#beyond restless atm

[rotten--cotton]

Our power went out at 6pm and it's now 3am. Lol. There was also a tornado. Lmao. That's cute.

[hextechmaturgy]

Do you have any headcanons for how Grief and Andrey's relationship is like? What do you think Andrey has done for the town's criminals? (i saw your tags on the voice lines reblog)

OH FRIEND...... YOU HONOR ME WITH THIS ASK YOU DO..... i got so excited to answer. i'm actually writing an angrief fic atm spanning from when they meet to when the game ends, but because i'm a very very very slow writer it's not coming out anytime soon. if you're interested tho wink i'd be happy to send u a very short sneak peak in dms wink

regarding headcanons tho, i'll try to be concise but honestly i have many unorganized thoughts and feelings about those two. should also be said that i have a timeline in my head for pre-game events that probably doesn't match canon at all, but it makes sense TO ME and time in pathologic is more of a suggestion anyway sooo hihi let's go

andrey is a bit older than grief; they meet at age 19/20. artemy is leaving and grief's losing his friends, his family. he's turning to gangs for company, which only further alienates him from lara and stakh. andrey is making friends for once, a rare thing after years on the run. his head's full of ideas, ideas that someone actually wants to hear, it's exhilarating. they meet at a plot of land where a staircase will stand one day, both immediately clocking Each Other™️, but the knowing looks go beyond a tick in their gaydar. andrey is a free man and grief wants to be free, desperately so, but he's also afraid. what will it cost him? grief fears the unknown, the steppe curses that keep him up at night, the scorn of his friends and the abandonment, the unknown. it's hard to be authentic, isn't it? andrey sees this struggle, understands the want to fight, the want for freedom. andrey tells him it's okay to want

that first meeting emboldens grief, sustains him when his family breaks for good. they don't see each other for months, and a lot changes for the two of them, but they still remember and all too well. andrey asked to see him again, grief is reluctant. just meeting the man was already impactful enough, he's relived it so often, lost in dreams. but he feels bold, andrey makes him bold. he finds andrey bleeding at his own bar. he needs stitches somewhere he can't reach, won't you help me out, sweet filin? he does. his hand trembles, his stitches are terrible. odd thing, piercing skin, sinking into another man's flesh. hope this doesn't awake anything in him!!!

(spoiler: it absolutely does)

it's probably not a huge surprise at this point if i state i write grief with internalized homophobia in mind, and a considerable amount of religious trauma too. the man he wants to be brings him to shame, and that reflex goes beyond sexuality yes but it's also about that. andrey is uncharacteristically patient. he'll push and prod, poke at the hidden layers behind those freckles he's memorized for some reason, but never goes beyond grief's limits. freedom shouldn't be scary. grief will evolve, he will grow, and andrey will look at him with pride in his eyes and something that is definitely not love (andrey only knows violence. what does he do with love?)

grief is becoming a proper criminal now, respected even if he won't cut, perhaps respected because he gets the job done without cutting. he becomes a seller of all things illegal, and andrey is always in the market for something dangerous. he wants a weapon that will allow him to get up close and personal, and he gets something personal alright. grief gives him a knuckle-duster, a gift. places it around his fingers to see how it fits, awfully gentle. it's not a ring, it's not a promise, they're not that ridiculous

(spoiler: they absolutely are)

the first outbreak is scary. peter suffers immensely from it and when peter suffers, andrey agonizes, but peter is fine...... grief wonders if the pest is divine punishment, if he's to blame for it somehow, but surely not....... they're both restless and healthy, alive, and they're sort of neighbors (oh my god they were neighbors). it's easier to call their INVOLVEMENT stress relief. neither is prepared for the truth really

friends who bang! andrey's got plenty of those and this one isn't any different, okay? barkeeps hear all sorts of juicy gossip, and if he happens to perk up at news on grief and his gang, it's only because andrey is a dangerous man too, and he's wise to look out for the goings on of the underworld. i'm actually still unsure what the line 'wasn't long ago he was on his knees, begging before me' is all about, but i'm convinced it's not horny, at least not 100%. they spend a lot of time on their knees before one another, almost anything andrey says sounds like a threat or a preposition. andrey is held responsible for the death of at least one man (rip farkhad) so he's probably feared in the town. his lifestyle alone shocks plenty of people. grief holds his men back with a "no stabbing, no shooting, no killing" leash, but we know they're able, we know some are willing. perhaps grief needed andrey to intimidate a gang member he was having trouble with, truly desperate, out of other solutions. i'm begging you for help, on my knees if i have to. those men are terrified of you, and frankly so am i (but not in the same way, oh never, somehow i know you would never kill me). it would explain why andrey brings it up to artemy during the second outbreak. grief's men will start misbehaving soon - i wonder if he will come crawling to beg again

i think they're amicable for the most part, their personalities bounce of one another. they're insistent on the just friends thing mostly out of habit. i know you will come if i need you, and we have plenty of fun together already. that's enough, no? what else could a bastard need

second outbreak is a mess and we all know just how much. apple basket reunion is awkward because hey grief why did the guy at the bar tell me about you being on your- how about we don't talk for a while? oh also, this is a small thing, but shout out to the day you find grief and peter at aspity's house. i laughed so much imagining that conversation, or the very OBVIOUS lack of one. peter isn't even really there, dozing off lost in his thoughts, and grief is nearby sweating bullets. be cool grief, be cool - wait why are you even trying to impress peter?

when the polyhedron dies - because she is alive, and she is dying - andrey is lost to senseless violence. he doesn't believe artemy's confession because that would mean killing grief's childhood friend. it's easier to be angry at thirty faceless men. we also know that grief is... NOT WELL, after the whole thing with aglaya. grief is sitting at a staircase (THE staircase that once wasn't here) and he stays there until it's dark, until it's light again. andrey finds him, drunk out of his goddamn mind, probably guided there by all the twyrine in his system. it's unsettling to not see her when he reaches the top, it's unsettling to not see grief as well. what can two broken men do but weep? they whisper to each other. come with me, let's kill them all. it's not worth it, nothing is anymore. i'll go without you. you'll die. do you care?

there's stuff i missed, stuff that probably doesn't make sense, i'm writing this at 6 am in a frenzy of angrief feelings because i love them. i love this ask, i had to reply or i wouldn't sleep. what happens after the game is a wonder to me as well. i've said before somewhere that p1 grief is who p2 grief could become after the diurnal ending. andrey is also going to struggle with his place in the world, mourning the loss of a perfect tower that can never be reproduced, of brilliance and hard work, probably mourning the loss of his brother too, not to the pest but to love. peter has grace now and i think that will be jarring, not being the only family peter has. the twins have only ever had each other, is andrey falling behind? how will he catch up? can he? twins are perfect opposites, he says: it's only natural that when peter starts to improve, andrey begins to degenerate

but i like to be hopeful, because i like these characters a lot (i know u would never be able to tell xoxo). two negatives make a positive, so maybe andrey and grief can be miserable together, and maybe then they'll realize that love is fit for bastards too

[ldknightshade]

oc astrology - mantis

big three

scorpio sun in 3h - intense, motivated, curious, fascinated by the transgressive, resilient ; restless, mentally agile, curious.

aries moon in 8h - impatient, defensive, independent, temperamental, impulsive ; all or nothing, detached, frequently changes partners despite craving emotional security.

leo rising - magnetic, self-aware, rash, spirited, idealistic.

inner planets

scorpio mercury in 3h - cerebral, investigative, driven, suspicious, ride or die ; curious, easily-distracted, talkative.

scorpio venus in 3h - possessive, focused, provocative, loyal, manipulative ; eloquent, mischievous, deceptive.

libra mars in 2h - passive-aggressive, procrastinating, hesitant, indecisive, diplomatic ; hard-working, materialistic, stubborn.

virgo jupiter in 1h - detail-oriented, driven, cautious, critical, nurturing ; altruistic, just, hopeful.

sagittarius saturn in 4h - skeptical, independent, practical, unemotional, self-righteous ; impersonal, responsible, loyal.

houses

1h in leo - fiery, dramatic, passionate, determined, proud.

