#My eyes and brain are in pain THEY ARE IN TWO DIFFERENT PERSPECTIVES

[vivwritescrappythings]

It'll Heal

vampire!eddie munson x fem!afab!reader

Part two is to Just Love Me and Eat.

Your boyfriend Eddie is back from the Upside Down—but he’s different, smut ensues.

This is a rewrite of something I already posted, so if it seems familiar--that's why. I wanted this to be from Eddie's perspective, I still don't think it’s my best work but i've decided to post it!

tw: reader is afab and identifies as a girl, p in v sex, unprotected sex, nipple play, fingering, biting, blood drinking, crying, bad writing, vampirism as a metaphor for love.

word count: 6.1k

MDNI!

masterlist

—

He could hear the wood splinter under his fingers, hardly feeling it as he held himself back. It was like you punched Eddie in the chest, the request leaving him empty and reeling. Before he knew it, you’d tangled a hand in the soft curls at the nape of his neck and pushed him into your throat until his teeth pressed against your skin.

He could hardly remember how he got to the point where he was bent over you, nosing and licking at your throat like a starving man. You kept squirming and whimpering his name, tears running across your temples and into your hairline. He put a hand on your sternum to keep you down, forcing you to be still beneath him. It was like a wolf holding a rabbit to the ground, just waiting to bite. He could tell you were scared and confused, your eyes searching his face for some familiarity.

Eddie’s mouth was watering, the smell of your blood and the sound of your heartbeat overwhelming him with hunger. He didn’t know why his stomach was clenching as he felt the veins in your neck under his lips. He couldn’t stop scraping his teeth on the sensitive skin, so tempted to just sink them into you. The part of his brain that wasn’t running on instinct was alarmed by the idea of it—he’d never even imagined hurting you before.

You figured it out before Eddie did–you always were too damn smart for your own good. When you said you loved him it made his heart ache, his breath faltering for a moment. If only you knew the way he imagined tearing into your neck and sucking up the blood inside of you. 

Then, you begged him to eat. 

“Just love me and eat.” It rang in his mind as Eddie finally sank his teeth into your neck.

The burst of blood in his mouth made him groan, almost drowning out the sound of your pain as he bit into your flesh. His hand left your chest to cradle your cheek, the curve of your face had always fit nicely into the hollow of his hand. Your blood tasted so sweet, warming him from the inside out as he drank from you. He let his mind wander as he sucked at your throat like some overgrown mosquito.

Eddie didn’t know what he would find when he scaled his way up the side of the building to your window that night. Part of him had concocted some scenario where you’d been so broken up by his death that you found some loser to comfort you through it, it made him move even faster. He was shocked by the way he could grip onto the smallest of ledges between the uneven brick siding of your apartment building, under typical circumstances he would’ve had to come through the door like a normal person.

But that’s the thing.

He’s not normal. Not anymore. 

Eddie had no clue how long had passed when he woke up in the dirt in the Upside Down. His body ached, he could feel every bite and scratch and scar from the demobats as he sat up and looked around. The bat carcasses were around him in a wide circle, the sweet and putrid smell of rotting flesh filling his nose as he slowly made his way to his feet. The sky was an eerie red, but the rest of his surroundings were still. 

That was the first time he felt the burning pain of his newly discovered hunger. He thought he knew what it was like to starve, but this was next level. It made Eddie stumble, the force of it hitting him feeling like a freight train as he clutched at his stomach and throat. 

Crawling out of the Upside Down was climbing out of his own grave. His hands were caked with mud as he opened the way through the gate in the road, it was the first one he could find. Hawkins looked like it had been torn to shreds, huge cracks in the ground and buildings in the town center partially crumbled. It was the middle of the night, he didn’t even see another person out on the sidewalk... it was probably better that way.

Eddie’s only thought was finding you. The image of you sobbing over him in the Upside Down was burned into his eyelids. The thought that you might have left Hawkins occurred to him when he was tapping on your window with a gaudy costume ring. But the curtain was the same, the purple one you made him hang up because you didn’t like the blinds.

When you snapped the curtain aside he didn’t know what to expect. It certainly wasn’t the broken version of who you once were, dark circles and tangled hair and sallow skin. You were wearing his extra Hellfire shirt, the one he hadn’t cut the sleeves off of—Wayne must have given it to you.

The thud of your hand hitting the floor woke him from his stupor, making him reluctantly pull away from your throat. Your fingers were relaxed, splayed open like there was no energy left inside you. Eddie couldn’t help licking long stripes across the wound, his tongue warm and wet as he lapped at the remaining blood. 

He sat back on his heels, taking in the way you were practically boneless against the wood floor. Your eyes were almost crossed as you looked up at him. Prey looking at the predator. You were devoid of color in your skin, slowly blinking and so weak you could hardly lift your hand. Did he really do this to you?

“C’mon, baby,” he whispered, picking you up off the floor to bring to your bed. He was careful to be gentle with you, his gaze focused on the wound on your neck as your head lolled to one side like there were no bones in your body. Worry struck him like lightning, the only thing keeping him calm was that he could actually hear your pulse. 

Eddie situated you on the bed, tucking you in and taking off his shoes and dirt-covered clothes as he slid in behind you. He sighed as he sunk into your mattress, pulling your back to his chest. He choked back a sob, pressing his face into your hair and inhaling the faint lemon scent of your shampoo. 

Your panic was obvious to him, the way you fought falling asleep as though a nightmare was waiting for you on the other side. It made him placate you with whispered promises and quiet words until you fell asleep in his arms. Just like you used to before. 

His hand left your waist to touch his own chin, your blood smeared on his fingertips. The idea of wasting any of your blood made panic unfurl in his chest, his fingers wiping as much of the drying blood into his mouth before he messily slicked his own tongue across his cheeks and chin like a toddler with remnants of chocolate ice cream. 

In the darkness of your bedroom, Eddie found himself wide awake next to you. Normally at this time of night he wouldn’t be able to see a thing, but now everything was so clear to him it practically could be noon. Your heartbeat was so loud to him, he could hear your blood pushing through your veins with every thump.

He got out of bed, his head practically vibrating as he tried to forget about the taste of your blood. Eddie left your room, leaving the door cracked behind him as he stepped into the small living room and kitchen of your one bedroom apartment. It felt like his throat was closing up, the room tilting dangerously as he leaned against the wall.

The only other time he had a panic attack was when his dad left, and it was nothing like this. He pressed his dirty hands to his eyes, shaking as he tried to catch his breath. Ever since he woke up in the Upside Down he knew something was wrong, but he’d never guessed it could be this bad. 

“You need to pull yourself together, Munson,” he muttered. His shaking hands moved to fist in his curly hair, the strands still caked with drying mud from his crawl. “You’ve played too much fucking Dungeons and Dragons.”

The word vampire kept coming up in his thoughts. His fingers moved to feel the fangs in his mouth, pinching the elongated teeth and trying to wiggle them loose. Maybe it was all a bad dream, and if he could just pull the fangs off he would wake up in a world where he couldn’t describe the sensation of your warm, sweet blood sliding down his throat. 

The fact that there is a world where he knows the taste of your blood is a cruel joke.

–

He could hear the moment you woke up, your breathing changing from the slow cadence to something sporadic. The bed creaked as you rolled over on it, he knew you were feeling his side to see if you had dreamed it all. 

The door to the bedroom was still cracked open as he walked in—his steps were silent now. He’d decided to shower, cleaning the blood and mud off of his body under the warm spray of water. Your lemon scented shampoo and conditioner were the only things available, leaving his hair smelling like what he imagined a Herbal Essence commercial would.

You were about to cry, he could tell by the way the muscles in your abdomen were bunched up and the shaking hand pressed to your forehead. The way your eyes squinted made his heart break, sending him to your side. His hands found your shoulders as he sat down on the bed behind you, working his thumbs into your tense muscles.

“Baby, it’s okay.” His voice was soft, his fingertips pressing against the soft fabric of the Hellfire shirt you wore. You were trembling, a dismayed sob escaping you. He maneuvered so you were sitting between his legs, one of his arms curling around your waist. “I’m here.” 

The sigh you let out was thick and wet, making his heart lurch in his chest. You twisted so you could look at him, watery gaze taking in the way his hair hung in wet curls around his face. “I thought I imagined it,” you whispered, leaning back against his chest. He’d changed into some of the pajamas you kept in your dresser for nights he slept over, finally getting rid of the acrid smell of the Upside Down.

Eddie shook his head, pressing his nose against your hair and taking a deep breath. You smelled like your shampoo and your detergent and the remnants of the nice perfume you’d probably worn at his funeral–you only put it on for special occasions. Under all of that he could smell your blood and sweat and something so human that it made him salivate. 

The last time you sat like this was on his bed in Wayne’s trailer… did Wayne even live there anymore? He realized with a start that he had no clue. “It’s real, I’m here,” he muttered, one hand skimming down your arm as he tried to ground himself to this moment. Your hand was cradled in the curve of his palm, his calloused fingers skimmed the backs of your knuckles before slotting between yours.

“Eddie, you’re freezing,” you whispered. He hadn’t noticed, thinking that you had a fever or something. You twisted in his arms to press a hand against his neck, your palm feeling like a glove warmer against his skin.

Your eyes searched his, brows bunched up with concern. “You don’t feel cold?” you asked, smoothing some of his wet curls behind his ear. They were starting to dry, a familiar frizz emerging on his bangs. He found himself leaning into your touch. 

Eddie shook his head, not sure how to answer. How could he tell you that you felt all too warm to him? You twisted further, placing the backs of your thighs on top of his quads so you could face him. He wore a black sweater you bought him last November, the thick knit feeling inviting after having to literally claw his way out of his own grave. The edge of a scar peaked out of the collar, jagged and so white it was almost shiny. He’d considered trying to steal some of your makeup to cover it. 

You leaned over precariously to rifle through your nightstand drawer, throwing your center of gravity off. He held the outsides of your thighs to keep you steady, the last thing he wanted was you tumbling away from him. There was a thermometer stashed in there when you and Eddie caught the flu last October. He could hear the glass instrument rolling around with the other things you’d accumulated before you even found it. 

The triumphant smile you had when you found the thermometer made his own lips quirk up in kind. Eddie let you put it under his tongue, going cross eyed as he watched the red stripe of mercury creep up the tick marks. 

Your hands fussed over him as you waited, twisting unruly curls around your fingers and picking at loose strings at the hem of the sweater. He was pliant under your touch. His body ached for your affection, the last time you took care of him feeling like an all too distant memory. 

After a few moments the mercury finally stopped moving, Eddie pulling it out of his mouth for you to read out. You held it close to your eyes and squinted to read the tick marks. “Eighty-seven,” you muttered, sounding flabbergasted. You pressed a warm hand to his forehead, as if you were trying to prove the thermometer wrong. “You should be like, in hypothermic shock or something.”

