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catierambles · 2 months

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Blood Moon Ch.15

Pairing: Syverson x Annalisa Caulfield (OFC)

(Imma finish my butter paneer, take a couple ambien, and go tf to bed)

“Mike!” Sy called out but he was already gone. Annalisa swept her tongue over the wounds quickly, stopping the bleeding and they got up, pausing as the world spun for him and she steadied him before they raced from the bathroom after him.

“She's a vampire!” Mike exclaimed as he ran into the living room, making them grimace. “Annie! She's a vampire!”

“Mikey,” Jake said, “You gotta stop watchin' those horror movies.”

“It's the truth! Sy was in the bathroom with her and she had fangs and was drinking his blood!” He said and jumped to the side as they came into the living room. “Annie is a damn vampire! Sy, show them your wrist!”

“Mike,” Sy said, “I don't know what you think you saw but—”

“It's true.” Annalisa said, taking him by surprise. “I'm a vampire.”

“Annie?” Sy asked.

“Sy they were going to figure out something was off eventually when your nephew who is in diapers starts collecting social security and I look exactly as I do now.” She said, “I'm a vampire.”

“And you wanna marry this whack-job?” Jake asked after a moment's pause. It was only a blink and she was across the room, another blink and she was back at Sy's side. He had seen her move that quickly before, but only on rare occasions as it made her tired.

“Jesus Christ.” Brian whispered, “I mean, fuckin' hell.”

“Yeah.” She said with a nod.

“And you knew this?” Pete asked, looking at Sy and he nodded.

“Wait.” Annalisa said, “You want to marry me?”

“Yeah, baby, I do.” Sy said, “We're forever, remember?”

“Sy...” She said and he pulled her into his arms, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Hold the fuck up!” Brian said, “She's a goddamn vampire, Kyle! How are you okay with this?!”

“She ain't the only one who ain't human anymore.” Sy said and the statement hung in the air.

“You a...vampire too, son?” Jack asked.

“No, pops, I'm not.” Sy said and he sighed.

“Well, shit, I mean—”

“I'm a werewolf.” He said and they went silent again.

“Syria.” Denise said finally, breaking the silence.

“Ma?”

“Kyle, I carried you, I raised you, I know you. You were different when you came back from Syria. You had nightmares, bad ones, we could hear'em. I thought you just...maybe you had seen some bad combat, lord knows your dad had nightmares comin' back from Vietnam.” She said, “That didn't explain the bloody sheets, or you sneakin' back in at dawn, cut up and dirty around the same time every month. I didn't say anythin' because I...I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what was goin' on, but the nightmares stopped and you got a place of your own. Next time you came around, you were my baby boy again, so I pushed it from my mind.”

“Is that when it happened?” Jake asked and he nodded. “Fuck.”

“Oh this is so cool.”

“Mikey.” Pete said.

“What? It is! My brother is a werewolf and his girlfriend is a vampire! My friends are gonna shit themselves!” Mike said.

“This don't leave this room, Michael!” Sy said, pointing at him. “Not a damn word to anyone! Ya hear me?”

“I mean, it's just—”

“Anyone.” Sy said and he nodded.

“You were around my children.” Pete said, “The both of you.”

“Well, yeah, Petey, they're my nieces and nephews. I'd never hurt'em, you know that.” Sy said, “Right?” He didn't say anything, “Peter, you know I'd never hurt your babies, right?”

“Peter.” Denise said, “He's still Kyle—”

“He's a damn monster!” Pete snapped, “So is she!”

“If I was going to hurt them,” Annalisa said, “I had plenty of opportunities too. When I changed PJ's diaper, when I took Becky to the bathroom. I'd never hurt a child.”

“And I babysat'em alone plenty of times while you and Beth had date night after I got back.” Sy said, “I may have spoiled'em a bit much, but it's kinda hard not to.”

“They're right.” Jack said, “If they were gonna hurt the kids, or any of us, they would have. We've been alone with them plenty of times. They coulda hurt us and they didn't.”

“Pete.” Sy said, going to his brother. “I'm still your brother, I'm just...a little somethin' extra now.”

“I know that, I do.” Pete said, “It's just...fuck, Kyle.”

“I know.”

“I wanna see it.” Brian said, “I wanna see your...wolf.”

“Brian, it's...” Sy paused, “I look like a wolfman, Hollywood-style.”

“So cool.”

“I wanna see it.” Brian said, his tone final and he sighed.

“Ma, you had plans for that roast in the fridge?” Sy asked and she nodded. “Mind if I have it? I need to eat when I first shift and I ain't exactly myself.”

“Can't exactly do the alternative.” Annalisa muttered and he bumped her with an elbow making her snort.

“It'll take a couple hours to cook—”

“Raw is fine.” Sy said and headed for the back, stopping in the kitchen. “Whatever you hear, don't come outside, stay in the house. Annie?”

“Yeah.” She said and followed him out, the back screen door closing behind them. They stayed in the living room like he instructed, even as they heard his pained shout and the sound of breaking wood, the dogs running to the backdoor and barking.

“I'm gonna—” Pete said.

“Sit down, Pete.” Brian said, “He told us to stay here for a reason. He said he ain't himself, and I have a feelin' we won't like what he is.”

“He's our brother, Brian.”

“I know, and trust me, I wanna go out there, too, but if he's wild right now he won't forgive himself if he hurts one of us or worse.” Brian said and Pete nodded, sinking back down in his chair. Savage snarls and roars sounded from the back making them flinch when it happened, but then it went quiet. The back door swung open and there was the sound of claws on tile, the dogs stampeding back into the living room.

“Holy fuck.” Mike said with wide eyes, as he had a direct line of sight and saw him first. They got up from their chairs slowly, or pushed away from walls as he came back into the living room, towering over them, his ears nearly brushing the ceiling. His shirt was gone and his jeans clung to his legs.

Well, this is me.

“Anyone else hear him but his mouth didn't move?” Jake asked.

“He communicates via thought projection.” Annalisa explained, her fingers laced with his that were tipped in dark, wicked claws, “They all can.”

“He ain't the only one, then. Okay.” Brian said, “I mean, of course he ain't, there has to be at least one more out there.”

“So fucking cool.”

“Kyle Hoyt Syverson!” Denise snapped, making him jump. “Is that a nipple piercin'?!”

#henry cavill #captain syverson #blood moon

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savelindsaylohan · 3 months

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thinking about a time like 3 years ago i was on ambien taking really unflattering half awake videos of myself on snapchat and i accidentally posted one of them on my story and proceeded to fall asleep for 8 hours... so embarrassing. im glad i only embarrass myself while on ambien on here now

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etirabys · 11 months

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so I've called 40 psychiatrists in the past two weeks

my old one died in 2021 and I didn't bother finding a new one because I wasn't employed 2021-2022 and it matters much less if my sleep/mood/focus is in shambles

it's hard – almost no one has openings, lots of listings are lies (people who are technically psychiatrists but only do TMS, people who only work with children)

and while logically I know it's a step forward to even get an appointment, it's aversive to go say "hey, the lowest dose of Ambien 1-2/week worked really well for me for all of 2020, I'd like to get back on that because it's hard to do my job when I'm sleep deprived. Oh, the psychiatrist who gave it to me? He's dead. Yes I've tried melatonin, hydroxyzine, trazodone, sleep hygiene, no blue light, and sleeping in my closet because I'm one of the :) good ones :)))"

I've cried in this process a lot because I genuinely have a weak character but also it's generally demoralizing – to spend hours on hold looking for anyone with an opening, giving the same medical info over the phone to the few who will pick up, then bussing to sit down with them in person, viscerally expecting them to turn you away because the fact that you're seeking a controlled substance means you're a drug seeker who shouldn't get it

anyway I know both men and women who developed a deep bitterness about the other gender after Tinder usage and I think this is like that. I'm bigoted against doctors

#rambl

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thejakeformerlyknownasprince · 2 years

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Genuine question, what’s wrong with the DSM?

