckard’s eyes narrow even further.

His sister being nervous was never a good sign; twelve times out of ten, it meant some sort of shit for him specifically.

"You remember how Roman Pearce was supposed to be taking the third starring role?" she blurts abruptly, chewing on her lip. Deckard’s frown deepens into a sneer.

"I'm assuming that means the idiot backed out," he replies flatly. Pearce had never really liked him much after the Toretto incident; Deckard was honestly surprised when he'd heard that the man had even signed onto this project to begin with. The news of his bowing out wasn’t that shocking, all things considered.

It still didn’t explain why his sister was acting like a fucking spooked cat, though.

"Yes, well - oh shit-" Hattie hisses, eyes widening at something behind him. But before he can turn to look -

“Deckard Shaw!” a voice booms out from over his shoulder.

Deckard instantly stiffens.

A hand - large, heavy, familiar - finds itself on his shoulder. Shaw is somewhat proud of the monumental restraint it takes not to rip it the fuck off.

“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” the deep voice chuckles from beside him. “Been lookin’ all over the studio for you.”

Shaw swallows down the nasty reply that rises automatically to the tip of his tongue, and grimly locks eyes with his ex as the man circles round in front of him.

“Brixton,” he acknowledges numbly. The other man’s hand is still a firm and steady pressure against Deckard’s shoulder, and he hates it.

“Decks,” Brixton murmurs, eyes flicking over Deckard’s face. His tongue appears briefly to wet his bottom lip. “Been a long time, hasn’t it? Four years now, that right?”

Five, Shaw thinks, but refuses to say it, because he wasn’t fucking counting, goddamnit. He offers a tight smile in reply instead. Brixton’s knowing grin widens at the sight of it.

Deckard wonders, briefly, how much trouble he’d be in if he ended up punching another big-name star in the mouth.

He’s sure Hattie would cover for him, if nothing else.

As though catching on to Deckard’s thoughts, Brixton’s gaze drifts over to his sister, and his smile takes on an edge of bitterness. The man offers her a nod.

"Hattie," he murmurs in greeting.

"Deckard's ex,” his sister drawls in return. Brixton’s smile falters momentarily into a sneer before he laughs.

"Ah, no hard feelings on all'a that, right luv?” Lore’s hand squeezes Deckard’s shoulder, and Deckard again ponders the merits of inflicting severe bodily harm. “We're all adults here."

"Hm," Hattie humms, as though unconvinced, gaze flicking up and down the other man. Brixton's lips tighten.

“What are you doing here, Brixton?” Deckard snaps, interrupting the two’s pissing contest. He grows wary as the other man’s gaze jumps back to him and Brixton’s smile turns mean.

“What, you ‘aven’t heard?” he asks, amused.

And, Oh. Oh no, Deckard thinks. Dread prickles sharply at the nape of his neck.

Suddenly he understands what his sister had been trying to warn him about.

“They hired you as the third lead,” he answers dully, and as Brixton’s smirk confirms it, a feeling of numbness crawls over Deckard.

What the fuck, he thinks bitterly. What the ever-shitting FUCK is my fucking life.

He clenches his jaw and smiles tightly at Hattie, murder in his eyes. She makes a face back that clearly states ‘how the fuck was I supposed to know?’

“Got it in one,” Brixton chuckles, patting Shaw’s shoulder with the hand that still won’t let the fuck go. His eyes meet Deckard’s, and suddenly Brixton’s gaze is intent, burning, and the smile drops from his mouth as he stares. Deckard feels caught in it; he tenses.

“Looks like it’ll be just like old times, won’t it Decks?” he murmurs lowly, gaze flitting back and forth between Deckard’s eyes. “You and me? We should talk sometime.”

Shaw stays silent; he can feel Hattie’s frown of disgust, but Brixton’s always been overwhelming when he gets like this, and Deckard has never really been able to find a way to overcome that.

So he nods, stiffly, and Brixton smiles, giving another strong squeeze to Deckard’s shoulder before finally withdrawing his hand. The man takes a step back before clapping his hands together.

“Good catchin’ up with ya, Decks. Hattie,” his lip curls as he glances at her briefly. Hattie smiles sarcastically back. “Got a few things to take care of before the meetin’, but we’ll go for drinks later, yeah?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer before walking away with a swagger in his step.

The tense atmosphere doesn’t quite leave with him. It’s quiet between the two siblings for a few moments after Brixton’s gone; Deckard takes the pause to unclench the fists that he’d unknowingly made at his sides.

Finally, he raises his eyes to Hattie, and the anger in them is obvious. She flinches.

“Decks, I - I’m so sorry -”

“Just give me ten minutes,” he snaps, dragging a hand down his face. He can’t look at her right now without the raging urge to shout welling up in him. So instead he turns away, and starts moving in the opposite direction Brixton had swaggered off to.

“... we have a meeting in twenty -”

“Ten FUCKING minutes, Hattie!” Deckard snarls, stalking off without another glance behind him. 

(Part 3 here)

#deckard shaw #hattie shaw #brixton lore #hobbs and shaw #hobbs & shaw #shobbs romcom au #here have more awfulness #not sure how i feel about this part but whatever #what happens next??? do you know??? because i sure don't! #flying by the seat of my virgin author pants #my drabbles

[bexterbex]

A Soul Mend to Mend His Own | Ch. 15

Warning, if it hasn’t been obvious in the movies there is Nazi symbolism within the First Order. I will expand on this much more throughout the story. If this is something that bothers you, please just exit the story. The author does not condone any Nazi ideals, this is just for fictional uses only.

A Kylo Ren x Modern! Reader in a soulmate au with some canon divergence. —————————————SLOWBURN————————————–

He is already the Supreme leader, searching the universe to find you, his Empress. Your name on his wrist has been the only constant in his life, while you have doubts about his existence and his acceptance of you. He isn’t in the database and why did the name Kylo Ren cover Ben Solo?

Masterlist

Chapter 15: Forcing Space

Kylo leads you down the halls to your shared chamber. The main room was no longer empty, it featured a loveseat and coffee table with two large armchairs opposite of them.

“I was informed by General Hux that you may enjoy a sitting room in the co-living space as it is normal on Earth,” said Kylo. “I also have rather enjoyed the red sitting room at the White House.”

“I do like to curl up on the couch before going to bed sometimes,” you replied. “I also think it’s very sweet that you did this.”

With his helmet off you could see the light blush that dusted across his face. He made his way to his bedroom while you sat on the couch. You closed your eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of the morning now hitting you. You felt the cushion shift with extra weight. You opened your eyes and turned your head. Kylo was now in a black long-sleeved sweater and his pants were not the heavy leather ones from earlier, they were almost sweatpants.

“Tired,” he asks you.

“A bit, this morning was a lot. I don’t know how you do it,” you responded.

“It would have been easier if I had my temper under control,” he responded.

“No, stop thinking like that. It was fine, but you never explained to me how you did it. Was it the Force,” you asked.

“Yes, it was the Force.”

You sat up, “what else can you do?”

This question startled him. He paused for a moment before answering, “the force is like a web that surrounds all things. It connects us all with these invisible strings. I can manipulate those strings. I can bring an object closer to me or farther away. Lift something larger than I can physically lift. I can sense things and read minds, I can alter someone's reality and make myself undetectable to living things. And more, but those are the basics.”

“So superpowers, you have superpowers.”

With this you heard him truly laugh for the first time, it was a beautiful sound that you wish would never stop.

“I guess you could call it that, but I’m sure there would be many people who would call me a supervillain rather than a superhero.”

“Well, a villain is a hero in his own story and vice versa. So until history is written, which is written by the victors, you have no idea what you are.”

With this, he bashfully smirked and ducked his head while playing with his ungloved hands. This was the most naturally relaxed you have ever seen him. But that wasn’t saying much as you only met him yesterday. He grabbed your hand again, he seemed to like doing that.

“So how are you able to use the Force? Like can everyone use it or just special people,” you ask.

“Midi-chlorians,” he said simply. “Everyone has them, but there needs to be a certain amount in a person to be able to manipulate the Force. My grandfather’s midi-chlorian count was over 20,000, highest in galactic history. My guess is if you haven’t been able to move an object with your mind before you won’t be able to.”

This was the first time he ever mentioned his family, probably for a good reason so you didn’t question it. “So no superpowers for me.”

He laughed again, “no, no superpowers for you, but the good news is I have enough for the both of us.”

At this, you smiled. Thinking that you were going to be his Lois Lane to his Superman, or his Peggy Carter to his Steve Rogers. This made you happy and warm all over. He flipped your hand over and began running his fingers over his name again.

“Well I suppose I will have to live with that,” you said. This made him chuckle. You would do anything for that sound.