“I’m okay,” Eddie insisted, mumbling as he spoke. His full lips were tugged into a gentle pout, his typically ever-present smile gone. “You don’t gotta worry about me.” 

He spoke without opening his mouth too much, an attempt to hide his teeth from your view. The sight had horrified him when he looked in the mirror earlier—even though he halfway expected to not be able to see himself at all. Nevertheless, he had shiny, white fangs where his canines and incisors used to be. They gleamed dangerously in the fluorescent light of your bathroom.

You caught on to his mumbling quickly. There was a moment of hesitation before you gently pulled back his top lip with your thumb. Eddie couldn’t help but wince as you revealed his teeth. You paused, your eyes wide as you took it in. The soft pad of your fingertip pressed against the incisor on his right side, a gasp rising from you as it sliced through the flesh. 

Eddie cleared his throat, his eyes sliding closed for a moment as your finger bled. It smelled delicious, the tang of iron filling his nose as he tried not to breathe in too deep. The urge to sink his teeth into you filled him, saliva coating the inside of his mouth as he swallowed thickly. You were saying something, but he could hardly hear it over the sound of blood pumping in your veins. The steady thump of your heart was all he could focus on.

Succumbing to the weakness, he grabbed your wrist with one hand and sucked your pointer finger into his mouth. His eyes practically rolled back in his head as his tongue laved over your fingertip, not wasting a drop of blood. It took everything in his body to not bite you. 

When Eddie’s eyes fluttered open, he noticed you were frozen in place. Your plump lips were parted, your eyes as wide as dinner plates. Shame curled in his gut, making him let your wrist go. He was a monster, through and through, something from all the manuals he had on a shelf in his room.

You pulled your hand back quickly, your finger shining with his saliva. “What are you, Eddie?” you finally asked, your voice a whisper. 

His gut wrenched at the question, brows furrowing and expression dropping. There was hesitation in his movements as his hands skated over your sides, the touches feather-light. Fear rattled in him as he felt you. The memory of last night still haunted him, the sound of your shallow breaths and the way you went limp on the floor were things he couldn’t scrub from his mind. 

You asked something. “Dunno, baby,” Eddie choked out, defeated. 

Still, the word he prayed didn’t apply rattled around in his head: vampire, vampire, vampire.

He looked back up at you, his fangs just barely poking out onto his bottom lip as he did. The salty taste of your blood still lingered on his tongue, reminding him that he wasn’t human anymore. Then his gaze followed the curve of your jaw and slope of your neck to the hellish wound he’d left behind last night. He grimaced, crestfallen that he was able to hurt you so much.

The attention made you reach for it, your fingertips skirting along the edges of the scabbed-over wound. It was in the shape of a perfect bite mark.

“I almost killed you last night,” Eddie said, his grip momentarily tightening on your hips. He was staring at the bite, thinking about how much of a monster he was to be able to do that to you. You were his sweet girlfriend, someone willing to do anything for him, and he was able to hurt you like that.

“I’m okay,” you assured him, reaching forward to smooth your thumb along his cheekbone. The gentle touch startled him, making him flinch away from it. His head smacked into the headboard behind him, but he hardly even registered it.

Things like that were supposed to hurt, but now they were nothing.

He took in a sharp breath, his eyes flickering over your gaze and back to your neck. “Baby, look at your neck and then tell me you’re okay,” Eddie said, on the edge of tears. 

Ever stubborn, you huffed and clumsily stood up with his hand as stabilizers on your hips. You twisted to look at yourself in the floor-length mirror mounted on your wall, Eddie’s brown eyes looking over your shoulder. The wound on your neck was gnarly, the bite mark looking more like that of an animal than a man. You gently traced it with your fingertips, wincing as you pressed a few tender spots on your neck. 

He felt liked all the air had been sucked out of the room, waiting for you to scream and run from him. Or to make him leave. Anything. Every second of silence was stealing his breath and his peace.

“It’ll heal,” you said flippantly, staring at him in the reflection of the mirror. There was a stubborn set to your jaw, your gaze hard. You didn’t leave room for him to argue. 

You turned to face him again, crawling back onto your bed on your hands and knees and slotting yourself against his side. It was hard to not lock up as you pressed yourself close, acting as though he wasn’t a monster. 

He put an arm around you slowly, his jaw tight as his thumb stroked up and down the curve of your waist. He swallowed thickly, trying to blink away the tears as he took deep breaths. 

There was a pit in his stomach. “I think I’m dangerous now,” Eddie muttered, staring straight ahead at himself in the mirror before his eyes twisted up to look at the popcorn ceiling. Before everything, he would’ve bet his entire life on the fact that he would never hurt you, but now he already had.

“Eds, you’re not dangerous,” you whispered, your fingers hooking over the side of his jaw and attempting to turn him to look down at you. He was stronger than he used to be, he didn’t budge an inch. 

“Eddie,” you said, your voice more insistent. You were stubborn at the worst of times. He tilted his head down to look at you, trying to tamp down the distress that was starting to make him hyperventilate.  

You sat up slightly, pressing yourself as close to him as he would allow. “I can’t lose you again.”

I won’t make it. The words were left unspoken between you two.

Eddie sighed, his long fingers twisting into your hair at the nape of your neck. There was a feeling of defeat sinking in his chest, a realization that despite the fact that he wanted to run so you’d be safe from him: he felt the same way. “I know, baby,” he finally murmured, his voice soft and low as he stooped to nudge his temple against your forehead. 

The embrace turned tearful, your shoulders starting to shake as you crumbled into sobs. How many times have you cried over him? Eddie didn’t want another second of your life to be spent crying–especially not on his behalf. He shushed you gently, combing his fingers through your hair in a misguided attempt to console you. 

Comfort didn’t seem to be what you were looking for.

Before he could process what you were doing, you’d leaned forward to press your lips against his. Your mouth was so hot it almost felt like a brand against his skin, your soft lips moulding to his. The memory of your last kiss surfaced, just a quick stamp of his mouth on yours before he went off with Dustin. He was sure that you’d been thinking about it every day, about how insignificant you treated something so monumental as a last kiss.

This was a do-over.

He stiffened before finally reciprocating, a soft whimper squeezing from his throat as his hand curled around the back of your neck. He could taste the salt of your tears against his tongue, your lips parted against his. 

You were taking more control than you usually liked to, hitching a leg over his lap and settling your weight on him. Eddie groaned, his fingers digging into the fat of your thighs as you straddled him again. He always loved how soft you were, the smooth skin of your thighs feeling like silk. 

You didn’t stop crying, just letting the tears roll down your face as your hands twisted into the sweater he was wearing. Despite wanting to pull you closer, his hands remained motionless on the outsides of your thighs. There was a part of him that was so scared that he would leave hand-shaped bruises on you if he made a single move. 

Then you ground your hips against his, pulling a ragged groan from his throat.

His head spun for a moment, buffering as he tried to make sense of things. Acting on instinct, his hips bucked up to meet yours, chasing the sensation of you against his already half-hard cock. The hand on your neck moved, his calloused fingertips brushing against the bite mark. He almost recoiled.

“Baby… I’ll hurt you…” Eddie insisted between kisses, but he couldn’t pull away. He was at war with himself, too scared to hurt you but too scared to let you go. 

It would be the right thing to do, letting you go. Leaving and letting you focus on finding someone who was good for you. Someone who wasn’t branded the town freak and a suspected murderer. Someone human, who didn’t want to suck every drop of blood from your veins.

But Eddie had always been selfish. 

He gently pulled you closer to him, giving in. “You won’t,” you mumbled, looking up at him through your eyelashes. They were clumped together by your tears, framing your eyes with glittering droplets in the diffused morning light. 

Fuck. You were so pretty.

He didn’t answer, there weren’t words that could do his thoughts justice so he settled on pulling you in for another soft kiss. Your fingers brought him closer by the threads of his sweater and your knees squeezed the sides of his narrow waist. Your bed creaked slightly as you moved further into his lap, shimmying your hips. 

Eddie let out a soft sigh, trying to stay level-headed as you ground against the bulge in his pajama pants. The Hellfire shirt you were wearing was soft as his hand slid beneath it, the scent of his Marlboros and weed still barely clung to the fabric.

The gnawing craving for a smoke was gone. But, like any addiction, he exchanged one craving for another. 

There was hesitation blooming in his chest as his blunt nails slowly traveled up the soft swell of your belly, eventually ghosting on the underside of your breast. You still felt so damn soft. Part of him worried that if he pressed too hard you would break under his fingers.

“Please, Eddie,” you whispered, your voice sounding wrecked. He could hear the desperation in your tone, your wide eyes pleading as you tearfully begged him. The thin cotton of your panties and his pajama pants barely served as a barrier as you canted your hips against his, making the two of you moan softly.

He nodded, acquiescing to you like he always did. The hand under your shirt palmed at your left tit, thumb teasing the bud of your nipple into hardness as he looked at you with wide, brown eyes. A quiet moan pulled itself from your throat as you pressed your forehead against the curve of the bridge of his nose, the sound of your pleasure making his other hand follow suit.

Eddie huffed softly, kissing the tip of your nose as he kneaded your breasts in his hands. Your brows furrowed, your mouth dropping open as your eyes squeezed shut. He wished he had a picture of you like this, desperate and needy in all his favorite ways. 

It was easier to swallow his hunger, basking in the glow of your pleasure as though it was his own. His hands stayed where they were, teasing your sensitive nipples as he peppered kisses on your face. It was enough to make your cotton panties soaked and sticky, he could actually smell your arousal before he could feel the wet spot on his pants.

“Eddie.” The way you panted his name against his lips was sinful, desperation dripping from your voice. It nearly broke him to hear you so desperate. Eddie could feel himself pushing his concern aside for a moment, rising to the occasion to meet whatever challenge you presented him. He just wanted you in every sense of the word.

“I hear ya,” he muttered, a hand moving down to cup your sex through the thin cotton. You mewled, canting your hips forward to grind down on his fingers. His eyes nearly rolled back in his head from the way you were soaking his hand through the fabric.

You fumbled with the waistband of Eddie’s pajama pants in a frantic effort to rid him of them. Eddie let you struggle for a moment, wondering how stubborn you would be. You didn’t give up, fruitlessly yanking at the elastic waistband of the red and black checkered pants and snapping it against his stomach. Taking pity on you, he lifted his hips enough for you to yank them down around his thighs. 

He tensed, his brown eyes swirling up to look at the ceiling. Eddie didn’t want to see the way you looked at him, looked at the scars the demobats had left behind. Scars covered the milky skin of his thighs and lower belly, leaving some patches shiny and devoid of the dark, curly hairs that covered the rest of his legs. 

But, he looked up to see you gaping, open-mouthed at the sight of his cock. 