2h in virgo - materialistic, particular, detail-oriented, clever, indicative of multiple incomes.

3h in libra - charming, diplomatic, peacemaking, well-connected, balanced in communications.

4h in scorpio - secretive, protective, nostalgic, solitary tendencies, fear of loss pertaining to home life.

5h in sagittarius - playful, creative, adventurous, spontaneous, hedonistic.

6h in aquarius - loyal, well-read, disciplined, detached, seeks unique work.

7h in aquarius - independent, dramatic, seeks unconventionality, loyalty, and free-spiritedness in relationships.

8h in pisces - perceptive, few boundaries, imaginative, deeply spiritual, compassionate.

9h in aries - adventurous, fearless, action-oriented, excited by spiritual growth, but often gets impatient with the process.

10h in taurus - hard-working, resourceful, thorough, likes predictable and peaceful work.

11h in gemini - progressive, community-oriented, curious, flexible, inconsistent.

12h in leo - strategic, craves recognition, prone to hiding flamboyance, pride, affection.

larger patterns

grand trine (moon, neptune, pluto/saturn) - harmonious flow of energy between planets mentioned. may indicate talents; strong creative expression and spiritual discipline, spiritedly self-sufficient.

[there's more, but the rest are a bit hard for me to interpret atm]

notable degrees

15th degree (jupiter) - potentially critical, associated with being at the “peak” of something. associated with car accidents.

18th degree (chiron) - the “pure evil” degree. a sign of bad luck and potential health issues.

22nd degree (sun, mercury, 2h, 8h) - known as the “kill or be killed” degree.

29th degree (rising/1h, 7h) - critical, signifies the completion of a karmic lesson; associated with fame that extends beyond death.

[mr-jaybird]

deep in my lis sobeck blorbo feelings atm!

i have made full time senior research faculty at one of the top-ranked universities in the entire world at the age of 29, 3 years into my career. it is a position i was personally headhunted for, essentially offered to me specifically on the basis of the professional and personal reputation i had built after working in government for a single year

damn near every single person here is a phd or an md. i have zero graduate school whatsoever, and while i do have a degree, it's in a field only tangentially related, and all of what i actually do and every skill i need i taught myself completely on my own. i'm a scrappy self-taught little thing, and even more than that, i am a good decade younger than anyone else working here, and what's even worse, i look it

(i recognize lis actually went and got the damn phd, but the youth and inexperience...blorbo feelings anyway)

this morning, part of what we went over is that the work i do is so critical and sensitive that certain mistakes on my part could result in a national news scandal, and the university losing the entire contract permanently. the thing is, if that were to happen, even from an innocent mistake, it would be right to do so, because what i have access to personally is so sensitive that it could have severe negative impacts on the lives of close to a million children. i can do this, i will do this, and i will be VERY fucking careful, but it's scary! i can do a hell of a lot of good for a lot of people here, but that's the other side of the coin

they are also setting up a meeting for me specifically with the director of the entire research center, who is a giant in the field. not just the guy who runs my division, but the whole damn thing. they told me they want his eyes on me, specifically, they want him to be watching what i do personally because they think i will transform their entire department and help launch them into the future. they have told me over and over that they think that i will be able to revolutionize their processes and research

and i am good at what i do, have been at the top of my class and beyond and able to learn anything i ever needed my entire life, but honestly, i am also terrified of living up to my own legend. it is intimidating to be put in the position of the brilliant star that will make big waves, and to know that while i am very very smart i am also desperately trying to figure out what i'm doing, and to know that because i come off as that smart people never believe me when i have doubts--always the reassurance that you're a genius, you can do this, when i'm like oh my god i know i can but will someone please make sure i'm not doing it alone. i know that i will be able to do my job, but i am afraid i will not be able to live up to the HUGE expectations they have of me. what if i'm only good, instead of great?

despite my fear, i have so much ambition, so much it burns. it's such a catch-22 where if my job is too easy i start going crazy because i have too much restless energy and unspent potential, but then i tend to jump into the deep end on something and become a workaholic and burn myself out. i have not yet learned how to harness that fire and keep it burning steadily instead of alternating between fireworks and smoldering ashes. i am hoping i DO learn it at this job, though

people have been expecting great things of me since i started talking, honestly. parents, teachers, friends, professors, lovers, everyone talking about the big things i'm going to do. i have expected great things of myself as well, knowing that i'm capable of them, and truthfully, i've succeeded. this job definitely qualifies. but i'm so scared i've gotten to this cliff, trying to fly, and am about to discover i'm actually falling instead

anyone who made it through all this and is familiar with horizon is now like oh dude, yeah, you're projecting hardcore on lis huh. and i gotta say, as a brilliant, breaking-in-young, somewhat emotionally stunted and closed off, ambitious, workaholic, dedicated to public good work, confident in my core competence but with deep insecurities programmer/scientist, YEAH I SURE AM

[dreams-of-valeria]

For the Xmas request thing can you do 7-Fluff and 1-Smut together?

@chiefharbour asked:

For the Christmas prompts, could you do Smut # 1 & #9? I’m living for your writing!

Cold cuts

F7: Christmas gifts

S1: Secret Santa

S9: Dealer's choice (Surprise)

Pairing: Jim Hopper x female reader

Warnings: Age gap, language, dirty talk, Hopper being his sexy-ass self, SMUT

A/N: Thank you, thank you, thank you for all the sweet things you guys have said! I am overwhelmed with all the love and although this isn't strictly secret santa, I hope you like this one! Merry Christmas!

Word count: 3,156

You swayed your hips in beat with the smooth acoustic that pervaded the air of the small kitchen, as you wrapped your Christmas gift to Hopper.

Elvis crooning about being left alone on Christmas rang from his record player and with you alike, because it was 10 pm and your boyfriend wasn't home yet. You found it odd to call him your boyfriend--juvenile even, but maybe it was just the townsfolk rubbing off on you. They definitely were, considering you just said townsfolk.

As long as their opinion on age gaps in relationships didn't rub off on you, you didn't care.

Two years ago, you were just the new girl in town whose sole reason to pick Hawkins was to leave her bankruptcy behind as she paid off her student loans. A lot of help your marketing degree was doing you in a place where people called the ATM a banksy. You hated living there and missed the nice life but little did you know that meeting a certain policeman would make it all worth your while.

What followed after that fated and chaotic meet at the bank was petty banter and frustrated sighs, which took both of you a month to understand was pure sexual tension and once you'd fucked and got that out of the way, you had plenty of time for the romance.

Neither was of you was very fond of the chocolates and flowers bit, but were experts in the nude. Sure, there were plenty of gooey and touchy-feely memories along the way, and the amount of gentleness Hopper showed threw you at times. But at the same time, you loved how rough he was with you in bed. It was what you were both good at and you had no complaints. Except for the tardiness.

