i'm falling more in love with the distance put between us

ephemerall — Mon, 05 May 2014 02:44:07 GMT

That moment someone makes an ignorant, insensitive comment, and you have to relive your own rape.

ephemerall — Sun, 02 Mar 2014 02:48:45 GMT

I am sad to say this... But I think I am on my way out of the Supernatural fandom. I'm pretty much done with everything being dragged out. I don't feel connected to the characters anymore or the story line. I really wish they would have quit while they were ahead. I don't think I will be watching season 10.

Rape Sloth?

ephemerall — Thu, 27 Feb 2014 13:04:48 GMT

I am so appalled at the number of people who think this is funny. For those of you who find it funny, think about the people who have been raped. Think about how that kind of material might make them feel. If you were raped -- which is an embarassing, self-depreciating, hurtful act that makes a person feel like he/she is not a person at all who couldn't save his/her body from personal invasion -- would you like seeing jokes like that all over the internet? I'm not hating on anyone that thinks it's funny; I'm just asking you to use some caution in regards to where you share this "joke", because you may not know it, but you probably have someone on at least one of your friends lists that has been raped.

As a rape victim, though it was well over 9 years ago, this makes me feel small. This makes me feel like I should be ashamed. It took years for me to come to terms that I have nothing to be shameful about, nothing to blame myself for. This kind of material is not funny. I wish people would think before they post hurtful things like this. I can only imagine how other victims feel -- especially those who have had this happen recently.

ephemerall — Wed, 26 Feb 2014 01:16:07 GMT

I've gained 5 pounds. FIVE FUCKING POUNDS. I am so disgusted with how my body looks I don't even want to get out of bed in the morning.

ephemerall — Tue, 18 Feb 2014 20:56:05 GMT

109 pounds with my sweatshirt and sweatpants on. So I'm guessing that puts me right around 107. I'm actually pretty grossed out. I'd been at 104.3 -- which was a good place for me, and now I've gained FOUR POUNDS? I'm making a schedule for myself (around work) so I can go to the gym at least 5 days a week. I'm also limiting what I can eat -- and when I can eat it. No more eating after 7pm; very lean meats, fresh vegetables, certain fruits... no white starch, no refined sugar. I've felt this way before and I'm just not doing it this time -- I'm not going to feel disgusting like this. I WON'T.

season 9

ephemerall — Wed, 30 Oct 2013 20:58:21 GMT

I'm not happy with the recent events of SUPERNATURAL. I won't put spoilers in this, but they are allowed in the comments so proceed with caution...

Dean? Not okay with what he is doing with either people that should be his first priority. I am not okay with how the episode before last went. Then, this last episode really just kind of sucked.

ephemerall — Wed, 12 Jun 2013 23:24:01 GMT

I finally figured out what it is I want to write. I want an AU, where Ruby lived, and then play in the Demon Cure. Of course, there would be lots of angry angsty sex between Sam and Ruby, Sam and Dean, and Dean/Sam/Ruby. So now, to help me on my way -- Rec me some songs I could use to create a soundtrack. So far, I have "Sanctified" by Nine Inch Nails, "Finding Me" Vertical Horizon, "You're a God" Vertical Horizon... What do you guys have for suggestions?

ephemerall — Wed, 05 Jun 2013 14:47:54 GMT

So, wanna rec me some hurt!Sam and/or hurt!Jared fics? The hurtier the better.

Also, any fic prompts for hurt!Sam? I'm feeling the urge to write something gut wrenching.

ephemerall — Thu, 23 May 2013 19:01:04 GMT

I just really need to write... And I can't....

So I'm asking for prompts -- Pre-series or AU for Supernatural.
Harry Potter -- Harry/Hermione, but others welcome
The Hunger Games -- Peeta/Katniss

Please -- I'm begging for help here.

ephemerall — Mon, 20 May 2013 02:32:45 GMT

I finally graduated from college!!

ephemerall — Wed, 01 May 2013 22:14:47 GMT

So... what are your ideas on what girl!Sam would look like? Any particular actresses you have in mind?

ephemerall — Mon, 29 Apr 2013 15:22:47 GMT

I seriously want to have another baby. Anyone want to be a sperm donor?