You always told him it was a pretty dick, something Eddie vehemently denied. But then he watched your stare; the way you licked your lips as your eyes dragged up and down the length of it. He could feel himself blushing, his cheeks flushing a faint pink. 

Your hand was so warm when it wrapped around the base of him, your other hand cupping his balls gently. Eddie moaned all the same, his eyes scrunching closed and his forehead landing in the curve of your neck. He didn’t remember being that sensitive, every touch feeling like lightning up his spine. 

You smiled, you’d always been proud of your ability to make him crumble. His hand twitched against your sex, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit through your underwear in a clumsy attempt to reciprocate. Everything was cloudy, his mind struggling to find something to focus on.

Then you spit in your hand, returning it to slowly stroke up and down his shaft. The slick squelch of your saliva and his precome against your palm filled the quiet room, his instincts suddenly snapping into place. 

It was a jumble of limbs and haphazardly pulled aside clothing, moans and grunts and sighs filling your room. The seams of your panties stretched, some of the threads snapping as Eddie hastily pulled them to one side to run his fingers up and down the wet seam of your cunt. He let out a sound like he’d been punched in the stomach, wetness completely soaking his digits. 

He still had the good sense to go slow, pressing one finger into your tight, hot heat. You squeezed the digit without mercy, almost feeling like you were going to take it clean off his hand.

“Eddie, need your cock,” you breathed, looking at him with wide, pleading eyes and a soft pout. You knew that look would get you anything you wanted.

He cracked a smile, his fangs poking out and brushing against his lower lip. “Yeah baby? I’ll give it to ya,” Eddie whispered, a familiar smirk settling on his features as he let himself focus on something he was good at: making you feel good. He couldn’t deny you anything, not when you asked so sweetly.

He placed his hands on your soft hips, lifting you up with ease. It was almost like you weighed nothing, your body jolting forward as he lifted you too fast. Your hands braced on his shoulders to steady yourself, a soft snort escaping you. Eddie had always been strong, but never strong enough to handle you like you were nothing more than a doll. 

You reached down and guided his cock to your entrance, your brows pinched together and your eyes cast down to Eddie’s lap. The two of you moaned in unison as you slowly lowered onto him. Fuck, you were tight. He grit his teeth in an attempt to keep his composure, the feeling of you around his cock making his head spin. The head of his cock was pressed against your cervix as your pussy fluttered around him, the two of you panting as you settled. 

His breaths were shallow, he pressed kisses against you wherever he could as you breathed each other’s air. 

It didn’t take long for you to adjust, your hips rocking against his as you placed your hands on his shoulders for leverage. He loved watching you take what you wanted, looking up at you through his thick lashes as you rode him. Eddie started to roll his hips up to meet you, each thrust of his coaxing soft ohs out of the recesses of your throat. 

He helped you move, his hands anchored against your waist beneath the shirt you still wore. You both were so desperate that you hadn’t even bothered to undress, the gusset of your panties digging into one of the cheeks of your ass and his pants caught around his thighs. Eddie’s lips were parted, his breaths harsh. Your bed squeaked with each movement, the sound combining nicely with the smacking of your ass against Eddie’s thighs and your moans. 

“Missed you so much,” you gasped, pulling his attention from the way your breasts bounced under the Hellfire shirt. Your hands fisted in the sweater he wore, your forehead knocking against his as you leaned in close. 

“Me too,” he answered, one hand finding its way up your shirt to toy with your nipples again. The shirt had to stretch over the backs of his knuckles, exposing perfect outlines of the shape of his hands through the white fabric. He sucked his lower lip into his mouth, his fangs pressing harshly against it. 

It was getting hard to think right. His wires were crossed, the pound of your heart sounding so loud. Eddie’s throat burned, making him swallow thickly as lust and hunger crossed. He wanted to consume every part of you, crack your ribs open and drink you whole. You’d be stuck with him that way, a part of him always.

If you noticed anything, you didn’t mention it to him. Your legs quivered, reminding him to grab your hips and assist you with his arms. Your hand fisted in the back of his hair, pulling his mouth toward one of the thick arteries running across your neck on the opposite side of last night. 

The smell was heavenly, rust mixing with your arousal and sweat. He pressed his nose on the vein beneath your skin, inhaling deeply as his eyes squeezed shut.

It was taking everything for him to not sink his teeth into you. Each thrust made him feel more feral, the muscles in his abdomen knitting together as he got closer and closer finishing. He could feel that you were close, too, your gummy cunt squeezing around him and sucking him in deeper every time your skin slapped together. 

“Eat, Eddie,” you said between moans, rousing him from his thoughts to realize he had been placing open-mouthed kisses on top of the vein. It was so tantalizing, listening to the way your heart was beating in your ribcage. He couldn’t believe how long he went without hearing that sound.

Your thighs were quivering with exertion, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you continued to lift yourself up and down. He took over for your failing legs, moving you on top of him so he could better press against the spongy spot on the front wall of your cunt. Your eyes rolled a bit, your breath almost stopping in your throat at the new sensation.

Then you lurched toward him, whining and gasping his name as you came around him. Your cunt squeezed so tight, pulsing hotly around his cock in a way that made him see stars. You crushed Eddie’s mouth to your neck, your muscles locking up and leaving you to his mercy. 

He kept you moving, thrusting up into you and groaning as he worked himself to his finish. His jaw was clenched so tight he was worried his molars would crack under the pressure, anything to keep him from accidentally squeezing you too hard with his hands.

The world faded away, just the sound of your heartbeat and your whimpers and the wet squelching of his cock plunging into you overwhelming his senses. His cock kicked inside of you, a clumsy mumble of your name and he felt like he was dying all over again. 

But in the good way this time.

Eddie grunted as the first rope of come painted the inside of you, canting forward to press your spine into the mattress as he ground his hips against you. His teeth broke the delicate skin on your neck, making a matching bite to the one on your left side. The taste of iron on his tongue made him groan against you, his cock still buried to the hilt inside you as come dripped around the seal of your pussy. 

He’d never experienced euphoria like this, ascending to heaven momentarily before coming crashing back to earth as he drank his fill. Nothing had ever tasted as good as your blood did, satisfying a hunger he could never begin to describe to you.

Eddie paid more attention this time, feeling it when your limbs started to go slack around him. He pulled away far before you passed out. His tongue laved greedily at the bite mark, desperate to consume every drop of blood without wasting it. 

He could feel the flush of blood in his cheeks as he pulled back, the lack of control that nearly took over pushed away by your blood pumping through his veins finally sating him.

Or at least he assumed that’s how it all worked. 

Blood was smeared on his lips and down his chin, just as messy as the first time. To his surprise, you dragged your thumb through the crimson stains, pressing the digit into his mouth. Eddie moaned, his eyes sliding shut as he sucked it clean, careful not to catch you with his fangs. You repeated the motion, lovingly scooping as much of your blood into his mouth that you could. 

“I love you,” you whispered, wiggling into a comfortable position beneath him. Your thighs squeezed at his sides, most of you occupied with still bringing the remainder of your blood to his waiting mouth. Your voice was breathy, the softness of your tone made his heart ache. Last night, he thought you would never forgive him. 

“I love you too,” he said, yawning. Exhaustion was finally catching up to him despite the sunlight on the other side of your curtain. He hadn’t found peace last night, guilt consuming his every thought as you dozed.

It was his turn to pass out, part of his weight collapsing on his forearm as a grogginess overtook him with a force he could hardly resist. He barely managed to pull out with a soft moan, collapsing partially onto your body and pressing you to the mattress beneath him.

You didn’t scold him, just clicking your tongue softly against your teeth as you adjusted the gusset of your panties to cover the mess he made of your pussy and carefully pulling up his pants. “Go to sleep, Eddie,” you whispered, running your fingers through his hair.

His vision was getting blurry, the slow blinks of his eyes getting longer each time. The last thing he heard was the steady thump of your heart, the beat of it lulling him to sleep.

#stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #reader insert #kas!eddie #vampire!eddie x reader #vampire!eddie #eddie munson x reader smut #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x afab!reader #kas!eddie munson

[dancingtotuyo]

Better Man (Javier Peña)

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Lorraine sees Javier for the first time since he left her on their wedding day.

Warnings/Tags: implied smut, Lorraine's perspective on her & Javier's encounter at the wedding, pining

Notes: Written for @beskarandblasters's Taylor Swift event! Thank you beta reading as well my dear! Shoutout to @saradika-graphics for the dividers on this one and keeping all of our fics looking nice and sharp!

Words: 659

Author Master List | Javier Peña Master List | Resources to Aid Palestine

I hold onto this pride because these days it's all I have

She catches sight of him the moment she walks into the room. It doesn’t matter that she’s on Randy’s arm with her toddler in her arms or that she can only see the back of his head. She would know it anywhere. 

Javier Peña.

She hasn’t seen him in ten years, since the night before their wedding. Well, the day they were supposed to get married. 

Randy doesn’t catch the way she trips over her feet as he guides them toward an empty table. She’s barely let their son, her and Randy’s son before he’s running after his sister. She doesn’t have the energy to yell at them. She needs a stiff drink and a cigarette. Randy doesn’t seem to notice her distracted state. It’s better that way.

Lorraine narrowly avoids getting a drink spilled down the front of her dress as she approaches the bar. She can see his profile from this vantage point. He’s still the same Javi she remembers. He smiles at a kid and cringes at something someone else says. He’s good at hiding it, but she knows him. She knows when he’s putting on a facade. Well, she thought she did. Maybe the fact that he never made it to the church on their wedding day says differently. 

She lets out a deep sigh, shaking her head. She won’t let him do this to her. He doesn’t get to throw her off a whole decade after the fact. She’s married. She has two beautiful children. She’s living a life she much prefers to the idea of being a rancher’s or federal agent’s wife. 

The bartender puts her drink on the bar top. She shoves a couple of bills in the tip jar and thanks him, making her way back to the table. She refuses to look his way on her way back to the table. 

Then she’s at the table, helping the kids with something. Her mind is clear of him when she hears her name, her name in a timbre that feels like coming up for fresh air after nearly drowning. She curses internally. She can’t let him see it, the effect he still holds over her.  

“Lorraine.”

She steels herself, paining the indifferent look on her face, and keeps her body language indifferent before she turns around. He’s charming and he’s laying it on thick. She takes it as a sign that she’s succeeding, that he can’t tell those brown puppy dog eyes are making her insides melt. 

Lorraine loves her life. It was for the better that he left her that day. 

Javi seems to reel it in when Randy shows up. She feigns forgiveness even to herself. She wants to mean it.  

Neither man catches the way her eyes linger a little too long after Javi as he walks away. 