After a few moments had passed he asked, “is there anything you would like to do?”

You thought for a moment and an idea popped in your head. “I know you changed, but how about you take me flying.”

He perked up at this idea, “That sounds like fun to me. Just let me change again before we head to the hangar. You should also put on a jacket or something.”

With that, you both headed up the stairs to your respective rooms. You grabbed your fall jacket from your closet hoping you didn’t need your winter one. You looked at your phone which was now dead after not being plugged in. You wondered if Kylo could get someone to charge it for you. You left your room still looking at your phone, “Kylo do you think you could find someone to charge this for me?” You look up and saw him.

Kylo was shirtless and was finishing pulling up his pants over his boxer briefs. He turned to look at you. You could feel the heat rushing to your face as you immediately regretted walking in on his privacy. Walking over to you still shirtless, you could see beauty marks and scars littering his wide sculpted chest. He took your phone in his hands and said, “I’ll have Hux look into it."

While still blushing you nodded your head and scurried down the stairs to the sitting room. You weren’t a virgin, but it has been a while since you were that close to a shirtless man that you would possibly be considered romantic with. You were out of practice. A few moments later Kylo appeared fully dressed and was putting on his helmet. You took control of yourself once more and took his arm as he leads you to the hangar.

There he leads you to his TIE Silencer. He opened the hatch and sat down. You now realized that there was only one seat. Before you could even say something, Kylo pulled you into his lap, manhandling you into position. He shut the hatch with the Force and removed his helmet. Still, in shock, you didn’t move. He started the lift-off sequence and you were off in a matter of seconds.

You were now fully aware of the position you were in, but quickly became distracted by the stars. You were mesmerized by the vastness of it all. Kylo flew closer to the moon and you had to keep yourself from pressing up against the windshield at the awesomeness that you were beholding.

“Would you like to fly,” he asked. You could feel him shifting his legs under you slightly, trying to remain comfortable with you on his lap.

“Can I,” you ask excitedly.

He started to manhandle you into a more comfortable position for him, placing you more in between his legs rather than sitting directly on his lap. He took your hands in his and placed them on the steering handles, his large hands engulfing yours. You could feel the leather heating up to your hands. The metal of the handles were rough in an intentional grip fashion.

He quickly went over the controls, for the first few minutes afterward he kept his hands on yours. When he felt that you were comfortable with the controls he kept his right hand on yours but his left hand moved to your thigh. It stayed there for several minutes while you were flying around your solar system. You eventually started to feel it make its way to your belly, resting above your pelvic bone.

You felt Kylo shift his hips behind you. He pulled you closer too him with his left hand. Your back was now completely resting against his chest and abdomen. You felt his nose brush up against your right ear. Forgetting about the stars you were lost at the feeling of him. Unconsciously you removed your left hand from the handle and placed it over his. You were fine for a few minutes but then the Silencer began to list. Kylo quickly removed your right hand from the handle and resumed control.

“Sorry,” you said.

“It’s fine,” he responded, sounding as if he just woke up. His hips shifted again. This time you could feel them dig into your butt as they did. “Why don’t I show you something.”

In an instant, the ship gained lots of speed. Your hands clutched to Kylo’s thighs as you felt as if any moment you would fly out of the ship if you didn’t hold on.

He did a bunch of tricks and spirals that took your breath away. Breathlessly you said, “Wow.”

You heard him chuckle once more. And his hips shifted again, this time it took a few seconds for him to settle down. “You, liked that?”

“That was amazing! Of course, I liked it.” You turn around to face him, noticing his blush. You were heading back into the hanger, but he could not stop fidgeting the whole way back. You enter the hanger once again.

#kylo ren #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren imagine #kylo x reader #kylo x you #star wars #first order #star wars imagine #Star wars soulmate au #sw first order imagine #star wars first order #a soul to mend his own

[all-things-are-nothing-to-me]

Descending into Madness An Anarchist-Nihilist Diary of Anti-Psychiatry

Just sayin’... The opinions expressed in this text represent no other than my own. My position against psychiatry is based on my own personal experience and should not be taken as an authority on the subject. Psychiatry, medications, and or psychiatric incarceration is considered helpful by some, and I wish them the very best experience with it.

But also... To the ‘freaks’, the ‘weirdos’, the ‘delinquents’, and the unruly... To those who embrace these words like daggers drawn against civility, To the insubordinate youth who refuse to tranquilize their play with meds, To those who riot in the asylums, and those who dare to escape from them...

Let the moonlight illuminate our iconoclasm, witches and savage animals spellbinding fire in the night, for the destruction of society, with the courage of unmedicated confrontation.

Any society that you build will have its limits. And outside the limits of any society, unruly and heroic tramps will wander with their wild and virgin thought — those who cannot live without planning ever new and dreadful outbursts of rebellion! I shall be among them!” — Renzo Novatore

I’m sittin’ at a big round table with about three nurses and two doctors. My eyes are sensitive to the light cus I haven’t slept in days. A nurse directly beside me has been gently nodding at me with the same look of concern for about an hour. My vision keeps blurring and then re-focusing. My hands are slightly trembling. I’ve been fighting the urge to lay my head down since I sat down. It appears this awkward meeting is almost over, and I have some papers to sign. The doctor who has been talkin’ since I got here is still talkin’ and I admit, I haven’t really been paying much attention. Finally the talking stops and everyone stands up. The nurse beside me helps me up by my arm. I start to feel dizzy. We begin walking down a long hallway and eventually enter a room. Another nurse in the room greets me with a pillow, a blanket, and a pill to “help with rest”. Before sittin’ down on the bed I’ve been assigned, a nurse calmly requests my belt and shoe laces. I comply and decide while I’m up I might as well take a shit before I go to sleep. About five seconds after my ass hits the toilet seat I hear a commotion - frantic pounding and demands to unlock the bathroom door. Confused and startled, I jump up, trip over my pants, and unlock the door. Apparently I’m not allowed to lock the bathroom door - or have it totally closed while I’m in there. I quickly finish shitting in plain view of a nurse and walk back to bed. I notice a different nurse has pulled up a chair right beside it and sits down with a clipboard and pen. I lay down and try to get comfortable while accepting the awkward close watch by this nurse beside me. As I start drifting off to sleep I reflect on everything that’s goin’ on. Oh that’s right. Earlier today I tried to hang myself in my apartment and this is my first night in a psych ward.

**** INDIANAPOLIS, March 18 th 2018 — Resource Treatment Center Riot Nearly a dozen Indianapolis police officers were called to respond Wednesday night to a riot at a juvenile psychiatric treatment and addiction facility on the city’s east side.

Eleven officers were dispatched to 1404 S. State Avenue just before 11 p.m. Wednesday on a report of a disturbance at the facility. The location is home to the Resource Treatment Center juvenile psychiatric facility, as well as Options Transitional Living, which provides sober housing for homeless or at-risk youth.

Police arrived to find that a group of juvenile residents had done more than $50,000-worth of damage to the facility and assaulted four staff members. Officers took nine juveniles ranging in age from 13-17 into custody on preliminary charges of vandalism, rioting, battery and disorderly conduct.

****

During my time at this psychiatric prison I was subjected to what’s called ‘one on ones’ which basically means I’m at risk to myself and therefore require 24 hour observation by staff. Two different nurses watched me shit, sleep, cry in my sleep, and eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I was required to take meds and a sleep aid everyday. I had face-to-face therapy once a day. I was only allowed one 15 minute phone call per day. I wasn’t allowed outside at all. I was told to “set anchor” because the faculty had no intentions on releasing me “anytime soon”.

All the reasons I was originally depressed took a backseat to this new horror show I found myself in. Everyone in my ward talked about one day gettin’ out, despite being told they would “never make it on the outside”. I couldn’t help but notice the striking similarities to incarceration at a prison for criminals. This was a prison. The more I heard stories of attempted escape, violent physical repression, and hopeless isolation, the more I realized this was not a place to ‘get well’, nor any hospital I ever been to. These prison guards wore scrubs, enforced order with chemical warfare and physical restraint jackets. “The hole” was the padded room. Those who resisted were tackled to the hard floor causing cuts and bruises. And to the nurses and doctors, we were all just “case files” or “subjects” to be talked down to and humiliated. We were in their world now and it was their rules.

