𝐋 𝐔 𝐌 𝐈 𝐍 𝐀 𝐑 𝐘

so obvs i’ve not been active on here for a while now and this blog is coming up to a year old and i’ve kind of been thinking about my time on this site and. i’ve never really???? had a great time? i’ve made a couple of fantastic friends who i hope i’ll keep for life but that extends past writing on here. and despite cullen being one of the muses i’ve been able to relate to the most i never felt like i got traction or got the interactions that i. perhaps hoped to get? like nothing was ever....continuous and (again with legit maybe 2 exceptions) nothing ever really got past introductions with both other muns and other muses, and most of my threads ended up sizzling out after a second reply. idk if i’m just not a lot of people’s type of person but after a few messages back and forth i feel like people kinda lost interest (but maybe it was me that lost interest?) . again whether that’s down to my lack of activity or lack of an understanding of cullen’s character or just plain us not getting on i just. don’t know. and again that’s nobody’s fault! i’m just sitting here and i want to write but honestly have no idea where to even start.

i’m not really doing anything other than mope here, and i don’t expect anything to change but idk. venting is good. i’ve been considering remaking an oc of mine because i recently found his bio sheet from early 2015 and i always had a better time w him. but i also know that the fandomless oc community is cutthroat as hell and that i’ll probably have a worse time on him than on here. throws notes into the air!!!!! 

❛❛  thanks..  ❜❜     skin  born  scathing,   fingers all but  pressed  into the wound.     [nails embedded,   practically holding  near  rotten  flesh together].     it comes cold,   callous:   no  sweet  tongues  nor  tender  longings.     called  self  enraged,  elated,   incandescent.     insensate with longing,   feral in nature.     all  but  leaning into the  pain  of undone threads,   pulling her  apart  seam  by  seam.

ripped  and  raw,   from the back of her throat when it  pierces  back into her.     [cleaved in half,   near spilling  guts  on the streets].     needle-pointed pain,   arched  in the act of a  lover  to  it.     a  turn,   squirm  of  the  hips.     splitting of skin and biting it,   self-wrapped  shame  and surrender on her lips.     hiding  the  most  tender  parts  whilst  spreading  the  most  intimate.     ❛❛  i wasn’t quick enough.     i’m  meant  to  be  better  than  this.     too caught up in  my  own  arrogance  to see it coming.  ❜❜     each  tug  of the needle  draws  her,   pallor    & her lips  dotted  with blood.     [in  his  mouth,   her blood  reeks].

❛❛  ..     i didn’t hide it because i don’t trust you…     i  trust  you  more  than  i  trust  myself.     i’m…    there is pieces of me i don’t want you to see because they’re  ugly.     what is  sweet  and  tender  about rotten fruit?  nothing.     i don’t know how to  expose  those pieces of myself.     i’m  so  fucking  used  to  being  alone.     i  want  to be open…     i wish i could peel my skin away so you could see every inch of me and  not  think i’m hiding things from you because i don’t  lov————     …     because i don’t trust you.  ❜❜

❝   𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄   ,   𝐋𝐀𝐘  𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍   .   the stitches would tear the second you sit straight if done like this . ❞           and palm pushes , though only the feather touch of it , a polite demand against bare chest until she yields .   she is an animal , wounded and wild , and through the cleaved meat carving valleys into her flesh he’s sure he can see intestine , those worm - like tubes writhing with every move of her   ( how could someone endure such a thing ? ) .   

❝     it’s alright . you survived , didn’t you ?   then learn from it .   ❞           words come an affectionate coo , gentle and stilling .   her insistence on talking only complicates the job , body rising and falling with every hitched and unsteady breath , but he is patient , and understands the comfort found in it .   needle pushes through the stained flesh , a knife through butter   ( for all of her mistakes at least it is sharp )   ,   winding the wire to pull the skin together , a bloodied maw .   what  a  mess   .   he allows her spilling forth of admittance , words tumbling ; their room an unholy confessional , the priests and the gods silent there , looking on , her blood in coagulation a penance and offering .   he is sure they bubble heedless from delirium , as so often he has done the same ; spilling the contents of his heart to whomever held absolution in the pinprick of a needle .