Sometimes in the middle of the night, I can feel you again

Randy makes love to her that night in her parents’ home. They have to be quiet. It’s a bit of a relief to have to hold back her sounds of pleasure for once instead of exaggerating them. It keeps her mind from wandering. He’s not a bad lover. If anything, he’s better than any of the other men Lorraine has been with, all but one that is. 

There was only one person who could ever make her brain completely stop and block the rest of the world out, only one man who made her leave her body only to bring her back into herself. 

Randy snores softly next to her, arm thrown over her bare midsection, but Lorraine is wide awake, mind wild with the “what ifs” of life. 

She knows it was all for the better. 

She loves her husband.

Randy is a good man.

But sometimes she wishes Javier was a better man. 

You would've been the one if you were a better man

#javier peña #javier peña fanfiction #javier peña x lorraine #narcos #javier peña narcos #pedro pascal #ppcu fanfiction #pedrostories #pedro storie #ts drabble challenge

[ellitx]

heyy same anon who asked the teachers day ask but another scenario popped into my brain lolz gotta ask ya

how would Venti feel having a tsundere s/o ? would he find her cute when she'd cross her arms and go "hmph"

Im assuming this will be outside of the teacher au?

If it is, venti might get drained and a bit hurt from your harsh words (even tho he knows you really didn’t mean them). He’ll be tolerant at first with your arrogant attitude but eventually he’ll drift apart to give you space if he deemed that his presence annoys you.

Of course you begin to worry why venti was avoiding you. Although you’re trying to approach him, he’ll hide.

Multiple flash of thoughts begin flood over his head.

Why are you looking for him?

Are you angry with him?

Or… did you miss him?

As much as he wants to hope for that, he shouldn’t put too much hope in it. After all, you did say you didn’t care for him at all when he teased you for watching over him when he was drunk.

This was tiring. Maybe it was a bad idea to be with you. He’d surely miss your pouty lips and red cheeks by his constant teasing.

Venti heaved another sigh and took off his beret. As he was about to shut his eyes, a strong pull woke him up from his daydreams and he was met with familiar eyes.

There you were, kneeling before him, panting heavily. Your brows are knitted together and he can see your worry and concern.

“[Name]…?”

“Why…” you slouched, still trying to take as many as oxygen as you can for your empty lungs. “Why are you avoiding me?” You breathed out.

“Huh?”

Venti gasped when your nails dug onto the fabric of his cape. “Why are you avoiding me?” You repeated again, but this time slowly and gentle. It was far more different from the usual tone he hears from you. It was surprising but calming. His heart fluttered both from your question and soothing voice.

“I wasn’t really avoiding you,” he uttered. Eyes shifting from elsewhere but you. And though he wasn’t directly looking at you, your glare was harsh and icy that cold sweat was gathering over his palm.

“I thought you didn’t want to see me anymore.” He clarified. Your eyes widened with disbelief. In that vulnerable moment, all the confusion and misunderstanding started to unravel.

"What? Venti, no," you whispered, your grip on his cape loosening. The hurt in his eyes broke your heart, realizing the impact of this misunderstanding. "Why wouldn’t I want to see you?"

His gaze met yours, the vulnerability in his eyes mirroring your own. “Because you’ve been so cold and hot tempered when I’m around and I just thought you didn’t like it when I’m with you.”

At his confession, your mind formulated and pieced everything together. He was avoiding you because of your harsh words.

“I-I’m sorry…” you aplogized. Your hands dropping back to your lap and clutching your pants because of how stupid you are to notice this so late. Your words are nothing for others, because they already know your personality and tend to be so cold when you actually care for them.

But for venti, it’s different for him. You’ve been so careless, acting carefree when he’s been hurting for so long because of you. Because of your cold attitude.

A wave of remorse washed over you as you realized the impact of your actions on the bard. The playful banter that you thought was harmless had wounded him deeply. You never intended for your words to cause pain, especially not to venti, who had been nothing but kind and caring toward you.

"I never meant to hurt you," you murmured, your voice laced with genuine regret. "I'm sorry if my actions made you feel that way. I've just been struggling with my own emotions and didn't want to burden you."

Venti sighed softly, his expression softening as he understood your perspective better. "Communication is a two-way street," he said gently. "We both need to be honest about how we feel and what we need from each other."

You nodded, appreciating his understanding. "You're right. I should have been more open about what was bothering me."

He offered a reassuring smile. "It's okay. We're working through this, and that's what matters."

You both sat in the quiet, the weight of the previous misunderstandings lifting. It was a step toward healing and strengthening your friendship. As the conversation continued, you realized that you should’ve been more honest and open. It may be difficult to drop off that cold attitude, but for him you were willing to make amends and be more considerate of venti’s feelings.

#im not a big fan of the tsundere trope but i hope i did alright writing this #tsundere just annoys me >.> #except if it’s men lol #ellianswers #anon ask #venti x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact

[luminousbeings-crudematter]

Sooo…here’s an idea that’s been driving me up the wall. and here I am purging it from the folds of my brain:  50 first dates Ghostsoap (& Reader) (sort of)???

(blame @ceilidho and the ghostsoap x reader asks on her blog)

Ghost never does things halfway, so when he injures himself? It's bad. He takes a few weeks to wake up...but he's not himself when he wakes up. He's not anyone. A complete blank slate.

And Soap is forced to just watch. There's no brute-forcing Simon's memory to return, no hard rebooting the brain. It is what is, the doctors say. We have to let his mind heal in its own time.

So Soap continues to watch. He does as the doctors tell him to; he takes off the ring on Simon's finger, wears it around his neck with his own. He pretends to be a friend, a comrade, a subordinate, and on some days they even flirt, and it's like Soap has his Simon back again. If only until sundown.

But there are other days when Simon is in pain so acute, so encompassing that he doesn't leave his bed. Even with no memory of his past life, Simon is tougher than he needs to be; unnaturally quiet despite the pain, and the door to his room on base stays firmly shut. It's on these days that Soap sits outside Simon's room with his head in his hands, digs crescent moons in his palms from how hard he clenches his fists, waits.

You get a unique perspective on the whole thing as it unfolds before your eyes - you were the field medic that saved Ghost's life, after all. You dragged him to safety. You stabilised him while Soap protected the two of you with his life.

But...you're also something different in the equation now. You comfort Soap when he needs it - providing both, a shoulder to cry on and a decent challenge when he wants to spar. He isolates himself from everyone who tries to help him...except you. He's bonded to you in a way neither of you can explain, and he allows you access to Simon and himself in a way everyone else is firmly denied.

And it changes you.

He talks to you about the relationship he used to have with Simon, and you imagine yourself as the third. He talks about dinners they used to cook together and you imagine yourself there, on the couch, smiling to yourself while they bicker. Soap tells you about Simon's hesitance to meet Soap's family, and you're there, your thumb running gently over Simon's knuckles while you wait for the Mactavish front door to swing open.

You fall in love with a version of them that doesn't exist anymore.

You worry that it never ever will.

#dont you dare tell me that's now how amnesia or the military works #I KNOW its not!!! #I made it up!!! #for the angst!!! #ghostsoap #soapghost #simon ghost riley #johnny soap mctavish x reader #ghostsoap x reader #simon riley fanfic #simon riley imagine #ghost x soap #Amnesia! Ghost #lumi writes

[kuiperblog]

Why the movie villain’s henchmen always wear masks

One of those “can’t unsee it” things about modern action movies is the fact that, overwhelmingly, the generic bad guys wear face-concealing masks, particularly in mid-budget direct-to-Netflix action movies. (My definition of “mid budget” here also includes “high budget” Netflix action movies where the bulk of the budget was clearly spent hiring Ryan Reynolds.)

I dislike this for many reasons, but high among them is that it deprives the stunt actors of the opportunity to act with their faces.

For contrast, watch a Jackie Chan movie: a huge part of the fun of Jackie Chan action scenes is the incredibly human reactions that people have when delivering (or taking) punches. When the hero is punching bad guys, it’s not just about the punch itself, but the reaction of the guy who’s getting punched! When someone gets kicked in the face or takes fist to the stomach, I want to see him react with obvious pain!

Even if the stunt actors aren’t amazingly emotive actors, it’s nice when all of the bad guys (even the “generic”) ones are visually distinctive. For one thing, it makes it easier to tell the “generic” characters straight from each other -- it’s simply harder to keep track of the action when the hero is fighting five bad guys who are all basically identical. You can try to get around this by giving the bad guys face-concealing helmets that are visually distinctive, though doesn’t make a ton of sense from a lore perspective, considering the entire point of a uniform is.  (Functional uniforms are, by their very nature, and by definition, designed to be uniform. It doesn’t make sense for the Galactic Empire to come up with unique helmets for each individual stormtrooper.)

But apart from the practical issues that come from all of the mooks being indistinct human-shaped blobs, there’s just the fact that as a human, I am  deeply biologically hardwired to find human faces compelling.  Human faces and bodies can be so delightfully idiosyncratic -- no two people look the same!

And therein lies the problem for the moviemakers.  Because if you wish to show dozens of unique human faces, then you need to have dozens of unique human faces.

If all they need to do is be excited faces in a crowd, then you can get extras. But if your movie is about a protagonist delivering bespoke acts of violence to dozens of generic bad guys, then those bad guys have to be played by stunt actors. And if you show us the stunt actors’ faces, audiences will start to notice when you start reusing stunt actors. (Even if we wouldn’t consciously register the fact that Chris Hemsworth is punching the same guy he just killed five minutes ago in a different action scene, our neural circuitry is really good at noticing familiar human faces. As Mike Stoklasa is fond of saying, “You may not have noticed it, but your brain did.”)

So, if you only have half a dozen stunt actors, but the movie calls for dozens of bad guys getting punched or stabbed or shot, then you have to cover their faces.

Realizing this has given me a greater appreciation for movies of this genre that don’t hide the actor’s faces. For example, Nobody is perfectly willing to show us the bad guy’s faces as they get punched, shot, and knocked around, which is great, because it’s a movie that is specifically about the consequences and brutality of violence.

Nobody does have one scene where the bad guys’ faces are covered -- they wear ski masks during the home invasion scene, because it makes narrative sense for them to do so. But ski masks still allow them to act with their faces during the intense moments! You get to see the fear in this guy’s eyes in the moment he realizes what’s about to happen to him.

Nobody’s credits list a whopping 35 names as “stunt performers.” (And that’s not including the actors credited as “stunt double.”)

For comparison, The Adam Project has 9 credited stunt actors. No surprise, then, that all the “generic bad guys” wear helmets. (Not that they get to do much “stunt” work in the moments before they get vaporized into flashing bloodless PG-13 approved CGI dust. Not only does the movie not let you see bad guys’ faces react after they get shot, but it doesn’t even want to let you watch their bodies collapse to the ground.)

