#I can't cope with the idea of not being able to paint

[happyhauntt]

a grey day — spencer reid.

writing masterlist | askbox

─── summary: spencer meets the newest member of the department.

─── pairing: spencer reid x autistic!medical examiner!reader.

─── warnings: fluff, reader is autistic & a mom, spencer's iq gets slashed to sixty when he talks to pretty girls and it's my favourite thing. no use of y/n. reader is performing an autopsy so mentions of blood but nothing too graphic.

─── word count: 1.3k.

     YOU KNOW IT'S A GREY DAY before you even manage to open your eyes.

     And really, you’re expecting it  ━  this whole week has been filled with pale pink and lime green with solid, unwavering turquoise blobs in the middle, because you started your new job on Monday and the apprehension, the excited, the nausea, they've all been stirring up inside you for days now.

     Waking up to a grey day doesn't hit you as hard as it usually would.

     Still, you feel sluggish when you drag yourself out of bed ten full minutes after your alarm has gone off. The shower is a no-go this morning  ━  if you’re honest with yourself, the shower is a no-go most mornings, when your skin feels soft and sensitive and your brain can't cope with the idea of a barrage of hot water raining down on you  ━  so you slap on some deodorant and spray some dry shampoo in your hair, tugging it up into a rough ponytail.

     You take your time with your makeup, though; strawberry lipgloss and lots of concealer, a heaping of eyeliner and your favourite gold hoop earrings are exactly what you need to feel better. When you step out into the hallway wearing your comfiest black jeans and a jumper that's probably smart enough to pass the dress code, hearing your daughter giggling in the kitchen, the grey day lightens a little.

     It gets even better when your sister-in-law presses a travel mug of iced coffee into your hands.

     "Jackie, I fucking adore you," you say around a mouthful of delicious, soul-quenching caffeinated goodness. You’d half-expected Jackie to have something planned. Four years of living together means that Jackie tends to know about your off days before you do.

     The other woman suppresses a smile, coupled with a sharp look. "There's a three-year-old right there!"

     You snort, waving your hand nonchalantly. As if you don't have this conversation every single day. "Nellie knows not to repeat what I say." You turn to your daughter, your heart swelling three sizes as the little girl at the kitchen table looks up from her drawing. "Nell, baby, what am I always telling you?"

     "Don't go home with strangers."

     "Well, yeah, but I meant the other thing."

     The little girl brightens, revealing a missing front tooth. "If Aunt Jackie won't say it, then I shouldn't say it."

      You giggle, scurrying over to drop a kiss on your daughter's forehead. "Exactly right, my little love."

     When you turn back toward the kitchen counter, your sister-in-law's face is painted with an affronted look, her mouth half-open. "I can say bad words!"

      You wrinkle your nose. "I'll believe that when I see it."

     By the time you leave the house, sliding into your car with a second cup of iced coffee in hand, the day has lightened to a pale blue. You hope it will stay that way.

     "YOU LOOK SO TIRED, DUDE."

     Well, alright, he'll admit it wasn't the first thing he was expecting to hear when he entered the coroner's office. It's been a while since he ventured down to the morgue, sure, but Dr. Peterson has never talked to him like that before, and he's fairly certain not that much has changed in the three-or-so weeks it's been.

     And Spencer's observant. He prides himself on being able to notice things, tiny details other people seem to miss, things that are so obvious to him that he can't comprehend how normal people can't see them.

     So if anyone asks, he'll never admit that it took a full twelve seconds before he realised that the girl in the white lab coat, elbow-deep in an open chest cavity, is definitely not Dr. Peterson.

     "Uh..."

     It's the most intelligent response he can muster in the moment.

     "It's okay," you add, hardly bothering to look up from the corpse. "I'm tired too. And you're not the worst-looking guy in the room." You jerk your head at the dead guy on the table. "Although I'd say that's a pretty low bar, all things considered."

     "Where's Dr. Peterson?"

     "He retired. Or got a promotion, I think? Not totally sure." You shrug, raising an eyebrow at him. "I thought I'd met most of the department already, but I don't recognise you.” You tell him your name, squinting at him through your plastic glasses.”I’m the new... coroner, medical examiner, pathologist, dancing monkey? They didn't totally specify the position when they offered it, which I think says more about me than anything else."

     Spencer blinks. He's not totally sure he's ever met anyone who could talk nearly as fast as him before. "Dr. Spencer Reid, Behavioral Analysis Unit. Nice to meet you."

     "Oh, cool!" The liver in your hands gives a wet squelch as you drop it into a metal dish. "I'm under the BAU! I answer to your Section Chief, um, Agent Strauss? She's a little harsh, huh? I'd, uh, shake your hand, but..." You hold both hands up, mimicking a surrender, showing off the blue medical gloves slick with blood.

     An inkling of a smile creeps onto Spencer's face. "I don't shake hands."

     "That's fair," you say with a shrug. "Can I help you, Dr. Reid, or did you get lost looking for the cafeteria?"

     “No, actually.” He remembers the files he was supposed to show you and reaches into his satchel. The intensity of your gaze is like lasers on his skin and he can’t help but fumble, almost sending a stack of documents scattering across the floor.

     When he looks back up at you, cheeks flushed rosy, your stare hasn’t wavered even slightly. Amusement lingers in your eyes.

     He clears his throat and holds out the files as if they are a peace offering. He doesn’t quite understand whether a battle has been fought, but he definitely feels like he lost one. “Hotch— uh, Agent Hotchner sent the Howard County ME’s report on the Richardson case. He wanted you to look it over and sign off before they file it for the District Attorney.”

     You nod at him. The corner of your mouth quirks a little at his stuttering. You’re not sure you’ve ever been so immediately endeared to somebody before, but there he is, blinking at you like a deer caught in headlights. It’s so adorable.

     “Sure, I can do that,” you say. “Just pop it on the desk over there and I’ll get on with it when I’m done here. Can’t get any bodily fluids on the paperwork, y’know? That’d be a nightmare.”

     The volume of your laugh startles him, and he jerks slightly. The sound of it is loud and warm and it should really freak him out, considering you’re wrist-deep in a cadaver and cackling like a maniac, but it doesn’t. It’s actually kind of sweet.

     “If that’s all, Dr, Reid, I’d like to finish rooting through this guy’s insides so I can sew him back up.” Your words are an obvious dismissal, but he doesn’t feel offended, not with the kind smile still adorning your features.

     He nods and backs away. His feet feel a little numb. “Sure thing. I’ll, uh, catch you later. Have fun!”

     “I’m sure I will.”

     You sound like you’re about to laugh again. Have fun, really? He knows he’s fairly inept when it comes to women, but have fun? He scurries out of the morgue and back into the land of the living, and as Spencer boards the elevator all he can think is that he’s so glad Derek wasn’t there to witness that.

     He’s certain he’d never live it down.

     Meanwhile you resume your autopsy with an odd, fuzzy feeling in your chest. You start to hum beneath your breath, a song that must have played on the radio while you were driving to work.

     Your grey day feels a little pink at the edges.

[sleepy-fiction]

Filthy, Dirty, Doktor.

-johan liebert x fem!reader

content warning⚠️ nsfw, smut, masturbation + dual masturbation, cream pie, p in v, uncomfortable power dynamics, sadism, manipulation, porn with plot, happy endings hurray

synopsis‼️johan liebert has been missing for three years since his escape. One day, after a blizzard, you come home from your tireless job as a surgeon to find him frozen half to death after crawling into your home through your window. As the months progress with Johan, he enjoys a new cozy life as a wife-like housemate, supporting your career. The issue arrives when you can't stop masturbating to the idea of Johan, and he can't stop himself from listening.

an: this fic came to me in a dream (lie), and it's entirely self-serving. I biased Johan's character off the little rumor that Johan becomes a fisherman in the countryside after his escape and lives peacefully. If you don't like that, then the fic is not for you.

wordcount: 6.3k

You had been living with Johan for quite some time. You remembered that bitter wintery night when a destructive blizzard had struck Düsseldorf. The blizzard was harsh and violent, predicting to reign over country throughout the week. You had just painted your room hours before you learned of it and childishly you left for work as a surgeon, leaving your window open.

When you came home, you were surprised to find a half-frozen, homeless, scruffy man unconscious on your bed. He ws barely breathing when you found him, with icy skin that pierced you for every touch. You jumped into action to help and ended up nursing the entire week. You learned a lot about the stranger and how his beautiful eyes seemed to twinkle in the moonlight. How, despite his predicament, he still was well, manner, and polite. He told you he was an orphan who was unable to cope after he left the foster system. How he was never able to recover and spent much of his adult life homeless. How he was robbed off everything, how he ran into a bad crowd. You were the same age, but your lives were so different.

You couldn't bring yourself to throw him out. Maybe it was because you saved his life. Without him, he truly would've died.

You were gullible the way you invited him to sleep on your couch for the time being. You had just moved to Germany from the United States, and because of this, most of your home was littered with mess and boxes. It wasn't much of a home for him yet, but it was the least you could do.

Over the months, he began to trust you. You helped him gain his strength and fully recover. You were there when he finally shaved his battered face.

He was an angel before, with his proper way of speaking and his gentle tone. But by God. Once that scruff came off his face, your world had changed. He was incredibly beautiful, with sweet blue eyes and pearlescent whispy lashes. His hair was cut and neat, with a perfect nose with pink lips. Your heart practically stopped in your chest that morning he walked in for breakfast.

That became the issue.

No longer was he the scruffy, sweet, homeless man you were sheltering out of the kindness of your heart. He was handsome and alluring. With a face like that, you couldn't help but shut your thighs together and breathe swallowed breaths.

It wasn't like you didn't see him naked before. You were nursing him, and he was too weak to walk on his own when he first got here. You bathed him, you clothed him, you washed his hair day in and day out. You brushed his teeth, you bonded over childhood pains and cried on his shoulder. You spent nights sleeping next to him-- things you could easily do because you weren't attracted to him.

Yes, sure, even before the change, you agreed he had an attractive personality. But could you blame yourself for not liking the giant blonde beard and the long shaggy hair that touched his shoulders?

But now he was all cleaned up, with hair that caressed his ears, splitting down the middle in a breathy swoop.