“We need a program of psychosurgery and political control of our society. The purpose is physical control of the mind. Everyone who deviates from the given norm can be surgically mutilated. The individual may think that the most important reality is his own existence, but this is only his personal point of view. This lacks historical perspective. Man does not have the right to develop his own mind. This kind of liberal orientation has great appeal. We must electrically control the brain. Some day armies and generalswill be controlled by electrical stimulation of the brain.” - Dr. Jose Delgado, a Spanish professor of neurophysiology and author of the book ‘Physical Control of the Mind: Toward a Psychocivilized Society’

The era of institutionalized ‘care’ for those with ‘mental illnesses’ began somewhere around the 19th century with heavy support from the state. Public asylums were built in Britain after the passing of the 1808 County Asylums Act. This created an upsurge of asylums being built everywhere. These asylums were known for inmates havin’ to live in filthy conditions with bars, chains, and handcuffs.

The Lunacy Act 1845 was known to have changed the status of ‘mentally ill’ people to ‘patients’ who required treatment. This led to the eventual chemical treatment of people as ‘medical patients’ – despite the fact that lab tests, X-rays, and brain scans have never verified psychiatric disorders as medical diseases or brain damage. Over time, this inspired the emergence of psychiatric medical experiments on ‘patients’ in order to chemically ‘cure’ their ‘disorders’. The 20th century saw an explosion of psychiatric drugs. The first anti-psychotic drug, Chlorpromazine (brand names: Thorazine, Largactil, Hivernal, and Megaphen) was first synthesized in France in 1950.

Psychiatry, asylums, and prescribed drugs contributed heavily to reinforcing social order and individual submission through fear. As the years went on psychiatry and asylums expanded, re-defining and strengthening the power of state repression and civilized control.

Along with this came an ever-expanding culture of publicly calling out those who were considered ‘disturbed’ or ‘mentally ill’. The first to be targeted were those who didn’t fit the narrowly defined behavioral expectations of society. In the 18th to early 20th century, individuals assigned female at birth were often institutionalized for damn near everything including unpopular opinions, social unruliness or a politicized refusal to be controlled by patriarchal society. Other individuals of various assigned identities who sexually deviated from hetero-normativity were institutionalized and considered “confused” and in need of being converted.

One major marketing scheme deployed by the pharmacology industry was the social construction of an ideal emotional state that every ‘normal’ individual was expected to experience. Today this same ideal can be found everywhere – from televised entertainment to billboard advertisements and so on. The ‘happy’ and ‘depressed’ binary was used to create social pressure leading people to feel isolated or out of place for not happily accepting the conditions of society on a daily basis. Being “sad all the time” was, and still is frowned upon and ridiculed – regardless of its complex nature and the reasons behind it.

Despite being emotionally fluid by nature, the individual human (animal) is expected to fulfill the civilized role of positivist supremacy. This normalized obsession with positivity plays a key role in suppressing emotional responses of outrage to the multitude of oppressive experiences. The obsession with - and normalization of - positivist performance also encourages people to overlook the deep-seated trauma caused by civilization on a daily basis. Everything from the fear of flying, car wrecks, workplace injuries, to being late on bill payments – all examples of fears attributed to trauma. But because civilized life requires wage-slavery and commitment to continue, these forms of trauma are trivialized and written off - usually followed by something like “that’s life” or “it is what it is”.

As techno-industrial society advances, new laws are constructed to create new definitions of ‘criminality’. This means there is an ever-narrowing idea of legalism. The same can be said for psychiatry. As more labels and identities for ‘disorders’ are created, the pharmacology industry expands. And as the conditions of capitalist, industrial society continue to worsen, more misery becomes available for exploitation with the sale of “feel good” prescriptions.

Under capitalism, where there are ‘correctional’ facilities, there is a profit motive to keep them filled. Where there are ‘inmates’ to fill those institutions, there is financial gain or cheap labor. And where there is any potential for social unrest, there is an ideology and identity to categorically define an unruly individual as ‘anti-social’. Society turns ‘disorders’ into categorical identities assigned to those it considers ‘undesirable’ in order to reinforce the social conditions that pressure people into behavioral uniformity.

Today, within the realm of identity politics, psychiatric-assigned identities garner social capital where ever victimhood is glorified for social benefit. As with any form of identity politics, I have seen many individuals exploit psychiatric identities by brandishing them as reasons to rid themselves of responsibility for their actions. And as this plays out in the all-too-familiar social cannibalism of identity politics, individuals personalize these psychiatric- assigned identities and create inverted hierarchies of social entitlement.

Ultimately, a new identity-based movement is formed, gaining media recognition and becomes assimilated into the broader prison of society.

****

Thursday, September 4, 2014 Riot at Central New York Psychiatric Center A dozen staff members were injured when several inmates started rioting in a kitchen area at the Central New York Psychiatric Center on Wednesday.

Four people were hospitalized for their injuries, authorities stated. The fight broke out at about 11:45 a.m., when five to six inmates started attacking staff in one of the kitchen areas using kitchen utensils as weapons, according to the state Correctional Officers & Police Benevolent Association. The inmates tried to fight their way into the mess hall.

At the same time, another fight broke out between inmates and staff on the floor above the kitchen, officials said. The emergency alarms were raised, and security personnel inside the facility were able to break up the two fights, with help from the state police.

****

After careful planning, I was released from psychiatric incarceration much sooner than originally set. The walls were closing in on me and the monotony of daily under-stimulation, medicated numbness, and confinement started breaking me down. Witnessing the prison cannibalism of infighting between incarcerated individuals, I began spiralling worse than I had prior to being there. On top of that, my two attempts to secretly organize a rebellion had failed miserably; the wards or ‘bunks’ were so small that an artificially constructed bond was easily created between most staff and patients. Snitching was heavily rewarded.

Nobody wanted “any problems”. So instead I turned to another method of emancipation; using my own high school knowledge of psychology to convince my therapist I was merely suffering from “a broken heart” due to a “recent romantic breakup”.

Despite the full spectrum of my hatred for society, the life I was living at the time, and the complex emotional storm that raged in my head on a daily basis, I was able to convince my therapist and the other nurses I was just upset over a breakup. The humiliation of having to role-play such a lie paled in comparison to my desire for freedom from that place. Released into my mom’s custody, I was required to continue taking my medications three times a day and seeing a counsellor once a week.

Against the wards request, I went back to living in my apartment. I could see where the police had went through all my notebooks as well as a pocket book of phone numbers. The noose I worked so hard to construct and attach to a wooden beam along my ceiling was gone. To this day I don’t know if my landlord took it or if the police did. My rent was overdue indicated by the notes in my mailbox. Luckily I was working a self-managed painting job at the time so I couldn’t get fired. I could start back up the next week.

That night I masturbated for the first time in what felt like years. But I couldn’t orgasm. The next day I called the doctor who dealt my meds. According to him, my impossible orgasm was common with people on psychiatric medication. A week went by and I continued to feel numb. Nothing was interesting to me. I often found myself watching the hands on clocks move or staring out my window at passing cars. I didn’t feel sad. But I didn’t feel good either. I just existed.

After about a month of being out of the psych ward, I decided to stop taking my meds. The hassle of getting them filled as well as keepin’ up with taking them everyday just wasn’t worth it. And neither was feeling numb. I didn’t know what would happen. Would they find out and send the police to take me back? A couple weeks went by without meds and I started to feel slight changes. I was scared but prepared for the hellish withdrawals I had heard all about. I got dizzy a bit, and some headaches but nothing more. Soon I stopped gettin’ calls from my counsellor. I expected her to be upset and leave me angry voicemails. It never happened. Eventually I felt my appetite change and I could experience emotional reactions to things easier and more frequently. And I finally had an orgasm!

For the next couple years, I reflected on those experiences and began exploring the origins of my suicidal thoughts, the origins of the morbid depression that caused them, as well as the consumerist life I lived as a wage-slave law-abiding citizen.

****

A Riot on Thanksgiving Morning 2016 at Springfield Hospital Center (a regional psychiatric hospital and former slave plantation located in Sykesville, Maryland) In the early-morning hours of Thanksgiving Day, Catherine Starkes and April Savage huddled in an office with several other employees at the Springfield Hospital Center in Carroll County as patients rioted around them.

Starkes and Savage said patients threw chairs, knocked over file cabinets and tried to break into the staff's Plexiglas-enclosed refuge. The patients poured cooking oil over the floors, making them slippery. One patient tried to crawl into the office through the suspended ceiling, Starkes recalled.

It was like no other night she could remember in 22 years of working with dangerously mentally ill patients at Maryland state hospitals.

"They wanted to take over the unit. They seized the unit," she said.

****

“What we say is the truth is what everybody accepts. ...I mean, psychiatry: it's the latest religion. We decide what's right and wrong. We decide who's crazy or not. I'm in trouble here. I'm losing my faith.” -Dr. Railly from the movie “12 Monkeys”

Similar to religion, psychiatry assumes a powerful role in defining “right” or “wrong” in terms of “normal” vs “abnormal” behavior. The standardization of a particular, socially expected behavior is essential for creating categories of people defined in terms of their contribution to the collective success of society. With psychology as a basis for analytically outlining ‘problems’ and suggesting “potential cures”, mass society becomes dependent on its authority for deciding who is “normal” and who isn’t. Certain behavioral characteristics unique to an individual become outlawed in order to maintain this social conformity.