You sighed as you did the final knot and wrote his name on the card, vowing not to bring it up. You would not be one of those people who chastised their partner over the amount of time they spent doing their very crucial work. Provided it didn't extend beyond 11 pm. Your patience really started to wear thing close to the witching hour.

You headed to the tree and placed the small present by the trunk, grinning in anticipation. You couldn't wait to see his face when he opened it. Your heart beat in wait as you tightened the bow of your grey robe, and fidgeted with the ornaments to cut time.

You noticed that your present was the only occupant under the tree, and told yourself not to be disappointed if Hopper forgot to wrap his. Or get you a gift in the first place.

It was unlikely, but still a possibility. He was just so fizzled out lately, and you hoped it was only a bad streak.

You had just corrected the tilt of a rogue red bauble when the lock turned behind you and your boyfriend (--lover?) walked through the door, brushing the snow off his coat and boots.

“Hey, stranger,” you greeted him at the entrance, leant against the wall with your arms crossed. His face looked flushed like you'd just sat on it and rode it to your climax, and there was something to be said about his unruly hair.

“I know I'm late, baby. Some people, I swear to God . . .” he grumbled as he passed by you, leaving an ice cold kiss on your lips before he settled before the fireplace, warming himself up.

You watched him as he rubbed his hands together, and the way his arms flexed underneath that tight uniform shirt. It was the hottest thing you'd ever laid eyes on, and never failed to leave you wet and wanting.

“Dinner smells amazing,” he commented with a smirk, shooting you a look from under his thick eyebrows. They matched his beard, all rich and prickly, and you suspected one of the reasons he kept it was because of the noises you were making when he went down on you.

“Did you spend all day cooking for me, darlin'?”

You smirked at him with your arms crossed.

You couldn't cook to save your life. Which meant your significant other was calling Swanson's TV dinners his darling. Nevertheless, the endearment made your knees weak. And your panties damp.

“Oh you know how I can't resist my gastronomy when I'm waiting on my tardy hunk.”

“Gastronomy?” He frowned as he kicked off his boots.

“Word of the day,” you told him as you took a seat on the couch next to him. “I thought we could do presents first.”

“I'd rather do you first, but sure,” he shrugged, turning to face you as smiled. You shook your head and watched him with a face-splitting grin, expecting him to retrieve his present from under the tree. But he just sat there watching you quizzically, dumb as the doorknob that's been keeping you company on Hopperless nights.

You sighed and told him what he was supposed to do, but he simply twisted his face unwillingly. “I'm burned, sweetheart, could you get it for me, please?”

“It's two feet away, Hop.”

“I'm not as young as you are anymore.”

“Oh really? You weren't born with a receding hairline?” You snapped as you fetched him his present, but he man laughed, which nearly made his eyes close. You absolutely loved those laughs.

“Should have thought of that before you fell in love with an old man, kitten.”

“I'll remember that for next one,” you teased, making him laugh again as he took his present with a thank you.

Maybe it was your excitement rubbing off on him, but he suddenly seemed thrilled that he had a present with his name on it. You imagined he didn't get a lot of presents before you, when he lived in that Godforsaken trailer like a hibernating hermit. You'd flat out refused to move into that rectangle and that was when he had mentioned a cabin his grandfather had owned, and the two of you had made it your own.

“Let me guess, it's a sign up sheet to Smokers Anonymous?” He teased as he undid the ribbon, and you found your back straighten in anticipation.

“Don't be silly, that's for New year's.”

He let out an amused snort as he peeled off the paper and opened the small box, and his smile died immediately on seeing the content.

It was exactly what you'd expected. He frowned deeply at the piece of paper, with the words 'Pull Me' scribbled across in your handwriting. Hopper looked up at you for answers, but you simply got to your feet and made your way over to the record player, and changed discs. You figured after Elvis, Eartha Kitt would set the mood just right.

“I don't understand,” Hopper let you know as the disc crackled for a few seconds before the song started. You wordlessly made your way over and stood in front of him with a smile, hoping his gaze would land on the ribbon tied around your robe.

It did soon enough. They didn't make him the Chief for nothing. A smirk spread across his lips when he saw it, perfectly capturing the naughty but playful mood Eartha was lilting.

You saw his eyes darken as his hand tapped his thigh, signalling you to get on. You gulped down your heart in your throat and straddled him, kneeling on the couch on either side of his legs.

“Closer.” Hopper demanded, and you leaned forward until your waist was inches away from his face. He moved his hands out of his lap, and you hoped he would touch your bare legs, and slide them up to the apex. Your heart thud in anticipation, and nearly flatlined when he locked eyes with you and took the end of the ribbon into his mouth and held it firmly between his teeth. It took you a moment to understand you had to move back for the bow to come loose.

His eyes were on you throughout the delicious process, but only until your robe parted and revealed a glimpse of red lace.

Hopper's breath caught and he looked up at you to confirm his suspicions, and you smiled as to say yes. Before he could tear your robe away, you stood to your feet again, Eartha Kitt's silky voice giving you courage.

You lightly swayed in place to the beat, and slipped the robe off your shoulders bit by bit, until you were standing only in your lingerie: a red demi cup lace bra with matching panties and a garter belt.

Hopper's breath caught, and you witnessed first hand what it looked like for a person's jaw to hit the floor. Just to up the ante, you moved around in an impromptu dance with the music, giving him sexy rolls of your hips and a view of your back, and watched him grow restless in his seat.

His knuckles blanched from squeezing the edge of the couch, but a ghost of a smile still lingered on his lips. You watched the crotch of his pants shift from within and smirked, turning around to give him another look.

The song was approaching its end, and you could hear the couch springs shift. But you still yelped when his arms closed around your waist and pulled you back to straddle him as he attacked your lips.

The disc had screeched and absolute silence lingered for a beat, before Hopper slipped his tongue into your mouth and your body reacted. Loud.

His hands were frisky and urgent, just like the first time you had sex. You couldn't wait to get each other naked and take everything as quickly as possible. It didn't turn out to be quite as quick as you imagined, just like when you fantasized about him with your fingers in your underwear before you knew each other, fucking your brains out.

His calloused hands cupped your breasts and kneaded, and given the sheerness of the bra, it might as well not have been there at all. It wasn't in the next second, as his fingers unclasped the hook while his tongue still teased yours, danced with yours.

You pulled back for a breath of air, and he locked eyes with you as his hands ran over your erect nipples, pinching and twisting them until they matched the color of your lips.

“F-fuck . . .” You hissed, grinding your hips onto his bulge as his tongue teased your nubs, and you fisted your hands in his hair, goading him to swallow you whole.

Between his prickly beard and moans that vibrated through you and the friction of his pants against your clit, you could feel yourself close to your release, and started to pant in welcome.

But he clamped your hips down captive and bared his teeth against your nipple as he spoke.

“Not so fast, baby. I get to tease you too.”

“Hop, please,” you panted as your vision blurred. “I'm so close.”

He smiled wickedly.

You knew exactly what begging did to him.

“Then finish,” he breathed, before shifting you onto his left thigh. You also knew exactly how much he loved it when you rode his thigh.

“Yes, sir,” you grinned despite your aching need and started off slow, watching him as you rubbed your core against his thigh. You did it knowing it would make him cocky and let it go to his head, but you loved the dominant side of him. Especially in uniform.

Your moans escalated fast enough as you grinded against his thick cord of muscle, and Hopper helped you by flexing occasionally, hitting your clit in a rhythm. Your hand squeezed his shoulder as the other steadied yourself against the couch, and the zing birthed from your apex, and then exploded until it touched every nerve ending, and you collapsed in his lap into a moaning mess.