Every morning before you went to work, Johan would prepare you a nice hearty breakfast. No matter how many times you told him you didn't want him to worry about you, he always said it was the least he could do. And you couldn't really argue with that, you loved the breakfast and you loved his company.

He started unpacking your home, too, while you were working. He understood that you'd be too busy to take care of the house as an on-call surgeon. You remember the day you started seeing clothes and furniture slowly being rearranged. Johan was perfect. Too perfect, it was frightening for you at timed.

Frightening because you started to feel something.

He was someone you didn't want to lose.

But your body craved him.

You remember that day you were in the shower, trying to stop your hands from plummeting deep within your walls, but you couldn't. The way you'd arch and moan out his name as you rocked against your fingers. The embarrassment that fled you when you orgasmed, and even more so having to face Johan at dinner, trying not to seem suspicious as he told you about his day at home.

You remember how after a year of having him, you got so out of control that you couldn't use your fingers anymore. You bought a few toys to play with, and getting them into the house was so hard too.

Knowing Johan, the sweet housemate that he was, he kept trying to put the "groceries" up for you, and you didn't have the strength to tell him the truth. You kept insisting that it was menstruation hygiene, something he didn't want to see. But he kept going on about how he didn't care about that, it's what you needed.

He was so perfect, like a sweet angel.

Luckily, you were able to hide your new purchases in a locked bin under the sink cabinet, and that night, you got to town feeding your itch.

You fantasized about him. He was a perfect housemate. Would he also be perfect and gentle with you in bed? You imagined that bare body from all those years ago shamefully as you rocked back and forth on the dildo you trapped to the side of the tub. It was incredibly uncomfortable for your legs, but you were so out of your mind that you didn't care.

You could imagine those pale hands drumming up your body to your breasts, gentle peppery kisses lining up your nipples and you'd arch even more, sopping wet down below.

You remember facing him again at dinner that night, hearing how he commented on your long-winded showers. You, being too embarrassed, simply told some fab about how it detoxed you after work, and you watched his careful, icy eyes flicker in curiosity. You gulped, and even now, you can hear the chilling words that fell from his lips, "My. Well… Keep taking those showers, doctor. I'm sure you have a lot of pent-up frustrations from work. It's good to wash it all away and… take care of yourself."

Every part of you felt conflicted about his sultry words. Your brain was convinced that somehow he knew about your daily routine, that he knew what you did in the image of him. Your heartfelt odds about the words, was he inviting you? Was he flirting? That pause he had, he bound to have-- What did he mean by that?

His gaze was narrowed down on you like you were prey. And it was in memory of those hunter eyes that you fucked yourself again at the croak of night, slapping a hand over your mouth to stay quiet. Turning the shower on now would be too suspicious, and the bathroom was right next door to his room.

You couldn't believe yourself, your lack of control. It was disgustingly shameful how your brain twisted his innocent, caring words, his innocent caring eyes to fit some sadistic fantasy you were building up of him.

The truth is, Johan, he was deadly aware of your little playtime. He first noticed it when he went to get something from his room while preparing dinner. When you first started masturbating, you were loud, and the bathroom wall was thinner than you could imagine. In his shock, he pressed his ear against the wall and heard the muffled cry of his name.

He twitched in his pants.

The monster in him was salivating. You had tamed him well. He was loyal to you, grateful to you for saving him (a lot at first, he longed to die). The monster in him respected you-- it needed you at times. You were the only thing that made him calm, and this lovely little life of being a housewife was something he couldn't imagine he'd end up loving.

Him? A runaway killer? Finding delight in wearing the aprons you bought for him and gardening your home to look better for the neighborhood. Mowing your lawn, cleaning your home, unboxing all your stuff, and doing laundry. Sweeping and cleaning became his favorite coping mechanism. It made him feel fully in control and fully zen. You'd take him fishing on the weekends, and whatever you caught together, he'd always cook something lovely and aromatic.

He found he loved orchids, especially the blue ones, and he gardened the front of the house with it. He heard from neighbors the compliments about him, how'd they call him your boyfriend or your lover. You weren't any of those things officially, but for some reason, he liked it.

It was stable.

It was serene.

He felt sort of.

Normal.

So when he found out you, his savior, was lustfully touching herself to him every single damn day, he had mixed emotions.

Fear.

That was his first. He was afraid of himself, afraid of the sudden power he was given over you now. Before, he was in your control, meekly like some little wife tending to your every need (despite your protests). He liked it, when he was powerless, the monster never complained. But now, now he's given some authority and control over you. You could do whatever he wanted all for a little sex.

He wasn't that person anymore.

He wasn't a manipulator.

So out of fear, he wouldn't dare to walk near the bathroom under any circumstances. He didn't ask about your day at first, he couldn't keep himself down enough to see you flush like that. To watch you come up with an excuse or try to forget your playing to remember something else that happened in your day. It gave him too much power, and he didn't know how to handle that burning feeling yet.

But. Your beautiful affirmations about him made him feel vulnerable again. What if he trusted that feeling? What if he explored it? What if he let it take control over him just for a second? You always told him that he could trust his body, that his body is "capable of handling every sensation" he experiences.

So maybe.

When Johan passed by your bathroom while you were at work, he couldn't help but freeze. That burning sensation was back, the monster in him clawing at him. He stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. And that burning continued.

He let his darkest fears hold him for a second. And Johan quickly found himself on his knees shifting through your dirty laundry, pumping his pent-up cock into his fists, moaning like an uncontrollable wild man.

It was then he discovered his second emotion about your playtime wasn't fear after all.

Lust.

Upon his discovery, he never realized how heavy his balls had gotten. He spent three years on the run before finding your home by accident, not once did he ever have the time or energy to release himself. And it was like once he opened those floodgates, he couldn't stop the desire that overtook his body. He felt like a predator, looking for any opportunity to extend himself.

Like that one time, you stumbled into his room drunk after a work outing, confessing your dirty sins to him. It was something you long forgot, and it took him all his strength to trap you in your room so you wouldn't do anything stupid.

But man did he spend that whole night playing with himself, replaying your drunken confession over and over. He was so excited to explore this with you, to hear you apologize in the morning, and for him to segway that into a discussion about sex. So he could communicate how he felt. But when the morning came, and his eagerness budded- you had completely forgotten.

Confidence was his third and final emotion.

Johan knew he was beautiful. How else did he survive all those years in hell? He swindled women, he gained the trust of men. He slaughtered.

Yet he noticed how embarrassed he had become and how skittish and secretive he was about masturbating. It was like he was a teenager all over again, pretending to cook food until you got in the shower and then running to his room to touch himself to your sweet voice. He always finished early so he could clean up and rush back to the food. Developed a system where he'd cook before you got there but didn't assemble anything and kept it all separate, which cost him many pans and extra dishes, but it kept the facade up just so he could wank off like a child.

His favorite thing was the nervous conversation you had with him after your shower, too skittish to look him deep in the eyes. That's when his confidence started pouring in. At dinner, he'd be more challenging, more teasing. He'd "accidentally" stroke his foot up your leg to hear you squirm. He'd make more eye contact than usual, watching you bounce around a bit. He'd stop you right before you'd walk into the bathroom to make small talk while your frustrated eyes struggled against his stare.

You thought you were slick, but you weren't.

And he decided he'd test the waters.

"Doctor, you always take such long showers. It's become a large part of our dinner routine." He smiled innocently and watched his prey tense up like a bunny in the stare of a hawk.

"Ah. Aah… Well, it helps me detox." You panted, keeping your eyes down on your plate.

Checkmate.

You were right where he wanted you.

"My." He made his voice low as he burrowed a stare deep into your eyes, "Well… Keep taking those showers, doctor. I'm sure you have a lot of pent-up frustrations from work. It's good to wash it all away and… take care of yourself."

And you practically fell apart for the rest of the night. He watched your shame confusion and fear plague your face while you helped him watch the dishes. And to be extra harmful, he bothered you all night with conversations and small talk, knowing the frustration and confusion that was uncomfortably building in your body. He forced you up late, chatting with a glass of wine until you had to scurry into your room to retire.

His trap was set.

And just as quickly as you disappeared into your room, he disappeared into his and awaited himself on the bed (that he pushed against that wall this morning), cock in hand. Much like how he planned, you couldn't help yourself, and he couldn't help himself either. It was thrilling, the power placed on his shoulders as he heard your moans finally unmuffled by the streaming shower. His cock was extra twitchy and sensitive that day.

It was the chase and hunt of it all that made this so rewarding.

He played cat and mouse with you all week. Always pushing you, making you feel uncontrollable and weak about your growing desire. He pretended to be sick, too weak for dinner, and paraded around the house without his shirt and in some shorts instead of his usual day wear. He made up some excuse as to why he stayed in his pajamas, it cost him too much energy and he was sweating so much. He watched the guilt that panned over your eyes for looking at him so dirty.

He begged you to watch television with him, saying how lonely he was all day just so he could scoot close to you and trap you in his body. The body that he knew you could not handle. You could cut the tension in that room that night like a knife. And after pushing you to stay up late just like before, he waited, once again, for you to play with yourself:

Johan snuck into his room and laid back on the bed, thrill striking through his body. He laid flat on top of his comforter, his pillow cupping his head forward. He had already prepared by leaving a bottle of lotion next to him. His hands pulled down his shorts, an eerie sense of satisfaction and gratification bubbling in his body. His hand scooped up his hardening member, squeezing it a few times to manage his excitement.

You would be heading to the bathroom any minute now.

His eyes widened.

He reached over and sprayed the scentless balm into his hands, working them from his fingers and to his currently dry muscles. Precum leaked from his reddened head.

He heard your door open and his mouth ran dry. "There she goes." He mutters, unable to fight the way his hands moved before his show began.

You were so easy to push. Johan couldn't stop the moan that bullied from his lips, he was too eager. He couldn't calm himself. His hand pumped himself fast, that cold, devilish glare striking his face once again. He couldn't help the self-serving grin that sliced his face open.

By now you were probably inside the bathroom, fishing for the little toys you always--

His doorknob creaked, and a striking gasp fled his lips.

"Johan I -"

You didn't go to the bathroom.

His eyes flew to you in the dark, as the lights from the hallway cast a shadow over you.

For you, you only wanted to remind him to take his medicine. It was true, you cared for his sickness but also you wanted to see him one last time. So when you creaked open his door, you never would've expected such a sight.