By the way, since it’s the measuring stick that all movies get measured against these days, John Wick credits 59 stunt players. (Again, this is separate and in addition to the tally of “stunt doubles,” which is a different credit.)  The John Wick sequels each credit around a hundred stunt performers (John Wick 2 credits 103, John Wick 3 credits 94, John Wick 4 credits 100.)

The decision to cover everyone’s heads with face-concealing helmets can be a stylistic choice -- the Star Wars franchise showcases many of these, including of course the iconic stormtrooper, among many others. However, more and more, it feels like this not a creative design choice, but a practical one.

Movies are a product of human labor and talent, and that costs money. Like a lot of the things involved in making a good movie, hiring a lot of different stunt actors isn’t easy. But I always appreciate the movies that are willing to make the effort, because when audiences see it on screen, they can tell the difference.

#movies #jackie chan #stunts #john wick #nobody

[sophieinwonderland]

How does the wonderland work? Like for example, how is it accessed, how do you interact with headmates, stuff like that.

Since this is the same ask sent to @writing-plurals I'm assuming that the question is based around the experiences to be able to write what the Wonderland is like. If I'm wrong and you want to build one for yourself, you can find links here to help.

Wonderlands exist at various levels of complexity, so let's start at the beginning.

The Multiplayer Daydream

At its most basic level, this is how the Wonderland is experienced.

You create an imaginary landscape in your head and make a mindform for yourself. Your headmates can make a mindform of their own too. If you've ever daydreamed about something, you have a vague idea of what this experience is like.

Except in the case of a plural system, each headmate controls their body independently. Often, every headmate can exert control over the environment. As a rule, every headmate has the potential to do anything every other headmate can.

But remember that the potential to be able to do something doesn't always translate into being able to do that thing. In some systems, certain headmates may only be able to control their mindform and nothing else. Sometimes, the whole Wonderland is difficult to control and overcoming that takes practice and effort. Every system is different.

Often, systems will meditate to enter the Wonderland, but we also have done it through open-eyed visualization. The open-eyed method is less vivid as you're experiencing two worlds at once, seeing the Wonderland through your mind's eye while your senses continue to be aware of the physical world.

Wonderland Sensory Experiences And Perspective

The degree of vividness in the Wonderland will vary from one system to another. Sometimes, it takes conscious effort to feel things that you touch, but as you practice, it becomes more automatic as you've programmed your brain to respond to the simulate environment. There are some who will feel the Wonderland just as vividly as the physical world.

One thing that you might want to be aware of is perspective. For the maximum amount of immersion, you'll want to take a first-person perspective. But generally only one headmate can do this at a time. Other headmates will control their bodies in third person.

While that concept may sound weird to those who haven't done it, it's not that different from playing a video game in third person and associating that character as being "you." The best conceptualization for your mindform is that they're an avatar for you to interact with the Wonderland and other headmates through. It still feels like yourself despite being from a different perspective and feels incredibly natural if you're used to it.

Perspective can also be traded. One moment, the images are coming through my host's eyes. The next, they're coming through mine. We often go back and forth while Wonderlanding, but not every system will want to do this.

The sense of touch is so much stronger when you have perspective. But even if you don't, you still can somewhat feel even in third person. Although I think you more often feel the emotional reaction. Being hugged will make you feel warm and fuzzy inside even if your tactile senses the Wonderland can't make the arms around you don't feel quite real. On the other hand, being maliciously hurt can cause emotional harm just as surely as a physically assault would, even if the pain isn't quite as vivid.

(I say maliciously because we have little to no reaction from friendly duels to the death. Receiving harmful consequences in the Wonderland for us seems to require an intent to cause harm.)

The Wonderland has a way of inducing the emotional aftershocks of sensory experiences even when the actual sensory experiences are muted.

Some systems also aren't good at visualizing in first person at all, so all their interactions will be in third, from a neutral perspective. A headmate can also influence the Wonderland without being there. A fronter can be completely aware of the Wonderland while other headmates are there, and act almost as a DM for other headmates, controlling the environment and NPCs.

Bleeding Between Worlds

In our experience, it's very common for emotions and sensations from the Wodnerland to bleed over into the physical world and affect the body. Sometimes, a sense of touch in the Wonderland will result in the body feeling that touch or a lesser version of it. Emotional states also bleed over visibly in the form of facial expressions.

If a headmate is happy in the Wonderland, it's very common for the body to start smiling even if the happy headmate wasn't the one fronting. Conversely, negative reactions can also be seen through the face. My host's family would sometimes practice family meditation, and my host started covering the head to avoid any questions about what we're thinking about.

Too much excitement can even lead to the physical body shaking with excitement. And again, this can happen even due to non-fronting headmates. An outside observer who happens to walk in may see the body grinning or even shaking from intense emotions that don't even belong to the fronter.

This is a form of passive influence, and it doesn't require you to be Wonderlanding to experience. But I think it's commonly overlooked as an aspect of Wonderlanding.

If you are using open-eyed visualization around other people in the physical world, especially, you may need to maintain careful control over your physical reactions to things that happen in the Wonderland.

One of the most extreme and surprising reactions for us has been inner world tickling, where someone can tickle me or some of the others in the inner world, which inadvertently causes a physical reaction from the body in the physical world.

Now, I'm not going to talk about the most extreme version of this phenomena with the most severe bleedover into the physical body though, as that would mean drifting into topics that wouldn't be SFW. So I'll just leave that to your imagination!

Living in the Wonderland

One experience you'll hear a lot about the Wonderland is headmates who live in there permanently. Many headmates will describe vivid inner world experiences, and complex inner lives lived outside of the consciousness of any headmates.

This is highly debated within the tulpa community. There is one side that believes these experiences to be completely real and actually experienced within the headspace. There is a lot the brain can do outside of conscious awareness, so this isn't completely outside of the realm of possibility.

The other side believes that these memories are confabulated, created by the brain after the fact to explain away where a headmate was while unconscious. One piece of evidence that would back this up would be the way people with dementia can confabulate elaborate false memories if they end up some place new and don't know how they got there. This could be a function of the brain, where it tries to explain away inconsistencies in its personal narrative.

Or it could be a combination of the two. Maybe it is possible that the brain can generate these experiences outside of conscious awareness of the fronters, AND other memories are confabulated, making it impossible to know which is which.

Or maybe the brain makes vague subconscious calculations of what's happening in the inner world without rendering it visually until the headmate tries to remember it later, like how video games will only render the visuals of what happens around the players even while running calculations for other things that may be happening outside of that.

We don't know how this works at this time.

And ultimately, the answer to the question doesn't matter. Whether these experiences are "real" or not, they're real to the headmates who experience them. If someone gives a detailed explanation of how they spent their day, they believe that explanation completely. It's real to them.

So some systems do have some headmates who may carry out lives in the Wonderland outside of conscious awareness. This experience isn't universal, but could be worth keeping in mind for your own writing if you want to go that route in your writing!

End

I hope that about covers everything! 😁

#ask box #pluralgang #writing #literature #plural #plurality #endogenic #plural system #system #multiplicity #systems #endo safe #pro endo #pro endogenic #fiction #system stuff #tulpamancy #tulpa #wonderland #wonderlands

[vesselslut]

One more secret won't hurt / Bunny x reader

Part 1

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

Chapter 2: Encounter with the weirdos

Sundays are for walking. Just like Saturdays are for reading and Mondays are for crying. It feels natural, meant to be. The college is surrounded by miles of woods, dissected by dozens of trails in every direction. A dream campus for an avid hiker. If I could, I’d spend my every waking hour exploring every trail, every nook and cranny of this beautiful Vermont wilderness. But trying to be a semi-functional adult that passes all her classes, I decided I’d dedicate only my Sundays to this hobby. Being responsible sucks ass.

But I am nothing in my soul if not responsible. So, on Saturdays, I made my way down to the little library to work on the week’s assignments and papers. Being a literature major means most of my day is spent reading and writing. I enjoy the reading part, but writing can be such a pain in the ass, having to find exactly the right word to describe something, having to come up with a combination of words in an order that’s never been done before or it’s plagiarism, and don’t get me started on writer’s block. Knowing I get to explore a new path the next day is what gets me through these harrowing Saturdays.

So, I make my way to the library, my bag hanging off my shoulder, full of assignments due way too soon, screaming in agony to be completed. It’s 8 a.m. too early for there to be too many people in the library on a Saturday. It buys me a few hours of reading with no distractions. It’s not like I have issues staying focused, like ADHD or something, I’m just extremely nosey. At least that’s what I tell myself to avoid taking meds.

I find an empty table near a window and sit down. I put on my noise cancelling headphones just in case, pull my copy of Frankenstein out of my bag, and start reading. Of course, I’ve read it a hundred times before, but now that I gotta analyze it for an essay, I find my brain completely blank. What original thought could I possibly have about a 200-year-old book that hasn’t been said before? What could I analyze that hasn’t been analyzed from a hundred different perspectives already? Maybe re-reading it will jiggle a decent idea out of my fried-out brain.

After a few dozen pages and exactly zero ideas, I put the book down and remove my headphones to take a small break. I release a heavy, exhausted sigh and rub my eyes. With my ears free of the headphones, I notice the library is not so quiet anymore. I look up and immediately spot the source of the noise. A few tables away I see a small group of people dressed oddly formal, discussing something in a strange language. Latin, maybe? Greek? Specifically, one of the boys is the source of the commotion. He is not screaming; in fact, he’s using a regular speaking tone, but in a library that’s pretty much the same thing. The others reply to his arguments in whispers, but this does not make the blond guy speak any lower.

I have seen this group around campus, talking amongst themselves and disappearing into the vine covered building, but I’ve never seen any of them in any of my classes. I haven’t paid too much attention to them, but it’s not hard to notice they are a bit odd.

The redhead seems annoyed, his head buried in a notebook while he aggressively scribbles something down, not paying any attention to the loud discussion happening around him. The only girl sitting with them is very pretty. She’s listening carefully and offering a few words here and there. The guy sitting next to her looks exactly like her but with shorter hair. I assume they’re either twins or it’s a very freaky coincidence. He also seems a bit disinterested in the outcome of the discourse, rolling his eyes a few times at the other boys. The two other dark-haired guys are the most involved, pointing at something in one of the books, and then at some scribbles in a notebook.

But the loud one, the blond guy with the glasses, is the one that caught my eye. I’d say that’s easy to do when you’re being this loud in a quiet place, but it’s not the loudness. He looks so excited, speaking in that gibberish sounding language, his hands moving around wildly, as if he’s trying to prove the most important point ever. He has my full attention. I stare at his lips, trying to make sense of any of the sounds, when I finally catch a few English words.

- “But that would make no sense though! Why would they be sailing to Carthage to attack?” then a few more words in the strange language. “See? It’s the aorist!”

- “Why are you so stubborn? We can just use the locative case, you can remove the epi if you don’t think they’re going to attack, and those who think they will just keep the epi. Problem solved,” said one of the dark-haired boys.

