#but it was perfectionism itself that prevented the work from getting done

[sch-com]

Specific manifestations of anankastic / obsessive-compulsive PD in my life

see similar post for schizoid PD

When I first heard of my personality disorders, it was hard for me to notice their role in my life. Part of it was that I was younger, and with less experiences, but part of it was that by nature PDs are so ingrained it's hard to see the full scope of their influence. Particularly I struggled to see the "dysfunction" part - I was thinking that sure, I do experience that, but is it really that bad? And you can't have a PD without the dysfunction, so do I even count? I think that now, after some time and more reflections, I can say I do see the dysfunction, so I thought to share my observations.

Disclaimer: I am going to combine DSM V and ICD10 criteria, and omit those that do not apply to me

Using DSM V + ICD10 criteria for OCPD that are relevant to me:

1/ A preoccupation with order and details that results in the person missing the point of an activity / Perfectionism that hinders the completion of tasks

This manifests in a very classic way for me. I get overfocused on aligning shapes in my presentations instead of focusing on, well, the goal of the presentation. I get fixated on trying to undestand everything in my classes/courses - instead of seeing what the entire course is trying to teach me, I get anxious and feel like a failure for not understaning one concept. It prevents me from moving on and trusting the process.

A big one that deserves it's own point is when I am organising things. I organise everything in my life, and I get into those organisation obsessions. When I am in one, it's all I can think of. How to put those notes in order, where to put this thing, how to create a system that makes perfect sense. Instead of recognising that the organisation part is supposed to help me with the things I am trying to organise, I get obsessed with the details of the organisation system itself.

2/ Undue preoccupation with productivity to the exclusion of pleasure and interpersonal relationships to an extent that is excessive and not explained by economic needs

Very much connected to 3/ for me, more on that there.

When I was still in school, the feeling of obligation was overwhelming. I can't quite even find the words to describe the extent of this feeling. I neglected everything, literally everything to do schoolwork. Sleep, relationships, family, my health, just because I felt this enormous pressure that Have To. I refused to meet with friends, or to watch movies with family, or to do anything fun, or to even go to the doctors because I had homwork, or an exam. And I know everyone does that from time to time, but the frequency and intensity is what made it dysfunctional. Also, as it turns out, it only caused me more harm than good - me getting a good grade 5 years ago absolutely doesn't mean anything anymore now. And me not making any long-lasting relationships? Absolutely does affect me to this day. My priorities were not serving me.

Now I don't have this singular intense big obligation that school was for me, but I still am rather obsessive about trying to gain skills that would make me employable / not useless. Granted, I am failing miserably at that, but it is my main focus. And I still neglect other things and relationships because of work or some other task I deemed an Obligation. I literally work full-time and then study part-time on the weekeds, I don't think I would do that if I cared about friendships or fun...

I can't allow myself to do anything fun / think about anything else when I have an Obligation planned. And it doesn't have to be anything big - even when I Have To buy someone a gift, I will not fully relax as long as I fulfill the obligation. Which is stupid, because there are always things to be done, so I am permanently stuck in this.

And all of the above is so irrational... Like I come from a relatively well-off family. I have had a full time job for a year now, with permanent contract. And yet, I still feel this sense of Danger and that I Have To do all the things, like work and studying, to make sure I don't die (it feels like I will die if I stop).

3/ Reluctance to spend money on oneself or others and a belief that money should be hoarded for emergencies

The motivation for all from point 2/ always has been fear of spending money, fear of being useless, fear of not having the skills for people to employ me and ultimately fear of ending up homeless. I was thinking of this even when I was like 13yo learning geography. I don't know how normal that is. So, I have always saved up as much as I can, to have the money when something bad happens. I am saying when, and not if, because it feels inevitable.

Everything costs money, and when I am afraid of spending it it affects so many aspects of life. I don't go to fun events for which you have to pay. I feel bad going out for dinner with friends, so I isolate instead. I don't buy clothes unless the ones I have are absolutely unwearable. I postpone going to the doctors, or getting tests done when I have to pay. I feel bad even bying basic groceries.

This is a big factor contributning of me not going to therapy, because it's expensive.

I also feel even more guilty when other people spend money on me. Like, I absolutely don't have to work actually, my parents could pay for my university. But it feels too wrong. I can't. I physically can't allow them to.

4/ Reluctance to delegate tasks to or work with others unless things are done his or her way

Pretty related to 1/. Other people just don't care about the details, or doing things right as much as I do (which actually, good for them because I am the one in the wrong, but I can't help it). I hated group assignments in school because of this. And then I would put too much effort into a stupid project that ultimately meant nothing, and so the cycle continues.

On the flip side, it makes me refrain from tasks, jobs or even basic activities which involve other people, because I know I will suffer with trying to ignore the "imperfections", or they will suffer if I nag them about them. So it may be limiting in terms of what I take on. Like not choosing work that I would maybe like / benefit from because it involves groupwork. And let's be honest, in today's complicated world there aren't many things you can do completely alone. All big, important projects involve cooperation.

5/ Excessive conscientiousness and infexibility related to morality or values (not explained by one's culture or religion)

The main value I hold in my life is to cause as little harm as possible. And you know what is the easiest way to cause as little harm as possible? To do as little as possible. I try to not consume much. I isolate because I don't want to hurt anyone with my broken brain. I chose the line of work and study not because I truly want to do them, but because they are viewed as more useful/benefitial than what maybe I would have chosen otherwise. I don't want to be a waste, and a burden.

I also hold some other tangentially related philosophical beliefs, that most likely don't serve me, but they feel too right for me at the moment. To name a few: antinatalism, nihilism, atheism, pessimism (in the philosophical sense). I like to think I could become convinced otherwise, but that I just haven't heard good counterarguments, but I don't know. Some poeple have said to me that I am just stubborn and refuse to listen, so maybe it is my infexlibility and not the weakness of the arguments.

6/ Feelings of excessive doubt and caution

The thing that have defined my life since I can remember is this feeling that the world is a dangerous place. That I am unwanted here and that I have to prove that I deserve to stay. That I have to make the right choices, and be cautious to avoid pain.

It's hard to find specific examples, because it's something so ingrained I can't imagine how I would act otherwise? But even such things as avoiding going out at dark (impossible to do 100% of the time) that made me miss out on fun or important things. I never trust people fully, especially that they will fulfill their obligations to me. I never trust myself - that I deserve to be where I am, and I always feel at danger of getting kicked out of places. I don't trust strangers on the streets to even not attack me, even though it never happened? I could go on and on. I just have this feeling that I always have to watch myself, and my steps, and to prepare for the worst always.

7/ Intrusion of insistent and unwelcome thoughts or impulses

Probably a lot is covered in 6/ as well

I want to also mention my bfrb - skin picking. It's embarrasing to be honest. I pick everywhere, but especially on my shoulders to the point I look like I was burned. I like doing it, but I guess it is unwanted in the sense that I wish I didn't? I don't know, it's complicated.

I would also classify my obsessive need for organisation here. Like sometimes I wish I could just do something, instead of having this need to organise and plan everything neatly first.

For thoughts, it's pretty standard talk of not being enough, of not working hard enough, of comparing myself to others. I recently also started having flashbacks to random memories. I don't particularly want to think about the past anymore, and I wish they would stop.

I also get some thoughts that are like what many people think is going on in OCD - I get anxious about not locking the door, not turining off the oven, stuff like that. I do occasionally have to go back and check to calm myself, and even after I do I still think "but what if I didn't???". A big and constant one is thinking I lost/forgot my keys, wallet and phone all the time even though I am literally touching them in my pocket lmao. I don't think it's to the extent of a person with OCD though.

Fighting all of that just takes a lot of brainpower in my day-to-day, and that is pretty distressing itself because then I will spend my brainpower on thinking about how much brainpower I am using on those things? Ridiculous cirular thinking, that I am also experiencing in other aspects, but this post is long as it is.

[studentbyday]

tw: perfectionism, self-doubt, anhedonia, burnout, uncertainty...you are under no obligation to read what follows...i just needed a place to sort things out, it's too messy in my head.

i like to think my perfectionism has mellowed out a little bit....sort of...sometimes...mostly, it now presents itself as "do the best that i know i can" and for better or for worse, my previous experiences have set that bar very high. i mean, what else am i going to do? what could possibly be a better use of my time than preparing for my future while i can?

@zzzzzestforlife wisely told me: it's important to balance preparing for the future and enjoying the present. if you spend all your time preparing for the future, by the time you're about to live it, you might not want it or anything anymore.

perhaps even before then you can get into that place where you don't want anything anymore. but i don't think it's that i don't want anything anymore...at least, not yet. there are lots of things i want that i know i'm not good enough to achieve and/or that current circumstances prevent me from achieving and/or that i'm just too tired to try to achieve rn. perhaps i could achieve them in time but by then, maybe it'll be too late. what if i ultimately fail? does that mean all my efforts have been for nought? it all contributes to a very high level of self-doubt and discouragement. and then i risk a self-fulfilling prophecy because what is the point of trying when i can't do it?

just so tired... it's not the kind of tiredness i immediately notice. it's the kind of tired i only notice only after its crept up on me and done its damage. and i'm not sure what i'm supposed to do. keep working / try to do more, or stop working / try to do less, somehow guilt free? if i keep trying to do more (i.e. focus on preparing for my future), i will eventually get to that point where i'm so burnt out and numb and crumble under the weight of self-doubt and of extremely high personal standards that i stop wanting anything anymore and get depressed. but if i stop working or just do less (or focus on other things that help me enjoy the present more), i will fail as i miss the mark again and again and again, get discouraged, crumble under the weight of self-doubt and of falling short, and get depressed.

but maybe i'm getting ahead of myself. i'm not sure who i will be in three years, if i will be better or worse. but i...still don't quite know what to do to prevent my mental health from tanking further as i know it has done for others in a similar position...those who were driven by passion for their field and felt pressured to work very hard because they needed to.

i'm sometimes terrified of the future. like this september, i will be doing more things than i usually do and what if something drops? and more broadly, will there be jobs out there that i qualify for that don't require me to move away? will it be worth it or will it not? sigh. again, i'm thinking about things i don't need to think about right now. but i don't like how i feel like i'm meandering towards where i'm meant to be instead of shooting like an arrow towards my goals. and i think the sooner i make a choice, the sooner i can course-correct if need be. but i also want to make the right choice because i've seen others make their choices quite quickly and end up feeling like their soul has been drained by them while also feeling trapped in the paths they've set. and i'm scared the same thing will happen to me. and i'm also scared of wasting time, of accumulating knowledge and skills but never having a secure and well-compensated job to use them in. sigh. perhaps i will feel better tomorrow. i've just been feeling really uncertain about everything lately...

oohh, i really don't like the feeling of any of this 😣😖

[doctorstephenvincentstrange]

What If S1E4 Meta: The True “Heart”

The same way Stephen couldn’t let go of Christine in the fourth installment of What If...?, I haven’t been able to shake this episode off and out of my head since watching it. I’m pretty sure it’s put me through the grieving process. Lately, it’s been haunting me like a ghost, and while mentally revisiting it for the fourteen millionth time, I realized something BRUTAL that I just had to share ASAP!

Hear me out, homies. What if...

The running theme and title of the episode was Stephen Strange losing his “heart.” But although the setup and storyline seems to suggest the euphemism refers to Christine Palmer, it doesn’t! The “heart” of Stephen Strange is not the girl of his dreams he lost in that car accident, but the greater man he had gained.

OK LISTEN. Let me have a shot to show you what I see (even in shite quality, pardon my crappy screenshots). Let’s start with the DS1 recap, 'cuz I’m still not over the first movie, either, and it’s relevant.

Like the watcher explained, after the devastating and tragic death of the love of his life, Stephen Strange began to look for answers. Not different from Stephen Strange of the sacred timeline, he was obsessed with reversing the great loss and trauma he’d endured. It was with the same perfectionism that made him a great surgeon, that Stephen sought the power to “find his own way back.”

... By any means necessary. 

They both discover that “power” they were searching for when they stumble upon time magic. However, Stephen is lectured that time magic is something that could risk the stability of the universe, and should never be done lightly and certainly never for the sake of one person over all others. Although harm is not his nature and Stephen doesn’t want to hurt anyone, he struggles to give up on his quest to heal his hands, or alternatively, to resurrect Christine. He was told a solution wasn’t out there, but found it in the Book of Cagliostro.

Despite every person that told him it couldn’t be done, Stephen can’t accept that. He won’t admit there’s nothing that can be done, there has to be something he can do. He’s conceited with the delusion he can alter his past to better his present. And he won’t be swayed of it.

But when the Ancient One fell, Stephen Strange rose to take her place and fend against the invading Dormammu. He saw for the first time the world that was so much bigger than him, that he could do so much good for, more than good only for himself. He saw the millions of lives that had not yet been lost to tragedy he could prevent and save from it, even if not what hardships had already been done and could not be undone in his own life. Things he could save, not fix.

And it wasn’t his own life he saved with that time magic in the end, but earth itself. And Stephen Strange became something much bigger than himself. No matter what he’d lost in that car accident, he learned there was still much more he could gain, regardless of what he’d lost. He didn’t need to fix his hands. They were still good.

Better than his brilliant mind, was his beautiful heart. 

His capacity for goodness, not greatness.

And yet, for all the good he’d achieved and learned, on the two year anniversary of Christine’s death, Stephen can’t help but get sucked into his past, and in a moment of weakness, allow his grief power over him once more. He can’t stop reliving the past. He loops it over and over again, trying to reverse fate, trying to find a way to spare Christine and find that “miracle” that must exist to spare her.

The Ancient One has sensed his presence and meddling with the Eye of Agamotto, and warns Stephen that the path he had set himself on would lead him only to more pain. When Stephen refuses to be reasoned with, the Ancient One brandishes him with a single blow before he escapes into the past. He thinks she missed. She didn’t.

SHOT THROUGH THE HEART, AND YOU’RE TO BLAME! DARLING YOU GIVE LOVE A BAD NAME!

But *ahem* seriously, notice how Stephen was struck mid center his chest, directly over his heart. It was in that moment that Stephen Strange lost his “heart,” as the Ancient One had knocked it out of him, just as she had knocked him out of his own oversized head when they first met. Theory: she cast a spell to separate Stephen’s heart from his mind, the two halves that make one complete man.  

Because even if Stephen Strange’s mind was still set on Christine Palmer, his heart had been changed, and there was still hope for it. And Stephen Strange’s heart had enough with “living in the past for one day,” and chose instead to share drinks with Wong.

Meanwhile, Stephen’s “mind” searched the Library of Cagliostro for a way to reverse an absolute point and save Christine. Eventually, he found the answer he was looking for. He needed more power, that could be obtained by otherworldly creatures. Now, harm is not in Stephen’s nature. On his first attempt, he actually tries asking “nicely,” and ends up getting ass kicked.

O’Bengh, the librarian of the books of Cagliostro, patches up his body and tries to warn Stephen. He may have lost his heart, but if he he keeps going at this rate, he was well on his way to losing his mind.

But Stephen didn’t heed those words of warning. He distorted his body, darkened himself with every sacrifice he made for Christine’s sake. So caught up in the memory of Christine’s greatness, Stephen had forgotten he’d once had one of his own. Christine was all he saw. 

So obsessed with her, he lost himself.

When Strange returns to O’Bengh’s side, the librarian has aged and is dying. He reveals the passage of centuries Stephen has spent devoted to this madness. As someone Stephen thinks of as a friend passes away, Stephen can’t think to cherish these last moments or listen carefully to his final words. All he can think is to use his magic to spare O’Bengh, which O’Bengh refuses, trying one last time to reach through to Stephen before giving up and leaving hope to the “heart” to be strong enough to withstand and stop him.

*Wink, wink, wink.* Do you see it now?

Now, onto the confrontation between heart and mind. Stephen’s mind can’t achieve anything if his heart isn’t in it, and I love the symbolism of that. He must get it on board first, unite on both fronts.

Stephen’s heart can recognize that this isn’t love, but the work of his broken mind lost in a delusion. And Stephen’s so far gone down the rabbit hole, he won’t even listen to his heart. Instead he ignores it, even burns the cloak of levitation... the very symbol of his finding something new that could uplift him after spending so long down on his knees in the past... and he burnt it to ash. When his heart won’t be persuaded, he resorts to trickery, attempting to con his heart with the same delusion that haunts his mind. It’s the same Christine that Stephen first was hung up imagining when he picked up the eye of the Agamotto and got himself into this mess, his trump card.

But again, the heart cannot be deceived. It knows Christine is dead, and it realizes the fantasy his mind is pursuing is not the same as the Christine they once knew and loved. More importantly, his heart remembers that there are other people who need him now, people that are not beyond saving. And the mind is done playing.

If his heart won’t come willing, then he’ll just have to beat it into submission until it can’t make a single sound of protest, and then swallow it whole. Stephen makes the ultimate sacrifice the Ancient One had tried so hard to prevent, and abandons that heart she saw so much potential in and inspired her to teach him.

This episode AMAZINGLY tackles the narcissism and arrogance that hides in specific shades of grief and depression. In believing our problems are greater than anyone else’s, that no one else could understand as Stephen insisted “they didn’t know her!” The selfishness that comes with refusing to see the world or those around you that still need you and choosing instead to chase the memory of the ones you’ve already lost, who are beyond saving. If we choose those delusions over our reality, in the end, we will lose everything, and the ones who will pay the price for your arrogance won’t be you, but the ones you loved. Even the memory of the one you loved, that you twisted to fit your mold. There’s a selfishness in seeing only the bad of what was rather than the good of what could come.

Unless you want to end up alone inside a cold and empty shell, maybe it’s time to listen to your heart, and move on.

