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#of course i still have a processing disorder
drdemonprince · 3 days
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Your post about "transitioning to escape gender but then there's more gender" has been rotating furiously in my mind since I saw it. When I first realized I was trans at age 15, I identified as agender, but I knew I wanted to go on T and get top surgery so I decided it would be simpler to tell everyone I was a trans man and that just kind of became the truth. Now 10 years later I'm sorta starting to feel like I wanna actually be agender again, but the idea of an identity shift like that at my current age is terrifying and idek who I'd tell, or how I'd do it, and I don't think I wanna stop using he/him exclusively, and I have no idea why I'm telling *you* this other than that I'm scared to talk to anyone I know about it because it feels like somehow admitting that I was wrong about the gender I fought like hell to become, even though i don't really think that's the case I think my sense of self might just be continuously evolving... but I just wanna say you talking about having a gender shift like once every several years is helping me process this rn and feel like I'm not faking anything now AND wasn't faking anything before.
Dog i am right there with you. As a kid I always thought gender was bullshit, the coercive nature of it disgusted and scared me and I rebelled against it the best that I could. I loathed being assigned to any gender category, I never identified as a "girl", but I didn't really identify with any other category either. Puberty terrified me (and of course, it does most young people, but it felt like it would only more deeply entrench the category that I was assigned to in other people's minds, it made it more difficult to escape). I had trans friends as a teen but it did not occur to me to transition because there was really no end goal that I wanted to head toward, I just knew what I wanted to avoid and not experience. I coped mostly by degendering my body with a fairly androgynous style and way of presenting myself to the word and mannerisms, but also by starving myself which was not so great, and not sustainable. I considered transness for myself, even trying on a friend's binder and presenting masculinely at certain queer events, but it seemed to me at the time like just another way in which to obsess over gender, a foolish coercive socially constructed thing that i was trying to avoid.
In my 20s, I learned more about nonbinary people and figured that explained things pretty well. I was enamored with the transition journeys of some other trans people, largely trans women more than trans masculine ones (with some trans-effeminate faggot boy exceptions), but I still didn't want to take on all the expense and uncertainty and hassle of navigating the medical system for myself. I didn't think that the pursuit of being happy merited taking on so many risks or fiddling with myself so much. I saw it as an extravagance I didn't deserve, I guess, and I also couldn't locate a target outcome that seemed desirable enough for me. I was still dealing with an eating disorder and recovering from some trauma and didn't really think about my life in the long term. I guess I still don't, haha, whoops.
Eventually I came out as nonbinary, and nobody really gave a shit. There is a lot of useless, solidarity-breaking discourse that happens online about essentially who is "more" oppressed, binary trans people or nonbinary people, and a lot of that fight amounts to the two groups shouting about the ways in which they annoy one another without there being any cogent analysis of power and where oppression comes from (let alone how much those two categories overlap).
But I will say that being a they/them was far more difficult than being a trans guy socially and institutionally, because your identity is completely illegible to every system around you. "binary" trans people struggle under this too, but i have found there are some immense benefits to having a socially and institutionally legible target gender. nobody would fucking actually they/them me. not anyone. not even other trans people and queer people. there were no public gendered spaces for me. there were no spaces for me. there was no way to move through the medical system, professional life, and other public institutions as a nonbinary person. i was still just a cis woman in everyone's eyes. including the people who claimed to support me. and it was massively frustrating.
and so i think ultimately, i took my frustrations with not being at all able to escape coerced gendering as a nonbinary person and combined that with the affinity i do feel for queer men and the general sense of misery i was still experiencing in my life and decided what the hell, i'll round myself up to being a trans guy. i upped my T dose, i dressed more masculinely, i eventually got a super masculine hair cut that really squared off my jawline and got me gendered correctly, and i started more consciously inhabiting queer men's spaces.
and it was pretty dope. for a while. i felt the rush of having gotten away with something. when people effortlessly gendered as male i felt freed at last from the pressure to be a woman. i was no longer being coerced into being something that i was not. i had escaped the enforced category so much that people couldn't even see the history of that category being pushed onto me. there was relief.
but then. as always happens. people made little comments about my handshake being too weak for a man. the hypermasc dudes at the leather bar rolled their eyes at me and all the other effeminate dudes swanning around the bar. the people who picked me up off the apps or at the sauna would always let it slip, eventually, that they had a lot of experience with trans guys, or had most recently been dating all trans guys, and it would make me feel like a stock character to them, yet another category into which all kinds of assumptions had been projected. a type not a person. a few people said my haircut made me look like i was in the military or described me as actually masculine, which was equally jarring because it was so incorrect. people tried to affirm me by saying i was such a dude, i was such a man, i was such a fag, i was such a gay bro, pawing all over me leaving the mark of all their assumptions and oversimplifications behind. i had tried to run away from gender and there i was just BASTING all the time in everybody's goddamn assumptions about gender. trans people didn't talk about it any less than cis people did, they were just as fucking confining to be around.
it honestly feels really dirty. when people try to affirm your gender constantly and can't stop talking about it, when people look past you and see only your body, your history, or the role they have typecast you in, when people use your body as an outlet for their own gender or sexuality explorations, when they keep trying to measure every single facet of existence up into being masculine or being feminine or being toppy or bottomy or any other gendered type, it's claustrophobic.
as a trans man i tried playing this whole gender game and the second i started winning i began to feel even more disgusted with myself. it wasn't a victory or an escape, it was a capitulation. exploring with my identity and presentation has brought positive things into my life and my health has gotten better as a result, and i've made wonderful friends who, like me, are disaffected by this coercive gendering system. so i don't regret any of that. but trying to make myself legible under the existing gendered system was a fool's fucking errand. i wish i hadnt done it to myself and i wish i hadnt had it pushed onto me. to be clear, it was cissexist, binarist society that forced it onto me; even when other queer people coated me in their gendered assumptions that is obviously a byproduct of societal conditioning, and it's conditioning that ive reinforced in my own behavior and outlook toward others plenty of times too. we all do it, and we are all wronged by the existing coercive gender system.
i dont even care how i fucking identify anymore and i have no intention of changing pronouns again or anything, i'm so bored of it, i just actually want off this fucking thing. im not interested in trying to make others understand what i am anymore or in who i am even being simply categorizable, i dont want to obsess anymore over how i am perceived or to attempt engineer my appearance and mannerisms to broadcast an identity to anyone. i dont even want to fuck anybody right now at all because im so sick of how much that's a gender pantomime for people. i want off this fuckin ride man im so done.
it's kind of freeing, to hit this point of complete gender apathy, and i think it is a pretty common stage of identity development for a lot of queer people who have explored multiple identities and roles over time. there is no category that i actually am, or that anyone is, there are just the frameworks that society has given us to work with to understand ourselves, and the ways in which we flatten who we are to be able to make sense of the world using those frameworks. but who i actually am is so much more contextual and mutable than all that. i am a different person in the classroom than i am on the train platform than i am in the bedroom than i am cuddling on the couch than i am when i'm working out than i am when curled up on the floor crying than i am at a big furry convention. who i am continues to change as new people come in and out of my life and age and change and my body alters and as the weather turns. who fuckin knows man it's nothing and everything. i want to let it just be
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snapscube · 9 days
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Would you be alright to ask how you found out that you had executive function disorder?
Basically my entire life I have been known as a serial procrastinator without any real explanation. When I was a kid I had a lot of trouble taking care of basic things, and I would constantly shirk chores and school assignments and really anything in between, but if you actually asked me why that happened it was never because I didn't want to do them. It even extended beyond obligations. I still remember not quite understanding why I couldn't ever finish drawing a comic, or start a long-term project and see it through to the end. I would start fanfiction and then just leave it within the first few paragraphs. I literally had no reason, and in fact it always sincerely frustrated me that I just couldn't bring myself to do things that should be really easy. I genuinely believed for my entire childhood that I was just kinda lazy and I held on to a lot of guilt for that. Of course, the problem really started to settle in a new way once I realized that I was in my early 20s, living on my own, with every reason to have grown out of it by now, but it still never got any better. I still struggled with doing things that I knew would only take a couple of minutes, I still ached over projects that I had no reason to not just start making but couldn't quite pull myself over the barrier towards actually doing it. And I still had no explanation that wasn't just "I am fundamentally broken and unexceptional". So, once I was living on my own and the problems really started to compound (since, yknow, not getting anything done holds A LOT MORE WEIGHT when you're an independent adult), I decided to look for other people who were going through these things and see how they managed it. I eventually ended up on a YouTube channel called How To ADHD where the host made a plethora of videos that all just instantly clicked with me and seemed to explain so much behavior stretching back all the way to my childhood that I NEVER had an explanation for. Everything she talked about was like, one-to-one my experiences. So then I basically immediately started the process of actually getting an official ADHD diagnosis, which I have now since gotten Twice.
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didosddinfo · 5 months
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The Basics of DID/OSDD
DID, or Dissociative Identity Disorder, is a trauma-caused disorder that forms in early childhood, anywhere before the age of 9 (cutoff age is debated but the typical range is before age 6-9, but some people extend it to 10 because that's the typical age where your identity starts forming independant of your primary caregivers)
Most of the established and spread facts about DID come from the Theory of Structural Dissociation (TOSD)
Here's a good resource explaining The TOSD:
To sum things up, there are levels of dissociation that can occur, and disorders that fall into each level. The lowest end of this spectrum is PTSD, and the highest is DID. Here's a graphic of those levels, and I'll go into each disorder briefly:
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Altered States
Altered states are normal, and likely to occur in everyone at some point. No trauma is required to cause these states. Altered states include normal daydreaming (not including MaDD which is disordered)
Primary Dissociation
Primary Dissociation occurs in people with PTSD. This presents as having one ANP (Apparantly Normal Part, aka you) and one EP (Emotional Part, which occurs when having PTSD flashbacks)
This level is specifically for single-event PTSD, as C-PTSD falls under the next level:
Secondary Dissociation
Complex-PTSD falls under this level because of the occurance of multiple EPs, but still one ANP. These EPs are for a myriad of traumas a person with C-PTSD has experienced.
Dissociative Disorders
This is where we start touching on systems. This level includes OSDD and UDD.
OSDD (Otherwise Specified Dissociative Disorder) is a bit of an umbrella disorder, and it encapsulates multiple different types of OSDD. The one you've most likely heard of is OSDD1b, but I'll go into all of them.
OSDD1a is a disorder in which a person has multiple identity states but they lack distinction. They have intense enough amnesia to qualify for DID, but their identity states aren't differentiated enough to fully qualify for DID. This can sometimes (not always, of course) present as multiple identity states that are all one person, just at different ages when trauma happened.
OSDD1b is a disorder in which a person has multiple identity states that qualify for DID, but have no amnesia. A common misconception is that to be diagnosed with DID, you have to have blackout amnesia (will explain amnesia types later in the post), but any type of amnesia can qualify. OSDD1b is for systems who have absolutely no amnesia.
OSDD2 is a disorder in which there are identity disturbances and dissociation caused by brainwashing, torture, cults, and things of that sort. From what I understand, OSDD2 occurs after the cutoff age of DID or OSDD1, hence why this disorder does not cause a system.
OSDD3 seems to be a temporary diagnosis for symptoms of dissociation, derealization, depersonalization, amnesia, sudden loss of motor skills, ect for less than one month, occuring directly after a traumatic event. If the symptoms persist after this one month period, another diagnosis may be looked at.
OSDD-4 is a disorder in which people experience dissociative trances that do not have any known cause. People slip in and out of these trance states, often unaware of their environment while in them, and may "come to" confused and with amnesia from their time in the trance state.
And lastly, UDD. UDD, or Unspecified Dissociative Disorder, is exactly as it sounds. It's a catchall diagnosis for when a dissociative disorder is present, but it's unknown exactly which one. This can include systems, or it can include other dissociative disorders.
Tertiary Dissociation
Teritary Dissociation is what includes DID, C-DID, and HC-DID.
DID is the disorder we are all reading this post for. It is a disorder that causes multiple identity states that are distinctly different, called alters (or other terms depending on the system's comfort, such as headmates or sysmates), and amnesia between these identity states.
C-DID is a community term which stands for Complex DID. It is synonymous with Polyfragmented DID; they both mean the same thing. C-DID is characterized by a more complex system structure and the presence of many fragments, occuring because of more complex and longterm trauma that starts before the age of 5 (so earlier than the DID cutoff), and typically continues long after the system forms. There are many signs of polyfragmentation in a system, but the most siginifigant are the earlier onset of trauma, presence of many fragments, and more complex internal structure.
HC-DID is another community term which stands for Highly Complex DID. This term is synonymous with programmed systems/RAMCOA systems. These systems formed because of childhood trauma involving Mind Control (the MC of RAMCOA), aka programming. I won't go too in-depth on HC-DID systems, because I'm not confident in my knowledge at this time. However a great blog I can recommend for anyone wanting to learn more is @cultishhellvent
Misc.
You might have noticed at the top of the graphic I included earlier a little blurb about DPDR, or Depersonalization Derealization Disorder. This is a dissociative disorder characterized by, well, persistant depersonalization and derealization. This disorder cannot co-occur alongside DID, but DID can cause depersonalization and derealization. The DPDR diagnosis is for those who don't have another dissociative disorder like DID, but do experience those specific symptoms of depersonalization and derealization.
P-DID, or Partial DID, is a version of DID in which one alter is almost always fronting. Other alters are present, and may front in specific situations, but typically the one alter will stay at front and other alters will come and go from co-con or co-front.
Things To Know About Systems
So here is a bunch of catagories of info about systems that I feel are necessary to know if you're looking to know the basics.
Amnesia Types
Blackout Amnesia is amnesia that is full and total. Periods of blackout amnesia will be fully gone from the person's memory. However, contrary to popular belief, blackout amnesia does not entail literally 'blacking out' and 'waking up' at a later time. It simply means the memories from a time period are totally and utterly gone and inaccessable to you.
Greyout Amnesia has two typical definitions. The first is amnesia that slowly occurs as time goes on, like slowly forgetting the days as you pass them, at a faster rate than would be considered typical for those without a dissociative disorder. The second definition is similar to blackout amnesia, except some memories can be retained. So you may not fully remember an event you went to last week, but you might be able to recall a few blips of major things that took place. Most detail is usually lost.
Emotional Amnesia is when you remember the actual event or time frame, but none of the emotions attached to it. This usually presents as being able to remember a traumatic event, but feeling numb or disconnected to it, or like it happened to someone else.
And something important to keep in mind is that these amnesia types are not hard rules, and amnesia is often somewhere between these three labels.
Innerworlds
Innerworlds, or headspaces, are internal worlds in which alters can go when they aren't fronting (fronting meaning to be in control of the body)
Not all systems have innerworlds, and many systems with Aphantasia (when you can't visualize) simply don't have the ability to create them.
Innerworlds are often created unintentionally as the system grows up, but they can be intentionally created and that can be a beneficial process to the system.
Alter Roles
Alter roles are labels systems can assign to their alters to describe what role they play in the system's life. Some common ones include Host (primary fronter), Protector (self-explanitory), Persecutor (causes the system harm for whatever reason), Traumaholder (alters who hold trauma), and Littles (child alters)
These roles are not hard set, they are simply labels to help explain and put words to what certain alters' jobs in the system may be. And, not all alters have a discernable role.
Introjects
Introjects are alters who form based on an existing identity. This is common in fragments, since they aren't as fully formed, but can of course also happen in fully formed alters.
There are two main catagories of introjects, however many people like to get specific with the terms they use.
Fictives are introjects of fictional characters. This can be from visual media, books, OCs, ect.
Factives are introjects of real people. This can be from friends, abusers, family, celebrities, ect.
Introjects are NOT the same as the thing they are sourced in. They are their own separate people, and should be treated as such.
One of the specific terms I mentioned could be songtives (introjects from songs). I wanted to briefly mention that as an example of the specific terms systems may use.
Co-Con/Co-Front
Co-con, or co-conciousness, is when two or more alters are present at the front. This is usually used to describe one alter fronting, with one or more other alters hanging out nearby and talking occasionally.
Co-front, or co-fronting, is when two or more alters are sharing the front together fully. Think of two people trying to drive the same car at once.
I think I've covered everything I wanted to cover. If I missed anything, said anything incorrect, or you'd like something added please feel free to send an ask or comment/reblog.
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rubys-delusions · 8 months
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because i've seen a handful of misconceptions lately:
not every alter needs to split from trauma. after the initial split from anywhere ages 0-9* from overwhelming, ongoing trauma(s) to a child, they can split for whatever the brain feels is necessary, and with a highly traumatized brain, it's definition of "necessary" might not always make sense! this can be anywhere from a trauma holder for a specific event, to an alter that's just there to play video games.
i know everyone says it but i still see it around: you do not need to remember your trauma to be a system. that is why your brain split in the first place; so you can carry on with day to day life without processing what you went through every second of the day. "but what if i dont remember anything?" this is exactly what im referring to, that means the disorder is doing what its technically supposed to. (i say technically because of course, amnesia is never as clear cut as its made out to be.)
on that topic, dissociative amnesia can look like, literally, a million different things and you don't need to have full blackouts in order to have "enough" amnesia. certain alters might remember certain things better, or forget things easier. you might not realize you even forgot something in the first place until you try to remember it. you might seemingly have very little amnesia at first until you try to remember the plot of the show you watched the other day, what you seemingly wanted to work on a few hours ago or why you even wanted to do that thing in the first place, or how close you are with someone. *"hold on, 0-9? every resource says ages 6-9!" it is theorized that the brain finishes integration of the self from ages 6-9. this means that if you experience any sort of long term trauma before age 9, your brain might not have finished integrating, or integrated partially.
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autumnnnsun · 3 months
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Now that I’ve finished reading Hortus de Escapismo and Executor’s record, I really gotta ramble about Executor for a second and kinda talk abt how Arknights handles his lack of empathy trait that I really enjoy. This isn’t a proper analysis or anything just my thoughts I wanna vomit for a sec.
So it’s implied in Executor’s record that he just, wasn’t born having empathy despite being a sankta. Or at least he just naturally doesn’t have the same levels of understanding of emotion as other sankta. The part that I really like about it is how Executor’s Record and story in general doesn’t portray that as a necessarily bad thing.
His lack of empathy allows him to think in a way that is a lot more unique than other sankta. When his partner in his record story told him to sacrifice him, he still brought his body back to Laterano. One of the reason being because of a specific sentence in the will they were enacting (“I hope all Laterans return back to their home.” Smth that most people would assume is just smth the will writer wrote for some extra literary flare) but also because he disregarded his partner’s feelings. His lack of empathy is the reason why he did something good and that is very interesting to me especially when most people tend to demonise having low/no empathy.
I also just really like how in his record story, it’s emphasised that he knows what emotions ARE. He has developed a system with his parents to recognise and visualise emotions by drawing lines that represent them. He knows what it is, he can recognise it to a level where he can think of the next best course of action when confronted with it, he just doesn’t put much importance on it nor does he bother with understanding it for the most part. Especially if it’s something that will get in the way of his job. And I REALLY like that cus it reminds me of how people irl that have low empathy will develop systems to work around it and still be kind.
I know a lot of us joke about Executor being autistic and that’s funny and I like the jokes as much as everyone else, but low or no empathy is a trait of other mental disorders and disabilities and even as someone that hasn’t been diagnosed with anything yet it still feels kinda nice to see low empathy being portrayed in a way that isn’t villanious.
In fact, Executor having low empathy kinda makes him the best person in the room sometimes especially in Hortus de Escapismo. The part where he does a warning shot at Oren and Lemuen and essentially goes “Can ya’ll STOP I’m trying to do my JOB.” And essentially manages to stop a massacre because of it is so funny but also so fucking hype bruv. I like how in the end of the event when Executor was starting to ask more questions and have more doubts and was starting to let emotions affect his actions a bit more, it isn’t framed as like “Oh mah gerd, he’s learning empathy and being more hooman!”
Instead he’s asking questions and seeking to find solutions to them in his own unique way. Asking around and adding more variables to his thought process like a computer would (which has some implications that gets my lore brain churning but hrghrghrgh)
Top it all of with the fact that he is specifically a character that is born and raised in a society that values empathy. Being able to feel other people’s emotions is what makes you a sankta. And Executor, is one of the better sanktas because he doesn’t follow that rule.
God I love Executor, go son, thrive.
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jooniperbonsai · 1 month
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My Bloody Valentine (jjk)
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Pairing: Vampire!Jungkook x human reader (afab)
Rating: 18+
Word Count: 13.9k
Release date: Thurs. February 15, 2024
Genre: smut, fluff, humor, hella angst
Summary: You don't understand why your vampire boyfriend is so caught up in the idea of a silly holiday, until you realize it's about more than just candy hearts.
Warnings: Blood (duh), swearing, blood drinking, lots of angst, allusion to jungkook being bisexual, alcohol, brief description that sounds similar to disordered eating, jungkook is clingy and kind of a brat, so is reader tbh, accusations/assumptions of cheating, both are conflict avoidant which makes things worse, discussions of death and infertility, references to opiate addiction, medical theft, uh y/n kind of non-consensually feeds jungkook her blood, oral sex (m/f), masturbation (m/f), fingering, temperature play, unprotected rough sex, clit spanking, biting kink (!!!! just be warned lol), choking, dirty talk, mention of menstrual sex/oral kink, mention of somnophilia, creampie
a/n: Hi! Happy (late) Valentine’s Day! Thank you all for your enthusiastic support for this fic. I hope it exceeds your expectations (as it exceeded mine). I have some extra thoughts that I’ll leave at the end of this fic to avoid spoilers, but I hope you enjoy my little y/n and vampire Jungkook couple as much as I do. I would like to thank p for talking this universe through with me until it made sense.
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“All I’m saying is that Halloween hardly feels like a holiday about vampires!”
“As opposed to what? Christmas?”
You’ve been standing in your kitchen arguing with your boyfriend for so long that the once-scalding cup of coffee in your favorite mug is now cold. Jungkook is sitting on the bar stool against the counter, his white shirt rolled up his forearms to reveal a similar pale shade underneath. You can see the corded tendons of his arms flex as he wrings his hands together in frustration. 
When you woke up this morning, it was not from a lazy well-slept haze you were expecting to have. Instead, you had awoken to a crash coming from the kitchen, sending your heart jolting as you tried to make sense of the world and the source of the noise. 
Buttercup, your cat and usual suspect for mischief, mewled angrily from her perch as she, too, eyed the wrongfully accused sleep disruptor. As she arched her back in one long, tail-shaking stretch, she glared at you and then twirled herself around to face the wall before settling back into her bed with a final huff. 
If it wasn’t Buttercup, then it could only be one other creature. 
You’d padded your way down the hall to the kitchen, only to see Jungkook already dressed and swearing to himself as he gathered the shattered pieces of a glass measuring cup and what looked like orange juice into a pile with a wet dish rag. 
“Don’t come any closer!” he shrieked, and before you could even open your mouth to assure him you’d be fine, he'd already swooped you into the living room and onto the couch. “Don’t move!” he ordered and because you heard the sharp warning creeping into his tone, you obeyed. 
An hour and a half later, the kitchen is a mess from what you now understand to be Jungkook’s attempt at cooking you breakfast for Valentine’s Day, a holiday that you both agreed you wouldn’t celebrate.
You take a sip of your coffee, trying not to wince at how it still somehow tastes burnt through the too-sweet pink sugar cookie creamer he’d doused it with when he insisted on making you a cup. 
“No, of course not. Y/N! But don’t you think Valentine’s Day should be more about vampires?” 
You snort, and the residual coffee on your tongue shoots to the back of your throat, sending you into a coughing fit. 
“What?” You say when you finally regain composure. You set down the mug and glance around for a single cup in your kitchen that hasn’t been dirtied in this process of making…well…you’re not sure what. There’s some burnt edges of something in the sink, but a weird goo glazing various bowls that somewhat resembles pancakes. However, a bright green lump of…maybe spinach?...rests in those as well, so you’re not entirely confident where he was going with this execution. 
Jungkook isn’t usually this oblivious to human tendencies, mostly because it wasn’t so long ago that he himself was a human. In the year you’ve been together, you’ve learned all about Jungkook’s swift descent into vampirism. Unlike many of his kind, he’s a fledgling. He was turned a handful of years ago and doesn’t exist in the ancient, strange accents and customs form of vampire some know. Nor is he a sleepless, sparkly teenager with superhuman speed. Yes, he has fangs, is paler than the normal person, and he will not (you think) age. But as someone who has maintained his twenty-something appearance, this currently presents as a non-issue because, if still alive, he would still be a twenty-something. 
And unlike the stereotypes of his kind, Jungkook is not in a decades-long bloodlust. Lust, perhaps, but it’s unknown if that’s because of his vampirism or because he’s a horny man. The one who changed Jungkook did so in a dark night club in Paris between searing hot kisses, where he slid his fangs along Jungkook’s throat while rutting against him on the dance floor. Jungkook, in that drunk and sex-induced haze, never suspected that the slight sharpness tracing along his jugular, sending a delicious chill down his spine, would result in him waking up three days later in a hotel in Vienna with nothing more than a vague note of warning and a few plastic bags of blood chilling in the mini fridge. 
