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casnextdoor · 3 years

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due to the worlds best beta, i give you my first smut fic. pt 2 to this drabble .

warning; reader is specifically a poc, sexual content MDNI, sex under the influence, mention of alcohol, pwp (sort of?? this is pt 2 so there is a plot. just not here), fingering (fem receiving), jimin sucks her clit but i dont really consider that oral, A pussy slap, praise sort of, jimin is soft dom asfuck, pretty vanilla cuz this is my first time writing smut.

word count; 1.3 k words

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Jimin’s apartment building

Jimin’s fingers shook nervously as he fumbled with his apartment keys causing them to jingle. You’d wrapped your arms around his torso from behind, hands turned into sweater paws in Jimin’s notorious leather jacket.

You kissed the covered skin on his back, letting the five drinks finally take a hold of your rational thoughts and inhibitions.

“Hurry, Jiminy, I’m hot,” You stopped short for a second, letting out the cutest little giggle he’d ever heard.

“I do look good, don’t I?” You laugh cutely, leaning all your weight into his back. He chuckled over his shoulder at you, a wave of relief washing over him. You were still your normal self.

“Baby, get up for a sec, I need to unlock the door.” He hummed at you, huffing out a laugh when you groaned in annoyance.

When the door was unlocked and open, he pulled you to his side by your waist and led you to his room.

In your drunken state, something about Jimin’s room screamed sex. His room was draped from top to bottom in red and black. It smelled like him and it took everything in you not to pick up a pile of his clothes and form a nest out of it.

You’d been in his room before. You’d spent nights in his bed with him, just talking and binging episodes of criminal minds. But somehow, this moment felt more intimate. Fuck, is it hot in here.

Slipping off Jimin’s jacket, you flopped down onto his silk covered mattress, heaving out a sigh.

“Jimin. Why did you bring me here?” You sit up, eyeing him from across the room. He had unbuttoned his black shirt, exposing the white wife beater and the silver chain sitting pretty on his chest.

He looked up at you for a second. He couldn’t quite read you, which made him a bit anxious. You were like a children’s book for him most of the time. A quick and easy read. But after that kiss in the club, he hasn’t been able to get a real understanding of his or your emotions. He’s on edge, and the way you were currently looking at him wasn’t quite helping.

He glanced down at the boxer briefs and shirt he had pulled out of his drawer for you, avoiding your heated gaze. “You’re drunk, Y/n.” He said in a very matter-of-fact tone.

You threw your head back and let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head incredulously.

“Jimin. You and I both know I’m no lightweight. I’m a bit tipsy, yeah, but I know what I did. And I know what I want. Just tell me what it is.” You leaned back on your hands, dropping your cheek to your shoulder.

He stared at you for a moment. Trying to gather his thoughts. Weighing out the pros and the cons. There was just so much left unsaid. There was so much to lose. But he couldn’t deny, the way you were looking at him made him throw caution to the wind. Mm, Fuck it.

Before you knew it, you were drowning in Jimin. His lips were on yours and his hands running up and down the dips and curves of your body, committing it all to memory.

His lips were full and tasted like vanilla and rum. He licked at your bottom lip experimentally, still being cautious with you. You were quick to pick up on this, letting his tongue in your mouth with a welcoming hum.

His hands found the hem of the little black cocktail dress, tugging on it wordlessly, but it was all the action you needed. You pulled away from the kiss in favor of stripping the dress from your body.

To Jimin’s undeniable delight, your chest and legs was bare of anything but the metal bars with hearts at the ends going through your nipples. He was there when you’d gotten them on a late night adrenaline rush.

He took a step back, noting pridefully that you’d taken a step forward. He regarded your body with the utmost appreciation, enjoying the sight of your clean shaven legs and thick thighs that curved and dipped, leading him to the prettiest pussy he’d ever seen. Your bottom lips were wet, covered in your essence and his mouth watered at the sight. He’d find out if you taste as good as you look eventually.

“You’re so beautiful, baby. Let me show you how beautiful you are.” He approached you slowly, eyes searching your face for any sort of hesitation, finding nothing but lust and what looked to be admiration.

He pushes you back lightly by your shoulder, dropping to his knees in front of your already spread thighs.

“Can I touch you baby?” He asked, running a hand up and down your calf, receiving a nod back, to his dismay.

“Words, baby. Use them.” He tsked at you disapprovingly, causing you to whimper and breathe out an airy ‘Yes’.

“Good girl. Now tell me, do you want my lips, my fingers or my dick? And be honest, pretty girl. I can’t give you what you want unless you tell me.” He whispered the word against the exposed skin of your thigh, biting down on the plush skin when he’d finished talking.

You didn’t even need to think. “Dick. I want your dick, baby. I wan’ it bad.” You whimpered out pathetically, pulling your legs up to your chest by the back of your calfs and thighs, leaving you completely exposed to him. He hummed in response, tracing shapes into your skin. “Okay. I still gotta give you my fingers though, pretty girl. Gotta prep you.” And before you could fully process what he’d said, a long ring clad finger was plunging into your weeping hole. His finger sunk into you all the way down to his knuckle, causing your essence to squelch and leak to accommodate the intrusion.

The wind was knocked out of your lungs as your back arched due to the unexpected fulfillment. He slipped his finger all the way out of you, circling your spasming hole before plunging back into you, this time two, deep, pulling a gasp out of your chest. Your head was so full and so empty at the same time as he worked his fingers. You hadn’t realized how close he was until you felt his hot breath on your neglected clit. You instinctively bucked your hips up, in search of his lips. Jimin was quick to jump into action, lips enclosing around your swollen bud, sucking harshly.

You’re ears were ringing as you screamed and babbled nonsense at him. Your hips were jerking and bucking, searching for reprieve from his lips. Jimin hummed against you, wrapping his free arm around one of your spread thighs to keep you in place before he unlatching his lips from you, simultaneously slowing his fingers down.

“Stop moving or I won’t let you finish.” Though you were sure the threat was empty, you stopped squirming. His fingers had slowed to long, deep strokes, sinking all the way down to the knuckles and pulling all the way out to the tips. Every time he sunk his fingers back in to your crying hole, he hit that sensitive little spongy part that had you seeing stars.

Your moaning and senseless babbling hadn’t quieted a bit, and Jimin could sit and listen to you all night.

Your stomach started to get tight and your pussy felt hot. Your brain was drowning in Jimin and all you could do is let him take you there.

“You’re about to cum, baby. Come on, cum for me like the good fucking girl you are.” Jimin’s breath was hot on your pussy, causing you to leak more into his black sheets.

Before long, your toes were going numb and curling and your body started to shake as the tightening knot in your stomach snapped. Your body shook like a leaf against the ministration from his fingers and lips. He let you buck and grind into him, riding out your orgasm.

Your walls spasmed around his fingers and your clit throbbed in his mouth. He’d had you right where he wanted you.

When you’d calmed back down, breathing semi-normally, he pulled his fingers from you before slapping your glistening pussy.

“I’m not done with you yet.”