[transsexualhamlet]

asmr i psychoanalyze my favorite war criminal, aka calling out norman the essay

basically all of my thoughts on norman on one callout post because i care him (both manga and anime are discussed)

LINK TO RAY PSYCHOANALYSIS:  https://chaoticgaymess.tumblr.com/post/646749875570196480/ray-81194-the-long-explanation 

this is going to be ungodly long so here’s a keep reading, essay below the cut

((tw for suicidal ideation and self harm, brief discussion of eating disorders))

Disclaimer: no shipping is included here this is just about norman also they’re kids who call each other siblings

Thoughts: So you may be thinking, Rowan, why do you yell about the colorless war criminal so often? Well the answer lies in your honor the court hates to see a girlboss winning. Norman is a girlboss :) Yes norman is a tiny twink who can't lift a milk jug. And he is a girlboss :) Obviously I don't condone, um, eugenics and all, but that's not the point the point is that he satisfies my need for more characters like Levi motherfucking Calder from Unwind because I’m apparently an edgy 13 year old. Also all of his problems are violently things I can fix and I keep him around as a pet project because someone needs to give him a hug and slap him on the face

I diagnose him with things: 

-pisces man :pensive:

-is he albino? Not literally. Is his skin so pale he would catch fire if he went outside at noon? Yes.

-autism: Yes I’m aware that calling him autistic makes him, problematic rep by perpetuating the autism unfeeling savant stereotype whatever but have you considered i’m autistic and I’m projecting also he’s L with standards? Anyway traits of AuTism he has: hyper   fixation, canonically breaks and fixes things over and over because like ofc he does, doesn’t understand Emotion, hyperaware of body language at the same time as it all somehow flying over his head, low empathy, sensory experiences™, min maxed in certain areas, and I don’t think he’s got social interaction quite right? There’s something off about it

-gifted kid (derogatory) This is self explanatory but basically him being the smartest and the best in a competitive environment caused most of his issues, such as the perfectionism, the need to succeed, the lack of self esteem and ridiculously high expectations on himself, giving himself no breaks or time to relax, the “i must be productive with every second of my day or i will die” deal, the “peaked at 11” thing, the way in which he goes through life like there’s going to be a fucking test on it

-Eldest Daughter™ lmao. Norman’s always had to be mature, he’s always had to be the best, he’s always had to do the things Ray got out of bc he’s a snitch and Emma got out of because Isabella likes her. Norman gets respect from Isabella only if he excels, and her bar for him is astronomical. He doesn’t have the Mommy Issues that Ray has, but it’s because for him Isabella basically just reflected his expectations on himself, whereas with Ray it was more personal.

-low empathy (part of the autism thing): this one needs more explanation, but it’s not a bad thing in and of itself. Cognitive empathy is a thing and he can use it, but he does not instinctively understand other people’s emotions, or even recognize them properly, especially when the person is not like himself. This is obvious in Emma. Man has no fucking clue what’s going on in her head or why she does what she does, but he can predict what she will do in any given situation very well. He could understand the suicide attempt from ray he predicted more because Ray’s an easier equation to solve, and someone who’s more similar to him. I know he gets it because, well, motherfucker’s just as self desctructive as him, just in a more dignified manner.

-he’s got some sort of chronic illness. This is also me projecting and a headcanon but he’s got something going on, even before lambda pumped him full of growth hormones or whatever which they maybe should have Not Done but oh well. (I assume this just didn’t happen in the anime, since he’s still so fucking short) But he's So weak. He passed out when it was too hot. He passed out when it was too cold. He can’t open a pickle jar. His skin is too pale and he’s skinny af. He’s much more prone to sickness and probably has asthma too? But in the case that he did actually have something going on, I don’t think grace field would see the need to treat it, if it didn’t impact the quality of his meat? Isabella’s probably just “you have chronic pain and you get migraines? Great, take some tylenol and do some calculus.” Can’t say that probably helped anything.

personality type: ISTJ

Basically, he’s the most boring personality type to exist, and personally as an enfp i do not respect him. But basically this means he’s a fucking nerd that gets his projects done for school the day they’re assigned, is probably the president of the Anime Student Council™, and could probably get away with premeditated murder (ok actual istjs this is a joke don’t skin me)

The only trait that norman doesn’t have on the istj thing is telling the truth. Yeah, he values the truth, but like, that doesn’t apply to him, clearly. Bitch is a notorious liar.

The only other personality type he has any similarity with is intj, which is the same except it’s more rare and a purple theme instead of a blue theme. Sadly, that’s not him though, because although he can care more about some kinds of philosophy overall this isn’t the case and ray already occupies this personality type tbh. 

strengths and weaknesses: This one’s kind of obvious, but he is aside from the crazy insane intelligence good at planning. Extremely good at planning. He can predict any outcome and figure out how to prevent it, using all his resources. For example he’s physically weak and someone could literally just walk up and stab him, but it doesn’t impede his progress on his goals because he’s surrounded himself with strong, mentally inferior people who would die for him in a heartbeat. He never gets stuck in some “everything is shit and i can’t do anything” deal like Emma and Ray do, he always works through it and has confidence in his abilities (in as much as he will solve the problem or die™. Weaknesses other than his twink body include his Low Wisdom score. It’s funny how he’s often associated with an owl, the mans is 14. He thinks he knows what he’s doing. He doesn’t. Plus obviously his fundamental misunderstanding of so much of everything going on around him, the fact that he lies not just to the world but himself, his refusal to take care of himself and his incredible cowardice. His achilles heel is being forced to, actually confront his actions.

what he likes about himself: He does pride himself on his mental abilities, and his judgement, which in his opinion is the only correct opinion and the only correct way. In the past, he likes being seen as a leader, he likes being responsible for other people. He likes his ability to manipulate and lie, because he sees it as an asset, and I honestly think he enjoys being william minerva more than he enjoys being Norman. He prides himself on his unhealthy expectations and the fact that he is able to meet them. Honestly, he does think he’s better than everyone else, mentally, though it’s humbled by his self hatred. Cursed thought: If Norman had self esteem he would be light yagami. 

what he doesn’t like about himself/insecurities: Oh god, nearly everything. His appearance, his status, his superiority, his physical inability, his own mess of a mind, also have I mentioned his appearance. He’s obsessed with self control. He wants everything he sees wrong with himself gone. And I understand why having control of everything is necessary and appealing, everything for him has always been rigid and planned out from moment one, he was even more regulated in lambda, and though he desperately wants to Not Be Food, he has no idea what to do with the chains now that he’s broken out of them. So he just wraps them around himself. Regulates to an unhealthy degree when he sleeps, what he eats, when he actually takes even minimal care of his own problems, what he looks like, how much of himself he lets show, the expressions on his face, the literal thoughts inside his own head he will shut down if they are not Correct. It’s literal self harm. Norman, please stop it.

motivations/goals in life/general philosophy: To be honest, I’m not sure he knows what he wants. He sure thinks he does, he could sure give you a memorized answer, but it means nothing. He wants to excel. He wants Emma to be happy. He wants to be perfect and for that to make everything perfect. But he doesn’t realize everything he’s working towards will do pretty much the opposite of that. He’s a crippling perfectionist, and pretty much everything he does is motivated by his fear of failing. He picks the certain path, he doesn’t wait for anyone else, he doesn’t care if it’s not nice. Emma foils that a most of the time because he cares about her, but it can only go so far, especially after he’s had so much time without her to develop a Complex. His philosophy is very contradictory, basically the tokyo ghoul “everything bad that happens to you stems from a lack of ability”. All of his problems are his fault. All the world’s problems are his to fix. If he can’t fix them, it’s his fault, it’s because he wasn’t strong enough, and not being perfect condemns someone forever, including himself.

how he’s perceived by others vs how he actually is: In most people there wouldn’t truly be much of a difference, but with Norman things are different, because, well, most of his personality in grace field is a put on, as well as the tough guy dictator thing he radiates after lambda. How he appears to someone is determined by the context of their meeting- the kids at grace field see him as a nerdy, weakish, pretty boring kid who is really caring and kind. The researchers at lambda see an obedient, beaten down and perfectionistic boy. The lambda kids see him as an infallible leader, ruthless and genius, a good man who knows what’s right. But in truth none of that is him. It’s a fucking chess game to him, putting on different faces, lying and pretending and treating everyone differently. In truth? He’s a fucking coward. He’s scared out of his mind and he’s tired and he can’t take pain, he’s obsessed with reaching some goal he deems is necessary that in the end is going to be his death because he doesn’t want to face the consequences of his actions. He’s taken on the role of someone evil, though deep down he’s not, he feels it’s easier to live that way because it strips him of his conscience. 

interpersonal relationships: In general, Norman sees all relationships in a pretty dim light. He sees everyone as black and white, for the most part, and other people make no sense to him intuitively, he has to figure them out like a puzzle. He’s manipulative and not particularly kind, but he follows all societal expectations to a T, overly focused on his appearance and placing the person he’s interacting with into a Category™. So he can be truly kind, to people he feels deserve it, to people who he values and doesn’t see flaws in. He gets incredibly attached to people he loves, protective, though he often doesn’t take their own feelings on the matter into consideration, and he’s ruthless with anyone who he deems a bad person. With people he understands and relates to, though, things can be different. If he sees someone as like himself, he will drop all the social interaction police bullshit and cut to the chase of whatever he wants or needs from them, and he’s not very forgiving in any manner, if he thinks what someone did is actually bad.

Emma: Norman obviously cares a lot about Emma, and honestly views her as better than anyone else. He realizes her moral integrity and all of the things she has and he doesn’t, and admires it. Because of his black and white view, Emma is like an angel to him. She couldn’t do anything wrong if she tried. But he comes to treat her as something to be protected instead of respected, and although he realizes she wouldn’t like what he’s doing, he fundamentally cannot empathize with her and doesn’t try to understand her. Their personalities are very literally opposite. Norman really needs to fucking listen to her. And Emma needs to understand that Norman doesn’t have a single ounce of empathy and you really do need to spell it out for him. Emma can only convince him when she has logical reasons for her actions, which she, doesn’t often have. And Emma gave Norman too much slack, because she didn’t see past the surface, and Ray never wanted to warn her, even though he knew the dude was showing a bunch of red flags, because you know. It was kind of an unspoken deal between them. (on ray’s part)

Ray: His relationship with Ray is a lot more complicated than with Emma. He understands Ray, where he doesn’t understand Emma, and he can see right through anything Ray does. And this makes things really tense between them, because Ray doesn’t, take kindly to being psychoanalyzed. If someone perceives him he will deck them and Norman is just there silently perceiving him at all times when Emma doesn’t see it. They are both constantly in competition with each other, but they care about each other a lot, though it’s kind of in a derogatory way. They both recognize each other as fundamentally fucked up, and silently agree never to bring it up with Emma. They’re nice to each other when she’s around, but all pretenses disappear when she’s gone. Ray is always frustrated with Norman, because Norman’s never been intimidated by him, and though he tries his best not to be vulnerable around him, Norman can always see through it, whereas Ray can’t crack Norman’s fake fucking smile no matter what he does. Norman will always take Emma’s side, and doesn’t see Ray as a good person at all, but he still understands and can excuse him, he takes measures to be… worse than Ray, which is better in his mind, because it’s rational, and ‘not selfish’.

Isabella: She has always had ridiculously high expectations for Norman, and treats him kind of harshly compared to the others. Bitch has heat stroke and Isabella’s first question is a calculus problem instead of like, “are you ok”. She knows he doesn’t complain about anything ever and she doesn’t stop him from being Terrible to himself, because it makes her job easier. They want smart kids, not mentally adjusted kids. She does really care for all of them, but she basically overrides it, she gives them what they want, not what they need, lets them be exactly what they’re making themselves. Isabella is distant with Ray but gives him anything he wants, she’s close and super nice with Emma, but Norman is… it’s weird. Isabella is proud of him because he meets her astronomically high bar. But at the same time, Norman never really cared for her that much and has never pretended to. Once they discover The Thing, though, he has a revelation, and it doesn’t take him long to switch his entire perspective about her. He’s pretty much like. Oh. She’s like me. That explains it, time to treat her like I treat myself: fucking brutally. Passive aggressive as hell. The kind of energy the :) emoticon at the end of an email gives. He does like just go “yeah we should kill her” at one point, which. You know, ok. When he got shipped out it was hhhh really interesting because Isabella knew full well he knew he was walking to his death and Norman was like “are you Truly Happy?” and just went :) and she was like h u h and tried to get him to talk while they were walking there because she feels Bad about it and he just. Did not. He didn’t say a single word just kind of smiled menacingly at her and I think it was half a sort of rebellion and half because he viewed her as similar to himself and therefore felt no need to put up any front with her, no words were necessary for him to impart exactly how he felt about it

Lambda kids: His relationship with the lambda kids is weird and bittersweet. I think he really truly does care about them, they were in a similar situation to his and he wants them to get what they want. However it is not a healthy or beneficial relationship, they see him as a god and don’t realize that he’s killing himself to give them what they want, he’s basically adopted them when out of anyone norman’s the one that should least be in charge of kids. I think he’s honestly younger than them but I’m not sure if they even know. He acts like their fucking mom, and that’s from what he thinks mothers are like… like isabella?? Giving them what they want, not what they need, lying to them, showing a front, caring deeply for them but at the same time using them for his own ends. And it’s not helpful for him. He thinks he knows what they need, but what he’s doing is what they want. What they need is therapy,(and so does norman), and he doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with using them as weapons because they love him. It makes him feel good, to be seen as perfect, to have people who don’t know how weak he really is. But it’s only making him worse, and he’s enabling everything the lambda kids are doing wrong as well. They need like, Yuugo and Lucas. Some actual adults who are actually wise and have the ability and the knowledge to take care of them and understand their mental problems and maybe actually address them. And actually be nice to them. But um sadly. 

what he’s doing wrong: It’s pretty obvious, but… Norman, you maybe *shouldn’t* commit genocide? You’re not helping emma, you’re not making anything better. You’re not helping the lambda kids, you’re enabling them. You’re not helping your friends from grace field, you’re ignoring what they want. You’re not helping the world, you’re eradicating an entire race from the face of the earth and murdering the poor for the crimes of the fucking 1%. You’re not being a martyr, you’re a selfish piece of shit liar you little coward, you just want an easy way out and you want to die on your bloody fucking hill instead of admitting you’re wrong. Grow up, cringe little man.

why he went wrong: I think most of the reason this happened was the way he was raised combined with the kind of person he is. Norman would have turned out fine, if there has been good adults in his life who actually cared about his well being. Instead he got people who just wanted to control him and make him what they needed, and family who largely didn’t realize there was anything wrong. Ray being an ass to him most of forever probably didn’t help but well, that’s just Ray. Even then, he would have managed alright if he escaped with the rest of the kids because he would never have been separated from the experiences that caused the rest of them to realize demons weren’t all evil. In lambda he didn’t have anyone supporting him or telling him when things went too far, so he fell into relying on himself alone, pushing himself further with absolutely no limits. All he saw was enemies and allies, and things got stratified. He never had a lucas or a yuugo or mujika when he would have needed it, instead he found children who wanted him to be in charge and a world that made it so he had to be. Everything was an echo chamber for his worst thoughts, so they just became more and more dominant.

what he needs: To put it simply, he needs Emma and Ray to cut to the chase and slap him across the face and make him take care of himself. He needs to be forced to see everything for what it really is- this edgy 14 year old committing atrocities to feel better about himself? He needs to be told that what he’s doing is irrational, because in reality, it is. There are better solutions that he’s ignoring, both to his own suffering and the demons, and the way he’s going now no one will truly be happy because of it, that there is no requirement that things be perfect and this bullshit doesn’t make him stronger. He needs someone responsible to take the fucking dagger out of his hands. He also needs someone to babysit him and make him go to bed at a reasonable time.

i describe his personality through songs on my spotify playlist for him:

-outrunning karma by alec benjamin: this one super applies because it calls him out for making shitty decisions, being manipulative and a liar, and having blood on his hands in a very calm and subdued manner, that he knows this is wrong and yet he chooses to keep running faster and faster towards destruction, that he means to escape it through death

-empty by boyinaband and jaiden: yes this is a song about anorexia yes it also applies to norman i’m not saying norman literally has an eating disorder (but honestly it wouldn’t be far out of character if he did) but metaphorically this applies to his method of ignoring his needs, both emotional and physical, in favor of seeming in control 

-toxic thoughts by faith marie: this one speaks to his gifted kid trauma. Man’s got perfectionism running his entire soul. He’s terrified of failing, because he’s always been at the very top, he’ll beat himself up over any miniscule mistake and forces himself to keep at bad habits that keep him Productive, but he won’t ask for help no matter how much he’s suffering because that would be failing, he fights with his mind, this song basically tells him “yeah i feel you but you need to stop that”

-no time to die by billie eilish: ignore the romantic overtones but this is emma and norman, emma who trusted norman and was lied to, betrayed, for norman’s greater good, and norman who refuses to feel or hurt because of it, who refuses to apologize or see himself as wrong, pushes forward because he’s going to Pass Away

-achilles come down by gang of youths: hhhhh it's like. His vibe. Obviously you can disregard the lifestyle specific shit but it's. It's achilles come down you have to understand it’s like the same deal as friend, please just like french and longer

-friend, please by 21 pilots: i feel like i don't have to explain this one but it’s more to the manga (not the anime where he kind of figures out he done did wrong by himself instead of committing unforgivable sins and still going yeah this is valid before emma is like holy fuck). He is like sorry emma I cannot fix anything I’m going to die :) *coughs blood* and emma going like stop it stop it stop it fuck you see you fucked up and i forgive you just stop don’t walk away while he’s like “no<3”

why im a repressed little norman kinnie even tho he’s my exact opposite: I don’t generally kin ppl like norman, honestly he’s an infj I have no clue how it happened but I’m pretty sure it’s because of my intense desire to project onto a little man who cannot lift a milk jug and has chronic pain and decides you know what I AM tired of being nice i DO wanna go apeshit. Also he’s a twink. A little bastard. He’s a terrible person and I go mood every time he does anything. I said mood when he fell out of a tree. Don’t know what this says about me, I swear I wouldn’t commit no genocide. He’s like the inverse of Yoichi Saotome, and somehow i kin him too. Damn.