Speaking from my own experience, psychiatry and all its theories, roles, and chemical prescriptions at best aims to merely manage ‘symptoms’ of ‘disorders’ - not eliminate the sources of their creation.

By ‘symptoms’ I am referring to any set of behaviors or emotional responses that indicate an individual’s struggle to conform to societal expectations or ‘normal’ behavior.

By ‘disorders’ I am referring to the set of behaviors or emotional responses that have been selected and condemned by society, and therefore declared a ‘mental illness’ by the authority of psychiatry.

By ‘sources’ I am referring to any and all prisons, societal forms of coercion, and civilized society – all of which pressure individual subservience and ideological conformity.

The conflict of interest in ‘curing’ the ‘mentally ill’ becomes apparent when acknowledging that successful cures to particular behaviors and emotional responses would require the abolition of civilized society all together - the same civilized society that creates trauma, followed by the concept of mental illness and subsequently a ‘solution’ via many forms of emotional anaesthesia.

Another factor of social control built into psychiatry is its ability to distort and control dissenting information. Social systems that require the subordination of individuals are always sharpening their ability to suppress or demonize information – especially information derived from rebellious experience. When it is individuals themselves who are considered living examples of this information, those seeking total control will portray them in such a way that renders the nature of their rebellion a mere product of mental illness. For example, the Soviet Union responded to rebels with psychiatric wards called “Psikhushkas”. One of the first Psikhushkas was a psychiatric prison in the city of Kazan. In 1939 it was transferred to the secret police. Psychiatric incarceration was used in response to political demonstrations and attacks. It was common practice for soviet psychiatrists in Psikhushka hospitals to diagnose those who rebelled against soviet authority with schizophrenia.

Just as religious authority figures speak of purging people of their sins and demons, psychiatry seeks to purge people of their ‘sickness’ and ‘bad’ habits. In the church of psychiatry, only those most committed to social conformity (or emotional suppression) can enter the heavens of being socially recognized as ‘sane’ or ‘normal’. Normal or civilized behavior is rewarded with social capital and easier access to survival resources. And in the eyes of those who fear unbridled freedom, without the church of mental psychiatric authority, ‘the masses’ just might descend into madness...

****

Sept 5 2016 John George Psychiatric Hospital Riot Nurses at Alameda County’s embattled mental hospital say three patients tried to incite a riot overnight and escape the facility. Staff members are blaming chronic overcrowding at John George Psychiatric Hospital’s emergency room. It’s the latest in a string of troubling incidents at the hospital uncovered by 2 Investigates.

Nurses – who didn’t want to be identified for fear of jeopardizing their jobs – tell 2 Investigates that two male patients and one woman demanded to be discharged from John George’s Psychiatric Emergency Services (PES) department Sunday night. But when they were refused, they turned violent, according to staff.

The patients allegedly tried to encourage others to help them push the facility doors open to escape.

****

“The Law, social expectation, and psychiatric tradition and practice point to coercion as the profession’s paradigmatic characteristic. Accordingly, I define psychiatry as the theory and practice of coercion, rationalized as the diagnosis of mental illness and justified as medical treatment aimed at protecting the patient from himself and society from the patient.” - Psychiatrist turned anti-psychiatry, Thomas S Szasz, M. D.

While reflecting on my experience with psychiatry, including being on three different medications and my stay in the ward, I started asking myself questions I had never thought to ask before: what are the social conditions contributing to my feelings of misery? What type of behavior is characteristic of ‘mental illness’ and ‘normal’ functioning? Who enforces these definitions as universal truths to begin with? Is it the same psychiatric authority that at one point considered homosexuality a mental illness – then changed their minds in 1973?

I couldn’t help but notice that despite all the therapy, meds, and psychiatric hospitality the world outside my head was still the same. Poverty still dominated my hood, rich billionaires were still playin’ golf while the government continued bombing other countries. Millions of non-human animals were still bein’ mutilated in slaughterhouses on a daily basis, and the environment was still bein’ devastated by industrial expansion. I still needed to wage-slave away to pay my rent. And like everyone else, I needed to do this until I got too old and eventually live out my days in a nursing home. But somehow I was supposed to be ‘happy’ - or at least apathetically accepting of it all without a fuss. Obedience without incident. Without question. Or as the others in the ward had said to me “no problems”.

Currently in my life, I am still angry, still depressed, and still sometimes suicidal. But rather than seeing these things as what’s broken about me, I see them as a reflection of how fucked up the world is around me. I find little things to help me channel the anger, depression, and suicidal thoughts. I exercise, practice mixed martial arts, enjoy a walk in the woods at night. I star-gaze from park benches, rooftops, and moving freight trains. I indulge in stolen food and cherish the excitement of criminal activity. Managing my emotions is a daily activity coupled with observation and growth. I listen to the stories of others and learn from their experiences. I listen to my emotions and source their origins, making it easier to understand my needs and desires. My emotions – my madness - manifesting as anger, depression, and so on remain sharp and act as the best tools for understanding the effects of this imprisoning society on my well-being.

My disposition lacks evidence of being broken or brain damaged – if anything, it would suggest the contrary. My emotional state is a complex response to the anxiety that occurs when recognizing society for what it is – a prison propagating itself as ‘normal’ life. And integrated within this prison is a web of altered realities that materialize the logic of control and domination: Wage-slavery masquerading as productivity and personal responsibility. Coerced submission and obedience to law and order in “the land of the free”. Pictures of happy cows on packages of mutilated body parts. Borders, bio-technology, cyberspace communities of friends interacting with the emotional vacancy of digital communication.

And it is here, in this same social prison society, that the word insanity is used to describe an individual person rather than industrial civilization - the epitome of mechanized social control.

“The stars up close to the moon were pale; they got brighter and braver the farther they got out of the circle of light ruled by the giant moon” ― Ken Kesey, from the movie One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

I believe deep down all people are ‘insane’ - not in terms of mental illness - but in terms of individual, unique differences that remain defiantly incompatible to behavioral order. In society, some people hide these differences better than others. And many people I have come across express frustration with having to keep themselves locked up inside, aching to break out. The fear of being socially labelled insane or crazy keeps people passive and submissive. But some people experience difficulty assimilating themselves. And while society attempts to frantically control and eliminate certain undesirable people and behaviors, natural responses to environmental conditions continue to produce both.

If one were to really examine the social interactions between individuals, one can see the subtle tip-toeing of animals peeking from within the wardrobe of humanism. It is the fear of being too loud, too angry, too sad, too imaginative – the fear of allowing oneself to exist at full bloom – that incarcerates the animal individual. It is the fear of exhibiting any personal qualities or characteristics that would violate the boundaries of socially expected behavior. Breaking the laws of psychiatry could be punishable by chemical injection, imprisonment, or even death.

This fear also plays a vital role in creating an obsession with relying on institutional specialization rather than peer to peer support. This obsession is normalized when, in response to someone reaching out for emotional support, friends suggest ‘professional help’ as if to surrender themselves ineffective by default. It says something about the nature of one’s confidence, ability, and will to support another when that support is often outsourced to an elite group of ‘professionals’. I’m not tryin’ to say that every individual has the capacity to support others at all times: I am suggesting an examination of the inferiority complex internalized by people in the face of institutions, and how individuals often find themselves too busy obeying the demands of capitalism, or too distracted by consumerism to make time for supporting their loved ones – let alone themselves.

If one were to examine society as a whole, one can see how over-simplified, quick-fix solutions to complex problems is built into it. If one were to examine this even on a personal level, one can see how everything about industrial society reduces personal time to the point where one often neglects their own emotional health. Against the demands of technological addiction and wage-slavery, making time for supporting one’s self and or those they care about is, however under-rated, nothing less than an act of personal revolt. “You need professional help” is often the quick response to an individual simply looking for support from close friends. Not all people (including myself) enjoy being pathologized or assigned a diagnosis like a broken machine. It is this ‘professional help’ that replaces intimate support with capitalism where someone struggling is treated as a profitable ‘case file’ and dealt a bottle of pills.

From a vibrant friend struggling with a unique history of complex emotional experiences, to a patient branded with an over-simplistic set of psychiatric identities – the individual becomes merely a unit of diagnostic measurement.