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PHAT hugs and kissed for the baddest bitch @deepseavibez for being my beta for this . she is so fucking awesome and please, if you know what good for you , go read her newest hobi fic. its the shit🥰. any mistakes made are 100% on me for not proof reading after making corrections .

#bts x female reader #bts x poc!reader #jimin x poc!reader #jimin x female reader #jimin smut #bts smut #sort of #first time writing smut so bare with me

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maydei · 6 years

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Making Headlines: Part Two (Part One)

cw: mention of nonsexual assault, minor wound aftercare

genderfluid!will & doctor!hannibal

[now on ao3]

Hannibal discards his gloves and the bloodstained remnants of Will’s care in a biohazard bin. Then he heads to the front desk to locate another of the floor nurses.

“Will Graham in lobby three will need an x-ray for his left hand,” he says. “Unless there are any emergencies, please bump him up the queue. He has at least one fractured knuckle, and I’d like to get him casted before I’m off-shift. Please page me if I’m needed for an emergency, otherwise I will need to finish tending to his wounds.”

Hannibal does not wait for their surprise or for anything more than a confirmation before he slips through the office and into the staff room just down the hall. He dials into his assigned locker to extract his wallet, and slips a business card into the plastic pocket that holds his hospital ID. He retreats to Will’s sectioned-off area of the ER, decided.

If the police insist on giving Will a hard time for the altogether unextraordinary crime of possessing a fake identification, then Hannibal will give him a leg-up in the form of a legal reference. Though he specializes in medical malpractice suits, James Deioss is an accomplished lawyer who, to Hannibal’s knowledge, has more than one victorious discrimination lawsuit under his belt.

Granting favors is not something Hannibal is in the habit of doing, but Hannibal is curious—and under the pressure of Hannibal’s curiosity, strange things are bound to happen.

Will Graham is a curiosity.

“Will?” He asks when he returns to the boundary of the curtain.

“Come in,” Will replies, and Hannibal does.

He pauses as the curtain falls shut behind him.

Will’s clothes are in a smartly-folded pile on the foot of the bed—stockings, pants, satin camisole, flannel shirt, cracked glasses set atop it all. His heeled boots are neatly tucked underneath the hospital cot.

His back is to the door, legs crossed beneath him, and the hospital gown slouches off one shoulder. The disheveled bun in his hair has been removed, and a cascade of mussed brunette curls has been swept down around the side of his throat.

The pale canvas of Will’s back has been painted with bruises; shallow, parallel scrapes have drawn pinpricks of blood that the removal of Will’s shirt has torn free. They are, Hannibal notes, exactly the right distance to denote a hard impact with a brick wall.

And lower, clinging to Will’s narrow hips, is a swath of black lace in the form of sheer briefs.

He is the perfect marriage of lust and violence. Hannibal inhales silently and commits the scent of blood, sweat and cloyingly-sweet cherry lip gloss to his memory. All of it paints a portrait in his mind that he will commit to graphite later—the shape of a patient who occupies one night of his life in late October, the signature scrawled H. Lecter, and the model’s name, Will Graham.

“Your back is quite a sight,” Hannibal says, and swallows down his appreciation for the image of red and purple and blue watercolor, the body’s natural palette of pain. “Does your head hurt?”

“Only a little,” Will murmurs. He looks back over his shoulder, and there is a clever, exacting light in his gaze. Normally, that sort of thing would be incensing. Incredibly rude and presumptuous, even from one so young, so naive. But Will’s face holds and uncertainty, a deep melancholy that shifts beneath his skin in the form of an injured wolf, abandoned and alone. It howls with no hope for an audience, but even over the din of the Johns Hopkins PA system and the commotion of the emergency room, Hannibal can hear it echo.

Hannibal slips on a new pair of gloves. “Will you permit me to check your skull for damage?”

Will snorts. “If you can find damage to my brain, Doctor Lecter, I’m sure my classmates would be thrilled. By all means.”

Hannibal huffs a breath. With careful fingers, he touches the back of Will’s vulnerable neck and privately revels at his shiver. He wonders what it would be like to touch without the barrier of nitrile gloves between them; he feels the shape of Will’s scalp, skims lightly with his fingertips for any rough or tender patches.

Only one place draws a closed-mouthed moan of pain—toward the crown of his head, there is a lump and the faintest crackling sensation of scabs where Will’s head must have impacted. Hannibal withdraws, and his jaws click shut, teeth snap together behind his lips; to think the police were willing to paint Will as the assailant and the one in the wrong, when all indications point to the assault he had suffered.

“Would you like to tell me what happened?” Hannibal asks. “Between your back and your head, you seem to have faced some amount of violence. I’m sure that’s not what you expected of your evening.”

“I wasn’t at the bar for a good time, if that’s what you’re implying,” Will murmurs.

“That’s not at all what I’m implying.” Hannibal’s fingers slip from his hair and he retreats to the supply cabinet to fish out another antiseptic wipe. “Only that speaking of what happened to you may be of some help. The attack must have come as a shock.”

Will’s voice tightens. “I don’t need therapy, either.”

“I am simply trying to assist you, Will.” Hannibal isn’t quite sure why he bothers, and a flash of annoyance means he is well on his way to stop trying, intriguing boy or not. “If you tell me what happened, it may not only be of help to you emotionally, but I will be able to corroborate your story based on the pattern of your wounds. If you have a cell phone, I would be happy to take photographs for you to submit as evidence to the police. This is not my first incident, Will. Those marginalized by society based upon preference must stick together if we are to survive. We are vastly outnumbered by those who would gladly see us fade away.”

Will looks back. His eyes are huge and wide, oceanic blue, framed by black ink and painted-black lashes, pink powder blush and bright red scrapes. He is as lovely and vulnerable as a spring fawn. Will says nothing at first, but searches Hannibal’s face with something he might categorize as desperation. No victim ever wishes to be alone in the aftermath. Hannibal wonders if Will Graham has anyone he will call once he’s released.

But the implication sinks in. Hannibal can see the moment it clicks that he is safe, that he is a friend, and Will melts back into the nitrile-coated safety of Hannibal’s palms. Will reaches back blindly with his less-injured hand to extract a badly-scratched smartphone from between the tower of his clothes. He unlocks it and hands it to Hannibal.

“Document it,” Will says softly. “Please. You’re my only real evidence.”

Hannibal obligingly steps back and does as he is bid. He takes photographs of the bruise pattern, the scrapes. He gently parts Will’s untamed curls and snaps a picture of the rust-red scabs on his scalp. Then he steps around, sits on the edge of the bed facing Will; takes Will’s hand in his own and captures and image of his knuckles, and a close-up of his split lip.

To the violent aesthete that lives in Hannibal’s heart, he is photographing the finest sensuality, and Will Graham is a new and unexpected muse. He steels himself back to impassivity as he hands the phone to Will and sees the photos locked and archived, out of his grasp.

Will swallows hard. “Thank you.”

Hannibal extracts the wipe from the sterile pack and sets to work. After scant seconds of indecision, Will begins to speak.