Miscellaneous headcanons:

-man’s SO attached to his william minerva cloak. He’s a wispy little bitch, you know he’s wearing that thing inside the house, he’s fucking cold. It also makes him Look Important he can retreat into it like an emo middle schooler with an oversized sweatshirt

-although you could probably get Mad street cred from having two whole brands you know he’s not gonna whip it out and show off his lambda thing he’s incredibly self conscious and his chest hasn’t seen the sun in years

-norman’s got MAD laundry skills to be able to wear like, all white all the time while constantly murdering people. I think he’s the only one who knows to do the laundry. And Ray is the only one who knows how to cook.

-but even then there’s gotta still be a few questionable stains on that thing, but if anyone asks he’s like “ketchup” “I’ve literally never seen you eat anything with that much color” “ketchup :)” *coughs blood*

-he’s probably thought “well i have not literally coughed blood yet today so I am not legally obligated to take care of myself”

-He probably adopted much of his current personality from taking on the persona of william minerva. I’m calling him out for being like me, he’s a blank motherfucker, he absorbs personality traits from characters he plays! He’s just not in theatre so it’s a bit more intense!

-the first time he sees barbara Eating Demon Meat he kinda stares and goes oh cool! not for me and violently exits the room. Like it's hilarious bc he thinks that's really gross on a moral level though he understands why she would do it 

-Which is even funnier bc I’m not sure about the canon on this but there was That Chapter Cover that one time that kinda seemed to imply norman eating demon meat which i absolutely latched onto because I’m terrible. He was just politely eating it. With a knife and fork like why dude. As to a possible reason for him doing that I can come up with, of course barbara does it out of spite, but man we don’t know the properties, if it had some sort of painkilling aspect to it or it was like, caffeine, you know he would, but he would Definitely not talk about it

-I kinda disagree with what the anime did in episode eight? It was good I liked it and the imagery was fantastic but also have you considered Norman could not kill someone with his own hands if he tried, or even physically injure them? That’s what his minions are for shawty. That doesn’t make it any less bad, of course, but the manga captured it perfectly by the fact of he carries around a dagger and a scepter in the capitol battle, but he never even raises it out of more than intimidation. He walks through calmly like he’s not scared at all but he makes sure all the lambda kids do all the actual murder, he just stands there impartially, clearly The Mastermind, as the kids fucking murder the queen of the demons. And I think that’s more profound because he’s, a coward. And he doesn’t realize being the one who orders the strike makes you just as responsible as the one who sticks the knife in someone. The knife is just there to Compensate™  for the fact that he weighs like eighty pounds.

-he’s more of like lady macbeth (because he’s a girlboss) than macbeth himself. He has blood on his hands, but it’s the kind of blood that you can’t wash off. He never killed anyone himself, and he cannot admit he never would have been able to.

-the last thing is that there are definitely epic things about the anime, episode 8 was my favorite so far, goddamn that imagery and the bitch walking through the city while it burns down with the screaming asmr going on behind him my god. We stan. But like the downside of, letting Emma and Ray get to him before he commits first degree murder makes the whole thing lose a lot of his value. In the manga (oh my god look at me being a pretentious manga fan please) it fit more of his ideas- he never backed down, and he planned for Emma coming and trying to stop him. Of course he wanted Emma to stop him, he wanted it with all his fucking heart he was pleading for it to happen but the man wouldn’t give himself what he wanted if he was held at gunpoint. He knew she’d come and he made absolutely sure she wouldn’t be able to stop him. So when she came and he said “you’re too late”??? It kind of said it all, in the fact that he was disappointed that he got his way. He still thought he did the right thing, but deep down there where he shoved all his thoughts and feelings he desperately wanted to be saved from himself.

So yeah, those are my thoughts. Feel free to eviscerate me if these are not Correct he is just my favorite girlboss who I feel the need to yell at

[vestae-vocivus]

Impostor syndrome, Self-doubt Syndrome.

(english version) Part 1 

 *disclaimer: I'm not a psychologist, I didn't study psychology, but I'm passionate about it. This is my point of view, my experience, my analysis after doing research.  I'll give you a lot of sources at the end of the article in case you want to make up your own mind. I am aware that it is a work that every person has to do on himself or herself but providing tools or sources around this subject can't hurt to learn more about it, so it clearly doesn't replace the help of a professional and I advise you to go see a psychologist who can help you work on this subject.   

 After having had numerous discussions with creative people of all kinds, the impostor or self-doubt syndrome presents itself in many forms. Could be discreet, hidden under shades of doubt or incomprehensible modesty. This is what made me want to write this article and look for solutions for people when I come across them in life.   

The Impostor Syndrome or Self-Doubt Syndrome was discovered in 1978. You can learn more about its history on Wikipedia.  I will abbreviate it as I.S in the article so as to avoid repeating its full name at every instance. If the term syndrome bothers you, I understand because it embarrasses even the founders who endeavour to describe it as an experience.

  This bias is  disabling us that it can prevent us from enjoying our lives to the fullest and having our full potential.    

"I suck, not good enough compared to Intel, it's too simple, this or that doesn't go" compared to the reality of the achievement or not being complemented. There are several ways of having I.S in our lives. It's an experience that we can all have.   

 I earlier on thought it was basically a lack of self-confidence and perfectionism, but deep down it was much deeper than that, I didn't feel legitimate, I forbade myself from producing what my intuition told me to produce. You could say that it put the brakes on my projects, it cancelled out others. Since I became aware of the mechanisms of the I.S, I do what I like - I may fail, but at least I learn from my mistakes and experiences. When I see it coming, I pay attention to what it tells me.   

This deformation of our ego can have multiple roots, it can be born in childhood during an overvaluation of the adults around but also on the contrary a devaluation. Whether it be at school or during a change of role in life, when we encounter something new, it could surface.   

I will discuss some characteristics of the I.S, starting with the desire for perfection.  Understanding the etymology of this word changed my view of perfectionism. For me, perfection was the ideal and besides that’s its definition, but by changing my vision of the ideal, I became less concerned because I had a lot of anxiety about it. (Astro sign : virgo  haha). The word 'perfection' comes from the Latin verb perficio, in which -ficio is the form of the verb facio, facere: to do; the prefix per- translates the idea of an action carried out 'to the end'. Perfect therefore means "what is done to the end, totally".  It clicked for me because I started to deconstruct my vision of perfectionism. It's a motor for some people, like a brake for others, but in any case, you have to accept it and adapt it to suit you. What works for me is to list the things I have to do for a project while remaining realistic about the time I give myself (with regular breaks) and having a deadline. Once the deadline is done, I don't get involved in anything else. So I don't have to overdo it or do it at the last minute. I also take the time to observe what I've done: if my inner voice comes up with a list of flaws, I listen, sometimes I write them down and I tell myself that in the next project, I'll do as it said in order to see if that’ll be better. I let go of the possibilities. At least I went through with it.   

Taking the value of one’s opinion and choices is crucial. Sometimes I ask for external advice, counsel but I keep in mind that only my final opinion counts because it is my project, it belongs to me and I am master of it.  The people who have ever asked have trusted me because it is for my choices that they have come to me. (And I can be wrong too but which is not bad). The more we practice something, the more confident we are in our choices. If we are paralyzed by practice, evolution is impossible.   

 Here's for the first part, it's a vast subject so I'd rather not unveil everything at once. Don't hesitate to give your opinion/ if it happens to you/ if you have techniques too!   

VIDEO (English) 

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Michelle Obama  

[kintsugi-sheep]

2020.11.29: Perfectionism

“Stop thinking about the end result, because no matter what happens, by telling the truth, you’ll be on the best possible path to happiness.”

That’s one of many little bullet points that I’d left over from last week. I was feeling tired, so I didn’t want to get into every detail of every thing that I was thinking or feeling at the time. But this one has rung a little true for me.

I’m rounding off NaNoWriMo with nothing done for this story.

It’s depressing, to tell the truth. However, I also picked up a new writing exercise. I’ll head over to the writing prompts subreddit, pick something, and write it. I did it yesterday. I did it for a prompt today that actually got taken down before I could respond to it.

So, I sent what I’d written directly to the poster of the prompt and I wrote a short for another one.

Writing itself doesn’t seem to be the issue for me. It’s my connection to what I’m writing that gets in the way of things.

The story that I’m currently working on was never meant to be taken this seriously. It was supposed to be an inconsequential collection of the story scraps I’d accrued while forming more viable ideas. But, a few months ago, I came to the realization that what I’d believed to be my magnum opus, the story I was crafting to put on my pedestal as my greatest work since before I was a teenager—a story that was a literal lifetime in the making—was a contrived mess that I couldn’t reasonably untangle.

It physically hurt, realizing that I’d fallen out of love with World Crown, formerly known as Vermillion Mythos, formerly known as YVK Chronicles. It’s interesting seeing how my ability to name things has grown as well.

Anyway, now it’s a carcass for my other creative efforts to scavenge from. And it’s a sizeable one, so I’m not short for ideas yet.

To pull myself back to the point, I’m now attached to this new project in a way that I wasn’t at its inception. And this wasn’t created for NaNo mind you; this story is, I think one-and-a-half or two years old. Even older if you consider the more rudimentary stages of its existence. And because I want my child to become accepted by the world rather than a wretched outcast, I’m keeping it locked away, where it can do no wrong in my eyes and where no one can judge it.

I don’t know when I’ll get into talking about the stuff I read in depth or anything like that, but I did come across this earlier today in How to Be Miserable by Randy J. Paterson:

·       People wo adopt reasonable standards generally achieve as much or more tan perfectionists, because they get a motivational boost out of success, enabling them to devote more energy to their efforts.

·       Perfectionism imposes a fear of trying out new things out of a knowledge that you will not excel on your first try. This results in a restricted life.

·       Perfectionism can cause you to spend a lot of time erasing minor flaws that no one else can see, inadvertently annoying people with your slowness and preventing you from shifting to other challenges.

There’s knowing something, and then there’s accepting something. The first two are things I knew, but need to remind myself to accept from time to time, so that I act instead of plan. The third one was something I’d never considered, but did resonate with me. A good friend of mine, a fellow writer, got tired of listening to my ideas for a long time because I never implemented or finished anything. And I know it got on his nerves.

So, what am I doing to rectify this?

Well, this is the second week of posting on Tumblr. I’d like to keep this going. I used to constantly burn myself out because I felt like I was screaming in the dark. And I know that’s the point, but accepting that it’s the point is the hard part. Acknowledging that I’m not the people I look up to. That these posts are for me and that in the future, I’ll have something I didn’t give up on to actually look back to and congratulate myself for.

I also want to keep writing these Reddit shorts. I’ll post them here once a week. Maybe there’s some gold to pan in there.

I don’t know how to end this post.

[dokuhebi]

Shattered-by-Sparks said ➳ // you know I was gonna

Send ➳ and I’ll generate a number between 1-  15 to see what kind of kiss my muse will give yours!   3. A kiss underwater // @shattered-by-sparks When they were young, they recall the contrasting words of their elders. They remember being eight years old, donned in one of Jiraiya’s hakama, since they could hardly afford their own during their days as an orphan. Intending to learn the art of stealth for the day, but being offered a different lesson by the stand-in teacher. They recall the womans disapproving voice when they, still plagued by innocence, squandered their teams success by veering off route. Because they had stumbled upon a small nest they dared not disrupt for the mere sake of training, where the residue of young students learning their abilities would render the small inhabitants homeless, mere collateral damage. A sharp bite of correction; ‘you will be the first to die out there, if you think with your heart not your head boy.’. And so they learnt, to listen to their head, and to never argue with logic. No matter how it conflicted with what little moral code their now deceased mother and father had tried to impart. They would be fourteen when donning one of Tsunade’s furisodes, finally doing well enough on missions to be better off financially, but hardly in the position for luxury items such as pretty clothing. They recall a mans disapproving eyes, when he sees a rag dressed boy had run over to the young serpent. Mistaking their Senju borrowed gown as a sign the raven haired teen was well off. Asking for any spare coin, but being promptly told to leave them alone. Because they had learnt their lesson, to use logic above all else. And there was no clear gain in helping someone, only clear loss of their own money. But from the man who had watched, and given the rag dressed boy something in the serpents stead, they had earned a displeased bite of criticism yet again; ‘I would hope a young lady such as yourself would have more heart than that.’ And so they learnt that they were expected to listen to the organ of confession in their chest as well. That while arguing with logic would end them up dead in this violent world, there was no point surviving if they lost their heart along the way. And it had been a strange balancing act, where they found the most rational middle ground. By the time they reach adulthood, they have obeyed the voice in their head that says caring for their team mates, or for anyone, would end in little but misery and loss. For humans were far too fragile to hold on to. So they let the bonds they had formed over countless years to crack and wither. But there would be no point to make a stone of themself, and so they had given their heart to their work, to their studies, their ambitions. And that had been the easiest way forward for the next sixty years - until they met her. The Sannin finds themself beside Rin at a quaint bar, no where near the stretches of Fire Countries influence, nestled in the borderlands of Sungakure and Kirigakure. A pleasant town, where nobody seemed to know anyone. The gathering of those who wanted nothing but drinks and accommodation. So in a town untouched by external politics, where the name Sannin and Jinchuriki earned little but a blank and ignorant stare, neither one of them has to wear the deceptive guise of henge. Rin had stirred awake a part of them that had been dormant for quite some time, although they have little concept of what that emotion may be. Fondness, was the closest term they held. They had been exchanging conversation in the furthest corner of the bar, neither one interested in mingling with strangers, at least this evening. However despite reputations holding no weight in this town, attention was still offered by those who had come here to seek conversation with unfamiliar faces. Orochimaru has long since mastered the art of a gaze that pierces the confidence of anyone, and a smile that seems to say ‘begone’. So any of those who had boldly stepped up had only made a swifter retreat. After a moment of distraction however, they return their attention to Rin to find a woman had swept up the opportunity of her temporary solitude. Perhaps the woman was being friendly, perhaps the woman was being coy, neither should matter. The thing that should earn the vipers immediate attention after all, is the reaction they feel rise inside of themself. Awfully indifferent by nature, often impossible to get a rise out of, certainly unfazed and disinterested in the antics of people as a whole... so why then, do they feel the ever growing distaste for the womans pushy conversation? A spike of, dare they say it, jealousy. They found they had no time for the womans lipgloss smile, and can only return the gesture she offers them with something ever so judgmentally false. Their smile shows nothing but the baring of fangs, and they resist the urge to say something nasty by taking a purposeful sip of their sake. A likely culprit for why they have decided composure can be thrown to the wind, and they can openly offer the woman who burdens their pleasant conversation with Rin a wry expression. They do not offer her any social graces, they do not laugh politely at her jokes, they do not respond immediately if she asks a question, they reject her every offer, be it a drink, an idea, or even a more comfortable seat when it opened up. Because while she keeps up conversation with Rin and Orochimaru, it had not escaped their attention that she had sighted the pretty brunette with her autumn coloured doe eyes, and made a straight line toward her. That had been the reason why they had prompted Rin to down the rest of her drink, as they did their own, before moving location. They would be lying if they said after all their drinks, that they remembered the small details of the evening. Like how they convinced her to leave the bar and promise of more alcohol, or who had the idea to visit the towns main attraction of naturally formed and well maintained hot springs. But they had found their way in to the warm wooden and stone floored room. Where the divided rock pool-like sections of the warm water offer multiple springs to choose from in both the male and female portion of the building. When asked where they would like to sit, they can only toss Rin a playfully confessional gaze, knowing that even drunk or tipsy, she of all people would have read their earlier displeasure like an open book. So they do not stoop so low as to deny what is obvious, instead sticking by their little display of jealousy and guiding her to one of the unoccupied springs. Keeping her quite far from the other woman enjoying the warm water a few meters away, and from the dividing wall where men can be heard not seen in their separate quarter. “In case it wasn’t obvious, I don’t want to share,” they say with a slightly coy tease to their voice, finding their way to rocks designed for sitting. They have their towel drawn around their body to hug their sylphlike figure, tucked neatly under slender arms just as pure white as the towel itself. While they had made quick work of twisting their long dark hair in to a bun, they had next sought to help her. Pale digits in contrast to the umber hair they now begin to lightly coil for her, ever the perfectionist in their antics, they allow some hair to frame her face as they had done for themself. To avoid the fault of gathering too much hair and putting needless strain on the locks. They gracefully move around her to inspect if the bun is centered and comfortable, lightly tipping her jaw up to examine it, before drawing slightly back has them realizing how close they had gotten with all their fussing and perfectionism. Gazes meeting a moment, and lips mere breaths away, they can not tell if they wish to blame alcohol or impulsiveness. For whichever it was, there is no taking back the gesture once they offer it. Logic would tell them that this is a dangerous game with no reward, that they have not acted after proper calculative thought. But they have survived three Great Wars, invented jutsu that could revive the dead, cures and technology that could prevent future deaths and revolutionize shinobi. They had achieved more in their life than nearly any shinobi to date - surely a moment of foolishness, a moment of thoughtless impulse, could be forgiven? They do not internally wrestle with the idea for long, they have allowed their hand to gently graze down from its placement in her hair to caress the side of her face instead. Where they can guide it to the side so they may catch her lips with their own. To earn a reaction they can not hope to try and guess. Would this be seen as overstepping? Would there be distrust when their venomous fangs were so very close to her flesh? Would she return it? They do not know their next step if she returns it. Why, they would perhaps know how to handle disdain at the gesture, more so than acceptance. Yet there is no deterrent strong enough to make them back out. They have shown that even feral and deadly jaws can be remarkably gentle, the kiss lingering like a ghosts might. A mixture of wanting to possess her, yet vanish all at the same time. When they draw away, chatoyant amber eyes seek out a response. But only for a moment, before a somewhat abashed, somewhat amused smile finds its way to their lips. Their hand drawn back to their person to correct the towel around their chest, a mere means to seek distraction, and a reason to pull away before she gives her response. Somehow still confident even in their bashfulness. “Well then,” they say with a soft exhale that could be mistaken for the slight trickle of nerves, only to be banished by the gesture of their self assured smile, even when they continue to subtly fidget by next running a hand through their long midnight fringe, “I do hope that was as well received as it was intended, but if it isn’t, you are more than welcome to offer me a polite lie, and pretend you are too drunk to remember this.”