While he doesn’t consume much now beyond A or O positive, Jungkok often cooks you meals so you’re not as tired when you get home from work. It’s sweet, but you know that he does it for himself, for the reminder of his humanity and, as he once admitted himself, for the fact that more energy saved from you not cooking means more energy for him to fuck out of you seven days a week. 
“I’m going to need you to explain your reasoning behind that logic,” you say, and finally locate a clean cup to fill with water. 
Jungkook grunts, and when you glance over at him, you can see he's pouting, his dual lip rings pulled under one of his fangs. 
“Well,” he says, tense, “I just thought…with all this stuff, Valentine’s Day should be more about, you know, vampires? Blood? Red? Hearts?”
“Baby,” you laugh, and fish around on the cluttered countertop for something to eat until you spot a bowl of strawberries tucked behind a jar of kimchi. Your stomach growls. “Valentine’s Day uses the heart motif because of love. You know that. You weren’t born yesterday.” 
He rolls his eyes in annoyance and you furrow your brow before popping the sweet fruit into your mouth. What is going on with him today? 
“Yes, I know I wasn’t born yesterday! Thank you for the reminder! But I’m saying that Halloween is this holiday that makes vampires into these beasts who suck and drain all the blood from bodies or sleep in coffins! Beware the dark corners of the world or else they’ll get you! But Valentine’s Day, what even is this about? A fat naked baby who spears you with an arrow and suddenly you’re in love with someone? Sounds way more monstrous to me! And people embrace this guy? People want him to stab them so they can be all fluttery in love and get all these nice things. But I have to be seen as this awful monster all the time? It’s just not fair!” he shouts, and swipes his hand across the counter. 
You gasp as you watch an empty plastic container clatter to the ground before he brings his hands up to cover his face. 
Jungkook isn’t one for temper tantrums. While he does have a tendency to be more sensitive, throwing things, even empty containers, is very out of the norm for him. You remember early on in your relationship, he once used a little too much of his supernatural strength to hit you with a pillow when you were both goofing off, which resulted in you being smacked right off the bed with the wind knocked out of you. 
You spent the rest of the day posted up on the couch under his orders, while he waited on you hand-and-foot despite the fact that once you recovered (mostly from laughter), you were perfectly fine. It led to an eventual discussion about how you weren’t so breakable, where you proved your point by showing him just how flexible you were. 
Which is why now, as Jungkook huffs all over the place, you know something is seriously wrong. 
You move away from the strawberries and walk around the kitchen island to Jungkook, gently pulling his hands down.
“Hey,” you whisper, looking up at him. His hair has fallen into his face, disheveled from all his fussing in the kitchen and the many times this morning you’ve seen him running his fingers through it. 
Jungkook yanks his hand away and stands, pushing away from the counter before stomping into the living room and pacing angrily. You follow him.
“Hey,” you try again, firmer. “You gonna tell me what is going on? Because normally you don’t leave a giant mess of whatever that is going on in the kitchen before you walk away from it, and you especially don’t walk away from me when I’m trying to talk to you.” Your jaw sets and you stand in the doorway, crossing your arms as you watch him pace. 
He responds with a sarcastic laugh. “Yeah, well that’s a start. Can’t even fucking cook my girlfriend a meal on this stupid holiday.”
This is exactly why you told Jungkook you don’t want to celebrate Valentine’s Day this year. All week long he’s been making snarky comments about it, from rants about the greeting card company’s agenda to explaining how it’s become over-the-top and overrated to now, as of this morning, promoting vampires as the superior holiday mascot to Cupid.
Truthfully, you’ve always liked this holiday. When all the post-holiday sales were running months ago, you’d noticed a deal on the record player Jungkook had been eying for months but would never let himself have. His last one had started to break right after you two started dating, but he was always a good sport about it, cracking jokes about how the old-timey canned sound it produced didn’t play Eminem, but “Eminesquire the Third”. Prompted by the desperate need to replace the tinny echoes that haunted your apartment, you didn’t hesitate to snag this gift for him and immediately wrapped it before shoving it under your bed to give to him today. 
Well, that was until all this started a little over a week ago. Up until that point, he’d seemed fine, never mentioning an opinion on Valentine’s Day. Then one morning you woke up and saw him complaining about how since he turned he would never be able to eat chocolate again. Which was incredibly dramatic, because Jungkook can eat if he wants to, but he chooses not to since it doesn’t do anything for him anymore. 
Every mention of the holiday since, from the ads popping up on his phone to the colorful heart shaped decorations in store fronts, has made him irate and hostile. 
“Listen, I don’t know what’s going on, but I didn’t ask you to make me breakfast,” you huff, now offset by his bad mood. “Like, I know that I told you last week we didn’t have to do any of this. So I’m not sure why now you’re trying to make some grand gesture of breakfast or stomping around arguing with me about the politics of vampires being a traditional mascot for Halloween instead of Valentine’s Day or how dumb you think this holiday is.” 
His nostrils flare. “Well excuse me for trying to be a good boyfriend and do something nice for you!” 
“What?” Heat flashes through your entire body as you feel the thin hold you have on your anger slip. “Oh, I see. So this is all about me is it? This is my fault? Tell me, when I go in there and clean up your mess of all my food you wasted by doing this nice thing I didn’t ask for, is that also for me as a treat? Or is that going to be leftover in the fridge for me to clean later?” 
Jungkook’s eyes narrow as you match his anger. He opens his mouth to speak, but you raise your eyebrow, daring him to try. 
“Ah ah,” you warn, your voice laced with venom. “I’m not fucking done speaking.”
He slides his tongue over his teeth instead before sucking in his lips. 
“So, after I noticed it hurt you and said we didn’t have to do it, after I promised you I didn’t mind if we skipped the theatrics of this holiday, you what? Took it out on me? How the hell is this being a good boyfriend, Jungkook? How is you shutting me out for the last week, pouting and being an absolute brat doing me any favors? Showing you love me?”
You begin to feel the fury recede into something worse: pain. It settles over the heat, moving back down into your throat with a sharp lump. 
“You wanna talk about shutting someone out, Y/N? Really?” Jungkook roars, halting his anxious movement. “That’s rich considering the secrets you’re keeping!”
Your brain buzzes with confusion and anger. You rewind the conversation, trying to form connections that would lead to this accusation. 
“Are you serious? Wh-Do you think I’m cheating or s-something? Jungkook who the fuck do you think–” Your voice cracks, and you heft a heavy sob from your chest. 
Never in your relationship have you two ever suspected the other of cheating. You’ve always been so certain of each other, that you two would never stray, that your connection and the very nature of your relationship demonstrated a type of bond that didn’t present anyone else as an option simply because you never wanted anyone else. 
But given how things have been going, how Jungkook has been hiding things from you, you are starting to wonder if that’s not the case, if him pulling away isn’t to try to protect himself from getting hurt. 
You’ve also tried not to notice how this month, when you counted the inventory of the blood bags stashed in the back of the freezer, it wasn’t nearly as empty as it usually was. You considered that maybe Jungkook just wasn’t thirsty, that maybe some of the bags you’d snagged from work, one of them being plasma, were satiating his hunger more than usual. With how Jungkook is looking at you now, eyes wide with the shock of your address, you can see you were wrong, the faint circles of thirst tugging under his eyelids. 
You pull your shirt sleeve up to wipe your dripping nose, only to see it’s stained blue from some mysterious breakfast ingredient. 
“I’m not saying you’re cheating, Y/N! God why would you think that! Fuck, no, this.” He produces a folded up envelope from his back pocket and shoves it toward you. 
You sniffle and take the envelope, noticing it’s addressed to you. From your work. 
Your stomach sinks. You know exactly what that is. “You know what? I’m going to take a shower,” you mumble, and you see in your periphery Jungkook’s head snap toward you. 
“What?” he says exasperated. “Now? We–”.
You nod, choosing not to look at him now as you cut down the hall and shut the bathroom door firmly behind you.
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You and Jungkook met, ironically, at a blood drive. 
You were both volunteering to hand out snacks and mini water bottles to donors at the drive. This was a few months before Jungkook had gone on his Eurotrip, a few months before he would never again be able to volunteer with clinics to help patients. 
While you’d met back then, and certainly had some chemistry that resulted in one really sexy car makeout ending with his hand down your scrub pants and you panting into his neck, it wasn’t until a few years later you’d reunited. 
Jungkook had been pacing around the clinic near closing time, his thirst becoming far more unbearable by the hour. He had been trying desperately to avoid consuming human blood, but the various city rats or injured birds he was drinking from were still racking him with unfavorable guilt and an almost hazy sickness you remember sinking his features. 
When you went to leave that night, you’d spotted Jungkook propped up against one of the glass doors, pale, with heavy bruise-like markings under his eyes. He was conscious, you’d noted, despite the fact that you couldn’t detect a pulse and his skin felt harder and icy to the touch. When you grabbed your phone to call an ambulance, he knocked it from your hand, instead begging you for a bag of blood. 
“I can’t do transfusions, Jungkook, not here. That’s why we need to get you the hospital, so we can you look you over and–”
“No, Y’N, that’s not what I mean.” He’d laughed and flashed you a weak smile. “I don’t need a transfusion.”
“Then, what––.”
And that’s when you saw them: his fangs. 
When you’d heard about Jungkook going missing in Paris, randomly disappearing in the night and showing back up months later with no story to share, there were rumors circulating that he’d started doing drugs and lost his job at the record store because in Europe he got hooked on opiates. 
And you’d so easily believed that lie, though it soured your stomach. What other explanation was there for someone disappearing and coming back more pale, less human? You simply continued on with your work, finishing school in between and finding a more permanent presence at the clinic as a phlebotomist.
Feeling guilty, you turned around and headed back into the building, emerging with two bags of warm blood that you watched him practically shotgun in the passenger seat of your car. You didn’t tell him it was your blood, but as he told you later, he knew anyway. He could smell your particular flavor dotting the bandage. 
Slowly, you and Jungkook became closer, you swiped a blood bag here and there from the clinic when no one was looking, sitting with him as he told you the story of him turning or the first time he fed. It seemed too surreal to be true, but as the dark circles under his eyes began to fade over the weeks, and his laugh started sounding more round and full, you felt like there was no way you could deny who he was, or more importantly, how he made you feel. 
Being around Jungkook was addicting, which was evident in how easy it became for you to steal blood from the clinic without thinking twice. At first, you felt awful, knowing that each bag you were taking could very well be taking away someone else’s chance at life. But the more you thought about Jungkook, how he was just as alive as any human– how he feathered his fingers through his hair or how just a few years ago he breathed and moaned before you in the backseat of your car– what really was the difference between giving him blood versus some other person? Didn’t both bodies need it to survive? 
The months ran on, and the crisp fall days that welcomed Jungkook back into your life were becoming tender, warmer as the early blooms of spring replaced them. Jungkook, too, was warmer, his body full and flushed with blood as he finally returned to as much of a human as he can be, reaching for your hand when you two walked through the park together, or falling asleep on your stomach while watching a movie. 
Vampires sleep, you learned, though it’s not so much necessary as it is habitual, as Jungkook explained. He once tested himself to see how long he could go without sleeping, and as it turned out, the answer was evidently forever, for he managed three weeks not feeling groggy in the slightest. But sleeping helped time pass. Nights were lonely when the only people he wanted to interact with weren’t around, and grappling with being some shade of immortal often led Jungkook into a spiral as he processed time passing. 
Therefore, sleep was welcome when it came. Especially with you, who he could tuck himself close to, and the soft beat of your heart served as his lullaby.
That’s when you knew that you loved him: when he told you that he went to sleep for you, that otherwise, he waited for you to wake up so he could see you again. 
You’d become just as addicting to be around as he was for you, and you trusted it wasn’t just because you were his favorite teller at the blood bank who snuck him a withdrawal. 
It was because he loved you too.
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The fog on the bathroom mirror doesn’t show your reflection currently, but if it did, you know you’d see Jungkook standing behind you silently as you brush your teeth. Despite his stillness and his ability to appear without making a sound when he wants, your body reacts to Jungkook like a magnet pulled toward metal. 
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks finally, and you rinse your mouth. 
“Because, I didn’t want you to feel guilty,” you say and reach for the envelope you left on the bathroom counter before your shower. 
After a year of sneaking blood from the clinic, one year of popping plastic bags your into pockets after writing them off under a sealing failure or manufacturing issue or recording less volume in the official donation records or claiming a miscount in inventory, you were finally caught last week with a warm bag of blood in your possession.
Stupidly, you’d popped it into your purse right before an end-of-day meeting and in the rush to make it on time, you didn’t zip everything closed securely. When you inevitably knocked your knee onto the table while shifting to get more comfortable, your purse tumbled to the floor, exposing the vermillion contents within, and issuing you an immediate suspension. 
Suspension, instead of fire only for the singular fact that the bag of cooling blood was your own. 
You had known for a while that the clinic’s director of operations was becoming suspicious. The entire team had been subject to instances of recertification and retraining to try to address whatever issues that were leading to so many mishaps. It would only be a matter of time before the records kept showing your name attached to these transgressions, though you were almost relieved when you’d learned there were other various cases of blood loss occurring for factors you weren’t responsible for, most notably some interns who kept forgetting to put the bags containing red blood cells in the refrigerator, or who were not filling the entire bags, disqualifying the entire sample. 
Overall, it would be safer to divest from your current plan, but finding an alternative to feed Jungkook was more difficult than you thought. You knew given the shortage of blood donations, you could no longer keep gleaning from work or other affiliates as resources. 
But you also couldn’t convince Jungkook to feed from you. 
You’d tried many times in the last year when he was dizzy or grumpy from thirst. And every time without fail, he refused. 
“I haven’t even bitten anyone before,” he admitted one day, the dark circles under his eyes especially purple. His stubborn refusal slurred his speech into a lisp. “And I don’t intend to start now! Especially not with you!” 
You’d dropped the subject, rooting around in the freezer until you found a blocky pint underneath a tub of freezer-burned ice cream. 
But Jungkook had drunk your blood before on that first night at the clinic. And maybe if you executed things carefully, you could supplement some packets of your own blood in to help him get by. That way, he wouldn't have to bite you, but at least he would be fed. And you wouldn’t be at risk of imprisonment for medical theft. 
So that’s what you started to do, slowly introducing him to your blood by creating fake donor names with the label machine and reprinting the same barcode as you filled bag after bag over the weeks. 
And then last week, you got caught, your only assurance that you might only be suspended rooted in the fact that you hadn’t had the time to issue a fake label for the bag before the meeting. 
And, because the blood was still warm in its pouch, because your arm had only just stopped bleeding, your case that you made of the blood being yours wasn’t entirely unreasonable. But what no one could understand was why you needed a bag of your own blood in the first place, much less why you were doing your own draw of it. 
They confiscated the bag, as well as a small sample you offered for lab comparison to confirm it was yours, and they sent you home with the letter almost like you were a kid who was in trouble at school. 
Your suspension is in effect until the board meets later this week to discuss your case, at which time you’ll be informed if you’re terminated or if you’ll be put on probation. 
You’ve accepted that you might be fired, but what you couldn’t  accept is the idea that Jungkook would definitely blame himself if he found out. Which is why you couldn’t bring yourself to tell him when it happened. If you did, you knew you would also have to admit to him that you have been non-consensually feeding him your blood instead of others’, which was a conversation you’d hoped to avoid until you were sure he would understand. Instead, you fucked up, and it’s all the more apparent as Jungkook frowns at you in the bathroom.
You rinse your mouth of the toothpaste, feeling a huge shard of guilt pierce your stomach. 
“I wouldn’t have let you keep doing this if I’d known you were at risk of losing your job,” he mutters. “You already know I feel shitty even relying on you like this.”
“That’s exactly my point! That’s why I didn’t tell you! Because I knew we would end up here!”
“And that’s why this is a problem! You are failing to see how fucked up it is for me to have to depend on you to feed me!”
“Why?” You snap, and you immediately regret it, giving him an apologetic frown. “Sorry, I mean. Why do you feel so shitty relying on me? We’re partners, Jungkook.” 
“Yeah, Y/N, we’re partners. Which means we are supposed to communicate with each other about things. That doesn’t mean you risk your entire career for me.” 
“But doesn’t it, though?” You argue. 
Jungkook groans and then wets his lips with his tongue before speaking. “No, baby. You’re not supposed to be making sacrifices like this! Not for me! Fuck, you shouldn’t be doing shit like this at all! You should be going to work, kicking ass, and then coming home to eat real food with your real boyfriend before you have incredible sex and then fall asleep!”
You cock your head at him, confused. “But, Jungkook, we already do that stuff.”
“No, we don’t, Y/N. You go to work, orchestrate some grand scheme to basically illegally harvest strangers’ blood during a national shortage, you come home and you eat. But I don’t. I leech off of someone else’s platelets. And then we have sex, and you fall asleep. And sometimes I do. But sometimes, I can’t. Because all I want to do is dream of you and I can’t do that anymore. Because I’m not real, Y/N, I’m literally a monster.” 
You shake your head furiously and step toward him. “Listen. I made the choice to do this. Ever since the first day when you showed up at the clinic. I could have left you behind, I could have insisted to take you to the hospital anyway or put you in a headlock or something–”
“You are way too weak to put me in a headlock, even on that day,” he chuckles. 
“I would have figured it out! But I had a choice in this Jungkook, just as much as you did for showing up, for asking me to help you. You could have gone somewhere else, or broken into the clinic after I left. You could have continued to live a half-life with a diet of rats and the occasional squirrel. But you chose this. You made choices, too.”
You push your toweled body into him, desperate for his touch. This is how you often are with him, needing him to ground you, to make sure you don’t spin out of control. He sighs, and you feel him circle his arms around you, his nose nuzzling into your wet hair. You shiver at the contact. Your shower must’ve been hotter than normal, because Jungkook feels almost like ice against your skin, much colder than his normal, albeit cooler temperature. 
“Fuck, Jungkook, when was the last time you ate?” you ask. 
He stiffens, then withdraws from the embrace.
“Get dressed,” he says, ignoring your question, before opening the door to the bathroom, the draft of the apartment, of his absence, leaving goosebumps on your skin in its wake.
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The kitchen is clean, any and all evidence of this morning’s tirade gone. Jungkook has changed out of his jeans and button-down for a black hoodie and basketball shorts, solidifying the idea that he has no intention of leaving the apartment for the rest of the day. 
You dress down similarly, throwing on a large ratty t-shirt and some sweats, very similar to the pajamas you’d been wearing for most of the day. 
There’s a fresh pot of coffee brewing, but you ignore it, your stomach feeling sour over the idea of putting anything into it right now. 
You lead Jungkook into the living room, and both of you sit on the couch, legs folded as you face one another. 
“I know you’re not eating.” You try to say it softly, like an observation, but as the words leave your mouth, you hear them sound accusatory, tense. 
“I know you know I’m not eating,” he responds, his tone even and cool. “I’ve seen you doing inventory checks daily.” 
“You have to eat,” you urge. “You can’t just starve like this.”
“I’m not starving,” he says, still composed, distant. 
“Bun, you’ve significantly curbed your consumption. You used to throw back two pints a day, easily.” 
“Yes, well, that was before I found out my girlfriend was suspended from work for smuggling me those two pints, jeopardizing her entire future.”
“I don’t understand why you’re making this a bigger deal than it is.”
His eyebrows rise. “I don’t understand why you’re not making it the bigger deal that it is!” 
“Because it’s not! Not really! I have it under control!”
“And how exactly do you have this under control? Getting fired? Ruining your life isn’t control!”
“I don’t think I’ll be fired. Put on probation maybe, but not fired.”
“And why are you so sure about that?”
“Because…because I didn’t steal someone else’s blood. And that’s a criminal offense. But the laws are muddier when it’s your own blood.”
“Your…your own blood. You were caught with your own blood.” Jungkook looks at you quizzically. And then you see it register. His pupils blow wide. 
“I fucking knew it,” he says. “I knew I was tasting you. I thought maybe it was just because you were on your period for a little longer than usual this month, and that maybe I was catching something in the air and just mixing up the scent with the taste of the blood. But, fuck! Goddamn it Y/N! I told you I didn’t want to feed from you and you just went and did it anyway?” 
“I’m sorry,” you admit, your cheeks burning with guilt. “I just wanted to help you.” 
“By taking away my choice in the matter? By hurting yourself? Shit!” 
“No. I–I know you said you didn’t want to bite me, so I thought maybe if I did it this way that it wouldn’t be so bad and you wouldn’t have to feel so bad about it! And then I wouldn’t be as likely to be caught at work. It gave me some protection too in this! The board is meeting later this week to talk about my case and because the blood results proved to be mine, they just have to decide an appropriate punishment. I’m not going to go to jail over this, and if I lose my job, I’ll figure something out. But, I really didn’t mean to take away your choice, and I see now that I did.” You feel your throat close as you begin to cry.. 
Jungkook is right, you took away his choice by doing this, and no matter your intention, he has the right to know. 
“I’m really sorry. I completely fucked up doing this.”
“Yeah, you did. But not in the way you’re seeing this. God. It’s not about biting or not biting, it’s how easily you did it for me. How you keep putting yourself, your own health, at risk for me! You don’t get it! You stole blood for me for almost a year. And then when you started to realize your future was at stake, you took it from your own body. Which you shouldn’t have to do!”
You swipe at the tears pooling from your eyes. “You keep saying that. Why do you keep saying that?”
“Because it’s true, baby! You shouldn’t be in this weird supernatural chaos! It’s Valentine’s Day! You should be feeding your boyfriend chocolates or eating breakfast in bed. Exchanging presents and going on dates to dinner or the movies. Having sex! And not just sex, making love, making babies!” 
“But you said you didn’t want to do any of that! Jungkook, I’m so confused. What is it that you want? If you want to celebrate Valentine’s Day, I have a present for you wrapped up that I’ve been dying to give you for months. And we can go to the movies. We can have sex… I don’t even want a baby!”
You pull a pillow into your lap like a shield. 
“You do want a baby,” he accuses. You snap your head up. 
“What? No, I–”
“You do. You told me on Christmas Eve, when we were watching that movie on the couch. You were falling asleep during it, but in that scene when he comes home after saying no to that deal, she says ‘I want my baby to look like you’ and you looked up at me so sleepy and warm and alive, and you repeated it back to me. You said ‘I want my baby to look like you.’” 
You think back to that night, when you and Jungkook were cuddled up together watching It’s A Wonderful Life since he’d never seen it, and between sips of a very strong eggnog, you kept studying his face, almost overwhelmed by the idea that you could ever love him more than you did in this moment. When Mary told George she was pregnant, something just felt right about that phrase, and in your tipsy, sleepy, haze, you must have recited that part back to him. 
Honestly, you do want your baby to look like him. You can’t imagine anyone else in the world whose features you would want to see copied into another human, one that you make together. 
“It’s okay, Y/N. I’m not mad that you said it. I’m honored. Because if I could have children, I would want them to look like you.” His voice is tight. “But I can’t give you that. I think if I could, we would currently be arguing over paint swatches and baby names while I rub your swollen feet, not this. Because fuck we have definitely not been careful,” he chuckles. 
Despite the sadness in his voice, you feel yourself smirk. 
“And even if we adopted, that doesn’t solve one of the biggest issues out of all of this. Which is that you will grow older and more beautiful and our children would grow older and more beautiful, and I don’t know if I will. I don’t know if I’m going to be doomed by the stereotypical vampire life because I don’t know who turned me. He didn’t give me anything to go off of. Maybe I age but I do it slower. Maybe I will never age. Maybe I live forever or just a little longer than you. Or fuck, maybe instead of living forever, vampires actually have an insanely short life span because we are just another type of mosquito derivative!”
You laugh at that, though you still feel the tears staining your cheeks, making no effort to stop. 
“The point is, I can’t promise you anything human. I can’t promise you a normal life with me. Babies that we make, us growing old together. If I could do one thing different, I kinda wish I put a baby into you the first time we fucked around in that car. God knows I was hard enough.” 
“Jungkook,” you choke, ignoring his attempt at deflecting. “I don’t care about any of that. I know I said that stuff on Christmas, but I didn’t mean it like that. Maybe you can have kids! Like you said, you don’t know. For all we know, my freakishly long periods might be a sign I’m infertile. I don’t know either, I haven’t gone to the doctor or taken tests because I haven’t been too worried about it. That or aging or any of this! My job even.”
“Wait, hold on, back up. You might be infertile?” He looks almost offended by his own use of the term. 
You nod. “Maybe, but I haven’t really been thinking about it lately. I’ve been more worried about you, more focused on you.”
He squints. “Why?”
“Because you’ve been evasive and bratty and honestly just fucking awful. And I can see why. You’re thirsty. You stopped eating again. You started screaming about heart themed things being for vampires. You’ve been avoiding me…is that why you haven’t told me anything? Because of my work thing?”
“I still can’t understand why you are this nonchalant about your career,” he says and you shrug. 
“Bunny,” you warn, and Jungkook crosses his arms across his chest.
“Okay, yes,” he concedes. “Part of this is due to that. Because you didn’t tell me. But also I feel like I’m ruining your life. And if that’s the case, if I’m taking so much from you, I want to take less. I want to be less.”