“I was at the bar to meet a source,” Will says. “Some guy kept trying to hit on me. He wouldn’t take a hint. I thought I got away from him when I started my interview, but he was waiting for me to leave. When he got outside, he must’ve realized—the street lamps were bright, I don’t know. But he shoved me into the wall and he punched me, and I just… reacted. I put him down. I don’t know if or when it stopped being self-defense, but then the cops were there and I was being dragged away.”

“Do you often find yourself lost to violence?” Hannibal asks. The thought is fascinating.

Will shakes his head. “Not like this. I just… I did what I did in self-defense. I should stand by that, right?” His chin drops to his chest, and the fall of his hair shifts with it. The tender nape of his neck is exposed to Hannibal’s ravenous eyes. His teeth ache. “I’m going to get expelled.”

“You are the victim of an assault,” Hannibal replies firmly, for Will’s benefit rather than his own. He does indulge in letting one hand settle over the back of Will’s neck, to steady him as he deftly cleans Will’s wounds. “If you were to be expelled, it would be an injustice.”

Hannibal sighs as though a thought is occuring to him only for the first time. He extracts his lawyer’s card from his identification pocket, and rounds the bed to sit across from Will. He presses it into Will’s palm. “I fetched this for you earlier. This lawyer is a friend of mine. If the police give you a difficult time in their questioning, I advise you to call him. Tell him I told you to. He will take care of you, pro bono of course.”

Will’s lips part, exposing the pink slip of his tongue. He wets his lips; blood and sweet color are swept away. “I can’t. I couldn’t.”

“I insist,” Hannibal replies. “Though I cannot force you to do anything you don’t wish, Will. It’s common sense. Your future should not be impacted by the bias of a few.”

Will’s eyes lift to his, bright with life and swarmed with guilt. “I’m the one at fault.”

“You are a victim of an assault,” Hannibal repeats. “Will. I can’t tell you what to do, but I can tell you that you do not deserve to be found at fault for this.” Hannibal pats his hand and draws back. He has crossed lines already, and does not wish to cross any more—not so soon, anyway.

But as he retreats, Will’s clever gaze follows him. “Why would you do this for me? I’m a stranger.”

Hannibal sets to work covering Will’s scrapes with gauze. He pretends not to notice Will’s head tipping back to brush against his hands, a wild and lonely thing looking for a kind touch. “Kindness and courtesy costs me nothing, but my apathy may cost you your future.” Hannibal secures the tape on one cut and moves to the next. “You said you were meeting a source. May I assume you’re a journalist?”

“Trying to be.” Will takes a breath and leans forward, ducks his head to his chest and rounds his back like a cat, the vibrant plane of it a feast to Hannibal’s roving eyes. He wonders if Will is manipulating him even now, or if he is simply as exhausted and vulnerable as he seems. “I’m a student at the Merrill College of Journalism. I’m trying to assemble my senior project, but I’ve… well, I’ve chosen an ambitious subject.”

Will’s voice is wry. Hannibal senses a story. “Ambitious projects and journalism go hand-in-hand, do they not?”

“Maybe if it was political,” Will concedes. His voice is muffled. “But this is mostly petty.”

Color him intrigued—Will has not struck him as the type to be unduly spiteful. Hannibal works his way from wound to wound. “Oh?”

“It’s about that serial killer,” Will says. “The one who the cops are stumped by—I’m sure you’ve seen the news. The one that no one can decide if it’s one killer or a few killers. Six victims in short bursts over the last eighteen months.”

Hannibal’s hands go still. “And such a topic is petty?”

Will makes a soft sound of embarrassment; Hannibal can admit that he is muchtoo distracted to pay it mind. “Only because I picked it to prove my classmate wrong.”

Hannibal is almost offended. He keeps himself in check. “You don’t find it interesting?”

“Oh!” Now Will sounds offended. “Of course I find him interesting. He’s a genius. It’s only petty because Freddie is wrong.” There’s a sneer in his voice.

Hannibal is… he’s not sure what he feels.

But Will is still going. “Freddie’s idea of journalistic ethics is to use anyone she can to spin any sensationalist story. She doesn’t think about impact. She doesn’t care about truth. It’s like if, if—” Will makes a frustrated sound. “If a doctor used their position to victimize those at risk. It’s like violating do no harm. It’s abhorrent, and she’s going to get people killed because she doesn’t think about what she writes. She doesn’t understand the fuel to a fire that journalism can be to a murder case. That naming something gives it power, but if you name it wrong?”

Will’s bitter laugh is the finest wine on his tongue, a symphony to soothe the restless corners of his mind. Hannibal’s heart makes one strong, fascinated thump before he gets himself under control once more.

“If she names him wrong, he won’t stand for it, you know,” Will murmurs. “Not this one.”

Hannibal inhales. Exhales. His hands flatten on Will’s back as he smoothes one last piece of tape into place. “You speak as though you know him. It’s a bold assumption.”

Will hmphs, casts a hard look back over his shoulder. All Hannibal can see of him is one sharply-lined eye, one highlighted cheek washed nearly white in the cold hospital light. “If you spent your time and risked your freedom making art, then got categorized as something so amateur as The Baltimore Butcher,wouldn’t you be pissed? I would.”

Even the suggestion of such a name is sour. Distasteful.

But it is unimaginable that Will Graham might infer that from—from what?

“Art,” Hannibal says. He removes his hands, puts distance between them. Discards the cloth in one of the smaller biohazard containers mounted upon the wall. “You find the killings artful? Most would consider them gruesome.”

The mattress creaks; Will sits up. He stretches, and when he lifts his head, the sheet of his curls tumbles down his back in an untamed wave, brushing the edges of his scapulas. He hums a short tune in a voice smooth and clear. A bar from a song, perhaps. His lips turn up at the edges in a wistful, complicated smile that he directs up at the ceiling.

“Glory and Gore, though, right? Making headlines. He considers them art—or better than they were before, anyway. They’re better to him dead. That doesn’t sound like just a Butcher to me.” Will’s smile falters; irritation creeps in around the edges, and soon enough, he’s scowling. “And he doesn’t only operate within Baltimore, which Freddie seems very ready to discount for the sake of clever alliteration.”

Hannibal tips his head in consideration. He holds out one last sealed sterile wipe; Will looks at it, then at him. “For your lip,” Hannibal says. “You’re still bleeding.”

“Oh.” Will tears it open without hesitation, and doesn’t seem to think anything of it as he wipes away his lip gloss. Not fussy, then. “Yeah, thanks.”

“You have quite a number of thoughts about this killer,” Hannibal says and quirks a brow, distracting himself from the sight of blood and lip color mingled together, brutal and effeminate. He’s not sure what effect he intends his words to have, but Will flushing red to the tips of his ears is not what he expects.

“Yeah, well…” Will hesitates, staring down at the wipe. Then, without a second thought, he folds it in half and begins to scrub at all his makeup. Black liner smudges and bleeds under the force of the alcohol; mascara smears in the hollows underneath Will’s eyes, lilac with sleep-deprived shadows and starving veins. Concealer, blush, powder, everything fades. The prettily-painted facade of Will Graham becomes the face of an exhausted young adult. Bruising at his jaw had been concealed by his foundation, and is now visible to Hannibal’s fascinated gaze. There is the faintest haze of ingrowing stubble, though not much to speak of.