[venusxxlangdon]

draw me like one of your french boys

warnings: smut, fluff, handjob, oral (female receiving, facesitting), praise kink, sub!Michael, Hawthorne!Michael, shy!Michael, female!reader

 summary: reader is an artist looking for a live model for her new artwork. When she meets Michael, she realizes that the boy, who looks like a Renaissance painting, is exactly who she’s been looking for. They grow found of each other, and one day Michael asks her to draw him. Naked.

word count: 6850

Every artist experiences existential crises at least once in their lifetime, and if they haven’t experienced it yet, it means that they are about to. It’s an inevitable burden that occurs in everyone’s life, especially after they become successful and the dependency of other people’s opinion increases. An artist, who once created for the sake of the process itself, gets trapped in the idea of being liked by their audience. That’s what you were afraid most of all. To become a puppet whose only desire would be to meet somebody else’s expectations.

The sales of your paintings have increased drastically in the past six months and, as your manager kept telling you, it was high time to paint more. You started making new clients and getting offers for a personal exhibition, but it all felt like the weight of the world was forced on your shoulders. You wanted to rebel against it: tell your manager to shut up, and lock yourself in your studio, where you were alone with your thoughts and nobody told you what to do. It had always been your happy place with sketches all over the floor, your very first paintings hanging on the walls, a huge easel right in the center of the room. You loved the smell of fresh oil and ink, and two huge windows that offered a fascinating view of city skyline. How disappointing it was to come over one day and realize that nothing was making you happy anymore, and the main reason for that was right in the corner of the room. A big canvas of your last painting you had been struggling to finish. It was a drawing inspired by the early Renaissance period: a cherub in the rose garden, wrapped in a navy blue silk that was coming down his lean body in waves. The flowers turned out really beautiful, so delicate and precious with the drops of dew on the rosy petals. The problem was with the cherub. For some reason you couldn’t paint his face, and the blank space instead of its place was driving you mad. You wanted it to be special, and you had spent days trying to find a proper live model who could pose for you, but, unfortunately, all these handsome males, you tried to get inspiration from, lacked the innocence of an angel (especially that one guy who posed for you half-naked, when you were painting cherub’s chest, and decided to hit on you. You were quick to explain to him that the job of a live model wasn’t about hooking up with an artist and made sure that he wouldn’t appear in your studio ever again), the lightness and purity. Days went by, your manager started being really annoying, but you kept looking for that very special one, because you felt he was somewhere out there. Your intuition never deceived you.

It was a regular rainy afternoon when you found yourself sitting in a local coffee shop not far from your studio, thinking how bad you didn’t want to go there and face the unfinished painting which was some sort of a reminder of your inability to draw something decent. Another notification popped up on your laptop desktop, and you already new what it was gonna be about. One more email from Mallory.

“Y/N, Mr. Gallant called, and he’s expecting the painting to be done and delivered to his apartment by next Sunday. Get back to work, please”. You sighed disappointedly. Fuck this stupid time-management. You are an artist, a free-spirit and you will be done when YOU decide that it’s time. Having aggressively shut the lid of your laptop down, you stared through the window.

The rain was oblivious of your worries, as each drop bequeathed itself into a cooling air. You felt pathetic and unprofessional. Why everything had to be so complicated? Why did you let your perfectionism take over and prevent you from drawing a face of any model you could pick from a local model agency? It wasn’t even the artwork you’d hang in your apartment, and the man you were painting it for could care less about the face of a cherub as long it was pretty. You knew the answer to all of these questions — because you could never do things halfway — it was either all or nothing, even if it meant sacrificing set deadlines.

You rolled your eyes when your phone started vibrating with an incoming call.

“Yes, Mallory?” You didn’t even have to look at the display to know who was calling, Rubbing the bridge of your nose tiredly, you prepared yourself mentally for another lecture from your manager. “Y/N, you know I would really appreciate if you answered my emails” the voice on the others side was monotonous.

 You sipped your coffee and winced, realizing that the drink had gone cold. Damn.

“I told you I was busy” you answered and looked around the coffee shop, thinking that the way you spend your time could hardly be identified as “busy”. Chewing on your bottom lip, you brought your gaze back to the window.

“Please, tell me that at least you’ve read my last email and you are familiar with the new deadline” you could picture the way Mallory adjusted her glasses, her thin lips pursed, and pale face grimaced with annoyance.

“Yes, I have” you mumbled in response and narrowed your eyes, as you noticed a group of boys crossing the other side of the street. They looked young. Really young. Maybe in their early 20s. Dressed in brown trench coats, they were jumping over puddles briskly, trying not to get their feet wet. Only one of them had an umbrella, so the others were trying to get under it. They were pushing each other with their elbows, playfully fighting for dominance. And then you noticed him. A tall guy who was trying to follow the running boys with his coat unbuttoned, so you could see his black and white uniform. There was a silk ribbon tied neatly around the collar of his crisp white shirt that made him look like he was straight out from some 18th century novel about a private boarding school. His blond hair, wet in the rain, sticked to his chiseled face with sharp, prominent cheekbones and pointy chin.

You literally got glued to the window, admiring him, and forgot that Mallory was still on the line.

“Y/N? Y/N? Can you hear me? The painting should also...”

You cleared your throat and understood that it was either now or never. You didn’t have much time, as the boys took their way down the street away from the coffee shop.

“Mallory” you harshly interrupted her. “I can’t talk right now”, you hanged up on her without even letting her finish the sentence. Her complains were the last thing you worried about when there was a gorgeous boy, who had the face of a cherub you were dying to paint, just several feet away from you. You grabbed your jacket and stormed your way out of the coffee shop. It seemed like your heart was about to beat out of your chest with an overwhelming excitement like a trapped bird. You have found him. You have finally found him.

Faster than the wind you ran after the boys hoping they didn’t go far. You saw the tall guy take a turn around the corner, and without even realizing what you were doing, you shouted at the top of your lungs:

“Excuse me, sir!”

He didn’t pay attention. “Shit” you thought to yourself and speeded up. Raindrops were running down your cheeks, and the wind was blowing right in your face making it extremely uncomfortable to run.

“Heeey!” you almost stumbled and instinctively put your hand out to prevent yourself from falling. Your purse hanged off your shoulder and nearly fell down in the puddle, but you managed to catch it. “Excuse me!”

Right at that moment the guy stopped and slowly turned around. With a slight confusion on his face he watched you slowly approach him, as you were trying to calm your heavy breathing. You imagined that you looked like a wet rat with your hair clanged to you face and smeared mascara — definitely not the most presentable look for the artist whose paintings cost thousands of dollars.

“I’m sorry? May I help you?” the boy asked. His voice was low for an angelic appearance like his. He looked even more handsome up close. The gray sky tinted his blue eyes beautifully, making them brighter. They were piercing at you cautiously, as he was trying to figure out whether he found you familiar. Even though his hair was wet, you still were able to tell that it was curly, as they were sticking to his cheeks in messy waves. You took a deep breath and tucked a piece of your wet hair behind your ear, but it didn’t make any difference to your look.

“Hi!” You smiled brightly. The only thought “it’s him, it’s him!!” was ringing in your head, making you grin like an idiot. Nobody could understand your delight at that moment. It seemed like sleepless nights, when you were eating yourself up for the lack of inspiration, have come to an end. If only this beautiful boy before you agreed to work with you! You would be the happiest person in the world. “I’m sorry for bothering you, sir. But I really need to talk to you...”

“Mikey!! What’s up, dude? Are you coming?” the other boys were calling him. He turned around and raise his right hand in the air.

“Just a moment!” he shouted back at them. He adjusted the collar of his coat bringing it up, so the rain wouldn’t get behind his back. “I’m sorry, who are you again?”

You realized that you should’ve introduced yourself first, but you were taken aback by the beauty of a real-life angel, so you couldn’t blame yourself for that.

“My name is Y/N. I’m an artist” he furrowed his eyebrows, not understanding how it was connected to him, “and I’m looking for a model” you explained. “I’m working on a painting...”, you paused, “of a cherub for a very famous client, but I can’t finish it because I don’t have a model whose face and I could paint, and you are exactly what I’ve been looking for”, you bubbled excitedly.

You could see the blush bloom on the boy’s cheeks. He parted his finely-carved, scarlet lips, but didn’t say anything. Only somewhat confusingly ran his fingers through his hair.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not a model”, he mumbled, lowering his eyes. You couldn’t explain the feeling inside of you as you watched him. He reminded you of Botticelli paintings. There was something ethereal about him: in the detached beauty of his perfectly sculpted face. He looked so fresh, so innocent, so pure, as if he was made of ivory and rosy petals.

“It doesn’t matter”, you hurried to assure him, “you don’t have to be one. It’s just...” you took a deep breath, thinking that you might have die if he didn’t agree. “I’ve been looking for a face like yours for months. It would be an honor to work with you...?” You heard one of the boys calling him “Mikey”, but you wasn’t sure what full name it stood for.

“Michael. Michael Langdon” he said, still smiling shyly. He drew his bottom lip between his perfect white teeth and looked at you through his lashes. “Look, I’m really fluttered. Thank you for your words, but....”

“Michael, we are going now!”, the boys shouted, and he turned his broad back at you one more time. It was pouring by now, and you knew that you couldn’t hold the boy any longer.

“Michael, please, think it over and give me a call, okay?” You took your business card out of your purse and handed it to him. “I’m offering you 50$ per hour. One session usually lasts up to 3-4 hours. Please, do the math and give it a thought”.

His doe-like eyes widened at your words. Not only he was blushing from your compliments, but he was stunned by the boldness of your offer, as if you were asking for something inappropriate.

“I-I-I’m really not sure...” he stuttered. You understood his reaction: how often does one gets stopped by a stranger who offers them to model for a renaissance-inspired painting? But you really, really needed him, and you were running out of time.

“Look, I’m not expecting you to answer immediately”, you said looking him in the eye, and noticed that he instantly looked away, blushing even more, “let me know if you agree by Friday, okay?”

The boys started whistling at Michael. He took your card hesitantly, his fingers were slightly shaking. He looked up at you and nodded slowly, hiding the card in the inside pocket of his coat.

“Alright, thank you”, his voice sounded hoarse, so he cleared his throat and repeated himself, “thank you”.

The corners of your lips twitched, but he didn’t return a smile, being too confused and embarrassed with all this unexpected attention to his persona. You watched him join his friends. They tapped his shoulder, as he approached them, and shoot you a curious look.

You realized that you didn’t even care about the pouring rain anymore. You were completely soaked, but the only thing you were capable of thinking was a gorgeous blue-eyed boy you just met.

xxx

The sound of the ringing phone disturbed the comfortable silence of a Saturday afternoon you were spending in your studio. You were waiting for Michael’s call yesterday, but as the hour and the minute hands of the huge clock on the wall stroke midnight, you understood that he turned down your offer. That’s why you found yourself in your studio on the following day, standing in front of the unfortunate painting and thinking that you needed to start looking through the list of potential models Mallory had sent to you.

“Hello?”, you answered the phone, noticing an unknown number on the display. A familiar raspy voice made your heart drop.

“Hi, is it Y/N?”

“Michael?” you turned away from the painting and sat down on sofa, placing your feet on a small coffee table.

“Yeah, hi”, he said, “I’m sorry I didn’t call you yesterday. Got really busy with school”. School? How old was he? “But I have been thinking about your offer...”

You hummed.

“Have you?”, you had to admit that you didn’t like the fact that he ignored your request to call you back by Friday, because it meant that he wasn’t the most responsible person, and only God knew how you were gonna arrange the appointments with him since he was incapable of planing his time. But then again, weren’t you the same way? For a second you even sympathized with Mallory who had to deal with your own irresponsibility 24/7 (but only for a second).

“Yes”, you could tell by his voice that he was nervous. You smiled at the memory of him blushing in the rain. “Well, I-I-I think I’m ready to try...” you swear you could ready to explode brighter than the fireworks on the 4th of July, but you managed to keep it cool.

“That’s really nice of you. Thank you, Michael. Do you have a pen to write down the details?”

You two agreed that he would come on Tuesday for 2 hours, so you could look at him properly and decide what exactly needed to be added to the painting. Then he could come 2 time a week for 3 hour session. You didn’t plan for the entire process to take too long, 3 weeks maximum. Thank God you had managed to persuade Gallant to give you more time. Actually it didn’t even take a lot of effort: last week, after you discovered Michael, he came came to your studio and got so stunned by the painting that he let you take as much time as you needed. If only all clients were this way.

On Tuesday Michael knocked on your door in time. Dressed in a loose cotton shirt and linen pants, hair clipped in a messy bun, you went to greet him. He was chewing on the inside of his cheek, awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to another. Just like you thought, his hair was curly indeed. Crisp, golden locks were styled messily, covering a part of his forehead. He was wearing the same coat and holding a big leather bag in his hand. You stepped aside, inviting him in.

“Hi”, he said, blushing, and you curiously wondered if it was an uncontrollable habit of his.

“Hello, Michael”, you took his bag from his hands and carefully placed it on a table by the hangers. “I’m glad you came”.

He nodded. His long fingers started undoing the buttons of his trench coat. He carefully hanged it, and you noticed how elegant his movements were. He pulled the sleeves of his black sweater a bit up, exposing his delicate wrists. You definitely were staring, but not in a romantic way. You were observing him like a picture in a museum and wondering how you got so lucky to meet this precious boy. He was looking around cautiously, as he followed you into the studio, scanning the unknown environment with his eyes. You made your way to the center of the room, took one of the chairs and pulled it closer to the window, not far from the easel.

“Please, make yourself at home” you smiled at Michael. He looked amused, as he studied a huge painting that was almost of the size of the wall for one of your old clients who ordered it about eight months ago. You created your own version of the Miracle of the Bread and Fish, and really like the result. For some reason, biblical scenes always were your favorite to work on. “Would you like some coffee or tea, maybe?”

Michael looked at you and shook his head.

“No, thank you, I’m good”, his eyes were searching for a place were he could sit, and you pointed at the chair. He took his seat and folded his hands neatly, lacing his fingers together, so you wouldn’t notice them tremble. You watched him amusingly with your head tilted to the side. He was absolutely adorable.

“Do you live here?”, he noticed your gaze and smiled shyly, tucking a strand of his hair behind his ear.

You shook your head and turned away to take the painting of the cherub and carefully place it on the easel.

“No, I rent this studio for work purposes”, you nodded at the painting. “So what do you think?”

Michael was in awe. His ocean eyes were glistening with excitement, the tip of his pink tongue ran along his bottom lips nervously, as he said under his breath:

“Oh my God, this is magnificent”.

For a moment it seemed like he stopped being nervous and expressed his opinion sincerely. That’s what you adored art for: it made people feel different spectrums of emotions, all at once. It lifted the armor and left one bare, vulnerable, and unguarded. “I’m not sure if...”, Michael covered his mouth with one hand and than placed it back on his thigh, “if I’m good enough for posing for such a masterpiece”.

You couldn’t believe that such a stunning human being could doubt his looks. Michael’s appearance was worth being painted by the best artists all over the world. How come nobody told him that?“

“I think you will be just perfect for that”, you didn’t admit it, but making Michael blush was your new favorite activity. “But it maybe a bit tiresome to sit still for such a long time”, you instructed him, “you’ll get used to it”.

It was quite a disaster, you had to admit to yourself after some time. Michael just couldn’t keep still. He was constantly shifting in his chair, playing with his fingers, and always felt the need to scratch his jaw or toy with the collar of his sweater. During your first session your were doing sketches of his face, and by the moment your time was up you were practically begging him to relax and stop frowning. He couldn’t let go of his pressure and shyness.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N”, he pleaded, as he was putting on his coat. You smiled at him, washing your hands and watching him get dressed from the kitchen.

“It’s okay”, you approached him and gave him the money for his work, “thank you for coming today, Michael. I’ll see you on Thursday”.

Despite his surprised squeak, you pulled him closer for a hug. You needed him to relax for the sake of posing for the painting. The sessions might haven taken longer than you had thought.

xxx

It took him a while to start opening up to you. By your fourth meeting his hands stopped shaking and he no longer seemed to feel uncomfortable. He didn’t feel embarrassed to ask you to make some tea for him, and you learned that he liked it with lemon and one piece of sugar. As he sipped on it, watching you preparer the canvas and oil paints (you were done with pencil sketches by that time), he told you about his studies at Hawthorne school (Michael was twenty, and apparently, hated his birthdays. You found this fact absolutely astonishing, and made a side note to change this horrible omission), his friends, and his family. Turned out that he had a very troubled childhood, so his behavior started to make sense to you. Sympathy towards him grew with every session, and at some point you caught yourself thinking about him all the time. The thought about your meetings coming to an end made you feel extremely frustrated. Even though you kept reminding yourself that the relationship between you two had to stay professional, and it was wrong of you to think about him in a romantic way, but every time his blond mop of soft hair popped in the door frame you couldn’t hold in a radiant smile. It was impossible not to hug him and accidentally brush your fingers against his flushed cheek. He looked so damn cute.

You grew found of this marvelous boy, who turned out be very sensual, with a bright and vivid mind that generated ideas at the supersonic speed. He loved asking you questions about history of art, he was genuinely interested in learning about your favoring painters and why you loved them so much. He never stopped amazing you with his mindset, and his child-like innocence bribed you.

Another Tuesday night was traditionally spent in your studio apartment with Michael at his usual spot in front of your easel. You were working on the cherub’s eyes. Crystal blue and bright just like Michael’s. Your brows were frowned as you were trying to concentrate on the movements of the brush. The smell of oil paint was filling the room. You glanced at Michael to pay very close attention to his long eyelashes framing his eyes. That’s when you noticed a very strange look on his face. You couldn’t understand what was that. Confusion? Doubt?