“I’m a parasite. A leech. I consume human blood to carry on living my nonexistent life. I sleep but I don’t dream. I can’t enjoy things the same way. I can’t be normal and that’s what you deserve. What you need. So if I’m going to be a parasite and dependent on you, I want to make things easier. You mentioned that gift under the bed…and, I don’t know that started it all. Got me thinking about all the things I can’t give you. All the experiences you’ll never have because of me. But how much you want it. Valentine’s Day. Baby, I know it’s a holiday you like. I see your eyes sparkle every time you pass the decorations and candy at the store. Of course you have had a present for me wrapped and ready since Christmas, because that’s you and how incredible you are. And I wanted to give you some of that back, but the more I thought about it, the angrier I got that I can never be good enough for you. I can’t give you everything. And then this morning, I don’t know, I snapped. I tried to cook you something I normally can do with my eyes blindfolded and walking backwards but everything came toppling down around me and I got overwhelmed and ended up fucking it all up.” 
Jungkook reaches across the couch, taking your hand in his, tracing his thumb across your knuckles. 
“You’re so dramatic,” you accuse, and roll your eyes. 
Jungkook retracts his hand and pouts. “I don’t know what you mean by that.”
“You’re being dramatic and over the top with this broody Edward Cullen shit. I’m sick of it.” You toss the pillow to the side and sit up on the couch, edging your body closer. 
“For starters, you’re punishing yourself by not eating. Your hands are like ice, and that means you’re extremely underfed because very little blood is in you. Second, you refuse to eat because at first  it was someone else’s blood and I could get in trouble so that justified not doing it. But now that it’s freely available, because it’s mine you have some moral conniption preventing you from nourishing your body. And all of this is circling around the same problem. Which is you deciding for me what you think I want and need.” You hover just above him now, your knees digging into the cushions on either side of him as you trap him under you. 
“You decided wrong, by the way. You based what I want not on who I am, but on your own insecurities and fears about me, Jungkook. And that’s not fair to me.” 
You plant yourself down on him, straddling your weight across his chest. Jungkook gazes up at you, a frown still etched on his face, though it’s grown softer. 
“It’s also not fair to me that you are trying to control my decision about feeding from you or not. If you were a vegetarian, how would you feel if I had replaced your veggie burgers with meat patties just because I thought you needed the protein?” He asks.
You hadn’t thought about that. Your shoulders sag as you sit with the realization. 
“I need you to trust that I won’t ever go back to feeling the way I did when we first met. Look at me, are the marks under my eyes as dark? Am I as hard or pale?” You shake your head, and Jungkook reaches up to your face, touching his palm to your cheek. “I am thirsty, baby. But I also know how to control myself. I have spent months with you, around your blood, smelling you when you do something as little as get a paper cut or have a large blood clot pass during your period. Don’t look at me like that, it’s literally just blood from your body, you as a phlebotomist know better than to find that weird or gross.” You giggle, trying to ward away the flush of your cheeks. “And yes, it hurts, but kind of like when you smell something really good cooking in the kitchen and your stomach growls. But that’s the worst of it.”
“Is it though?” you ask gently, trying not to argue with him, but his eyes seem almost cloudy to you. 
His brows knit and he opens his mouth but then shuts it, nodding for you to continue. Instead, he strokes along your brow bone, then down the curves of your jaw, tracing your features with his index finger.
“Your eyes aren’t as clear as they are when you feed regularly,” you sigh sadly. “I don’t want to change you, at all. But you’re warmer then too. And on days like today, it would be nice to have you less frigid to cuddle up next to. But I don’t want to make you do something you don’t want to do. I was wrong to not tell you about my work stuff and my blood. Those are two big things that you deserve to know as my partner, and because they impact you directly. I’m sorry.” 
You take his hand in yours and bring it down over your chest. “If you don’t want to drink those blood packs, I understand. We’ll find some other way of getting you blood. But we need to make these decisions together. All of them. No more of us deciding we know what the other person needs best. That means I am not force feeding you my blood, I know. It also means you don’t get to decide if I want to have a biological baby or if I want to grow old with someone else.”
Jungkook contemplates this, and then nods in agreement. 
“Do you feel that?” You ask, glancing down to your chest, referring to your heart beat. 
“Yeah,” he whispers. 
“Good, because in all this, you keep saying you’re this monster and that can’t be further from the truth. Maybe I don’t need normal, because I don’t want normal. I want you. And I am alive and warm as a human is, sure. You insist you’re not alive. But what is life really? Do you need to be breathing and to have a beating heart like mine to experience love? Joy? The things that make up life? You feel me. Even if it’s all a habit now. The memory of your body, I don’t know. I don’t know how you work either but that doesn’t matter.”
“Do you need to have dreams or to eat chocolate or make babies to feel like you’re living, Jungkook? Because I don't think you do. I think your body and my body sitting here together, my heart pumping blood through me, more than I probably even need to keep me going, is more than enough for me. You loving me, I think that’s life. Is that not enough for you?”
Jungkook’s eyes are glassy, and he takes a deep breath, also probably out of habit more than necessity.  “No, it’s more than enough,” he says.  “I think this is life.”
You smile. “Okay, then let’s live. Let’s live like this. Whatever it is. And we can decide as we go what living looks like, alright?”
Jungkook releases his bottom lip from his fang. “Alright.”
You lean in, and Jungkook’s lips pull up into a smirk right before he kisses you, molding his body into yours with relief. 
You welcome his tongue into your mouth, surprised by how cold even that is. When you pull away to catch your breath, you pull yourself tightly against him. 
“We need to find you something to eat,” you say for what feels like the millionth time today, and Jungkook sighs. 
“Tomorrow, okay? I just want to be close to you right now.” He burrows deeper into your t-shirt and you hum in agreement, letting the soft animal of his body feel like home.
The rest of the day, the two of you drift back into the softer and more familiar patterns of your relationship that the last week has disrupted. 
Jungkook cooks you dinner, properly this time, a steak you wash down with a beer, the two of you discussing your friends and the latest episode of the show you finally have caught up watching, the tense air between you two perhaps not entirely diffused, but ultimately much more at ease than before. 
You choose to not address the moment in your peripheral vision when you see Jungkook gnawing on some bloody gristle that he trimmed off the steak, his brows set in dissatisfaction as he tries to replace some of the nutrients he’s craving. 
He’s thirstier than he’s admitting, you know, but you are trying to loosen the tight hold of control you are tempted to have. 
“Hey,” you say as you load your dirty dishes into the dishwasher. 
Jungkook, who is reading the beer founder’s story on the back of your empty can, perks up, curious.
“Do you want to open your present?” you ask, and can’t help but laugh at the way his face lights up at the suggestion. 
“Oh my god, yes! I've been dying to know what it is since Christmas!” He beams, and before you can even move to go get it from under your bed, he’s gone, shuffling around down the hallway and cooing to Buttercup, who has just finished her own dinner. 
When he reappears, he puts the gift on the counter and looks at you sheepishly. 
“Um,” he says, and you can tell he’s desperately trying to be polite and well behaved like a small child on their birthday. 
You snort. “Open it, bunny.” 
Jungkook rips right into the paper, his jaw dropping. “You! This?”
You watch as he takes off into the living room to disassemble the current turntable setup. 
“Goodbye Old Play, Fall Down Boy, and Alicia Broken Piano Keys,” he sing-songs. “Damn, when was the last time we had music around here?” 
You watch him putter around. 
This, you think, could be a good life. 
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Lying in bed, you drift between a dreamstate and your overactive brain trying to process your reality. Thoughts of your job, more specifically what you’ll do if you actually are fired filter through your head. You suppose you’d change careers, but this job has always been the one thing you wanted in life, at least before you had Jungkook. 
Between a body heat barrier of blankets and pillows, you toss yourself around and sigh, finally coming to a state of being fully awake. Jungkook shifts across the pile to alert you that he, too, is awake. 
“What’s wrong, baby?” he asks gruffly, and you grunt as you roll over. 
“Can’t sleep,” you whine, and you move one of the pillows shoved between the two of you out of the way so you can see his face in the dark. 
The soft glow of the outside city lights shifts through the window, casting a hint of pale blue light across his face. Like this, he looks more wan, sallow, and your heart wrenches. God, it’s so hard to see him this way, starving himself, and you know you shouldn’t feel guilty, but with the day behind you, you feel the late-night flood of regret starting to taint your mind as you try to figure out how you let this all go so horribly wrong.
“Busy mind?” He asks, and you blink up at him, a little surprised by how it seems as though he’s reading your thoughts. 
“Yeah.”
“Me too,” he grumbles, and then reaches out to pull you into him, his cold hands in an even colder room sending a tremor through your body. 
“God, I’m sorry,” he says, and you clench your teeth. 
“ s’okay” you mumble, and you push your face into his chest to warm your nose in his hoodie, throwing your leg over him to bring you closer. 
Jungkook gently rubs your back, his touch light as his fingers trace up and down your spine. It tingles, sending a shiver that hardens your nipples. 
“What were you thinking about?” he asks after a long pause. 
You could lie, and then you wouldn’t have to worry that Jungkook would be awake all night carrying your baggage for you. But, you know how important this step of honesty is, so you take a deep breath. 
“I-I just keep thinking about work. What’s going to happen? I don’t regret it, please don’t think I do or misunderstand. But I love my job. I love you more. It just feels all convoluted and scary. If I get fired, how will we afford this apartment? Find your blood?”
You feel Jungkook take a steep inhale, and you know he’s doing this to steady you, that his lungs don’t really need to expand but to breathe next to him, with him, is what feels the most natural to you both. 
“Baby, I’m sorry,” he says, and you fight the urge to cry for the third time today. 
“I know it’ll be okay,” you assure him, “but I’m sad anyway.”
His fingers continue to strum along your spine, soothing you in the quiet winter night. At some point Buttercup gets up to go prowl around the apartment in her usual late-night zoomies, leaving you two alone in your little universe. 
“I’ve been thinking a lot tonight, too,” Jungkook mumbles into the dark. 
“About what,” you whisper. The wind outside kicks up, and you feel a sharp draft cut against your now-bare legs, beading you with goosebumps that make you shiver. 
Jungkook tuts, shifting you to his side momentarily so he can reach down and pull up your thick duvet. You relish the return to warmth and lay back down on him, resting your head onto his chest while letting out a satisfied sigh.
“Feeding,” he says casually, but you can still hear the hunger in the word as he pronounces every syllable sharply. A different kind of tremor rocks through you, and you feel a tug of arousal behind your belly button. 
“Oh,” you say, trying to be unaffected, but Jungkook sees right through you and chuckles. 
“The first time I tasted your blood, you don’t even know what it did to me, Y/N,” he groans.
“It felt like every single dead neuron in my body was firing all at once again. I’ve never experienced anything like it. You were so warm, your blood was so thick on my tongue. I knew I was going to crave you for the rest of my, well I guess, existence.” 
You squirm a little, trying to ignore the slight dampness you feel forming between your legs. 
“Then, god, I thought I was going crazy when you were feeding me those blood packs. That I had wanted the taste of you so badly that I was imagining it somehow from knowing the way you smell.” 
He continues. “I know I told you that I have control, but fuck, baby, you almost destroyed me with that little stunt of yours.” 
Jungkook shifts, and you can feel his hardening length brush against your stomach. His thigh butts up against you, and you know he can feel the effect he’s having on you. 
“How?” you ask weakly, and Jungkook flexes his thigh underneath you, putting a little pressure right onto your clit. The whine you’ve been suppressing escapes, needy and rich. 
“I almost caved. One night while you were sleeping, Thought about waking you up by fucking you with my tongue so I could finally taste you again.” Jungkook’s cock twitches underneath you and you rut against him in response, the heat in your core building. “Shit, you were even sleeping with your legs wide open for me, your panties and those tiny fucking things you call pajamas shifted and your pretty little pussy was right there for me to taste. Practically begging me for it.” 
You rock against Jungkook’s thigh, the broad grind of your wet panties against Jungkook’s thigh releasing some of the tension. 
“Oh,” you moan softly, but Jungkook isn’t done talking, and he ignores you as his hands come up to your ass, his cold touch on your cheeks causing you to squeak as he pulls them apart to force you to rut harder, deeper onto him. 
“I can smell you right now,” he says roughly. “You can’t hide it from me, you know. Your blood, your wet pussy, they’re equally delicious to me. Equally mine.” 
You moan as he forces you back and forth on his thigh. “You like that, don’t you? The idea of me devouring you like that? Waking you up with my mouth swirling around that hard clit, have you drooling and begging for my cock before you even know what day it is?”
“Shit, yes. Yes,” you pant, and Jungkook laughs, grasping your panties with his fingers and pulling tight. The fabric shifts, digging onto your swollen clit, blurring your vision from the sharp, deep wail.
“Such a dirty fucking girl, humping me like this. Letting me use you like this. What happened to my good girl, hm? Where’d my baby go?” 
You know the question is rhetorical, but you find yourself entering the familiar, delicious haze you often go to with Jungkook, one that has been trained to answer every question he asks. 
“Still your baby,” you whine, and Jungkook laughs. 
He reaches down, tearing your panties off of your body with a single tug, exposing your wet pussy to the chill of the air.
“Oh really? You’re my baby? I don’t know about that. My baby usually has her mouth around my cock by now.” 
Obediently, sit up, tugging your shirt over your head, your nipples hard and sensitive from your arousal. Jungkook groans as he takes in the view of your naked body, but before he can act, you hastily strip him of his hoodie and shorts to reveal his naked length. 
Jungkook’s cock stands tall and heavy, and as you take it into your hands, you don’t mention how that, too, has become incredibly cold from his thirst. Maybe this hunger could be soothing in summer, but in midwinter, it is going to drive you insane. 
You pull him into your mouth, determined to imprint some of your body heat onto him as you dribble your warm saliva down his shaft with a deep suck. 
Jungkook moans above you, tangling his fingers into your hair in approval. 
“Fuck, yes, Y/N. God.” 
You use one of your hands to cup his balls, enjoying the heft of how full they are before stroking up and down the parts of his cock that you can’t take into your mouth. 
“There she is,” Jungkook sighs, and you relax your jaw so you can take more of him in, edging his tip down your throat. He bucks up, and you gag, feeling the familiar tang of him spread across your tongue. Globs of saliva bubble out of your mouth as you attempt to fight the urge to gag more from his occasional thrusts. 
“There’s my baby. My little cockslut. Fuck, I missed this.” You hum in agreement and Jungkook gasps at the vibration. He grabs your head, stopping you from bobbing. 
“Shit…fuck baby, hold on. Stop. God, I almost just came,” he laughs, and your lips twitch as you slowly pull away from him, strings of spit still connecting you to his thick cock. 
You look up at him as he steadies himself, smiling up at him devilishly.
Feeling naughty, you lean forward, testing the waters as you tongue around the head, taking one final, deep suck. Jungkook’s eyes darken in warning and you giggle, sitting back on your heels as you smile at him with fake innocence. 
“Brat,” he mutters, and shoves you down onto the bed, his lips on yours before you can even breathe, tasting himself in the corners of your mouth with feral need. 
He pulls away, tapping your knees with instruction to open, and you do, propping your head up on a pillow so you can see everything. 
The curve of his nose rocks against your clitoris as he begins, and because Jungkook knows you so well, his hands clamp down on your legs to prevent you from squirming. You feel him dig one hand into your thigh, a warning not to try to take control, and you force yourself to relax as he begins exploring you, sucking one of your swollen labia into his mouth. 
You groan, the slow method of him licking and sucking, moving down and up between the inner corners of your thighs back to your center feels both like heaven and absolute hell. 
You have the urge to whine, to shove your hips up, maybe your neglected clit will get more attention, but you know better. Jungkook is testing you, trusting you in this moment not to fail him. 
His eyes meet yours as feasts, the bruises under his eyes more dark now than they were earlier. Between the maddening, erotic swishes of his tongue against your clitoral hood and smug look on his face, you’ve had just about enough.
“Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to play with your food,” you snap, and surprised, Jungkook pulls back, his wet cheeks and wide smirk indicating how satisfied he is with his torture.
“No,” he says, licking his lips. His fangs peek out from under his lips. “But I think my food really likes it when she has to work for it.” 
You roll your eyes, and he brings his fingers to your clit, pinching it. You gasp.
“Did you just roll your eyes at me?” He scolds, and again you lose the urge to disobey. 
You feign an apologetic look and buck your hips at him.
“Such a fucking bad girl today,” he chides. “If you’re not careful, I won’t let you cum. I’ll just use you like my little cumdump and you’ll have to figure out how to get off on your own.” 
You shudder at his words and his shoulders straighten, satisfied with his apparent win. 
“What do you say?” he asks, tracing one finger along your ridges. 
You feel yourself trembling as his soft touch swirls around where you need it most, a frustrating, dizzy fury building in you.
“Jungkook, please.” 
“That’s not the word I’m looking for.” His voice is dark, heavy in the cold of the room. Desperation is blinding you, only allowing you to think in fragmented sentences. 
“I don’t know,” you whine, and you feel a hard slap hit directly onto your clit, sending a shock of pain and delicious pleasure through your body. 
“Liar,” he snorts, and then rubs your wetness to soothe the ache. “You have a big girl brain, Y/N. I know you know what you need to say.” He dips a finger inside of you, you clench. “Or are you already too fucked out and needy to say it?” 
Heat shades your face in embarrassment. Any other day, maybe, you’d challenge this, let him chip away at you until you are babbling and a mess underneath him. But the swell of heat in your core is pulsing what feels like everywhere in your body, including your head, and you rack your brain for the one word you know he’s looking for. 
You pull a sharp breath between your teeth. “I’m sorry.”  
“Good girl, I knew you could do it,” he says, and then he shoves his face into your cunt, more fingers dipping into your entrance. He begins to stretch you, pulling his fingers apart, urging more of your wetness to spill onto his tongue. “So sweet.” 
Your hips twitch in the air and you fight to keep them down now that one side of you is freed, so you concentrate on him, pushing his hair back from his forehead as he devours you. 
Jungkook’s eyes are so dark, pupils blown wide. And in them you see something more than just lust. 
I’m thirsty, he’s telling you, the lines faint, but still there. He sucks hard onto your clit, a low sound tearing through his throat. 
He’s asking you for permission, grazing his fangs along your inner lips, trying desperately to restrain himself as the hand still wrapped around your thigh tightens with a bruise-inducing pressure. 
Then eat, tell him mentally, your tongue darting out of your mouth to lip your lips as you watch him get lost in his instincts. You hum your approval, thrusting your hips forward and shoving his head further into you. 
“Yes,” you rasp, finding enough air in your lungs to puff out your consent. 
Jungkook moans and you watch the resolve break as he delivers one final satisfying lap over your clit before he bites.
Nothing In your life could ever prepare you for this.
That part of you, the very organ having the most nerve endings, is alive and electric, burning hot as if you are the sun, the center of the universe. And Jungkook is orbiting around you, grounded by the gravity of your blood as he feeds from your pussy, groaning and bucking his hips in pleasure against the bed. A whimper churns from the depths of your throat as you writhe under him. The heat, god it’s everywhere, from the slight sting of the bite melting away from your core to the heady, steady throb of your clit that makes you feel your pulse everywhere. 
Jungkook too, is warming underneath you, the chill of his body flushing away with each feverish gulp he takes. His cheeks are slightly pink again.
“So wet, so good,” he praises you as he swallows, and you see the blood smearing across his cheeks as he dips back into you. 
“Fuck, Jungkook,” you say shakily. His tattooed hand leaves your thigh, reaches up, searching for you in his feast. You don’t hesitate to lace it with yours, your hands a little clammy, but you’re afraid that if you don’t hold on to him, you might be lost among the stars. 
He drags one of his fangs along the edge of your clitoral hood, and flicks your swollen bud with his tongue, self assured in your destruction. Your legs begin to close, but he growls. 
“Don’t you fucking dare,” he warns. His fingers press deeper inside you, thrusting toward the burning in your core that feels like it’s just out of reach. “You asked for this, now take it.”
“I can’t,” you say. “I can’t.” You thrash your head to the side, gaze unfocused as you take in the shapes around your bedroom you know once were pieces of furniture, but the combination of blood loss and building ecstasy has you feeling like you’re almost drifting from your body. 
Jungkook clicks his tongue in dissatisfaction. “Look at me, Y/N,” he demands. 
You force your eyes to him, and he instructs you to take a deep breath. You inhale shakily, letting him come into focus. 
“You’re going to take my tongue. And then you’re going to take my fingers until you cum all over my face.” He makes his threat official, presses deep inside of you, thrusting deeper, toward the burning in your core that feels just out of reach. “And then you’re going to take my fat cock into my pretty little pussy and watch the cum drip out of it after I fuck you full of it, do you understand me?” 
You tremble as he claims you. “Yes,” you reply and he leans in closer, thrusting his fingers in harder as you rock your hips toward him. 
“Good,” he says. “Then give me what’s mine.” You feel him nip into you again, throwing you over with one deep suck.
You cry out, your hips twitching into the cold room, heaving deep broken gasps into your lungs, head spinning as you obey him. Your ears ring as you fall deeper under the wave, but you still feel Jungkook’s hand in yours, tender and encouraging as you force yourself back from beneath the current of your orgasm. 
You try to steady your breath as you feel his drinking slow, his tongue placing a few laps here and there around your vulva in a gentle motion as he pulls himself away. 
“Are you okay,” you hear him ask, though your eyes are trained on the ceiling as you try to stop yourself from seeing double. “Did I take too much?”
You’re not sure, to be honest, but you feel the warmth of Jungkook’s body cover you as he looks you over, feeling your pulse. 
“Your heart is starting to slow down,” he says softly. “Can I leave you for a second to get some water?” 
You make some kind of grunt of approval, and you feel him drape your covers back over you as he pads down the hall to sift through the kitchen. 
He returns only a few moments later, a bottle of water and bag of heart shaped chocolates in hand. 
You take the water from him and sip slowly, feeling the cool liquid soothing your hoarse throat, stabilizing you. You pop a chocolate into your mouth, the sugars melting your tongue tasting decadent. 
When you finally glance over at Jungkook, you erupt into laughter. 
“What?” he asks, his doe eyes going wide with panic. “Are you hurt? Are you okay?” 
You fail to collect yourself, wheezing your breaths as tears burn your eyes. Maybe you did lose a bit too much blood, because it shouldn’t be as funny as it is, but he looks so full and flushed and innocent in light of what might just be the kinkiest thing the two of you have ever done. 
His face is an utter mess, cheeks shiny and smeared with the faint pink of your mixed juices and blood. He looks like a child who just ate a cherry flavored popsicle.
“I-go look in the mirror,” you say between fits of laughter, and Jungkook looks at you confused before he obeys, standing and walking over to the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. 
“Oh shit,” he mumbles, then laughs. “Looks like I was saving myself a snack for later.” He reaches for a tissue from on top of his dresser and wipes his mouth. 
“How can you not feel that all over you?” you ask, coughing when you finally recover. 
“I don’t know! My brain isn’t focused on anything else right now but you! Well, you and…” he gestures down between his legs, where his cock is flushed from the blood, twitching as you give it attention. 
You feel a flutter in your core and let out a soft gasp.
“But really, are you okay?” he asks tenderly, sitting back onto the bed and rubbing your thigh. 
You scan over your body, checking in with yourself. You don’t feel woozy or nauseous, just loose, like how most large scale orgasms feel. Your thigh you know will be bruised tomorrow, but it’s nothing you can’t handle. And your clit, oh. 
Your clit is tingling, and your pussy is dripping wet. 
“Fuck,” you moan, and run your hand down between your legs and press your palm to your clit, enjoying the added pressure as it throbs under your touch. 
Jungkook raises an eyebrow, interested in your response.
You swipe your fingers through your folds and then pull them up. Surprisingly, the liquid is clear, meaning you’re not bleeding. Meaning that this dripping want is coming solely from you. 
“What did you do to me?” You ask, and Jungkook’s eyes flash with worry as he moves closer, pulling your thighs open to inspect you. 
“I hurt you?” he asks, panicking as he misunderstands. “God, I’m sorry Y/N.”
“No, no, baby, not like that,” you say, and you feel his hands fall from you as he moves to look at your face. 
He scrunches his nose in confusion. “Then what–.”
“My pussy is tingling, and fuck look at me. I’m drenched.”
His eyes blow wide and he dips to look back down, his tongue darting out over his lip piercings as he takes in the liquid spilling out of you and onto the sheets underneath. 
“Shit. I don’t know. Maybe my venom does that? I don’t even see a cut on you from where I bit.”
He sits back on his legs and his hand finds his cock, squeezing the base as he flits between looking at you and in between your legs. 
You clench around nothing and a low, tortured moan escapes from his throat as he draws his hand up the base, wrist flicking to pump himself up and down in slow, delicious tugs.
“Y/N,” he says, and the way he says your name is dripping with need. You feel his eyes burn into every inch of you as he touches himself, causing you to mimic the fluidity of his strokes as you rub your clit. 
“Please,” you respond. 
“Cum for me again,” he demands but you shake your head. 
“Don’t want to like this,” you say. “Want your cock in me. You promised you would let me watch your cum spill out of your pretty pussy, remember?”