Clad in a hospital gown and lace underwear, Will Graham is naked and defiant before him. He pulls his hair into a loose knot at the nape of his neck. With a mournful sigh, Will reaches for his glasses and wipes the cracked lenses with the edge of his hospital gown and puts them on.

Then he looks up at Hannibal, and there is a certain expression he wears—the exhausted expectation of rejection. And Will smiles, but it is not happy. “No one’s just one thing,” he says. “There’s no singular truth. But that doesn’t make the truth less fulfilling, does it? So I want to see his truth.” Will nods to himself. He looks down at his hands, his painted nails, his bruised and bloody broken knuckles. “And maybe I’ll keep Freddie from getting killed and prove her wrong all at once. But I’m not doing it for her.”

“An unconventional but noble pursuit.” Hannibal frowns. Suddenly he finds himself faced with a strange creature that he is not quite sure what to do with. A young predator with terrible potential, snared in chains of conventionality; a young knight on a noble quest for his Holy Grail. “So who would you do it for? Your quest to behold this killer and his truth.”

“Journalism gives a voice to the voiceless,” Will replies. There’s still mascara smudged beneath his lashes, blood painting his mouth where the color was wiped away; the cracks in his lenses are prison bars caging the duality of the creature within. “It seems to me this killer’s voice is the one that’s going unheard.”

Hannibal considers this. It’s an interesting thought, and he wonders what new dimensions might be reached if the tableaus left behind had an adequate eye to interpret them. “And with your insight, if you could and if you would, what name would you give to him?”

“Other than The Baltimore Butcher?”

Hannibal nods once. His curiosity is burning—to see what title someone like Will Graham might unknowingly bestow him.

Will stares in return. He has not been caught without an answer—it lurks somewhere inside his eyes, behind his teeth. He is gauging whether or not he wishes to share it; Anubis weighing the heart of the worthy.

“His comfort zone is large,” Will finally says. “Maryland, Virginia, Delaware, D.C. He crosses state lines with ease and avoids detection. He doesn’t seem to have any visible victim preferences, so either he’s random or he’s smart. He’s communicating through these murders, whether or not anyone is listening.” Something flickers across Will’s face, and is gone before it can be categorized. “But I’m listening.”

Yes, Hannibal realizes. Yes he is.

Will’s eyes waver and drop. With a sigh, he takes off his glasses again and casts them to the end of the bed, a lost cause. “It’s not my right to name him, Doctor Lecter. I’m just a student, I’m not a professional. I’m not law enforcement or a psychologist. Every guest lecturer says to never name a criminal. That it can embolden them, spur them to action and greater heights, seeking greater attention. But I’ve named him in my head, because in my head I know him. He speaks, and I hear his words. When he kills, I become an extension of his will.”

His Will. Hannibal rather likes the sound of that.

“To me,” Will says softly, “he’s The Chesapeake Ripper.”

The Baltimore Butcher. The Chesapeake Ripper. Of the two, Hannibal immediately knows which he prefers. There is a subtle cleverness, a reverence that is beholden with being named after Jack the Ripper. It is a history as rich as the Chesapeake Bay is vast.

And most importantly?

Jack the Ripper was never caught.

Hannibal bites hard on the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood. He narrowly avoids smiling. “Well,” he replies instead, “It’s been months since any such killings. Perhaps he’s finished his work.”

“He’s not done,” Will says with certainty. “He’s not.”

Hannibal hums. No, of course he’s not done. He’ll never be done. Even if Will’s Ripper fades or relocates, Hannibal will never be done. Blood and bone are his birthright. Conquering is his nature.

Perhaps Will’s professors were right.

To be named is a powerful thing.

“It’s certainly more tasteful,” Hannibal says with a nod. “Your name for this killer. It’s a fitting title.”

Will blinks slowly, doelike. The removal of his makeup has not diminished the length of his lashes; the smudge of black around his lids accentuates the crisp color of his eyes. He looks up at Hannibal, soft and open and vulnerable, a heart ready to be crushed. To be consumed.

How would Will Graham taste?

“I wish you every good fortune with your project,” Hannibal says with a small smile. “Aside from the misfortunes of this night, of course.”

Will, though clever, is so terribly young, so sweetly naive when he lowers his eyes and murmurs, “It hasn’t been so bad.”

There is a knock.

“Yes?” Hannibal replies.

Bernadette pokes her head around the curtain. “I’m ready to take Will for an x-ray if you’re done with him, Doctor Lecter.”

“Thank you, Bernadette, that will do nicely,” Hannibal replies. “And your guests?”

“Mr. McCallum cracked like an egg,” she replies with a smug smile. “The officers might have more questions, but I think everything is going to be fine.” She turns her gaze to Will and goes soft with sympathy at his ruined makeup. “Oh, honey. I hope you weren’t crying.”

Hannibal surveys Will, his demure persona. Now that the fight has worn away, he’s malleable. “No, nothing of the sort. Will is very strong.”

Will is indeed quite strong. And unbelievably soft.

“Thank you for your help, Doctor Lecter,” Will says. The flicker of a familiar business card between his fingers is quick as a minnow, and disappears to be folded into Will’s clothes again. “And your understanding.”

“It’s been my pleasure, Will.” Hannibal reaches out, and Will reaches back. Will’s handshake is warm and firm. Respectable. He looks into Hannibal’s eyes and does not look away until they part. “I’ll check in with you when you return, schedule allowing—”

The beeper on Hannibal’s hip goes wild at the same time he hears, “Paging Doctor Lecter, Ambulance Bay One. Doctor Lecter, Bay One.”

Hannibal sighs, looking skyward as though the PA speaker embedded in the ceiling held any answers, or perhaps mercy. “Well, perhaps not.”

“I can manage from here,” Will replies. His head tips to the side in consideration. “Good luck.”

Hannibal nods in thanks. He pats Bernadette on the shoulder as he passes. “Thank you for your help. Good evening to you both.”

It’s a strange thing, perspective—how the appearance of one person in a life can completely eclipse another. Will Graham lingers on Hannibal’s mind, stalks the shape of his shadow to the operating room, and home thereafter. When it comes time to write his notes on the surgeries he has performed this night, he finds himself struggling to remember names. More concerning yet is that his usual page-per-patient policy has been consumed. Will Graham, who should have been a footnote at the bottom of his daily log, grew a life of his own beneath the strokes of Hannibal’s pen and took up two pages from beginning to end. From his bared teeth and wild eyes to the secrets he revealed for want of a sympathetic audience.

The Chesapeake Ripper.

Yes, Hannibal decides, and sets down his pen. He closes his journal and picks up his sketchbook with a memory of watercolor bruises in his mind. Yes, he likes the sound of that.

#hannigram #hannigraham #making headlines fic #hannibal fic #hannibal nbc #nbc hannibal #hannibal #hannibal lecter #will graham #genderfluid!will #doctor!hannibal #luc writes #dei's fics #luc does prompts #tbc #i give up HERE JUST TAKE IT

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nekoladyproductions · 6 years

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Pacific Rim 2: Uprising Thoughts and Feelings (Spoilers)

First thing off the bat: not nearly as good as the first film but I don't judge things based off of it's predecessors. I like to watch things as individual movies due to a number of reasons, one of them being so I don't overhype myself and end up hating a franchise because of one product not living up to par. Okay? Cool.