Diagnoses act as identity configurations defined in terms of symptom-based sameness. These identity assignments are constructed by the specialists of psychiatric authority, and are enforced socially by those who uphold its power. The same way that leftists are quick to use statist terminology to publicly label and shame “undesirables” or those unwanted by The Movement (for example, using the word “terrorist” to describe proponents of anarchist attack), they are equally quick to call people ‘mentally ill’, or ‘toxic’- demanding they seek ‘professional’ help. Perhaps without realizing it, leftists socially reinforce the validity of the state and psychiatric authority by reducing the complexity of individual behavior to mere psychiatric constructs and moral condemnation.

Psychiatry provides a comforting sense of order in the refusal to accept the chaotic nature of behavior. By asserting psychiatric terminology and morality many leftists seek control over social interactions with the intent to sterilize and homogenize them. This attempt at behavioral uniformity goes hand in hand with the treatment of individuals as members of monolithic, identity-based groupings. Behavioral uniqueness and variety are often discouraged or condemned when they don’t fit neatly constructed scripts. One’s behavior or emotional expression could be trivialized by being socially called out as ‘problematic’ - a label which itself requires the conformity of a generalized consensus to define and enforce.

Society and all its defenders require the dam of psychiatry to subordinate and control the tidal waves of individualist variety and social unrest. I can only imagine what would happen if the mechanisms of control failed on an individual level - if freedom of emotional expression took aim at the crystal castles of psychiatric authority, shattering the illusion of sterilized permanence. One after another an individual cannonball weakens the continuity of the structure, an ungovernable individual compromises the strength of collectivized subservience.

****

Jan 31, 2006 Riot at the Riverview Hospital For Children and Youth Five male patients at a state-run psychiatric hospital for children face rioting charges after they ripped out a phone line and tried to steal a worker's car keys before barricading themselves in a room over the weekend, a state official and other sources said Monday.

The incident at Riverview Hospital For Children and Youth occurred less than a week after employees protested over conditions in the facility, contending that the hospital is increasingly unsafe because of the volatile mix of patients.

Sources said that between 11 p.m. and midnight Sunday, a group of boys in the hospital's 11-bed Lakota Unit came out of their rooms and started confronting and arguing with staff. A male clinician and two female employees were assigned to the unit at the time.

Sources said the boys surrounded the man and tried to get him to turn over his keys but he refused. When one of the female workers tried to use the phone to call for help, the boys pulled the phone line out of the wall, sources said. The youths then barricaded themselves in a room and tried to smash a large exterior window, which broke off its hinge.

Sources said the boys intended to escape through the window but were stopped by a Connecticut Valley Hospital police officer who was called to the scene and was outside near the window .

Authorities would not release the names or ages of the boys involved. All face charges of inciting to riot, disorderly conduct, criminal mischief, unlawful restraint and threatening.

****

When, in expressing themselves, individuals let their emotions rupture the confines of psychiatric authority, and fan the flames of their contempt for social control, psychiatry begins to resemble the shell of a burnt out police car. If psychiatry is the agent enforcer of mental law and order - let it die along with every cop and agent of the state. As with identity politics, I refuse to participate in the use of psychiatric terminology when describing other individuals. As with all other socially constructed assignments, I reject psychiatric labels as they seek to limit the horizon of emotional complexity.

When, in expressing themselves, individuals become wild with nihilist hostility toward all ideological roles and identities, what is left of a society without individual conformity? What is ‘male’ or ‘female’ without being fixed to an aesthetic or performative role? What is ‘black’ or ‘white’ without the social construction of race? What is the sane/insane binary without the commanding authority of psychiatry? What is social law and order without anyone willing to obey?

My anarchy is found in the obliteration of these social constructs and the rejection of their ‘social contract’ that universalizes their false existence. I use the phrase social contract because that is precisely what accepting these identity assignments is. It surprises me to see such little prisoner solidarity with those incarcerated at psychiatric facilities. I imagine total anarchy looking like all prisons - including every manifestation of the educational-industrial complex, every zoo, and every asylum – being burned to the ground.

****

On New Year’s Day, 2018, 10 Children as Young as Age 12 Riot and Escape from Strategic Behavioral Health Center in South Carolina During the New Year’s Day incident, patients broke furniture to make weapons. The state report suggest Strategic staff missed warning signs that patients had planned to escape. They did not question residents who were wearing multiple layers of clothing that would allow them to change what they were wearing when they left the hospital.

In a less than five-hour span beginning in the late afternoon, there were seven “Code Purple” incidents in which workers are alerted to trouble. A state investigator reviewed video showing patients going from room to room, throwing a trash can, tearing up paper and tearing schedules off the walls. When one employee arrived, according to the report, he heard loud noises and cussing and saw trash all over the floor in the hallway. Patients had barricaded themselves in a room and had weapons he described as boards with six-inch screws.

“There was no staff trying to get into the room and he was told by staff, ‘They have weapons. Don’t go in,’” records say. “The nurse described the situation as a ‘riot, complete breakdown.’”

By the time police arrived, the south Charlotte psychiatric hospital had descended into chaos. Patients at Strategic Behavioral Center — some wielding wooden boards — attacked one worker, barricaded themselves in a room and escaped through a broken window.

**** For many years I paraded psychiatry as a valuable scientific instrument for understanding the inner workings of human behavior. I no longer find it useful after learning to recognize people as complex beings with unique emotional responses to this civilized nightmare. I have come to recognize psychiatry as, at best, another form of identity politics that ultimately attempts to force the infinite complexity of emotional expression into rigid categorical boxes.

Individual people are far more than ‘bipolar’, ‘psychotic’, etc could accurately express. While a person may experience combinations of emotions socially identified by a psychiatric category, their emotional state can not be summarized or represented by any list of fixed terminology.

My refusal to define a person by the emotional struggles they experience is similar to the reasons I refuse to identity people struggling with intoxication as ‘addicts’. An individual's struggle in coping with society is complex and unique. Psychiatric labels and identities are tools of the state – an entity which I reject. As a tool of civilization, psychiatry creates alienation and violence by treating people found to be emotionally unfit for society as ‘broken’, and therefore socially inferior. I personally refuse to disregard an individual’s struggle for survival by assigning them a psychiatric identity that puts blame on them as ‘mentally ill’ - rather than focusing attention on industrial society itself. Like prisons for ‘criminals’, the ‘correctional’ facility of the psychiatric ward seeks to condition submission through coercion and confinement. Solving or curing ‘mental illness’ in the societal sense often ends up becoming a re-defined ability to condemn, suppress, or sterilize emotions.

Like all governments, presidents, and authority, psychiatry never gave me freedom. Assigned psychiatric labels didn’t help me – they only filled me with an internalized sense of victimhood and inferiority. Medication didn’t ‘cure’ or ‘fix’ me – only damaged me, numbing me to my own senses in order to create an emotional void between me and the fuckery of civilized life. So instead, with nihilist celebration I descend into madness, taking aim at social order and civilization. With armed animalism I realize now that there was nothing to fix - my natural contempt for domestication and social control reminds me that I was never ‘broken’ to begin with.

With maniacal laughter I mock the conventional standardization of human behavior. I reject the authorities of psychiatry, their holy book (The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM–5)), and their prisons. I refuse to continue being a test subject for their ever-expanding pharmacotherapeutics. I am an individualist against the collectivized consensus used to materialize institutions of psychiatry. I am a nihilist - hostile to the ideological sane/insane binary and all social constructs that, with pathology, attempt to categorically subjugate individuality. I desire nothing less than a feral revolt against civilization. If civilization and psychiatry marry at the church of morality, then let my anarchy be a fiery black smoke that chokes their gospel of social control.