His nostrils flare, and Jungkook jolts, flipping you over on the bed so you rest on top of him, his hard cock smearing with your wetness as he rocks your hips against him. 
“We need to do something about that filthy mouth of yours,” he says, and you pant as you grind against him with broad movements, coating him with your juices. “The only time you haven’t said something bratty today was when my cock was down your throat.”
You moan, raising your hips off of his and taking his cock in hand. “You love it,” you say, and sink yourself down onto his cock in one solid motion, his thick length stretching and filling you to the brim. 
He hisses and you begin to bounce, using him to curb some of the ache in your core. 
He reaches up and wraps a hand around your throat, squeezing. You squeak, feeling him pull you off of his cock, and leaving you devastatingly empty. 
“Did I say you could fuck me?”
You whine and he scoffs. “Maybe you don’t deserve my cum after all. Disobeying me like this. I told you earlier I wondered where my good girl went, and I think I was right. Didn’t know I traded her in for a disrespectful bitch.”
You feel your stomach flip with excitement at the new term and you clench around him. 
He laughs. “Oh? You like that, hmm? Well, if I traded away my good girl, I better see how much of a whore her replacement is.” 
He lightens his grip on your neck and the oxygen floods back, making your fingertips and nipples prickle with the heightened sensation. 
“Well? Get to it, slut.” and he takes your hips, slamming you back down onto his cock with one single stroke. 
“FUCK,” you scream, and your hips buck, overstimulated as Jungkook doesn’t even give you the chance to have control, his hands clamping down on your sides as his fucks you onto him. 
“That’s it,” he rasps. “That’s it, take my cock like a good little slut.” 
You cry out, clamping your arms around him and pulling his face into your neck. 
“Jungkook,” you say, and he grunts in response, pounding into you with a rhythm so that when you come down, he pushes up, hitting you deeper with each thrust. 
“You like that, huh? Being like little fleshlight? Me using you like this to fuck all my cum into?”
You clench around him, slightly light headed from where he’s targeting you, trying to hit your g-spot dead on. 
It’s so good, so primal, and you know you’re almost there, but you need something more. 
“Please,” you whisper, shoving his head into your neck. “Bite me.” 
And that’s when you feel it, the tiny prick of his fangs as Jungkook pierces your skin and begins to feed. 
Sharp cold pleasure is immediately replaced with a silky, scorching wave of pleasure as his venom delivers that addicting tingle through your neck.
Jungkook, too, seems to be affected, his cock twitches in you as the blood fills his body, somehow making him feel thicker and a little longer. 
“Oh,” you gasp as you feel the fingers of one of Jungkook’s hands reach down to your clit, rubbing it hard and fast. 
He detaches himself from your neck and laps up the excess blood before he holds you steady and adjusts your position, placing you on your back as he hovers above you. 
The cloudiness in his eyes is gone, the markings underneath have faded. He settles into slow, deep strokes, his eyes ghosting over your body. 
“I love you,” he says. Your heart swells. 
“I love you too,” you respond, and you look down at where the two of you are connected, your pussy making a vulgar squelching sound as he drags himself in and out, his cockhead glossy.
“More,” you beg. “Please I’m so close”. He obeys, picks up his pace. 
He bends over you, pulling a nipple into his mouth and releasing it with a pop. 
“Should I bite you here next?” he mumbles and you squirm in delight.
Each thrust is now jutting Jungkook right against your cervix, and you feel the wet mess of your pussy trying and failing to take more of his cock inside, relishing the warmth that now reaches every corner of you. 
As you flutter around him, the mounting tension drawing you closer to orgasm, Jungkook dips down again, this time laving over your nipple, plucking it between his teeth and delivering a soft bite.
This sends you over the edge, a stream of white hot pleasure rocketing through your core as you gasp on top of him, your pussy clamping down and trying desperately to take him with you. 
But Jungkook has better control than that, and instead of letting you rest, he sets a deadly, relentless pace, fucking you into overstimulation. 
“One more,” he breathes between thrusts.
“Hurts,” you pout, but he knows you. Knows your limit.
“One more. I know your messy little cunt can take more than this, baby.”
He spreads you wider, hooking your legs back so he's deeper in you than before, the wet slap of his balls against your pussy echoing through your bedroom as you are coated with your wetness. 
You groan and he keeps going, his fingers ghosting over your clit once but not staying. You huff in frustration. 
“Words,” Jungkook demands and you take a deep breath, trying to rack your brain for something other than moans. 
“Yeah,” is all you can manage, and with a dark laugh, he accepts it, placing his fingers back on your clit and finally, finally putting you back on track. 
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he utters, and this is how you know he’s getting close. The praise flowing from his mouth betrays his cold, dominating facade. “Such a warm, wet pussy. Just for me to fuck my cum into.” He pulls his bottom lip into his mouth, sucking on his lip rings.
You moan, matching his thrusts with your hips, slamming yourself together harder, deeper. “God, Jungkook, please.”
“You gonna be good for me this time?” His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows. The tone of his voice is slightly higher, straining. “Gonna let me fill you up?”
“Yes,” you pant. “I need it.” His fingers circle faster, desperately working to make you cum before him. “Need to be full of your cum.”
You pull him into you, needing him closer, needing to feel the distance between your bodies to be smaller as you get closer. His fingers keep working, his thrusts hard and deep, hitting you exactly where you need it. 
“Right there. Fuck your pussy, Jungkook. Take what’s yours.”
His hips falter. You place your teeth onto his neck and bite. Hard.
“Fuck,” Jungkook moans and erupts, his cock twitching as he spurts load after load of warm cum into you, giving you the last bit you need to send you off one last time. Your pussy spasms, greedily taking in everything he gives you. 
“That’s it, baby,” he says, his voice shaky as he continues to anchor both of you to your bodies, to the sensation of being full and satisfied.
He kisses your temple, then your cheek, rocking his hips slowly against you as you come down, flushed and overwhelmed. 
You feel almost weightless, untethered to the joints in your arms and legs. If you weren’t being held by him right now, you might think you were out in space, floating around without gravity. In the haze of it all, you feel Jungkook shift you onto your side, his body still linked to yours as his erection deflates, cum leaking onto the bedding below you. 
You don’t care enough to do anything about it, instead clinging to his forearm, needing to feel him everywhere so you don’t disappear. 
“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” he says, and you’re confused by this, and then you realize you’re crying, wet tears stinging your cheeks as you shake against him. He runs his hands through your hair and down the length of your back softly. “I got you.”
You breathe a shaky breath as he wraps the blankets around the two of you, gently humming a song, sighing when he feels you wiggle your toes next to him and finally steady yourself. 
You look up at him and he’s smiling softly, his eyes warm and brown like they were when you first met him. 
“That was intense, huh?” he asks and you nod. 
“But really good,” you add and he beams. 
“Yeah,” he agrees. “I…”
He sits thoughtfully for a moment and you let him, trying to gain the courage to detach yourself and venture into the cold apartment to pee. 
“I wish we did that sooner. I mean, I guess I should ask how that was for you. For me to, you know, feed from you.”
You wince as you shift away from him, feeling him slip out of you as you leak onto the sheets. Your sticky, damp legs beg for a shower, but you ignore it. 
“I…it was a lot. But…but I liked it. The first bite, shit. You explained earlier how it felt when you first tasted my blood? About it being like how everything fired off in your body at once, right?” He nods. “It was like that for me, too.”
Jungkook smiles, pulling you in tightly against him.  
“Do you think we can do that more often?” you ask shyly, and he laughs. 
“Damn, once is all it takes for you to get addicted?”
You smack his arm. “Hey! No kink shaming! I didn’t judge you for wanting to go down on me during my period! While I was asleep!” 
He sputters. “I’m not kink shaming! But you sound like you’re judging me now for it! We don’t have to do it if you don’t want to I’m sorry but I was caught up in the moment and the bloodlust and I was–”
You choke out a laugh, kissing him on his bare chest. “I’m teasing you...it sounds kind of hot actually.” 
He hums in approval. 
“I think we still have a lot of stuff to talk about,” he says after a pause. You sigh. 
“Yeah. The great job reckoning is coming.” 
“Yes, and not just that. I do want to talk more about you…your body. The…infertility thing. I want to go with you to the appointment, I mean if that’s okay? Even if everything is fine, or that you don’t end up wanting kids or whatever, I just want to be there for you through any of it, okay?”
You bristle a bit, feeling yourself starting to cry again. But after the day you’ve had, the intense, passionate sex, all of the things you will still be dealing with in the morning, you let the release guide you as your tears fall. 
“Okay,” you say. You think about your conversations with Jungkook today, how he’s right. There are so many things you both don’t know about what you want or don’t want, about your own bodies. 
“Um,” you say, and you pull back from him, rubbing up and down his forearms. “I want you to know something, too. I know that being a vampire wasn’t really in your life plans, and that there’s a lot of unknowns about it too. Not just about fertility, but like, it would have probably been nice for you to know you had magical tingly, healing venom that turns you into a sex god.”
“Hey! Was I not a sex god without the venom?” He scoffs, pretending to be offended. 
You snort. “Okay fine, healing venom that turns you from a sex god to even more of a sex god. But you know what I mean. There are things that would be so helpful for you to know. To maybe take away some of the worry and those terrifying unknowns. And if you ever want to know, if you want to try to find your creator, I’ll support you in that choice. It would be hard, and maybe we wouldn’t find him, but I’m with you in this.” 
Jungkook takes your cheek in his hand, his warm thumb rubbing across the skin. 
“Thank you,” he says, and leans in to give you a soft kiss. 
The world outside plunges deeper into the night, and after you clean yourselves up and change the sheets, you lie closely against each other. So many things remain unknown, but one thing you’re sure of as you watch Jungkook sleep: you have time to figure it all out. 
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©2024 by jooniperbonsai
ending a/n:
Thank you again for reading! While doing research about blood donations for this story, I was reminded that there’s currently a national shortage for blood donors in the US, and it’s safe to assume that this isn’t unique to just us. Right now, with the ongoing genocide in Gaza, blood shortages are extreme, and with the stonewalling happening preventing aid to enter the strip and Rafah, supplies, including blood for life saving transfusions, cannot make it through. 
The Red Crescent/American Red Cross issued this statement in January:
“​​During emergencies, the American Red Cross will ship blood products outside of the U.S. following a specific request from the U. S. State Department for U.S. citizens overseas, at the request of the United Nations, or at the request of the affected Red Cross or Red Crescent society abroad. We have not received blood product requests for Israel or Gaza at this time.
For those interested in learning more about international humanitarian law and its vital role in protecting the innocent during armed conflict, please visit www.redcross.org/ihl. The American Red Cross has a duty to fulfill the Geneva Conventions’ purpose of reducing suffering during armed conflict. As part of our duty, the American Red Cross leads the effort to ensure Americans are informed of these laws and the humanitarian principles they reflect.”
While it’s not yet being asked for, I cannot recommend enough donating blood if you are eligible. There are many different qualifications for blood donations (if you’re not sure about your eligibility, please look at your Red Cross/Crescent website depending on your country). Your donation can help not just your local communities, but ultimately a population of people you might be unsure how to help. And if not, monetary donations are also accepted.
I’m not affiliated with this organization in any way, but I felt like it would be wrong to ignore this issue just in favor of a fun fanfic. 
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puppygirllaika · 4 months
Text
Transition Diary of a Sex Doll
Jane is making a big life decision with her girlfriend, Andie, and was kind enough to keep a record of her experience.
Content warnings: Gore, Medical Gore, Surgery, Amputation, Dehumanization
This story is strictly for folks 18+, minors DNI.
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The Transition Diary of Jane Miller, 23
November 24th, 2036
I finally had “the talk” with Andie today. I’ve been putting it off for over a month, and honestly it was still really scary, but it went really well. Of course it did. She’s Andie. She was so accepting and sweet about it, I really don’t know what I did to deserve her. She was a little sad, a little nervous, but she wants to go for it. She said she really wanted to support me living my dreams, but I could tell she was a little excited under that too. We’ve played with the idea a lot, and we’ve rented girls like that before, so I know how much she loves them, but this is taking it to a whole new level.
We’re gonna go slow, and in a few phases. I mean, I’m ready to go all the way right now, but she wants to make sure I’m ready at every step, and I don’t wanna worry her. We’re gonna start with the social transition, saying goodbye to friends and family, tying up as many loose ends with my life as we can, before moving on to the actual legal stuff, let alone the surgeries. We still have to work out the details, but the whole process should take about a year. Christmas is coming up next month, I think we’ll make the big announcement then.
Honestly, I’m so excited, and so nervous, I don’t know how I’m gonna sleep tonight.
December 21st, 2036
I told my family today. It was… a mixed bag. My parents didn’t take it well, started going on and on about how they were losing their daughter. I don’t really know what I was expecting, they did the same thing when I came out as trans. Talked relentlessly about losing their son for a whole year. At least I’m not gonna have to deal with another Christmas with them.
My sister was very understanding though. She was sad too, but we’d talked about this for a long time, and she knows it’s what I want, more then anything. She’s always had my back. I feel a little guilty sometimes, for how often she has to be “the eldest”, and step in between me an our parents, but I know I can always trust her to support me like this. Plus, she seemed very interested in some of the… particulars of the transition. I wonder if Andie’ll loan me out to her some time. I’ve never thought of her that way, but I have to admit, the idea is a little exciting.
I realize I forgot to make an entry for it, but I told some of my friends about it before we made the trip home for the holidays. They all seemed happy for me, for the most part. One of them got Andie a tattoo gun as a Christmas present, joking about how I wouldn’t be able to resist anymore. The irony was never lost on me, that I would want to make such a permanent change to my body, but refused to get any ink.
So, it wasn’t everything I hoped for, but at least I’m out to everyone now. Again. And now the real transition can start. Andie’s really taken charge in the last month, and already has some appointments scheduled for January. With any luck, I’ll be approved just after new years!
January 12th, 2037
Writing this ‘cause I just can’t sleep.
I had my inspection last Monday, and it went great! It was honestly a bit more… invasive… then I was expecting. The put cameras in places I’d never imagined, and took a bunch of blood and tissue samples. It wasn’t cheap, they even had to do a full genome sequencing to check for genetic disorders that could cause issues later in my life. Well, “life” being a relative term.
Then, the next day, I had to spend an hour with a psychiatrist, confirming that yes, I really wanted to do this, no, I was not being pressured, yes, I was depressed, no, I was not unfit to make this decision. It dragged on forever, and was honestly so anxiety inducing. I was so worried the wrong answer would scrap the whole process and I’d have to wait a year to reapply. God, I can’t wait to finally put a stop to my anxieties.
In the end though, everything checked out, and we got the medical approval papers. Tomorrow we have an appointment at the courthouse, and I’m just so excited and so nervous. If all goes well, in uh… 14 hours, I’ll legally be Andie’s property.
I really need to get some sleep. It’s gonna be a big day.
January 13th, 2037
ohmygodohmygodohmygod it happened. It finally happened. I thought I would be cheering, or excited, or happy, but in the end it was just… a relief. I sat outside on the courthouse steps with Andie for half an hour and just sobbed into her chest. I’m not a person anymore. I’m her property.
Thank god.
She was so sweet, she took me to this cute little gelato place afterwards and we spent the rest of the day at the big park downtown. It was just such a breath of fresh air. I feel free in a way I haven’t, well, ever.
I’m writing this in the car on the way home right now, she keeps giving me these curious little glances. We’ve been pretty head over heels for each other for years now, but something’s changed in the last two months. I can see this new kinda hunger in her eyes, deeper then anything she’s shown me before. It reminds me a little of how she treats the girls toys we’ve rented for her before. I can tell she’s starting to think of me as one of them. I can tell how much it excites her.
We’ll be home in just a couple minutes. I have a feeling that our first time as owner and toy instead of girlfriend and girlfriend is gonna be… intense.
February 2nd, 2037
It took a while to get a slot, but I finally have my first surgery scheduled later this month! I know Andie’s a little more trepidatious about it, but this first one is the most important, at least to me. I’ve had so much dysphoria about these things for so long, especially after my first transition. Finally being rid of them is gonna make such a huge difference. Wish me luck!
February 27th, 2037
I wanted to write about it the night before, but I was too nervous. Then I had planned to write about it right after the surgery, but honestly, I just couldn’t. I knew the statistics, how common surgical regret was immediately after, how it usually faded, but I really wasn’t prepared. I was sobbing that first day, and horridly depressed. It felt like the biggest mistake of my life. Like I’d ruined myself. I was so scared, I didn’t know what to do. But, the hours passed, then the first days, and it got so much better.
The surgery was three days ago now, and by this point, I’m overjoyed. Still nervous, still very much getting used to the change, but confident that this was the right choice for me.
Obviously I’ve had to switch to a speech-to-text journal, it’s not exactly easy to write without arms, but I wanted to keep this thing going. I’m thinking I might switch to audio logs after this though, at least until the last surgery. After that, I don’t really know. Andie might get me an implant, but that’s up to her, I don’t wanna sway her one way or the other. I committed to being her toy, and I will be, no matter what.
Woof. Just this little bit of journaling really took it out of me. Recovering from a surgery like this is no joke. I’m gonna try and get some rest. I’ll check back in when I can.
March 18th, 2037 [Audio Log]
My doctor told Andie that my recovery is coming along really well! The grafts have taken really cleanly, and the wounds have been healing as expected. I’ve gotten to see them a few times when Andie was changing my bandages. Every time it make me hard lol.
The other day, while they were off, she helped me over to the big mirror on her closet door. I honestly wanted to cry. I just looked so beautiful. I’d imagined myself looking like that so many times, but it didn’t prepare me for just how impactful it was. They had removed some of the bone from my shoulder blades, and folded the muscle around to make it relatively soft and smooth. I looked so sleek, the way my neck tapered into my slim shoulders, how they curved gracefully down to my rib cage, no more interruptions in my form. I felt like… like it was how I was meant to look. Andie mentioned how it surprised her, how she’d never seen me smile quite that wide before.
I stood there for probably ten minutes, just taking myself in, before she led me back to our bed. Her bed. She put one hand on my chest and another on my back, and gently laid me back down in the sheets, before climbing on top, straddling my hips. I always loved the way she looked towering over me like that. She leaned down, and began to run her hands ever so gently up my sides, down my neck, and over those tender wounds. She was so careful, making sure not to aggravate them at all. It would still be a few more weeks before she could get rough again, but for now, it was everything I could ask for. Her hands on these new parts of me. From the way she smiled back, I knew how much it must’ve shown on my face.
I felt her cock stiffen between us, rubbing against my own, clumsily sliding alongside each other as she rocked back and forth, exploring my scars. It was definitely the right choice, to be her toy.
April 4th, 2037 [Audio Log]
When we started this process last year I had always assumed that the legs would be the next thing to go after the arms, but I guess it’s more complicated then that. When working out the schedule with our surgeon, she pointed out that with the arms gone, and with me not really being able to take care of myself anymore, it was important to deal with some of the more utilitarian surgeries before I lost the ability to walk.
As such, now that my shoulders are largely healed up, we’ve set the “waste management” surgeries for next Thursday. I’m… not gonna go into detail on these. These are the parts of being a toy that I didn’t really want to think about before we got started, though Andie had assured me she didn’t mind the extra chores.
The basics, at least as they were explained to us, are that the surgeons will go in through the back, to prevent scarring on the belly, and add some lab-grown organs into my digestive system. The first is a kind of bio-mechanical bladder that somehow filters and recycles water, while dumping the filtered waste products into this replaceable canister that goes in a port in my back. Don’t ask me how it works, I don’t really get it. The second part is a different replaceable canister for… um… the other waste.
Look, the upshot is, I won’t have to go to the bathroom, Andie’ll just have to replace my canisters twice a week. Nice and clean. And as a byproduct I’ll need a lot less food and water to survive. I’m trying not to think too much about why that is.
The important thing is, it’ll make me much easier for Andie to take care of. I don’t wanna just be a chore for her, I wanna be fun. A proper toy. So as long as this’ll help with that, I’m happy to do it.
The recovery on this one will be about a month, but after that we’ll finally get to move on to the legs. That one I’m excited for. This… I just wanna get this over with.
April 12th, 2037 [Audio Log]
These canisters are fucking weird.
May 11th, 2037 [Audio Log]
I’ve gotten used to these things over the last month, but honestly I still find the experience really strange. Every three days Andie makes me turn my back to her, twists this hunk of metal in my back, and pulls out two little stainless steel cylinders. It’s just kinda bizarre. I feel like a cyborg. Actually, I guess I kinda am.
Anyway, the big news today is that the surgeon approved me for my next operation! Aaaand the sad news is that their office is slammed, and it’s gonna be another month before I can actually get it done. Apparently some new online trend for femboys to get vaginoplasty has really limited the availability of plastic surgeons. It’s frustrating, but at least it’s on the calendar, so I can look forward to it.
Andie’s taken me on little day hikes three times in the past week, and it’s been really nice. I think she’s honestly glad for the extra month, and in some ways, I guess I am too. I’m really glad to be making this choice, I know it’s right for me, but I am gonna miss getting out into nature like this. Andie said she’ll still bring me along when she goes car-camping, but I know it won’t be the same. Still, I’m really enjoying this time, and I’m glad it’s helping her feel more at ease with this decision.
June 4th, 2037 [Audio Log]
It wasn’t because of the orchid it was swan that bit the duck when she made the lapping noises of the pond. But the duck wasn’t the one who at it was the berry that did itself in the double helix that formed the bond beneath. She wanted the duck to be the globe but...
June 5th, 2037 [Audio Log]
Oh they gave me the good recovery drugs this time.
The third major surgery was yesterday morning, and I was so out of it afterwards. It was apparently very long, and there were some scary complications with one of the arteries in my leg, but they were able to get it under control. I don’t understand exactly what it was, but they said my recovery may take a week or two longer then otherwise expected.
It’s honestly pretty scary to think about. I mean, I know any major surgery is a risk, but that could have killed me if they hadn’t caught it. Then again, with the way my mental health was going before this, I can’t say for certain that I would have survived not doing this. Everything is a risk. Deciding what risks are worth taking to you is one of the hardest things to do in life. But I know this is a risk worth taking for me. I made up my mind about that a long time ago.
A lot of my body is still numb, and there’s just kinda a dull pain everywhere. It was like that with my arms too, but this is different. I’m still curious to know what it’ll feel like once I can really feel again. I used to press my thighs together when I was happy. Used to rub my legs against each other when I was cold. It’s strange to think that I’ll never do that again. But more then anything, I feel excited. I can’t wait to feel her hands on my new flush hips. I mean, I’ll have to wait for a bit, but it’s gonna be amazing.
June 19th, 2037 [Audio Log]
I’ll never get over the feeling of Andie dressing my wounds. It was amazing before, but now? With no limbs to react with? To brace, or squirm, or struggle with? It’s just incredible. Every time she replaces the bandages around my hips it drives me wild. And it’s made worse by the way the tight, airy fabric both restrains and stimulates my cock. And I know she knows. I know that cruel, sadistic, loving smile of hers.
Every time she’s redressed them she lets her fingers linger on the edges, tracing the line of the bandages over my belly, around me sides, before running her hands up and over my flush shoulders. The little chuckle she gives when she see’s the white cotton caging my clit twitch beneath her touch is both so infuriating and infatuating. I can’t help but whimper, but beg for her to go further, as my newly limbless body sits there, unmoving and frustrated beneath her teasing hands.
With my lower parts inaccessible she’s begun relieving herself with my mouth a lot more. I’ve always loved giving blowjobs, feeling her cock deep in my throat, so honestly it’s been heaven for me. Obviously I’m just a toy, I don’t get a say in what hole she uses, but I hope she keeps using my throat this much even after the bandages come off. Even after I get my third hole.
I heard her tell a friend on the phone that she scheduled that surgery for next month. She still hasn’t told me directly. I think she’s really been getting into this toy mentality. God I love her so much.
July 28th, 2037 [Audio Log]
She never told me. I’ve been losing track of what day it is a lot recently, it’s hard to keep on top of that like this. My hips were fully healed as of about a week ago, so I knew it had to be coming soon. The day she leaned me up and fucked me in front of that mirror was the first day of my life that I really, truly felt like myself. The limbless toy being used by her owner, that was truly me.
Today I woke up in a large plastic tote bag. I’m not sure when she put me in there, but as I looked up out of the opening I could see the car door opening as I was dropped inside, in the back seat. She hasn’t taken me anywhere in a while. She hasn’t been speaking to me much either. Just the basics.
She still cared, I knew that much. She could’ve dropped me off at the hospital reception desk and picked me up when I was done, but she still stayed. She waited with me, saw me off into surgery, and was there again when I woke up.
It’s funny, I never really saw myself getting bottom surgery before. When I transitioned a few years ago it was never something I’d had any real dysphoria about, so I just didn’t bother. I liked being a girl with a dick, honestly. But when I decided to be a sex toy, specifically one for her, that all changed. Something inside me flipped, and I just knew that this was what I needed. Not because I didn’t enjoy having a cock, but because I desperately wanted another hole. Plus, I loved the idea of having something self-lubricating, besides my mouth, and I knew this would be the best option.