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

weight battles

ephemerall — Sun, 28 Apr 2013 23:33:40 GMT

I'm stuck at 113. For anyone else, this would be fine. For me, and my fucked up brain, this is way too fucking much. I dried diet shakes; I workout 3-5 times a week; I try to be careful about what I eat. I still look gross and still hate the way my body looks. I feel like the only way this is going to change is if I continue to workout and restrict my calories. I wish I could have someone else's better, toned body, rather than mine :(

ephemerall — Sat, 27 Apr 2013 22:58:36 GMT

T-minus 23 days until graduation! I will have my bachelors degree, not that I know what I am going to actually do with it. I mean, my job consists of washing and drying other people's dogs because they are too lazy to do it themselves -- there isn't much english involved in that.

This is what I look like, now, for anyone who is wondering. Not that most of you care.

Currently, Sam and I are watching Hotel Transylvania.

This post has no real meaning, fyi.

Also, for those of you who don't know it, thisisbullcrap is fucking awesome. Currenly, he is under a lot of stress, and if you don't like what he has to say -- please, feel free to go fuck yourself up the ass with a wooden stake.

ephemerall — Sun, 21 Apr 2013 20:16:28 GMT

Ok, I'm taking supernatural prompts. Preseries through season 6 -- throw them at me. Any pairing I've done in the past is fair game as well as no pairing. HELP?!

ephemerall — Thu, 18 Apr 2013 15:55:48 GMT

If I don't write something soon I'm going to lose my shit. Anyone feel like prompting me?

ephemerall — Sun, 17 Feb 2013 15:51:44 GMT

I need some help here... Without going into shit tons of detail, my son's father and I are not together. He, however, is in the military. Someone I know, who used to be a military wife, informed me that my son should be getting benefits from the military. He gets insurance, and we get Child Support through the county, but I am being told that Sam's father is getting extra money that is supposed to go to my son, that my son never actually sees. Does anyone know anything about this? I don't even know who to contact in the military to ask questions, or report it if he IS abusing the funds that are supposed to go to Sam.

I would really appreciate if anyone can help me with this. I'm at a loss.

ephemerall — Wed, 30 Jan 2013 16:58:29 GMT

Lunch:
1/2 of a half sized Panera Spinach Power Salad = 115 calories
1/4 cup of old fashioned chicken noodle soup = 20 calories

Lunch totals = 135 calories

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

ephemerall — Sun, 27 Jan 2013 01:13:07 GMT

I'm starting a plan now. Something has got to give; I've got to make the necessary changes to this body that I'm stuck in or I'm going to lose my mind. By March 1 2013 I need to lose 20-25 pounds. I can't BE this way anymore; I can't look like THIS. I can't wake up everyday and wear baggy shirts and pants because I'm too fat for my clothes. I feel the fat jiggling when I move -- stomach, arms, thighs, butt -- and it has to GO. I can't afford lipsuction and my credit is bad enough I can't get a loan for it, so I have to do what I can on my own. I've been successful before -- there is no reason I can't have self-control again, no reason I can't successfully lose this weight for good.

ephemerall — Sat, 24 Nov 2012 05:13:48 GMT

Diet starts Sunday morning. I refuse to feel like this anymore.

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

ephemerall — Fri, 28 Sep 2012 01:12:55 GMT

It feels like an endless, reckless, cruel cycle. I see this has potential -- a lot of it -- but the doubt creeps in, seeps in, and I can't sleep, I can't breathe, I can't think of anything except how wrong this could go. I let down a wall, I let you in, and that's a way to get hurt, a way for you to hurt me -- a way for one more person to let me down. I don't know if it's worth it, to let myself feel anything at all -- to fall into this trap, as it always seems to be. What's the gain in this?

You're supposed to make me feel beautiful; you have, but today you didn't. Today, I feel inadequate; today I feel like I have felt so many times: like I'm just not good enough. If I had the guts, if I wasn't scared that I would ruin everything that COULD be, I'd tell you, right now, that I'm angry. It's stupid, I guess, but I never complain when you listen to your music, even though I hate most of it; I guess it wouldn't matter if I didn't see you every other day and sometimes more, and listen to your music. You listened to my music for all of 30 minutes today; you didn't have anything nice to say, and you didn't even hold back the fact that you didn't like it, and you didn't stop to think it might bother me when you make fun of things I like. You probably didn't mean anything by it, but I wanted to hit you.