Holy shit. Even in English I have no idea what they’re talking about. Sounds like they’re trying to translate a very complicated text.

I kept staring at them, occasionally glancing down at my book to be less obvious. His energy is so contagious, how are the rest of them not scream-speaking like him? I have no clue what they’re even disagreeing on, but I’m on his side. He almost looks out of place here, like he should be on a pirate ship somewhere, yelling out orders, or maybe on a T.V. ad, trying to sell something outrageous with a surprising success rate, not here in a quiet library, talking about whatever ‘Carthage’ is.

My book is forgotten on the table after a while. It’s not shaping up to be a very productive Saturday after all. When I look down at my watch, I realize it’s almost noon. I see the group packing up their stuff and making their way out of the library, probably to grab some lunch. I should do the same, so I pack my half-read book and my blank notebook into my bag and start resignedly walking to my dorm to get food. I don’t think this Frankenstein paper is going to get written soon. My mind is still on the mysterious group, and the loud guy that seemingly stole more than just a bit of my attention.

#the secret history #bunny corcoran #bunny x reader #ive been obsessed with this book for like 2 months #wrote this over the last couple days to cope #ooc bunny #so hes not a bigoted ass #just slightly annoying #henry winter #richard papen #camilla macaulay #charles macaulay #francis abernathy

[katyspersonal]

the thing about micolash is that he's just a weird-looking guy! what a lot of artists end up doing because they can't or don't want to capture his weirdness is they end up making him more conventionally-attractive than he actually is (not that he's UGLY or anything lol) and that could be warping your perspective of your own art. there's nothing wrong with the way you depict him! the only problem i can really find is that you sometimes give him eyebrows, but that's about it. if u really think there's something u can change about how you draw him, i'll be happy to help! i'm really good with faces

Pfffft weeeeeell I guess so...? I mean, for me Micolash looks very beautiful; I love the very tall cheekbones, godawful racoon eyes that look like he hadn't slept in 84 years, thin face, sick skin color and really weird smile! I actually give him eyebrows in the time periods before School of Mensis - while he still HAD them chronologically! It is not an error I swear dfshhdshf

I've figured so far that repeating how character looks exactly rarely works, it feels like a dry dish, when slightly altering the original is more like a dish with some spice and flavour to make it more tasty. Surprisingly, slightly altered way of drawing the character can capture their vibe even better than just copying their look! And THAT is my problem with visual art; I just do not have a hunch in which proportion to mix 'copying' and 'spicing up'. I feel like I just do not have the artistic intuition for beauty and aesthetic. Can't make 'I am self-taught' excuse either because plenty of other artists are self-taught to. But it feels like something my autistic ass will NOT be able to comprehend unless getting an advice and guidance, even.

Just... Just look at him though:

This is THE man himself and he looks hideous, and I think this is amazing fdjhfdhs But like, I am in CONSTANT pain. I do not KNOW how to draw him 'appealing' without accidentally losing the vibe. How do I draw the same character but also change the character but also not to the point of drawing a different character? And I do not KNOW whether it is allright and I am just self-conscious, or there is actually just some sense of aesthetic that I don't have a driver installed for in my brain :pensive:

Here are some of my art of him for examples, and I just want to know what could be improved, if anything?

Like... Maybe I am just imagining a problem. It admittedly largely snowballed from having known like, two very avid Mico fans who would reblog/retweet/like/praise any and ALL fanart of him except for mine, and would either drop me hints to try to add a bit more anime/simplicity in my art style or just not find anything nice to say about my art of him at all. Again, that was Some Time ago, but I just got memory flash recently after opening art commissions... and now that occupied my thoughts.

I just want to know whether I am objectively wrong about how I perceive beauty and do visual art, or whether I just ran into people who didn't vibe with my style much (that's fair tho!) and fell for the mistake of thinking their opinion was absolute, or whether everything is like you said and it is all subjective. I just can't grasp for anything besides "I am clearly doing something wrong with my art but don't know what, help".

#drawing #creativity #ask replies #like... yes of course i will use opinions of other people to reflect on my art too #because more often than not art is meant to be communicated between people #but how do i know whether people that didn't vibe with that just had a right eye for beauty or- #-it was a matter of a /personal/ taste? #i just legit can't tell because clearly i see beauty in very crude and unpolished things #and in imperfections or flaws even #but like #what beauty IS? is it objective or subjective? #am i confusing beauty with taste??? #help

[showrunnerihardlyknowher]

Do you have any general tips about writing g/t whump, or g/t or whump in general. I'm thinking about writing g/t or whump or a combination of the two. And your like my go to author when it comes to reading g/t or whump (your shit is really good, if you ever wrote a book and published it, I would be amongst the first to purchase it, I like your writing/content that much lol). So do you have any tips or tidbits for any wannabe writer that your willing to share?

Also I completely understand if this isn't an ask you want to answer, I realize im asking alot out of a stranger for free. So no hard feelings if this post is ignored.

Thank you for taking time to read my ask nonetheless though.

This is such a sweet ask you're so sweet to me ily and if I ever become a published author you may have all my books for free

I think writing anything definitely depends on what style you like, such as mine is very "internal thoughts" and "descriptive action". Settings, physical descriptions, plot set ups -- I'm much more vague about those (which can be a downfall) because I like to focus more on what the current action is versus what lead to that moment.

So my advice, based on my own style, is that mental feelings are just as important as physical feelings when it comes to describing. Your tiny character just got smacked against the wall by a feral giant: tell me how much it hurt, tell me what hurts the most, tell me how focused or unfocused they are, tell me how close they were to cracking their head open on something a few inches away.

Now tell me if your tiny has the stamina to run, tell me if they've given up the fight and are accepting their fate, tell me what they're envisioning said fate to be, tell me if they're scared or angry, tell me what their last thoughts might be before they're cut off by whatever the feral giant does next.

In my opinion, it's much better to write from one character's perspective for a fic (unless you have noted breaks in between paragraphs to switch POVs or if you switch POVs every chapter). It gives the reader time to attach themselves to a single focal character and really get to know them via these internal thoughts and musings. It makes the character much more relatable in the sense that we can sympathize with their reasoning, or at least understand it on a deeper level compared to another character. It also leaves that air of mystery that we, just like the character we're being projected through, only know what we're being told/shown.

And again, descriptions are the shit my guy. Not saying you need to go on a monologue about what color your character's eyes are, but describing your actions and reactions against a duller background helps create more vivid imagery for what's going on in that very second. Your character gets punched in the gut: they're winded, they can't suck in any air between their teeth, they can taste burning bile in their throat, their train of thought slams on its breaks, their stomach feels like it's been split in half, they crumple to the ground in a fetal position, they don't even have the breath to moan in pain.

Also, when it comes to g/t whump specifically, I like to throw in the reminders of how large their size difference is pretty frequently. Remind your readers just how easily it would be to snap a tiny's leg like a toothpick when you have them dangling upside down from your fingers. Remind them how suffocating a giant's presence can feel both literally and figuratively when they're trapped under a hand that engulfs them like a weighed blanket.

Last piece of advice, if there's a writing style you like or a fic you adore or an author you want to emulate - try to figure out which parts you like and why, and then copy it lmao. Not plagiarize their whole story, obviously, but if you see vocabulary or sentence structures you like that's being used, store that shit in your brain to use for later homie. I love run on sentences being used to portray anxiety because your thoughts are going a mile a minute. I love scenes ending with an italicized onomatopoeia because it's the last thing someone hears. That's shit I read from fanfics that I still use in my stories.

I hope this helped some (if any)!!

#ask #roxas k

[ermora]

Wolf In Sheep's Clothing

So I've done some writing for fanfictions and stuff and decided to post something about a character I recently got into Ardyn Izunia and crossed it over with my favourite supernatural creature (werewolves) because my brain wouldn't pipe down after an idea popped into my head a little while ago as I was reading Ardyn as different monsters. I'm sorry if characters are OOC and since writing from the readers perspective isn't typically something I do, please forgive me. Anyways, I hope you'll all enjoy this!

_______________________________________________

You let out a sigh as you walked around the forest, unable to find your way back to your way out of the forest, it was dark out and you only had a little flashlight in your right hand. You had come out here to camp with some friends earlier but after you left to get some firewood, you got an alarming text on your cell phone that some sort of beast had come to the campsite location and your friends were running back to the van to wait for you. You had quickly gotten back to the camp location to see some odd paws prints but no sign of your friends or the vehicle, which only meant one thing. They had left you out here in the forest on your own, knowing full well that there is a creature on the loose. You thankfully haven’t encountered anything yet but you felt… watched since you found your campsite and it was a bit creepy as no one should be out here watching you and no beast you know of is patient enough to not show themselves at this point. You snapped out of your thoughts as you finally spotted a vehicle in front of you and you went over to it. It was a red convertible that had someones clothes in the back seat but no signs of anyone close by or signs of a struggle. You looked around for a key to the car but found nothing, you sigh in frustration as you were hoping for a way to get out of here, not that you knew where to go but anything was better than meeting the beast your friends spoke about. A low growl came from beind you and you turned around to see two feral yellow eyes looking at you from the shadows.

“Damn it… looks like my luck’s ran out” you mumbled as you went to the other side of the vehicle and pulled out your tiny survival knife, a wolf like beast on two hind… paws came out of the shadows and your heart began to pound. The beast looked at you with an amused glint in it’s eyes and you began to panic, what the hell is this thing?! The beast took a step forward and you went to step back but te beasts eyes glowed briefly and black tendrils shot out of the ground and grabbed you, holding you in place while the beast calmly approached you. You began to struggle against the tendrils but it was of no use and you shut yours eyes, preparing yourself to feel pain as the beast would surely rip you to shreds any moment now.

“You’re quite the pretty thing, aren’t you?” a low, inhuman voice asked, your eyes open in shock and the beast was right in front of you, gazing at you with unblinking eyes.

“Was… that you?” you asked, the beast smiled and you felt a shiver go down your spine as you saw it’s sharp teeth.

“So you can understand me, good” the beast rumbled as it took it’s right ‘hand’ and grabbed your chin rather roughly.

“What the hell are you?” you ask in disbelief, wondering if this was actually real.

“Oh my, you haven’t hard the tales of the wolf in sheeps clothing?” the beast asked in a rather amused tone as it leaned forward and sniffed at your neck. The hair on the back of your neck stood up at the beasts red-violet fur brushed against your skin.

“O-of course I have but those are just stories” you replied, trying not to move so as not to anger the beast.

“Stories have to come from somewhere my little prey” the beast growled as it pulled away and bared it’s teeth at you, your fear began to rise even further as you knew that the beast wasn’t lieing.

“Then why haven’t you reacted by killing me as the stories say?” you defiantly asked, the beast let out a dark, animalistic chuckle.