I want to get the cons out of the way first because that's the easy part. The look of the film is not nearly as impressive as the original, which is strange considering the previous film came out half a decade earlier. The colours don't pop as much and the camera work has lots left to be desired. There were strange zooms and pans that didn't work out for the movie and made some serious scenes not so serious due to the strange camera work. Most of the time, however, it wasn't interesting at all.

Not enough kaiju. Like. Three kaiju. And a mega kaiju. How dare.

Too many characters I don't care about. Like the nerd kid who died. I don't even remember his name outside of "Boob Job Kid" because his father is a plastic surgeon and the fact that people will proceed to call the movie racist because he was the only Indian recruit. 😐 (Sucks he died though because he was a cute character regardless, even though it was hella obvious he was going to be the one to go down because of how wimpy he was and some foreshadowing.) There's also Vik, a hard ass girl who's friendship works like brawling in Skyrim and who coincidentally looks like my ex girlfriend and has the same haircut. A bunch of others too idgaf. They should have stuck with Jake, Nate, Amara, Shao, Hermann, and Newt. Those were the ones who mattered, not the bajillions of other characters.

I do not judge a movie based on special effects, and here's why: it does not impede my overall enjoyment of a movie. I am a fan of old movies with practical effects, and most of the time, even though real materials were used, they look fake, and most of the time faker than CGI. I also watch almost exclusively animated films, which aren't realistic looking at all. Movies, especially ones that do not take place in our reality (Nightmare on Elm Street, Marvel, etc) cannot look like real life no matter what you do, so I find it tiring whenever someone complains about the graphics. I care about immersion with characters and writing. The visuals are only there to represent objects and creatures. I have never, and will never, judge a video game by it's graphics nor will I for a movie unless it is something along the lines of The Amazing Bulk, in which they didn't put any effort in at all. The CGI was not a problem for me, nor did it put me out of the film.

...

Except for one occassion, when Newt was looking out onto the drones and the camera panned out. It looked very out of place and that was jarring for me, but that was the only instance of the visuals in the CGI department pulling me out. Everything else looked fine to me. Then again, I might be biased because I enjoy much more rough looking films. I don't like too much polish.

The pacing, however, was hot garbage. The action scenes were perfect but everything else was... Not. The kaiju didn't come in until much later. Normal scenes were either too long or too short, and all scenes that were meant to be emotional were much too fast, like with our two gay science buddies and the family getting crushed. Like, bro. With the timing and look of the scene it was borderline comedic.

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The characters are weaker here, I am not going to lie. Hermann, Shao and Amara are the only good guys with motivations that are easy to follow through without any confusion. Jake isn't a very good protagonist. A lot of his story is quite vague, and his past with Nate is fuzzy and possibly homoromantic if you "turn your head sideways and squint". Amara is a young girl of roughly 15 who labouralsy built her own mini Jaeger called "Scrapper", and became involved in the training program after being caught by the cops for building an unregistered Jaeger. She built the Jaeger because she had a hunch that the kaiju would come back. I mean, being 5 years old and watching your entire family getting stomped on by some macro scalie's wet dream would make anyone paranoid of another attack coming.

I'm gonna get this out of the way; the Jaegers were not used for normal civilian police work as I've seen at least one Tumblr user put it. That is ridiculous. The only logical way to stop a Jaeger is with a Jaeger. The one time saw the blue beauty bot come out to play is when Scrapper was found by the cops and tried to escape detainment. The drones were also being placed on military BASES around the world in case of another kaiju or more homemade Jaegers started popping up, not to flatten a robber or punt a rogue helicopter in Saudi Arabia.

Back to characters.

Gottleib isn't a fucking mechanic/chemist. Like, I get it. They needed someone who worked closely alongside Newt after he went corporate, but Hermann even said life science isn't really his schtick. He's many things, but that field of science was N-- ohhhhhh. Fuck. I forgot that they linked brains for a moment. Oh my god while typing this I just got smashed with a wave of fridge brilliance. Never mind.

Oh, but as I said, Hermann has motivation and is the only character outside of the main villain to be quite passionate in the movie. He was an absolute treat to see on screen, and was the true hero of the film. But that's a pro, not a con. Sorry.

There is one thing that truly upset me in the film and I am sure most of you know by now, but Mako died in a helicopter crash very early in the film before she was able to get more than a few lines of dialog. I get that they wanted a tragedy early on, but it was just so disrespectful to can one of the main characters from the previous film in such a gruesome fashion. Not to mention her message was more or less a MacGuffin to get the Gipsy Avenger to a secluded space to duke out with Obsidian Fury for that sweet, sweet tomato surprise.

The reason why the kaiju came to fuck shit up is dumb but also makes sense in a way. People have pointed out that Mt. Fuji is not the only place to get ahold of rare elements but the plan was to blow up the mountain and chain react with other volcanoes, so the logic lies that it is easier to go to a volcano that already has the minerals needed rather than meticulously searching for other places with these specific materials and then go somewhere. It wasn't specified what these materials were EXACTLY, so whether or not the monsters could have just kamakzied at Yellowstone is unknown, or rather kept intentionally vague so there wouldn't be even more plot holes added to the pile.

If you want to know what the hell I am talking about, the film explains that the Precursors sent the kaiju that teleported from the rim were all on their way to Mt. Fuiji to cause a huge volcanic domino effect, cover the earth in volcanic ash, and kill all life as we know it for the Precursors' gain, which is still largely unknown. Kaiju blood isn't just pretty, but it reacts violently with certain rare terrestrial elements and minerals. Mt. Fuji is the only place in the world that is not only an active volcano, but has such a high concentration of what the Precursors need that sending these large beasts on suicide missions will guarantee success on killing all life on the planet with as little hassle as possible. It's easier to go to a small grocery store with everything you need in one place versus going to a mall with a bunch of different stores spaced out with everything you need in different places and in different amounts.

Once again, kinda dumb, kinda generic, but it makes sense once you break it down.

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Some are saying that the movie sucks the military's dick, and yeah I can kinda see that but not really. I might be desensitized at this point due to the sheer amount of military cock-sucking Hollywood does but I am just not seeing it here. Independence Day and Michael Bay films are super obvious with their gross idolization of American armed forces. I don't think a single, real military branch was even mentioned in the film and the fighting was controlled by some military-esque figures, sure, but the movie featured two rascals growing up to being responsible in battle. Once again I just might be desensitized at this point so if anyone has any points they want to give they can elaborate in the notes. I'm genuinely interested.

Okay, now we're getting into some actual spoilers here.

Shao was set up to be the villain of the film. She is a woman who owns a weapons manufacturing company that created remote controlled Jaegers that are safer for use and easier to handle. With how things were going, the film led us to believe that her company was remote controlling other decommissioned Jaegers so that hers would get approved and she gets loads of money.