And your lack of ability to give this a definition. So you rushed into your last relationship - who hasn't done that one or ten times? You spend your free time with me, you walk me to and from class and you kiss me hello, goodbye, and you hold my hand in public. By definition, you're my boyfriend -- if I can swallow my pride, my fears, and be with you in ways I don't trust myself to be with anyone anymore, then you can suck it up and admit you're my fucking boyfriend, ok? I want to say this to you, right to your face; but I'm a strong willed person, I get my way when I find it necessary, and I know that if I stand up now and show you that I'm stronger than you think I am, than anyone thinks I am, you'll go running and I'll miss out on something that could be good.

And I know you don't know this, and that's not your fault (not that you've asked a single thing about my past, and I haven't asked about yours) but when you make comments about how funny it is that I say I'm going to exercise tomorrow and then don't, and then say the same thing the next day -- you make me want to throw up. When you talk about the fact we need to be careful eating fast food, even just in passing or in concern for health, I want to throw up. I starved myself once, I threw up and exercised, and hated my body so much that I was willing to just die than to live with the body I had. YOU'RE NOT HELPING. You don't know and I can't fault you for that, but I can only take so much before I snap, and you're going to find out the wrong way, and you're going to find out a lot more than you probably want to know.

Bouncing back to the "boyfriend" issue -- you say you want to take it slow? You don't want to rush into things? I find it funny you say those things, but you don't put the brakes on when it comes to sex. Well, since you're so concerned about rushing, I'll be sure to put the brakes on next time so we can protect your fragile little heart.

I mean a lot of what I'm saying, but I'm angry right now. I could say them differently, say them nicer and in a non-offensive way, but I'm pissed of so I'm going to write it all down, just like this, and remember later when I think about how perfect you are.

ephemerall — Wed, 05 Sep 2012 21:54:33 GMT

I hate when I've been a fan of something for so long, and then... I just feel this disconnect. I love the characters still, I'm just not in love with the story anymore. It makes me really sad.

ephemerall — Sun, 26 Aug 2012 19:10:19 GMT

[pray your dreams will leave you here]
peeta/katniss
rated r
a first time fic, set during Catching Fire

She doesn’t really know what to expect, and has nothing to compare it to, but Peeta is bigger than she imagined. She hardly knows how this works; she knows what goes where, but semantics aren’t really important here. Being intimate with Peeta is as easy as breathing and this is another part of that; but she doesn’t know what to do.

“Katniss,” he says softly and she looks up at him. “I’m sorry; we don’t have to -- “

She shakes her head, cutting him off. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” she says. “I know we don’t, but I… I want to.” He closes his eyes for a moment, and she doesn’t know if he’s savoring this or trying to figure out if he’s dreaming. She feels guilty for putting so much doubt there, for not giving him everything he deserves, for not being able to admit that she loves him.

She takes his hand, places it at her hip, just under the hem of her shirt and he inhales sharply. His hands are so warm; he’s always so warm. She can feel him, hard, pressed up against her thigh, and it’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once. She doesn’t think she could do this with anyone else. And maybe she is a hormone riddled, confused teenager, but this seems right – being with him this way seems right.

“It’s ok,” she whispers, leaning to kiss him. “You can touch me.”

He kisses her then, deep and like he means it more than anything he’s ever meant. She wishes she knew what he was thinking, wishes she could tell him everything she felt and didn’t really understand. Her thoughts jumble with his hands on her skin; his fingers are soft, ghosting over her ribcage, up, up, until the flat of his palm is warm against her breast. She arches into his touch, and pulls at his shirt; he pulls away long enough to pull his shirt over his head, and to help her out of hers.

“Katniss,” he whispers and kisses her. She doesn’t think anyone will ever kiss her like Peeta does; she isn’t sure of all of her feelings, but she’s sure she doesn’t want anyone else to even try to kiss her like this.

She touches him, hands moving over his smooth skin – the muscles of his arms, the soft skin of his back, the muscles of his abdomen, and lower, brushing against the waistband of his undershorts. She doesn’t ask permission, not the way he always looks at her and asks with his eyes, she just slides her hand down, in, and touches him. He felt big, pressed against her, and he feels bigger in her hand. He’s warm and hard, but the skin is so silky, so smooth. He gasps into her mouth.

“I want this,” she says, when he pulls back to look at her. “Peeta, I want this – with you.”