There was Johan, laid back comfortably on his bed, cock in hand, head shot forward, with piercing blue eyes that saw right through you. You clenched on air, frozen in shock. Silence filled the air, and after a second of it, he moaned wistfully. A sound that went straight to your ears and down to your wet pussy.

"Oh my gosh!" You half-screamed. You quickly dove behind the door, shutting yourself back in the hallway. "I'm so sorry!" You cried, hands covering your face.

"I should've knocked!" To your horror, the door opened again, and there stood Johan, his face unreadable, threatening, and bland. He stepped out into the hallway, and you looked into his eyes for reassurance, but nothing was there. Confused, cautious, and anxious, you threw yourself away, hitting the other wall. Your thighs clamped shut, and you clenched again and again on nothing.

What was he thinking? This was scary, this was scaring you.

Your hole clenched around nothing again and again and again, begging to be filled.

"Sorry?" He finally said in that cool, collect monotone. "Oh, doctor. You shouldn't be sorry."

"I caught you uh… M-" Despite being a doctor, even you couldn't say it. It was like saying it would make it all the more real.

"Masturbating? You caught me masturbating? Haha. Why, doctor, I didn't take you to be skittish. It's natural, isn't it? Masturbating? It shows that I am healthy." He said, and boy was he right.

He was just throwing that word around and around everywhere. It took everything in you not to whimper, your pussy beginning to drown in dirty slick. A vicious puddle was ruining your underwear.

"Yes but still I'm so sorry I uh…" You didn't know what to say. You were cornered.

"It was a mistake, wasn't it? You weren't trying to peek at me." He said, his head tilting like a wild hare.

You gulped as guilt bound sickeningly in your chest. You were trying to peek, not at him masturbating you didn't know! You were trying to see him before he went to bed, that's why you didn't knock- it was innocent. "I wasn't." You rushed out without thought.

Innocent?

What were you saying? You were peeking for masturbation fuel. You gulped, guilty your eyes couldn't find his.

"Johan I-"

"What brings you?" He asked so kindly, so calm. It only made you feel worse.

"I wanted to make sure you took medicine for your cold." You whispered, but the sound was too soft.

Checkmate.

You felt him step closer. "What was that?" He asked, a cunning grin slicing about his face once more.

"I said I wanted to give you medicine." You said.

"Medicine? But you don't have anything in your hand?" He said.

Your face dropped in horror, your eyes running to Johan's stare. You couldn't think of anything to say.

And that's when he finally won. His cock hardened like a rock, large and proud, and he didn't care if you saw it.

"Doctor, I think you are lying."

Your knees buckle into each other, rubbing your thighs together like a madman. You couldn't stop dripping, your panties were completely soaked by now, and it only made you feel more horrified of yourself.

"I know what you've been doing." He said, and your gasp was soul-sucking. "Every day you touch yourself to me. And then you pretend to be a normal housemate." He was sharp.

"I didn't mean to--"

"You lie to me at dinner time."

"I'm not trying to -"

"Trying to what? Take advantage of me? You know I have nowhere to go, I can't say no to you. Can't you see the power dynamic here?" His hand lay against the wall next to your head, pinning you to the wall as he leaned close to you. "I am at will to you. If I say no to your advances, I could be out of a home. You want me to stay here forever so you can get your pleasure off it, doctor."

You couldn't help the moans that bubbled out of your body, your hips that rocked uncontrollably, your clit that begged for friction, and your little hole that cried for a stretch. Humiliation bounded tears from your eyes.

He was right.

"Johan I'm so--"

"A-Ah… Haa." He moaned, and wildly your eyes found him again.

His eyes shut.

You glanced down.

He was hard.

You glanced up.

His eyes opened.

Slowly the pieces came together in your mind.

Johan could see your gears turning.

He was toying with you. He was getting off to all of the torture he put you through this past year.

You blinked once.

That asshole.

Before you knew it you crashed your lips onto his angrily, muttering out a string of curses as you wrapped your legs about his waist. "Fuck you, Johan. You're so horrible." You muttered between the kiss, unable to stop your hips that grinning against the bare skin of his waist.

He laughed but you were quick to interrupt it with your tongue. You slipped your muscle deep into the services of his mouth, sliding wild hands into his hair and pulling at it tightly. You lapped and licked at his inside, feeling your pussy burn for attention. His tongue was even quicker to steal yours as he hobbled back into his room, his hands supporting you to him. He turned about and laid you down on the bed, breaking the kiss to pant.

His room was dark, with the only air of light being the moon glow drifting from the window about you. It caught his eyes in a captivating icy loom, and your hips bucked forward in anticipation. Your mouth began to water.

You waited for this for so long. He leaned down and found your mouth again, sucking on your wet muscle, milking an aggressively dirty moan from your confused lips. His hands quickly invaded your space again, and with total carelessness for your well-being, he clawed away your pajama shirt, unbuttoning it tiresomely.

Being a well-respected surgeon you always had respect and might power in your hands. You had lives in your hands, you had to always be in control. But here with Johan, as he brutally pulled your bra up and nipped at your bottom lips, he didn't give you a second to think- no he stole your power right from under your nose. His bullying bites dipped into your neck, licking and slurping at your throat like some sort of wild beast.

His canines dragged harshly against the cost of your throat, his body etching around your life- the life he had planned to take years ago. His penis twitched hard in his pants, feeling his balls get heavier by the second.

He's never had sex like this. Before it was all perfect, he'd pleasure his partner, they'd give him what he wanted. Whether it was money, information, silence, or just to seem normal, it all was painfully forced. Here, he could fully intact his deepest desires to hurt you. For total domination over you but in a safe way.

The paradox of wanting to hurt you but wanting to be safe about it reigned ruler in his mind and coated his brief with serious precum. Look at you, you tamed his monster.

He dipped his tongue from the cup of your collarbone in a lengthy stripe to your chin, feeling his eyes lid as he succumbed to your intoxicatingly confused moans. His mouth parted and sucked on the base of your neck, careless with how his teeth rubbed against your skin. Your mind had shut off, the thoughts of stress that typically plagued your everyday growing deathly quiet. Every part of you agreed that right now you needed his cock so deep inside of you.

You needed him to pleasure himself on you like you were some sort of toy. You arched forward when he finally parted from his barrage of sucking and biting. He leaned up and stared down at you with hunting eyes, his hands reaching and pulling and twisting your poor nipples in his hands.

"Ah! Oohh." You cried in shock, his winding of you was direct and sharp, sending vicious sensations to your drenched hole. His face grew in satisfaction at your frantic sounds, a sadistic giggle trailing from his lips.

"Of course you'd like that. You dirty doctor." He snickered as your eyes looked deep into his belittling glare. You moaned hoarsely at his words, feeling your thighs grind against each other. One of his hands flees from your hand and dives into his shorts again. As you watch breathlessly, he pulls himself out. His cock springs out of its confinement, his penis pulsing with furious veins, his cock head a pungent red as his slick made his member a wet mess.

You moaned egregiously at the sight, your arching back hardening into a locked state. He did all this teasing and he was just as wet as he was. He was just as uncontrollable as you felt. "Johaan." You whined reaching up to touch it.

He swatted your hand away, and punishingly so his other hand pulled your nipple. "I didn't say you could touch. You dont deserve to touch." He hissed as you whimpered out. "You've lost all sorts of manners, haven't you? So wild from all those toys you put up inside you. Does it make you feel better about yourself?" He says in his painful, precise rasp.

You gasp and grunt at his words, feeling your clit pulse and cry out. Your mind was becoming a jumbled mess, your crying sex overtaking your every move. You couldn't take it anymore, and you slipped your hand down your pajama shorts, diving past your underwear to bully your hole. The restricting pressure of your underwear snapping back against your knuckles limited your movement, but your mind was savage.

You plugged your little hole with two fingers, rocking and plunging them hideously.

"A-Aah… Doctor..." You heard Johan suddenly cry. Your eyes flickered up to his and his face was incredibly red. His jaw was slack and his eyes bulged out in surprise. "You're so-ugh wh--" Was all he could say before he leaned his head back, his hand jerking himself furiously. Your orgasm was building harshly at the pretty sight.

"Mngh… Ah!" You cried. There was Johan on top of you, with each leg of his straddled against your side. He stood up above you on his knees. Careless with how he fucked his fists inches away from your face, his body hovering over your stomach. The view from below was ridiculing, and his furious pumps splattered precum all over your face and neck.

"Scheiße!" He cursed, his fapping growing wild, dysregulated, and brisk. He did this as if you were truly nothing to him, like a pornographic magazine that he couldn't get enough up. That he pent himself off so he could cum on the pages. It made you hornier than ever.

Your hole clenched hard around your fingers, your breath stammering si hard your brain had to convince your pussy's vice grip to loosen so you could pummel yourself. "Te-- augh! Tell me ah… Tell me I'm a whore uh-ah-again Johan." You whined, unaware of how saliva drooped pit of the corners of your mouth.

"You're so filthy, d-dirty, doctor. Whore." He gulped, watching his head lean back farther, revealing the peak of his neck and chin. Your orgasm was becoming familiar to you as you arched your hips high forward, plunging your hands faster and faster, matching Johan's rapid pumps.

"J-Johan… Johan!" His name became the only word you knew.

Your voices became a choir of delighted song, the sounds loud and free, and your eyes were privy to soak up all of his beautiful cries. His voice grew raspy and higher for each pump, his orgasm trailing near to yours. You dropped your mouth open wild, your tongue barreling out to catch the wayward fluids flying towards you.

"Ich k-komme, aah Doktor. Komme." He growled out. Your orgasm burst deep onto your fingers at the word, your eyes fleeing back up to the crevices of your head. Your hole wrapping deadly tight against your fleeting fingers.

With a few high sounds from Johan, you blinked out of your high, forcing your eyes open to watch. His head leaned back down to you, his teeth bared and clenched tensely, while his eyebrows folded upwards angelically. His blue eyes peeked out from his daze and found you, tongue out and ready for his disposal. With one final cry, the sight sent him over the edge.

White, hot ropes shot out from him and onto your nose, his hand quickly redirecting his aim to splatter onto your tongue and teeth. He shot heavy, long-winded loads with hard pants, his hands shaking trying to contain his excited high.