H O W E V E R

When Gipsy got a hold of the rogue Jaeger, Obsidion Fury, and peeled back the helmet, it wasn't a human or a computer. It was a kaiju brain. Oh dear.

You seemed to have noticed that I haven't really mentioned Newt very much in this little thoughts and analysis. As it turns out, he's the main villain in the film, and boy is he one hell of a bad guy. Whenever he drifted with the brain in the first movie, he got a connection. Then he shared it with Hermann, making it Hermann's first time... But not Newt. In a disturbing/funny scene in the movie, we get quite the shocker. Earlier he mentioned someone named Alice, whom we assumed to be his spouse.

It was that kaiju brain. He fell under control of it.

If you recall from the first film, kaiju work as a sort of hivemind that is connected through both our dimension and theirs. Whenever he connected with it, his brain was shortly apart of the hive. His brain couldn't handle the power of the brain alone. They took him, but slowly. He kept coming back for more and more, for a reason unknown--an urge, perhaps--until he eventually lost himself to the mind and became completely under their control. Possessed, if you will.

The reason why he sold out to Shao and went away from Hermann was to get private access to powerful robots that he can personally tamper without anyone noticing. He took brains harvested and studied on by PPD and implemented them into the robots in secret so that they can destroy the Jaegers owned by PPD and revive the portal into our own world. It wasn't him. It was the kaiju.

Pretty much no one was anticipating that. Some call it stupid, I was on the edge of my seat. Newt is my favourite character from the first film and I love me some villain angst so I was satisfied.

Okay, time for the pros. (Even though I cited some anyway)

The action kicked all kinds of ass. It was fast paced, yet you knew what was going on which is somewhat of a rarity in modern action films. No misuse of shaky cam, no editing tricks, no seizure-inducing jumpcuts that Nolan is infamous for, no 10 million missle follow-throughs like Bay (there was one though). It was fun, it was exciting, and the only colourful moments in the film. The camera work wasn't revolutionary, but it did serve its purpose and made the last/only kaiju battle something epic.

The acting is decent. I am not sure how old the child characters' actors are, but they were good for the roles they were in. Most child actors are quite shit--not gonna sugar coat it. That's actually one of the reasons why I'm avoiding IT and A Wrinkle in Time. John Boyega was of course charming and smooth, even if his character was quite shallow. Everyone knows that Hermann and Newt absolutely stole the whole show. Their acting was marvelous! Charlie Day does very well as a villain and I hope to see him in more antagonistic roles in the future. You believed him to be evil, but not quite there. You knew that he was there somewhere, but at the same time you believe that he means business.

Oh my god, that twist! At first, you think Newt is just kinda being douchey because he got so wrapped up in money but no. Oh no. All of the weird little things, the brushing off of Hermann but still wanting to be around him just later, inviting him to see his "wife". Having little glimmers of his past self but fading away. It all makes so much sense when the reveal is dropped. He said it in a way that he tried to come off nonchalant but his voice cracked and his eyes moistened. That's good ass acting, Charlie. Holy fuck. People underestimate you, and that's a shame. The movie wanted me to believe that he was being controlled by the enemy and I did. I fucking did.

He genuinely cares about Hermann, and confirmed by Charlie he has romantic feelings for him that are reflected by Hermann. During the confrontation he was trying to stop choking Hermann, and thankfully Shao came in and broke it up before he could do any further damage. Hermann stopping Shao from killing Newt because he knows he's still there, he saw it.

The photos on the desk, the yearning, the dialogue. Ten years away. They would have been together if it weren't for those accursed aliens.

The story itself wasn't too great until it got to the third act. Everything came together and everyone brought their all for it and it showed.

Dude the DeSiGnS. Those Jaegers were so sleek, dawg! Each one was really cool! My favourite was Scrapper. Everyone says that she's just BB8 but I say that she is a reference to old-school gundam where the younger members of a team would usually have the smaller bots. A lot of those characters tend to have faster moving mechs with much more evasive maneuvers and with a cuter design. I'm sure people are associating her with BB8 because both are cute and can roll. The kaiju weren't as cool looking with the exception of the Mega Kaiju that Newt stitched together with his machines.

Ohhhhhh, yes. There's a Mega Kaiju. If there were categories in this film, it would have surpassed Category 6. Fuck me man, probably Category 8 or 9! That fucker was HUGE! AND COOL! And scary. That thing took out three Jaegers and it had to take a Gipsy nose-diving from the stratosphere and hitting direct impact to kill it. The only way that Jake and Amara survived was Shao controlling Scrapper to smash-roll them into safety.

Oh yeah. Shao is a badass. Forgot to mentionnnnn.

The music, like with every film it seems, served its purpose to get us hyped when we needed to be and cry when we needed to. I've noticed that unless your score has a different genre (John Carpenter films,) has a catchy melody (Pirates of the Caribbean, anyone?) or has unique instrumentation (anything that graces Danny Elfman's fingertips) it tends to fade out into the generic. Orchestra is fine and dandy and all, but we don't keep flicking back to video game soundtracks because of its supposed grandeur. It gets stuck in our heads, keeps us coming back. Music ties us to our souls, man! And music ties a movie together.

Generic music makes a generic film. But at least it isn't shit, or barely there. Or so loud you can't hear dialogue, another problem most films have during big scenes.

In Conclusion

This film is not a masterpiece by any stretch of the imagination. Most sequels aren't. This is a stepping stone movie. What's that?

A stepping stone movie is a sequel that isn't that great used to setup a bigger, better movie. This is the Iron Man 2 of Pacific Rim.

To be frank, there's a lot of similarities to Iron Man 2 in this film. Military fuckupery, evil corporate masterminds, extremists, drones. Lots of it. Even though Iron Man 2 sucks, it was the tie into Iron Man 3, arguably one of the best Marvel movies in the MCU. They are called stepping stones because most of the resources needed for the better project are used for the finale movie, but you need something to tide over the audience/help go into the other film if the plot needs some explaining to do that can't be done in one movie/set up certain things and concepts that simply cannot be done in one movie lest you want a clusterfuck a la Batman v Superman.

It isn't the greatest film, but it is not a dumpster fire either. It all depends on perspective. If you want your fancy tickled if you like stuff like Tokusatsu and action movies, go for it. If you just want a fun time, go for it. If you want to see something Pacific Rim but not something crazy good, go for it. If you are a die-hard fan, however, you may want to avoid it if you want to see it as perfect as the original. There are PLENTY of problems with the film and I understand when fans express their displeasure, but please for the love of everything lovely, do not attack others who do like the film.

Don't call them names, don't stomp on their opinions, and don't accuse them of being this or that because of two unfortunate deaths in the film involving POC with one of them being a woman. There are lots of POC in the movie and yeah it sucks that two nonwhite people died, but just remember to not immediately assume that something or someone is racist due to this. The last thing I want is someone to feel guilty by being shamed on the internet for enjoying a harmless movie that had an Asian woman and an Indian boy die in it.

All in all, I give this movie 6.5 to a 7 out of 10. Not the best, not the worst. Could have been either.