[OP refers to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, which I mentioned being unpopular among mental health professionals.] Disclaimer: I'm not a psychiatrist, I'm not a therapist, and I'm not trained in counseling. I'm a social psychology researcher. If a therapist contradicts me, listen to the therapist.

The problem with the DSM as I understand it: a lot of counselors/ psychiatrists/ etc. want to move away from a category- and source-based diagnostic system, toward a symptom-based treatment system. For example, think about Pepto Bismol: you feel nauseous, you chew pink tablets, it ends your nausea. It doesn't matter if your nausea is indigestion or seasickness or lactose intolerance. You match a treatment (pink bismuth) to a symptom (nausea) and don't waste time or money on diagnosis unless that treatment proves ineffective.

A large percent of counselors etc. would like to take the same approach to mental health. So we'd be researching treatments for nightmares (neurofeedback? MDMA?) in the long-term, and giving clients treatments for nightmares (meditation! Ambien!) in the short-term. All without worrying too much about whether the nightmares are caused by General Anxiety Disorder or a phobia or Seasonal Affective Disorder. There are many strengths to that approach.

Only, see, there's this big purple dinosaur holding us back.

[Image ID: Hardcover copy of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fifth Edition, DSM-5, American Psychiatric Association; the title is white text on a purple background.]

So if everyone who uses the DSM also hates the DSM, why does it still exist and why do we keep buying it every time a $100 text revision gets published? Two reasons, in order of importance:

Insurance

Communication

Insurance is, I kid you not, the DSM's #1 reason for existence. American insurance companies won't cover treatment unless it's for a diagnosed illness, and so therapists put diagnosed illnesses on what they'd often be more comfortable describing as "bro, this dude is hella distressed and I'm trying to help undistress him." Note the word American on the cover; other countries have other manuals, and no other country's counselors are as chained to theirs as we are to ours. This means that the DSM helps — yay, affordable therapy! It means the DSM hurts — sets of symptoms get grouped artificially, spectra get split into categories, and diagnosis happens way too early in the therapeutic process.

Another comparison to unmental health: I don't have carpal tunnel syndrome, but my insurance provider thinks I do. I only announce that I don't because I haven't told you who I am or where I live. (If the insurance companies find us... Well, we just won't let them find us. The thing you should know is everyone is getting screwed by health insurance. Yeah, even you.) I have wrist pain and tingling. It has the wrong antecedents for carpal tunnel, and it has weird manifestations — pressure on the base of my thumb causes pain in my pinky — but my OT wrote down "Carpal Tunnel" on the forms because the alternative was a $500+ round of diagnostic scans. No one cares whether my median nerve is inflamed or not; occupational therapy still looks like "try this stretch, that stretch, this brace, that brace, and these activity changes; keep whichever combination makes the pain and tingling go away."

This kind of thing also happens in mental health all the time. Many therapists don't care — and neither should you — if your serotonin levels are low; if you're miserable and an SSRI prevents the misery, take the dang SSRI. If your mother was harshly critical and now you feel panic at any hint of criticism, it doesn't matter whether that better fits C-PTSD or NPD; it matters whether you cope with soothing self-talk or if you cope with alcohol. Put something from the DSM on the forms, and focus on finding which stretches (breathing exercises) make the tingling (panic) go away.

Communication is the biggest strength of the DSM. It means that clients can benefit from labels ("I'm not lazy, I'm ADHD") and consistent standards of treatment can be applied across different clients in different states. The DSM has huge lists of things like "if your client shows memory problems, be sure to check for alcohol abuse" or "if they have self-harm, make sure it's non-suicidal before you do anything else" that are tremendously helpful. It can help therapists who encounter a set of behaviors they've never seen before to go "client is rigid, rule-bound, and lacks insight... huh, looks like I'd better refer them to an OCPD specialist." (It's also the source of a lot of toxic misinformation on social media when symptom lists get taken out of context without that all-important differential diagnosis information, but I digress.)

However, diagnosis should never be the beginning point for therapy — it's impossible to know your client's mind without first building trust and transference — but reliance on the DSM for insurance often forces it to be. Diagnosis should never be the end point for therapy — knowing your perceptions don't match others' because of Bipolar I won't stop you hearing the dang hallucinations — but home use of the DSM often acts that way. Categorical diagnosis is limiting if your therapist is primarily interested in how depressed you are but the Beck Depression Inventory uses an absolute cutoff point for "depressed" or "non-depressed." Categorical diagnosis is useless if over 50% of people diagnosed with a depression are later diagnosed with an anxiety disorder, and vice versa. So it's an imperfect book that does a lot of things well and a few things badly, and many of its heaviest users would argue that it shouldn't exist at all.

For further reading, I recommend The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel van der Kolk. I don't agree with all the axes he grinds or all the ways he grinds them, but he's got decades of psychiatry experience and is (I hope) predicting the next paradigm shift in mental health.

For instance, van der Kolk argues that it doesn't matter if at intake your client has long blond hair and is named Linda, only to show up the next time with no hair and the name Gerald, only to come next time with short red hair and the name Taylor. The therapist should only be asking "how does the client feel about these changes?" and "what are these changes doing for the client?" If Linda can't remember what Gerald did, then focus on the terrible memory gaps that alter identities create. If Taylor became Gerald to try and please you, then focus on teaching mindfulness and self-compassion. If this is a happily genderqueer person, then figure out why they're seeking help and don't worry about the appearance changes. If this is someone who thinks in absolutes and regards their personality as constantly changing, then work on teaching them to see the world and themself with moral complexity. It doesn't matter whether Dissociative Identity Disorder exists or not; just ask your client what they need and how you can help, then go from there.

Anyway, the DSM is an imperfect solution to a complex problem, and a lot of mental health practitioners view it as a relic of a more paternalizing era. No one has come up with a really good solution for how to remove and replace it, so for now it's the least-bad option.

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macmystery · 2 days

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Balaclava

You know the feeling, that prickling of the tiny hairs on the back of your neck when you feel like you are being watched. All day I've had this feeling. At the coffee shop, at the mall, even walking at the park. Whenever I would look around, I would see no one familiar, no one that seemed to be following me, but the feeling was inescapable.

I finally decided to that if I am to receive any respite from these thoughts, I need to take an Ambien before bed. Maybe two. That was a mistake. I don't remember falling asleep, and my mind is totally in a fog when what seemed like the next moment I amunder the crushing weight of a masked man.

I don't consider myself nearly small at 5' 10”, but the weight bearing down on me wasn't from fat. He must have been at least 6' 3” and packed with muscles. No effort of mine could free myself from his grasp. His hand went to my throat, a firm squeeze and my mouth is forced open.

He was on me in a moment with a kiss and I was unable to close my mouth to resist. His tongue was forceful but his breath was sweet. His lips were soft in sharp contrast to the rough, knitted mask that hid his features. What? Is that the scent of my favorite men's cologne? A coincidence, or someone I know? Those thoughts and the unrelenting kiss distracted me from his bulge that was grinding against my thinly clad cunt, which to my distress was getting uncomfortably wet. I must be crazy to be aroused in this situation! Rape is one thing, but how do I know that I'll be left alive.

Frustratingly, that thought made my pussy even wetter. When he broke from the kiss, the sensation of hard, cold metal at my throat dismisses the need for him to give instructions. I know what can happen if I fail to cooperate, even in my drugged, sleepy state.

I hear rather than see his belt being unbuckled as the steel blade never leaves my neck. There is not enough pressure to cut, but I know that it would require little effort for that to change. He shuffled his weight above me as he shifted his pants lower onto his thighs. In the dim light of the streetlight shining through my window, I see him smile as his hand, now free, touches my panties and he finds them soaked. He slides the knife slowly down my body, ignoring my nightshirt and slips it under the edge of my panties. With a quick motion and a susurration of ripping material, my panties fall away. I can't look, knowing what will come next.