“That was nice,” you panted, moving your head that was on his shoulder so you could see his face, but only saw neck. Licking your lips, you kissed your way up his neck, and Hopper's answering groan was everything.

You nipped along his skin, determined to leave a bruise. Somewhere his collar couldn't hide it. Hopper said it made him look unprofessional, but you knew that secretly, he loved showing off to the entire town what you did to him. He certainly returned the favor.

Your fingers set to unbutton his shirt as you devoured his neck, the warm flesh yielding easily under your lips. Hopper was in his undershirt by the time you'd moved back to his lips, and his fingers lightly trailed down your bare back and ending behind your knees.

You yelped again when he threw your back to the couch and hovered above you, throwing his white tee over his head and onto the floor. You stared up at him with pure, unrestrained lust, and his eyes drank it all in. Every pant and heave of your naked chest spurred him to pace up undressing, and the way you licked your lips nearly sent him off the edge.

“Do you know how gorgeous you look right now?” He panted as he unbuckled his pants, kneeling between your legs.

“Yes,” you smirked, sitting up to help him get his pants off, but he pushed you back down, tutting as he pinned your arms by your sides. Your hips inadvertently met his, and you locked your legs around his waist, feeling him hard against your core.

“Tell me what you're thinking,” Hopper pleaded, kissing down your neck.

“I was thinking how nice it would be to watch you fuck me like this.”

“Yeah?” He gritted his teeth as he kicked off his pants completely, and his erection bounced free.

“Yeah,” you panted, lifting your hips as he slipped your panties off. “How nice it would be to watch your cock disappear inside me.”

Hopper groaned into your neck as he positioned himself at your entrance, and teased you by rubbing himself between your folds.

“What else?” He watched you roll your hips, wanting more.

“We'd finish and then have dinner.”

Hopper paused his teasing to glance up at you in confusion.

“And then I can hound you about not getting me a Christmas gift.”

He chuckled, kissing your nose. “Baby, I am the gift.”

Your back arched when he pushed inside all the way at once, and you could never get used to the feeling. Of how it made you feel full. Complete.

“Oh, God,” you moaned, fingers digging into his biceps as he moved.

“I did get you a gift, by the way--Godamnit, you feel so fucking good.”

“Yeah?” Your words were punctuated by his thrusts, slow but relentless. “What is it?”

“All good things to those who wait.” He whispered in your ear, before angling himself differently. “Hold on,” he instructed, and your hands immediately flew to the couch, gripping whatever they could. You knew what was coming.

Hopper got up to kneel and grabbed your hips, before starting a rhythm of deep, penetrating thrusts that made your teeth clatter. You held on to the arm rest as he moved, as he made your body feel incredible with only a few inches of his. Well, quite a few inches.

You smiled and bit your lip as Hopper's moans quickened, and you knew he was close. He reached his thumb down to your clit and rubbed, and you felt that zing ready to explode again. You sat up on your elbows and watched him disappear deep inside you, as his fingers helped you along to a climax that was even more spectacular than the last.

You fell back as stars formed in front of your eyes, and soon felt his release inside you, before Hopper's heavy, spent body collapsed on top of you.

You panted out your highs, wrapped in each other's arms like that. The only sounds were from the crackling fire, the heartbeat in your ears, and the breath of the man you loved above you. This was exactly how you saw your evening pan out.

After a while, when you'd circled your fingers in his damp hair, he asked, “Where'd you get the lingerie?”

You smiled. “Believe it or not, Flo helped me.”

He snapped his head up to look at you, face blanched.

“Not like helped me pick it out, jeez baby,” you chuckled, smoothing his hair back. “I meant she told me about a store in Carbondale.”

“That's two towns over,” he commented, nuzzling his head back into the crook of your neck.

“I know.”

“Looks like Flo helped both of us,” he said after a while, and freed his arm from underneath you.

“So you liked it?”

“Of course,” he smiled, hovering on his elbows above you. “You want me to get exercise one way or another, but I didn't mean this is what Flo helped with.”

You frowned, seeking out answers from his crystal blue eyes. Hopper sighed and stroked your face, leaving a feather like kiss on your lips.

“She pushed me--well, threatened is the word really, that if I didn't stop jerking around and give you this gift I've been carrying around for a year, she would burn my hat.”

“You've been carrying a new microwave around for a year?” You frowned.

“No. What? No.” Hopper shook his head. “Wait, you wanted a microwave?”

“Yeah? To cook dinner.” You said in a matter of fact voice, and he sighed with his eyes closed.

“I'm sorry to break it to you, princess, but I'm not spending that much money on a girlfriend.”

You stilled, and his playful smirk was the only thing that kept you from going off the rails. And then when he held out his gift to you, your heart did go off the rails.

“However, I would change my mind if it was for my wife,” he smiled, holding the small diamond ring between his fingers in the space between you. You could feel your jaw drop this time as tears came to your eyes, and your hand flew to your mouth.

You knew about his history. You knew he had had an unsuccessful marriage, and still, he was willing to try. For you.

“So, what do you say, kitten? Microwave or not?”

You chuckled through your tears, holding his face in your hands to kiss.

“I'm gonna reheat so many leftovers for you, baby.” You sniffled, and watched his lips form into a grateful smile. And it only grew as he slipped the ring onto your finger, shedding a few tears himself.

“Sorry I didn't have time to wrap it.”

You chuckled between kisses, stroking his hair lovingly. “You can make it up to me.”

“Newly engaged sex?” He grinned, eyes full of adoration.

“After dinner,” you promised, standing corrected.

The evening did not pan as you'd foreseen.

And you were grateful.

J.

[lcthebtswriter]

spontaneous

pairing: mark x reader

summary: during your troubled attempt at finding peace, you and mark confess to each other

tags (reblog and comment): @sophiestooop, @joan-of-stars, @line-viper, @starstuckbluebird, @alien-on-a-treadmill, @aliciabg27, @brianaraydean, @im-that-trash-over-there, @statsvitenskap

What started out as a dramatic cry for help in your English class turned drastic within five seconds.

Your best friend, Mark, upon replying to your text message on the other side of campus, hadn’t realized you were being sarcastic. It had been a long day and like the days before that, your temper grew short and you were agitated by conversations with friends, the laughter of others, and by your own mood swings. For months you’d been spiraling downward in a circle of self-pity and restlessness. There was no telling what you would do after senior year. You were stressed about home, about work, and about school. You were falling asleep in class and asking relatives to check you out of school.

Never before had you been so emotionally exhausted. Every person in your life was draining you through asking for advice or trying to one-up you in every aspect. You didn’t mind being a mock therapist to your friends, but they hadn’t asked about you once with the interest in listening. There was only Mark. Knowing that made you less lonely, but that never stopped you from going on a rant every so often because Mark couldn’t up and ignore your texts.

‘Let’s leave. I’m sick of this place’

You’d waited five seconds before adding:

‘I have money in the bank, you have a car, Fall Break is tomorrow!! Hello? Let’s go to New Hampshire or Scotland or something’

Mark’s reply came when you were typing the draft of your essay, laptop keys clicking along with the other students in the classroom. Your phone vibrated against the tabletop, and you picked it up with greedy fingers to read the message you knew was from Mark before unlocking the homescreen.