#movie review #movies #pacific rim 2 #pacific rim 2 uprising #spoilers #pacrim 2 spoilers #lady's thoughts #i thought it was decent #guillermo del toro

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room3voluntary · 6 years

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In meds we trust

I was in the toilet when I heard a polite knock at my door. 'Are you in Maddie? A man’s voice floated through the door. I was only in there looking at my face. Well, the chemical caused acne breakout that used to be my face. Urgh. I opened the door. 'I just have some paperwork to fill in if that's ok?' I realised he might be a junior doctor and he was as polite and his knock. I grabbed them from his hand and it was the usual. 2 pieces of paper, each with situation statements which I had to confirm with a circle. Never, rarely, some days, several days, always. Question 3 really got me. 'Do you talk to yourself while you're alone? What type of question is that ?'I asked aloud. He asked why and I said how do you know. 'How do you know if you talk to yourself while you're alone? That's like asking if a tree falls in the wood when no one is around does anyone hear?' He started laughing. 'I see your point' he said 'I know that I talk to myself' me too. I circled 'several days'. I think everyone does. He thanked me and collected the papers. He informed me I have formulation meeting tomorrow. A formulation meeting is where everyone gets together and discusses what to do with you. It sounds so clinical. How do you solve a problem like Maddie? I've been a puzzle quite a few times.

I was sat at my desk when a seriously lady walked in, carrying a briefcase and a warm smile she perched on the end of my bed. 'My name is Dr Khatri'.

First things first we discussed the events which led me here but after a while she clocked my note pad. She asked me what I was writing so I explained. It was partly this, partly my book and partly serious subjects. 'I wish I was as creative as you' she said. We then continued trawling through my history and uttered the words I knew were coming but still filled me with dread. 'I think you will benefit from an antipsychotic'

In 2008, after the first serious admission i had, I left hospital at went back to college. I had my second psychotic breakdown 6 months into my first year at art college. It was now September and my first day back. i was so nervous but everyone was so nice, within a few hours i got my confidence back, i was ready to begin. I stared at the canvas in front of me and nothing happened. Creativity used to flow out of my hands. My mother was told I was gifted. I never saw a blank canvas I saw one hundred visual stories to be told. I picked up the charcoal to trigger some sort of idea but nothing happened. Then it hit me, I was normal. I was functioning but i'd sacrificed my creativity for it. Id sacrificed part of myself.

When you're young you're told to believe in you're dreams. You can achieve anything you want but as you get older you realise this isn't true and it takes hard work and sacrifices. My goal was to be normal and for that i realised I'd sacrificed part of my soul. Through the following year, I noticed not only had I sacrificed my soul, also my identity and it was down to a little blue pill called aripiprazole. aripiprazole was an antipsychotic and two years later when I had a trial coming off it, I came back. My soul re-entered my body, whatever what repressing me left and I got my sparkle again. I didn't want to be locked away again.

'It's an antipsychotic called olanzapine' she said covering an awkward silence in which I realised I hadn't replied. 'I understand you have tried aripiprazole and quetiapine in the past yes?' I had but they were both the same, they stole who I was but quetiapine had made me physically ill as well. bad allergic reaction.

'What are the side effects?' I asked when I finally got out of my thoughts. 'There can be weight gain as a side effect' i knew this. Not only that I knew olanzapine was the worst one for it. I felt sick. I am Maddie and I am skinny. That's part of me. Throughout my life I've had patches where I've been a bit funny about my weight and for this reason I felt like I'd been given a death sentence. Logic once more dictates that this was ridiculous, but me and logic aren't always friends. I'm crazy and ill but at least I'm skinny and exciting. I'm not pretty enough to be fat. Medication weight is entirely different to normal weight. It's all on the stomach. You see it, a big round pouch. It's all on the stomach and flat in the eyes. I got one before, not big but it was there. People can be beautiful at any weight, size and shape but it made me so worried. My choice was be mad or be unhappy with how I look. I don't know what's worse. I know I was being dramatic, I know I was being shallow and vain but maybe It's what I deserved. 'Okay' I said. I wasn't really thinking. I'd already conceded to defeat to continue to participate in the decision. She asked if I had any more questions and smiled as she left. I smiled too.

I am not anti-medication. I am pro-medication. I'm already on some. There are so many people, mainly who suffer with depression I've found, who point blank refuse any meds. I understand, they worry for the same reason as me but no matter how good your diet is, no matter how many miles your run, sometimes you're serotonin will not play the game. There is no denying these factors help but sometimes you need a crutch, a little helping hand to get you through the day but prejudice and fear seem stronger than logic. 'You don't need pills, why would you want to put all those chemicals in your body?' Preaches the person who nearly blacks out on tequila every weekend before inhaling a gram of cocaine through to Sunday morning. 'You just need a distraction' says the person who’s never even had a cold in their life, never mind any other health problems.

It's a chemical imbalance: would you tell someone with diabetes it's a state of mind? And the same as diabetes, yes a diet can help, but you're not going to stop that imbalance by stopping their insulin. Ignorance causes suffering.

The reason for my reservations was my complicated past with this type of drug. After a short time of contemplating in silence I started to cry. I felt heartbroken. Everything I had tried, the struggle and determination I had fought to stay off them, I was back to where I was a few years ago. I had failed. My heart sank into my chest not only through disappointment but the knowledge she was probably right. I was being selfish too, my behaviour was also effecting the people around me, i had to be fixed. It was the most logical answer. I also knew that medication effects individuals in different ways but even that didn't help me. What could I do? I needed to formulate a plan of my own. Ferociously scribbled into my notebook cause and effect, feelings and frenzied suggestions but i knew deep down i was wrong.

I went to find a nurse. I wasn't good at this whole 'talking to someone' business, I can do it in my own, but I needed to say my thoughts out loud.

The ward has been busy. It was living up to a stereotype I tried to ignore. Sharon, the walker, was no longer wandering the hallways but yelping incoherently to herself in her room. Earlier a new girl was brought in by a flock of people who promptly tried to escape and hit her dad. I watched as she screamed and wet her self. I watched her violently thrashing as she was rugby tackled like a SWAT team by the staff and sedated. As we all shuffled off to our rooms as instructed by staff, I saw her legs were all bruised and bleeding. I saw her eyes too, she wasn't there.

I finally found a nurse to speak to. No, talk at. Through mascara stained rambling I explained. She said nothing. Finally she said 'don't worry about the weight gain, it doesn't happen to everyone'. What a pile of shit. Yes it does, it's the one that does it that most, im not an idiot. 'Tea is ready if you want some?' She said changing the subject and leaving. I didn't want some. I wasn't hungry. Probably because I knew soon that's all i'd be. Hungry and lost.

As the evening drifted on, it nearly time. I made my way to the treatment room like a prisoner on the way to the executioners block. I had to get rid of this negativity. i had to try. I slouched on the chair outside the treatment room, waiting for my name to be shouted. A few of the older and worse patients were watching TV. I looked at their facing staring blankly at the set. How do they do it? All of them are on antipsychotics and they just get on with it. That's all some of them do though, just stare at the TV in their pyjamas. I can't work out if they know what's going on or braver than me, stronger than me? Probably both, more so the latter.