"It’s so much more fun to chase ones prey down and make them fear you before doing such a thing, although I must say that while you smell delicious, I believe I have a different plan in mind for you” the beast replied.

“A.. different plan?” you asked, the beasts impossibly big smile grew even bigger.

“Indeed, you were quite interesting to watch as you knew about the rumors and decideed to come out with your so called ‘friends’ who abandoned you the moment I wanted to hunt and then you decided to let me follow you. I think that deserves a reward, one that you can’t refuse” the beast replied, you began to struggle against the tendrils again as the beast released your chin.

“Oh hell no, I refuse to take any rewad from something like you” you spat, the beast shook it’s furry head

“Oh but I insist that you take it as it’s not like you have much of a choice, before I do give it to you though, remember the name Ardyn Izunia when you wake up tomorrow because it is the name of your mate for life” the beast stated. You went to snap at the beast but it bit into your right shoulder and you screamed in pain as it hurt unlike anything else you’ve felt before.

“Someone, help me!” you cried out, suddenly finding your courage to call out for help, the beast released you and chuckled.

“No one is going to save you now for you are mine and I’ll make sure of it tonight my little mate” the beast growled, you could feel everything starting to become a blur and you knew that you too were about to become a wolf in sheeps clothing.

#ffxv ardyn #final fantasy 15 #ardyn x reader #ardyn lucis caelum #ardyn izunia #ardyn x you

[healerelowen]

Maybe~ There's the idea of in their very last moments seeing their sacrifice being all for nothing, unable to warn "look out" because those functions have already worn out...

But there's also the idea of trying to revive them, because surely they'd made back-ups of themself, and there being barely anything except the earliest copies.

...or maybe all that remains of them are two video clips on their drive? The first is their death but from their own perspective this time, you see yourself through their cameras in their last moments.

The second clip... that fateful confrontation that cost them their life.

-🐭

OOoh That hurts/lh

Maybe they aren't even able to reach me at all in my final moments. With whatever may be attacking delivering the killing blow and I let out a final scream of agony as they look on in horror.

Or maybe vice versa, I call out for them helplessly as they're killed right in front of my very eyes. They let out a final screech of pain before falling silent forevermore.

Perhaps we both go down together. They or me are battered up to death's doorstep, and we spend our dying breaths fighting for the other's life. We both don't get out unscathed nor alive as we both lay there, next to each other as we keep each other company in our final moments. (Kinda like that one P03 fic I did, called 'An Ending to a Beginning')

I've got like a thousand different scenarios rotating in my brain rn

Anything else to add friend~?

#rat bastard anon #asks

[emzookini]

whenever my friends do something that hurts my feelings, it scratches the same part of my brain: i think and care about people way more then they think or care about me.

and also; this is the reality of being best friends with boys. i suppose we are inherently different. while my friends need to learn to think and care about me more, i need to learn to think and care about them less.

do they think the same thing; this is the reality of being best friends with girls? always pink in the face, often crying, mostly pent up with conclusions and narratives, lurking around, looking forward to bursting them all out? she needs to learn how to react less and we need to learn how to react more.

their perspective overpowers mine. the usual agreement after conflicts and sticky situations is that the situation was caused by my sensitivity and not by the action impaling my very thin skin. the aftertaste of hurt feelings doesn’t really leave my mouth though, just fades out on the tongue, until i consume a new hurt, a complimentary note, and it lights up all of the previous pain. i am currently chewing on at least 4 situations spanning across the last two years.

there is an energy around our friendship that doesn’t want to address my discomfort. like empathy gone wrong, feeling my discomfort makes them uncomfortable- again the root of the issue in my fiery eyes illuminates: they would rather build a cocoon of comfort for themselves then stretch out a little further to include me in it.

the thing is, i will continue speaking up when i feel disrespected, hurt or unconsidered. however, when there is a change in behavior in my friends due to my reaction, even though that is essentially a loving act, i can’t help but always think about the hurt that came before it, it keeps feeling like their love and support is produced from a place fearful of my reactions. those thoughts make me want to pull back, a few millimeters back each time. this is what scares me, ideas of relationships thinning out.

i keep thinking, maybe the really pure loving people just beam out their love and never do math around it, they dont count

[dyshiro]

Life Lately - Anxiety - Silva Method

I had a realization that I was dragging things. I felt like I was biting more than I could chew.

A lot of people talked about mental health at work, and I disregarded it.

I thought, how could you have a healthy mental with empty pockets.

The truth is, it's better to prevent than to cure.

You can't heal when you don't know what was wounded.

Now that I took some rest for a few months.

I'm yet healed. But it's been progressing for the better.

It feels as if once you have the anxiety you're body forgets how it's like without it. And now I came to realization that the process of healing an invisible pain could take a long course.

From being a practical person, you've turned into a one man battle because the battle happens within mind against itself. And you're now overthinking the smallest thing.

But overthinking slows down the progress. Does it ring anything? Does it sounds as if we're on the same boat, then, for what it's worth here's what has been helping me.

-- continous meditation.

When anxiety creeps in and you get overwhelmed, find a comfortable position and clear it.

As you close your eyes, feel free to be as anxious as you can, and remember the things that makes you feel so. This gives you the awareness of the present.

Then imagine a line graph that gets higher and higher as your mind wonders to the tasks or whatever it is that brings up anxiety.

And then you find the courage in you to take control because the lines are indeed of your control and once you're aware, it's now in your hands to push the lines towards the bottom of the graph.

Until it's clear. The lines should represent your anxiety and you must be aware of this.

When I do this, somehow the anxiety wears off. So I thought to post it for someone to read or for me to remember

I learned this from Silva Mind Control Method Book.

Also note that it does not have to be a line graph, you can have a different representation.

My practical perspective of this is that the brain needs to see some sort of a trigger or a thing that represents a feeling so it can command with clarity and has a better understanding of you.

I might have a different way of explanation or could be a different interpretation but it worked for me so far.

Your brain works in a way it thinks is best for you but he doesn't fully understand so you also need to do the work so you two can work harmoniously.

[xtrablak674]

Unabashed Compliments Performed Vulnerability

This was a comment from a former Live Journal user called Bluest Eye, I didn't get the literary connection at first to Toni Morrison's novel of the same name. Curiously without knowing it we were both using novels as digital camouflage, my username based on the novel by James Earl Hardy. Her author a Black woman like she was, and mine being a gay Black man, like the way I identified myself at the time I created it.

We started in a very good place a place of admiration, but ended in a very different place. We were using the internet in its sophomore phase and there were growing pains especially when we were meeting in a space designated for vulnerability, but exactly how is vulnerability performed in public spaces?

The year was two-thousand and I was in the pocket of my website design and coding, exploring a creativity that I never even knew was there. Even looking back I surprise myself at how a lot of the designs stand up creatively decades later. Design wasn't something I was taught, I was working in a creative environment, and was exposed to creative people, but that doesn't always mean that you become creative yourself, unless you have a natural affinity for it.

In reflecting on Bluest's reflection on my work, I don't think that creativity necessarily reflects intelligence, if I understand it correctly its a different side of the brain that is used by creative people. Albeit I am creative and organized, something we don't usually think of creative people. The way I look at design is a form of bringing order, disinformation or jumbled graphics becomes much more digestible when its presented in a clear and appealing way.

At my initial interactions with Bluest I didn't know she was Black, I knew she was a woman, and I guess due to how elegantly she spoke I assumed she was whyte, even though I see how problematic that assumption was, and why can't we as Black people give ourselves the space to be brilliant. But sadly sometimes we too sip of the whyte supremacy Kool-Aid.

Her curiosity fascinated me, she took the time to not only look through my visual creative work, but my written work and she found something to like and or love in both of them. There was so much graciousness in her assessment of who I was or who I was reflected in my work. I think the only place where she mis-stepped is thinking she knew who I was based on the work that I produced. I think this is a very human flaw, its so easy to get caught up in trying to define the identity of an artist through what they produce, not realizing there are so many other aspects of a human personality that can't be reflected in these mediums. All humans are in a way a tip of the iceberg, there is so much more lying below the surface that we may never get to see or experience.

I am not sure how to process her "attraction", even as she speaks to it being allegedly platonic, but then she calls me a 'cutie pie', a clear mixed message. With the perspective of time and experience, I think she had developed a crush, even though it didn't make sense to her intellectually, because she knew I wasn't available, I believe what we think and what we feel are not always congruent and she was in a pocket of this emotional dichotomy.

It is elusive to me that she has even gravitated to this work at all, I have went through most of my life being severely misunderstood and uncategorizable and usually a social outsider, this is what lead to me labeling myself an iconoclast later as I decided to actively pursue being a visual artist. Our society and I think our humanity can only understand something if we can find some way of labeling it, and those who can not be labeled are an anathema to social norms and societal pariahs. As much as we have messages of 'be yourself' or 'we love you just the way you are', that is the farthest thing from the truth in actual practice.

[Screenshot by Brown Estate]

[hoomanityisavirus]

I feel like shit today.

I feel like I don’t deserve to live or that even if I did feel like I deserved to, it wouldn’t matter bc majority of my world doesn’t want me to exist. Majority of my world and my people don’t want my body to look the way it does. They don’t want my personality to act the way it does. They want to curate the content I am giving them while I exist. And instead of me just making peace with that and deciding their opinions are nothing but just opinions, it makes me feel like my brain is on fire.

I want to fling myself off a building just bc a lot of humans are unintelligent and things that are beyond their scope or perspective “scare” them into being the hateful idiots that they are.

Instead of finding differences to be beautiful or interesting, they see it as terrifying and contagious. Too bad we cant convince everyone that Covid isn’t “woke”. Maybe then these fuckknuckles would put on a god damned mask.

I hate it here. I hate that of all the ways WE CAN CHOOSE TO EXIST on OUR PLANET that we choose to force ourselves to pay, in order to thrive here. This is quite literally our world. We run it, we decide how things go here and this is all we made of it? We’ve created a capitalist hellscape so that 14 billionaires and their children can have excess and private jets while the planet physically crumbles & the rest of us starve? We let that happen? HOW? Who?

What??

Really pay attention to that: this is OUR world. Humans. Humanity. The planet earth? That’s a “human planet” when we zoom out to more of a galaxy-perspective. So we, the humans, who own, operate and keep this entire thing going, decided to work at jobs that we literally hate, that take up the absolute majority of our time, every single moment of our existence(because even when we’re not there, we’re thinking about work or the people AT work that we have to coexist with)? FOR WHAT.

This is where I get unhinged because in my not so humble opinion, humans are fundamentally stupid. You can ask any given philosopher, scientist or even someone who’s “born a genius”, they all say it eventually; humans are fucking stupid as hell. It’s why we need warnings on everything because AT SOME POINT, some idiot decided “oh this is totally a great decision I’m sure I’ll be just fine” and then they WERENT FINE.