#anarcho nihilism #anti civ #green anarchy #individualist anarchism #nihilism #post leftism #prisoner support #flower bomb #anti-psychiatry

[ancientbooshartifacts]

Cool Party the Other Night

Author: Thieving-Gypsy

Year: 2010

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Howard/OFC

It's a few days after Howard's birthday party, and Vince is still courting that girl he met. Well. "Courting" doesn't cover it, really. Howard winces at a particularly loud moan from upstairs, the creak of bedsprings and the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of the headboard against the wall. If that's chipped the paint and they have to redecorate, Vince better not think that's coming out of petty cash. No sir, that's coming directly out of Vince's hairspray budget. Let's see how smug he is then, Howard thinks, feeling quite smug himself at the thought of getting one over on him. It doesn't last. There's a giggle from upstairs, it could be coming from either one of them. Howard slumps against the counter, propping his chin on his hand and wondering which deity he could have offended to make his life like this. If this is karma, karma is wrong. He's fiercely intelligent, devilishly handsome, his talents are many and varied, his sense of humour is witty and whimsical, he helps old ladies across the road and then helps them back again when they hit him with their handbags and snap that they never wanted to cross the road anyway. Howard Moon is a good person (Howard thinks to himself) but where's the payoff? Vince is the one who ends up risking friction burns on his johnson, even after all his crimes against good taste and that shocking ridiculous scene on the roof the night of the party where he took advantage of Howard's good nature to save his own neck. The only thing Howard got was a night spent terrified and crying in the bottom of the airing cupboard hoping Old Gregg would get bored of waiting and go away, but every time he opened the door to check Gregg was there tapping his foot and smiling and staring like a serial killer. I can wait all night, Howard, I'm Old Gregg! he said, as if that explained it all. Naboo kicked him out eventually with the rest of the party stragglers, then gave Howard a disgusted look and called him a batty crease when Howard awkwardly bought him a bunch of flowers the next morning to say thank you. It's a good thing the shop's been so quiet lately. Customers don't need to hear this kind of nonsense when they're innocently looking for a rare Bleedin' Gums Murphy LP, it's just not professional. Or maybe they would like it, but that sort of clientele doesn't belong here anyway. You've got to keep a sense of pride when you're a shopkeeper. Even in a dodgy part of town, even if the last customer you saw buying something was a wide-eyed teenage boy paying for Vince's autograph three days ago, you still need your pride or you might as well be dead. He sort of wishes he was, listening to those dirty noises get louder and faster for what feels like the billionth cycle. And then the bell above the door rings, sounding like a hallelujah. A girl comes into the shop. An angel with black and red hair and skin like smooth pale cream. Howard stands up quickly and adjusts his hat to a rakish charming sort of angle, smoothing down the front of his shirt and giving her his very best smile. She looks sort of frightened then. Well, that's not unusual, she probably saw something unpleasant outside. It's that sort of street. "Good afternoon madam," he starts – then all of a sudden he recognises her from that ghastly spin the bottle game at the party and feels himself turn pale. She had a number eight stuck on her back, and she heard Naboo trick Howard's confession out of him. Could his life get any more tragic and painful? Yes, he discovers, because she recognises him too. "Hey, Howard," she says. He can't tell whether she's smirking or smiling. "Cool party the other night." "Ha ha, yes, it was rather, wasn't it? Ha ha. I hope you tried the quiche, I made it myself."

"Oookay." Surely it's a smile. She's coming closer, anyway, right over to where Howard is, putting the silver jacket she's carrying on the counter between them. What does it mean? Is it some sort of offering? Is this how women offer themselves? He feels the blood rise back in his cheeks, but then she speaks again and ruins it. "Vince gave me that to borrow cos it was cold walking home, can you give it back to him? When he's finished," she adds, glancing at the ceiling. She really is smirking this time, and that strikes him as very odd. Isn't she jealous? Most girls would be jealous and go running out of the shop weeping and talking about nunneries because there's no point any more if Vince has found someone else. Maybe he's in with a shot after all! Howard smooths his moustache with his fingertips, very glad he put on his best taupe rollneck this morning even without a special occasion planned. Surely that's fate. Serendipity. Something. He can see them already, blissfully content in a country cottage, all crawling honeysuckle and chirruping birds, making sweet fulfilling love together every night while the children sleep soundly and dream of happy things and a team of editors go back to college to train for different careers because the world-famous novelist-poet-playwright Howard Moon's words are so perfect, so incredibly gripping, informative and rich with life-changing meaning, that he needs no changes made at all. He realises he's nodding his head like a dog ornament on the back shelf of a car, and makes himself stop. "Of course, madam, of course, I'll see that he gets it post-haste." "Cheers." Eight gives him that smile again and turns round to go. Howard panics and bangs into a shelf in his rush to get out from behind the counter and block her way. "While you're here, might I interest you in the soothing jazz tones of-" "No. I don't think you might." "Well then, what about..." Everything in the shop is shit it's all shit and he hates it here and his life should have been so different and why does nothing ever ever ever go right? "This lovely flying jacket? Vintage World War Two, genuine bullet hole in the collar to add that bit of authenticity and you can barely even see the bloodstains, ha ha ha..." She actually laughs at that, it bubbles up and spills out and she looks like it surprises her but it's a definite laugh. "You're a crack up, Howard, you're hilarious. I didn't bring any money. I might come back another time though and you can show me someone's torn parachute or a charred ejector seat that didn't open properly." Is that a date? That sounds very much like a date. Howard's palms feel sweaty on the sleeve of the jacket and he carefully hangs it back on the hat stand where he found it so he doesn't leave handprints. "I would like that very much indeed, shall we say next Tuesday?" "Seriously, Howard, I've got to go." But why would she be lingering and saying she had to go instead of just going if she didn't find him intriguingly attractive? Today is turning out to be a roaring success after all. "Then please allow me to escort you home," he says, formally on purpose so he doesn't scare her away with his aggressive manliness or sound like the sort of sexual predator who would pester a young woman when she's just trying to run a simple errand. "This is no place for an innocent young lady to be walking on her own when it's getting dark, especially one as, I hope you don't mind me saying, charmingly beautiful as you." Eight looks out the cluttered shop window into the bright afternoon sunlight. After what feels like forever she turns back and almost gives Howard a heart attack. "Yeah. Alright, then."

"...Yes?" he repeats stupidly, and Eight grins like a wicked little pixie. "Yeah. Why not." "Oh. Well. Alright then. Let's go, shall we?" That hussy upstairs is shrieking Vince's name. So is Vince, the vain little tart. Howard doesn't even leave a note. If they ever satisfy themselves and come downstairs for a cup of tea, they're just going to have to worry themselves sick about where Howard's disappeared to in the middle of a working day. He flips the door sign to closed and follows Eight out into the grimy street. He's trying to work out whether he should put a safe guiding gentlemanly hand on the small of her back when she glances up at him sideways and says, "So... you're a virgin, then?" * "Not any more," Howard's gasping half an hour later. Eight looks at him with raised eyebrows. "What?" "Not a virgin any more." "Howard, mate. You're fingering me, you're not having sex." It happened all at once, it seemed, time-lapse flashes like a nature documentary about the sprouting of a seed: one moment they were walking through Dalston, the next he was accepting the offer of a cup of tea, the next she was lying back on the couch with her legs over his and her dress hitched up around her waist, pushing her black cotton knickers aside and holding his hand at the wrist to direct him where to touch. His head is a blur, he feels slightly sick – not because it's not nice, because it is, but because he always thought men were supposed to be the ones desperate for sex on a first date and the women were bashful modest flowers. Eight's got her hand over his, pressing on top of his fingernail and moving in little circles over the wet, warm flesh between her legs. He can't see what he's doing, her pants and their hands are on the way, but that's probably a good thing because he's tenting up the front of his trousers already and he is so not ready for this to be over yet. "Do it like that," she says, a little bit flushed, a little bit breathless. "Right there. Good. A bit faster... good. Oh." Is this what's supposed to happen? Don't things go inside when you're having sex? Is she – oh god – another freakish anomaly like Old Gregg? Actually, it's hard to care any more. So what if she is? She's still pretty, and she's willing to let him touch her when the whole world seems to be against the idea of him having any sort of nice time at all. She's perfect. "Take my pants off," she says. Howard scrabbles to obey as quickly as possible, pulling them down her legs and stretching the leg holes over her boots. It's like a new world underneath, dark curling little hairs and wet pink flesh. It's horrific. She's got to be a freak, there's no way Vince would get so excited about something that's so vile to look at. But it's too late to stop now, the hand around his wrist is directing him lower down and pressing until his first finger slips inside her. He makes a ridiculous unmanly sort of noise in his throat, shame and desire all tangled together,and Eight bends one leg up to rest on top of the cushion behind Howard's head, spreading her monstrosity wider. He takes the initiative and slides another finger in beside the first, so she blinks and looks at him in surprise then flashes a filthy curling little smile and sighs quietly, like a happy moan. "Nice. How big's your dick?" "Excuse me?" Howard splutters, blushing furiously. "Just asking. Because I can take another finger if you want, but if your dick's smaller than three fingers I'll be upset so maybe you shouldn't." "Let me assure you, madam, my-" He can't make himself say it. "-my equipment is perfectly adequate for the job at hand, so to speak."