Still, it was a strange feeling, waking up without it. I didn’t really feel it much the first day, but the first time they changed the bandages, the difference was palpable. It wasn’t bad, not at all, but it wasn’t euphoric either. It was more utilitarian, like the back surgeries had been. Still, when the nurse was showing Andie how to change the bandages (which were almost identical to the hip bandages from the leg surgery), I couldn’t help feeling my cheeks go red as she inspected my new hole. I couldn’t see it, and I imagined it to be rather scarred and raw given how fresh it was, but she seemed fascinated by it, and I couldn’t help but get a little excited.
I hope she enjoys it. I really can’t wait to feel her inside me.
September 2nd, 2037 [Audio Log]
Wow, it’s been a while since I’ve done one of these. Um, updates… updates… well, my recovery from the surgery went pretty well, and it was uh, “functional” in under a month. They had mentioned that I would need to dilate every day for the first three months, while the artificial structural netting grew in, but that hasn’t exactly been difficult. Andie can’t seem to get enough of it.
The first time really was special. She was so gentle, so careful with the still-raw tissue inside me. The absolutely drenched her cock in lube before sliding in, but she still bottomed out on that first long, slow thrust. It was a kind of fullness I had never really imagined, and I loved it more then I could ever have known. As she sat there, still, hips pressed to mine, I felt myself clench around her for the first time, and saw her eyes go wide. After that, I could tell it was just a game of restraint. It was like watching her edge herself with my body. That hunger in her eyes, the way she so clearly wanted to just grab my sleek, flush hips and rut into me like a dog in heat, but knew she had to keep control if she wanted to maintain this new found fleshlight, at least for the next few months. I could see how maddening it was, and I couldn’t help but don a wide, bratty grin.
As soon as it’s safe to do so, I think she’s gonna make me regret that. I can’t wait.
September 19th, 2037 [Audio Log]
We had a big conversation today. It’s been nearly a year since that first one, but this is another big threshold to be crossed, and the one Andie’s been most concerned about. It’s the final go/no-go. Vocal chords.
I’ve wanted them gone this whole time, but Andie wanted them to be the last thing, so I had every chance to say no, and put a stop to this, however far along we may have been. But the time is here, and I’m ready.
We talked a lot about other procedures, things that we could maybe do in the future, and I gave my preliminary consent to a lot of things. Eye removal, facial replacement, brest augmentation, even decapitation and artificial brain implantation. That last one would kill me, obviously, so I told her I wanted to wait at least five years before doing that, if it’s what she wanted to do. She agreed, as always. She’s so kind, so careful, so patient. I love her so much.
I lay there, propped up on the couch next to her as she made the call to the surgeon. I’m scheduled for next week. She helped me record a few final messages for some friends, for my sister, before pulling me into her lap.
I’m really loving the way she can bounce me on her cock now. She grabs me by my smooth, fatty hips and just pumps me up and down again and again, staring possessively at my cunt, at my tits, refusing to make eye contact with her new favorite toy. I can feel myself becoming less and less of a person to her every day. I can only hope the loss of my voice accelerates that process.
She had a date, a few days ago. Her first since we started down this road a year ago. She didn’t tell me about it, and didn’t tell her about me. I never even saw the girl. That afternoon I watched from my spot on her bed as she showered, got dressed, did her hair and makeup in much the same way she did for our first date, as realization slowly dawned on me. I was so happy to see it. She never considered herself poly, so I knew this marked a permanent shift in our dynamic. We weren’t in a relationship anymore. I was a toy she owned.
The true show of this came as she picked me up off the mattress and lay me on the floor, telling me to keep quiet, before shoving me under the bed with her foot. I stayed there in the dark for hours as she went out, and listened to it all when she got home. I got to hear the muffled giggling and flirting from the other room, watched as their clothes crumpled to the floor beside me, and basked in the sounds of them fucking above me. I was a little sad, she wouldn’t need her toy tonight, but the feeling was far surpassed by the euphoria of feeling like a proper sex toy, shoved under the bed out of sight while my owner fucked a real girl.
Once my voice is gone, once she finally stops seeing any humanity in me, I wonder if she’ll share me. I wonder if she’ll loan me out to her friends. If one of the girls she dates will find me while reaching for a strap and wanna use me. If her next partner will wanna keep me, or ask her to throw me out. No matter what, I’m just happy to have finally found my place in this world. To finally be myself.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to update this journal again, so if not, I guess, thanks for reading. I know what I say doesn’t really matter, but if there’s other girls like me out there, other girls that wanna find love for themselves in becoming living sex toys, I hope this inspires you. Thanks for reading the journal of a sex doll <3
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Thanks for reading! Obviously this is all purely fictional, please do not actually feel inspired to do anything like this in real life.
You can find all my stories here! ^_^
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proudproship · 5 months
Text
Not so friendly reminder that creating "dark" or "taboo" fiction can be a sign of childhood trauma!
More below the cut. Warning: long post.
TW: Mentions of trauma, child abuse, and paraphilias
Hi. I'm someone who studies psychology and sociology, and someone who also happens to have an interest in this shipping discourse stuff.
So, back to what I said a few paragraphs ago: Creating "dark" or "taboo" fictional content can be a sign of childhood trauma.
How?
When a child goes through something they consider traumatic, their brain will play the situation on repeat subconsciously, which can cause hypervigilance and symptoms of PTSD.
A common sign of PTSD in young children is that they will reenact their trauma with things like dolls, drawings, figures, and basically any other thing they can use to express their thoughts.
For example, a child who has gone through physical abuse may reenact similar things with their toys, such as making their dolls hit or yell at each other.
This symptom isn't limited to children, though. It is a symptom closely related to the presence of flashbacks and nightmares.
Many artists will create a "self-insert" character, "sona," or a character who is otherwise much like it's creator; when an artist creates a character like this and also has past trauma, their symptoms may reflect onto their character.
Projecting yourself onto characters can happen with other characters as well, even if you didn't make the character.
This is a healthy symptom. It shows that the brain is willing to become stronger from their trauma.
Reenacting trauma in ways that aren't harmful can help the brain process what happened to them, and can even help them deal with their trauma directly.
In order to heal trauma, you must know what your trauma is; you can't heal a wound you don't know you have.
While dark fiction creators are indulging in positive healing mechanisms, certain people will shun them for doing so.
"Antishippers" claim to be the "heroes" and to support healing, even though the thing that makes someone be considered and antishipper is if they're "anti healing through fiction."
Antishippers will throw the same ableist rhetorics around by claiming "if you ship adult x child you're a pedophile!" or "if you have age gap ships (even if both are consenting adults) you're a pedophile!"
This, not only is it hurting trauma survivors (especially those who have been harmed by those with paraphilic disorders), it is hurting EVERY disabled person.
Armchair diagnosis is not something anyone should do.
It is when there is little to no evidence that the condition exists within a person, though people still throw labels onto them to make them seem like they're a "bad guy." (Usually.)
This is also hurting people with actual paraphilias. Paraphilic disorder is real condition characterized by intrusive thoughts of a (usually abnormal or harmful-if-acted-on) sexual nature.
Even if someone claims to not be ableist but still demonizes and villainizes paraphilias, they're ableist.
Ableism is ableism.
And before an anti decides to call me a "pedo-apologist," go right ahead! You don't know what you're saying anyways.
There is a difference between a criminal and a disabled person.
Proship people do not support abuse. Anyone who claims to be proship but still supports abuse is NOT proship.
---
Of course anyone who makes dark content doesn't have to have past trauma.
There are many people who make dark content that don't have what they'd consider trauma, or think their trauma is unrelated to the content they create.
What if they did experience something traumatic in the future?
They'd be able to cope with it better, because they'd seen it in fiction before, so they'd know the impact of it, and how they could handle it.
Of course, not everyone who indulges in fiction will be able to handle it, though.
However, no matter if they have past trauma or not, assume the best when it comes to content creators.
They're creative and strong, and we should be thankful that they're adding onto fandom culture by just existing and doing what they love.
All people, no matter what fictional content they create, are beautiful in their own way and should be met with kindness and compassion.
Do not go out of your way to harass/abuse innocent people.
Do not go out of your way to be ableist towards content creators and content consumers.
---
Thank you for reading my long post, I hope it helped at least a bit.
Have a great day/night and stay safe, no matter your taste in fiction.
Feedback is appreciated, and reblogs are encouraged.
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slutforsilverfoxes · 1 year
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Dinner and a Show
A/N: Ask and you shall receive, loves 🖤
English has always been your favorite subject. There’s something magical about the way twenty-six letters woven together in just the right combination can have a story coming to life, painting a picture behind your eyelids as your brain processes the lines on the page before you. It’s why you applied for graduate school as an English major.
But if your professor uses the phrase duality of man one more time, you might just blow your brains out.
You find yourself doodling random patterns in the corner of your notebook as your thoughts drift to a certain brooding brunette who would likely have much to say about Dostoevsky’s protagonist.
The unsub is a white male, twenty to thirty years old, with narcissistic personality disorder who struggles to reconcile his mediocre place in society with what he believes to be an above-average intelligence. 
Your phone buzzing on the desk beside you breaks you out of your reverie, and you flip it over to see a notification from your bank. A grin threatens to split your face in half as you open your messaging app and scroll down to AH 🖤.
Were your ears ringing? I was just thinking about you 😍
Before you have a chance to lock your phone, the speech bubble pops up and taunts you with its three flashing dots. It disappears, reappears, and then your phone buzzes once more.
I know you have class. Pay attention.
Says the guy who just distracted me with a nice little pre-weekend deposit
Is that your way of saying thank you, brat?
You feel a familiar heat prickling the back of your neck and take a quick look around to make sure your classmates are focused on the lecture. Hiding your phone in your lap, you hunt through recent pictures until you find a specific photo: a shot of your body from the neck down, clad in a lacy red set that barely counts as underwear. Attaching the image to your text, you shoot back a response.
No Daddy... THIS is 🥰
Shuffling from all around you alerts you to the fact that class has mercifully ended, and you stand to gather your things, slipping your phone into the back pocket of your jeans. You make plans to meet up with a classmate at a coffee shop on Sunday to peer edit each other’s final papers for the course, then start your trek to the parking lot. As you approach your car, your phone begins vibrating incessantly and you tuck it between your ear and shoulder after accepting the call. “House of Hotchner’s whores, how may I serve you today?”
You receive an exasperated sigh in response, but you can hear the grin behind it. “What if it wasn’t me on the other end, hm?”
Climbing into the driver’s seat, you give your phone a moment to connect to the Bluetooth system before firing back, “No one else calls me, old man.”
“This old man can easily revoke the allowance he just gave you.” He speaks in a low murmur, and you can’t help but wonder if he’s making this illicit call from his office.
“Wow,” you laugh warmly, “you just went from Daddy to Dad in record time.”
“Please, for both of our sakes, don’t ever say that again.” Another laugh punches out of you and you relent, “Deal.” Then, after a beat, “Are you still coming over tonight?”
He sighs again, this time with true remorse. “No, angel, I’m sorry. We just got a case out in LA.”
“Alright, go save the world, Mister Unit Chief,” you tease. “I’ll do the hard work of keeping you entertained while you’re gone.”
His voice drops even lower, now tinged with a gruffness that sends a bolt of heat through your body. “Thank you, Princess. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
“I know you will,” you purr, knowing that the longer wait will make your reunion all the more satisfying. “Be safe.”
“Always.” You go to hang up the phone but pause when you hear him take a breath. “Princess?”
“Hm?”
“Get something purple this time.”
_____
Several hours and a stupid amount of money to be spent in one shopping spree later, you trundle up the stairs to your second floor apartment, arms laden with shopping bags. You let yourself in before closing and locking the door behind you, then head down the hallway to drop your purchases off in your bedroom. After a luxurious bath to wash the grime of the week away, you pull on one of Aaron’s t-shirts from your steadily growing collection and are preparing to settle on the couch to peruse takeout options when a knock sounds at the door. As if on cue, your phone lights up on the nightstand with a text.
Dinner’s on me, angel. Sorry I’m not there to enjoy it with you.
A pleasant warmth settles in your bones at Aaron’s thoughtfulness, and you open the door to find a delivery from your favorite Vietnamese restaurant and a bottle of Moscato to accompany it. After getting comfortable with your dinner on the couch, you hunt through your rented movies for the Fifty Shades trilogy and press play before typing out a response.
Keep spoiling me like this and I won’t know how to act
You’re my Princess- You deserve to be spoiled.
A giggle bubbles out of you and you resist the urge to kick your feet like a teenager with a raging crush. Instead, you opt for a much more dignified reply.
Thank you Daddy 🥰
With twenty minutes remaining in the sequel, feeling emboldened by several glasses of wine and the content playing before you, you send another text to Aaron.
I can’t wait to show you what I spent all your hard earned money on today 😘
He has yet to answer by the time the credits are rolling and you recall that, much to your dismay, he’s three hours behind you and probably still at the local precinct. Deciding that you’ll read to pass the time, you finish off your wine and put your leftovers in the fridge before heading to your bedroom. You open up a video call on your laptop and send an invitation to join to Aaron, then settle back against your pillow with your latest novel.
A few chapters in, you recognize that trying to distract yourself is a feeble affair when your eyes gloss over the same paragraph several times in a row. Giving up on the book, you place it on your nightstand and let your hands wander your body just as Aaron’s would. Wearing his shirt has you cocooned in his distinct smell, and you can’t help but close your eyes and imagine he’s there with you, touching you, teasing you. Desperately wishing it was his large hands caressing your curves instead of your own, you gently cup your breasts and roll your nipples between your fingers, hips arching upward of their own accord in search of some friction. You ignore the budding heat between your thighs, continuing to play with your nipples and enjoying the way the soft fabric of Aaron’s shirt heightens every sensation. Before long, soft pants are falling past your lips and your panties are soaked with your arousal.
One hand comes down to grip the edge of Aaron’s shirt as the other dips beneath the band of your underwear. You take it slow, drawing languid circles around your core, and you can practically hear the low rumble of his voice against the shell of your ear, telling you that You haven’t earned it yet. Sliding your middle finger between your folds, you try to imagine it’s Aaron’s thick cock, right where you want it but not giving in. He loves to watch you fall apart before he’s even inside you, letting your slick gather along his cock, the tip nudging against your clit now and then. The very thought has a low whine building in your throat, and you brush the pad of your finger over your sensitive button to draw out the fantasy.
Unable and unwilling to deny yourself any longer, you hook your thumbs into your panties and shimmy them down your legs, kicking them off across the room. Your middle finger circles your nub once more, and then you ease two fingers into your core until your knuckles stop you from pressing any further. You whimper at the sensation, pleased with the fullness but frustrated it’s just not right, aching for Aaron to work his magic on your body. Letting out a determined huff, you clamp down on your bottom lip and begin working your fingers in and out of your pussy in earnest, your other hand coming down to collect your slick and spread it over your nub. You dig your heels into the mattress, raising your hips to try and mimic the angle of Aaron fucking into you, steadily increasing the speed of your fingers as pathetic little mewls fall past your parted lips. Your whines turn into full blown moans, and your cries are rising in pitch when you realize you’re no longer alone.
“Got tired of waiting for me, huh, Princess?”
Putting a pause on your self-care, you blink the haze of arousal out of your bleary eyes and find Aaron seated at a desk, presumably in his hotel room. His tie hangs loosely around his neck, the top two buttons of his crisp white button down undone and showing off a tantalizing sliver of chest. His mouth is set in a hard line in an attempt at disapproval, but even through the slightly grainy image you can spot the gleam in his smoldering eyes.
Using your foot to nudge the laptop between your legs, you give Aaron a clear view of your fingers resuming their path of easing in and out of your soaking wet pussy. You simper, “Just getting warmed up for you, Daddy.”
“What a good girl,” he breathes out, gaze locked on your core. “Turn towards me, let me see all of you.”
You obediently change positions, scooting your laptop back so he can see a majority of your body, and his breath hitches when he spots the shirt you have on. “Is that mine?”
You draw your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes fluttering shut as your middle finger circles your clit, and nod. “I hope you don’t- fuck- mind. Smells like you.”
“Whatever makes my little girl happy,” he says, and you nearly purr at the name. When you open your eyes again, you pout at the sight of him still in the same position. He picks up on your disappointment immediately and asks, “What is it?”
“Can you-” Your cheeks grow warm with a sudden shyness and you duck your head before softly requesting, “Wanna see you, Daddy.”
He raises one eyebrow at you, arms crossed, fixing you with that look. “Daddy’s right here for you to see. Use your words and tell me what you really want.”
A shudder races down your spine at his commanding tone coupled with your thumb brushing over your clit, and you suddenly find your voice. “What I really want is your fingers in my mouth and your fat cock in my pussy but-” A wanton moan interrupts your thought as your fingers curl against the perfect spot. “Right now I’d settle for just seeing your cock.”
“Was that so hard?”
You smirk at him as he rises from the desk and moves to the bed, settling in a reflection of your position with the laptop beside him. “Not as hard as you are right now.”
“Bold of you to assume, little one.” He laughs at how quickly you’ve adopted your brazen attitude, the sound rich and warm as it fills every corner of your bedroom.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” you challenge, slowly drawing your fingers out of your pussy.
You hear him unzip his work slacks, the familiar sound sending yet another bolt of heat to your core, before he growls out, “I can’t.”
“Oh fuck,” you breathe out, utterly mesmerized by the sight before you. Aaron is lazily fisting his rock hard cock, pausing to swipe his thumb over the head and gather the precum there before gliding his hand down to the base and gently squeezing until the vein on the underside is pulsing and your mouth is watering. Your body responds instinctively, walls clenching around nothing and desperate to be filled, your clit throbbing with need. Gathering the fresh wave of arousal dripping down your thighs, you press your fingers back into your hole and let out a frustrated cry. “It’s not enough.”
“Look at me,” Aaron says, his voice gentle but commanding, always in tune with what you need. You lift your gaze to meet his on the screen and he continues, “You’re not going to bed until we get you to cum, do you understand?”
You nod, and he praises you with a small smile. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Princess,” he begins, your eyes tracking his every movement as he slowly works his hand over his length. “You’re going to put three fingers in your mouth- go ahead, do it now,” he encourages, waiting for you to place your index, middle, and ring fingers in your mouth before continuing, “and get them nice and wet for me. Close your eyes and imagine they’re mine. Can you do that for me, baby girl?”
You close your eyes and mumble an affirmative around your fingers while your head drops into a nod, the taste of your own arousal bursting over your tongue as you swirl it around the digits. “Such a good girl,” Aaron coos, and you once again clench around nothing at the pride woven through his words. “You just love having my fingers in your mouth, don’t you?”
“Mhm,” you cry, the sound muffled by your digits as drool slips out between the corner where your lips meet.
“Now take your fingers out of your mouth and let me see those beautiful eyes.” You do as he says, eager to please, and Aaron lets out a ragged, “Fuck,” at the sight of your lust-blown pupils framed by delicate lashes. “Slide your fingers into that pretty little pussy all the way, then hold still for me. Just like when I’m fucking you, yeah, Princess?”
Your mouth drops open and you take a shuddering breath at the stretch. “Now what?”
“You’re going to watch me and do exactly what I do. Your fingers, my cock. Got it?” A slow grin spreads across your face and you nod eagerly, understanding his premise. He slides his fist up the length of his cock and you ease your fingers out of your pussy, perfectly matching his unhurried pace. “Good girl,” Aaron breathes out, “just like that.”
He slowly builds up to a steady rhythm, the sound of his fist repeatedly meeting his pelvis joining with your fingers pulsing in and out of your sopping cunt to form a depraved symphony. You watch your lover on the other side of the country, transfixed by the way his typical stoicism is dissolving before you into guttural moans and hedonistic cries of your name. He bites down on his lip, determined to not break eye contact with you as you both fight the urge to squeeze your eyes shut from pure pleasure. Aaron tugs his tie off and tosses it away, then hurriedly unbuttons his shirt, all the while working his fist over his length. Even in the dim lighting of his hotel room, you can see the sheen of sweat coating his skin, and saliva pools in your mouth at the thought of running your tongue over every delicious inch of him when he returns home. You tell him as much, in vivid detail, and he releases a low groan that reverberates throughout your room.
“I’m so close, Daddy,” you whine, and you see his pace beginning to falter as well.
“I know you are, Princess. Doing so well for me,” he pants, now squeezing the base of his cock on every downstroke. With Aaron, you always come first- in every sense of the word. “I need you to cum for me. Need you to clench that pretty pussy around my cock so I can fill you up. That’s what you want, isn’t it, baby?”
“Fuck yes,” you cry out, feeling your walls clamp down around your fingers in response to his words. “Gonna be a good girl for you, Daddy,” you babble, “always wanna be your good girl.” Your entire body tenses and your breath stutters in your throat just before the coil deep in your belly snaps and a desperate cry of Aaron’s name bounces off the walls of your bedroom. His moans grow louder and longer, his cock feverishly thrusting up into his hand until he finally gives in to his orgasm, thick ropes of cum coating his hand and stomach.
Lying back in bed to give yourself a few beats to calm your erratic breathing, you quip, “I don’t think I’ve ever been so jealous of a hand before.”
You hear Aaron’s warm laugh from a distance and then he’s filling your screen once more, now clean and fully sans clothing. “Trust me when I say the feeling is mutual.”
Propping yourself up on one elbow, you smile at the handsome man before you. “You know what my next purchase is gonna be?”
“Enlighten me.”
“A mold of your cock so I’m never without you.”
“Absolutely not,” he scoffs immediately. “Then you won’t need me anymore.”
“Of course I’ll still need you! Who else is going to fund my lavish lifestyle?”
He grunts, unenthused, the hint of a smile making his lips twitch. “Brat.”
You scrunch your nose in delight and grin at him. “Thank you for my little shopping spree today. And for tonight, of course.”
“My pleasure, angel,” he answers warmly. “Same time tomorrow, if our case continues on this trajectory.”
With a playful laugh, you tease, “You wish.”
He grows serious, mouth setting in a hard line. “I’m sorry, Princess, you mistook that for a question- it wasn’t.”
“Yes, sir, Mister Unit Chief,” you respond through a nervous giggle with a mock salute.
“That’s my girl,” he breaks into a soft smile once more. “Get yourself cleaned up, drink some water, and get a good night’s rest, okay?”
You nod obediently and blow him a kiss. “Goodnight, Aaron.”
“Goodnight, beautiful.” You go to exit the call, then stop when he calls your name, raising an eyebrow in question. “Save what you bought until I get home. I want to see you in my shirt again tomorrow.”
_____
Hotch taglist: @gothwifehotchner
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touch0fecstasy · 21 days
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hi! could you write one where reader is struggling with a fear food and chris helps her through it? extra fluff and gentle praise? thank you!!
Fear Food - C. Sturniolo
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Summary : Recovery is hard, but your loving boyfriend is always there to help you <3
Warnings : Descriptions of disordered eating, mental health struggles
Word Count :
Pairing : Chris Sturniolo/Reader (romantic)
A/N : I loved this req <3 ty so much for being my first Sturniolo fic req!!
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Mental health is an incredibly challenging thing, and when specific parts of it wreaked havoc on your life, it was even more difficult to bounce back from that. All mental health issues were challenging, but some of them had affected you more than anything. You had spent a long time dealing with an aggressive eating disorder, and even years later, you were still recovering from the effects of it, and still going through difficult patches in your life. You considered yourself in the healing process, and lucky for the fact that you had made it out of the most dangerous portion of it, but that didn’t mean that it was completely gone. 
You still had a lot to recover from, a lot of misconstrued thoughts and ideas that hadn’t completely left you yet, but you were slowly getting there. However, that meant that there were still a lot of things that had the potential to send you back into a dark spiral, and that included a lot of fear foods that you hadn’t gotten back into the habit of eating without letting yourself slip back into a bad moment. You were slowly tackling them, trying a new one every so often, because it took a lot of courage and could take a lot out of you to try and overcome that. 
You had a good support system now, and didn’t feel as alone as you did when you were in the depths of your disorder. And you made sure that you never took them for granted, because they were a big part of the reason that you kept going and kept trying to get better, kept continuing on that path of healing. Your boyfriend and his family had rallied around you from the second that they had found out, knowing that you didn’t have that support system from your own family, and they had never let you feel alone in your struggles. Your struggles weren’t broadcasted, of course, but you were supported in every way that they possibly could, despite not completely understanding what you were going through. 
Your boyfriend had promised with his entire heart that he was never going to let you go through anything like this on your own, and that he was going to do everything possible to keep you from having to deal with it at all, no matter what he had to do. And he had upheld that promise with everything in him, making sure that he was always next to you when you needed him, a comforting hand holding yours if it was necessary, a gentle reminder that he was always there for you. He was an absolutely amazing human being, and sometimes you had no idea how you had managed to be so incredibly lucky. He was nothing short of an angel, and he did everything he could for you, no matter what he had to sacrifice. 
