burning boy

Okay, but think about this: Eddie Kaspbrak as a vampire

His mom is human and overprotective as fuck because her undead, creature of the night son, is too damn fragile

Pencils? Those sharp wooden objects? Banned from the house. They eat with plastic cutlery because she can’t have her baby boy getting burned by normal silverware. He drinks a pint of blood at every meal, sitting at the dinner table with his mother. He’s homeschooled and the entire house is filled with blackout curtains, lest he spontaneously burst into flames. And because of his very, very protective mother who wants him to be as safe as possible, he doesn’t know how to use his powers at all

And Richie is this kid who suddenly takes interest in the boy that never comes out of his house, and he doesn’t care that Eddie’s a vampire, and they explore his powers together, much to Eddie’s mother’s fury, but Eddie loves Richie and that’s that

(Also, Eddie can totally turn into a bat, and he has teeny tiny fangs that Richie always makes fun of, and Eddie says, “They’re growing in, asshole!” every time)

it’s not about that i know how to do laundry. it’s that when i was four i knew how to fold clothes; small hands working alongside my mother, while my older brother sat and played with his toys. it’s that i know what kind of detergent works but my father guesses. it’s that in my freshman year of college i had a line of boys who needed me to show them how to use the machine. it’s that the first door they knocked on belonged to me. it’s that they expected me to know.

it’s not that i know how to cook. it’s that the biggest christmas present i got was a little plastic kitchenette i never used except to climb on. it’s that my brother used it more, his hands ghosting over pink buttons and yellow dials. it’s that when my work needs cake for a birthday, they turn to me. i get it from costco. i don’t even like cooking. a boy burns popcorn in the dorm microwave and laughs. a week later, i do the same thing, and he snorts at me, “just crossed you off my wife list.” it’s that i had heard something like this so many times before that i laughed, too.

it’s not that i don’t love being feminine. it’s that i came home with bruises from trying to be a trick rider on my bike and heard the word “tomboy,” felt my little mouth say, “but i’m not a boy, i’m a girl”. it’s that they laughed. it’s that until i was sitting in my pretty dress and smiling with a big pretty smile and blinking my big pretty eyes, i wasn’t given back the title “girl”. it’s that until i wore makeup and styled my hair i was bullied; it’s that when i don’t wear makeup i’m a slob, that my mental health diagnosis hangs on the hook of being dressed up. it’s that my therapist sees me returning to bright red lipstick and tells me i am looking happier and i have to explain that i am more sad than i have ever been. it’s that i dress myself in as many layers as i can every time i ride a train because it’s better to be laughed at than harassed. 

it’s not that i know how to clean, it’s that my brother’s chores were outside where i wanted to be, and mine were inside. it’s that i would have weeded the garden better than he did if they had just let me. it’s that i am put in charge of fixing other’s messes, expected to comply without complaint.

it’s not that i can’t open the jar. it’s that you ask my brother first every time. it’s that i am pushed into docile positions, trained to believe that my body when it’s strong and healthy is ugly, trained into being less, weaker. it’s that the jar is also science, is also engineering, is also every job, every opportunity. it’s that you laugh faster when he tells a joke, that you take him seriously but wave off me, that when he raises his voice he’s assertive but when i do i’m hysterical. the jar is getting into a car with a stranger as a driver and wondering if this is our last ride. the jar is knowing that if something happens to us, it’s our fault. 

it’s that i’m weak and i don’t know if it’s because i just am or i was trained to be. it’s that we need to sit pretty with our pretty smiles and our pretty words trapped pretty and silent in our throats, our hands restless but pretty when idle, our bodies vessels for nothing but a future white dress. it’s that we are taught someone else needs to open the jar for us.

here’s the secret: run metal lids under hot water, they’ll expand faster than the glass they’re around. here’s the secret: when you keep us under hot water, we do more than boil. we expand over our edges. and we learn how to open our mouths, our claws, our screams hanging in kites over cities. just give me a chance. give me a chance when i am four when i am seven when i am twenty-three. i promise i can be amazing. give me the jar. i’ll show you something.

A doodle of a Dab for all your fast dabs needs

Paranoia | M

“Does it look like I want to be stuck with you for the rest of my life?”

[gif cr]

Précis; Because waking up beside the one you have always despised isn’t something that you thought would ever actually happen.

Note: Since this post was eaten awhile back, I had to rewrite it..good thing my memory is A1 lol. *whispers* this is hella revamped so if you read it before..it’s 85% different | Words ➳ 11k

Genre & Warnings: Fluff, humor and minor angst. O h, & light smut. ((: {ft. Jungkook} | enemies to lovers au

➳ paranoia ; suspicion and mistrust of people or their actions without evidence and justification.


It was the tinkling of ice that rummaged within your glass of liquor that you debated whether to drink the contents and regret it the day after or to deny the free offer the bartender had given you; to try their new bottle they had promptly started to sell within the specific bar. Your eyes narrowed towards the softly fizzing contents inside your glass, scrutinizing the bubbles as they dispersed after floating about the liquid for more than a few seconds — having wasted their purpose as they popped small amounts of gas within the air. You were so entranced, giving yourself thousands of reasons why drinking at that moment shouldn’t even be debatable to notice the bartender laugh under his breath.

“It’s not going to kill you, you know.” He said, shaking a blender cup before he started to pour someone else a glass of alcohol.

You pursed your lips, glancing to your phone hoping you would receive a text back but to your dismay, you had received nothing. “It may not kill me,” you started while you softly flicked the glass with your finger as the crushed ice began to dance with one another, “but it will ruin my life.”

He hummed, resting his elbow on the counter and towards your sober state of mind, sliding the cup a little closer to you. “But it may also give you something to live for.”

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I need a hug

“But I-”

“Maybe you don’t, but I need one.”

“Oh. Okay.”