"Alright then, let's have it." She pushes his hand away suddenly and stands up, leaving the room without looking back like she just expects him to follow her. He gets hit in the face with something as he's going through the bedroom door; it's her dress, she just pulled it off over her head and now she's reaching behind herself to unhook her bra and sitting down to unzip her boots. She gives him that look again when she's on the bed, naked on her back with one knee up and her foot flat on the mattress. She's doing to herself what he was just doing, gently stroking between her legs with her fingertips, biting her painted lower lip and catching her breath in her throat. Howard feels horrendously out of place. Future wife or not, something about this feels very strange and wrong indeed. Her displaying herself like a common tramp and caressing her abnormality like it's a beloved pet while Howard stands there mutely, fully-clothed including a straw hat and holding her crumpled dress. "Let me help you out," she says, still circling gently with her first two fingertips and smirking. "The next step is, you take off your clothes. Time-lapse again. It seems to take a nanosecond, then he's standing there with his hands protecting his modesty. It's a good thing he's got big hands, he thinks proudly, then that terror stabs back in his guts and he freezes like he's on stage. "Come here," Eight says, gradually breaking through with her calm voice and cool instructions. "Move your hands away, let me see you. Come and get on the bed. It's okay to touch me. Shall I show you what you do?" He just nods, moving as directed but still completely unable to think up the right words to say to somebody who's got her hand wrapped around his bits and pieces – his bits and pieces, he thinks crazily, she's touching his balls, why would anybody do that? But it feels good, he can't deny that, it's sending white-hot floods of goosebumps rushing over his skin and even if he's got no words he can still make noises, strange pathetic little whimpers and trembling pleas for things he doesn't know the details of. Eight pushes him back so he's lying against the pillow, pointing up like Excalibur, but she stops stroking him so she can straddle his legs and roll a condom on, and knee-walks a few steps up the mattress, holding him steady there so she can sink down around him. It's hot and tight and completely overwhelming. Howard's vision blurs and he feels like he's going to faint but then Eight grabs his nipple and pinches hard, dragging him back. He stares at her, feeling vaguely abused, but she just smiles sweetly and holds his hands to bring them to her hips. "Now you're having sex." "And... this is normal, is it?" he mumbles, hypnotised by the sight of his thingy disappearing up her when she raises and lowers her body above his. It makes her laugh, shaking her dyed red fringe out of her eyes and tipping her head back like she's reading something interesting on the ceiling. "The man's normally a bit more involved, but yeah, close enough." "I can get involved," Howard says desperately, "I can, let me show you-" His words turn into a choking sort of moan when she moves again. It's so obvious now how it's meant to be, he can do this, it's simple, it's the most natural thing in the world... Eight lets him turn them over so she's the one on her back, and Howard slips almost all the way out of her and drives back in hard. She moans just like Vince's floozy moaned, and like it's some kind of trigger: Howard shivers all over and comes, thrusting frantically into her and whimpering.

It's quiet after. He can't move, he stays there on top of her, stroking his fingers through her hair and feeling a slow lazy smile spread across his face. Nothing matters any more, not the teasing pitying looks at the party, not Vince's complete lack of shame and self-control and regard for other people's feelings, nothing – Howard's got a girlfriend, and life is wonderful. "Um," she says after a while. "Yes, my darling?" Howard murmurs, loving how much he sounds like Clark Gable or one of those other smooth manly charmers from old romance films. "Get off me, yeah?" "Oh. Sorry." He rolls onto his back hastily. It's no wonder she can't bear to be touched after such a mindblowing experience, she's probably feeling vulnerable, she's probably struggling to come to terms with the reality of it. "Is there anything you need, darling, can I do anything for you?" "Yeah, just pull the front door shut behind you on the way out, it should lock on its own." What? "...what?" "And tell your darling mate Vince if he's really sick and sad enough to keep my knickers even when he's shagging other girls then I'll stop hassling him to get them back, and let him know in as much detail as you want that I'm not waiting round for him either." "Oh." It's not so much a flash of realisation as a falling anvil. "This was... revenge?" The imaginary honeysuckle house burns down to rubble before his eyes and Eight just laughs, carefree and oblivious like Vince, like everyone else. Howard slowly starts to get dressed and decides to set up a permanent home in the airing cupboard, where it's safe and dark.

#the mighty boosh #mighty boosh #boosh #howard moon #vince noir #howard moon/OFC

[pikapeppa]

Writing Questionnaire

Tagged by @oops-gingermoment - thanks love! What a nice way to wrap up the year!

Tagging forward to @galadrieljones @buttsonthebeach @ocean-in-my-rebel-soul @apostatetabris @thevikingwoman @irlaimsaaralath @sun-and-shadow-aloy @charlatron @novamm66 @littlesnowarrow @athenril-of-kirkwall @empresstress13 @fourletterepithet @ma-sulevin @bronzeagelove @alyssalenko - looking forward to reading your answers!

Short stories, novels, or poems? Novels, hands down. But I really love the poetry compilation Milk and Honey by Rupi Kaur.

What genre do you prefer reading? General fiction, fantasy, and sci-fi, with romance ideally but this isn’t a requisite.

What genre do you prefer writing? Romance (and smut). I have written one single story that didn’t include romance. Everything else I write is focused either on a romantic relationship or includes plot as a carrier for exploring the central relationship.

Are you a planner or a write-as-I-go kind of person? Planner for the most part, especially for longfics. But sometimes I fly by the seat of my pants. My Fenhawke stuff has been the most unplanned work to date; I knew I wanted to write this relationship, but I didn’t know whether I wanted to do oneshots or a longfic, so consequently I wrote the beginning of the series based primarily on prompts. It’s my least organized/planned series thus far.

What music do you listen to while writing? Oh god. Anything that inspires. I make playlists for each of my ships. But I usually find one song that summarizes the feel of the chapter/piece and listen to it on loop until the chapter is done.

Fave books/movies? Ahh, I did posts about this! Here is one about movies, and here is one about books.

Any current WIPs? Yes! I have one secret one that I can’t talk about yet. And I guess we could say the FenHawke stuff is never going to end is ongoing still.

If someone were to make a cartoon out of you, what would your standard outfit be? LOL ACTUALLY here is a cartoon that my fiancé made!! We briefly had an Etsy shop which I closed because I barely managed to sell anything and this was the profile pic. Please note the bare feet, gold jewelry, and very fluffy cat. Important.

Create a character description for yourself: ....*at a loss* I don’t do this for my writing. What does this involve? 

Do you like incorporating people you actually know into your writing? No. I write to take a break from the people I know. HAHAH no wait that’s a bit of a lie. Some bits of romance/smut are definitely inspired by real life. But everyone does that, right?

Are you kill-happy with characters? No. I don’t think I’ve ever killed a character.

Coffee or tea while writing? TEA.

Slow or fast writer? FAST. Too fast? People stop reading my shit sometimes because I write too fast? I’m obsessed and need help

Where/who/what do you find inspiration from? Honestly, from the games that I write for. Some characters/relationships just scream to be elaborated upon through writing. Once I’m in the midst of writing a ship, songs are probably the main thing that then inspire certain chapters or oneshots.

If you were put into a fantasy world, what would you be? Uhh... I guess a magic-wielding elf, since that’s my default. Either that or some kind of small creature who is adorable 90% of the time and vicious/enraged the other 10%. Basically Unikitty from the Lego Movie.

Most fave book cliche? Least fave book cliche? Fave: enemies-to-lovers (when done properly). Least fave: romance novels with female characters who are virgins before they meet the guy of their dreams.  One of my fave authors, Karen Marie Moning, does both of these.

Fave scenes to write? First kisses. In-depth of explorations of “what the fuck was going on in his/her head”. And of course, SMUT.

Most productive time of day for writing? Anytime. All the time. But I most enjoy writing late at night.

Reason for writing? I got into writing fanfic because of Reyes Vidal from Mass Effect: Andromeda. I wanted SO BADLY for that smooth-as-silk dickhead to be featured in more of the game but he wasn’t so I had to fill in the gap! Since then, my reasons for writing have changed and become more personal, but suffice it to say that I just really love it. Being a writer has become a major part of my identity, and this is actually kind of hard since most people IRL don’t understand fanfic and/or don’t understand how much it means to me, so I can’t really talk about it IRL (AND THUS I LOVE ALL YOU TUMBLR FRIENDS). Thankfully the fiance understands and supports the obsession, because I can’t go a day without writing even a little bit or editing something I wrote. 

And that’s all! Looking forward to reading others’ responses!

#fanfic writer's life #tag meme #personal #pikapeppa reflects #tumblr game

[virmillion]

And They Were Roommates

i know i said hiatus but i crapped this out in one go in my phone notes app and it’s not edited but i mean,, i think it’s funny and that’s what matters,,,,, right?

words: 1551

warnings: some swears, sarcastic first person author

Roman stretches his legs out, flexing his feet and pushing his hands into his thighs. “This plane,” he announces, “is too damn crowded, and I am too damn long.” Beside him, Logan stirs, dropping his fancy schmancy neck support pillow on the ground. “That floor is too damn dirty.” Logan swats Roman’s arm and retrieves the pillow with a sigh. “You are too damn violent.”