I mean think about it, at one point creating fire or a wheel was the smartest we could fucking get. The astrophysicists of our world at one time were just: “the weirdo villagers who stare at the skies until their neck muscles seize from the pain of constantly looking upward”.

Even now the dumbest parts of us are based in “yew lewk deffernt than WHUT I want yew tew lewk I HAYTE THAYYYYYTTTTUH”

Like excuse me WHAT???

So because genetically one of us is born with pigment in their skin that’s significantly deeper than yours, THEYRE a problem??! they’ve got literally all the same internal organs as you, their blood turns red when it meets oxygen. They have hair, and thoughts and dreams, but because they don’t look like someone might be able to see through their bodyyy?? Suddenly they’re an abomination and deserve to be treated as “less than” *YOU*??

Give me a fucking break.

So because I don’t feel right having two fat sacks sitting on my chest, you believe I deserve to be killed? That I deserve to have no one love me anymore because I don’t want to create more of…this?

I don’t want to contribute to making more of us because there’s already over 7billion of us here rn and that makes ME “the problem”?

If my eyes could roll further back, they would fall out of my skull.

#i’m so sick #i’m so mad #i’m so done #humanity #mental illness #rant #like enough #i’ve had enough #sewerslidal #unalive #i can’t believe i’m posting this #the whole world is watching but nobody cares #nonbinary #top surgery #trans #woke #all this woke #autistic burnout

[girlfrandletters]

How To Accurately and Not Concisely Explain the Turmoil of Thoughts In My Head

It's 2:21am on July 20, 2022, and I cannot sleep. Maybe it's the 24oz of coffee I drank at 6pm, or the maelstrom of thoughts blowing around in my mind, or the anxiety that's hit me from our imminent move or... no. It's definitely the coffee. Remind me to never drink coffee after about 2pm. I'm sure you've said it before, but here is my note to you to remind you to remind me again. I know I shouldn't drink it because it sets my mind down the path of cycling thoughts that shouldn't be thought or ones that are better left mentioned once, set aside (after being fully examined, turned over, and with careful discussion) and ignored for the Once-Important-Topic-But-No-Longer-Consequential subject it is. But here I am anyway.

Tonight's spiraling thoughts (and let me take this moment to mention that I say "spiraling thoughts" without the usual negative connotation we have both placed on it previously. Spiraling thoughts tonight consist merely of things I want to say to you, or about you, about us and our life together that have me lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, unable to close my eyes for more than a few seconds before flying open again. But none of these are bad, negative, upsetting, or saddening. In fact, they're all... exceptionally positive. Overwhelmingly exciting and happy thoughts) stem from a combination of Memory Lane Waltzing, a fleeting moment of worry and insecurity about how I came off tonight, and the thrill of emotion that I got when I happened to catch your sleepy eye as you fell asleep listening to me prattling off.

(Speaking of prattling...)

We are in the final few days of the big move. The transition from two homes to one communal living space. The mingling of one living breathing human, their current lifestyle, their history, their relationships and personality, their job, their routine, their every. waking. minute. with another creature, with their own parts of life. This is a huge step for anyone, of course, but two individuals in their mid-20s, after a slow development of a relationship and partnership unlike any either has experienced before... This is major. Or maybe it's just me. You've moved in with other partners before so maybe you don't have the same hesitations now, but you understand mine at least. Or maybe you do have the same concerns, since your previous moves haven't been ideal either. Regardless, this is a big step for us in the direction of our future. But I'm not scared, not anymore. I was, for a while, and the closer it gets to the day we actually spend in our new home together, the more panicked I got. But after tonight, after literally just sitting here in the bubble of peace and harmony we had, I have no reservations, no secret terrors, or fears not yet placated.

Today I was supposed to do the final packing of my apartment. Instead I had an IUD placed and was in severe cramping pain and could do no more than lie on the couch like a pile of goo. And when you came home, I did nothing other than hold a trash bag for you while you went through your closets. But in one of those boxes, you pulled out some cards written to you by your ex. I, being one of nosy inclinations, asked to read them. I asked for a couple reasons, which I want to say I explained to you, but I'm more inclined to say I told you, and didn't fully let you grasp what I mean.

I asked to read those letters because I have this weird desire to see what it was like for you before. I've heard you say it, I've listened to your stories, but somehow hearing it and seeing it are completely different. Not saying I didn't believe you, but reading those cards hit me differently. Somehow makes it more tangible in my brain, something I can touch and process. I wasn't lying when I say it was also a way for me to help see the perspective that you had, why you stayed, and have more empathy for the situation. It's easy for me, as a third party hearing everything, to immediately hate her and everyone involved, to call her a selfish, manipulative, horrible bitch and think of the most violent ways to punish her for what she did to you. But seeing those words, written in her own hand, helped me see that she was sick in a way that, while you could never have "fixed" her, you tried for her sake and I understand it. And having those on hand, for you to look back at and remind yourself of where you were, how far you've come, I get it. Not in a way of "I completely understand wanting to have these around forever" type of way, but in a "I understand that you process things differently and this helps you come to terms with what happened and what is happening now." Did I have a slight hiccup watching you put those cards back in a box instead of a trash bag? Sure. But not in a jealous way or out of fear that you'd read them, realize you put so much effort into her and still loved her and would go back. That fear hasn't been around for at least a year. That hiccup was more of the inherent female reaction of "I'm here and I'm better and I won so I want to remove any reminder that there was someone before me."

But I have this tendency to suppress those inherent reactions 99.98% of the time, and that 0.02% when it comes out never turns into anything more than a "I'm being stupid, stfu." That being said, I absolutely also asked to read those cards as a way to somehow prove to myself, solidify to myself that she wasn't better than me. Despite all that I've heard, there was (apparently) this little itch in the back of my brain that thought maybe what you said was an exaggeration. She couldn't be nearly as bad as you said. Not that you were lying about it, but sometimes these things get blown up to be just a little bigger than they were. I know thought I've done it with my previous relationships - yes they were terrible, but were they really as bad as I remember or am I just bitter about what happened? Did I make a mountain out of many molehills? And I guess I was worried that you did the same a little. Back when our feelings were still tentative (but slowly growing), I did have a fear that I wasn't nearly as good as you said I was. I couldn't possibly be this wonderfully supportive, loving, great girlfriend that you made me out to be. I was just average. Surely your last relationship had these aspects too. But reading those letters, seeing how many there were, more or less solidified to me that no, it wasn't like that for you. Everything I've given you has not been given to you before to the extent I've given it - and I don't mean that in a conceited "I'm the best" kind of way. They were a way for me to see that this other woman, this historical, life altering human you loved before was not a goddess and perfection incarnate, despite her flaws. I sit here feeling silly for the way my mind compared myself to her, as if I was pitting myself against her and trying to be better so you wouldn't leave me and go back. I see now that there was no competition. I have my own flaws, but if you're staying with me, it's not because I'm just someone to fill a spot, to replace her. I'm here because of what I offer and provide you, all on my own.

Spending the rest of the night on the couch, you watching Netflix, me going through old photos, was relaxing, peaceful, and utterly comforting. The silence between us, with only the noise from the TV (and my raging commentary) was nothing short of blissful. I didn't feel like we needed to fill the air between us with words, either loving or joking, or sarcastic. We didn't need to have a conversation in order to enjoy each other's company. We didn't need to be totally ensconced in each other's arms, groping and feeling. I scrolled through my facebook photos, you rubbed my toes. We spent the night in pure marital happiness (sans marriage). And when the night was over, when it was time to lie down and sleep, I panicked. You thought it was cute, but I was truly, genuinely worried.

Because we just spent a night not embracing, kissing, talking, or fucking. We spent it together, but not... TOGETHER. But... we did. And it threw me off. I was worried that by not talking, by not reminding you every 5 minutes with a touch, or a look, or a word, you'd forget that I loved you. I thought you might be upset with me, or mad that I ignored you. I didn't mean to ignore you, intentionally or not. I was scared that if this is what we did tonight, maybe it was the sign that things were already starting to go downhill and you were bored and tired of me already. And then secondarily panicking because maybe I was just overreacting and you were utterly fine and this is why I've never had a good lasting relationship because I had these kinds of nights before and worried so much about everything falling apart that I couldn't see that everything was fine - then THIRDARILY panicking because what if I was doing the same exact thing and then we fell apart because I couldn't see that everything was fine and you were sick of it.

So stressed and worried was I that I literally came up with a word to describe the 3 back to back mild panics.

But... you, in your infinite patience and reassuring smiles and crinkley-eyed-laughs, let me know that all of that, that whole previous parasgraph there, was not true and in my head and I was being crazy and not to worry. But you didn't say it like that. You said it with a smile and a tight embrace, a forehead kiss and a nose kiss, and fingers through my hair. You reminded me, as you have multiple times over the last 16 months, that you love me, you love my little inexplicable panics, and nothing was wrong. I must have asked you about 13 times in 4 minutes if you were upset or mad or if I'd done anything wrong and you only held me tighter and reassured me that everything was, in fact, okay.

And now I'm sitting here (3:22am now) with you sprawled out on your half of the couch, facing me, elbow touching me, my foot on your thigh, and I'm laughing at myself. Because you're so at peace with everything I am and everything we are and I'm so worried that I'm doing something wrong. You make me feel sane when I feel like I'm going crazy - and I know I'm crazy sometimes and I say stupid things, but you've never once made me actually FEEL crazy or (outwardly) said I'm being stupid. You've only ever loved me, unconditionally and wholeheartedly. I always say "Oh this is the thing that makes me understand you love me" or "You said this and now I can officially feel comfortable." And whatever it is you say or do that makes me say that I'm sure helps me come to terms with that one particular insecurity, whatever that is.

But this... this is a whole new level of "I get it now."

We are about to spend the rest of our lives together. We have been living together for the last 3 weeks now, sure, but I still have "My Apartment" and you have "Your Apartment." Come Saturday, we will only have "Our Apartment." We are going to sit on this couch every night together, some nights talking, other nights just brushing fingers and staring at the TV. Maybe we will even spend nights in two separate rooms. And those nights will be like tonight - comfortable, safe, Together-But-Not. And I'm ready for it. How can I not be when I look at you now, think of how we sat together today, and be happy. I'm not scared of spending an evening not talking every minute because I know that it's not a bad silence. It doesn't forebode a big discussion or argument, or signify a silent treatment, or general malcontent. It indicates comfort and happiness. And if there ever is something to talk about or hash out, I know that you and I will sit and talk it over together until we sort it all out, and end the night in each other's company again. Regardless of whatever comes out way, we will always end the night content with our relationship, our home, our life together.

I am not afraid to be open with you, whether that's about real topics or made up insecurities. I am not afraid of us and our future. I am not afraid of you, because I love you.

~Girlfrand