He had kept that promise, and was still continuing to keep it, as he sat next to you at the kitchen table, a hand gently caressing the back of yours with his thumb, arm wrapped around your shoulders as he side hugged you close to him. You weren’t speaking very much, simply staring at the drink in front of you, quietly building up the courage to move towards it. You had gone out for dinner, and Chris had gently suggested going out for milkshakes afterwards. You had been a little anxious about it at first, and he had promised that it wouldn’t be a big deal if you didn’t want to go, and he would only do what you were comfortable with. However, he also knew that you were trying to tackle another fear food soon, and this seemed like one that he could definitely tackle with you. Eventually, after thinking about it for a while, you agreed, still a little tentative, but willing to try it with him by your side. 
You had gotten the smallest size, not quite ready for anything more than that, and you had decided to take it home instead of eating it there, since the ice cream shop wasn’t too far, and you’d feel safer in a familiar setting. So that was how you got to this point, silently trying to work up the courage to actually drink the shake before it melted too much. Chris was kind, soft with you, speaking for the both of you as his arm around your shoulders helped you stay grounded. 
“I know it’s terrifying, baby, but you can do it. If you don’t want it, or aren’t ready, we can put it in the freezer and try again another day.” 
You shook your head, sighing before reaching for the cup. 
“No, I do want it, it’s just… I’m anxious about it. But I want it.” 
He pressed a gentle kiss to the side of your head, sliding the cup forward to meet your hand. 
“I understand that. You deserve this, honey. You don’t have to finish it if it’s too much for you, we can always save it. Your body deserves this, baby.” 
You really didn’t know how you had been so lucky to win such a supportive boyfriend, one who told you that you were strong, perfect, and amazing multiple times a day, but you hoped on everything that you’d get to keep him around permanently. Finally starting to drink the milkshake you’d gotten, the smile that broke out on Chris’ face was enough to make you smile back at him. 
You didn’t finish it, but you drank about half, and when you decided you were done with it for the night, Chris set it in the freezer before coming back to the table. 
Placing his hands on either side of your face, he pressed a kiss to your forehead before pressing one to your lips, moving one hand to hold your own. 
“I am so proud of you.” 
Quickly kissing him back before pulling off, your smile stayed on your face. 
“Me too. Thank you.”
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~ taglist : @blahbel668 @mattsgirlfrieeend @69isabella69 @mayhem-72 @iculdstealurgf @iluvm4ttsturni0l0 @sturnioloslife @heartsforkarina @nervousrebelglitter @sturniclo @elliegrace-7 @mattsturnioloisbae
~ if you'd like to be added to my taglist, click here!
~ my inbox is open, come chat!!
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myosotisa · 9 months
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Like Real People Do - e.m.
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Part 2/2 - What did you bury?
ǁ  summary: After your altercation with Eddie, you find yourself facing a lot of questions and uncertainty. Attempting to look closer at why you're in rehab, how you feel about him, and what the future holds for you feels like more than you're willing to take on until you realize it's only hurting you more not to.
ǁ  tags: angst, hurt/comfort, heavy themes. depictions of inpatient rehab in the 90s. implied fem!Reader, no pronouns used, no y/n. strangers to reluctant acquaintances to lovers. happy ending!
ǁ  content warning: both parts will contain mentions of drug use, struggling with addiction, self worth, society's view on drug users, grief, and death by drug overdose. brief mention of domestic violence and drug assisted disordered eating. please consume thoughtfully and if you have any questions before reading, feel free to message me.
ǁ  word count: 12k
ǁ  Part 1 ǁ  Read on AO3 ǁ
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It may help to understand human affairs to be clear that most of the great triumphs and tragedies of history are caused, not by people being fundamentally good or fundamentally bad, but by people being fundamentally people. ― Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch
You’re sitting on an examination table in the hospital wing in a paper gown with Dr. Lincoln fluttering around you like a nervous mother. Penelope had taken you right here after you had gotten all of the dirt off of your hands and pants, explaining Mr. Ford and Dr. Lincoln insisted on seeing you. Despite your assurances that you were completely fine, just shaken up, they had gotten you into a gown and prepared for a full exam.
“Are you able to lift your arms above your head?”
You do as asked, face stoic despite the pain in your shoulders from the movement.
“How about twisting? Carefully! How does that feel on your lower back?”
Performing the action, you also easily hide the discomfort the throbbing in your tailbone causes when you shift in your seat. “It feels fine.”
“And your head? You didn’t hit it? Does it hurt? Blurry vision, nausea, confusion?”
“No,” you sigh out, quickly losing patience with Dr. Lincoln’s anxious questioning. You can’t remember now if he was like this when you were first admitted or if he’s going overboard now because he’s worried about some kind of lawsuit. “I told you, I’m fine.”
He plucks your chart off the edge of the table, pen clicking as he begins to write furious lines along the bottom of the page. “I can give you some ibuprofen for the pain. Nothing stronger than that, of course. Given the circumstances.”
A deep breath in through your nose and out through your mouth. “I don’t want anything. It doesn’t hurt.”
Liar.
Penelope steps up from where she was having a hushed discussion with Mr. Ford off to the side. “Are you sure? It looked like quite the fall.”
“I’m sure. I don’t want any painkillers.”
This pain is good. I need it. I deserve it.
Mr. Richard Ford steps up then – a severe looking man in his late 50s, always dressed in a freshly pressed suit and tie, with his hair combed just so and his mustache neatly trimmed across his upper lip. You’re still not sure if he’s related to the Ford’s that founded the facility or if it’s just a coincidence that he shares the surname.
His dress shoes click across the tiles as he approaches you, throat clearing uncomfortably when he enters the circle that has formed around the table. “Miss…” He looks down at your file and repeats your last name like he’s never read it before, earning him a cold glare from Penelope. “I am deeply sorry for what occurred. I assure you we don’t tolerate that kind of behavior here.” He adjusts his tie along with his posture, looking proud as he explains, “We’re already in the process of having Mr. Munson transferred to another facility.”
A lick of panic rockets up your spine. “No.” 3 sets of eyes lock on you, emotions ranging from curious to concerned. “You don’t have to do that.” Your fingers curl into fists where they sit on your thighs before relaxing, taking some of the tension in your body with it. “I don’t want you to transfer him.”
He seems to hesitate then, bushy eyebrows drawing together on his wrinkled forehead. “Are you positive? It’s important to us that you feel safe here.”
“I do feel safe here,” you press, looking back and forth between the three of them before settling on Penelope. “It was an accident. Eddie’s barely into his detox – barely started therapy – and I should’ve known better than to get into an argument with him.” Her face remains passive, unreadable. No insight into how she feels about what you’re saying. “It’s my fault as much as his. It wouldn’t be fair to move him, not when he’s struggling this much, this early into his treatment. I don’t want him moved.”
“That’s very kind of you, but you should be more concerned about yourself.” Dr. Lincoln takes a small step forward, adjusting the collar of your gown to take another look at the quickly forming bruises near your collarbone. “You’re not worried about something like this happening again with him, maybe even worse?”
You think back to the moment you hit the ground. Looking up at him, silhouetted by the bright afternoon sun, leaving almost all of him cast in shadow. The way he looked utterly terrified at what he’d done. How quickly he had tried to apologize when he came back to himself.
Potentially evil. Potentially good, too, I suppose. Just this huge powerful potentiality waiting to be shaped.
“No, it’s fi–” Hazel eyes narrow into a squint, stopping your sentence in its tracks. Another deep breath, in and out, and you try again. “I’m not worried. He won’t do something like this again. I want him to stay.”
A few moments of silence follows your declaration, Mr. Ford and Dr. Lincoln glancing at each other before looking to Penelope. Her calculating gaze remains on you, entirely unwavering even as the other two stare holes into the sides of her face. For the first time, you make a conscious effort to keep eye contact, to remain firm despite your desire to shy away.
The corner of her mouth lifts almost imperceptibly in response.
“Then that settles it.” She clasps her hands together in front of her stomach, looking back and forth between the men beside her with a placating smile. “Mr. Munson will stay, pending further transgressions.”
Your shoulders sag in a relief you hadn’t anticipated feeling, but you’re quick to straighten when she addresses you again. “Any other incidents, with you or any other resident, and he will be moved to another facility. Understood?”
It feels like a lifeline. Like a chance. Like an opportunity.
If you want him here, then help him stay.
“Understood.”
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The next morning when you walk out for breakfast at 8:30 sharp, there’s something sitting on your table. It strikes you as odd immediately given you’re one of the first people out of your room today and there doesn’t seem to be anyone milling around. You withhold your curiosity – follow the same pattern of line, meds, line, breakfast. Stamp down the nervous feeling in your gut as you cautiously approach.
Completely dusted free of dirt and with your bookmark perfectly in place, is Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch. It had completely slipped your mind that you’d even dropped it. You place down your tray with shaky hands and pick it up, flipping through the pages like you’re checking it for wounds. There’s no note, no sign, nothing that could indicate who brought it back for you.
But you know who. It scares you half to death that you know just who, that you know it with certainty.
When is the last time anything felt certain?
The question lingers, festers, and grows as you push around your food and wait for him to plop down in front of you. Imagining what stupid thing he might say, how you would brush it off with a groan and a snarky comment, how he would take that reaction with a smile and never press for more. 
He never shows.
It’s with great annoyance that you find yourself looking for him all day. Sitting in your chair by the window, you glance up every half a page to see if you can catch a glimpse of his shaggy hair around the hall. You actually take a walk during your outside time instead of hiding, and you tell yourself it’s because you want the exercise and it’s finally cool enough outside to not sweat your balls off, but that doesn’t exactly account for the way your eyes search the grounds for any sign of tattooed forearms and lanky legs.
When you walk into Therapy House with the others that afternoon, Eddie is already inside. He’s in the chair beside Penelope, slumped down so far most of his ass is hanging off the edge, legs out long, and looking every bit a kicked puppy. You silently beg him to make eye contact with you as you sit, willing your stare into a physical sensation that might force him to just look at you.
He doesn’t look away from his own hands once, silent as a mouse the entire session.
The moment group is over and the counselors come around to collect their first resident of the day, you’re walking across the sunbathed birch wood floors and stopping short just behind him before you can even think about it.
“Eddie,” it comes out as a sigh, eyes pinned to the way his shoulder blades tense before your very eyes, “I haven’t seen you all day.”
“I’ve, uh… Been in here, for the most part,” he explains over his shoulder, still not turning to face you. His voice is hoarse around the edges, ragged and torn from overuse.
“Oh, okay.” Your face pinches in concern, hand raising like you want to reach out to him but hesitating there. “About… about yesterday–”
“Sorry,” he cuts you off sharply, turning halfway toward you with red-rimmed eyes still trained on the floor, “I’ve gotta go.”
He’s halfway across the room and climbing up the stairs to the lofts two at a time before you can say another word.
The image of the swollen redness around his teary eyes, half covered by his hair as he refuses to look at you for even a moment, haunts you for the rest of the week.
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“So, how are you feeling today?”
Penelope is dressed in a teal silk blouse. It washes out her skin tone and the boat neckline makes her shoulders look too small. Not to mention the strange height of the cinch just below her bust, giving it the appearance of a child’s nightgown. Plainly, it looks really bad on her. All of her clothes are carefully curated and fashion forward – meant to make a statement about who she is and the authority she holds. This is absolutely not making that statement. And you were staring at it for all of group, trying to wrap your head around what it meant.
“Who gave you that shirt?”
This might be the first time she’s ever looked even half surprised at something you’ve said, her lips parting slightly as she glances down at her chest like she had forgotten what she was wearing. “I’m not sure what you mean,” she looks back at you, passive expression back in place.
“You would’ve never bought it, I’m surprised you’re allowing yourself to be seen in it,” you continue, eyes narrowing into a squint as you continue to search it and her for clues. “The fact that you’re wearing it makes me think someone gave it to you and you’re going to see them today, so you felt obligated to wear it to please them. Maybe one of your parents or a sibling or a friend… A partner?”
She uncrosses her legs just to recross in the other direction, attempting to appear amused as you explain. Gotcha.
“A partner, then. One who obviously doesn’t know you very well, or doesn’t understand fashion at all, because the color is god awful and the shape even worse. But you want to impress them enough that you’re willing to wear it anyway.”
If it was an after work date, she would’ve changed after. So it’s someone she would mostly see during her normal day. Plus, she lives and breathes her job, when would she have had time to meet someone?
“I didn’t realize you paid that much attention to what I wear… Or that you were so into fashion,” she offers casually. Too casually to play off.
A bit too sharp, a bit too pointed, you snap back. “I’m not into fashion and you’re deflecting.”
She blinks at you for a few moments before she settles back into her chair, draping her arms over her stomach. “And you’re projecting.”
“No, I’m not,” and it comes out defensive. Too defensive to play off.
So then the quiet kicks in. Queen Penelope Windsor’s beloved uncomfortable silence. Part of you is convinced one of her professors taught her that awkward silence is an invaluable tool in psychiatry. You want to know who that professor is, so you can inform them how utterly wrong they are.
Penelope is, however, utterly right.
“I’m projecting,” you concede, gaze casting down to your lap to settle into the discomfort.
Her pen clicks and it feels like salt in your wound. “Okay then. Would you like to talk about what you’re avoiding?”
And maybe you’re not quite done being snarky when you reply, “Isn’t the whole point of deflecting because you don’t want to talk about it?”
“It can be. But I still would like to give you the opportunity to. You never know, it might help you feel better.”
Your eyes roll hard enough to just see white for a moment, looking off to the stupid little white noise machine in the corner. It’s the size of a radio clock and sits directly on the floor by the door – you’ve almost tripped on it 10 times.
Probably an accessibility hazard. Someone should really complain about that. If someone less coordinated, or even Thomas with his cane, tried to walk in they could really get hurt.
“Fuck!” The exclamation comes from nowhere, probably just barely loud enough to draw attention from outside the room. Penelope remains incredibly passive despite the sudden change in your attitude, not making a move or a sound as you bury your face in your hands with your elbows propped on your thighs.
Probably just interrupted other therapy sessions. Made them lose track of what they are talking about. Maybe even triggered someone unintentionally with your sudden yell. Great job, idiot.
Digging your nails into the skin along your hairline, you take in a hissing breath through your teeth and attempt to exhale some of the tension. It’s been weaving through your muscles all week, infecting all of your time, distracting you at all hours of the day. A part of you hoped it was just another phase in recovery but it just keeps getting worse and worse.
Penelope’s voice is softer when she speaks next, more cautious. “Can you tell me what you’re thinking about right now that’s distressing you?”
“It’s the fact that I’m fucking thinking that’s distressing me.”
Realizing that probably doesn’t help at all, and most likely makes you sound insane, you release your hands to clasp tightly in your lap as you raise your head to look at her again. “I can’t stop thinking. I can’t stop noticing everything. I can’t stop.”
“Okay,” she gives a small nod of encouragement, sliding her notebook further into her lap to focus more attention on you. “What are you thinking about?”
“Everything. Your shirt and the noise machine and how someone could trip on it and hurt themselves. And how we are required to have 1 hour outside a day but half of us sit in the shade the entire time because it’s too hot or we don’t want to get sunburnt, and they aren’t exactly going to start stocking sunscreen and ointment just to facilitate 60 minutes in the sun. I’m thinking about how I finally figured out that there’s a different cook on the weekends and that’s why the stupid scrambled eggs they make us every day are oversalted Friday through Sunday and undersalted all the other days. I’m thinking about how all of the books in the library used to have an organization system but no one takes care of it – so all the books are all in the wrong places and now I feel like I have to take some of my free time to fix it because I know nobody else will, even though I can’t figure out why I fucking care so much. I’m thinking about how you asked me to help Eddie so he could stay here in recovery and I want to do that because he latched on to me when he first got here and now I suddenly feel responsible for him, even though I didn’t even like the guy at first, and now he won’t even fucking talk to me so I can’t do that.”
You inhale sharply, talking way too fast but unable to stop. “I’m thinking about how this facility is built to house 50 people or more but only gets one new resident a month, maybe two. So why is it so big? Why not bring in more people? Probably because they’re only accepting the people willing to turn out their wallets in order to get help or because they know someone who will so then all the people who really need help are left to fucking die under highways and in abandoned buildings because if they don’t have money, they don’t fucking mean anything to anyone. But for some reason I still care about that and feel bad about it and feel responsible for it even though there is literally nothing I could possibly do to change any of it.”
Another heaving breath that makes your chest feel too tight and you’re squeezing your eyes shut against the brunt of the pressure. “I can’t stop thinking about everything and I feel like it’s fucking crushing me and I just want something to turn my brain off – but that’s the entire fucking reason I’m here in the first place. I started using because I just wanted something to numb it all.”
The admission feels like a slap across the face. Like being dunked head first in ice water. The reality of where you started. 
The sprawling, trembling fault line that led you here – to where the tectonic plates move and shift. Where the earthquakes, that used to feel like subtle vibration in the dirt beneath your feet, now knock you to the ground with ease. Standing on the edge of the chasm between that you’re still not ready to cross.
Because what’s on the other side?
And what if I fall through?
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The next week of your life passes in a sort-of overwhelmed daze. The realization of that pit before you– what it means, what it could do. It hangs around like a spirit haunting your home. It’s always been there, you just couldn’t see it, too focused on your own feet and keeping them moving to see anything beyond the inches of ground in front of you.
Now, the inches of ground before you are darkness. Unfathomably deep and impenetrably dark. And on the other side, there’s sun. Grass. Trees.
Shouldn’t I want to get there? Shouldn’t I be excited to jump?
The questions follow you through your days on autopilot as you keep to your schedule.
On the two week anniversary of your argument with Eddie, Penelope announces that, instead of talking in a circle for group today, she’ll be pairing you off into partners to play games. Trust exercises, she assures you when you all look at each other like she’s lost her mind. It wasn’t the first time she had used her slot of time to do some kind of activity – but it hadn’t been something like this.
And really you should have seen it coming.
Because Queen Penelope, in her oh so infinite wisdom, points you and Eddie to a pair of chairs facing each other below the skylight. While Eddie shows little to no reaction as he shuffles over, you cast a pleading look at her. Hoping to get across some of the betrayal you’re feeling in your eyes.
She just smiles. Meets you with silence before shuffling around the other pairs of residents throughout the room.
When you sit down on the metal folding chair across from him, you get your first good look since the day after you’d argued. The last few times you’d seen him, he looked no better than a zombie – half awake and half asleep as he went through his days. He’d kept quiet for the most part in group, only adding in a sentence or two at times, and left his 1 on 1 session in the lofts with red rimmed eyes and looking about ready to pass out. But he’d also gotten into the habit of playing cards most days with his roommate, Howard. And while you couldn’t imagine the gruff old man of few words was very good company to keep, sometimes you could have sworn you’d look over and see them smiling.
Maybe it was just wishful thinking.
The both of you wordlessly adjust on the seats, warmed by the sunshine filtering through the circular window overhead. Penelope had placed the chairs close enough together that, with his long legs, you both accidentally kept knocking knees. The third time, you muttered, “Sorry,” which brought a small smile to his face.
He ends up with his knees splayed wide, hands resting on his thighs, while you bring your knees in tight together, propping your feet up on the bar beneath your chair as you settle into soft tapping of your fingertips near your knees. Beyond your apology, neither of you say a word or make any eye contact as you watch Penelope and wait for instruction.
“So, the aim of the exercise is simple,” she explains, projecting her voice slightly as her heels click along the wood, “it’s a question and answer. Going back and forth to learn more about each other, being as honest as you’re comfortable being. This is not supposed to be something that causes you intense distress. But don’t be afraid to lean into some discomfort if you feel it. You might end up discovering something valuable about yourself.”
When you glance back at Eddie, his big brown eyes are already looking at you.
A warm feeling creeps up your spine, your fingers twitching in your lap as you adjust to the unexpected attention. His expression is pensive, gentle… Soft. He doesn’t look mad, or hurt, or upset. He’s looking at you like he’s happy you’re here – sitting across from him in the subtle heat of the sun. And while you’re glad he doesn’t seem upset to be forced to speak with you, you’re more confused than anything.
In a move that surprises even yourself, you break the silence first. “Hey.”
His chest rises in a deep inhale, shoulders and arms relaxing on the long exhale before he responds. “Hey.” You offer a small, slightly awkward smile, and he mirrors it as you adjust to tuck your hands under your thighs, bringing your shoulders slightly forward. “I wanted to apologize.”
Blinking at him a few times, you manage an unsure, “Oh?”
“You were right,” he sighs, hands coming together over his abdomen to fiddle with his own fingers. “I… I needed a wakeup call. Some sense knocked into me.” The corners of his eyes pinch up in pain before he returns your eye contact again. “I’m just really, really sorry it came from hurting you.”
“You didn’t hurt me,” you rush to try to assure him, pushing away the ache of the bruises that have faded from your tailbone, “I was more just shocked than anything.”
He winces, forefinger and thumb pinching some skin between his nails. “I appreciate you saying so, but you don’t have to sugarcoat it for me.” His eyes cast down to your knees before he continues, “I know what a push like that can do.”
Unsure exactly how to take that statement, mind absolutely swirling with possible solutions, you swallow dryly and offer an, “Okay.”
Tense silence falls back over you both, the murmured conversations of other residents echoing throughout the open space into a white noise of unintelligible words. You sit and you wait as Eddie rubs the pads of his thumbs together, lower lip drawing up between his teeth as he continues to stare at your knees. He looks deep in thought – eyebrows twitching together a few times before he seems to remember himself again. Adjusting to sit up straighter in his chair, one of his knees knocks against the outside of yours before he clears his throat. “What are we, uh, supposed to be doing again?”
“Asking each other questions.”
A small scoff leaves his lips in a puff of air, the corner tilting up in amusement. “Like asking what’s your favorite color and shit?”
A soft smile and a smaller shake of your head, you flex your feet to point your toes toward the floor before relaxing again. “I think it’s supposed to be more drug and rehab and therapy related shit but… She really didn’t specify.”
“Ah… A tempting loophole,” he agrees, nodding his head as if he’s really thinking about it. “But I guess we should try to do what the good therapist thinks will help us, huh?”
A wistful sigh leaves you as you roll your shoulders back to sit up straighter. “I guess so. You can start.”
“Oh, shit.” You laugh softly at the awkward face he pulls when you put him on the spot, and the sound seems to put him at ease. “Okay… Oh! I asked you a couple weeks ago what you were in for. Like what you are, were, addicted to?”
A simple enough question, you answer quickly. “Oxycodone. And Alcohol. Normally together, I guess.”
If he’s surprised by your answer, he doesn’t show it, just lets out a low whistle through the side of his mouth. “Downers and downers, huh?”
“Yup,” you confirm, pressing your lips together and offering an awkward shrug. “What about you? You’ve mentioned coke and meth before…?”
“Mostly coke, meth, and alcohol,” his head rocks slowly back and forth in a nod. “But I’ve probably done a bit of everything – ecstasy, xanax, opioids, ketamine, the works.”
“Truly a man of culture,” you attempt as a joke, and his half smile tells you that you were successful.
“You could say that. So how’d you start? Using, I mean.”
“Like, where did I get it?” He shrugs and waves for you to continue with that thought. “A friend of mine, she was already involved in… All of it. And offered to connect me.”
“A stellar friend,” is his attempt at another joke.
The statement twists in your chest painfully, the cold feeling seeping out like a wrung washcloth. A sad smile and a deep breath to try to move past it. “And you? How’d you start?”
“Are you just gonna repeat all of my questions? Feels kinda unfair.”
“I’ll come up with a new one after this. Scout’s honor.”
He snorts, cracking a smile as he shakes his head again. “I don’t think you’re allowed to use that if you’re not a boy scout, but okay.” You’re about ready to retort back that he doesn’t know that you weren’t really a boy scout, but he answers your question before you can. “I was a dealer, back in high school. After my buddy Rick got arrested, I took over the mantle. Mostly just weed to suburban kids. I had other shit but didn’t sell it often. Back then, I needed the money more than I needed to sample the merchandise so… I would only smoke weed once in a blue moon when I had the extra stock.”
“As for when I really started…” He looks back down at his hands in his lap. “Our first tour. It was hectic – fucking nuts. More than we ever thought it would be. But we were living out our dream, y’know? It was like being in a fuckin’ movie sometimes.” A small, wistful smile tilts his mouth as he recalls the memories. “We were going 24/7 between the travel and the concerts and the afterparties. At one of ‘em, someone, understandably, brought the white shit.” The knuckles in his hands momentarily turn white as he grips them together, a subtle show of tension before they relax again. “You can, uh… You probably know where it goes from there.”
“I can assume, yeah,” it comes out softer than you thought it would, affected by his vulnerability. The Eddie you met on his first day would’ve never done anything like this. Would’ve never even spoken like this. How had so much changed so quickly? How had he surpassed you?
“Okay, how about…” Like he’s trying to bring some life back into himself and you, he begins a drumming tap on his thighs, shoulders rolling forward as he applies himself to the motion. You don’t bother to try to withhold your laugh, feeling your nose crinkle with the force of it. His chin tips up towards the sun, a cheeky grin splitting to show the whites of his teeth as he starts to hum a single note out into the open space, an over dramatic representation of his thinking.
“Eddie!”
The sharp call has both of you freezing, faces dropping as you slowly turn toward where Penelope stands with her hands on her hips and a deep scowl. “A little quieter, please?”