‘Spontaneous getaway?? I’m down. Let’s go ASAP--Tyler and Ethan are driving me insane’

By the time Mark drove to the ATM, you’d scribbled a note to your parents and both packed your belongings before hitting the road. Neither of you expected to be gone for more than three days, so you packed light and intended on stealing whatever food you needed to save space for clothes and toiletries. Mark’s van was large enough to bring Chica, but he decided against it knowing his mother would throw a fit if he left her entirely alone over break. With eager smiles, both you and Mark left the suffocation of your hometown.

Day one consisted of driving toward New Hampshire, Mark’s playlist on shuffle as you argued over your fondness for rain and cold weather up north. You took naps in the passenger seat, hung your feet out the window, and tossed stolen candy at Mark as he drove. Gas stations were pit stops for restroom breaks, tank refills, and shoving bags of chips and chocolate bars into the pocket of your hoodie. Day two consisted of daydreaming aloud, asking and answering questions about your futures and pasts and wondering if you would stay together forever. You both agreed that yes, you would remain in each other’s lives until death and even beyond (although you both refused to die).

Day three, however, was when you’d reached New Hampshire and stopped at a gas station just outside the state border. There was a motel down the street you intended to stay at, and after taking a Red Bull off its shelf and paying the cashier for the gas, you speed-walked your way to Mark’s van and emptied your pockets to dump out two Arizona Teas and granola bars. Mark, taking a tea for himself and balancing it on his knee, said: “Running away was the best idea you’ve ever had.” You looked at him with a smile, cheeks warming as he continued. “I know technically we’re going back home, but I like being alone with you like this. Is that weird?” Innocently, Mark lifted the tea to his lips and took his eyes off the road and its scenic twist through a forest to glance at you.

“It isn’t,” you replied.

That night you had time to think more about that shock of innocence in Mark’s eyes. The soft way he looked at you, the fond and gentle stare of someone attracted to another--it made you weak in the knees. Mark, though you’d known him since eighth grade, was always less of a friend and more like someone you could spend the rest of your life with and feel easy about it. One night after a football game, you and Mark had smoked a joint and sprawled atop the playground near the high school. You’d held hands and promised not to leave each other and, while he may have dismissed it as an intoxicated moment of frailty, it always meant more to you.

The motel was costly with the low income you gathered over summer. Mark’s pay as a babysitter wasn’t all that good, but you managed to get a room with one bed and a couch. For the past two days, you and Mark slept in the van where there was plenty of room to recline the seats or sleep on the bed of the car. Sharing a bed with him, however, made you anxious since you took into account the lingering eyes and hand brushes you shared over the past five months and three days. Of course you didn’t let it show that there was something more going on with your feelings toward Mark, but that didn’t stop his word vomit.

It was dark in the motel room and maybe that was why Mark found it so easy to lay on his back beside you and act as if he was speaking to nothing. “Being with you, getting to know why you want to leave--it’s all falling apart and I know what I can do with it, but I don’t know if it’s what you want, ya know?” Mark’s voice was deep and quiet and you could feel his warmth beside you.

“No,” you replied dumbly.

Mark, annoyed at having to rephrase, turned to face you in the darkness and felt his face go red when you did the same. “I like you. It isn’t normal, but I noticed a few months back when we were baking a cake for my mom and you had frosting on your nose and I couldn’t help but wipe it off. There was something about it--about you...I don’t know,” Mark rambled. His hand, close to yours, was clenching and relaxing as Mark struggled to voice his thoughts. A beat of silence as you thought and then you scooted closer.

“Now I get it,” he heard in the darkness. A disbelieving huff of amusement sounded from Mark, and he took your hand in his as if finally cutting through the awkward stage of confession. “Come here,” you’d said, and your other hand was in Mark’s hair. It felt natural to draw closer to your aura, your warmth, and the positivity of knowing there was no interruption as Mark kissed you.

There was no stampede of anger, no agitation toward the human race, and a wave of comfort finally settled your anxieties. In search of yourselves you’d found each other, and there was nothing that would change that when you had to return home.

[kukurubean]

the anon gremlin hears death headcanons and strikes: _do you have any others_ for the ala mhigans? or the thaumaturges? (pretty please?)

This is gonna turn into a quick lore post because I feel like that might be more helpful! There isn’t much, but there’s enough that I think is interesting.

If you visit a grave site in Gyr Abania, you’ll notice small offerings and mementos beside the graves. Swords, pugilist weapons, Ananta bucklers, and—most commonly—containers. This screenshot is from a quest where food offerings were made close to Hidden Tear. (Note: Hidden Tear is a shrine specifically made for offering prayers to the dead!) 

Beyond that, ceremonies for honoring the dead were normal before occupation. These rites are mentioned to be mandated by the Fist of Rhalgr, but you do not need a proper monk to perform them.

“The Lochs are now haunted by a host of restless shades who were denied their last rites. And sadly, brute force is the only way to banish them.”

“I should have performed the ceremony, and the Empire’s laws be damned. I should have had more courage. But I was so afraid to die…”

- A Rite to Rest, Betha

The huge amount of specters in Gyr Abania is the result of Garlemald’s occupation. But obviously, this doesn’t happen nearly as much in other places. An M tribe member offers that it “has somethin’ do to with the aether” in Gyr Abania. To which I say we need Erik brought in immediately.

As far as THM, I suggest checking out the 4.0 ALC quests here! It deals with Niellefresne, Heartstrike, and mentions some interesting details about Ul’dahn burials in the meantime. Erralig’s Burial Chamber was made accessible for this quest!

One of the relevant tidbits I can remember atm involve the Immortal Flames leaving Ul’dah though Gate of Thal during the Calamity in hopes to cheat death (Nanamo’s Tales from the Calamity). People who are exiled or spurned are also told to leave out that gate.

The other concerns Warburton, Minfilia’s father. I seriously recommend checking out this quest from 1.0. It involves the characters in the 4.0 ALC questline and has some cool points on the Order of Nald’thal. Some quick facts from that quest and related ones are:

Funerals are extremely expensive. The quote for Warburton’s funeral was 1,500,000 gil.

Those who are not citizens of Ul’dah must appeal to the Ossuary to make arrangements.

The Ossuary is allowed to buy and take ownership of bodies. 

Mourners can be hired to show up and cry at funerals.

They are hosted in the Ossuary itself; Warburton’s coffin was situated in front of the statue of Thal.

Only the most “virtuous” are placed inside Erralig’s Burial Chamber. AKA whoever paid enough!

[ifuckinglovestvincent]

NEWSTATESMAN: “It’s cool that some people hate my show”: St Vincent on fan backlash and Chinese massages

The singer messages me on Twitter the next day. “Dude!” she says, “I’m sorry I was a cock.”

By Alexandra Pollard

9 November 2017

Maybe if St Vincent and I had got massages together, things would have been different. If we’d gone for a hike in the scorching midday sun of Burbank, California, or sat in a small pink box getting high off paint fumes, perhaps we’d have had a better time. She’s done those things with other journalists during this press cycle, in an effort to disrupt the stale dynamic of interviews  –  of which, she told BBC Music from inside that newly painted box, she’s done “a million”. As it is, we’re sitting in her room on the 12th floor of a London hotel, and things aren’t going well.

St Vincent, AKA Annie Clark, is in the early stages of a 37-date world tour in support of her new album, Masseduction. The shows –  which she’s doing without a band, opting instead to accompany her own fearsome guitar with rearranged backing tracks  – are fascinating, sometimes exhilarating affairs. She doesn’t throw herself around the stage in a self-flagellating fervour, as she did a few years ago on the Digital Witness tour, nor this time has she employed the shuffling, robotic choreography of Annie-B Parson.