He isn't huge, but he is larger than any I had ever had. I am surprised that he isn't rough, but gentle, allowing my pussy to adjust to his size. It makes me wonder again, do I know him? Those thoughts are lost in the next few moments as his hip thrusts pick up the pace. Knowing that it would only encourage him, I try desperately to suppress my moans and gasps, but my will falters under the undeniable pleasure of the fullness that I feel from his cock.

I don't even realize that I've thrown my arms around his neck as he continues to pummel my cunt. The wet sounds that it makes betrays how good he feels inside me. As I feel him begin to pulse inside me, his imminent orgasm is accompanied by his grip again on my throat. Seemingly expertly, the pressure on my carotids make me dizzy, but it only adds to my pleasure as it prompts my own cumming. I feel our cum mixing and it is the last thought I have as darkness greater than that of the room sweeps across my mind.

When I awake, my cunt is sore but strangely satisfied. I am alone and there is no sign of him, save the mask, like a spent trophy, draped across my crotch.

I think...no, I hope, it is his calling card that he will return.

#macmystery'swriting #r@pe fantasy #1cky thoughts #masked man #balaclava #cnc k!nk

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storiesbyrhi · 2 years

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Vintage Reeboks - Chapter 4: Cemetery Drive

Eddie Munson x Reader More Eddie fics here

3427 word count

Warnings: Grief; drug use; cemetery setting; bad understanding of Indiana geography

Synopsis: The gate at the bottom of Lover’s Lake was meant to spit the quartet out in the Upside Down. Steve, Nancy, and Robin were meant to be there. He wasn’t meant to be alone. But when Eddie comes to on the shoreline, you’re there. It’s not the Upside Down. It’s not Lover’s Lake. It’s not 1986.

Previous Chapters: 1 - Lover’s Lake; 2 – Hey, Siri; 3 - World Wide Web

Chapter Synopsis: Éowyn is no man and Eddie looks for Wayne.

Author’s Note: I genuinely regret killing Will in my previous chapter, and I am sorry. If I could take it back, I would. The following Tumblr users had suggestions for what post-80s music Eddie would like, and I thank them for their input: @sk8-wytch, @moonsomnia, @tenderyellowbluefics, @hocuspocuscrocus, @nushy, @mybuttonfelloff, and @nikiiwi.

The sun was setting as Eddie and Dustin ended their call. Golden hour bathed your pool house room in an orange glow. You watched the shadows move as you tried to work out what you were going to do with Eddie in the meantime. It was going to take the cavalry a few days to arrive; they had lives that required organisation, after all. It wasn’t like they could just skip out on class or curfew anymore.

“What are you doing?” you asked him.

After he closed Zoom, Eddie opened Google. You watched him type in a name.

Wayne Munson.

“Wait,” you closed the laptop before it could load the results. Eddie looked at you, frowning. “Is that your uncle?”

He looked almost embarrassed.

“I didn’t want to ask Dustin ‘bout him… Whatever happened to him, it couldn’t have been good… Don’t know how I’ll… I don’t know. I just need to know,” Eddie said, trying to explain something he couldn’t put words to.

Maybe letting Eddie run free in 2022 was a bad idea. Neither of you knew how the whole time travel thing was meant to work. Loading Eddie up with information about the future, like how his uncle died, then returning him to 1986 might fuck up the timeline. Grandfather paradox or some shit.

Eddie was still looking at you, scanning your expression.

“I just left him there,” he said.

You broke away from Eddie’s intense eye contact, nodding. He went back to Google but didn’t know the best thing to search for.

“Here, let me,” you offered. He slid the laptop across the bar.

Next to his uncle’s name, you typed, Obituary. The local paper no longer existed and there were no archives. You couldn’t find a trace of him, so you turned to the last resort. Reddit. There was a subreddit that could find almost anything. It was not clear if they did so through legal means, but you didn’t much care.

“We’ll check in a few hours,” you said to Eddie after explaining the concept of Reddit.

He accepted it, walking away from the bar. He was quiet and too calm. You’d known him for less than twenty-four hours but even you could tell he wasn’t okay. It made you feel desperately sad.

Eddie sat on the edge of your bed, letting himself fall back. His foot began to tap against the floor, a nervous tick maybe.

“If you need to be alone for a bit, I can go inside-” you began, standing up.

“Can I level with you?” Eddie asked, staring at the ceiling.

“I guess,”

“I haven’t been this… pathologically sober in a while. It’s been,” he pauses to count. “Five days, man. And a couple since I’ve had a smoke.”

“Feel like you’re crawling out of your skin type of thing?”

Eddie sat up a little, leaning back on his arms. “You know the feeling?”

“I know the feeling,” you confirmed. “Ambien helped?”

“To sleep, yeah,”

“Lightweight compared to what you’re used to though?”

Eddie tried to hide his smile. “Just because I sell cake doesn’t mean I eat all the cake.”

You laughed. “Right, well, we can go get some… cake. One condition though,”

“Anything, for my knight in shining armour,” Eddie said, standing up only to bow dramatically.

“Yeah, it’s all that,” you shook your hand at his general dramatic energy. “That might help. I’ve got tomorrow off work too, but after that I’m gonna need a very good excuse to not show up Saturday.”

…

“Look, sweetheart, you keep shooting me down like this and I might get hurt,” Eddie said, hand over his heart.

“Sweetheart?!” you squeaked, looking over at him from behind the wheel of your car. “Well fuck, you’ve really perked up since you got your hands on that.”

Eddie looked down at the Ziplock bag of weed in his lap. “Something comforting about drug deals being the same. Baggies. Stupid nicknames,”

“Yeah? What was your dealer’s?” you ask.

“Reefer Rick,” Eddie said fondly. “Although… Would be happy not to see his place for a long while…”

You focused on the road while Eddie fell into his thoughts. It went on a little too long, the quiet unsettling.

“So… Still no good excuse then?” you said. All the ones he’d offered were hilarious, given, but probably wouldn’t gain much belief from your boss.

“You want an excuse that they won’t want to talk about. No follow-up questions. You gotta make ‘em sad or make ‘em sick,” he told you so eloquently that it felt like a rehearsed speech.

“Sick or sad?”

“Yeah… Sick is easy. Violent diarrhea. Acidic puke. Traumatic loss of body fluids.”

You laughed. “You know, my boss is a sexist piece of shit. I could probably say heavy period and it would work just as well,”

“Ah, a feminine touch,” Eddie said. “I like it… Your other option is sad,” he continued, frowning and pulling a puppy dog face. “Dead relative. Dying relative. That kind of thing,”

“Back to my boss being a piece of shit…”

“Right. Traumatic loss of body fluids it is… So, we better start the pain relief, for those cramps, yeah? How do you take your poison?” Eddie had his precious party bag open and he was inspecting each individual bud.

“I take it at home, not behind the wheel of a car. It’s not the 80s anymore,”

“No. No, it is not,” Eddie agreed, while he looked out the window at the unimpressive and still relatively small bright lights of downtown Hawkins.

As you pulled into Chipotle’s drive-through, Eddie almost looked like a dog who just realised he’d been taken to the park.

“Wow… Hawkins got fancy, huh?”

“It most certainly did not.”

…

When you had shown Eddie your small, glass pipe that was Hello Kitty themed, the look he gave you was priceless. He promised that he could roll the perfect blunt, so you let him. As you pulled out a couple of plates for your Mexican, you glanced over at him.

Eddie was sat cross-legged on your bed, a small tray out in front of him. He worked quickly. It was almost hypnotic.

You sat down opposite him and watched him assemble.

“I made you a playlist on, uh, Spotify… You wanna put it on?” he asked, his voice calm and gentle.