With heavy pants, his cock sent its final queue of hot cum and softened slightly. The room was filled with you and Johan's doggish pants, trying to catch our breaths from your ecstasy.

"Johan." You mewled pulling your hand out of yourself. You reached up for him and he buried himself into your arms, digging a whorish needy tongue into your mouth. His body hovered over yours, with his chest slumped against you. You whined into the sloppy kiss, but it didn't last as his wet mouth brushed you on his way down. His forehead leaned into the bed next to you, his bottom flying into the air weakly.

"Scheiße." He mumbled again but it was quieter this time.

Now that the high was running to a close. Humiliation and embarrassment were piercing his pale blue eyes. Instead of cuming deep inside the doctor, the object of his fantasies for months, he got too excited and came all over her. She didn't even get to touch him once. How pitiful had he become since becoming her housewife?

"Johan that was amazing." He heard her sweet voice say. The shame was building as he hid his face in the crook of her neck. Her hands slid up his back to chase him, her dirty slicked-up finger intertwining worriedly into his hair. "Johan? What's wrong sweetheart." You whispered comfortingly, and his heart whined at the sound.

He was becoming too soft, too attached.

He couldn't fight his words.

"I came on you. Not in you." It was humiliating. He was reduced this low. By this woman?

Your eyebrows quirked up with a hearty laugh. "Then cum in me, crybaby."

He blinked.

Crybaby?

Johan slid out of your neck with unreadable eyes and stern brows. You blinked at his stare, one you were quick to identify as his surprise.

Suddenly his face melted into a loving smile, his eyes brewing with butterscotch affection. A cooing laugh fell out of him. Under the twinkling moonlight, he truly did look like an angel. Your breath caught in your lungs. His lips leaned down and kissed you politely, a dance of short bubbly friction. "Alright, my dear. Let me take care of you." He said as his hands nicely gripped your hips, helping you to turn onto your stomach.

What?

What was that? He was a totally different person? An angelic sweetheart, just like the man who cooked every meal for her. The man who unpacked her home and did her laundry so innocently.

You couldn't help but moan in confused eagerness. He lifted your hips to place a pillow under you, propping you up so that you didn't have to arch for him. You gulped and mewled again in confusion, feeling as he guided the rest of your unbuttoned shirt off you.

"Johan," you whined childishly, "I can't take this." You felt your hole clench again on nothing. His behavior was so overwhelming, your pussy began to scream needly.

"I'm sorry. I'm here now." He said, and his tongue innocently and neatly swiped the nape of your neck. He kissed the middle of your bare back gently in reassurance before his gentle fingers slid off your panties and shirts in one long swoop. The air nipped at your exposed sloppy sex, the sight of it making him groan. He grabbed the softness of your ass, giving it a tender grope.

He leaned into your sweetness, pulling your lips apart with each of his thumbs. Peering into your hole, he could see your leaking cum and slick water out of you, dribbling down your folds and onto your messy clit. With a deep inhale he memorized your scent.

"Oh, darling." He sighed wistfully.

You melted like butter into your arms. "Fill me up, please. Sweetheart, I need it." Your voice matched his contagiously charming tone.

"Yes, dear. I will." He let go and you whined at it. You peered back at him while he shuffled out of his shorts, his exposed body being revealed to you once again. He caught you looking as he leaned back dear to you, kissing your lips before lining up his cock to your sweet hole.

"Going in now, alright my dear?" He whispered. His tip kissed you civilly, and the sensation took everything in you not to clench down. Soon the innocent kiss dipped deeper, as a quarter of his length plunged into your cum lubed body. "Aa-ah." He groaned delightfully, choking out the sound as his breath grew heavy. Your eyes rolled back, your jaw falling slack.

"Here's the rest." He hummed as he pressed himself fully inside you, the stretch bonding through your body. He wasn't the girthiest, but his length was piercing. You could feel him snuggly bump your service as you mewled out in sync with him.

"Oh god, Johan." You clenched around his pretty cock, earning a delectable moan from him.

"Darling…" He chuckled, leaning in to pepper your shoulder. Before you could beg for friction, Johan began to move slow tantalizing strokes. The kind you were privy to distract yourself with after a long day. You cried out at the feeling, more heat rising to your flushed face. "I memorized this rhythm to all your moans." You shivered at his hushed words in your ear.

"You're so cr-creepy…" You moaned.

"You like that, don't you? Doctor." He groaned, loosing himself in the pumps. You couldn't say anything against him either. "On good days," His thrusts turned erratic, "You fucked yourself like this- ugh. I always guessed… Mmh. It was cause you were rushing to… See me." He was right. You gasped and cried out.

"Too fast, Johan!" You cried, your gummy walls struggling to adjust to his sudden speed.

"This way is too sloppy." He muttered. Painfully he janked himself out again, causing your body to sputter and arch harshly. "You need something like this." Johan slipped back in again, his cockhead ramming straight into your bladder. You jerked forward with a start, crying out loudly.

His hand laid against the back of your perked head, guiding your face back down into the bed. "Relax, Doktor." He laughed airy. He thrust strongly into you, never failing to hit your sweet spot. His thrusts were tender and precise, each slap of your ass against his hips made him grumble out a groan.

"Johan! Ooh! F-fuuck." You groaned. His cock pumped into your walls, each hit making you leak out sloppily. Your wetness squleched and squleched deep into the night air, the smell of your needy sexes filling the closed room.

The tantalizing strokes numbed your mind, your breath heaving, your saliva building on your parched tongue. You arched your head down deep into the sheets, overstimulating and tickling your pussy wickedly. Your cries were loud, rough, and painfully uneven as the pleasure choked up air in your throat.

Johan's bitter cock twitched and seized under your tight, suffocating walls. Sweat beaded onto his forehead as his body begged for another release. His senses dulled, the sound of your sweet noises and the taste of your lovely pussy around his dick was sinfully extraordinary. His forehead leaned against the fruit of your shoulder, perching himself into the moment as his thrusts grew rapid. He mewled out, bullying nails digging into your hips as he slammed you.

His sounds were lewder than you could ever imagine, his loud moans impregnating your sorry ears. His sounds were growing higher and rasper just like before, and you clenched around him in anticipation.

"Cum inside!" You managed out from between his defilement of you.

He groaned wild and long, shutting his eyes tight. His balls heaved, his teeth clenching shut.

Your pussy sucked and pulled at his sweet cock, delicious wetness scorching his senses with mind fucking pleasure. His thrusts grew sloppy and erratic, his moans weighted. "Komme!" He cried as leaned his head upwards, bucking his hips and delivering his load deep into the breath of your cervix.

His hot cum shot deep inside you, as you mewled out and came all over his angelic cock. Johan panted weakly, slapping his hands down on either side of your head, arching his hips deep down. His shoulders dropped in satisfaction, jaw slacked with a shiver trailing down his body.

Meekly, he slid out of you, his cock whining for the hotness of your insides once more. The mess that spilled out of you was disgusting, as barrels of mixed white cum and slick drooped out of your whorish hole and waterfalls down your folds.

You moaned with a stammer, gripping chunks of the bedsheets.

"Flithy, dirty, doktor." He sighed in content.

And every part of you was satisfied too.

[nighterwriter]

Trick-or-Treat

Jason Todd x fem!reader

Word Count: 577

A/N: Happy Halloween! I put fem!reader, but honestly, anyone can dress up as the bride of Frankenstein.

Also, thank you to @snips-501 for the idea!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You owe me big time, Todd."

"Shut up and smile."

Damian pouted as Jason's eyes searched for you in the throng of excited children being held back by their parents. Last week at the manor, you'd casually revealed that you had never gone trick-or-treating as a kid and then made the mistake of placating the group of vigilantes by saying that you had never celebrated Halloween at all. It wasn't a big deal - that's what you would tell yourself to cope - and now, you were too old for trick or treating.

The group didn't accept your mediocre excuses and planned activity after activity on the week of Halloween. Pumpkin carving, scary movies, holiday-themed treats, everything and anything that was associated with the spooky day, you had done. Except for the one you had wanted to do the most, the one that made you jealous of the other kids that came to school with their earnings: trick-or-treating.

You'd waved off everyone's potential solutions to the missed opportunity, citing the social age limit as the reason for your dismissal, but your boyfriend was one stubborn bastard. The week before Halloween, he all but held a gun to Damian's head and forced him to call and ask if you'd like to 'supervise' his trick-or-treating rounds in the neighborhood - the one where fun-size candies were non-existent and frowned upon. You had agreed with restrained excitement with the idea that you'd been helping Damian and being able to see what you missed out on, which is what Jason had planned.

He raised his hand and smiled when he saw you weaving through the crowd, kissing you when you finally managed to squeeze through a large party.

"Child, Todd, I am a child, I shouldn't be subjected to these horrors."

"Sorry, Dr. Dolittle." You teased, fixing Damian's crooked tie and stethoscope.

"You didn't dress up." Jason frowned, motioning to the green face paint and fake stitching and bolts he had attached to himself.

"Yeah I thought about it, but all the stores were out of good costumes and it was too late to make anything. I shouldn't even dress up, I'm a chaperone-"

"Hey," Jason grabbed your chin softly to cut your sheepish rambling off, "I've got a costume in the car, let's go get you changed. Just 'cause you're an adult, it doesn't mean you can't do fun things. And I'll be damned if I let you miss out on your first trick-or-treat. Okay?"

"Okay." You murmured, kissing his hand as he pulled it away.

"You would've had the option of being one of my patients, but Todd insisted on you becoming the Bride of Frankenstein."

"Really?" Your boyfriend's cheeks darkened as you slid an arm around his waist and put it in his jacket pocket.

"So much so that he had the costume ordered last month-"

"Shut it twerp, or I'm eating all your Skittles."

"I thought you preferred chocolate."

"Yeah, but I know you like 'em."

"I see you're not weary of committing child abuse."

As the boys continued to bicker in the midst of trying to plan the route of the night, you couldn't help but smile to yourself. How you got lucky with a boyfriend like Jason and a family like the batfamily, you didn't know. All you knew was that if the neighbors were kind enough to give you some candy as well, you'd give Damian as many as Jason ate. It was truly a happy Halloween.