“Michael, what’s wrong, darling?”, you asked him adding another brush stroke to the canvas. He slowly shook his head, trying not to move too much. From hours of watching him attentively you had learned his body language quite well. Now you could tell that something was definitely up, judging by the fact how he was holding onto the chair. His knuckles turned white. However, you proceed to painting, considering that maybe he was thinking of his problems or whatever there was on his mind.

“Love, please, look up for me”, you asked him after a while, trying to paint the patches of light in the eyes of the cherub. Michal started biting on his lower lip, but obliged your order and lifted his gaze. Suddenly it all felt like you were back to session 1, when he refused to relax. You put the brush aside and whipped the excess of paint off your fingers.

“Michael, please, tell me what’s bothering you?”, his face turned bright red at your question.

“Nothing”, he mumbled in response.

You sighed and took a step towards him. Carefully you took his face in your hands, forcing him to look up at you. You were glad that he didn’t shy away from your touch like he used to at the very beginning.

“Love, I can’t paint you when you look concerned”, you gently stroked his cheek with your thumb, and he instinctively nuzzled against your palm. It was unprofessional of you, you thought to yourself, but whatever. “You know that you can tell me anything”.

His eyes flattered, long eyelashes were casting shadows on his cheekbones in the dim light of the room. He wrapped his fingers around your wrists and carefully put your hands away.

“You’re gonna laugh at me”, he said, looking down at his knees. You frowned. Why was that? All this time you were trying to show him that he could trust you and you were his friend, and his doubts almost felt offensive to you.

“Michael, darling, I would never”, you assured him, watching him closely.

A broken cry escaped from his chest, as he hid his face in his hands. You started really worrying about him, was something hurting him? Maybe he wasn’t feeling well? You petted his head lovingly.

“I can’t tell you”, he sobbed, and looked up at you. The expression of his face was unreadable. Eyes glistened with salty tears, as he was desperately trying to hold them in. “It’s so e-emb-b-barrassing. You...”, he sighed, “you’re going to think that I’m weird. I can’t ask you for this...”

By that moment you stopped understanding anything from what he was saying. You wrapped your arms around him and brought him closer to you, resting his head against your stomach.

“Shhhh, baby”, you coed, running the fingers of your one hand though his hair and petting up and down his spine with the other hand. “What do you want, Michael? Please, tell me”.

You felt him tightening his hug and nuzzling into your shirt like a cat. He sighed heavily before he answered:

“I was thinking”, his voice sounded so small and vulnerable, and you started wandering what sort of a dreadful sin Michael was going to confess that made him so insecure. “Maybe you could draw me?”

He lifted his puppy eyes at you, and you looked at him confused.

“Baby, isn’t it what I’m doing?”, you chucked softly. Silly boy.

Michael closed his eyes and nuzzled back into your stomach. You had to listen carefully in order to understand his muffled words:

“I was thinking maybe you could draw me naked?”

Your fingers froze in the air inches away from his curls. At first you thought that you must have misheard him, but as his shoulders started shaking in anticipation, you realized that you had heard him correctly. Your heart started pounding, you could hear the blood ring in your ears. The most terrible thing , in the context of your unprofessionalism, was the fact that his words sent impulses straight to you core making a thin cotton of your panties wet. You cleared your throat, looking for the right words. Michael was terrified. He decided that if you had stopped playing with his hair, you got mad at him, so he squeezed his eyes shut, fighting back the tears.

“Michael...”, you started slowly, but he interrupted you.

“Y/N, I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have...I’m sorry”, he was talking fast, afraid that you could kick him out for his foolishness.

Multiple thoughts were running through your mind at that particular moment. Could you really draw him naked and manage not to lose control? Of course, it would be a wonderful sketch for your portfolio, but you doubted if it would be okay for you psych. The silence was making Michael feel even more embarrassed, so he started standing up from his chair, but you placed your hands on his shoulders to keep him seated. God, he was so scurrying all the time, it was almost unbearable.

“Alright, Michael”, you finally replied, hoping that he didn’t sense how hesitant you were about this decision, otherwise it would devastate him. A wide smile spread across his cherry lips.

“Oh my God, thank you, Y/N” he whispered giving you that look through his lashes you could never say “no” to.

You nodded and made your way to one of the shelves to get a sketchbook.

“Well,” you turned back to him, “get ready, and I’ll go find the fabric to wrap you in”.

Michael was eager to oblige. You didn’t expect him to want it so bad, but as he quickly stood on his feet and rushed behind the folding screen, you thought otherwise.

Unable to believe what you had just agreed to, you started looking through the rolls of fabric, trying to decide what color would suit Michael. Probably silver. It would look good with his skin tone and the icy blue of his eyes. You grabbed the fabric and approached the changing screen behind which you could see the outline of Michael’s body. You hurried to hang the piece over the screen and shook your head, as if it would help you to get rid of the indecorous thoughts.

“I think silver will look good”, you said to Michael, “just wrap yourself in it when you are ready”, you swore your hands were shaking. What, you and Michael suddenly switched personalities? God, how were you gonna draw him when you were blushing like a teenage girl?

“Damn, Y/N, you’ve worked with so many models. Get your shit together and breath”, you scold yourself.

“Okay, I’m ready”, you turned around when you heard his low voice, and your jaw dropped. Adonis in flesh. You stood there blinking dumbly trying to comprehend the view of his broad shoulders, taut stomach, and his creamy thighs wrapped in silver silk. If the fabric had been navy blue you would have thought that your cherub painting came to life. No less. You opened your mouth and then closed it without saying a word. Michal blushed and awkwardly crossed his arms, waiting for the instructions.

You coughed and turned your gaze away from him.

“Alright, get comfortable on the sofa”, you figured that a chair wasn’t suitable anymore. The boy laid down on a green velvet sofa you had bought for an extremely expensive price at one of the auctions, and at that moment you were glad that you had, because Michael’s pale skin looked even more fragile, tinted by the emerald color of velvet upholstery. He bent his long legs, carefully put them on the soft material, and leaned back on the pillows with his hands behind his head. For a second you forgot how to breath.

But as soon as you started sketching you felt relaxed. You let the pencil wonder around the clean sheet of paper, drawing the outlines of Michael’s body. He couldn’t stop smiling and looked genuinely happy that you’d let him pose for you. The skin of his cheeks and neck was in delicate pink hue, and he was biting his lips again. You wish you could bite them, too. Fuck.

Your brows frowned when you noticed that the silver fabric slipped off a little and didn’t look as good as you wanted it to be, so you put your pencil aside and stood up to fix it. Michael thought there was something wrong with him.

“Did you do something wrong?”, he asked worriedly. You wondered why he always felt the need to blame himself for everything.

“No, I just need to adjust the fabric”, you explained, without meeting his gaze. You tried not to touch his skin, as your fingers cautiously folded the silky piece, draping it in wavy folds. But the skin of his stomach looked so soft, and couldn’t help yourself and brushed it with just the tips of your digits. The muscles in his tummy tensed immediately, and you heard his breath hitch, so you hurried to take you hand away. Then he did something that sent the remains of your self-control straight to hell. Michael wrapped his fingers around your wrist and put your hand back on his stomach. Feeling enchanted, you slowly moved it to his abdomen and stopped right above the happy trail of blond hairs that went under the fabric. When you glanced at Michael, he was watching you in awe, his lips parted and his eyes wide open. It felt like his skin was burning under your touch.

“You like this, don’t you?”, the tone of your own voice was so low, you didn’t even recognize it. Michael gulped and nodded. His lids fluttered, as you move your hand to his chest.

“Please”, he murmured, licking his scarlet lips. He looked so soft, so innocent, and you wondered how beautiful he would look all wrecked and fucked out. You felt the adrenaline rush through your veins and the familiar heat between your legs. The last thought that came across your mind was “Fuck it”, as you leaned forward and pressed your lips against Michael’s parted ones. He let out a surprised mewl, but eagerly kissed you back. You felt his hands sliding down your waist to pull you closer against his bare chest. The fabric couldn’t cover the outline of his arousal: you could see the contour of his erect cock in the crease of his thigh. The tip of your tongue ran across Michael’s swollen lips, and he gasped into the kiss.

“You’re so pretty”, you said, as you broke the kiss, pressing your forehead against his. The look in his big eyes was completely dazed. You smiled and cupped his face in your hands. “Babe, are you with me?”

Michael nodded and pulled you for another kiss. You yanked his head by his locks and moved your lips to his jawline. Numbing on the thin skin, you decided to test the waters and slowly snaked your hand down to his cock. He moaned brokenly when you stroked it through the fabric. There was already a wet spot of his precum. You moved the sheer material aside and took a look at the long shaft with flushed head glistening with the pearls of his arousal. He squeezed his eyes shut, when you wrapped your fingers around the base of his cock and slowly stroke it.

“Y/N”, he pledged. He sounded so needy, so desperate. You formed a fist and started making circular motions with it around the head of his cock. Michael opened his mouth, but couldn’t say a word, lost in the sensation. You couldn’t take your eyes off of him. He looked like a painting with his boyish features, soft curls, and ripe, sinful lips he kept licking. You started stroking him faster, thrilled to take him apart and find out what his angelic face looked like when he was cumming.

“Shhhh”, you soothed him, lacing the fingers of your free hand into the strands of his hair and gently scratching at the nape of his neck. “My pretty boy”, you kissed his forehead.

Michael whimpered and pressed his head against your breasts nuzzling into them through your linen shirt. Holding tight to you, he carefully cupped your right breast and squeezed it slightly, making you moan and throw your head back. He was pleased with your reaction, as it got him braver, and he started unbuttoning your shirt, exposing more of your skin. You kept pressing feather light kisses to his closed lids, his cheeks, the bridge of his nose and his lips. His face must have been carved by angels from the finest marble. He wrapped his lips around your nipple and delicately sucked on it, drawing broken moans from your throat.

His hips were rutting against the crumpled fabric, meeting the thrusts of your hand. You stopped only for a second just to lick your palm, and wrap it around him again to resume pumping your fist.

“Y/N...”, he whined hopelessly, “I’m close”.

You knew that he wouldn’t last long. He was so young, you were surprised he hadn’t cum right after you kissed him.

“C’mon, darling”, you encouraged him, teasing the slit of his tip, “cum for me, angel. My personal cherub...”

You adored the way his lips twitched, forming a perfect “o”, the tense muscles of his stomach that spasmed in a convulsing pleasure, as he came all over your palm in white ribbons. You wished you could paint him this way. The picture of him cumming undone was forever imprinted in your mind. You smiled fondly when he looked up at you, feeling the warmth coil in the pit of your stomach.

“Thank you”, he whispered, and you chuckled at his boldness. His hands traveled up to your unbuttoned shirt and slid it off your shoulders, reliving your exposed chest to him. He caressed the nipples and leaned forward to suck on them again, swirling his wicked tongue around the hardening buds. “I think I owe you an orgasm now”.

You looked at him in surprise. He didn’t have to. You just wanted to make him feel good, but Michael seemed pretty determined.

“Could you, please, sit on my face?”, he blushed at his own words, but managed not to turn his eyes away from you. Such a polite boy.

You hissed through gritted teeth, and before straddling his chest you involved him in another passionate kiss. He shifted on the pillows, sliding down the sofa to let you straddle his chest in a kneeling position. You scooted forward until your thighs were on either side of his head. The gold curls were disheveled. Lowering your body, as your pussy made contact with his face, you moaned loudly. Michael placed his hands on your thighs and calves for your leverage. As soon as his tongue licked a wide stripe across your wet folds, you cried out, thinking you were in heaven. The feeling of dominance was alluring to you, and in no time you started drawing figure eights with your hips, rubbing yourself against his tongue. You were probably suffocating himself a bit, but judging by Michael’s muffled moans he was enjoying it. He used his fingers to help himself and spread you open, wrapping his lips around your clit. The gently sucking was alternated with him lapping on your folds.

“Good boy”, you praised him, and his whimpers sent delicious sensation to your throbbing core. You reached for your hair clip and took it off, letting your hair down in loose waves. “Just like that, baby, just like that”.

You thought that you lost yourself when his started fucking you with his tongue, stretching your tight walls with each thrust of it. Your legs started shaking not only from your attempts to keep steady, but from the mind-blowing pleasure the boy between your legs was causing you. He was devouring you, as if you were his last meal. You looked down at him and moaned at the sight of him all soft and flushed beneath you. The fact you were sitting on the face of the boy, who looked like a real-life angel, made your insides quiver. A really warm fuzzy feeling spilled inside you, making you scream out Michael’s name, as your orgasm pierced through every cell of your body. It was so good, to the extent of being extricating. Everything seemed unreal. Michael had let go of your thighs, and you bent over to kiss his mouth covered in your wetness.

You were laying on top of Michael, skin on skin, legs entwined, as you two were kissing lazily on the sofa.

“What are you going to do with all the sketches of my face after you sell your painting?” he asked, stroking your bare thigh.

You folded your hands on his chest and rested your head on them.

“I was thinking of using them for my personal exhibition”.

Michael’s eyes lit up with curiosity.

“You never told me about the exhibition! Y/N, that’s awesome!”

You petted his cheek, smiling at his reaction. Thanks to him you started to remember what it felt like to be grateful for every little thing in you life. Somehow, despite all the difficulties, Michael managed to keep his inner child safe and happy.

“Am I invited?” he wondered shyly.

“Of course you are, love” you rolled your eyes at his silly question. “You are my muse, after all”

Tag list: @lovelykhaleesiii @langdons-rep @babypinkstyles94 @sammythankyou @kaigitana @ms-mead @sebastianshoe @langdonsdemon @iloveziggystardust @chaoticevillangdon

People who might like it: @lvngdvns @icylangdon @ritualmichael @langdonsoceaneyes @ccodyfern @sloppy-little-witch-bitch26 @sojournmichael @wroteclassicaly 

Amazing art by @theghostoflangdon

[headoverjojo]

Can I ask for BucciG with a S/o that has an unearthly patience but when they finally snap, well... You'd better run because Ghiaccio, Fugo and Josuke just got fused together?

Hello there! Ooooh, snap babe coming!

Bruno’s gang with a s/o who has an unearthly patience but when they snap they’re terrifying

(Under the cut for length!)

Bruno Bucciarati

One of the reason Bruno fell so hard for his s/o was their incredible patience. They were always so calm, even the most troublesome thing didn’t seem to touch them. They accepted it with a smile and immediately worked in order to solve it. Their patience seems unlimited: they don’t complain when Bruno comes home late, due to work, when the boys are louder than usual, when, during a meeting some Caporegime is rude towards them -Bruno’s assistant- and Bruno himself. Bruno, not to cause more chaos, usually bite his tongue, if it’s nothing offensive. He -and the Don- don’t need more troubles than usual.

He chose his s/o to accompany him to every meeting right due to their apparently unlimited patience: Narancia was too loud, Fugo was already present at every meeting as Consigliere and strategist -but no one dares to fight with him-, Mista was with Giorno as his right arm, Abbacchio couldn’t bear even the slightest insult to Bruno… his s/o, instead, was placid and patient at his side, biting their tongue as much as him when someone said something inappropriate.

Still, during one meeting, everyone assisted to a very rare event: Bruno’s s/o snapped. And they snapped really bad. As one of the other Capiregime said something bad about the “rockie one”, they snapped so bad that Bruno had to catch them before they flew to the Caporegime to beat them in a pulp. Still, the murderous aurea they’re emanating is enough to keep them all in line for that and future meetings. And, from that experience, Bruno learned about a new side of his s/o: never make them angry! Even if he’s a little happy, since they unleashed their wrath for him. Now he knows how it feels!

Leone Abbacchio

His s/o’s patience was what, in the end, lead them to be a couple. Abbacchio was so unsure, so scared to hurt them and lose them not to realise that he was losing precious time right now. Someone else would have given up and let him go, but not his s/o. His s/o waited for him, with sweetness and kindness, without forcing him. And this lead Abbacchio, in the end, to finally admit that yes, he was in love, and yes, being with them was worth every risk. Their patience never leaves them even when Abbacchio is on one of his moody periods -even if he tries as much as he can not to weight on his s/o-, when he’s silent and closed in his world… they always wait for him. And Abbacchio knows it.

Abbacchio tends to retire in his shell especially in certain periods of the year. His birthday -for a long period he wished not to have been born, so his birthday was painful-, his ex partner’s birthday and the day he died. He’s grateful, even if he doesn’t say it aloud, that his s/o is understanding and leaves him the time he needs, every time. When he has grieved alone, he always comes back to them, hugging them and relishing in their warm presence, happy, deep in his heart, to see they’re still here.

This doesn’t mean that their patience is unlimited. They’re human, after all! And, the first time it happened, it wasn’t against Leone, as one could expect, but against other Passione’s members. They had to assist Abbacchio in a reconnaissance mission, to cover his back while Moody Blues was replaying. It was one of the “bad periods” and his s/o was more protective than usual. This was what lead them to knock down a fellow Passione soldato when they criticized Abbacchio for “being so gloomy and with a stick up in his ass”. Abbacchio too was baffled by their reaction and had to physically restrain them from beating the other too. He scolds them, but, also, he’s grateful… it’s nice to be defended, sometimes.

Guido Mista

He’s so in love with his s/o that sometimes he feels overwhelmed. They’re so kind, so fierce and intelligent… and also so patient. Their apparently infinite patience was what hit him more than anything else: when they had to wait for a target to appear, they never complained about it -while Narancia would have already started to whine and complain, making him lose his focus-, they just stayed near him, ready as him to shoot. It was on these moments of wait that they bonded, finding out they shared a lot of common points of view on life and world. He’s not a man who usually makes people nervous, but he knows that his phobia can be a bit unnerving, so he’s grateful for his s/o’s patience.