He said it so nonchalantly. Like it didn’t mean anything.

Why would it mean anything? You asked yourself.

Eddie glanced up, read your face, and grinned his toothy smile again.

“I mean, I would’ve made you a mixtape. That’s what we used to do, back in my day,” Eddie joked. “Love the convenience but it doesn’t really have the same magic, does it?”

You shook your head slowly. “No… But, thank you… That’s really sweet,”

“Don’t go spreading that rumour about me. Got a reputation of Satan-worshipping to maintain, you know?”

It was another joke, but the kind with a little pain behind it.

“I wouldn’t have believed it. If I was there, I mean,” you told him as you pulled your laptop over and found the playlist named Knight in Shining Armour.

The music Eddie selected was a mix of his favourites, your favourites, and bands he’d just discovered. Black Label Society you could appreciate. Rob Zombie, Alice In Chains, and Nine Inch Nails too. Mastodon, Opeth, Disturbed, Godsmack, and American Murder Party weren’t entirely your thing, but it tracked. It came as no surprise that he’d found System of a Down; he was a stoner, after all.

“BABYMETAL?” you noted. “Is that on there for me or you?”

“Both,” Eddie answered. “Saw them on some of your playlists, but I kind of dig it. Feels like an acid trip, man.”

Eddie offered you the joint, but you shook your head. “You go first. Seeing as you’ll die without it,”

He shrugged and lit it. You started to eat, and that’s how you both sat for a good while. Listening to music, swapping plates of food and the blunt.

When the food was consumed, you repositioned yourself sitting against your headboard. Patting the bed next to you, Eddie happily crawled over, not needing an extended invitation to get under the covers.

“Review of your first Chipotle experience?”

“Exquisite,” he replied, complete with a chef’s kiss.

“And the weed? How’s the ’22 strain going?”

“Well,” and he rolled his head over to face you, all floppy like a rag doll. “I feel pretty good for someone in my position,”

“Pretty good is good enough. This is gonna really up the serotonin though,” you say as you close Spotify and open a folder labeled Definitely NOT Downloaded Movies.

It took until Frodo arrived in Rivendell for Eddie’s hand to find yours. He traced patterns on your palms, sometimes letting his fingers trail up the inside of your arm. At “fly, you fools,” you let Eddie bundle you up in a hug. By Lothlórien, you were trying his rings on, holding them out like a newly made fiancé. Finally, when Boromir saved the hobbits, you played with Eddie’s hair as he rested his head in your lap, wiping a tear or two away.

“I can’t believe they went for it with the three-hour films,” Eddie said from the bed while you made tea.

“Yeah. It’s a bit insane to try to watch them all in one night, but-”

“You’re not bowing out this early, are you? The Battle of Helm’s Deep! Treebeard!”

By Gandalf the White’s reveal, you were sitting between Eddie’s legs, your back to his chest. As Aragorn fell to his not-death, and Eddie squealed, you realised that, speaking of screaming, you hadn’t felt the urge to internally scream in a while. The lake at midnight wasn’t calling you to that momentary oblivion.

When the Ents stormed Isengard, you rolled your head back and pulled Eddie’s arms around you more tightly. He rested his head on your shoulder and started to calculate the risk of maybe trying to kiss you. He pet your hair gently when you cried for Haldir. A Nazgûl, tricksy Gollum, and sad boy Faramir later, Eddie decided he was jumping the gun.

“Still with me?” he whispered to you, as he started the final film. Dawn would be breaking soon, but he couldn’t not see the ring destroyed.

You nodded into him, sighing happily, somewhere between awake and asleep and just really fucking content.

When the beacons were alight with a promise that Rohan will answer the call, Eddie tried not to think about kissing your neck.

Shelob, Andúril, Paths of the Dead, Denethor gone mad. You fell asleep. Éowyn is no man, Mount Doom, and Rosie Cotton. Eddie fell asleep, holding you close.

…

The Reddit notification was from a user, hist0ryhunt3r, who had tracked down some very old information. A typed version of Wayne Munson’s obituary had his death dated only two years after Eddie disappeared into the lake gate.

It read, Wayne Munson, 1945 – 1988. Son, Brother, Uncle. No public funeral held.

“That’s it?” Eddie asked, taking the laptop from you. “That’s all they wrote?”

“In that newspaper, yeah. It’s from somewhere near… Lindon, I think,”

“He must have moved,”

“Makes sense,” you said. You would have if you were in Wayne’s shoes. It was something you’d always wondered about your uncle; why didn’t he leave Hawkins if the place brought him so much pain?

There was a second attachment. hist0ryhunt3r had found a semi-recent map of a cemetery just outside of Lindon; there was a section where the graves hadn’t been digitally archived yet, and they were willing to bet Wayne would be buried there.

As Eddie reviewed the information, you got out of bed and checked your fridge for milk. As soon as you opened it, you knew it was bad.

“Alright, well, this milk is fucking gross. So, let’s do a day trip out to Lindon. Get breakfast and find your uncle. On the way back we can stop somewhere you won’t be recognised for groceries. Sound like a plan?”

Eddie looked over at you. You hated that sad, confused, wide-eyed expression. It made you worried for him. Even if it was a bit cute.

“Look, I feel like I’m pulling you into something here,” he started, getting out of the bed and walking over to you. You put the milk down and gave him your full attention. “Like I’m stopping you from living your normal life.”

He was compassionate, you’d give him that. Intuitive, maybe not so much. Eddie hadn’t seemed to notice that there wasn’t really a life blowing up your Instagram notifications, no to-do list stuck to the pinboard, and no people banging on your door.

However shitty and stagnant you felt your life was, it was nothing compared to the current trauma Eddie was experiencing. So, you did what you did a lot. You didn’t say shit.

Apparently, a simple shrug in reply wasn’t enough for Eddie.

“No...? Yes...?” he asked.

“Uhhh, no? No. I don’t have anything going on… Except work, but as we’ve established, I am more than happy to ditch,”

“Piece of shit boss,” Eddie said.

“Piece of shit boss,” you repeated.

He looked at you carefully. He was studying your face, trying to see something that would help him understand why you were so generous with your time, and space, and life. It wasn’t something he was used to, and therefore it would usually make him suspicious. But being around you felt… normal?

Eddie wasn’t sure he’d ever felt normal.

“So, Lindon?” you asked, the weight of Eddie’s gaze burning you alive.

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, thanks.”

…

Once you’d cleared the Hawkins town line, you found somewhere to stop for breakfast. You were horrified to discover that Eddie was a waffles guy.

“They’re so dry,” you argued, pouring more maple syrup over your stack of pancakes.

“Nah, man. Only shitty ones. Good ones are crispy, but fluffy on the outside,”

“Like you?”

It had kind of just slipped out. It was so dumb and you almost blushed with embarrassment. But Eddie laughed. Of course, he did.

“So, what’s devil-worshipping in 1986 is just plain old crispy in 2022?” he asked, fitting another almost-whole waffle in his mouth.

“You admit it then. Waffles are just plain and old?”

He shook his head and pointed his butter knife in your direction. You didn’t know what it meant, but it made you laugh and that definitely made you blush with embarrassment.

The rest of the drive was calm, save for the heavy metal music and the jitter in Eddie’s leg that was screaming out for a cigarette. You didn’t smoke though, so he didn’t want to either.

You would take turns playing a song, giving each other an education. Eddie was impressed at the broad range of music you liked; you couldn’t be pigeonholed and that was cool. You were impressed at the depth of knowledge he had about the bands he loved, considering he didn’t have the internet.

Around lunchtime, you stopped at a McDonald’s in a town neither of you had heard of.

“It’s weird… that this still tastes the same,” Eddie said, eyeing his burger with distrust.

