(no subject)
I feel like I've been stuck in a rut as of late; I can only seem to write in 2nd person and anything I do write is how I feel, nothing more. Nothing about what I've written seems like fiction so therefore, how can I call it a fic? I hate giving these stories, if I may, names and identities where they're my experiences and feelings. But at the same time, I want the ability to just write fic and no more of this 'story' crap. I think it's all the college application filling out I've been doing, since I've been writing and thinking so much about myself: what I've done, what I want, etc., that I've stopped thinking in terms of telling someone else's story and turning that into a fic. This year (being senior year and the start of my 'real life,' if I may), I've done a lot of analyzing in how I've handled certain situations, and writing them out gives me a sense of perspective. I'm not saying that writing about myself has been..not beneficial, or anything. If anything, I've learned how to explain and develop feelings a bit more. But everything I write lately is poetry in a story form. In addition to that, all of my old stuff I've been reading, I think it's shit. Maybe that's a sign of me growing as a writer, or maybe I'm just in this 'I can only read and write poetic stories that are in 2nd person' rut.
In any case, I've written more poetic 2nd person stories. Here is one:
You can feel his heart pounding against your skin and he’s panting and you’re panting and you wonder if this is it, if this is what you’ve been waiting for. The sweat is falling off of his body in streams and forming puddles in the crevasses of your muscles and now you feel your temperature rising, despite the fan whirring noisily above. The satin sheets are sticking to your skin and you wonder for a brief moment if there will be chaffing later, then wonder how you can think about chaffing at a time like this. His hair is curling on his forehead and you think his eyes are closed, but it’s hard to tell because your own eyes are clouded.
You can feel him inside of you and you cry out because that’s what should happen. But you’re in so much pain right now that you can’t imagine any of this being enjoyable. He pulls out and the pain subsides, but you’re still overcome, except you’re not sure with what. A type of numbness has fallen over you and even his finger pushing fallen locks out of your eyes can’t make you feel anything. He smiles; whether it’s out of out of pity or adoration, you’re not sure. Either way, you can tell it’s genuine. Your eyes feel heavy and when you wake up, long after the sun has set, he’s still lying beside you.
“Sorry,” you say, as you wipe sleep from your eyes. He sighs and you can feel the mattress groaning beneath you.
“No, don’t say sorry.” He pauses and his eyes wander over your naked body. “You okay?” he asks softly.
You can feel bruises on your legs and scratches on your back. No, you’re not okay. But the truth hurts and you don’t want to make him regret something you asked him to do. “Be my first,” you had whispered beneath a scalding August sun, passion strung through your words. He had reluctantly agreed, and you can’t fault him for granting you a favour.
“Fine,” you respond, using the tone you remember using in your high school debate team: strong, stern, emotionless. “I’m fine.”
In any case, I've written more poetic 2nd person stories. Here is one:
You can feel his heart pounding against your skin and he’s panting and you’re panting and you wonder if this is it, if this is what you’ve been waiting for. The sweat is falling off of his body in streams and forming puddles in the crevasses of your muscles and now you feel your temperature rising, despite the fan whirring noisily above. The satin sheets are sticking to your skin and you wonder for a brief moment if there will be chaffing later, then wonder how you can think about chaffing at a time like this. His hair is curling on his forehead and you think his eyes are closed, but it’s hard to tell because your own eyes are clouded.
You can feel him inside of you and you cry out because that’s what should happen. But you’re in so much pain right now that you can’t imagine any of this being enjoyable. He pulls out and the pain subsides, but you’re still overcome, except you’re not sure with what. A type of numbness has fallen over you and even his finger pushing fallen locks out of your eyes can’t make you feel anything. He smiles; whether it’s out of out of pity or adoration, you’re not sure. Either way, you can tell it’s genuine. Your eyes feel heavy and when you wake up, long after the sun has set, he’s still lying beside you.
“Sorry,” you say, as you wipe sleep from your eyes. He sighs and you can feel the mattress groaning beneath you.
“No, don’t say sorry.” He pauses and his eyes wander over your naked body. “You okay?” he asks softly.
You can feel bruises on your legs and scratches on your back. No, you’re not okay. But the truth hurts and you don’t want to make him regret something you asked him to do. “Be my first,” you had whispered beneath a scalding August sun, passion strung through your words. He had reluctantly agreed, and you can’t fault him for granting you a favour.
“Fine,” you respond, using the tone you remember using in your high school debate team: strong, stern, emotionless. “I’m fine.”