His lifestyle is not luxurious or over the line: even if now he’s the Don’s right hand, he still enjoys the small joys of life, nothing more and nothing less. The sun in the morning, his s/o’s hand in his, their kisses… it’s more than enough to make him happy. Still, a lot of people judges him bad for this: he could have everything, seen his position, and he’s content with just some crumble? Stupid. Mista know what people say, but he doesn’t care: this doesn’t stop him from doing his work as he should, so it’s fine.

Still, his s/o knows that, even if Mista doesn’t get angry or doesn’t show it, he’s a bit affected by those words. He’s not going to change his lifestyle because of it, but… it hurts, after a while. And his s/o suffers seeing Mista like this. Still, they tried to restrain and restrain until, at the umpteenth bad comment, they violently snapped even charging with their stand. Mista was totally caught unprepared: he never saw his s/o reacting so badly!! He tears them away from the poor soul, holding them in his arms to prevent them to beat the other up again. He confronts them, baffled and surprised, even more when they see that, after all the punches, kicks, screams and insults, they’re back to their sweet and patient self. What happened?? Did he just dreamed everything??

Narancia Ghirga

Let’s be honest, to keep up with Narancia one must be really energetic and, most of all, patient. Other than loving physical contact and cuddles. Luckily, his s/o is all of this: they’re energetic, always ready to follow him in every mission or prank he’s planning to do, often being his voice of reason, they adore cuddles and are not shy about holding his hand in public or smooching his cheeks and lips and, most of all, they’re patient. They have the patience of a saint. They’re not bothered by Narancia’s problems with math, they’re not annoyed by his loud and brash personality… they love him as he is. And Narancia is immensely grate for this.

Now that Fugo can’t be anymore his tutor, it’s his s/o the one who does it. With a way calmer and more positive approach, Narancia managed to do many progresses, even in math, to his s/o’s joy and pride. Still, many people look down at him, still considering him the weak link in the group. They see him as a kid, so the easier to defeat, just to face Aerosmith’s bullets. It’s easier when they’re enemies, but when those words come from other Passione’s members… he can’t even react. He just boils and keeps his anger inside.

Everyone thought that Narancia would have finally exploded, one day. But, surprise, it wasn’t him but his s/o the one who had a rage outburst worth of Fugo on his worst moments. They didn’t even call out their stand: they just beated them with bare hands, screaming how much they were done with all this crap, that they have to leave Narancia alone and stop with all this shit. Narancia is so shocked he can’t even move a muscles; when they’re finally finished and back to Narancia, he’s almost scared that they could unleash their rage on him, but almost immediately he notices that they’re back to their usual self. He doesn’t talk about this episode anymore, just hoping not to ever be their victim when their patience ends!

Pannacotta Fugo

Fugo absolutely needs a person who’s patient and can stand up on him when he’s being stubborn. Gentle but firm, kind but strong, this is the person who could steal Fugo’s heart. And his s/o is so. They’re strong and determined like a real warrior but compassionate and kind like an angel. Plus, they’re the patience itself and he’s still amazed when they say they’re not annoyed by his anger bursts -more worried that he could hurt himself- or perfectionism tendencies. He knows he can be, sometimes, such a neurotic mess, but seeing that they’re still here and love him anyway helps him really a lot.

Even if now he’s one of the most respected people in Passione, as Consigliere and strategist, someone still talks badly about him, saying that he’s in his position just ‘cause he’s a Don’s friend, that he’s a violent, an uncontrollable angry man, that soon or later it will end badly for him… even if he tries not to listen to these words, mostly not to have a rage burst or breakdown in front of his s/o, it affects him so, so much, mining his already low self esteem.

But it’s when someone whispers about his tragic past, about the thing with his old professor that his s/o, to everyone’s dismay, snaps. They are even more violent than Fugo, a force that cannot be stopped, as they scream to shut their trap up and not to dare to speak about things they don’t know. Just when the other has passed out they stop, going back to Fugo, who was too shocked to stop them, and tell him it’s all fine, now. Fugo is seriously worried that they can have anger issues as him, but when they say they just snapped, after bottling up for so much time, he begs them to vent, when they need, in order to prevent such outbursts. He doesn’t want them to get hurt!

Giorno Giovanna

Being a Don isn’t easy. He knew it and his s/o knows too, but Giorno still feared that it could have been too much for them to handle. He’s always travelling from city to city to check how Passione’s various settlements are doing, he has meetings, when something serious happens he has to go personally, he has to always be ready for every kind of emergency… it’s not easy for them. It’s hard to have a free day just for them two. But his s/o is doted of an unearthly patience. When Giorno has to go, they just kiss him and tell him to be careful, if they can’t go with him. Giorno is so grateful to have them in his life, a safe harbor to always come back to.

Still, seeing his young age, some members are reluctant to follow him or to respect him -even if, after one look to GER, they understand how this young man won against the apparently invincible ex Don- but still, words go around. Someone doesn’t think Giorno is suited for the role, someone else that with him on charge Passione will fall down, someone else that the “brat” is too young to be a Don… Giorno knows his abilities and power, but he’s still human. These words affect him, even if he maintains a stoic face.

Until the day when, during a meeting, after the umpteenth veiled nonsense criticism from a Caporegime -and Giorno just clenched his jaw while coldly said he would have thought about that- they snapped. Badly. Since it was a Caporegime they couldn’t beat them up as they wanted to, but still their words are sharp and hit as fists. After that, no one dared to move against their Don, always eyeing the menacing presence near him. Giorno had problems to keep up the stoic façade and, the instant the meeting was ended, he asked for explanations. Not that he was disappointed! It had been amazing. Just… why? And this already happened without him to know it? He knows that bottling up feelings is unhealthy and he wants his s/o to feel comfortable to vent, not to always be the patient and kind one, if they need to.

[kookceit]

panic room

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21457270

summary:  Logan has a breakdown at the end of their Psychology class.

Logan’s eyes were downcast as they entered their Psychology class with Remus. It was hard masking anxiety. Their chest felt a bit heavy, but it wasn’t an extreme weight. Similar to just a book or two being placed on your chest, but one of the books was a nice World History textbook. Logan could still breathe, nothing was too bad so it didn’t matter.

They went and sat at their seat. The classroom wasn’t arranged in rows, rather just groups. Logan’s assigned seat that they got to choose themselves was the one right in front of the pole in the room, the back row right behind them. One of their friends, Virgil, being at the corner seat of the back row and nearby. Remus sat right next to them, but his attention was on everyone else at the table. That was okay, more than okay really. Logan didn’t really feel like talking to anyone, and really didn’t want anyone to notice they were unraveling. They looked at the desk in the corner that was to the left of the door and noticed Mr. Sanders wasn’t in that day. Instead, it was another teacher in the building, Mrs. Lorinn, meaning she was a substitute. Just great, their favorite teacher wasn’t in again , and they would have to do a stupid amount of work they would never do otherwise in the class. It was only busywork, but it was also counted for a grade so Logan had to do it. This was only giving them more anxiety.

The other day there was also a substitute, Mrs. Poinsette. The assignment was online, and the class was given laptops and the class period to complete it. The problem was Mr. Sanders messed up the links on the Ted Talks assigned, and both Ted Talks were the same one, meaning the second set of questions couldn’t be answered. It was available till the next day, but would be counted as late and would drop their grade a bit. Logan couldn’t afford anything less than a 100 in this class. The second link was given on the board, but Logan did something they regret. Instead of working on their Psychology assignment, they saw it was available till the next day and decided to do their Algebra homework instead. They didn’t know about the links being messed up, had only focused on the fact that it was ‘due’ tomorrow. Logan was informed of this once they attempted at doing their work at home, realizing that they’d need to somehow get the link to the second video. The last thing Logan wanted to do was ask others for assistance.  

Now they were sitting in the room of which they had an assignment due and haven't completed yet. It was already late, Mr. Sanders changed the due date but kept the availability, so there was nothing Logan could do there. The only thing Logan could do was complete whatever packet was being given out this period, and swiftly go home and try to find that second video. One of the questions contained a quote, and with the knowledge of it being from a Ted Talk, Logan created the plan of searching the quote accompanied with the words “Ted Talk” and hopefully finding the link. Mrs. Lorrin smiled as she passed out the case studies.

When Logan got theirs, they immediately flipped through it, trying to estimate the time it would take to complete it. They went back to the front, and started reading the symptoms and backstories, until Remus’ voice cut through.

“Hey Logan, do you know the first one?” Logan’s eyes kept firmly to the packet, not wanting to make eye contact with anyone, even if it was considered rude.

Of course he would ask them. Of course. Logan was the smart one, weren’t they? They were expected to be able to understand everything as soon as they saw them, as if their mind was filled with whatever they considered intelligent. Logan never studied, and still got high grades. Logan was the smartest in the room, but was modest and denied it. Nothing more to it,  right ? It wasn’t like Logan simply learned by finding these subjects interesting and listening to the teacher, or that they had their own methods that helped them to know these things instead of the memorization of notes that all the neurotypical kids in the class did. Logan learned by rehearsing things, as if it was a speech. The repetition helped them. But nobody else knew that. It wouldn’t seem fit for the smart one to be anything but neurotypical, or at least that’s what they told themselves. It was terrifying keeping that under wraps, but they managed. 

But god, the more difficult part was when people expected them to know something they were still figuring out. Logan knew nobody meant it this way, but when they were still in the process of finding the answer and someone asks them a question regarding it, since Logan can’t give an answer they feel inadequate. They feel as if they can’t live up to the horribly high expectations of everyone else and themselves, and that they’re worthless. Worthless because they couldn’t answer that question. Worthless because they aren’t what people expect. Worthless because if they don’t live up to these expectations, they’re just a stupid, queer immigrant. The pressure took an enormous toll on Logan’s mental health, to the point where everything was skewed against them. 

Logan tried their best to keep the stutter out of their voice. “I- Still getting it. Sorry.” The fumble of words made them embarrassed, increased their need to cry, but it was better than a stutter.

“Oh, okay!” Remus said cheerfully, and turned his attention back to the other kids at the table.

That was it? Did Logan really just stress over something so  stupid ? They were losing their touch.

Focusing back on their work, they read it all over again. The lines for the answers were a bit messed up, but it was nothing they couldn’t deal with. Well, they couldn’t deal with it, but it’s okay since those papers would be gone in a little bit. The lines were distracting Logan. They kept rereading the backstory, trying to find something to work with in the symptoms, but their head was hurting so bad. When did their head start hurting? Well, it was now, and it was an issue. This headache was preventing them from thinking, the fuzziness and pain making coherent thought difficult. Logan wanted to ask for help, knowing they had to if they wanted to complete this, but not wanting to speak. They were smart, right? They would figure it out.

But the pain persisted. Logan couldn’t stand it. Everyone was talking so much. Noises, too many noises. Logan clutched their ears, and angled their arms so they could stuff their face into them. Logan knew nobody would notice as long as they kept any and all noises gone. No noises, nobody would know about this. They let tears slide down their cheeks, keeping their labored breaths quiet. Wiping them away, they went back to the task at hand. They could focus a bit better, but everyone’s voices were so loud. Logan wanted to tell them all to shut up so badly, but even they knew they couldn’t do that. The thought itself sparked too much anxiety, and they knew it was horrifyingly rude. Logan still wanted to though. 

Their eyes were still glued downward, but they knew nobody was looking at them. But what if they were? That single thought gave them too much anxiety to not simply check a little. If they were met with any eyes, they’d just sink back down and die. Solid plan. The image of everyone staring at them scaring them enough to look up and get a tiny peak.

Everyone was chatting. Nobody was looking at them. They turned to the back row, and Virgil looked up at them.

“You good?” Virgil asked, concern in his violet eyes.

Logan nodded quickly, facing back to their work. They tried to listen to what everyone else was saying, hoping they would give them clues. But when they tuned in, all they heard was comments about several different disorders and incorrect assumptions on them. Some of those disorders Logan happened to have. They kept their mouth shut, panic seeping in. Logan knew, logically, they weren’t talking about them. This was a Psychology class, and they were doing case studies,  of course  they were going to be talking about disorders. The feeling still didn’t go away. Emotions aren’t rational, after all.

Somehow, that managed to help them think clearly. They were able to tune everyone else out and focus solely on the assignment. It wasn’t difficult at all. Just some reading, and the disorder was rather obvious as well. Logan quickly jotted down the diagnosis they gave and the reasoning, but before they could get up and turn it in, Remus’ voice interjected once again.

“Oh! Could I check my answers with yours? You’re the answer key, after all.” Remus asked, joking at the end. But Logan heard that ‘joke’ too many times. Truthfully, they hated the ‘answer key’ and ‘calculator’ comments, but would never speak out against it. Even if they did, it would just be seen as them being ‘modest’ again. Logan really did hate being seen as smart. None of it was recognized as the hard work it really was, rather being thought of as ‘natural talents’.

“Sure.” Logan kept their reply terse. They really didn’t want to speak more than they had to.

Remus saw nothing wrong with that answer, quickly scanning what Logan put on the sheet and giving it back to them.

“We got the same things! Nice.” Remus giggled. Logan nodded, took Remus’ sheet, and rose out of their seat to turn in their work.

They were the first one done. While that should’ve made them feel better, they only felt relief. Perfectionism and Imposter Syndrome were awful to deal with. No matter what, they couldn’t feel satisfied. Wonderful.

They returned to their seat, but noticed that Virgil wasn’t done yet. So Logan got up, went behind him, and started filling in the answers for him.

“Oh, thanks L. You didn’t have to.” Virgil twisted his neck to get a look at Logan’s eyes, the worry from earlier still being there, but Logan already finished all the answers and returned back to their desk.

“You’re welcome.” Logan turned their attention to their thumbs, fiddling with them. 

They were trying to find some kind of distraction. Any kind of distraction. Logan looked up and saw the girl in front of them still wasn’t finished, and got up. 

“Do you require any assistance?” They asked, keeping their voice leveled. Score for Logan, they don’t seem on the verge of a breakdown. 

“Uh, yeah. Just this one, I got the others figured out.” she said. Julianna, they think her name was.

Logan scanned the case quickly, realizing it was Marianne’s from theirs and telling her, “Panic Disorder. She fears feeling anxiety at those places due to her previous situations, and anything similar to it. That’s what makes it different from an anxiety disorder.”

Julianna nodded, thanking Logan and they proceeded to go back to their desk and sit down. 

Hopefully the bell would ring soon, as they could feel panic welling up inside them. Everything felt bad. Their head may feel okay, but everything else didn’t. Logan knew they were going to cry again, but they really didn’t want to. What if someone noticed? Logan couldn’t stomach the thought of it.

Suddenly, everyone got up and Logan knew it was time to leave. They grabbed their books and pressed them up against their chest, making sure to keep their eyes on the floor and nowhere else. Everyone was still talking, still being so loud. They were talking about clocks, and time. Ha, time. Time was pretty funny. Daylight savings time was evidence in it of itself that time is a flawed man-made concept. Time existed, just not the way humans made it out to seem. Logan wanted to focus on those thoughts, something to them feel better, but then they couldn’t because someone was focusing on them instead of the conversion.

“Hey, Logan? Are you okay?” It was Patton.

Logan shook their head rapidly, before choking out a sob and slapping their head over their mouth.

“Logan, are you sure?” Patton again. His voice was filled with concern. Logan could picture the face he was probably making right now, but he couldn’t put their head up. Patton would see the tears if they did. Logan clutched their books tighter.

Logan felt obligated to reply. If they didn’t, would they figure something was wrong in their head? That they weren’t as neurotypical as everyone else thought they were? So, Logan tried to reply without sounding like they were crying.

“I’m fine.” They said with extreme difficulty. Well, so much for sounding like they weren’t crying. A sob climbed out of their mouth, the loud noise alerting Patton. Patton came and put his arm around Logan, asking what was wrong. Logan kept shaking their head, unable to move.

The bell rang, and Logan bolted out of the room. They didn’t stop running, not caring that anyone could see their tears. They made it to their locker, quickly doing the combination before someone they didn’t know squatted next to them and asked them a dreaded question.

“Are you okay honey? What’s wrong?” They was a short, black person. Logan didn’t want to assume any gender here, but they did look feminine. Their hair was so pretty, Logan loved their ponytail. But Logan couldn't tell them that right at that moment. Patton’s locker was right next to theirs, and it seemed Patton might be making his way up now. 

“I’m fine, sorry for worrying you. However, thank you for being concerned.” Logan replied, and took their things before bolting down the steps once again.

They didn’t stop running. Out of the building, fighting against the cold that numbed their hands, and off to the bus stop. Once they were home, everything would be okay. 

Everything would be okay, but they weren’t right now.

[lachalaine]

24th Birthday // Nov 29, 2018

not accepting

The couch was their resting place. He’d nudged her onto it some time ago and gotten himself quite comfortable lying on her, getting as close as he could, relishing the warmth and ease of the moment. A soft purr emanated from him (as it always did when he was with her like this) and blended in with the low noises of the TV playing in the background.

He didn’t bother watching the screen, choosing instead to close his eyes and nuzzle his face against Jackie. Her familiar scent, and the reassuring sounds of her heartbeat and breathing, gave him absolute peace. That peace started to invite sleep in to share its place and weigh down his mind and body.

Despite the fact it hadn’t been spent the way he would have preferred (with himself in human form, fast-forwarding to a time where he was able to spoil Jackie in every way possible), it had been a good day so far. Jackie seemed to have had a very nice birthday at least, and he had done his best to give her all the affection he could with his limited, leopard capabilities.

— Several quick knocks on the front door broke the relaxed ambience.

His ears twitched in dislike. Who or what was disrupting his time with Jackie? Was it a friend of hers? An enemy? A tiger? A guy stopping by to declare his love for her?? How dare.

He lifted his head, turning it in the direction of the door as a spark of aggressive energy flashed through him like lightning, scaring away the need for sleep that had peeked in.

Within a moment, Chesh had hopped down from the couch and begun his approach to the door. Silent, swift steps took him closer and closer. Whether Jackie was scrambling to beat him to it, or was too lethargic on the couch to process the fact her leopard was appearing to go ambush a visitor, he had no idea, his focus only on this new ‘rival’.