Instead, Clark exposes herself in a different way –  by carrying the show alone. As a blue curtain gradually pulls back to reveal nothing in particular, she places herself in various positions across the stage. Sometimes she faces the audience, sometimes she stands side-on as if utterly unaware of their presence. At one point she curls up in the foetal position on the floor. The idea, she says, is to plot the trajectory from fear to freedom.

“Some people loved it and were brought to tears and thought it was the best thing they’d ever seen, and then some people were incensed by it,” Clark explains. She was in Manchester last night, London the night before. Now, she’s draped over a black chaise-longue, demonstrably exhausted, her feet spilling on to the armchair beside her (when I ask if she’s tired, she says flatly, “I don’t care, my emotions are irrelevant.”)

Does she mind that the shows, particularly her decision to play without a live band, have received such a polarised response? “Whatever,” she says. “I think it’s cool that some people hate it.” She rolls her neck around to glance at me –  the semi-horizontal position she’s taken has thus far meant minimal eye contact. “Did you hate the show?”

Not at all, I tell her. I really liked it. Then I add, in an effort to avoid bland effusiveness and because she’s still looking at me with a sceptical eyebrow raise, that perhaps I found it more intriguing than moving, and anyway it would have been hard to beat the experience I had seeing her at End Of The Road festival a few years ago. I realise too late that my words have landed with a leaden thud.

“Great,” Clark says. “It’s the third show. I mean, when I played End Of The Road, that was one of the last dates I did. Tours take a while to alchemise.” She pauses. “Also, if a rapper got up on stage and didn’t have a live band, which most of them don’t, no one would be bummed at all. Why is the assumption that I need to have a live band onstage for something to be authentic? It’s about the management of expectation, and I think it’s similar to people thinking that they have a glass of milk, and then they drink it and it’s Sprite. ‘I don’t like this.’ Actually you like Sprite too, you just weren’t expecting it.”

St. Vincent has made a career out of giving people something they weren’t quite expecting. Her music is bold and melodic  – but only if you catch it at certain angles, like a magic eye book that only makes sense if you squint the right way. With each album since her chamber pop debut Marry Me a decade ago, she’s pushed her sound further towards a place between beauty and ugliness, aggression and vulnerability, adding scuzzy synth layers, distorted guitar riffs so heavy they drag half a second behind the beat, and lyrics both profoundly moving and a little grotesque  –  images of severed fingers, for example, that anchor a tale of drunken heartbreak.

Masseduction, her fifth LP (or sixth, if you count her David Byrne collaboration Love This Giant), is a poignant, kinky masterpiece. It’s a work of staggering frankness, with anthemic pop melodies that float atop crunchy riffs and gasping synths, as Clark’s fingers wring out every peculiarly arresting sound a guitar can make. She has a pithy tagline for each of her albums. 2011’s Strange Mercy was housewife on pills; her self-titled record was near-future cult leader; this one is dominatrix at the mental institution.

She sings of loss and depression, of BDSM and pill popping, vacuous cities and self-destructive urges. Her voice is pure and resplendent, but it also creaks, stretches into a sigh or plummets to a growl. On “Hang On Me”, as she pleads with someone, “Please, oh please don’t hang up yet,” a million unsaid things pour into the cracks in her voice.

“If you want to know about my life,” she told fans in a statement when the album was announced – aware both of her historic inscrutability and of the increased thirst for personal revelations her relationship with supermodel Cara Delevingne had prompted – “listen to this record”.

Clark performing this Summer. Photo: Getty

In the past, Clark has recoiled at the suggestion that her songs are diaristic, saying that such an idea “presupposes –  in a kind of sexist way  –  this idea that women lack the imagination to write about anything other than their exact literal lives.” Still, this record is a little different to the others. “It’s very close to my heart. It’s not literal, because if it was literal it wouldn’t be art, but you know, it’s very heart on sleeve.”

Is there a particular way she hopes people interpret it? “No,” she says, exasperated. “There’s not. I’m happy to be misunderstood. It’s not even about being ‘misunderstood’, it’s just up for interpretation. Any interpretation is fine, as long as it’s not, ‘She’s a racist, sexist or homophobe’. I’d be bummed if someone thought that. I’m not the one writing the think pieces on it. That’s not my job. My job’s to make a thing, it’s not to do all the interpreting and explaining. That’s didactic, and shows a profound lack of respect for the audience’s intelligence.”

Hoping she might be open to at least a small amount of explaining, I put it to Clark that there’s a restless quality to the album. She’s quite often leaving, or being left, or wanting to leave. On “Slow Disco”, a plaintive orchestral waltz and one of the most beautiful songs she’s written, she asks, “Am I thinking what everybody’s thinking? I’m so glad I came, but I can’t wait to leave.” Did she notice that theme running through the album’s veins? “Yes.” I wait for more, but instead she pulls her phone out of her pocket and starts typing. “Keep asking away.”

I do as she says, but the air in the room is uncomfortable. I wonder if I should clarify what I said about the show, but I think the moment’s passed. I forge on instead. In a previous interview, Clark said that “Slow Disco” was about how “the life you’re living, and the life you should be living, are running parallel.” Is there a life she feels she should be living? “Yeah,” she says, phone still out. “I should be in Turks and Caicos with a fucking pina colada coming out of a coconut, just getting a sick tan.”

“I mean, I don’t even think I should be living,” she adds, before puffing air out of her lips. “Hilarious joke. No, I feel super lucky that I’m living the life I am. Everything I’ve ever done, every person I’ve ever met, every experience I’ve ever had, is because I got good enough at moving my fingers at micro-movements across a piece of wood and steel. That’s bonkers.”

That’s a fairly self-deprecating assessment of how St Vincent got to where she is. Her inimitable skill at moving her fingers at micro-movements across a piece of wood and steel  – more commonly known as playing the guitar  –  is part of it, but there’s an intrigue and charisma to her music, and the persona she presents, that goes far beyond technica​l skill. It’s an intangible talent, one that has steadily drawn her into the limelight – though it was her self-titled fourth album that really thrust her into the big leagues, topping a handful of Albums of 2014 lists, and earning her a Grammy for Best Alternative Music Album.

Clark with ex-girlfriend Cara Delevingne. Photo: Getty.

Then she fell in love with someone unthinkably famous, and was thrust into a more insidious kind of limelight, the kind where paparazzi followed her around, where tabloid journalists tricked her relatives into revealing painful personal information, the kind that fuelled her anxiety and depression. Though being on the road for endless stretches of time didn’t help with that. In an appearance on the New Yorker’s podcast, she said that between her self-titled album and this one, she needed to do a “radical reorganising of my life in order to fulfil my destiny as a creative person”.

“Oh my god! Who am I, Jim Jones?” she says laughing, when I quote this back to her. “Wow. I said that? It’s like a Paulo Coelho meets Jim Jones inspirational talk. I think I meant that I was just in a monastic period, I just wasn’t drinking or having sex or really doing anything that you’d consider fun.” The only pleasure she allowed herself was getting Chinese massages in New York City. I’ve never had a massage, I tell her. Perhaps I have a lifetime of tension. She looks aghast. “You probably do. You carry it with you, you know?”

Did she find it helpful, this monastic period? “Oh it was so generative. I got so much done. Completely eschewing certain things that can otherwise take up a fair amount of time left so much time to be productive. I really loved that time. Being on tour is just a different kind of energy. It’s performance all the time. Obviously I’m not putting on my best performance for you today.” She laughs again. The icy atmosphere is starting to melt, but our time’s up.