“I could very easily leave you at the airport,” Logan says. His eyes leverage themselves somewhere around Roman’s nose, crossed enough to be out of focus. “Where did you put my glasses?”

Roman definitely doesn’t scoop the glasses (that he stole) out of his bag (that used to be Logan’s), and he definitely doesn’t place them upside down on Logan’s face (which looks remarkably angry right now). “There ya go, buddy!”

“Fix them.”

Roman definitely doesn’t let a few more curse words peter out in varying languages (that he learned from Logan’s textbooks (that he also stole)). Like the true and kind friend he is, he readjusts the glasses so Logan no longer has to squint, and can instead glare comfortably at Roman.

“This is your captain speaking, please note the seatbelt lights have been turned on. Kindly take your seats for the remainder of this flight, return your trays to their locked position, and buckle up. Thank you for riding with—”

“DEMON!”

“—airlines.”

Logan huffs another sigh at Roman for his outburst. “Was that really necessary?”

“If John Mulaney doesn’t like them, neither do I,” Roman says, heartily ignoring the miffed looks on the faces of the people surrounding him. “Better out than in, I always say.”

“First of all, that’s not even a relevant quote, and second, Shrek? Really?” Nudging his glasses higher on his nose, Logan sets about tucking everything into his carry on bag. With a considerable jolt to the plane, the neck pillow goes flying (in the plane that’s already flying (flying squared (flared))).

By the time the plane finally scrapes onto the track at the airport, Logan is remarkably close to punching Roman (not that he hasn’t already). “What is going on with you today? You don’t typically act this strange on flights, in my experience.”

“I also don’t typically have to meet my roommate after exiting said flight. We all have feelings, Logan, so get used to it.” Roman tugs his suitcase from the baggage claim, flippantly swinging it over his head with (pretty much no) consideration for his fellow humans. (Whether a few middle fingers raise to greet him is TBD (totally believable dude.))

“This Angel character sounded perfectly fine over the computer. I doubt you’ll encounter any problems, and even if you do, I’ll be there as a buffer.” Logan puts a little more care into grabbing his own luggage, trailing Roman into the streets. “If anything, you ought to consider yourself lucky for finding someone seemingly normal in a creative major.”

“What’s your beef with writing majors? Do they get all up in your grill?” To say this earns a smack from Logan is an understatement (but detailing exactly how pink the resulting handprint is might get this story flagged (gotta keep it safe for the kiddos, you know)).

“Just keep moving, I’ll make sure we don’t get lost.”

The reds and yellows of the trees pepper the sky like so many fireworks, slicing interruptions through the cloudless field of blue. Roman grins, rolling his shoulders forward to hitch his hoodie higher up (which he definitely didn’t buy online (with patches to match his school mascot and colors (because that would be nerdy))). With the barely-there breeze trumpeting autumn’s arrival, he can almost smell the crisp bite of chilled apples in woven baskets (he spends a lot of time at cider mills). Logan allows himself the smallest trace of a smile at how much Roman seems to enjoy himself, soaking up what little sun there is. At the sight of his soon-to-be campus looming a few blocks ahead, Roman lets out a whoop (which may or may not annoy the little old ladies near him (with their little yapping dogs (that have little sparkling bows (that still don’t outshine Roman’s little sparkling awe)))).

“Look, Logan, there it is! There’s the prison that I’m gonna inhabit of my own volition, where I’ll have a roommate that might pour whipped cream on my pants or put warm water on my hand! The possibilities are endless!”

Deciding to ignore the not-quite-correct pranks Roman’s dreamed up, Logan grabs his friend by the hand and yanks him back from the crosswalk. The little old ladies with their little yapping dogs snicker as a pickup truck tears through the traffic light, honking the whole way. Roman offers them his best award-winning smile, blissfully unaware of the bits of chocolate smeared over his teeth (not to mention the frappucino stains on his upper lip (of which there are many (Roman hasn’t brushed his teeth in a while))).

“—on the sixth floor, which really sucks because I was so close to having the devil’s number, you know? Would’ve been awesome, shoulda coulda woulda, yeah?”

Once Logan finally catches up to Roman (who definitely didn’t sprint through the next two traffic stops (or to the front desk (where he definitely didn’t hassle the lady (who is now pleading with her eyes at Logan (who wants no part of this))))), he slings his carry on bag to the floor with a grunt. “You could’ve waited for me.”

“I could’ve done a lot of things, just like I was telling Alice—”

“Lisa.”

“—Lisa here, because there’s just never enough time, you know?”

Logan slips a five over the counter to the tired lady, who accepts it with a nod. “Just get him to his room and we’ll call it a day.”

“Thank you so much, I’ll get right on that. Roman, if you don’t sling your butt up those stairs right this second, I will personally ensure that Angel defenestrates you.” (Roman thinks that defenestration is the act of tearing down rainforests (Logan has never bothered to correct him (he finds this hilarious (Roman does not)))).

Having sprinted to the top of the stairs, Roman easily beats Logan to the room, feeling remarkably similar to a king in his wonder at swiping a card to open a door (he’s not actually a king (but you knew that (his last name is Andrews (which you didn’t know (I didn’t even know that until writing this (I made it up for shits and giggles)))))). The two bunks, which are spaced as far apart as possible, border a room on the edge of chaos (or glory (which one it is depends on your perspective (and on your knowledge of catchy songs from the twenty first century))). The one closest to the window proudly displays a collection of purple and black blankets, as well as an absurd amount of pillows (anywhere from ten to ninety (take your pick (it’s probably closer to ninety))). Nestled in the mountain of cushions is a lanky boy, who lets out a wholly disgusted grown as Roman walks in.

“I cannot believe my luck. Roman, you walking piece of literal human garbage, I’m supposed to be rooming with someone named Philip.” The boy shoves himself off the bed, revealing a second boy underneath. “See, Patton, I told you I had a bad feeling about this.”

“Virgin? The man himself, I can’t believe it! You signed up with a fake name, too?”

Logan sighs as the second person (Patton, evidently) unfolds themselves from Pillow Mountain. “Care to explain?”

“Both of our friends signed up with abstract nicknames for some reason. Pretty funny, if you ask me.” (Logan didn’t ask him (okay, technically he did, but not about whether it was funny (he only wanted the facts (he did not get ‘only the facts.’))))

(This is the part where I, the author, am supposed to elaborate on the goofy hijinks that ensue (I don’t really feel like doing that (so just pretend I did and move on (long story short, Virgil and Roman were childhood friends that grew apart and met back up.))))

“Well, I guess I’ll see you on my next vacation, then?” Patton wraps Virgil in a tight hug (but not the other way around (because I don’t want to get bashed for writing people out of character)) before slipping out the door with Logan in tow. Roman turns to Virgil in their now-empty room, surrounded by boxes to be unpacked.

“I cannot believe we both lied about our names and ended up rooming together,” Roman says, sitting on his suitcase. “That is wild.”

“Right, and it’s definitely not fate. Don’t even get started with that fate nonsense on me, because I won’t have any of it.” Virgil pulls an appropriately moody pout and leans on the window, staring forlornly at the night sky (because that’s all he seems to do anymore (just give him something to brood over and that’s Virgil, let’s be honest (because I don’t feel like tossing in another nonsensical problem to be solved with romance here))).

“And it’s definitely not fate that brought us back together when our last game of tag ended with me being 'it’.”

Virgil whips his head around. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Roman cocks an eyebrow. “Try me.”

———-

Taglist:

@sakurahayasaki @erlenmeyertrash @lemonpepperpizza @irish-newzealand-idian-dutch @milomeepit @leesacrakon @virgilmood @mollycassmith @zerogettie @five-hour-anxiety @ashrain5 @allthemetalsoftherainbow @faacethefacts @rileyfirstname @sassy-in-glasses @virgil-has-a-houseplant @redundant-statements-for-400 @zennyo @extremistwateragenda @breloomings @jamthefan @narniasfinestavengingsociopath @crownswriter123

#sanders sides #roman sanders #logan sanders #virgil sanders #patton sanders #platonic logince #labhwrites #mine #swearing tw #y'all honestly the title has basically nothing to do with the story but i don't really care? #i got completely off track wherein it was gonna be virgil on the plane swearing #that's how far off track i got #and to those of you who have this as a follow up to bxbble txa... sorry to disappoint? #i love stories where the author talks directly to the audience #not sure i really did it justice but i think it's funny #there was one by someone who did it for logans birthday #tsfxnxrt i think it was? but with the letter A not the letter X bc i don't want to inaccurately tag this #so yeah this concludes the hiatus i guess #again sorry this isn't the Best Comeback but that's fine probably #one more tag so it's a nice round twenty tags aaaaannnnnnnndddddddd *boop*