[zilabee]

Read an old post of yours about "what if the Beatles were androids built by Brian" and just wanted to share the thought that it sparked! Please consider:

First Brian builds John, not to revolutionize music but to be the perfect boy (by Brian's standards, you know, which is why John is rough and mean on the outside and soft and sensitive on the inside). The musical subroutine was an accident! Brian thought he deleted that chunk of code! And at first it's all fine, but soon John gets lonely being a musical android all by himself, so Brian builds him Paul, to be his ideal friend. (This time the musical programming isn't an accident. That's why Paul is Like That.) And of course android John and android Paul get on like a house on fire, as they were meant to, and get so into making music together that they decide they need to form a band…and every band needs a proper good lead guitarist, right, so they gang up on Brian to cajole him into building them George. Only it turns out that they're rather volatile as a trio, so by the time the three of them demand a drummer Brian can tell they need someone to provide stability! So finally he builds them Ringo, to be their Beatle glue.

(And of course as soon as the band is complete they go and get runaway famous, which Brian didn't code them to be able to cope with! Because he wasn't expecting it! He wasn't actually trying to make history's greatest band, you see, he just kept building more androids to make the ones he already had happy.)

Oh anon! Yes yes. Yes. Like maybe he initially made John to help out at NEMS, and he only gave him a basic musical subroutine so that he'd know what he was talking about enough to help people in the music section, but working there he absorbed everything he heard and fell in love with music and Brian was all soft on him and couldn't make him work when all John wanted to do was play music and paint and be Ridiculously Cool, but then he couldn't leave him home on his own all day either. So then you have Paul - and ksjdofiwjefsd I love that it makes sense for him to be the way he is, because the music had to be hard wired into him <333. (Also beautiful android John seeing the blue prints and being like '... maybe just a little bit like Elvis?' and Brian sighing but agreeing to try.) And then I love the idea that he makes them a George, who is absolutely 100% going to grow up feeling like 'so you made them to be soulmates basically and I was just an ADD ON AFTERTHOUGHT????' Like I can't even imagine the brilliance of the chip on his shoulder if he was literally built just to support them. I love it. And all that time, Brian's watching them with hearts in his eyes because they're his boys and they're so beautiful and young and bright... but he comes home from work and they've set fire to stuff, and stolen records, and reinvented rock and roll, and spearheaded a british invasion, and the neighbours are furious because they play nine hour sets in the backgarden, and crowds gather in the street to listen to them, and they're just playing until their chips overheat and they get louder and more obnoxious until eventually they start fighting and throwing things at the crowds. And at first he'd be like 'no the neighbours will kill me if I build you a drummer' but they threaten to kidnap a real live boy if he doesn't, so he's like 'fine just a little one then'. And you're so right because by then he's had lots of practise, so it makes sense that he could finally programme in things like calm and ease, but he can't offer the others any upgrades to their own emotional disaster areas because it sounds like criticism and obviously it's wrong to pretend any one of them isn't already PERFECT.

(Also love the idea that John at some point sort of realises he's an android, or more than that, suddenly understands that not everyone else is - maybe when he meets Stuart and realises how different they are and decides that he can never be as ~real as Stuart - and he'd get all angsty and melo about it, and probably blame Brian for making him, and then decide it means nobody could ever really love him. All while Paul is just watching him confused, because he knew he wasn't real from day one, so he doesn't know why it matters, because he's like John and John's like him, so that's the best way to be. And George feels like he can very easily be an android and still be real, so he's fine too. And Ringo's okay so long as he's drumming and doesn't have to think about any of it or what it means, so John is all hidden pain and lonely confusion while he pretends to be Just Fine. I love how much themselves they are no matter what you do to them.)

[fleamontsoleil]

Hello people!

My name's Kordian.

I'm a guy who fell in love with stories at a young age, and decided to make their life about them.

I’m a genderqueer, bisexual mess born on april 15th, which makes me:

an aries

using they/he pronouns,

coming from poland, 

speak polish, english and basic german, spanish, french and danish, which means i can wish you a happy birthday and order coffee, and also talk about the weather and describe my outfit, but i will not get into the depths of quantum physics. 

i’m also autistic.

more info lower!

Other random things about me:

i love writing

lemons, ginger, cinnamon, pears, pasta

i have a sweet tooth

i’m getting back into drawing and watercolour painting

i love flowers, my favourite one being a carnation

i’m basically 24/7 in headphones, music always on

i like learning new languages (if you haven’t figured that out yet)

i enjoy reading, watching movies and tv shows

i can play on ukulele and i’m getting better at guitar and bass

i love stickers and pins

kinda obsessed with angels and religious symbolism while being an atheist, idk how i did that

i can trauma dump without realising, sorry for that

i love sticking things to my walls

and also telling stories

travelling

coffee

chocolate

green

robin williams

On this blog, I reblog/post things related to writing and relatable things I see. Sometimes share a snippet of my writing or freak about an idea I'm having. I’m thinking about separating this side blog into two, one for fanfic (this one), and one for my original work (with my pen name) but idk. Maybe when I have more time.

What do I write?

I write mostly fiction and fantasy, usually gory.

I write things that are inspired by things I know. I have a great imagination, which sometimes is not so fun, but when I write it's really useful. I can sit in any place and make it into a story.

All my works include queer representation.

Some of my works might be graphic, but I will put trigger warnings before any of them.

My current works:

If it comes to longer WIPs, I am used to working on one/two at once, but giving it my whole attention for the time of writing. Even though I can read seven books at once, I can't write them at once.

I also write a lot of short stories, but I will not be listing them here.

"The Tangled Sun" (working title) - a fantasy novel (1st dratf) tag: wip : tts queer, pirates, magic

Fanfiction:

"Darksun" (working title) - a post apocalyptic novel(1st draft) tag: wip : darksun angels, queer, gore, horror

you can find me under cowboymorpheus on ao3

All of Us, Strangers - an AOUS deancas AU 24,095 words “How do you cope?” he asks. “With what?” “Listen?” he says, almost asks, and sticks the hand with the bottle up, one finger pointing at the ceiling. Dean doesn’t hear anything. The silence fills the entire space. “It’s so quiet,” he says, and his voice is slightly broken up, as if he’s mourning the sound that isn’t present. “The city’s out there, but we can’t hear a fucking thing.” Castiel leans even closer, as if he was about to tell Dean his deepest, darkest secret, and Dean backs away. His hand tightens on the doorknob. “I play music, but it’s worse when it ends. I even bought one of those white-noise machines. It’s like someone’s in the corner of the room, whispering about me. We can’t even open the windows, but I guess they don’t want us to jump.” he pauses for a while. “Bad for business. Broken bodies on the concrete. Who’s gonna move in then?” he asks, but he doesn’t expect an answer.

Dean Cas Big Bang fic - estimated word count 27k

-----

on the road - WHICH IS A WORKING TITLE - estimated word count is 60k After John dies, Dean has no more reasons to be trapped in his hometown. With the encouragement of his friends and family, he hits the road, where he meets new people and learns new things about himself, finally being able to explore himself as much as he always wanted to. Not having to hide, being able to just be his own person is something he didn't know he would ever be able to do. Little does he know, it's only the beginning of the good things to happen.

stained white roses - a darkfic basically

My other account is @cowboymorpheus. you'll probably find out some more on the intro post there. It's where I reblog and sometimes post fandom stuff, here it's just, I don't know. Writing, ao3 and the rest of random stuff like that.

That's pretty much all. Like I said, I'm open to new conversations, so don't hesitate to message me or send asks anytime. And I'm ask/tag game friendly!

Have a nice one!

[andmyvape]

You know...

People talk about drugs like if you give someone who wants them whatever drug they're asking for in whatever amount they're asking for, they'll become hopelessly addicted and ruin their lives

Now I'm not arguing that addiction isn't fucking awful but I fervently believe those in the newer circles of rehabilitative care theory that are putting forward the idea that addiction, at its core, is self medication. Unregulated, self destructive self medication in too many cases, but it's not the drugs themselves in so many cases, huffing paint thinner and other examples not withstanding, but honestly I don't think people would do that if they had alternatives that ARE less damaging.

It's the pain and lack of support that drives so many people to alleviate their pain or stress which really is just pain too by numbing it with drugs. It helps, but they don't regulate, they don't find alternatives to cope with whatever they're medicating that lighten the need for the medication alone, their tolerance builds up, they don't know what they're medicating enough to know how to do that consciously and more safely...

It's a nightmare that is truly systemic, not some moral failing or some contagion inherent to the human spirit. I can't currently think of any example of an organism that wouldn't practice homeostasis when outside of whatever range of normal function they're supposed to be in. Not for some philosophical or spiritual reason, in this sense specifically it is purely biological, and I find it to be DEEPLY disturbing that so many people I encounter in my life INSIST that being in constant discomfort is somehow a state to aspire to and be proud of. Being able to safely handle exiting a space that would provide you homeostasis means being able to MAINTAIN that homeostasis when you go elsewhere or do other things. It's NOT about giving in to the idea that if you prefer to be comfortable that you are somehow weak or inferior. That is not a mark of strength, it's a mark of how damaged a person is.