I bid Clark goodbye. She would get up, she says, but she’s too tired. I’m glad we managed to drag the encounter towards conviviality, but  –  though I’m sure she won’t spend another second dwelling on it  –  I don’t think either of us had much fun.

The next morning, my phone buzzes. Clark’s messaged me on Twitter. “Dude!” she says, “I’m sorry I was a cock.” She explains that she was exhausted, “which is not an excuse”, but that she’d felt especially defensive because she’d been getting negative tweets about the show all day, and had thought my comments were an attempt to go for the jugular. “I really misread the interaction,” she says, “and have been feeling horribly guilty ever since. I thought you were just there to tell me my show sucked and I got real defensive and yeah, it went downhill from there.”

As it turns out then, her emotions aren’t irrelevant. She feels things deeply, all the time. You can hear it in her music, in every riff, every crack in her voice, every line about loss, or leaving, or wanting to leave. Those negative tweets were sprinkled amongst a litany of praise, but  –  though she wore an insouciant armour when we met  –  she clung to them anyway. “You carry it with you, you know?” I hope she carries the good things too. I hope she gets some sleep.

Source: https://www.newstatesman.com/culture/music-theatre/2017/11/it-s-cool-some-people-hate-my-show-st-vincent-fan-backlash-and-chinese?amp

[human-antithesis]

Imber Luminis - Nausea (One Song Album)

Lyrics:

Something must have changed, my hands tremble from malady Insipid voices nescient of their own futility My chest heaves from the burden, their lack of reality Do they see beyond their own convenience (that) the world is empty? Some of these days - There are no perfect moments I feel so lonely - Nothing more than a milestone Some of these days - Nothing will happen I feel so lonely - Starting with the end Sojourning onward memories of places I have been My heart never leapt left in a nauseous state I now descend Events transpired experiences happened Did I have no will to conquer those days did I pretend Depressive and alone existing among those distracted One working tirelessly with his hands over his mouth cupped Two talking excitedly, about friends and past hearts engaged Another reading silently, by the window shaking his legs Some of these days Some of these days - There are no perfect moments I feel so lonely - Starting with the end

I can't recall a single blissful moment this life has ever brought me It's nauseating me in every fucking way This stench of existence, any moment of solace, of apathy, or numbness that I find Is immediately raped by storms of abhorrence, by tumultuous disgust Every uttered word, every laugh or sigh, every grieve, every cry Every dream or hope; every sign of life sickens me, fucking sickens me

Enamoured with trascendence of hypocritic oaths or solvence Determined in iniquity or liberty to create or to destroy in splendour Alas with beginnings, a certainty of cesation is needed Abrupt and frivolous of mere contingency, detached of existence In chaotic reversed chaosphere, affliction in benevolence Or pure nihilism or perhaps misanthropy as the obscuring avalanche Of 'mented thoughts, at the gate of the mind, conjured by the mind Seemingless authority or lack of comprehesion in need Or timeless values or pure birth, and death

Monotonen klopfen dringt in den schlaf Der rest leben kehrt zurück Beginnt sick den körper gefügig zu machen. Der blick streift sinnsuchend umher, doch Bett, fenster und wand - Haben keine bedeutung mehr. Beine laufen autark den flur hinunter Raus Gedanken - Diese balken stützend - Ruinös Schwindend im sog... welcher wahrnehmung? Ein baum verspricht der sonne nicht zu zögern Entkleidet - Nackt - Brach Legt nich nieder. Der schwarm vögel seiner krone unter kaltem laub. Ich atme mit den händen - Mein zittern im wind Alle wege kreuzen sich in mir. Wer bin ich? Getragen vom handeln. Der mund spricht wort rückwärts Füllt die lungen mit gegenwehr. Was bin ich? mensch, stern, asche?

We are not free, our ideas make sure of that. Bright lights aid the demise. Heavy and painful like shame. We are not free. Unbearable prisons of our minds. Nauseating. Incapable of self assurance. Weary and sullen the soul rots. We are not free. Like a poisonous apple inside the throat. Destined to destroy that which it should nurture. Monotonous misery and suffering. We are not free. Tricks played on the mind to forget this, only to crush any remaining sanity. Searching for meaning where there is has been long lost. We are not free. Intolerable thoughts in a frozen mind. Cannot escape them. False accounts of existentialism drive darkness forward. We are not free. Self contempt is projected by pitiless judgement. Pale insinuation isn't reasonable. Admitting belief is just a self deception. We are not free. The lamentable eyes are poor mirror to the soul, Gettin caught in is abhorent and odius for the mind.

I stood atop the precipice of sleep with my hands soaked deep In yearning for the restless moon, awaiting the angeless clouds To prune these afflictions Why does it cripple me, this terror? When it is all a part of the ungrand design Like trees we bloom and then we wilt to bloom again in thoughtless rain My primer of sense and of folly deconstructs before my eyes The guise unveiled, it crumbles into a million splinters of charmless absurdity This imperceptible agony Why does it cripple me, this terror? When it is all a part of the ungrand design Like trees we bloom and then we wilt to bloom again in thoughtless rain My primer of sense and of folly Why does it cripple me, this terror? The guise unveiled, it crumbles Into a million splinters of charmless absurdity This imperceptible agony

I run, I hunt through my being, searching (for) my place in this world The stars formed dust into life - Not fate, not fortune, not God, I am, because in the second of my birth, no other called for life So I tear, as long as the nausea spares my existence in the dust of stars I want to dream as long as I can, never want to wake up Finally, with the kiss of reality, I ask for my being again and again And no dream of this world will bear this answer for me So I dream as long as the doubt spares my life And I dance, yes I dance at the catwalk of unimportance, wasting my life Searching for faith and hope - It does not change anything My truth is meaninglessness, the truth of mankind I call nausea - And vice versa But I never try to destroy myself: I am too small for that So reality vomits into my heart every day In every breath moans the question about the meaning And I am looking for you to end this farce forever But you'll never find me, cause I'm too small Und so erbricht sich die wirklichkeit jeden tag in meine brust In jedem atemzug stöhnen fragen nach dem sinn Ich suche dich... um diese farce für alle zeit zu beenden Doch du wirst mich niemals finden, ich bin zu klein Searching for faith and hope It does not change anything

La perte de foi, le manque de moi L'ensemble des pensées ternes Qui s'éternisen et s'embrasent Danse avec le feu le plus scintillant Et ma tète va exploser, le battement de mes tempes m'achève Dans ces méandres trop remplies, je bave, je meurs, je sèche ma sève Avec l'envie de crever, et la haine par-dessus tout Vivre avec son contraire de donner, de me dénuder de tout "J'étais là, immobile et glacé, plongé dans une extase horrible. Mais, au sein mème de cette extase quelque chose de neuf venait d'apparaître; je comprenais la nausée, je la possédais." Et mon corps va imploser, cette nausée omniprésente me rend fou Trop de questions, pas de réponses, juste des sentiments trop flous Et c'ents dans mes dernières phrases, peu importe toutes les fleurs Que je m'en suis rendu compte, et cela m'a crevé le coeur. Et c'est dans mes dernières phrases Peu importe toutes les fleurs Que je m'en suis rendu compte Et cela m'a crevé le coeur