“Yeah. It doesn’t, like, break down either. Just kind of goes hard, I think? Mummifies,”

“Mummified Big Mac,” he replied, his eyes narrowing even more.

Outside, as you unlocked your car and watched as Eddie walked along in front of you, you noticed a shop across the road. Vintage and Thrift a sign read in faded retro paint.

“Hey,” you called to Eddie, pointing to the store. “Should we get you some clothes?”

You’d always loved combing through the racks of op shops and vintage stores. There was obscure vinyl to find, and old band shirts that probably were donated on behalf of unknowing dads across the U.S.

The one you and Eddie found yourself in was split into two sections; unsurprisingly, there was the Vintage side, where things were overpriced and retro at best, and the Thrift side, where it was always hit and miss.

You located Eddie looking through the box of vinyl marked 80s: Rare. “If I knew how much some of these would be worth, I might have taken better care of them,” he told you, holding up a Metallica record.

While Eddie was assessing his net worth, you found him some Levi blue jeans, a red flannel button up, a bootleg Nine Inch Nails t-shirt, and a very well-loved Gremlins t-shirt that would probably swim on Eddie but you were willing to guess he loved Gizmo.

“Oh, shit! I could not get enough of this little guy. Gotta say though, Spike was my favourite.”

…

The cemetery gates were huge, ornamental. They set the tone perfectly, and as if on cue, Eddie went still. Pensive. Anxious, maybe. It was easy to find the older part of the grounds; the grass grew longer there and the graves didn’t have bright flowers nor small colourful wind spinners.

“Um. So, do you want to start at opposite ends? Divide and conquer?” you asked softly, looking over at Eddie in the passenger seat.

He glanced out the window then back to you, then hesitated to speak. You waited patiently, watched as his lips parted then closed again. After a few beats, he asked, “Could we look together?”

Soft. You felt absolutely gooey for the boy.

“Yeah. Of course.”

As you approached the first row of graves, you held out your hand. Eddie took it quickly. It’s weird; you typically weren’t the handholding type. It’s not that you particularly disliked it. It was more that you felt awkward, like your walking was affected. Or you’d be worried about having a sweaty palm. And if there was a height difference?! Forget about it.

It wasn’t like that with Eddie. Your fingers sat threaded through his, easy.

Weaving between the rows, looking for the familiar name, you lead the way. Eddie was quiet, and you realised – not even looking at the graves. He was scared.

When you found Wayne eight rows in, almost at the center of his row, you stopped.

Eddie took a deep breath in then looked down. He crumbled, only managing to hold in the emotion for a split second. You let go of his hand as he fell to his knees, putting his palms flat against the plaque and leaning forward. Between the sobs and the whimpers, you could make out words. Eddie was saying, “I’m sorry,” over and over.

Your nose started to tingle and your eyes stung with tears.

Did he need time alone? Or would he prefer company? You had no idea what to do, but before you could decide, your body was moving. Keeping your hands in your pockets, you stood right behind Eddie, close enough to touch him.

In response, Eddie moved from kneeling to sitting cross-legged. He leaned back against your legs, his crying quietening down, like your touch was grounding.

“He is… was… so good to me,” Eddie said, wiping his face on the sleeve of his jacket. “Took me in when I needed a home. Gave me the bedroom in the trailer… He sleeps on a fold out bed. Every day. Just so I have my own space,”

“He sounds like a good man,” you responded.

“He is. He never believes the shitty things people say about me. Never judges me… He’s cool, ya know? I think… I think he taught me to be myself. ‘Cause he’s a bit of a freak too. He has all these mugs and caps. Like, I’m talking hundreds. He has so many there are some packed in boxes because there’s not enough room for them all. His favourite is the Garfield mug. Always can tell when I've used it.”

Eddie talked until he felt like passing out.

When you got back into the car and passed through those gothic gates again, the sun was beginning to set.

“We’ll get you back to him,” you told Eddie. He nodded. “And, uh, I brought something for you. Just in case.”

Having reclined his seat back a bit, he rolled his head to look at you. “For moi?”

You nodded to the glove compartment.

Eddie cackled. “You know me so well,” he said, holding the joint up.

Later that night, after the long drive back to Hawkins, after pizza and Spinal Tap and Deathgasm, after something that was way too close to cuddling for Eddie not to fall in love, he fell asleep in 2022 for the third time.

End Note: P.S. I love My Chem. P.P.S. Loved the behind-the-scenes photos of Eddie’s possible outfits. He would have rocked that red flannel.

#Eddie Munson #Eddie Munson Fanfiction #Eddie Munson Fanfic #Eddie Munson x Reader #Stranger Things #Stranger Things 4 #Stranger Things Fanfic #Mine #Eddie Munson/Reader

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onboardsorasora · 4 months

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bestie my WIPs are usually just voicememos to my friends and it's bold of you to assume I have FOLDERS in my google drive, no, I click on every untitled document for 15 mins to find the one I want 🥶 WHAT IS MAX SLEEPWALKER AU THO IS THE REAL QUESTION

Bestie I didn't have a whole ass folder till yesterday when I got the tag lmao. Those docs were just floating around hoping that I wouldn't create a new one and open one of them instead 😂😂😂😂

Maxiel Sleepwalker AU is completely different than Dewis Sleepwalker.

It's a smutfic with a very loose plot lol. In the most basic of descriptions, it is what would happen if in 2017 Maxiel had to share hotel rooms and our lovable insomniac got prescribed Ambien. Also, let us not forget that he got a lot of podiums in 2017- so lots of partying.

I'll post a snippet after the cut 😈

It felt like a long time before Max jolted awake again. This time the surprise wasn’t loud, but it was still insistent.

“Daniel?” Max whispered, there was no oral response, just another impatient press of something against his legs. Max spread his thighs unconsciously, and exhaled sharply when Daniel’s face burrowed itself between them. What could only be Daniel’s nose– he would recognise it in any capacity– was pressed along his balls and taint.

“Daniel?!” Max whispered more insistently, but Daniel simply cupped his hardening dick. As if this was his purpose for disturbing his sleep. Max groaned and bit his lip. This was– this had to be a dream. A very vivid fucking dream where Daniel woke him up to– to what? Suck him off? Fuck him? If this were a dream, Max would already be split open on Daniel’s dick.

So it wasn’t a dream. But it was just as disorienting and erotic.

[😈redacted😈]

Daniel groaned and shivered before stilling like dead weight. Max felt bewildered.

“Daniel?” He called softly. Nothing, no answer. Just the resumption of Daniel’s soft snores. What the fuck?

#I'm writing this on and off with enchanted au: christmas. the difference in vibe is STARK lmao #maxiel #the joys of WIP #maxiel sleepwalker au #tag game #answered #sysakiddo

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witchycatwife · 6 months

Text

In my new RPG setting, light is magic, magic is industry, and industry is religion.

The continents might be shaped differently, but the laws of nature are exactly the same as ours up to quantum mechanics, which is replaced by, for lack of a better word, magic.

Mana is a characteristic of matter like temperature, conducted like electricity, carried by photons, and subject to conservation of energy. Certain patterns and wavelengths of light have observable, measurable, and exploitable interactions with matter, often transforming the latent mana in substances into other forms of energy in a variety of ways.

Downstream of this, most of everything else follows.

Soldiers march to war in grim columns of gleaming brightplate, visors on their helmets blocking sight above the horizon until the last moment before contact to protect them from the mind-twisting spells cast by war-sorcerers clad in black velvet.

A city covered its walls in leaf gold to reflect off the shots of lens-cannons, fiendish devices that transform sackfuls of lycopodium spores into explosive releases of kinetic force at their target using miraculous optical mechanisms.