Grandpa, stop ranting about my generation not wanting to be "triggered" you literally JUST threw a hissy fit because they didn't have your slim jims at the corner store and the cashier wouldn't give it to you for free. Your comfort is predicated on unfairly demanding behaviors from others that is not being reciprocated in a worthwhile way. I don't think that's more valid than my being upset that a man who claims to love me is more interested in mocking a caricature of a trans person that isn't actually me. But I digress

The point my adhd ass is making here is that I think I understand a bit more about what I've been arguing this entire time. Not that I didn't understand it at all before so much as that I've been given new depth. I have a pain condition, possibly multiple, have my entire life, and I have always been rather fixated on whatever would alleviate that pain. When Tylenol stopped working, I stopped using it. Eventually I found marijuana which has done me WONDERS but I've been dealing with worsening health issues due to various reasons and it's not quite doing enough. I had to be taken off all my meds because of a bad interaction and in the month before we start reintegrating meds that might help, my doctor gave me benadryl

Now, I've been taking benadryl on and off for years for anxiety and insomnia. I can't do it long, some toxicity issue I think? Or organ failure. Can't remember right now. The guideline is a two week limit, and I've found by the end of that two weeks it is very hard for me to get the effect I need without running into the 300mg daily cap. And the times I've taken it before it hasn't done much but make me sleep eventually and relax for a few hours

That has changed. Now when I take my benadryl, I can feel it kick in like God Herself just grabbed me by the scruff of the neck, total limpness, the anxiety isn't GONE but it's so much more manageable. The cessation of pain is so fucking nice, which I understand is a HUGE component of addiction outside of the direct chemical alterations over time becoming unpleasant or downright agonizing to reverse. Being so uncomfortable and having it relieved that quickly is amazing. It doesn't make the problem that is causing me the stress or pain go away, but it does give me clarity of mind that lets me take action to make my life better, for myself and my loved ones

Now here's the kicker for me. I HAVE taken benadryl before, but when I did, my conditions were so unmanaged that it just really did not do THIS much. And at that time, I very much required things that were stronger, for both pain and mental distress. I was given them after some hospitalizations, begrudgingly, and surprise of surprises it helped me. I started to improve. Pretty significantly. Years later, they started making me sick, thus the meds having to be changed now, and honestly I was TERRIFIED because I thought the benadryl wouldn't be enough, like it was before, and I'd spend a month in agony. I was so wrong yall

So here's what I think, in my amateurishly educated opinion: if they had just given me the medicine I was asking for instead of taking my agency away in denying my medication that could have helped but could also have consequences that they felt weren't worth the risk. Maybe they were, maybe there weren't, but... Shouldn't that have been my choice? And I did eventually get put on something stronger, which led to me having the strength and spoons and clarity I needed to make changes over time that have led to me being able to be helped by the benadryl now. They couldn't have just handed me a bottle of percocet at 14 and said "Good luck!" because YES that would have been it's own kind of damaging, but I have trouble with authority, and at least the damage would have been mine to cause. After all, it was my body

But... What they could have done, what research is proving again and again ACTUALLY works more than patriarchal denial of bodily autonomy on the basis of my supposed "inherently and deeply lacking ability to make choices for my own health," is just... Giving me the meds I asked for. Tell me the risks, help me manage the potential consequences, trust me to tell you when I feel sick instead of functional. To not just keep taking more and more of whatever drug that is helping me but you've decided I'm having FUN with, to the point that being denied the care I needed was damaging. If you had trusted me, I would have trusted you, and we could have made a plan that would have probably resulted in what's happened now, me finding that benadryl actually is enough now and crying in sheer joy that I've finally worked hard enough to get this far

But that would have implied that I have an ability and right to make decisions about how to take care of my own body, right?

This isn't a story that hasn't been experienced and shared so many times that it all paints a detailed and disturbing tapestry of how little bodily autonomy matters in this system. Too many demographics are judged as being "at risk for addiction" without the judgement being made by people who care that those demographics are at risk because of so fucking many social and systemic inequalities that leave so fucking many deprived of preventative, proactive care that would ultimately ease the burden of emergency care that has to be given once things get to a point considered "bad enough" and that's just... Not okay.

[juliee4everial]

"How It Feels To Be Saved"

EPILOGUE

Who in their right mind thought it would be a great idea to combine two opposing worlds?

Lilley is a distant planet in the Andromeda Galaxy where a supernatural world and a human world exist. However, due to God's betrayal, both the supernatural and human worlds are now combined, and this caused the planet to be intertwined with chaos and disparity; this action is utterly irreversible. Both worlds are now aware of one another. Hence, to keep world balance and harmony between the two indecisive worlds, the creators of the universe, the "Heavenly council," have decided to assign every mortal human being a guardian angel, which protects them from "immoralites," who are paranormal species and possess no morals and are purely made of evil and deception.

Now, amidst this new system, will two close friends be able to cope and readjust to the new changes?

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CHAPTER 1 - This stubborn girl!

Clemione flapped her wings at her best friend's face dismissively and impatiently, but her best friend was not having it.

"I already told you, 'mione, I think he's the one for me!" Her best friend, Wisteria, gave the same energy, and was also impatiently tapping her finger on the table. Her once beautiful, chocolate hair, which she tied in a cute bun, was now as neat as a bird's nest and on the table as the poor girl tried to defend her position. 

"It's the same statement all the damn time! Tell that to the 56 guys who also asked you out but turned out to be wanted werewolves and vampires on the loose!" Clemione scoffed, feeling quite betrayed at her best friend's refusal to accept her protection. After all, she has always found herself to be right about the odd guts she'd been getting each time her mortal's been asked by plenty of boys out on a date. This girl is about as stubborn as a 5 year old, she thought resentfully. Her lilac wings, painted with violet hues, although beautiful and intricate, had a bad habit of exposing her true feelings, and so she took a moment to readjust her wings and posture so as to make herself look more firm and strict, even though her inner self screamed off fear and danger from the thought of letting Wisteria be alone with a man for more than 10 seconds. Again.

"I'll be fine, I don't feel the same vibes from him anymore! The countless men I've encountered before, I had the vibes from them as you told me… but it was because I felt forced to say yes to them! But now…." She made a dramatic pose like a princess out of dismay after finding her one and true love.

"I really think he is the one." Besides, you act too much like my mother, let me live once damn… she thought secretly, but chuckled on the inside. She knows she'll win this argument. She had a weapon.

"I've trusted you well too many times now to let you off on your own! And every chance I've given to you, you almost let yourself be in a grave situation! What will you do if I can't come protect you if I have other angel business–" Clemione suddenly covered her eyes with her wings and accidentally made them sharp by muscle memory because blinding light was suddenly being transmitted to her eyes, she carefully took her wings off of her eyes just to gaze at the cubic box her best friend was now holding. No fair! She, though, exclaimed (by her thoughts), was still staring at the box that held trillions of stars and galaxies, and in the distant corner was their very own planet system. Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune were all moving on their own little orbit and glowing in accordance to their color. 

She almost, almost forgot why she was scolding her best friend in the first place until– fingers snapped in front of her face which made her look up, she hadn't even realized she was now crouching to be at the same level as the cubic box, until that was– her best friend interrupted, "Ehem, so, if you let me go out with Tray I will let you borrow this for a week–" mine.

Clemione snatched that box immediately and waved her wings cheerily at Wisteria, "Alright, you've got yourself a deal…" Wisteria was thrilled by this– "BUT that doesn't mean I won't look after you, alright?" Clemione put great emphasis on the last question so her best friend, at this, scoffed, a bit too loudly.

"Wisteria, do you understand me?" She reiterated menacingly which made Wisteria gulped.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Alright, enjoy your fancy date, 'Ria." With that, Clemione flew off.

(A/N): Hii! This is my first OG story post, I hope you guys enjoyed it ^^ Lmk what you guys think :))

If you guys are confused:

Clemione: Guardian Angel who's assertive and overprotective Wisteria: The (kinda stubborn) mortal in which clemione's guarding

[dinosaursatemymom]

I'm the anon from yesterday, and I have to say in s4 canon, Nancy was helpful. Yes, it could have gone a different way, but she should get credit for moving the plot in that direction. She shouldn't have gotten the credit for finding the articles and the music theory that was Robin, but the initial hint was on Nancy.

It's still questionable how she got the information, tho, like she isn't a reporter she writes for the school paper. She shouldn't be out there investigating a murder scene. That article wouldn't have even made it into the paper, given it was about a student, and the principal would have shut it down immediately. Idk what her plan was besides being nosy.

I'm also still thinking about the s2 plot, and it just doesn't make sense to me. It's even worse that Nancy's half-baked plan worked because it framed Steve as this bad boyfriend for not wanting to help her. Like their major argument that painted Steve as uncaring about Barb was that he didn't want to get revenge on the lab and that he wanted to live his life as normally as possible. That him shutting down Nancy's idea is him surpressing her trauma, idk it makes me want to scream. He went with her to Barb's family every week, and he tried to cheer her up, to say he didn't care about the situation is just wrong. Also, why is Nancy's way of coping the right way? Steve should be able to adjust his life in a way he feels comfortable. Nancy went along because she thought it would help her. It's not like Steve pressured her into anything. He thought his way was helpful, and Nancy didn't communicate it better to him. (Like she still can't communicate properly, i.e., Jonathan or Robin in the library, who asked her if she hated her, and Nancy just ignored her and rolled her eyes.) Steve can't read her mind so he was under the impression everything was okay. I doubt he would be malicious and shut down Nancy's grief. He was concerned about Nancy's destructive ways of getting revenge because it was dangerous.

The lab was set up to be scary. They killed people for knowing too much in s1. Steve was totally reasonable for being scared. And then they made the lab into something dumb that it got infiltrated by two teenagers who even let it slip they wanted to expose them. How on earth was Nancy able to get that recorder inside? And why was Jonathan okay to go through with everything after Owens explained and even showed them the huge mess. Will and his mother went there every week, the people were trying to help his family. Jonathan had no reason to help Nancy besides getting some brownie points in her book. It was ooc for him to go against his family and put others in danger. Nor did it help the plot or Nancy. It was never discussed how incredibly stupid and selfish it was of her to go against them that way. Like she put her family and everyone involved in danger, plus the entire town. But it was framed as her being super smart and brave when it did more harm. Nancy didn't even deal with grief. There was no real discussion about Barb with Jonathan, only her admitting that she waited for Jonathan to make a move so she could get away from her boyfriend. I wish Jonathan had said something so Nancy could be able to examine her behavior.

I think what makes her plots so frustrating is that she doesn't grow as a person with them. She is still the same character since s2, who gets her little investigation plotline, which is unnecessary because the other characters are able to get there without her anyway. What is her arc? A grieving teenager who lost her best friend? It's never truly discussed in the show. Otherwise, she can use a useless weapon. She isn't the smartest person who can piece stuff together. Robin was only there for 2 seasons and yet was more helpful with her wits than Nancy. I wish we could get an arc for her next season, but I doubt it tbh.

Also this and the last anon was quite long, and I apologize. Sometimes, I get carried away. I feel like you can't really discuss this topic because people will hunt you down and call you names. I really tried liking Nancy, and I think if she were better written, I would love her because she has potential. But because her being perceived as flawless in the show (and fandom) contradicts with her actions, it makes her incredibly unlikable.

You're right, Nancy was helpful in s4 and I shouldn't discredit her for that. Although I do believe the plotline could've worked without her.