The cold wind blows in this quite slow night I can't remember the hours we spent off the light Our breath drawn a thick smoke, staring in empty eyes I could even hear the sickness you've hidden, all the cries (I heard you) Despite your silence and grief (I heard you) Despite your stupid beliefs (I heard you) Come with me again and let's die tonight (I heard you) There is nothing for us in this light Searching for faith and hope, you know it doesn't change anything. You're crawling in a cave in your mind, digging hard until your fingers are bleeding, and you keep on, and either it's endless, either it stops, but in both ways there is no way back up there, and the light above scares you, you forgot it, it blinds you, hurts you, and you keep digging, no matter the pain, because nothing matters, only this darkness, only this envy to lose control and see how much you can take in, staying miserable, hurt, down to a pathetic shell, but you feel alive. Cause you never felt so good today. (Have you ever felt so alive) No one would hear your pain (Have you ever walked your crossroads) Cause you are dead inside (Have you ever felt so alive) I can't bring you back to life (Have you ever wanted to die) And I know I will carry the blame No one would even hear your voice, no matter how harsh you scream The voices inside my head are withdrawing me, I scream in silence I wanted to take you with me, destroy you and heal you and make you again But I cannot hear the words you speak, I can only see the pain

Nothing matters, we all know it. Whatever crisis of existentialism we have is a fraud. It's all about how and when we would leave this world, and we're stupid enough to believe we'd leave a trace. So nothing really matters, considering suicide is just a step forward to the inevitable end expecting us. And I have nothing left to feel joy for. Everything has just been empty since the beginning.

And whatever happens, we stand proud, for what we are Nevertheless, we fight, for an unfair moment of life I can't stand that my words are empty, whatever I scream I resign, don't wanna be

I have nothing left to feel joy for I resign, don’t wanna be Delete my mind so I can change Remove my thoughts so I can stay Gimme the gun so I could change Gimme the gun so I could stay

I have nothing left to feel joy for I resign, don’t wanna be And there is this constant nausea, all around me And I understand it, I possess it And it destroyed my heart

[mycrepuscularray]

I dont know - 8.12.17

not sure if i feel he knows things more than i do, has cool stories to share, knows influential people, is stable financially, is sort of better than me in many ways ( i think la), or i just feel timid when i talk about things which relates to us. i have this feeling where i dont know if i get annoyed, disturbed or restless listening to his past like his past relationships, his so called “urinal hobby”, public display things or such, i dont know. This may not justify what i am feeling as i have typed out up there, ( cuz i suck in describing things i swear, im weak with my words ehem fml) but i just feel like i am never the best as a whole and i fail to see why he thinks i am. there is this part of me i dont show (maybe YET) but i try to cover it as much i can. 

literally, when he talks about guys or even his exes, i feel (maybe it is called “disturbed” cuz honei i dont know what word i should replace wid this) but yeah i feel it that way. he makes me wonder beyond things i could imagine. is this what a relationship makes you? makes you reassure on the way you function from the day you were born? is this even good? is this a part of self issues? is this also related to insecurities? so like i dont have a fucking idea if what i am feeling (the 3 things i wrote up there) is even good? i dont know. there’s this part in me saying this is nothing big or something i should be worried about. 

when i think about it again (ehem after 5 mins je wei hahahahaggjgagagaj) i feel im super fucking extra over the line territorial as shit. i maybe want a guy who doesnt have a past that i would not “accept”? cause things he did isnt in my principle where i would just randomly do. but i have to always bare this in my mind, “SEX IS JUST SEX WITHOUT FEELINGS. SEX MEANS WHEN LOVE OR FEELINGS IS PRESENT”. 

Im guessing im just taking this a big thing cause im not like that so like i would probably need some time to process, digest, break into molecules, inject or whatever word that is crossing atm. 

  iiiiii ddddooonnnttttt ffuuucckkkkingg know! i dont knowwwwwwww. 

fuckla im sleepy but i fucking have exam tomorrow so like i don’t even have the time to fucking sleep cause honey its 5 am now and i have a fucking TITAS the useless shit i have to deal with like hello i did that shit in STPM so like i dont have to do it again bitch what the fuck sialz?

[greggory--lee]

4 Effective Techniques To Build Patience

When we’re waiting in line at the supermarket or an ATM, when our YouTube video is taking forever to buffer, when you’re trying to teach your grandmother the usage of technology or when you’re stuck in traffic on your way to work. Does picturing yourself in these situations enrage you?

If the answer to that was yes, then you’re on the right page. The one characteristic that we lose foremost in trivial situations, is patience.

We tend to say and do things we regret in haste, out of pure restlessness or lack of composure. While there are plenty of consequences to being impatient, maintaining peace within, learning to stay calm or controlling the restless within is a lot easier. Developing the character trait of patience helps you stay more focused, make better decisions and most importantly it helps you with understanding, empathy and compassion.

Distract yourself: When you’re in a situation that makes you feel restless, anxious and impatient, one of the best ways to maintain your inner sanctity is to find a healthy distraction. For example, let’s say you’re on the road, you’re in a hurry and unluckily so, you’re stuck in a traffic jam. As a result, you’re honking, looking at the cars on the opposite side drive by or counting down for the traffic signals to change.

Let me tell you that this is not going to help. Focusing in-depth on the activity that’s triggering impatience within, isn’t going to make it go away. Instead, the next time you find yourself stuck in a jam, pull your mobile up and check your mails or go through your Social News feeds or maybe turn the volume up and play your favorite song – the traffic is going to clear up before you even know it!

Don’t stress over what you can’t control: As much as we’d like to believe that we can control everything around us, let’s face it – we can’t. Every now and then we’re going to find ourselves caught up in situations that are far beyond our control. Let’s say you just got fired / you’re awaiting an exam result or you placed a bid for your favorite painting at an auction.

There’s a lot of uncertainty about what the future holds for us in these situations. When we’re pushed into scenarios we can’t really mold with the mindset that we can control everything – we tend to live in denial, we certainly struggle and it tends to get ugly. The key to being patient in scenarios out of reach is to start developing an understanding that we can’t control everything and that’s completely okay.

Talk to yourself – listen to your inner voice: As silly as this might sound, at a moment of impatience – there’s always a voice in the back of our heads telling us we’re being irrational. We tend to mute that voice out whenever the scenario befits us – when what we really should be doing is paying attention to it.

The next time you’re about to lose it and yell at you co-worker for messing up – pause for a second and pay attention to the voice within. It’s probably saying ‘No, don’t shout at him. You’re going to regret it – everybody is watching.’ Our irrational, impulsive side is always overpowering the logical reasoning within us – in the heat of the moment. The voice within you is almost always more composed than your exterior. Pay attention to it. Talk to yourself. Tell yourself to calm down, take a deep breath and let it go.

Recognize when you act on an impulse: When things get heated up, we tend to act on an impulse and later regret it. Let’s say you eat a bowl of ice-cream on a whim – despite being on a diet or you trade a stock as soon as the market opens up and later realize that you’d be a lot richer if you held onto your stock for a little while longer.

Acting on an impulse tends to mess situations up more often than never.

The next time you’re about to buy ice-cream, you could consciously remind yourself about all the hard work you put in on the diet and stop yourself. The day you realize that the choice you’re about to make is impulsive and choose to wait it out is the day you start truly taking a step forward.

Once you’re done reading this article, take a moment to think about four things that trigger the impatience within you and match one of the four techniques above to each of those triggers. Remember to practice a technique or two the next time you’re on the verge of losing it and I can assure you that you will not lose anything.

Source by Abhiram Akkipeddi

Source: http://bitcoinswiz.com/4-effective-techniques-to-build-patience/