The Church which unites the Pelagian region in the worship of a definitionally absent god has given the local glassworks a commercial monopoly on producing the stained-glass Holy Symbols of Saint Ambrosius, which provides minor relief to headaches, hangovers and stomach to whomever receives rays of sunlight through it. The local public house has one mounted above the door, and the baron's men-at-arms (usually at The Miller's Arms, the aforementioned pub) have a permanent reservation to the table which receives this blessing in the late morning.

The First Prophet is said to have discovered magical light, defeated the dread idol-king of Karrak and banished the disease of tomb-shivers from its population through his prohibition of cannibalism. If everyone could just observe all the rules correctly and conduct their affairs justly and appropriately the world would become perfect and God could finally act within it directly.

Dragons, whose transparents scales have evolved refractive patterns far more intricate than what human hands can accomplish, soar the skies as terrible, majestic megafauna, and skitter through granaries looking for vermin in the ecological niche of cats. A glimpse of moonlight through the wings of an angel moth is like getting a megadose of ambien shot into your eyeballs, and leaves you easy prey for the devil spiders that often skulk in the shadows, following the gigantic moths as they sip nectar from equally gigantic nocturnal flowers.

Those murdered under moonlight, aware of their own foul death, leave psychic imprints in the form of ghosts until erased by the new moon. The testimony of a ghost is weighty but not infallible evidence in court; once a man was hanged by the words of a spitefully paranoid man who was convinced his cart accident was deliberate sabotage, yet later evidence proved him innocent.

A great golden dragon rules the Occident overseas, enforcing a heavenly peace that has lasted millennia and staving off any dreams of conquest and colonisation. A naked god-king claims to be descended from the dragon, his tattooed body basking in the glory of Sol while the lowest classes of his heathen country are forced to cover even their faces, unworthy as they are of its graces. It is said that the dragon is the greatest scholar of astronomy and astrology (a legitimate science studying the influence of starlight, planetary movements and their interactions, although the signal is noisy and its predictions only statistically reliable) in the world.

Eighty years ago the heretic king Michael III was deposed when his greatest general of the generation overextended her armies in the east and disappeared fleeing into the lands of the steppe nomads. This proved that his claim to absolute monarchy was not the right way and the ancient freedoms enjoyed by the nobility were reinstated, yet his reforms to taxation and the military still stand. Even the gentry must pay monetary taxes now, and the virile knightly military leaders of old with their glorious retinues were replaced by effeminate commanders of austere artillery armies where even the prostitutes carry knives or old, crappy lens-gonnes to nominally satisfy the maxim "all who march, also fight".

(Seafaring is masculine, managing a business is feminine.)

Drakesbrook is named after the river (narrow enough to jump across) dragons (8 inches long) the townsfolk make bilberry sacrifices to. The baron is proud of his grandfather's service to the Proportionist cause in the Civil War. The vicar is a workaholic. The doctor is an overqualified genius who fell for a disabled hunter twice her age and followed his retirement to a backwoods town where nothing happens.

And for some godforsaken reason, one bright morning in March, the Church is full of cows.

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mamachasesmayhem · 11 months

Text

Hang Your Halo • Fifteen

Master | Fourteen | Sixteen

Pairing: Jake “Hangman” Seresin x OC Beckham “Halo” Teague

Series Warnings: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI. Eventual sexy times. Brief descriptions of combat. Kidnapping. Mentions of drug and weapons trafficking. Violence. Smut with kinks (spitting, throat grabbing, hair pulling, spanking, soft dom/brat dynamics, so much dirty talk) aplenty.

"They tell me think with my head, not that thing in my chest. They got their hands at my neck this time. But you're the one that I want and if that's really so wrong, then they don't know what this feeling is like"

This Feeling x The Chainsmokers feat. Kelsea Ballerini

Beckham

Hot. Why am I so hot right now?

Is the first thought I have when I start to wake up this morning. As I start to come to my senses a little more, I realize I'm plastered against a very large, naked chest. Mmm, Jake. Flashbacks of last night flip through my mind and I snuggle in closer, loving the warmth he puts off.

“Good morning sunshine. Sleep good?" he asks, the gravelly sound of his morning voice damn near making my mouth water.

“Mmmm, I slept amazing. Granted, I was thoroughly exhausted, but I was definitely cozy right here in my spot. What about you?"

"I was also thoroughly exhausted, but I slept amazing having you all wrapped up around me. You're better than an ambien, short stack. This might have to be a recurring thing now," he chuckles back at me. "Also, that shirt looks way better on you than it could ever even think about being on me.”

He peppers kisses all across my neck and shoulder where the top of his shirt has slipped down since it's so huge on me. It's super ticklish, making me squeal and push his face away while giggling like a middle schooler. I hop out of the bed and head to the bathroom to brush my teeth, Jake following behind me. We brush our teeth in comfortable silence and the ease of our domesticity makes me grin. I'm annoyed with how long we pushed away our feelings in fear, it could have been like this the whole time! Now that I sit back and think about it, I've either subconsciously compared every guy I dated to him (shockingly, none ever measured up) or I've been ok with a shallow relationship because I had the emotional connection that I needed.

I must have been thinking hard about it, because Jake reaches out and rubs his thumb between my eyebrows before asking "What's got you so serious, angel?" I relax my eyebrows and spit out my toothpaste before replying.

“Just thinking about how we could have had this all along." I tell him as I step closer and wrap my arms around his waist.

"Who knows though, I've had lots of emotional growth since then. We could have tried and failed, I think we're right where we're meant to be." With a smile, he kisses my forehead and turns to walk out of the bathroom.

"I just had a probably bad, but also amazing idea," I tell my pretend husband over fluffy homemade waffles in the kitchen.

He pauses, fork stopping its journey to his open mouth, and raises his eyebrow at me. “Do tell, tiny."

“Ok sooooo, you know how we did the best at remembering our cover names when they were on our foreheads? I was thinking...what if we got tattoos?" I explained.

He places his fork down on the plate and leans his chin on his fist. "I'm not saying yes, but continue."

“Ok so it's super common to get your spouses name or their initial on your ring finger or wrist or somewhere like that now. We could always get them lasered off later," I shrug.

"I don't like how not terrified I am of this. Give me some options," he pressed.

“Holy shit I have the perfect idea. Paper airplane and boat tattoos!" I exclaim. "Our cover doesn't mention how you asked me out for our first date, we can say you threw a paper airplane at me to get my attention at the party, and then I blew your mind with my paper boat building skills. That way it still ties into something part of our every lives too; a plane and a boat since we're naval aviators. What do you think?" I meet his eyes as I ask him. A broad grin spreads across his face.

"I think that's perfect! Wanna get them done today?" Jake replies.

"Already messaged my girl on Instagram! She can get us in at 3 today. It might be a little cheesy, but we're pretending be a stupidly in love married couple wanting to start a family so whatever. Let's get them on our hands where our thumbs brush when we hold hands?" I look at him questioningly.

“Trying to find more excuses to hold my hand, short stack?" He sends me a smirk.

"Nah, if I wanted to, I'd just do it. Don't need much of an excuse anymore, now do I?" I reach over and boop his nose with my finger and he pretends to bite at it, making me giggle. We quickly finish up our brunch knowing we have a few hours to spend packing the rest of my stuff before we have to leave.

When it's finally time to leave for the appointment, Jake opens the passenger side door of the truck for me and slaps my ass as I climb in. I'm still grinning like an idiot when he gets in, and then it becomes impossible to get rid of when he reaches over and grabs my hand, placing our interlocked fingers on the console.

"Hey, Jake?"

"Yeah sweetheart?"

"What if this blows up in our faces?"

"What, the op? We're covered, I won't let anything to happen to you regardless."

"I know...but what if you're what happens to me? What if we find out we're terrible together and that we had such good chemistry because there was all this sexual tension we left lingering or suddenly you don't want me anymore cause I'm not hard to get now and and and-" Jake cuts me off with a kiss before I full blown hyperventilate.