Your lips press together tight to withhold your laugh as he offers her a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”
When he turns back to you, looking a little embarrassed and thoroughly scolded, you can stop the laugh from escaping you in a snort through your nose. “It’s not funny,” he mutters, lower lip jutting out in a pout as he crosses his arms over his chest.
“You got in trouble with mom,” you whisper yell, leaning toward him with a teasing smile. “It’s kinda funny.”
His expression breaks – smile stretching against his will as you make fun of him. “Yeah, yeah. I bet you’ve never even gotten in trouble before. Ever. At all.”
Taking it as a challenge, a single eyebrow raises as you lean back into your chair. “Is that your question?”
Intrigue showing clearly, he nods, hair shifting from behind him over his shoulders as he does so. “Sure, that feels close enough to the topic. Have you ever gotten in trouble before?”
Tapping the tip of your finger against your chin, you make a small show of trying to think about it even though you already know what you’re going to say. “Three times come to mind.”
“Three?!” He gasps, hand flying to his chest in mock drama. “Say it ain’t so.”
“First, I convinced my grandfather to buy this huge box of ice creams for dogs. He thought it was for us so, when he walked into the kitchen, and I was holding it down for my dog to lick, he immediately started to yell at me. When I told him that’s what it was meant for, I swear to god – I thought he was going to pop a fucking blood vessel he was so mad.”
Eddie snorts as he shakes his head back and forth slowly. “That would be the kind of thing you’d consider getting in trouble.”
“Hey!” You point an accusing finger at him, falling into this comfortable dynamic between the two of you. “I’m not done yet!” Putting his hands up in surrender, he mimes pulling a zipper across his mouth as he settles down to look at you again. “The second… Well, I got called to the principal's office in high school. Because,” you take a deep breath, preparing for the inevitable reaction you’ll get, “because some kids were spreading a rumor that I was sleeping with a teacher.”
This finally seems to entertain him, jaw dropping slightly as his eyes widen. “Well, did you?!”
“No!” You’re quick to deny, voice rising slightly in pitch as you do. His chin dips down, looking up through his eyelashes at you, extremely unconvinced. “I mean, I probably could have, but I didn’t want to!”
His head rocks back as another low whistle presses out of the corner of his mouth. “Wow, sunshine… Now that’s some juicy gossip. Have you mentioned that one to Melissa?”
Your foot kicks out, knocking into his shin hard enough for him to sit up straighter in surprise. “Shut it, Munson.”
“Okay, okay! Sorr-ee, geeze.” And yet he’s nothing but smiles as he returns to making eye contact with you. “And third?”
“Third was definitely drug related.” You’re quick to amend, tucking your hands back under your thighs. “I was picking up some oxy after completely running out. Desperate enough that I went to his apartment while the sun was up – which I always tried not to do.” His head dips in acknowledgment, showing he’s actively listening as you continue. “It must have been my lucky day because the bag was barely in my hand before the door slams open, police screaming his name and boots stomping inside.” Adrenaline kicking up slightly at the memory, you can vividly picture the way your skinhead dealer went deathly pale in mere seconds at the noise. “It was a good thing that I wasn’t on anything that day because before I knew it, I was out the window, down the fire escape, across the alley, and over a fence. I didn’t stop running until I ducked into a Walmart – hiding in the crowd.”
“Damn.” He sighs, looking impressed but attempting to sound disappointed. “There’s a bit of a rebel in you after all.”
And while you’re not exactly sure if it’s something to be proud of, you’re at least happy to earn his approval as you raise your chin slightly. “See? More to me than meets the eye.”
The moment between you stretches out a bit too long as he seems to appraise you, a soft smile made warmer by sparkling eyes. It takes some conscious effort not to react to his study – heart thumping hard in your chest a few times before he agrees. “Pretty metal, I’ll give you that.”
Exhaling some of the tension in your shoulders, relaxing more into your chair, you’re quick to try to move on from talking about you. “You said you were dealing because you needed the money. Were you saving up to move out or something?”
His expression shifts, smile turning awkward as he brings a hand up to hook behind his neck, bent arm laying beside his chest. “Not exactly.” Giving him your full attention and what you hope is an encouraging smile, he takes a deep breath before he begins. “I moved in with my uncle when I was a kid. My dad’s brother Wayne. My parents weren’t…” His mouth presses into a thin line as he tries to think of how to phrase it. “My dad ended up in jail and my mom didn’t have it in her to be a single mom. Hadn’t worked in a long time, didn’t have the money, all that. So she dropped me off with my uncle with a promise to try to get her life together and come back.”
The implication there is heavy enough, sorrow settling into your gut like a brick, but he still adds, “That, uh… That never happened. So it was just me and Wayne and his one bedroom trailer in a small town in Indiana.” His arm drops from his neck, hands coming together in his lap so he can fidget with his own fingers again. “He did the best he could for a guy who never expected to have a kid – more than I could ever ask for. Gave me his room, worked night shifts at the power plant to bring in cash, made sure the pantry was never empty. But it was more than that, y’know? He is… He taught me how to change the oil of my car, how to fix the little AC unit in my window, how to tie a tie.”
His lips part in a smile, his eyes far off as he tells you, “we used to play cards a lot. I swear, no one has a better poker face than Wayne. You wouldn’t guess it from the looks of him, but he used to make a killing in Texas Hold ‘em back before I came into the picture.” His face drops slightly at that, eyebrows tipping up in an emotion that he’s quick to shake off. “But he has a tell – I learned when I was 13. When he’s bluffing, he’ll do a little sniff as he’s leaning back from raising. It’s really hard to tell but it’s there.” His excitement grows again, fidgeting in his hands ceasing. “He had this crazy collection of hats and mugs, and the one time I accidentally knocked one off the shelf and it broke – man,” he exhales, shaking his head. “I thought he was gonna cry. Never that he was gonna scream or yell or try to hit me or send me away. He would just get so sad, like he was about to start tearing up, and I’d always fold – scrambling to apologize and asking what I could do to make it better.”
Brown eyes flick back up to yours, quickly followed by a dusting of pink across his cheekbones and up to the tips of his ears. As if realizing he was getting off track, he clears his throat and says, “Anyway. It was always a struggle for him to get by, having to feed a boy with the appetite of a fucking rhino and everything else on top of that. So, when I got old enough, I started looking for anything I could do to bring some cash in. To try to… I mean, I could never repay him but like, to at least try to help, y’know?” You nod, not sure if he was actually looking for confirmation but he seems to appreciate the gesture regardless. “So I was doing odd jobs and started getting involved with stuff and eventually became an errand boy to Reefer Rick. Who I took over for when he got put away.”
Sensing a pause in his story, or at least what you perceive as one, you can’t withhold your curiosity as you press for more answers. “Is Wayne still alive? Like are you two still close?”
His face falls, that heavy feeling in your gut following closely after. “He’s alive, at least, as far as I know.” His attention is off in nowhere again as he visibly shrinks back as far as he can into the metal chair. “I went back to see him a year or so ago. I wasn’t doing so hot – couldn’t seem to even get out of bed without a line. He caught on pretty quick what was going on. Got more mad than I’d ever seen him.” He swallows harshly, attempting to get rid of the lump he feels growing there. “We both said some nasty shit – how he wasn’t really my dad and didn’t know what he was talking about. And he said I was turning into my dad, that I’d never looked more like him than I did that day. I stormed out. And we haven’t talked since.”
Your heart bleeds for the defeat you can see in his expression, the pain in the way he explains. How heavy it must be for him to carry that. While your first instinct is to offer apologies and words of comfort that really won’t matter much in the end, you settle for looking to the future. “Are you gonna reach out to him again? When you get clean?”
“I…” He looks confused then, hand coming up to rub at his forehead roughly before he settles. “I guess I hadn’t really thought about it.”
Taking a deep breath of your own, you muster up some courage. “It’s not my place, at all, so feel free to tell me to fuck right off but… I feel like you should. I think he’d be happy for you.”
The sentiment rocks him – face twisting in a mix of emotions before he brings up both hands like he’s going to rub them off of his face. “Yeah, yeah, maybe.”
Silence falls, heavier like it was before. The momentary comradery falling away to reality again – two strangers trying to figure out what the hell they were doing. The tension in the air is palpable, at least to you, as he continues to stare off for another minute or two because coming back into himself.
“So…” He clears his throat, anxiously adjusting in his seat and knocking against your knee again. “What made you decide to get help?”
The million dollar question.
Another thing you feel like you should’ve seen coming, should’ve prepared for in advance. But here you are: sitting across from a stranger you feel inexplicably tied to and faced with a question you still don’t know the answer to. The question that has hung over your head for the past week and half.
Why are you trying to get better?
“Well, ending up here – like, in rehab – was easier than the alternative. So that part wasn’t hard.” The skin between his eyebrows folds as he looks at you, a bit confused but not interrupting to ask for clarification as you continue. “As for why I’m getting help…”
The rest hangs there, suspended by hesitation. Uncertainty blooms in your chest like a burst of frozen air – like blue tipped fingers gripping your heart in their fist. A threat and a warning.
Eddie hits the toe of his shoe against yours, bringing your attention back to him. “You don’t have to answer. Not if… You don’t have to.”
And the sun is shining down on him from the skylight above, casting him in a glow. A soft auburn hue shines in his wiry hair, the red undertones coming forward in the sun. He’s still pale but you can see them now – freckles across his face and the skin just beyond the collar of his shirt like a dusting of cinnamon. Brown eyes that have a bit more life in them than they did before.
There’s still a sense of frost beneath his skin, half alive and freezing like it used to be, but it’s thawing. Warming. Before your eyes and beneath the light of day, Eddie Munson was coming out of his cold shadows, one small step at a time.
“But you can't just leave it at that!" said Anathema, pushing forward. "Think of all things you could do! Good things." "Like what?"
“I guess I’m still trying to figure it out.” Out comes the honest truth. Truth he wasn’t expecting based on the way his eyebrows raise, skin wrinkling beneath his bangs. “It feels like there should be this big reason – some grand goal or something that would be a good answer in a biography. And I don’t really have one of those. Not right now.”
There’s a long pause then, like he wants to make sure you’re not going to say anything else before he replies. “I don’t think it has to be something fantastical or anything like that. Maybe it would be a better story if it was but… I dunno, I think any reason is as good as any other.”
A self-deprecating smile and joking change of tone, you ask him, “Even if my reason is just because I want to make more bad jokes that people can’t decide if they want to laugh or groan at?”
His answering smile is filled with genuine determination when he tells you, “I think that’s a fucking stellar reason, sunshine.”
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Your 60th day of rehab comes with a party.
Not for you, of course. It would be a lot of resources for the center to celebrate arbitrary anniversaries like that for every resident. No, this is a graduation party. A going away party. A ‘see you never’ kind of party.
When you walk back into the main hall after group, there’s a hastily made banner hung between the nurse’s station and the kitchen that says ‘Happy Graduation Tony!’ in shades of blue and yellow, with some splashes of green mixed in. There’s a weird animal drawn on the right side that you can’t identify – but you guess it’s supposed to be a wolverine based on the ‘Go Michigan Wolverines!’ underneath in blocky text.
There are various basketball-themed party decorations scattered throughout the tables, all looking like they came from a big wholesale package of party favors. It looks alarmingly like an 8 year old’s birthday party, but Tony’s smile is brighter than you’ve ever seen it as he laughs at the attempt Kathy, Melissa, and Thomas made at decorating for him.
The University of Michigan Wolverines is his favorite college basketball team, he explains to the rest of you as you look on confused. He gives Thomas a joyful ribbing at having remembered a comment like that in passing, and Thomas’ bashful smile makes even Howard soften with fondness as you all filter in among the tables. There’s music playing – a Best of 80’s CD spinning in a shitty old speaker system in the corner of the main hall that is barely used. Down Under by Men at Work plays softly as you settle down at one of the tables covered in plastic-y yellow, feeling lighter than you have in weeks watching Tony cross the room to where there’s a small selection of snacks and a sheet cake with his name written on it.
Eddie sits down beside you at the same time Howard sits down across from him, the older man immediately brandishing his deck of cards and arcing them into a professional shuffle. Lola, the newest resident, an older woman who kept taking morphine long after her hip surgery healed, sits down uneasily next to Howard, content to quietly watch him deal out the cards between himself and Eddie.
Switching back and forth between watching Eddie and Howard playing a game you can’t seem to identify and watching Melissa and Kathy grill Tony about what he’s going to do first when he gets out, you feel a sort of contentment. An emotion you’re so unused to, you’re not really sure what to do with it now that it’s sitting in front of you.
Two games in, Eddie drops his cards with a groan before pointing an accusing finger at Howard, who smirks in pride. “This isn’t over, Finbar.” And while your eyebrows draw together in confusion, lips parting in preparation to ask, Eddie keeps going before you can. “I’m going to go grab a water and some cookies, anyone want me to get anything while I’m up?”
Howard waves him off without a word, huffing as he has to lift up slightly off his chair to pull in the cards Eddie left on the other side of the table so he can shuffle the deck together again. Lola, in her syrupy, southern drawl, asks for a cup of water, if he doesn’t mind. A short nod and then he looks down from where he stands beside your seat, a gentle smile on his face as his eyebrows raise in expectancy. The words get caught in your throat for a moment before you are able to force them out. “A cup of water and some chocolate chip cookies would be great. Thank you.”
Another cheeky smile and a dip of his head and he’s walking off, lanky legs knocking against a chair or two like he’s a newborn calf who hasn’t learned how to walk steady yet. The sight makes you laugh under your breath, shaking your head as you turn back to the table.
Lola is watching you, eyes slightly narrowed, when you turn back, making you jolt backwards in surprise. “Y’all make a cute couple,” she says sweetly, with a smile just a kind as always.
“Couple?” You question in a slightly higher pitch, feeling the blood rushing north to warm your face and make your brain spin. “We’re – we’re not a couple. Just friends. We just met here, only a few weeks ago.”
“No?” Her head tilts in curiosity, but her expression reads like she knows something you don’t. Can see something you can’t. “That’s a shame. Looks like a match made in Heaven to me.”
Your jaw drops, mouth opening and closing uselessly, as you try to think of something you could possibly say to that when Eddie walks back up, shakily balancing three plastic cups of water between his hands and a packet of napkin wrapped something tucked under his chin. The waters are safely set on the table, one passed to Lola, who replies “thank you, sugar,” before he lifts his head, the packet falling directly into his now-free hands. Dropping into his chair, he sets the packet on the table before unfolding the white napkins to reveal several slightly smushed cookies.
“Oh,” he blinks a few times at them before offering you a sheepish smile. “Guess they didn’t quite survive the journey. Hope you don’t mind picking at crumbs?”
You shake your head, mischief infusing your smile as you tell him, “I don’t mind, I’ve always thought it would be kind of cool to be a pigeon.”
He snorts in amusement at the same time Howard rolls his eyes and Lola uses her hand to cover her smile. The mix of reactions is perfect – exactly what you were hoping for – as you pinch a big chunk of cookie between your fingers and pop it into your mouth while Howard deals out another hand of cards.
Your contentment continues through the next hour or two, watching as Eddie and Howard go back and forth between winning hands while songs play on – Come On, Eileen, followed by Pretty in Pink, and Africa.
When Melissa shrilly announces it’s time to cut the cake, everyone turns toward the front of the room while Billie Jean by Michael Jackson weaves its way into the open air. Tony laughs at himself and how his hands shake in nervousness, making jokes about how he feels like he’s at a wedding, as he cuts into the sheet cake directly through his name. Using the plastic serving utensil, he deposits a huge square on his paper plate, the ‘o’ from his name completely removed as everyone cheers and claps.
Looking incredibly embarrassed, he turns and gives a little bow to the crowd, missing Kathy as she reaches over the table to grab the huge slice. A sing-song call of his name, and you all watch as he turns and is met with the slice of cake to the face, white frosting smearing across his skin before the entire plate hits the floor with a dull slap. No one moves for a few moments, quiet enough you could hear a pin drop, until he starts to laugh. Almost the entire room joins in, cackling as he scoops frosting away from his eyes and shakes it out onto the floor.
Everyone who wants a slice of cake moves through to grab one before settling back down at the tables. And when you look over at Tony, glowing as he has an animated conversation with Melissa, you can see a small smearing of frosting across his cheek that no one seems willing to tell him is still there.
You all say goodbye to him that evening before the sun sets, watching as he departs out of the double doors with a bag slung over his shoulder and is immediately met by a young boy – a Michigan Wolverines jersey on his back as he tackles Tony around the waist in a tight hug. The doors click closed just as Tony’s hand meets the boy’s head in a rub, both sporting the exact same bright smile.
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Despite being back on good terms, Eddie continues to sit across the room from you during group therapy sessions. You kind of like it better than way, not that you’d ever admit it to him. Sometimes you find yourself looking over for reactions to things people say and it makes it easier to give him your full attention when he adds to the conversation. Being able to sneak glances  without it being too obvious makes you feel a bit more comfortable than before.
And although you feel like you’ve been making progress, you still rarely join in the conversation in these group circle sessions, and you never talk about yourself in them. Penelope has never tried to push you – she is satisfied as long as you continue to make progress in 1 on 1 sessions. Talking in a group setting isn’t for everyone, she explained, but it can sometimes be more beneficial than you think it might be.
It just never struck you as something you wanted to do. It never spoke to you, as some people said. Besides, other people always had plenty they wanted to say after Penelope did a bit of prodding.
“I talked to my husband on the phone the other day,” Kathy admits following a small silence. She’s playing with the drawstrings on her sweatpants as she speaks. “We haven’t talked in a couple weeks – the kids have been staying with my mom while I’m here.”
Penelope shifts in her chair to face her more directly. “How did that go?”
“Bad,” she answers with a sigh, eyes falling closed for a second before she forces them back open. “I guess I was just hoping he misses me… Misses the kids, misses our life. But he actually seems like he’s happier now.”
“That must’ve hurt to think about.”
“It did. It does.” She takes a deep breath, eyebrows turning up in what looks like an attempt not to cry. “It’s hard to think that picturing going back home to be with him and Sarah and Ben is what really gets me through all this but he… It doesn’t seem like that’s what he pictures anymore.”
“No offense, Kathy, but he sounds like a dickhead.”
Her and Penelope both turn on Eddie, looking surprised and annoyed in that order. “Eddie, that’s not very nice.”
“No, it’s not,” he concedes, hands coming into play as he tucks his elbows into either side of his waist, “but neither is the way he treats you. I mean, the whole reason you ended up here is because he refused to help you – with anything! Ever! And left you to take care of him and the kids and the house and everything.”
Kathy’s face twists, looking conflicted. “Well, yes, but–”
“But he works to put food in the fridge. That’s what you’re gonna say, right?” Her mouth presses into a tight line before giving him a sharp nod. “And yeah, that’s important. Having money to survive is essential and all that. But so is taking care of yourself. And your kids. Taking care of your house. Those are all things people should try to do the best they can. Sure, a lot of people fall short sometimes. It can really suck trying to get everything done by yourself. But that’s what your partner is supposed to be for. To help you.”
Everyone watches on silently as Eddie continues, looking entirely impassioned in his defense of her. “Yeah, he works a job. But you work three jobs just trying to take care of yourself, him, and both your kids. It’s not fair. And it’s fucked up that he not only doesn’t do shit to help but also doesn’t appreciate how much fucking work it is for you and the fact that it was killing you.”
“I mean, that’s just how marriage works,” she tries to argue. “Men go to work and women take care of the house and the kids. I’m sure that’s how your parents did it.”
“No,” he answers with a humorless chuckle, “not even close.”
“Then what did they do?”
“My dad beat my mom.”
The room falls into a tense hush, all eyes on him. While a part of him still looks worked up from his debate with Kathy, and another looks angry at even admitting the fact, the rest of him looks like an exposed nerve. His shoulders shake slightly as he takes in a breath and lets it out just as slow. “He wasn’t… He wasn’t a good guy, my dad. Kind of a piece of shit actually. In and out of prison on assault, drug charges, petty theft, the works. And whenever he was out, he was coked out of his mind and making my mom’s life a living hell.”
Brown eyes descend to the floor as his voice wavers, clearing his throat to try to fix it. “I remember one time, I was 6? Maybe 7? My mom was trying to convince me to do my homework at the kitchen table. And in storms dear old dad, fresh snow on his nose, and already screaming.” His eyes close, hands clenching with white knuckles. “Mom always made sure to get in between us. She didn’t want him to hurt me. But I guess he was mad at me for something, and her getting in the way was even worse, because before I knew it she was on the floor.”
Teary eyes open, glancing up and meeting your gaze. Eyes entirely focused on you as a few tears escape with his blinks. “I can see it so clearly, y’know? My mom was on the floor, bruises around her eyes, begging him to stop. And my dad was standing over her with his fists clenched like he was ready to go another round.”
I know what a push like that can do.
Your mouth opens wordlessly when you realize – chest twisting in agony as he offers you a sad and knowing smile.
“Anyway, that’s why I’m here. Because I don’t wanna end up like my dad.”
A feeling in the base of your stomach catches hot and burns. Ashes smolder and leak smoke up your esophagus until it brings tears to your eyes. Beneath the dull roar of your blood in your ears and the murmured ‘Thank you for sharing’ from Penelope, you can hear the tremble of the earth beneath your feet. A vibration that rumbles up through your bones in a cold shiver that breaks out across your back. Stones fall into the chasm before you as the world shakes and bends with the force of the quake. 
You stare into the cold darkness of the space between the tectonic plates and the cold darkness stares back.
“I have something I want to talk about.”
All eyes turn to you, a pair of wide brown iris the most important of all. Penelope is nothing but encouraging as she says, “By all means, what would you like to say?”
A deep breath in, an attempt to clear the smoke in your lungs, you force the words out into the open. “I… I want to talk about how I got here.” You pause, eyes leaving Eddie to glance over at Penelope to register her shock. “Why I’m here. Because I’ve never told anyone.”
“Okay,” is her simple reply, an attempt to be encouraging. But you’re already faltering, the cold creeping in and dampening the ashes until you return to making eye contact with Eddie. And while his expression shows very little, attention wholly focused on you, he does dip his head in a slight nod.
Go ahead, the movement says. You can do this.
“Two days before I got here, I was with my friend Luna.” The name feels like ice water down your throat, swallowing hard to try to push past it and keep going. “Luna was the one who got me into taking oxy in the first place. I’d told her I was too wound up all the time and couldn’t relax, too caught up in my head. She told me it would help. We’d been friends for a long time by that point. She… She’s my best friend. She saw me at my worst and didn’t blink an eye. And maybe it was a fucked up way of helping, but she was really just trying to help. Suggesting what she thought would help.”
“That day, she called me all excited. Saying she got some pills from a new guy and she couldn’t wait to try them. So I went over to her place like we always did. She was all excited about the new stuff, but in my head, it was just the same shit, so I told her I was going to take from the old stash of pills. I guess I didn’t want to waste them or something. She just kinda said whatever, your loss, didn’t fight me on it.”
The visuals start to press in now, like a slideshow playing behind your eyes. “I remember waking up in her bed. It was dark. I don’t know how long I was out for. I got up,” your feet hit pink shag carpet, “I called her name,” you look around the girly bedroom, barely lit by the lamp on the bedside table. “I was still pretty out of it. I walked out from around the bed and…”
Your eyes squeeze shut, head shaking to try to clear the images like an etch-a-sketch. It doesn’t work.
“She was on the floor. I thought maybe she was just in it but her – her lips a–and her fingers were blue and she wasn’t breathing. I called 911 but… She was already cold when they told me to check for a pulse.”
“Those new pills she was so excited to take were laced. Fentanyl. She overdosed. And… And maybe if I had been awake, y’know?” When you blink back into the room, there are tears pouring from your eyes, your breath coming in hiccuping gasps. Cutting yourself off from any more what if’s, you rub your forearm under your nose as you sniffle. “Anyway, I got picked up when the ambulance came. I don’t really know why they gave me the option but it was basically rehab or jail so it felt kind of like a no brainer.”
You huff a wet laugh, crossing your arms over your stomach as you try to fight back the sobs, breathing through the freezing cold feeling in your chest. “It’s easier to be here. Then to think about leaving,” you admit softly, eyes trained on Eddie’s shoes. “In here, I don’t have to see her stuff around my place. I don’t have to think about who I’m going to spend my Saturday’s with. I don’t… In here, I don’t have to face the fact that she’s gone.”
When your eyes meet his, they’re watery again. Red rimmed, swollen. His hands open and close on his thighs like he’s holding himself back. Pale, pink-toned fingers, cast in warm, gentle light from the sun above, that look like they want nothing more than to reach out to you.
Blue tipped fingers reach out from the cold below, a threat and a warning of what lies before you if you fail. But on the other side – the sun shines. There’s grass and cherry blossom trees and birds singing and music playing and life.
“She’s dead. And I can’t get her back. But I’m still here, and I still have a future. I… I want there to be a future.” 
You jump the gap.
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Bright green grass folds beneath your sneakers as you cross the field, hand raised along your brow to search for a familiar face. It’s the first Saturday of July and there are people everywhere – blankets and lawn chairs and folding tables set up across the wide open greenery ringed with trees.
A familiar whistle echoes toward you, giving you a vague direction to continue your trek. Sweat collects at the base of your neck and trickles down your spine as you go, the heat of the summer sun bearing down despite your careful choice in clothing. You’re just about desperate for a drink when a familiar flop of brown hair catches your eye.