He stopped several feet from the entrance and sunk low to the floor, eyes trained on the door handle, waiting for his time to strike.

This was rather standard practice for him now whenever someone came over. The leopard was always prepared to face whoever dared to enter ‘his’ territory, ready to scare them off to protect it and Jackie. He’d surprised a fair few people before Jackie managed to distract them or hide him (and he’d chased out one or two of her ‘dates’ before too). So, who was this new victim? A birthday date, perhaps?

Oh! But given the timing, it was probably Karson, wasn’t it? The guy he had hired to make the delivery! (the man owed him after all, considering Chesh’s sales pitch that time had actually worked.)

We can’t scare this one off, he told his other side, we need him. For Jackie.

The leopard gave an internal huff but allowed him to move away from the door and out of sight, while the birthday girl finally opened the door. Ah, yes, it was indeed good ol’ Karson!

Relief eased the shifter’s tensed muscles, but then had to contend with the icy splash of nervousness spreading throughout him. It sped up his heart and heightened his senses further, sharpening the scene.

Jackie leaned against the half-open door, blocking the view of the other human (perhaps to prevent the guy from accidentally spotting a large, predatory cat in the background). Her hair was in a rather glorious mess after all the times he’d rubbed his face against it during the day, but she still looked gorgeous. Such pretty hair she had, and he had recently learnt it was purple! (and he was still so delighted by that fact)

In honour of that colour, the somewhat large giftbox she was being handed now was covered in pretty, purple paper and topped with beautiful ribbon of a complementary tone.

It had arrived safely, without so much as a crinkle, crease, or droopy bow. Karson had done a good job of delivering it, Chesh was glad he’d picked him for the task, but…what if Jackie didn’t like the gift inside?

Anxiety pricked at him and made it impossible to stay still. He adjusted his position in the attempt to become more comfortable. The action didn’t help him or give him a line of sight to the visitor (something which made the leopard more antsy, but was good, considering he would have seen how the man instinctively checked Jackie out, and he would have been compelled to scare the crap out of him).

Chesh waited for her to close the door after Karson left, then he emerged and moved closer, seemingly curious. The box she held was exactly as he remembered it, not that it was hard for him to accurately recall its image, after having spent far too much time making sure it was flawlessly wrapped, with the elegant bow on top precisely posed to be picture-perfect.

Yes, this box was permanently in his memories now. He could have easily just brought a pretty box to put the present in, but this was for Jackie! (and none of the boxes he had looked at had been pretty enough or in the right shades or size)

He was quite often a lazy cat in all senses, unwilling to work or move until he damn well felt like it, unmotivated (well, more like, reluctant to try for fear of failure), and somewhat selfish too, but there were certain times when his perfectionism raised itself from the depths of his being and stubbornly took control.

Not only had he spent an exceptional amount of time (during which he should have been focusing on work and customers) on what was inside the box, but he had spent a good deal of time making sure the box was perfect too. The packaging had to be as nice as the gift itself after all!

Although…now he wondered if he should have gone with a plain box, so that she would have low expectations of what was inside, and therefore she would, hopefully, be pleasantly surprised when she finally did open it, even if it didn’t wow her.

Damn it…

His tail flicked, and his paws shifted around, but his eyes stayed on Jackie and the present, hoping she wouldn’t be let down by it. All she had to do was tug on the ribbon to collapse the bow, lift off the lid and peer inside. She would see a square board of polished, warm toned wood (mahogany, to be precise. He’d tried to find a piece that matched the glimpse he’d gotten of her eyes that time).

Half an inch in from the edge, a straight, deep line ran right around the board, creating a frame. At each corner, the line dipped into a fingertip groove, which allowed for an easy way for the panel that rested inside the large frame to be lifted out and changed.

The lightweight panel itself had a multitude of tiny holes painstakingly put into it, they were hard to notice at first even with some of them being larger than others. Along the top edge of the panel, the word ‘Sagittarius’ was carefully inlayed in a flowy font of gold.

Should she remove the panel to see the workings below or notice the small switch on the side of the board, she might realise that what she had been given was a light projector, designed to give her ceiling the stars whenever she wished.

And that wasn’t all she was given.

Upright between one side of the thick board and the side of the giftbox, a matching and specially made stand held a dozen more panels within its slots. Like the one that was already settled in the frame, these had constellation names at their top edges.

Slipped in with the first panel in the stand, he had left a notecard. It simply read ‘Happy Birthday’ (because he had redone it so many times before with different messages and had talked himself out of each one). He didn’t bother to sign the card (though ‘C.A’ was discretely carved on the underside of the projector board, he did that with all his works), as she didn’t know who he was.

Yet.

She didn’t know who he was…yet.

But perhaps the small ‘Delaney Furnishing’ sticker next to his initials, along with the brochure Karson was going to put in her mailbox on his way past, would be enough hints to get her to visit him at work some day soon. That is…if she liked what he’d made for her, and if she found the need to see more.

Chesh let out a shaky breath now, instincts torn between wanting to see her open the gift and wanting to go hide beneath her blankets. Nervous? Excited? He couldn’t tell what he was anymore, and even started to doubt his ability to survive meeting her in human form. Maybe it wasn’t too late to stop Karson planting the pamphlet and get him to take the gift back…

What had he been thinking! This whole thing was a totally bad idea. But perhaps he could just distract her with affection and stop her from opening anything. Maybe even make her drop the box and break the thing. It was stupid anyway, and she probably wouldn’t like it, so he would be doing her a favour really!

Embarrassment flowed through him in a hot rush that would have made his face flush had he been human. His mind went off in a dozen directions, imagining all the horrific reactions and rejections. They solidified his idea of interfering.

He was going to break the box and projector and save Jackie from the terrible gift.

She almost didn’t hear the doorbell ring.

Exhausted from the birthday ventures that’d started from the evening prior until a late lunch with friends earlier this afternoon, the late midday sunlight finally found Jackie laying spread out into the cushioned fabric of her gloriously comfy sofa, just absolutely fucking drained beyond belief.

Goddess help her, but it had been – an absolute Day. And to think it wasn’t even over yet. She might have taken the night off work tonight, but her friends didn’t exactly take no for an answer. They’d be coming to collect her for another volley of drinks at twilight.

Jackie almost seems to whimper at the very thought. 

Her liver was ready to strangle her if it could.

In the meantime however, she’d brushed it from her mind, and perhaps it works only all too well; for as warm and as comfortable as she was cushioned beneath a particular leopards rather solid frame, the female is only truly roused from her heady daze by the sensation of the feline slowly slipping away; the shift in languid movement beckoning her fully awake, away from the comforts of sleep and back into reality.

She might have been dead on her feet, but she was still fairly aware of all the most important things, at the very least. Like how it couldn’t possibly have been six pm yet, considering the sun was still shining brightly through the windows. Like how it couldn’t have been her friends at the door, for they were perpetually late as a rule in the first place.

Like how the current reality was telling her that her friendly neighborhood leopard was preparing to attack her visitors again.

Oh shit. Not again. 

Nope.

Mahogany hues snap open before she so much as allows the thought to even dimly settle, petite frame rushing upwards from the couch and awkwardly scrambling for the front door before the feline could dare to make it there before her; the panic of seeing him already crouched before the entrance as though ready to maul a gazelle nearly enough to set her suddenly frazzled nerves on edge.

‘Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope - not again, please!’

This cat was going to give her a heart attack!

Rampant panic aside, it seems almost a miracle when she finally skids into the foyer just in time to see him seemingly huff and turn to saunter away, as though already very aware of what her reaction would be to his attempts, shuffling quietly back along to finally settle against the far wall to hide seemingly out of sight.

It was – surprising behavior of him to say the least, but she wasn’t going to turn and look a gift horse in the mouth.

Thank god, because she didn’t know how much longer she could keep convincing people they were delusional.

‘Of course I’m not keeping a leopard in the house, that’s crazy, honestly. You’ve been watching too much Animal Planet, that’s all.’

As though people didn’t already think her insane enough, she really didn’t need animal control hounding on her too.

A thankful sigh resonates from between full lips at her sudden luck, grateful for whatever deity had blessedly chosen to grant her a smidgen of peace that day as she’d finally turned her attention to the doorway; keeping the position of her rather overly protective housemate in mind even as she’d slowly moved to gradually open it with a peek.

When the door finally cracks open, she’s not entirely sure what to expect.

“Oh hello.”

But he certainly didn’t look like her regular FEDEX guy, that was for damn sure. 

A swift, if not confusing conversation later ( of which the man had answered practically none of her questions but had proceeded to make every attempt possible to look down her shirt ), and after having deemed the man almost relatively harmless, Jackie found herself ultimately just accepting the delivered package and finally closing the front door; large purple hued box now grasped securely within her arms, as lone female stared down at the still impeccably sealed and beautifully wrapped carton with a soft hum.

‘Well,’ she’d eventually mused, as eyes roamed across the crease-less finish of the packaging, observant of the absolute care that’d evidently been made to keep the box looking as absolutely perfect as possible. ‘I don’t think the mafia would care too much about the wrapping paper if all they wanted to do was blow me up.’

A dim though ( almost faint, really, considering how long it’d been ), and perhaps rather naïve, especially for someone who’d had as much experience with the old syndicate the way she did, although there was a heavy sliver of truth to it.

It might have been a while since she’d been in contact with them, but some things just didn’t change. Most thugs just didn’t have the grace nor patience to manage something as delicate as this, not to mention that she’d received no indication to think her background had been unearthed just yet. All the better for her, of course. The shortsightedness of others would always be her ally.

Now if only she’d had just as many clues to figure this little mystery out.

The female gives the box a slight shake as she stands there by the door – just a bit ( “I was told it’s fragile so be careful with it.” “Okay, but who gave it?” Shruggity shrug. “Ugh.” “Trust me, you’d like him.” ) 

Him. Him, him, H I M.

Interesting. 

– if only enough to at least ascertain the general composition of its contents, only to just as quickly perk as the she’d felt something shift from within its sealed borders.

Oh.

Well. That answered absolutely nothing for her.

The gentle brush of fur slipping against her legs snapped her out of that rather cryptic puzzle, Jackie quickly shifting her attention downwards as a small smile blossomed across her lips at feline’s silent presence. “Hello, Kit. Look what I got, another birthday present!” A slight tap against the box as she’d grinned at him, a curious light just as prominent in her own gaze versus his own. “Pretty big thing, huh? Though it was from someone who didn’t want to leave a name apparently, but maybe he left it somewhere inside the box, hmm?”

It would have seemed almost counterproductive of his efforts if he didn’t, after all. Though perhaps that was the intention.

“Bit of a shame though if they didn’t, don’t you think?” She’d softly intoned, lithe digits already brushing across crisp violet wrapping with a frown, so perfectly bound she’d feared even opening it. “Seems they put a lot of effort into it. Be nice to know who to thank.”

It seems so silly, honestly, but somehow, something about the box felt almost — significant in a way, and she’s not entirely quite sure why. Perhaps it was just the inordinate amount of care that’d so obviously been utilized, all the way from the attention to wrapping paper and ribbon to its eventual delivery at her doorstep, so precisely and personally executed that one couldn’t help but wonder what the gesture might’ve meant to them.

Something special, maybe. Important. Enough to make them feel almost anxious, nervous, excited at her response -—

What?

A swift shake of her head brought her out of that line of thought, mahogany hues wide and blinking as she’d attempted to ignore the most curious sense of sudden unease building steadily through her frame, the feeling as though a sudden haze was clouding her mind –

Damn.

“Ugh, maybe all that stress is finally catching up to me.” She’d groaned softly to herself as fingers carefully brushed against her temples, already turning on her heels in order to stalk back to the living room, genuinely just attempting to thoroughly brush the feeling completely away –

Only to find that she actually — couldn’t.

For not even two steps later and she’d suddenly found herself abruptly pounced on, leopard suddenly raising himself on his heels and quickly clambering upon her svelte frame without any warning, paws pressed against her chest – seemingly to purposely stop her from taking even just another step forward.

In sharp contrast to anyone else should they have ever found themselves getting pounced on by a wild cat, domesticated or otherwise – she in turn just laughs.

Because at first, it seems altogether to be amusing – one of his most usual attempts at affection, at seizing her attention in efforts to grant him at least the quick and tender motion of her touch. It’s the norm, it’s what she expects, it’s —- Kit.

Until it isn’t.

For leopards frame doesn’t make it a point to actually pull away or even relax when female’s hand finally slips away from the package to scratch beneath his chin, as instead the male seems to shift his attention towards the box still held securely in her grasp, heavy paws landing insistently against the top of the package in a manner that one might almost take as — insistent. Clutching and pawing at it, like there was something wrong about it; you could say there was a frazzled energy about him, and one that for all intents and purposes, seemed entirely out of place.  

It is then, with a slight start, that she abruptly realizes –

He isn’t purring. In fact –

“Kit?”

He doesn’t sound very happy at all.

Oh shit.

Why was she saying that so much today?

“Kit, wait, don’t do that – ” Confusion laced upon her lips even as Jackie took the slightest step back, only for the cat to seemingly ignore her, determined focus stuck on the gift box as he’d followed; balance never slipping, forepaws never leaving, a keening whine breaking through the terse silence as appendages legitimately attempted to try to shove the cargo from her steady hold – holy shit!

‘What the hell did the box ever do to him?!’  

“Kitty, no, stop – !!“

Two steps backwards, another three – holding it ever tighter against her chest, doing all she could to try to stave him off without hurting him; efforts made that’d otherwise forced the male down to his feet, only for him to just as swiftly follow, attention so intensely fixated that it’d appeared no amount of admonishment on her part would ever seem to negate him.  

He was like a bloodhound who’d gotten the scent for wild deer, and she for one – was not quite ready to see what would happen to that proverbial deer when he was through with it. So, in total consideration of that potential bloodbath ( or box bath in this case ), she truly did the only think that she could have ever deemed necessary.

She ran.

Quick as a fox and zooming right past him, she’d bolted into a sprint that would have left even an Olympic runner impressed. Up and over the couch, zipping around the coffee table, already sensing his impending presence as surprised leopard quickly made to catch up –

Why did none of these rooms have fucking doors, damn it!

“Kit, don’t - !!”

Through the living room and into the kitchen, exclamation breaking on a short yelp, the female so narrowly avoided tripping over the second feline who’d decided to make her oftentimes absent presence known ( fucking cats, she swore to god ), navigating footwork up and over the pure white feline as the smaller animal stared up at her owner in clear judgement; the cat seemingly certain she wouldn’t hit her, but also rather content not to move until she’d watched the human smack heavily backwards into the kitchen counter behind her.

If the cat could’ve snickered, she would have made sure Jackie could hear it.

Mhm, oooh, she did so like causing some pain, yes.

In comparison, she grants the larger leopard that’d followed after her owner a short glance, cerulean hues narrowing on him dramatically, practically daring him to jump over her; before ever so haughtily sauntering away with a swish.

Jackie, for her part, was still clearing the stars from her eyes.

“Wait, no – behave!” She’d uttered out with a slight wince, back still smarting just a bit from her short tumble to the floor, of when she’d thought it prudent to turn halfway so she’d at least managed to cushion the box carefully against her chest. Granted she was probably gonna bruise just a little bit, but it was fine so long as the box was okay.

Though perhaps it might have clattered just a little inside the box during her quick sprint but – it couldn’t have been too bad, right?

She’d certainly hoped.

“Behave – please.” A heavy gasp for air as she’d curled further against the wall, raising a foot up in attempt to at least keep him at a distance, trying to calm her racing heart in the process. Her head was still hazy a bit, but it was relatively starting to clear up, she’d just had to make sure —

Goddess help her if the only fucking thing in here was fucking catnip – !

She slips off the ribbon before she can even contemplate it otherwise.

His keening whine goes ignored. “Stop, Kit, honestly. Now what were you so —- oh.”

Oh indeed.

And what exactly was she looking at here?

Lithe digits paused where she’d now held the lid aloft, mahogany hues seeming to be more or less just – confused, really; utterly uncertain of what now lay before her as she’d shifted to place both the ribbon and the cover down to examine the package in its entirety. What in the world? 

Honestly. All this running for a plank of wood?

Or – no. Not – not exactly wood, maybe. 

A frame?

Brows arching high upon her forehead, the female slowly lowered her foot back down as attention focused downwards, curious gaze roving tentatively across the panel staring back at her – warm toned wood ( the colour so familiar, the same of which she’d seen when she’d stared back into the mirror ) etched with a multitude of holes drilled into them, some sort of pattern from what she could guess, considering quite a few appeared to be much larger than the others; and then right above the intricate woodwork, in glorious gold script –

Sagittarius.

A zodiac sign. Though to be more precise, her zodiac sign.

—- was this supposed to be some sort of sculpture of sorts?

Behind her, the sun had slowly started to set beyond the horizon, gradually casting the kitchen in the dusky hues of the coming nightfall – the perfect setting it’d appeared, as she’d finally moved to take the entire wooden mechanism out of the box, setting it upon the kitchen floor and carefully messing around with it ( peeking beneath the frame, staring at the small light bulb cast inside, was it a lamp? ) only for deft fingers to finally chance upon the side – a switch so quickly clicked as panel clicked back into place, and then in response –

Flash

Light.

Pinpricks of bright light shining straight through the holes, but still light.

—- mayhaps she shouldn’t have been staring into that thing as intensely as she had, huh?

“Ow.” Softly spoken word as Jackie looked away, back against the dull lit shades that’d still cloaked half her kitchen in shadow, blinking away the spots of colour that’d flashed before her eyes ( not blind, that’s the important part ) – it was only once she’d deemed her vision once again coherent that she’d finally chanced a look back –

( the box was shining, bright, bright, bright, and beyond that – she was looking up, up, up – )  

“Oh.”

Oh. 

Oh.

Stars.

She was staring at the stars.