In my distress, I didn't even notice he'd pulled over and put the truck in park so he could grab my face. I relax into his lips, feeling the reassurance through the tender kiss he's giving me. Jake pulls back, keeping his hands on my cheeks and tilting my head to make eye contact.

“You're not hard to get, like at all. You're hard to earn, and that's so much better." His words melt my soul and I feel all warm and gooey on the inside, like a perfectly toasted marshmallow.

"Damn, you're smooth. How do you always know the right thing to say?" This makes him chuckle.

"I just tell you the truth, darlin'. You make it real easy. To help ease your concerns, let me explain a few things. First, we're fantastic together. It's why we've been partners for this long and especially why we were chosen for this op. Our sexual chemistry is undeniable, without a doubt. But there's a different kind of connection that we have on the day to day. We both trust each other completely on missions and work together like a damn well oiled machine. The only other teams that have a similar bond are the birds when they get to fly together, then Phoenix and Bob when she's not with Rooster. Two different kinds of chemistry between each of them, but you and I, angel? We have both, and that makes it so special. And trust me, we'll always have sexual tension because I'm almost always gonna wanna fuck you. Only foreseeable exception being we're in a dogfight, but that's only because we'd be actively trying to not die. If you haven't smothered me in my sleep yet, I think we're gonna be just fine. Sure, it'll be a new dynamic to add in, but it's gonna be ok. We've fought before and we can handle ourselves well despite the fights. We're good, sugar. I got you," he coos at me.

"Good Lord, that little speech just about melted my pants off, whew! Let's go get ourselves permanently linked via permanent ink! See what I did there? Clever wasn't it?" I nudge Jake with my elbow.

"Hilarious, short stack," he says, pulling the truck back onto the road.

"Let's get you marked by me indefinitely," with a quick smirk tossed my way, we're at the shop in no time.

We show our artist what we're wanting and she has them drawn up and ready to be transferred in no time flat. We end up choosing a spot low on our forearms that, yes, will coordinate when we hold hands on that side. It's so cheesy but I love it more than I can explain. We start with mine first and she's through in a flash. I look up to Jake and can't help but notice he seems a little uneasy.

"You ok honey?"

"Uhh yeah, I'm good. Just a first timer and don't really know what to expect"

"HOLY SHIT I get to take your tattoo virginity?! Yessssss!" I air punch in excitement, making Jake laugh.

"It's not that serious, tiny. But I am glad I'm with you for it. I'm making an exception and allowing a bumper sticker the Maserati just for you"

I give him a kiss and let the artist work her magic. Jake is tougher than we expected and barely even flinched at the pain, so he's done before we even know it.

“I totally understand the hype now, this will not be my last one!" Jake tells me as he pulls me into his side and pays the cashier. We leave a decent tip and decide to stop for some dinner on the way home.

Sixteen

Anyone catch the callback to the movie and the Set It Up references? 😏

🏷️: @callsign-viper @bradleybeachbabe @sarahsmi13s @lovinglyeternal @horseshoegirl @cherrycola27 @thedroneranger @dakotakazansky @desert-fern @footprintsinthesxnd @startrekfangirl2233 @roostette @cassiemitchell @galaxy-of-stories @bobby-r2d2-floyd @fandomxpreferences @eugene-emt-roe @callsign-fangirl @genius2050 @gothidecorem

#controlled chaos squad #mama mayhem #mama mayhem writes #jake seresin #jake seresin fluff #jake hangman seresin #top gun maverick #dagger au #beckham teague #hang your halo #hang your halo universe #jake seresin x oc

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neuroborreliosis · 3 months

Text

i can never fall asleep right when i go to bed. usually, it takes me between two and four hours. i know i have insomnia, but it's hard to reconcile that knowledge with the fact that i am so exhausted all the time. generally, these days, once i'm asleep, i can sleep through the night. i wake up partially through the night, i stir, i toss and turn, i adjust my position. mostly i move around so much because no matter what side i sleep on, or what position i sleep in, my back always always hurts. staying in the same position too long makes my back uncomfortable. but i don't usually wake up completely to shift throughout the night.

it wasn't always this way. insomnia is a beast with many heads and i've come face to face with all of them. for years, i would be able to fall asleep pretty quickly, but the slightest sound - a creak in the floorboards from another room as someone shuffled to the bathroom, for example - would wake me, and i'd find myself struggling to fall back asleep for hours. sometimes, i wouldn't fall back asleep at all. there have been times where i've been able to fall asleep and even stay asleep but never got deep sleep, never felt like i went into rem, or whatever. i'm not an expert. there have been periods where i can't fall asleep for hours and even when i do, i can't stay asleep. there have been times where i'm able to fall asleep but wake at least once a night to complete numbness in one or both forearms, hands, fingers. to the point that my own limbs would feel like they belonged to someone else and i'd have to carry them to the sink to rush steaming hot water over them until sensation returned.

i dunno. these days i just can't fall asleep until between 2 and 5 am, no matter how early i take my sleepy things, no matter how early i get in bed.

melatonin gummies. melatonin xr. passionflower. skullcap chamomile valerian. cbd. l-tryptophan l-theanine. homeopathic sleep tablets.

i always have some cocktail of sleep aids on deck, and i generally take several of them each evening. but STILL I CANNOT FALL ASLEEP UNTIL THE WEE HOURS.

i used to get prescribed ativan, then klonopin, both teeny-tiny doses. i used to get prescribed low-dose lunesta. i used to swipe my mother's ambien.

i hate relying on pharmaceutical medications. i am already chemically dependent on suboxone. it's the lifeline for which i reach every morning. it's the only reason i can do things in this late stage of lyme disease. so i'm wary of adding another.

but pharmaceuticals are really the only thing that has ever worked like clockwork for sleep, for me. i've been taking medical-grade melatonin xr every night for multiple weeks, since my doctor prescribed it to me, and i've been adding calming herbs and sleepytime tea and homeopathic tablets to the mix and STILL I CANNOT FALL ASLEEP.

i am SO TIRED ALL THE TIME.

during the day i try to be as active as i can, i try to pace myself, i try to tire myself out. i do yoga most evenings. i sometimes shower before bed so that my body temperature drops a little because jules told me that in order to get sleepy, your body needs to cool off a llittle bit.

i try to lull myself to sleep with all kinds of youtube videos, i rewatch netflix's "inside the mind of a cat" night after night because i wonder if maybe, when i've memorized the script, it'll ease me into slumber. but i guess it's not that easy.

i will say, there is one youtube channel whose videos can help me fall asleep pretty quickly MOST, but not ALL, of the time. her name is jody whiteley and she makes the only sleep hypnosis videos that aren't creepy or weird or sus to me. her voice is soothing and her hypnosis seems to work. i discovered her videos when i was 16 and i've used them ever since on nights when i'm afraid i won't be able to sleep. racing thoughts slowed by her suggestive cooing. but there are nights where i'm so wired that even jody whiteley can't save me from my wakeful state.

i dunno. i sort of hate when you tell doc you have insomnia and they go, "have you tried melatonin?" like YES I HAVE. WHAT DO YOU THINK I'VE BEEN DOING ALL THIS TIME IF NOT TRYING EVERY GODDAMN SLEEP AID THAT'S AVAILABLE OVER THE COUNTER?

i need to ask my provider for something. something''s gotta give. because of my lyme, my severe fatigue, no matter what time i fall asleep i need a BARE MINIMUM of 8 hours of sleep, and i won't feel good the next day unless i get closer to 10 or 12. so, the fact that i can't fall asleep until the wee hours means that i never wake up early enough to really take advantage of the day. i absolutely HATE waking up as late as i do. and the only solution for me is to be able to fall asleep earlier. i need a prescription. i'm sick and tired of being sick and tired, like they say in 12 step. something's got to give.