Nancy is just constantly trying to get the story no matter what, even if it could get her fired.

Yeah, I didn't like her plot in s2, it just didn't make much sense to me. I definitely agree about Jonathan. I really don't like how nearly everyone bends over backwards for Nancy in the show, even when they logically shouldn't(Robin). I think a lot of the problem with Steve is that the show is trying to make others seem in the right and Steve in the wrong while also making him likable to the audience because the duffers don't want to kill him off.

Yea, it was really weird that all of a sudden this top secret highly guarded government facility didn't search two teenagers. Especially considering the lengths we've been shown that they'll go to in order to keep confidentiality, ie Benny.

I would absolutely love to see an arc for Nancy!! Contrary to what my posts may make it seem, I think Nancy's character held a lot of potential and has been poorly written for the past few seasons. Her being written as this flawless badass who everybody loves kinda makes her seem shallow and annoying. If the show could acknowledge her faults and figure out a nice ending for her where she actually shows some growth I would absolutely love her character. I really hope to see something better for her in s5.

It's totally cool, I like long asks anyway! Feel free to shoot me an ask anytime! You're absolutely correct about not being able to dislike Nancy without being hunted down and called names [(I know you're reading this, you know who you are. Get off my page and block me and the tag, stop harassing me. Im not gonna like Nancy because you call me a misogynist or a bitch, that's gonna make me like her even less)<--not targeted towards you anon] Yes! The fact that no one holds her accountable is the reason she doesn't grow because she's framed as constantly being correct.

[noxthesleepymoodyoverthinker]

When people let you down...but non-maliciously...how do you reconcile your understanding of their actions with the deep hurt that they caused...?

Generally speaking, with the people in my circle, I was the one who provided the emotional support. Because of circumstances, I was not equipped or able to give the people around me financial or physical support (by physical, I mean like: take a bus or car to a friend's house at 10 pm because they needed company, or offer them a place to stay or live in when they needed it, or keep them company if they had to go on a trip or some other place in case of an emergency). So I was the emotional support:

I was the one called at 2 am or 3 am when someone couldn't sleep, remembered something bad, or was crying because of heartbreak, or felt like living was too much. I was the one who would keep all the secrets. I was the one who would use my own overwhelming feelings to try and empathize and understand what the other person needed from me and try to give it to them. I was the one you could talk to no matter how heavy and long-lasting your emotional hurt was.

That was my role in the dynamic, and I was fine with it.

Then there came an instance - multiple, one-after-the-other instances actually - that shattered my equilibrium and emotional capacity to the point that I simply could not handle it on my own. And for the first time in my life, I needed someone to be my emotional support. Because my internal emotional pillar wasn't leaning or cracked, it had shattered into a million pieces and I had no idea how to put it back together. And suddenly, I needed someone I could talk to, cry to, someone to keep me company until I figured out how to put the pieces of me back together, because I could not stand being in my own company.

And the same ones in my circle who I had been the support for before did try in the beginning...But, I don't know if my grief and emotions were just too heavy, or if they had expected me to recover quicker...But after a brief amount of time...those in my circle just...faded away.

They were always busy, they stopped visiting, they stopped calling back or responding to my messages, and they would always have another call or need to call me back when our phone conversations moved to talking about me.

Basically, it was like, once I stopped being the emotional support people could go to, when I became the one who needed it instead...I had no place in my circle and none of the people - family and friends alike - wanted to be around me anymore. And that...broke my already shattered heart even more.

And, when I tried calling out the people around me about it, some began crying, and some just went silent and ghosted me longer and then pretended that the conversation had never happened when they connected with me again.

But, while the post so far will paint them as bad friends and family, that's most likely because the hurt I feel from their behavior and actions is shining through the words first and foremost.

But here's the thing: They were busy. Busy because they had their own lives. And they were going through their own shit too, because it's not like life takes turns throwing people under the bus, or that circumstances can't be bad for more than one person.

And...They had never had to play the role of being the emotional pillar before...That had been my role. And now I was too grief-stricken and overwhelmed to play that role. So not only did they have no clue how to handle my emotional needs, unable to cope with my overwhelming situation and feelings, but they also lost the person that would have helped them handle theirs.

So their abandonment was non-malicious...They didn't stay away because they wanted to end our relationship, they stayed away because it was too much for them, because they were overwhelmed seeing me like this and didn't know what to do, and childishly hoped that if they ignored me for a while, then I'd hopefully be back to normal next time they called or saw me.

And...what do I do with that? I understand them well, still...And if it had been the slightest bit malicious, I would have actually directly ended the relationship and blocked them - because I've had experience with malicious people before and have learned over the years not to tolerate their antics.

But I was weak...and I needed them...and I was basically abandoned...

So along with my logical understanding of their perspective, there is this deep emotional hurt. Because this abandonment hurt me and shattered me even further, on top of what I was already going through.

I did pull myself out of that quagmire eventually. Or, I should say, I broke through the surface and am still trying to reach the shore, but still sinking just below the surface from time to time as I do.

And, for the most part, I'm back to being the emotional support for my circle. And voila, the calls are back. But the hurt is there, and I'm not completely recovered or as I was (and maybe I never will be), and so...there is also more distance now.

I love them still...but I am not allowing them as close as I once did...I am unable to.

And how do you reconcile that?

...

...

Well, on the bright side, I did learn one thing: I had always thought that I contributed the least to the people around me - since all I could do was offer emotional support and empathy, become a safe space for people. I mean, that's just feelings, right? All humans had them. So anyone could do what I did. I wasn't doing much.

But, this experience showed me that it's not just feelings. Not everyone can do it. Not everyone can handle it. And it's difficult to learn and do, and it takes effort. Being empathetic is a skill. And knowing how to handle emotional overwhelm, both in yourself and others, is not a piece of cake.

What it is though, is unseen, and not very measurable.

So, to all my empaths and HSPs out there who are everyone else's emotional support: I see you. And you're doing a lot more than you think you are, and definitely a lot more than you give yourself credit for. 💝

.

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[Also, one thing I'd like to clarify: The moment I shattered so badly that I couldn't handle it at all, I looked for (and thankfully found) a therapist who could help me. So I wasn't looking for those around me to fix me or put me back together...I just wanted to be listened to and not left all alone while I figured out how to put the pieces of the shattered me back together.]

[redpiperfox]

It is a good idea, I think, to organize and verbalize one's thoughts when words and organization are suddenly available. To one. That one being me.

I admitted to myself a couple nights ago that ᴵ ᵐᶦᵍʰᵗ ᵇᵉ ᵇᵘʳⁿᵗ ᵒᵘᵗ and after a proper breakdown, I find myself in a multitude of clear and rational thoughts of processing that had escaped me for so many weeks.

So basically, I present:

Ranting, but Maturely and Diplomatically, and using two songs to Convey Emotional Processing, because I am a Nerd and a Philosopher and have No Business being in a Science Field as my major

An Essay by Red

I am not a person taken by regret.

It doesn't fit in my worldview, my faith, or my personality. Granted, I might be a little extreme about it, but I genuinely find no good reason to look back on things with anything but gratitude and respect.

As a Christian, this stems from the simple idea that God is good, God does good, and the tapestry looks ugly on this side, but hey, He sent Joseph to slavery, Job through extreme loss and depression, and Jesus to the cross, and look at the beautiful stories He weaved from that. Who is the clay to shake it's fist at the potter, y'know?

But it is very, /very/ hard not to look at things and be regretful these days.

In summary, I am three out of four years into a program that looked very shiny and new when I applied. Currently, past me is looking very naive, and should have kept her nose to the ground and did what everyone else did and joined an established program.

...But I won't say that to past me, and I won't let current me dwell on it.

Allow me, if you will, to bring you through a very difficult path with two songs.

I did not vibe with this song when I first heard it. Again, regret? Resentment? Doesn't sit well with me. But today...

I do a funny thing where I rewrite romances into metaphors. I'm able to breathe a lot of TSwift easily this way-- she's a brilliant lyricist who writes one thing and paints it with such emotion that it becomes relatable no matter how outrageously unique the situation or story is.

My story is grief over my major. This beautiful new chapter of my life, which cost a little extra to get into, a little extra hope that the program would take off, and had a little bit of forbidden intrigue to hook me in.

Would've, could've, should've played it safe, but she danced with the devil to play with destiny and chance.

Where I find myself stuck in a time loop, is in the mournful heartsong between the bridge and the last chorus.

This year has already pulled me away from fellowship in the Church, from staying and ministering to people, from serving, from being emotionally available to people who I know need me, and yes, I would've stayed on my knees, in a solid and secure place if I hadn't made this gamble and found every hour suddenly something precious that no longer belongs to me. It belongs to my books, my lessons, these modules, to studying more, harder, faster.

Nineteen tipped from romantics to harsh reality.

Girlhood has officially been ripped from my fingers, replaced by the stress of adulthood. Give it back, it was mine.

I can't sleep well, I'm tired during the day-- the list goes on. A good description of my feelings? Sit with an empty head and let Taylor's panicked voice in the chorus and bridge and the breathlessness towards the end wash over you. It's like defending the unworthy, tripping over my words and falling short, because I really had no idea what was in store for me.

Honest truth? Being busy was fun the first two years. Being in uniform is bedazzling. Being in the workforce is amazing.

But "now that I'm old, I'm scared of ghosts." And let me tell you-- I fear nothing. Past and present. Another personality and worldview thing, I suppose. But this year?

Why hello there spontaneous anxiety, where did you come from? Oh, lack of sleep and overwhelming workload let you in?

How rude, they didn't ask me first.

Perhaps it was when the professors said we needed to learn to cope differently than most, or implied burn out would happen sooner than we expected, but I got lost somewhere in the punchline.

What do you mean this feeling of my soul slipping through my fingers doesn't end? I thought school was the hard part?

Memories of college life are going to haunt me. I have nothing but tears to bring out of this.

Taylor's wailing hit something deep in me today, and twisted it till I found out I was bleeding.

...but then?

For my soul, I sat in on Bible Study (my dad teaches and it's in our home), red eyed and exhausted, and we were in the passage of one woman who falls at the feet of Jesus and weeps, annointing his feet with expensive oil.

It reminded me of another song.