I heard my name and got my meds. I saw a new little pink one, poking out of the crowd of pills in the paper cup. 'This is a new one for me. I'm excited for the sleep but not the weight gain!' I joked. She just smiled and shrugged her shoulders. I took a deep breath and knock it back. Then nothing. I don't know what I expected. The whole world to change? To die? Everything was exactly the same. An hour passed and still nothing happened. I was just sat watching TV and very much still myself.

I got up to go to the kitchen and that's when I noticed the change. Fuzzy. Everything was fuzzy. From the floor tiles to door frames everything was like a slow slide show, doubled and swayed. I felt like static, my brain full of white noise. I stumbled into the kitchen but it was too bright so I abandoned my cup and made my way to my room. I felt as though i was walking through water. A 5 second journey turned into a 5 mile march of white corridor. I have spent more time in a drug fuelled trip wandering round hospital corridors than I have house parties this year.

I finally made it into bed and turned out the lights. Everything was better now. The white noise was quieter. Calm. The world has righted itself. The last thing I remember before falling asleep was my legs feeling hot against the bed sheet.

*****

I've just woke up. I can't get up

It was two hours later and I was still struggling to move. Every twitch of my leg and flex of my arm made me feel sick. I needed the toilet, I had to move. My mouth was sandpaper dry, I needed some water, I had to move. I eventually pulled myself up and felt better I thought- until I stood up. It felt like my heart was going to explode through my chest. All my extremities tingled. I edged my way to the toilet using the wall as a frame and finally reached the bowl. That was the best piss I ever had. I looked over the mirror. I looked awful. Every time I closed my eyes I could see the veins pulsing across my eyelids and in my reflection that is what I saw. Blood shot eyes, the negative of what I saw in the blink, like a fingerprint. I got up and shuffled to the door.

The hallway was white. Too white. My heart felt like it was beating into my legs, each step a slow and heavy thump. The pressure in my chest was radiating down from my head which was locked in an invisible vice. The heaviness of my head led the way as I went to find help. 'I don't feel very well' I said when I finally reached the dining room hatch. One of the nurses took my arm 'oh dear' she said 'Coincidence has it, a doctor is here, I'll get him to take a look at you, don't worry'. I lent in her shoulder and she grabbed me gently by the arm and steadily walked me to the treatment room.

wilted on the bed, I blinked and there stood a figure leaning over me, face shrouded by the strip light behind, turning his features into a silhouette which was crowned by a halo. My eyes adjusted to the lights and distortion melted away. The silhouette was now replaced with a dark haired doctor. He looked early 30s. Quite cute actually. First attractive person I'd seen in ages and i was in this state. The nurse from before leaned over and pulled my top up. I then also realised I had my tits out. Great. Faces of Meth, faces of Maddie, there was very little distinction. 'Hold up your arms, put then together onto your chest and lift them up like chicken wings' he said. What. He must have seen my expression of disbelief and confusion as he showed me how. 'I'm not going to press on your elbows and you have to try and keep them up, okay?' He was very authoritative yet polite. I liked it. From there proceeded a number of resistance tests, pulling and pressing on various limbs. After a while he pulled out his stethoscope and listened to my chest before checking my blood pressure. Everything was a little bit high. 'You are experiencing some very strong side effects but you are okay but we'll mention this to the consultant. Try and get some rest' Rest. That is all anyway says but it doesn't seem to be working. The nurse helped me back up and I hauled myself back to bed.

'Maddie can i come in?' The staff nurse shouted the door. 'You have your formulation meeting at 1 o'clock is that okay?' It was 12:30. Oh god, I had so much to say, so much to explain, so much persuading to do and I couldn't in this state. I was struggling slur through a sentence. mind fuzzy. I started to panic, the kick of adrenaline woke me up and I pulled on some clothes and lumbered to meeting room. It was time to formulate my formulation, see where my path was headed next, and I was not prepared.

When I walked in I was greeted by four ladies all sat in perfect symmetry, two on each side. There was my mum, a staff nurse, the psychiatrist and a lady I didn't know. I looked at my mother who couldn't hide her concern at the state I'd walked in. 'I don't want to take olanzapine again, please don't make me' I pleaded before anyone could even begin. 'It is your body and I can see you are not well' I looked at Dr Khatri 'They have had an unusually adverse effect on you. In the pasts you have tried aripriprazole and quetiapine and there were not successful either. I don't think this medication is for you. I see no benefit to continuing' she smiled at me. 'Thank you' I replied. Thank you didn't even cut it, thank you for the bottom of my heart. A wave of relief washed over me. I said previously they are not good for me but no one had really listened. I have the symptoms, they fix the symptoms but they don't suit me. Antipsychotics are anti-Maddie. 'We have decided to the observe and see how you go' she continued 'we will wait for the increase in lamotrogine to take effect and if you manage to have two nights full rest, you can go on weekend leave and if that is successful we can discuss discharge' even better! This was the plan. This is want I wanted. I struggled to hold back tears as I thanked her. The lady was finally introduced to me. She was my work liaison officer. The thing is, and the thing you may not believe is, I am full time employed. Up until a while ago I was just like you. A Starbucks drinking, Tesco raiding, selfie taking, endless consumer. I was the one who accidentally walked into you in a heaving pool of people in primark. I am the person who sat opposite you on the train. A 'mutual friend', a 'someone you might know'.

Mental illness believes in equality. It doesn't judge or have prejudice. It will simply strike any of us at any moment. A monster lurking in the dark.

For a while I’d felt like my life had been stagnant and now it was the most static and stagnant it’s ever been. I needed to get out.

For the rest of the meeting I stayed slumped in my chair, the drugs still flowing through my veins. I watched them speak, their mouths moved but blurred sounds came out from far away. Dr Khatri hand grabbed mine and shook it, our faces smiling simultaneously. The plan was complete. The formulation; I just had to sleep. Not that hard right?

*****

I’m trying to sleep but It’s raining. It’s raining so hard. I overheard something about a storm earlier, about the sky turning yellow? I don’t know. It’s not just me that’s gone crazy recently, it’s the whole world. I couldn’t sleep though it like the slow motion crush of a car bonnet crumpling into a wall in a crash test simulation, dummy falling and bending inside.

Suddenly silence. I flipped open the curtain next to me, only blackness peered back in. No rain.

From behind me I heard the pitter patter of quick footsteps down the corridor and quickly flung myself into bed and pretended to be asleep. A few seconds later I heard the shutter fold up, the flash of a light and felt the eyes of a nurse observe me for a moment before moving on. I heard the shutter slap down I rolled over. Try again.

I lay in the darkness, it buzzing around me like bees trying to shut down. Even if I don’t sleep even if they just think I have slept I can leave. I wasn’t going to move but then I heard the tapping. It was coming from outside of my window. Tap, tap, tap. I got up and went to the bathroom and slid under the sink, curling into a ball. Tap, tap, tap. I closed my eyes and breathed.

I wont tell them about this

#olanzapine #mental health #mental illness #bipolor #medication #meds #antipsychotics #psychiatry #psychiatric hospital #psychiatric mental health nursing #mental heath awareness #diary #mania #psychosis

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