#lyme #lyme disease #chronic illness #spoonie #lymie #insomnia #insomniac #neuroborreliosis #illness #sick #writer #writing #poetry #creative writing

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aethertownusa · 22 days

Text

Here's some more. If you want to stop me posting this you've got to come here and physically stop me but you won't on account of your great cowardice. Reflect on that. THIS IS FROM 2021 I LIVED EVERYTHING IS FINE

I went to the bath room, peed in the cup, surprised as always by its heat. Gratified at least that all that chugging made it easy to pee. Unsure where to put the cup. Balanced it on the trash can lid while rinsing my hands. And outside when I opened the door, close as before, the old man, me with my hot-sided sample cup of urine right there by his head. He looked at it and me. I was turning, friendly saying "Where shall I put this?" I had heard his voice from outside the bathroom and it was clear and strong. I wondered while turning if this would be sexually gratifying for him, the way your desires and interests get weird when you’re confined. Young woman with her breasts practically out with a cup of her own recent urine—like a complete nudity; this will be porn in the future; simultaneity of all concealed body—better than Baudrillard, because I see that the organs themselves, still inside and functioning but somehow seen, will become objects of sexual interest.

“Just set it there,” said the young man, and the woman said “I can take it.” I gave it to her and I thanked them again, earnestly, for their kindness and patience.

While it happened I felt helpless and pathetic, but almost immediately after, I was glad at how strange and interesting it was.

END OF THAT ENTRY. NEXT DAY'S ENTRY

I forgot to add that I’d been listening to 3Sex while waiting and “le retour de la jupiter” kept cycling in my head while almost passing out. The whirr of a coin down a funnel.

I was on Ambien while writing that & I’m on Ambien now. I don’t know that I would have so emphasized sex if I hadn’t been on Ambien. I’ve had to take it each night because at night this week I grow tenuous and terribly unhappy. Tenuous—drawn out, attenuated in my heart. I think about death. I am afraid there is no God. I haven’t ever been afraid of that before—if there is a God, then the world as I think it is is real. If there is no God, well! I’ll be dead so I won’t know! That was what I thought I felt. But now I think I have never seriously felt before that it was possible that there was no God. The possible silent closure of human life had never truly occurred to me.

I am so accustomed to thinking of the perfect significance of human life, appearing on earth like a ridge of stone and then forever in the sea—but now suddenly it seemed to me that there might be no God and no Friend and no wake-up and reality after death. And I am harmed at every side by thoughts of my parents dying, my awareness of their age. It is unthinkable to me. Unbearable. And one thing worse, one thing conceivable, that I should die before them. I worry about this all the time. Now these thoughts are inescapable. The old Satanic nonsense: “Think of what it will be like when they die. Now think of what it will be like when you die before them.” as if both will come true.

My death feels so sure to me. As silly as this sounds, although the greatest likelihood is that everything goes perfectly, to believe this is true seems the more absurd choice to me, the flightier. I don’t know how to believe that I will live. I don’t know how to hope for the best.

This thing with God—if God is real, I don’t know why I’m having this experience. The structure I mean by that is: Assuming that the circumstance is that God is real, now I ask why I’m doubting it. It could be the dryness from John of the Cross. I hope it’s a spiritual trial. But really I think I’ve degraded my brain morally. Degraded it with cruelties and my schadenfreude and my daily sheltering in “others suffer x but not I”. I know intellectually that it’s the flimsiest house. All that happens, guaranteed, is that the thing others suffer will happen to you, and the only shelter you have will collapse.

I had a vision some months ago which I should have written about the next morning. Now I remember none of its implications. It was when I was washing toward goodness. The vision was like one of the medieval scenes I loved when I was a little girl, oak-leaf-green and teal, rolling on a glass ball of profound beauty; a garden, mostly green, and it was earth.

I’ve always known that my act of degrading my empathy, my playful mutilation of my empathy, is an act of destroying my most powerful tool. Now I recognize that it is a blow at the very heart of holiness in me, at the trunk of the tree of God in my heart.

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cynamonowo · 9 months

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multiples of 3, datomi <3

i love you so much bestie <3 this is gonna be super long (so under the cut it goes) And. kind of based in my general "aini does not happen & they get to work things out" au lmao

ship ask game

3. What was their first impression of each other?

"oh god who is this man and why is he bleeding out at this shrine" "oh god is that an angel that's going to take me to see baby jesus"

6. How do they make up/apologize after an argument?

hitomi probably talks about what both of them did wrong bc adult communication!!! we're not teens anymore!! on the other hand i think date would first sulk then blame himself before being a grown up too lol

9. What do they dislike most about the other? Why?

for hitomi it's probably just how date can get so focused on his work he forgets to care for himself. as for him, it's probably hitomi's tendency to keep secrets & refuse help

12. Do they have a difficult time when separated from each other, or are they fairly independent?

*gestures in the direction of aini* yeah no i think they're very independent but date can get like that r/ambien "i miss my wife :(" post lmao

15. What songs remind you of their relationship?

oh man... mogło być nic, heart of wool, and boats & birds

18. How do they care for each other when one of them is wounded/sick?

omg date would probably either minimize his suffering bc there's Stuff to be Done, Or be a total drama queen. in both cases hitomi's very exasperated but fond. when she's ill though, date's probably losing his mind and having aiba check on her every other minute while he reads the entire webmd site

21. Do they enjoy domestic life?

very much so! i think that after the resolution route date cuts down on his cabaret club outings bc he feels So Old. and after they start dating they go out sometimes but also like to chill inside, clean/cook together, drink some wine, and watch a movie or smth :3

24. How do their personalities affect their relationship? Do their characteristics compliment each other, or clash often?

actually i think they're more similar than ppl think! both are very determined and family-oriented, have a tendency for self-sacrifice, and like to joke around (hitomi's jokes are more subtle though lmao).i think they mostly differ when it comes to impulsivity - date's that kind of person to act first and think second lol

27. How do they say “I love you” non-verbally?

mm i think it's mostly through doing little things for each other, like hitomi making a cute bento box for date, and him making her tea just the way she likes it (piping hot)

30. What are their respective love languages? Do their love languages work well together?

gestures above. acts of service i think. a bit of quality time and physical touch as well (date never passes an opportunity to Grab A Boob), but mostly just ensuring the other's life goes as smooth as possible bc boy howdy they've been through some shit

33. How do they flirt? Who’s the worse flirt?

date probably makes a lot of innuendo heavy jokes that hitomi pretends not to understand so he can embarrass himself while explaining lmao but tbh i can't imagine them flirting that much. they don't really need to

36. How do they feel about having kids? Are they in agreement?

"we have two very lively daughters, that's enough lmao" (plus like. i think they only start actually dating after a few years, so both are in their forties & there's much lower chance to have a kid even if they tried. if smth happened they'd probably be happy to have a child together)

39. When and how did they admit that they loved each other? If they haven’t yet, why?

it probably took a veeery long time for them to feel comfortable with saying it out loud (but they knew. they knew), so maybe 2 yrs after getting into a relationship? and tbh i think hitomi said it first & date bluescreened at this. she loves him. she really loves him, despite everything. he's crying.

42. What’s their relationship like with each other’s friends/families?

haha yeah about that. (boss & hitomi text often though. mostly worrying about date. disaster man.)

45. How do they support each other? How do they rely on each others support?

oh i think they support each other by just. being there for one another. doing little things to cheer up the other one, asking how to help, bouncing ideas off of each other. but when it gets Harder i think both of them (mostly date) bottle things up a lot until the other one (mostly hitomi) gets too worried to let that slide.

48. Do they talk about their future together? Why or why not?

:( p sure they'd be afraid of considering an actual future together when you take into account What Happened Last Time (and in aini :// ), so it'd take like. a few good years until they feel comfortable enough to assume they wouldn't get separated again...

#sil.txt #aitsf spoilers cw #datomi #asks #they make me so. augh

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