The look in his eyes makes something in her chest squeeze tight; there is so much love and admiration in his blue eyes, so much trust and awe. Haymitch was always right – she could live a hundred lifetimes and not deserve him, not one bit. She stops thinking when he slides her underwear down, off of her hips, over her thighs. It’s strange, for a moment, someone touching her down there; she hardly has an experience touching herself. He slides his fingers through the slick mess of her and the warmth in her belly rages, burns up until she can feel it in her fingertips and toes. He kisses her when he slips his fingers into her – maybe as reassurance, maybe to swallow the noises she makes, maybe both. It feels foreign and feels strangely good, his fingers in her like this, but it feels like such a tight fit – she doesn’t know how he’ll fit inside of her, so much bigger than a couple of fingers.

She’s squirming under him, and pushes at his shorts, struggling to get them off of him, and her fingers brush the strangely smooth and mottled flesh where his real leg ends and the prosthetic begins. He inhales sharply. “Katniss, don’t,” he says, looking away.

“I don’t care,” she says. “It doesn’t bother me. It’s a part of you, Peeta, and I – “ she wants to say I love it, because I love you, but the words don’t come out. He seems to understand, and kisses her while they work off his shorts the rest of the way, and then she’s instinctually parting her legs to let him settle between them.

It’s so hot between them, their skin burning with this, and he’s there, pressing at her and she has to swallow her fear. “We don’t have to do this,” he says, voice rough. “I don’t want to hurt you; we can stop.”

She shakes her head. “I want you,” she replies. It’s enough.

She presses her face into his neck, eyes squeezed shut tight as he pushes in; he feels bigger than he even looked, and he’d looked plenty big enough. It’s uncomfortable, at first, and then there’s the resistance and he pushes harder; she feels something give and he pushes in farther, and it burns. The pinch is sharp, and the burn that follows is unpleasant. She digs her fingers into his shoulders, makes the smallest sound of pain and he stops completely. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, kissing her neck, her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

She urges him to continue, ignores the discomfort, lets him kiss her to distraction until she realizes he’s inside of her, he’s as far as he can go, and her legs are trembling around his hips. He’s watching her, looking at her in awe, waiting, she realizes, for her to change her mind. She kisses him instead, soft and steady, full of meaning, of all the things she can’t say. And then he starts to move.

His movements are slow at first, a little awkward; neither of them have done this, it’s all new, but they find a rhythm. The uncomfortable fullness, the pinch and burn fade, and blur into something else entirely. Peeta makes her feel good in a way she never has, a warmth starting in her core and slowly ebbing out until she feels like she might shake apart. But it’s not enough to get her there, not enough for her to tumble over that edge she’s chasing. They’re both breathing hard and she takes his hand, guides it down, presses his fingers where they’re joined and then slides them up. The pleasure is sharp and she arches her back. “Peeta…” she whispers, wrapping her arms, her legs, as tightly around him as she can. He rubs at her, moving faster in her, and then she’s crashing – she’s freefalling and trembling. He murmurs her name and then he’s kissing her, his hips stuttering against hers and she’s filled with an entirely new kind of warmth.

They lie still for a while, after, Peeta softening inside of her; she finds that she likes the weight of him, the warmth of him on top of her. But eventually he kisses her, moves off of her and to the side, pulling her close almost immediately. “I love you,” he says and her chest tightens. She can’t say it, is incapable, so she kisses him instead, the watery grey light of pre-dawn filtering through the train’s window.

ephemerall — Sun, 12 Aug 2012 03:53:30 GMT

I think the best and worst part of being a writer, and in turn being an avid reader and lover of literature, is the ability to fall in love with characters. The ability to take someone fictional and feel him/her as if he/she were a real person in your life, that you’ve met and had conversations with. You get inside a characters head, when you’re reading or writing the story, but the more important thing is that you get inside this character’s heart. You feel his/her pain, joy, loss, etc. With that comes an ease with which you can fall into a world, immerse yourself in it completely, succumb to the suspension of disbelief, and feel shock and grief when it’s over, when there is nothing left for you to write or read. It’s an ache, really, under your skin; a pain in your chest at knowing this is the last you will feel of a character, that his/her story has been told, and there is no more. It’s a feeling of tremendous loss, and for that you grieve the end of that story, those characters, those imaginary people you connected so strongly with, those characters you laughed and cried with, yelled at even though the only response you ever got were still words on the page. With that comes a profound sense of sadness – knowing you could write or read more of this in endless quantities, but having the secure knowledge that the story is over and you have to close the book, that everything has, in fact, ended.