(God bless this man)

Another amazing lyricist, but I'm going to start with the music.

The song begins lamenting, like a funeral dirge, low and sorrowful. It's /crawling/ with grief, and drags us where we're told to be, with little hope or sight or joy about it.

"Come to me all who are weary and heavy laden and I will give you rest." But it's before we know what we're getting. "Look upon the bronze serpant" but we don't know we'll be saved.

I woke up Wednesday morning to my alarm, real early, with a full day ahead of me. I love Wednesdays, but not this Wednesday. I was pretty sure I was going to pass out at the most and maybe fall asleep at the wheel at the least.

"Lord, strength. Just give me strength."

Simple line, little prayer in my head, because the only thing I knew to do in weariness was to pray. I was so tired.

He sent a possum to scurry across the road to wake me in the morning, and a truck to nearly kill me in the afternoon. In between? A lady who was very confused and a little boy who couldn't keep still. Oh, and a music lesson where my fingers remembered more than my mind. And a review session where I was given plenty of chocolate to keep me awake.

I lived to tell the tale, so I think He gave me what I needed...? XP

The song builds to another bridge that I find myself caught in: the key shifts, the lights turn on, and the singer lifts his eyes and realizes--

Coming to the feet of Jesus isn't /just/ to lay your burdens down. It isn't /just/ to pray for deliverance and ask in supplication. It isn't /just/ to mourn.

One might come to do that, but once I am on my knees, and my burdens are lifted, my eyes are able to look up, and /see/.

I've seen the darkness and muck and corruption, and when I look up, how much brighter! How much fuller! How much more overwhelming in beauty!

Lament turns to worship, there at the feet of Jesus.

Who looks back on that tapestry, and smiles at whatever it's being made to, while I walk through every stitch as faithfully as I can.

Hallelujah, there's no place for regret here.

Hallelujah, there's no room for remorse.

Hallelujah, /look at how beautiful/.

I'll stop there to keep from preaching.

It's by no means a solution.

Am I still exhausted? Yes.

Has this made my workload go away? No.

Do I feel a little less burnt out? ...ᴹᵃʸᵇᵉ

But I sat today, after three or more weeks of a long process of burn out, that certainly doesn't magically evaporate today, I found my tears marking a tipping point.

My words, which had been held captive under some spell of anxiety, had suddenly come loose. Emotional stagnation finally burst into a thousand little fires which I can /feel/ and be burned by. The skin is sensitive and raw, but that means its human.

And I can sink back into what it feels like to be me.

I don't regret being here. I can only look down at my feet...

...and make the next right step. Knowing it's already laid out for me.

[schizodiaries]

We tend to do anything crafty and that involves our hands to help ourselves with mental health.

To get us to focus more on something we're listening to for example, we tend to do littler things, like washing our paintbrushes and getting rid of old paint water (we can't put it down the sink so it's not something we can do right after painting)

We've also learned to knit and how to do kandi because of our mental health (though very much still a beginner in those)

Distraction is usually a better help but with our hallucinations and delusions we prefer to focus on it for a little bit to push all of it onto a digital piece so that it feels a little less all encompassing (and because we tend to get off track easily, it doesn't always end still talking about the original thing {which is a good thing})

I totally agree, being able to create and work with your hands does wonders for mental health. Maybe it’s the feeling of accomplishment, or perhaps the idea of healthy productivity, but there’s just something about being able to make something that just feels good.

I’m glad to hear you have good coping skills, and I wish you luck learning knitting and making kandi!

[beastblade69]

I am degrading as an artist. art school system shall be changed. I can't do the most basic things anymore. I'm tired. I'm dissociated. I hate myself for not being able to do what I love anymore because I'm too burnt out to even try to draw something I want to (instead of drawing & painting art school projects all the time). I hate how they all have a massive disregard towards personal issues, mental issues and overall student's ability to do shit. like I'm straight up drawing some shit and then being upset with myself which triggers my shitty coping skills. like why tf do you have to overload students w work sm? two of my projects just got denied because the teacher didn't like the concept. wtf is this, ain't this shit about creativity and all that?? y'all want artists to be inconvenient, have their own style and vision but then you deny the project when the student really draws something original, something they did with an idea in their head. why? WHY THE FUCK?? HOW IS THAT NOT SUPPOSED TO KILL ALL OF THE CREATIVITY?? ended up just quitting class and sitting in the hall all by myself and that was the best way to cope. isolation all the way

[halinlangan]

A birthday letter

dont know how to write a perfect introduction to a long ass birthday post so let me throw in a not-so-fun fan theory, did you know that 27 of Fall Out Boy is a reference to the 27 Club (artists who died at age 27)? I jokingly claimed 27 as my song last year not knowing that my whole 27th year existence will make me consider suicide more often than I can ever imagine. If I am able to post this, (I really hope that it is the case), please be continue reading because you might be able to pick up something that will help you save a life. Hehe, The Fray.

My 27th started with a heartbreak and it was so cliche in movies that I failed to process what I really felt. I've cried a lifetime's worth of tears from everything that has happened after that day and I am still crying as I write this, whatever this is. I'm depressed and bipolar (diagnosed) and I am not sharing that because I want you to pity me or take my side, it is just what I am... or atleast what I am now.

So, how did a depressed, heartbroken woman spent her 27th year? Struggling. While most of the people in my age group write success stories, wedding vows, and wins, I am stuck begging for something good to happen, something to look forward just to extend my life. I spent most of my time looking and learning (stalking) potential triggers, trying to assure myself that every horrible feeling that I've felt was not horrible enough to throw in the towel, seeking validation from people, and making myself smaller and smaller so people won't leave me because I'm so small now that crumbs of love, respect, and basic human decency feels like a gift.

I will not tell you how sad it is to live a life where you feel like you're replaceable and worthless, instead I will tell you how I tried to cope up with it. I became a people pleaser, and yes, I know that word even before taylor's song haha. Money, time, energy, everything that I can give I let go as if I don't need it, even though most of the time it leaves me empty. When it is not enough, I gaslight myself that I am okay with whatever. "I'm not a ghost, people are just busy. I'm not ugly, it is just easier to compliment other people. It is not because they don't care when you sad post or hint about committing suicide, they probably think that it was just your type of humor. It is just microcheating. It is just cheating, atleast he is still with you." If you make it a drinking game and take a shot for every time I try to gaslight myself, you'll be either alcoholic or dead. Just like if you make how many times I think about jumping or od-ing my way out of this miserable life, a drinking game you're probably rolling on the floor now. "Si OA" you might think but to give you an idea how bad it is I told my boss that I can't go to work because all I can think of that day is jumping. I don't get sick that often so if I said that I'm too sick to do something I'm probably lying and is just suicidal. I've been like this so often that in silence I can hear it. To be honest, I want to stop writing this now and just do it but writing this is how I cope. I write a lot of shitty notes on my phone. Incoherent stuff just like this. I tried to learn spanish, to paint again, to travel, to go to concerts, to listen to good music, to be healthy, to be pretty, to be smart, to be good, to be dependable, to be whatever and whoever it is that people need. I tried my very best to be the best friend but you still dont see me hanging out that often. I tried to be the best girlfriend but I got cheated on and lied to, not once, but god know how many times now. I tried to be a good person but I am still being demonized by people who know nothing about me. If being mean and nonchalant became the trend, I swear I was sleeping in my tiny room completely clueless.

Anyway, I'm starting to dissociate and as much as I want to write more, there is really nothing more to talk about. I just want to tell you that the best way to save a life is to be honest. People will know if you're just making an excuse, if you're lying, if you are just making something up and they are not dumb if they chose to believe you anyway. Anxious people observes more, listens better, and see much more than what you are trying to show and tell them. We know. We know how unwanted we are, we know that you don't prioritize us and we definitely know when you are taking us for granted. We know and we still gaslight ourselves just to soften up the blow. At some point being good and understanding becomes too much that we start to pity ourselves. At some point, it will drive us mad. and then, what?

Happy 28th birthday to me. I'm not really happy but I'll take birthday greetings as a win because who knows when it will be condolences and good byes.

[haven-gum-rockrose]

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I can't draw anymore - literally since July I haven't been able to do anything. And the worst part is that I'm still good at drawing. I can start drawing and I know for a fact that I'm fucking incredible at shading and rendering. And I'm actually really fucking good at lineart too. And drawing is like- my thing- my one go to. "Oh what are your hobbies?" I draw. "do you have any coping mechanisms?" escapism and drawing "tell me about yourself" well I draw a lot "whats your dream job" not sure, since I'm not good at decision, but something in an art field, like doing comics, or animation, or a concept artist. I really wanted to be a concept artist once I realized I can't write for shit. That doesn't matter tho, because it been four fucking months and my entire being and personality is slipping through my finger tips because every single time I try to draw k get like up to ten twenty minutes in and immediately hate everything. I can't start drawing because I know I won't be able to finish them- I'll have a great idea and either I won't be able to make myself start it, or I will and I'll get a bit in and I'll make one mistake or get stuck once and all of a sudden I can't look at the drawing without hating it and regretting starting it because really at this point I'm just digging my grave deeper. And I love drawing, I still really do. And I look back at old works and some were shit but some were absolutely stunning and even the shit ones aren't that bad, they're just considerably low effort but they're still really fucking good now, but if I drew them now I know for a fact that I would view them as another nail in the coffin because they're absolute shit and I would hate myself for drawing them... But they're so cute and precious to look at so I know that my art skills aren't the problem, it's just me. I'm looking at all these horseshit pieces of artwork and I love them, but for each and every one would be worth deleting at the current time in space for one reason or another and then I'd devolve into unwarranted self pity agajn and honestly??? This whole this is completely unwarranted and blown out of proportion because like- it's just drawing - it's not something to be freaking out about over - I have bigger things to be worrying about - much bigger and more important and more worrisome things to be breaking down over right now so this is all just incredibly stupid. Still though, Im scrolling through my old Ibis paint gallery and I just miss it, being able to do things like that.

[carito-dorito]

So my watercolours are covered in fungus and stuff now even tho I haven't used them until a week ago... And I guess I'm not going to paint traditionally for a long while and it was the only thing I wanted to do after all the shit I've been dealing these weeks.

[david-watts]

I just remembered the debt I am going into because my parents think academia is the only thing I am good for