“Steve?” You call, hoping to confirm before you walk all the way over. His head swivels in a full circle before his eyes catch you, a grin stretching across his face as he waves you over.
Steve is a relatively new friend, you’ve only hung out with him a handful of times since you were introduced. He’s shirtless, cotton discarded after sweating through it, and a pair of shorts that show off an alarming large amount of his tan skin. He’s tucked under a large umbrella with Robin, another new friend. She’s draped over a beach chair with her head rolled back, an unbuttoned shirt hanging off her shoulders over a bikini top and a pair of oversized shorts. The closer you get to their blanket in the grass, the more clearly her complaining becomes.
“It’s so fucking hot,” she moans, arms flopped down beyond the sides of the chair. “Why did I agree to this?”
“The music is going to start soon, so shut it, Buckley.” He turns toward you, head tilting back as he braces his arms on his knees. “Hey, good to see you.”
“You too,” you set your things on one edge of the picnic blanket, dropping to your knees at the boundary of where the umbrella covers. “And good to see you too Rob, even though it looks like you’re actually melting.” She groans loudly, sliding further down in her chair as you laugh. “Speaking of melting, cooler?”
Steve heaves it over his lap toward you and opens the lid, twisting back toward another bag as you dig through the melting ice and drinks. Drink in hand and an ice cube in the other, you use your elbow to close the lid again before pressing the ice cube to the nape of your neck in an attempt to get some relief from the heat.
Just as your mouth opens to ask, you hear an, “Incoming!” ring out right before a heavy object makes impact with your side, knocking you into the cooler with a yelp. The furry projectile pants wildly as it rights itself from its sprawl across the blanket, paws immediately climbing up onto your thighs in a happy greeting.
“Hey Oz,” you laugh, chin receding into your neck as you try to dodge his eager licks toward your mouth. “Are you having a good day, buddy?”
“He better be after the fucking pain in my ass he’s been all morning.”
Both hands scratching at the dog’s ears, both to calm him and keep him away from your face, you tilt your head back to catch sight of warm brown eyes. Eddie’s hair is pulled up into a messy bun on the back of his head, the wisps by his ears and parts of his bangs slicked down with sweat. He’s in a tank top that looks like a modified graphic tee, arm holes cut absurdly low to show off almost the entirety of his tattooed ribs. As he settles onto the blanket beside you, the light wash ripped cut off shorts he’s wearing stretch further to show more of his thighs.
His arm loops around your back, hand pressing into your ear as he directs your head lower so he can press a happy kiss to your temple. “Hey sunshine. Have any trouble finding us?”
The heat suddenly feels more like it’s diffusing from the inside out as your smile grows. You shake your head as you sit up straight again, Eddie’s arm still propped behind your back. “Nah, I’m pretty sure I could hear your stupid dog whistle from space.”
“Hey!” He cries in mock offense, leaning away from you as he yanks on the purple plastic whistle around his neck. “The training is going really well with it, actually! So shove it.” And he ducks down toward the pup sitting in front of you, coming to eye level as he says, “Isn’t that right, Ozzy?” The dog lunges forward in an attempt to lick his face but Eddie’s expecting it, blocking the attack and using a gentle force to push the dog down onto his side. “Ozzy, Ozzy, Ozzy!” He chants as he rapidly rubs the pup’s stomach, both of them shaking with excitement.
“Munson, you’re gonna work him up again and the fuckin’ music is about to start!”
Eddie sighs in disappointment, slowing his scratches and rubs considerably, running his hands along fur in an attempt to calm the dog. “I know, buddy. Your mom is so lame and doesn’t know how to have fun.”
Steve levels another glare at him, leaning back on one arm as he complains, “I’m not his mom. We’re both dads, dude.”
“Don’t listen to him, Ozzy. That man is your mom and you know it.”
The dog doesn’t care either way but does settle, laying out long with his belly in the sun just as some speaker feedback echoes out into the space around you.
“Finally!” Robin sighs in relief, pulling her sunglasses down her nose as she lifts her head. “I was starting to think we were roasting out here for nothing. Might as well be in Hell for how hot it is outside.”
Steve snorts, cracking open a gatorade as he explains, “Pretty sure Hell would be way hotter than this.”
“How do you know, dingus? Have you been?”
And the two start to bicker, something you’ve come to learn is a pretty common occurrence. Tuning out of their platonic marital dispute, you look back toward your boyfriend only to find him already looking at you.
“If Hell is this hot, I never wanna go,” you joke, vaguely aware of the sweat that continues to collect on your skin and how much you dislike the feeling.
“I dunno babe,” Eddie sighs long and loud, head tilting your direction as he looks up at you through his eyelashes, smile tilting in mischief. “It is said that the Devil has all the best tunes.”
The cherry blossoms in your chest unfurl in the heat of the sun, petals stretching out at the same rate as the smile parting to show the whites of your teeth. A soft laugh of disbelief, a grin that matches your own, and you’re quoting Good Omens back at him by saying, “It’s true. But Heaven has the best choreographers.”
And he laughs. Head thrown back, the sun’s rays grace the planes of his face as he barks out laughter into the blue sky above. Robin and Steve look at each other confused before shrugging slightly and then you’re laughing too. Falling backwards onto the blanket beneath you, you roll with it, shoulder knocking against Eddie’s when he falls backwards too.
Warm with the heat of the day, the music pouring out across the field, and the hope of a day just as bright tomorrow – you and Eddie laugh like it’s the best joke you’ve ever heard. Like there would never be a better joke than this.
If you want to imagine the future: imagine a boy and his dog and his friends. And a summer that never ends. ― Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch
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thank you so much for reading. the response to this story was more than i thought it would be and i hope you're satisfied with the ending. i'm grateful you chose to come on this journey with me. i hope you find your way to greener grass and gentle sun whenever you're ready to find it &lt;3
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seapiglet · 8 months
Text
hm
I've seen a LOT of shaming going round at the moment, both here and on twitter, of people who are seeking out good omens spoilers, mostly by those who have watched the new episodes in advance. despite what neil and david and michael may have said on the subject, it's rubbing me the wrong way! so I feel the need to make a potentially unpopular post about
✨SPOILERS AND NEURODIVERSITY✨
(and accessibility) 🤚🏼
now I cannot speak for everybody here but as an autistic person with ocd I actually !prefer! being spoiled ahead of time and will frequently read the entire wiki article for a show I'm about to watch (though weirdly CANNOT skip ahead with books?) in order to alleviate anxiety around the unexpected. trust me when I say that knowing what will happen in advance *enhances* the experience for me and I have yet to regret being deliberately spoiled, even when it comes to my absolute favourite things on earth, things I may have been waiting months and months (or in this case years) for. in fact, the longer I've had to wait, the more the feeling of gut-twisting anxiety and uncertainty beds down in my system and makes itself a very unwelcome house guest.
it's all very well insisting that everybody just be patient and ~wait and see~ but for a lot of neurodiverse folks this can be a very unsettling prospect. personally, I don't like surprises! I don't crave the sensation of being shocked by an unforeseen twist! it makes me do a panic! even the thought of it makes me feel deeply uncomfortable.
we're not simply throwing our toys out the pram because we WANT something and we WANT IT NOW (shout out to verruca salt). there is a soothing comfort and stability to predictability that is difficult to explain to somebody who doesn't experience this.
at this point I should mention that OBVIOUSLY not all neurodiverse/autistic/diagnosed-ocd people feel this way but that doesn't negate the fact that a lot of us do and there's not much we can do about it.
I'm aware that everybody's currently moralising about the rightness/wrongness of illicitly distributing and trading nuggets of forbidden information like crack-laced pokemon cards* (surely in this fandom everything should exist in a grey area?) but please don't jump on this as an opportunity to prove who's the most terribly righteous and which of us gets to wear the Super Duper Bestest Fan Neil's Favourite prefect badge for the day. devolving into needless factions and one-upmanship so near to the official airdate does nobody any good.
on another personal note (this is the 👂🏼♿accessibility♿👂🏼bit) I was due to attend one of the screenings and now can't due to the apparent lack of subtitles. pleeeeeaase think of accessibility, amazon. please? some of us have severely messed up ears and/or auditory processing disorders - it's not hurting anybody to have the words up on the screen but it excludes many of us if you don't.
again, if you think it's terrible and wrong to want to be spoiled or to share spoilers you are well within your rights to think that, and of course I encourage anybody who is participating in a bit of blackmarket spoiler dealing to utilise ALL the tags you can think of to keep it secret (keep it safe), or simply leave it to the DMs, but I really don't see the good in shaming others who feel differently.
uhh thank you and good day 🎩
(*hopefully that still scans - my references are as ancient and ephemeral as my knee cartilage)
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sweet-as-an-angel · 3 months
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Hi!!! I’m the same guy as the one that asked about the age range and autism :] just having like another question or so idk I forgot tbh.
Again, it’s so okay if you don’t wanna answer any of these!! I completely get it, all is well 🫶🫶
Would Dominic have any reaction to a reader that stims a lot?? Either verbally or physically; maybe his adoration will miau like a cat as a vocal stim frequently or flap their hands or clap as a physical stim as well?? Would he do anything now that he has that knowledge??
If his obsession suffered from OCD, how would he exploit that disorder?? (under the impression that he would exploit it.) Perhaps their ocd revolves around severe obsessions of having something seriously wrong with them, paranoia, or extreme fear of dirt or contamination??
Can he speak another language?? If his adoration was bilingual would he put genuine effort into learning their mother language??
Would he find it disrespectful if his obsession was eye contact adverse?? Actually what things does he find disrespectful like in general?? Does he do anything to correct that behavior??
Would he be okay with them being like incredibly and insanely cuddly and touchy?? I am autistic myself and when I go nonverbal but can still stand touch it’s how I communicate if that makes sense at all??
OKOK I swear that’s it for at least a while 😭😭 he really has me thinking about things jesus christ man. If there’s any spelling mistakes or something you don’t understand, I’m sorry :[[ German is my first language.
Have a great day or night!! I wasn’t expecting to write this much ngl🫶🫶
In case I ever have anything else I’ll put a raccoon at the end!! :]]
-🦝
TW: Discussions of Mental Health, Mentions of OCD, Dominic Being Dominic
Welcome back, my dear 🦝 Anon <3 ! Your English is perfect, thank you for all your wonderful questions ^^ ! To answer your inquiries:
♡ If Reader stims a lot, Dominic will, of course, try to find a way to make your stimming all about him; especially if you have a lot of physical/verbal stims. He'll try to be in close proximity to you so that, when you do stim, you're more likely to either catch/grab him (unintentionally, of course). If you're apologetic - even though it isn't your fault - Dominic will absolutely find a way to guilt you into feeling bad about it, even when his veneer tells you that it's fine, it happens.
♡ Guilt breeds indebtedness - that's what Dominic has discovered. So, fresh off the wave of panic you're feeling, he'll ask you to do something for him that will require you to stay longer, during which time he'll see if you physically stim again or not. If so, he refreshes the process. Just like printing money.
♡ If you verbally stim and, say, make some kind of animal noise, he'll absolutely try and romanticise it. If you meow, he'll call you "Kitty," giving you a warm smile and a good-natured laugh. If/when you become more comfortable around him, he'll start calling you "Mon Minou," - My Kitty. He's one Discord server away from calling you Kitten.
♡ If you suffer with OCD, he'll start manipulating the physical environment to trigger you. Never in his own house, though. You need someplace as your safe space, right?
♡ He'll never verbally trigger you himself, either; nor will he allow any triggers to exist in his house as to try and reduce the likelihood of you having a negative association with his abode if you experience an OCD urge whilst you're there, regardless of how severe it is.
♡ In fact, he'll do things to make it seem like he's the only one that can combat it; he'll check windows to make sure they're locked, he'll sweep up crumbs off the floor to clear the path for you, he'll even call up one of his many doctor 'friends' (acquaintances. People in high places he's fashioned into his elite social circle) to come and informally examine you, to tell you that you're fine.
♡ If it's paranoia you're afflicted with, he'll seize the opportunity to turn himself into the only person you can come to, the only person you don't feel silly or afraid to spill your deepest worries to.
♡ Anything that will make you gaze up at him with nothing less than gratitude.
♡ Dominic can speak two languages fluently - English and French. He can speak other European and Asian languages, too, but to a minimal degree and only enough to discuss business matters. However, if you speak another language aside from the two he already has at his disposal, he'll absolutely make sure to learn it fluently, if only to become one of the few/only people in the neighbourhood with whom you can feel truly connected with.
♡ For peak manipulation, he'll learn everything about your mother tongue after your first meeting and start speaking to you in it - fluently - the next time you meet, pretending to have been able to speak it for many years past.
♡ If you are eye contact adverse, he'll try not to take it personally. But, knowing Dominic, that is a feat in and of itself. He values being able to exert power over others, and one of his main methods of doing so is unwavering eye contact. So, really, you're managing to inadvertently protect yourself from Dominic's Medusa stare.
♡ Behaviours Dominic views as 'disrespectful' would be signs dismissiveness towards him. Dominic is used to being the centre of attention in every environment he's in, so to have you, the object of his every desire, not paying attention to him is...a blow to his ego, to say the least. A metal rod to the backbone of his entire identity.
♡ Dominic will make quick work of ‘correcting’ your behaviour: standing so that it is only him in your direct line of sight; coming in close proximity so you can’t be ignorant to his presence; and, if he's bold enough, taking your chin between his fingers and making you look at up him.
♡ If you're very touchy-feely, Dominic goes absolutely feral; he can't believe he gets to have you touch him without: a.) having to initiate it, and b.) having to hide it. After all, it's a by-product of your mental health - it's beyond your control as much as it is his!
♡ He'll take full advantage of this, too, offering his arm for you to hang onto, his hand to hold, his chest to hide your face in. And all the while, all he's thinking of is how nice it feels not only to have you so close to him, but also how he can use this as an excuse to keep you close in the future.
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flooftyfizzlebeans · 9 months
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Theory on why we headcanon specific characters as trans more often than others, using the Fizzlebeans as evidence.
Identity based character arcs vs... other stuff based character arcs.
Warning this is EXTREMELY LONG
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Starting by analyzing Floofty, as they are my expertise.
Floofty is a scientist with no help, no funding, and ambitious plans. They come across as cold and uncaring, when in reality much of their shortsightedness comes from caring too much. Not for those closest to them directly, of course. But the greater good, and grumpuskind as a whole.
Their previous line of work suggests that when they had more resources, they spent more time helping individuals. Making prosthetics is a HIGHLY variable process, each individual limb that needs one being EXTREMELY different, even on the same person. Therefore they would need to be attentive towards individuals by necessity, even when making scientific breakthroughs. I don't think they'd have amazing bedside manner but I only bring this up to stress that Floofty is capable and willing to care for others should the situation call for it. However, they probably don't feel like they can afford to care after the events that cost them.... everything.
I assume they got their awesome career position through work during school, proving themself academically in a way that their.... abrasive characteristics wouldn't interfere with. Now that they have nothing, they're trying to get it back the same way they got it, by proving themself through actions.... but who they are and how people perceive them is directly responsible for their lack of help on Snaktooth. Actually, who they are likely made it near impossible to rebuild their reputation when inevitably grumps will think they are either chopping test subjects up to make murder machines or a confidentiality liability. They think their work should speak for itself, and who they are shouldn't matter. (They might even believe that they don't matter. It's already clear that their work is worth more to them than their own life.)
Realizing what they mean to others, who they could be to them when they let go of the big picture importance, and how they can help like they so desperately want to is integral to saving them. Let them forget that they are in fact, a grumpus, the very thing they want to save, and they might as well become what they study. Bugsnax.
...
Snorpy, however, as I've stated, is pretty much the opposite. Where Floofty rejects themself, Snorpy protects himself.... prepare for a staggeringly less complete analysis thanks to Not Literally Being Snorpy. Snorpies and Snorpy experts in the notes please contribute.
Snorpy is an engineer whose inventions are held in great esteem in Snaxburg, and yet he believes the world is out to get him. (By the world I mean... the grumpinati) The grumpinati is, in fact, not out to get him, and it takes incredible amounts of jumping to conclusions fueled by intense fear for anyone to shrink their world that small.
It's implied by his previous work that he was previously much more capable of... interacting with the public? being seen? than he is now. Like I mentioned, constructing prosthetics requires a lot of individual time and care, and a lot of interacting with many different grumpuses. But now? He is driven by fear. I can't even blame him, he's clearly deeply traumatized. How would you feel if your life's work was taken and warped for something you found cruel and evil all while you still depended on them for your livelihood? And you already probably had some sort of anxiety disorder?
Moving on, he is actually able to work perfectly fine. In fact, nearly every grumpus is seen using something he invented at least once? Despite inventions like The Knife Shot and flammable tripwire moments he's well liked by the town and everyone trusts his work to... work. But he's so absorbed by his own perceptions that it's impossible for him to take praise or even socialize without suspicion.
Even the relationship he holds most dear, and integral to what we call "Snorpy" is up in the air for him. I can only imagine he didn't ask for clarification or confess to his romantic feelings towards Chandlo out of fear. Fear of what exactly I can't say, as it's probably every possible factor that that course of action would change.
And... well. His main problem is never solved. Shelda is right, he needs therapy. Extensive therapy. But... he still improves. Part of why he does all of this is to protect Chandlo, and hide all of this from him... but after fighting Daddy Cakelegs it becomes a lot more clear to Snorpy that Chandlo is trying to protect him and knows a lot more than he gives him credit for. He's a lot closer to and more equal to Snorpy. Snorpy doesn't have to spend and sacrifice every fiber of his being to the bugsnax to protect who he loves.
That being said, who he is has nothing to do with his character arc. He's Snorpy, he's a nerd, he is an engineer. None of this is brought into question. Floofty's very status of "grumpus" is called into question through their experiments. (on an esoteric level. kinda. bugsnax are weird.)
What they share is their interactions with other grumpuses and how important actually letting themselves connect with others is... but that's something Everyone shares at least a little.
How does this relate to transgender headcanons? Floofty's arc features their identity very heavily, and calling the identity of the self into question is extremely transgender. Sometimes the definition of transgender. At the very least, a part of the process. (everyone is different)
That's why I think Shelda, Chandlo, and Wiggle are so popular for trans headcanons despite not necessarily doing anything outside their gender's norms. Their arcs heavily have to do with who they are and how their actions reflect that. Gramble and Triffany have a little bit of this but I can't rule out their gender non-comformity as the reason.
Of course, everyone is transgender to at least one person in the fandom because there's nothing proving anyone is cis and this fandom is very very queer.
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visionofhope04 · 1 year
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Hey, stumbled on to your neglected batsis story (I love it)! How would the rest of the Justice league react to the news. Like will they slowly distance themselves from the batfam or would they kick Bruce out of the league?
What about the Titans, will they treat Dick any different?
Hi! I'm so glad you enjoyed my series!!! Thank you so much for reading it! Also, I kinda got carried away with this ask... (713 words)
TW: ED MENTIONED (ANOREXIA)
The Justice League would definitely be shocked, especially Diana and Clark since they're closest to Bruce. Due to the loss of his company, he'd no longer have as much money as he used to. The guy was literally constantly making money and then it all came crashing down. He probably wouldn't be as willing to fund certain things that the Justice League required, which would cause a rift in the league's relationship with him.
The Justice League (besides Clark, who didn't want to assume Bruce actually did those things if he didn't and hadn't had time to ask Bruce yet) would probably find out about everything when they had to work with the batfam for one reason or another (probably an alien invasion or smth) weeks or even months after it all went down. Jason as Red Hood would be acting colder towards everyone, including the League since he'd assume they knew about it because it was all over the headlines.
Someone makes a comment on his behavior (most likely Green Lantern) and then he'll say something like "Well someone has to be mad.". The batfam's like "uh oh". They're all confused and then it hits Jason. They didn't know. So then he's like "Of course, he wouldn't want to risk his reputation with the only group of people that can stand being in a room with him that aren't his "family". Ask Bruce about his daughter.".
By this point, Clark knows what he heard was true and he's enraged. Everyone else turned to Bruce questioningly. Clark spoke up before they could ask though, "So the news was true? You all treated her that way?". "What do you mean. Bruce?" Diana called, wanting answers. However, Bruce didn't know what to say. The whole batfamily remained quiet, unable to come up with a lie. "Oh, well let's see, he neglected his daughter, she developed anorexia, and then fainted because of it before a gala. When she woke up, she was yelled at, insulted, and ridiculed for developing an eating disorder and damaging his damn reputation, because he didn't even care about her health!" Jason was fuming, even though it had happened a while ago, it still made him furious.
The batfamily was glaring daggers at him, and he glared back, all while the Justice League was still processing this information. After all, he was Batman, he LOVED kids, how could he do this to one of his own? "Bruce?" Diana questioned, still wanting to give himself an opportunity to explain himself. They all hoped this was a misunderstanding. However, he could say nothing to defend himself. For once in his life, he wasn't prepared. He did do those things, but he didn't think he was in the wrong. After all, his daughter had been trained alongside Damian to be perfect, it was her fault she wasn't. His silence was an answer nobody wanted.
After much heavy discussion, it was decided Batman could stay in the league, but could no longer lead and would be considered a distant ally. He would only be called upon for emergencies.
The Titans would never be able to look at Dick the same again. He was always so welcoming, so nice. He treated everyone kindly, or so they thought. Apparently, this kindness didn't extend to his sister. How could he be so nice to Damian, but so mean to her? And she wasn't even like Damian, she was so nice! They'd briefly met her when they went over to the Manor for Christmas. She'd quickly left after introductions. This concerned the team, but Dick reassured them this was a normal occurrence, she hated crowds.
How didn't they notice? Dick's hesitance to talk about her, to let them meet her, hell, he probably didn't even remember her existence until she was brought up in a conversation! How could the whole family do that to a child? One of their own? The worst part, they didn't feel a speck of remorse for it. How could the Titans interact with Dick normally, knowing what he'd done, taken part in, and did nothing about? Every time they interacted with him, they could tell they weren't quite able to hide the disgust in their gazes, and they always knew they'd never be able to.
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birdofmay · 11 months
Text
FAQ
"Sometimes I listen to people and my brain can't make sense of what they say, what's that?" - Maybe....
an ADHD thing
a sensory overload thing
receptive language issues
auditory processing disorder
aphasia
...or check out how language processing and auditory processing works in general, autism can make these things hard without it being an additional disorder ☝🏼
"I want to say something but say the opposite or feel like my mouth and my brain don't cooperate, and I've been in speech therapy!"
check out childhood apraxia of speech, even if you don't have it, sometimes it's soothing to know that there are people with similar experiences
"I don't know what my verbality level would be considered!"
Me neither! But check out my masterpost
and don't forget that "unreliably speaking" is for people with apraxia
"I've heard that we shouldn't say "going nonverbal", what other words can we say instead?"
Here, a nice little list!
"I don't know my autism level!"
Me neither, only the DSM-5 has autism levels, I don't have an autism level either.
I was diagnosed with severe autism because they made me take several additional "severity tests" after the normal diagnostic tests.
If your country uses the DSM-5, maybe you've been diagnosed when they still used the DSM-4.
"I don't know what support needs I'd be considered!"
Me neither, but check out my support needs masterpost:
A "general rule of thumb" is "Help with IADLs = low support needs, help with IADLs and some BADLs = medium support needs, help with IADLs and most or all BADLs = high support needs", but these categories aren't as strict as they seem.
Do you have care needs? No? Then you're not high support needs, you're most likely low or low-to-mid support needs.
My country re-assesses my support needs regularly; if you're medium or high support needs and weren't medically neglected your whole life, you'd normally know that you're medium or high support needs already, because that's tested (if you're not sure, check the documents). But testing is different from country to country.
Unless, of course, something happened recently that you now suddenly need a lot of help, definitely more than before. In this case there likely wasn't any testing yet. But in that case I can't help you either, because I don't test you.
Note because this still is a common misunderstanding: The DSM-5 says for example "Autism level 1: Requires support", but the support that's meant there has nothing to do with the support needs we're talking about in this and in the linked post. It's a little unfortunate that both say "support" because people always think it's the same when it really really isn't ☝🏼
"How should people who want to be friends with you in real life act, so that you're not overwhelmed?"
see, that's the main difference between my (severe) autism and most people on Tumblr. I'm not interested in real life friends. Chatting via messenger is the most relaxing kind of communication for me. I have one(1) friend in real life and we never meet, which is why we're friends.
My parents, carers, accompanying people, etc. tell others exactly what to do or not to do so that I'm not overwhelmed. But you'd mostly speak to them instead of me anyway because direct contact is overwhelming.
"What's your opinion on this term/view/discourse/political topic/debate? Is [thing] offensive?"
I have a language disorder that makes it hard to understand the meaning of things and to connect the word to the meaning of the word. Unless it's a thing of my everyday life, I most likely won't understand this thing or I don't know anything about it.
I may sound quite articulate on here, but I have brain damage from birth; there are many things I don't understand, especially if it's in complex language.
I don't understand politics or money, and I don't understand laws on disability, unless they affect me personally and are those of my country.
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