“What the heck –” The soft string of words, breathed out in awe strung amazement, as heart a rising tide suddenly shuddered a multitude of emotions that’d shot straight through her veins like a rush of adrenaline, leveling her on a high that’d felt almost entirely surreal as acquired gift seamlessly painted the walls of her home with the pin pricked beauty of the cosmos – glistening, glimmering, right within the four corners of her most humble abode, wow, wow, wow, just WOW – 

Goddamn.

She could scarcely breathe.

“Incredible.”

Jesus, what else could she even think to say beyond that?

Gaze roving intensely across the scene, it admittedly took some effort to pull her eyes away from the view playing high above her, wanting to get every inch of light show etched into her skull ( silly, silly, silly – it wasn’t going to stray, she could sleep to the sight of it every night if she’d wanted to ) – before finally shifting her attention back down towards the box, vaguely recognizing the stillness of the wild leopard by her side as he’d stared at her, as though intensely focused on examining her every single reaction as it passed. There was a sense of intelligence to the look, she’d garnered from a quick glance at him – something more profound than that of his casual surveillance; something that made him seem just a little more discerning, a little more aware. Almost a little more –

Human.

She wasn’t quite sure what to make of that.

Brushing the curious thought away seemed easy for the moment, at the very least, as deft digits returned to the remaining panels that’d been slipped against the edge of the box; the relative brightness of the projector providing her with just enough light to see by – a collection. Aries, Taurus, Gemini –

Wait.

Her fingers slip back between the first two panels of the arrangement with relative ease, fishing out a small card with a simple greeting etched against white parchment, only to so swiftly turn it back and forth as eyes raked attentively over the lettering; only to experience the heavy drop that’d quickly settled within her chest that’d echoed the deep disappointment of seeing no potential name specified.

Happy Birthday. 

Happy Birthday. 

That was it.

Goddess.

She didn’t know what to think.

Female remains all too silent as she’d stared down at the acquired card far too intensely, face seemingly almost impassive as the reactions seemed to gradually build up inside her, before all too quickly and all at once –

She presses the card right up against her eyes with an altogether heavy sigh.

Oh gods. 

“Why didn’t you tell me your name?”

The softest complant, ushered beneath her breath, even as heart gradually pumped a building rhythm within her chest – ah, what was this sensation she was feeling? It’d curled right against her heart, made her cheeks so slightly flush, made her feel almost wildly out of her depth, that she’d felt almost –

Shy.

Mhm. Oh no. 

‘Help.’

“Kitty – “ When she turns to finally face the feline, her cheeks are tinted a light rose of blushing pink, the look upon her visage so awkwardly flustered — oh gods. “I think I’m gonna faint.”

What he makes of that particular expression, she fears she’ll never know.

In the end, she ultimately doesn’t faint – though perhaps that had more to do with her fanning herself with the card and otherwise forcing herself to calm down, feeling like a jittery schoolgirl in the process – oh Jesus. 

Seriously, what was wrong with her?

She’d wished someone could tell her. 

As ultimately in the end, she finds herself spending more time then she should’ve running her hands over the box when she’d finally relocated into her bed; ignoring her phone buzzing repeatedly beside her as she’d switched carefully between panels – whispering her words of admiration to the wild cat sitting next to her, silent and watching as he did, his sudden burst of aggravation from earlier seeming to have finally settled –

Cancer, Leo, Virgo –

Ultimately, it’s when her hands finally pause upon the Leo panel as she’s putting it back, that she finally feels the small outline embedded into the underside of the projector – fingers shuffling it into better view as mahogany hues zoomed in on the initials ( she didn’t know anyone with a C.A, she didn’t think, did she? ), and then right beside it the more prominent sticker –

‘Delaney Furnishing.’

That she finally gains the semblance of a clue.

A clue she didn’t know quite what to make of, until the next day when she’s getting her mail ( after having slept the whole night through with eyes blinded by the radiance of stars, stars, stars – so close and so entirely dazzling ) when she finally finds hidden between her bills – ( insurance, electricity, water, catalog, credit card bill, bill, bill — oooh! ) One. Lone. Brochure.

For Delaney Furnishing.

Huh.

Coincidence? She’d think not. But she was pretty lucky though, wasn’t she? 

Looks like her empty schedule was suddenly completely booked today.

// @bestiatexere

[outroshooky]

winterspring | pjm

⇢ genre: oneshot (some angst i guess? fluff)

⇢ pairing: park jimin x reader

⇢ word count: 2k

⇢ a/n: my entire life, i’ve struggled with perfectionism issues. when talking to people about how i felt, i couldn’t seem to pick the right words to describe it, and i was often brushed off as being nit picky, overreacting, self-critical. jimin discussing his own struggles with perfectionism in Burn The Stage nailed how i felt right on the head- guilty. i feel guilty when i can’t provide someone with a perfect performance, a perfect drawing. the one uneven run, the one stray pencil mark prevents me from delivering that perfection, and it gets into my head until it’s all i can obsess over for hours, weeks, even sometimes months. i thought it was just me- until i saw that interview and realized for the first time that i’m not alone, and that there’s someone out there who understands.

there’s so much I wish I could say to jimin in person. sadly, i don’t speak a lick of korean, and so i decided to have our conversation on paper. this isn’t meant to glorify perfectionism, but to be an open conversation to those who struggle with the same, and for them to know that they are not alone.

It was a rainy evening in that time between winter and spring where the weather is trying to figure out which way is up and whether it wants to cling onto the last few flakes of snow for yet another week. Monday teased the sweet flowering of spring- birds sang, window boxes tentatively bloomed, and you no longer needed to steal one of his sweatshirts to stay comfortable. But Tuesday decided it would be just the opposite: the birds were bundled away in their nests, boxes frosted over; and you were back to that black hoodie that had a semi-year-round habitation on the nearest dining chair. The weather fluctuated between nearly-spring and definitely-back-to-winter, and seemed to bear you along with the storms and deposit you anywhere it pleased. It was too damn cold, but there you were, cozied up with socked feet, sweatpants, and a steaming mug of comfort that was a suitable substitute for your currently unavailable boyfriend.

Working on a university assignment kept you up past the normal time of retirement to the couch, tracing the rim of your favorite mug while you drank in chamomile and calculus III. Somewhere between five-point-one-nine-three-six-nine x to the thirteenth power your train of thought derailed, and you were lost on the tracks of cosine and possible weekend plans when the door opened and something hit the living room floor, making the cheerful vase of flowers he’d brought home for you last week on the coffee table rattle.

This was the usual routine. He’d arrive home anywhere from 7:53pm-8:14pm depending on subway delays. The front door would slam open- it liked to stick, and usually required a good shove; on the odd occasion one of you was a little too forceful and the deepening dent in the wall was proof of that- his bag would end up flung from the foyer, bound for the couch, seeming to land anywhere but. The loose floorboard in the doorway of the dining room would creak. If you were lucky and there wasn’t gridlock screeching on the block below, the huff of the fridge door and the ice maker’s grumble could be heard across the house, accompanied by the soft scrabbling only a snacker would know. Approximately twenty-four seconds and two (or three, sometimes four, depending on how intense practice was) scuffs later, he was standing in the doorway of the office, granola bar and half-empty glass in hand.

Tonight was as it always was, with some exceptions. His foot scuffed a third time behind the chair and the plastic Disney cup came down over your head, wedging itself carefully between the stack of index cards and the edge of your outdated sticker-covered Macbook. A pair of arms slipped around you, and something nuzzled its way into your shoulder, a muffled “Hi, babe” having been accompanied by a kiss placed by soft lips on skin just behind your ear.

You had to smile. “Hi, you.” Thank god you’d listened to him when he’d selected the office furniture, because you hooked your foot under the edge of the base, and swiveled to face Jimin without having to get up and leave the awkwardly curled position your left leg was currently braced in. “How was work?”

He shrugged, scratching the back of his neck, swallowing a bite of granola. “Same old same old. We polished up a few routines and started learning a fourth for the interlude. Oh-” he reached over you to grab for his water glass. “-and Jungkook says hi.”

“Hi Jungkook,” you quipped, taking a sip from your own mug. “How's everyone else?”

He nodded. “Doing alright.” He leaned over your shoulder. “Whatcha doing? You're usually done working by now.” You spun the chair around to face your laptop again. “Ew, math.” You could practically sense his nose wrinkle.

“Yeah, it’s awful.” You had to laugh. “You’re lucky you’re a dancer and not an engineer.”

“You could always become an idol instead of an architect.” He rested his head on top of yours, arms on the back of the chair, fingertips brushing your shoulder. “The eighth hidden member of Bangtan.” You could feel his smile by the way his chin shifted.

“Jimin, you know I sing like a deaf moose.”

“That’s beside the point.”

“I also dance like Namjoon in clogs.”

“That’s also beside the point.”

“Well,” You poised your fingers over the scuffed keyboard. “In that case, sure, I’ll take you up on the offer. When do I start?”

“Tomorrow?” He kissed your temple. “You have the visual.” He leaned over you and picked up his cup. “I’m gonna go shower.”

“Have fun.”

From here, the night was always a gamble, a deviation from routine that was a welcome break from the monotony of the weekday. Some evenings were spent apart, separate yet only a few soft steps down the hall. Others were shared spilling milk all over the kitchen counter or sharing body heat under the knitted blanket you bought him for Christmas that draped over the couch, and even more were spent in pure simplicity, in the joy of just being together. You were birds of the same feather; neither of you spoke reticently, not wasting time on dramatics, because life was too short for that. Thus, you cherished the little things, and so did he.

It was approaching midnight, and you were on your third mug of caffeine, twitchy nerves getting desperate for another. He was sitting sideways on the small corner sofa, one leg bent under the other as his eyes skimmed the pages of a novel. It was a comfortable silence, permeated only by the occasional brush of paper on paper and the soft clacking of loose keys.

“Hey jagi? Do you ever struggle with perfectionism?”

You were quiet for a moment, musing over the question, running your thumb over the lip of the mug. “Sure. All the time.”

He folded the corner of the page, tracing the words with care, gently closing the paperback. “How?”

You swiveled to face him, tea in hand. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” He sighed, taking off his glasses, folding them and hinging the temples on the collar of his t-shirt. “It’s just- something I was thinking about on tour. You see- if-” He cut himself off, taking a moment to choose his words. “The performance of Lie at our concert in Chile. I- My voice cracked, and the microphone fell off. I messed up. It wasn’t perfect.” His fingers strayed to a loose thread of the book binding, twirling it between his pointer and thumb. “Others could say that it’s not a big deal, but that one thing makes me feel guilty. I’m guilty about not being able to give the fans a perfect performance, and we’re never going to see them again. Two little things kept me from giving them what they deserve, and that really bothers me. It stresses me out even more than I usually am. I remember thinking to myself that if I screwed up even more, I’ll feel even worse. It would’ve been harder to bear because there’s nothing I could do to make any of it better.”

You crossed the room in two strides, settling cross-legged in front of him. You remembered the night of the Chile concert, he had called you on Skype despite the twelve hour time difference as he stared at the hotel room wall. You knew that look on his face, you knew the thoughts racing through his mind, and whatever you said wouldn’t have made a difference in that moment, so you stayed quiet by his side until his laptop died an hour and a half later. He would speak when he was ready, even if it was a week after returning home from a months-long tour.

You reached for his hand, turning his palm upward to trace over the rough creases in the skin. You ran a finger down the outside of his thumb, across to the bone of his wrist and up to his pinky. He was quiet, watching your ministrations in a detached sort of way.

“Nothing in life can be truly perfect, I guess.” You began. “My grandmother always said that a performance guaranteed one mistake, and I believe that mistakes are supposed to happen. Mistakes make us better, they bring us down, they make us human. We’ve all experienced the rush of a perfect performance, when you know you nailed something. We’ve also all experienced how crushing it is when things go exactly the opposite of how we want them to, and we know how much it stings.” He nodded slowly, his hand coming up to cover yours. “That euphoria that we feel when something’s perfect- it’s an addiction. If we felt it all the time, we would never grow. Imperfections give us room to grow, they allow us to become better and one step closer to feeling that euphoria again. Where’s the fun in doing the same thing right over and over? Without imperfections, we wouldn’t be human, and we wouldn’t be able to better ourselves.”

“But isn’t the entire point of perfection to be better than the rest?” Jimin turned your hand over, digits tracing your knuckles.

“Well, now we get into the concept of God,” you mused. “Humans can’t be perfect, it’s physically impossible. Many say God- if there is a god- is the only perfect being out there. Maybe God is, maybe God isn’t, I really don’t know. I'm not the person to ask.” Jimin smiled a little, dimples prominent. “I think- long story short, nothing in life can be completely perfect. There’s always one thing that keeps it from being perfect, and the best we can do is come close to being perfect with the exception of that one thing or more. Your throat was sore when you went out there, right? The voice crack wasn’t your fault, Jimin, and neither was the mic falling off. There was nothing you could do. You were tired, and rightfully so. You did the best you could do under those circumstances, and you’re human like the rest of us. Your worth isn’t defined by that microphone, the voice crack, or anything else that didn’t go right.

“Even if the performance wasn’t perfect, the fans are still going to love you. They’re still going to scream when they see you on the street, they’re still going to go home and rave to their friends that it was the best concert of their lives-” He shook his head. “-oh shush you, yes it was.” He ducked, the smile breaking across his face, cheeks tingeing pink. “Do you think that just anyone can get up and dance blindfolded and still make it as sensual and sexy as you do? Nobody else can like you. You did the best you could in Chile, and none of us, fans or friends, could have asked for any more.”

Jimin paused for a moment, thinking, slowly beginning to nod. He released your hands to cup your cheeks, thumbs brushing over the curve, his eyes meeting yours. Any apprehension was gone, any trace of self-loathing had faded to be replaced with glowing admiration. Your fingers wrapped around his forearms, feeling the soft hairs that were nearly invisible to the eye tickle your skin. He leaned forward, his forehead resting on yours. Jimin took a deep breath and you closed your eyes, one hand on his chest, relishing the intimacy. Below you, cars honked and complained, and the imperceptible groan of the subway rattled the apartment building as trains rushed by, unceasing in their timing, unfailing in their presence. Rain pattered the window, and all was right with the world.

A script of trees before the hill

Spells cold, with laden serifs; all the walls

Are battlemented still;

But winter spring is winnowing the air

Of chill, and crawls

Wet-sparkling on the gutters;

Everywhere

Walls wince, and there’s the steal of waters.

Now all this proud royaume

Is Veniced. Through the drift’s mined dome

One sees the rowdy rusted grass,

And we’re amazed as windows stricken bright.

This too-soon spring will pass

Perhaps tonight,

And doubtless it is dangerous to love

This somersault of seasons;

But I am weary of

The winter way of loving things for reasons.

Richard Wilbur, “Winter Spring”

[c9sneaksen-blog]

A Deeper Look : Dreamer with thefandomambassador

Fluffiness comes, and fluffiness goes. Love can pick your heart up, make it flutter, put a smile on your face, and set you down once more on a tiny cloud where you can soak in the sunshine, and bask in the sweetness. But sometimes, just before that love comes to full potential, shadows of doubt can be manifested in ways that feel like nothing can shatter the cold that has grown walls around  your heart, preventing warmth from getting in. thefandomambassador, one of our most very talented and wonderful writers here at the blog took all of us on a journey with her enchanting story Dreamer. A tale of two hearts, one warm, and one grounded by cold. Perfect for each other, yet, conflicted by resistance and the fear of letting go. thefandomambassador let’s us in on the thought process behind Dreamer, and just how beautiful finding balance can be.

1.) Where did the idea for Dreamer come from? Could you share some insight on how you came up with the plot for this story?

A : Interestingly, Dreamer was more of the type of story in which you get the first line down and your imagination goes to work on the rest of it! I like to call it my Tolkien moment. When I was jotting down some random thoughts and notes for a new story, the opening line for Dreamer just randomly came to me. “Jensen wasn’t a dreamer”. Well, why wasn’t he a dreamer? Why didn’t he believe in wishes? The line intrigued me and I wanted to explore the concept more. I ultimately chose to reflect some of my own thoughts onto Jensen. I consider myself a realist and I often have a hard time believing in things. Why should I believe that someone could love me? Do dreams really come true? Should I waste my time on wishes if they’re not going to come true? I put these thoughts onto Jensen almost as a way to figure some things out for myself. In the plot, I decided that I wanted Jensen to have a little journey in his own mind where he can realize that he can be loved and dreams do come true. As I wrote, I just really let go. I wanted to convey that dream-like, slow and smooth feeling and I really just let my muse take over as I wrote.The rest of the scenes and anything in between came along as I wrote since I tend to be more of a spur of the moment writer!

2.) In the beginning, you start out with stating that Jensen is a realist, not a dreamer. Then in the next couple paragraphs, Jensen is kind of reinforcing this set of very strict morals and beliefs mentally. He also doesn't believe in wishes. Why does he hold himself to such hard standards?

A : I can’t say that I know Jensen personally or have seen even half of his personality and characteristics, but as I got more and more into Cloud 9 and Jensen as a player, I began to see these strict mental guidelines that Jensen built for himself. He has this perfectionism about him where he seems like he won’t be satisfied until he’s the best. This no-nonsense mindset that he has in game, I reflected into Jensen’s character in Dreamer.  He holds himself to these standards because he doesn’t want to face the pain of being let down or something not living up to what he thought it would be. In Jensen’s mind, he doesn’t allow himself to dream or wish anything because he figures that he will be let down in the end. He thinks that he’s saving himself from the pain of disappointment or heartbreak. Where I see Sneaky as the wearing his heart on his sleeve kind of guy, I see Jensen the type who always hides his feelings or emotions in fear of being less-than-perfect. He doesn’t want to mess up the mental utopia he has built around himself. Giving in to wishes or dreams would mess up the strict real world he has given himself and he doesn’t want to face that. This also comes from that “pessimistic perfectionist” mindset where he needs to have these hard standards in order to become the best possible.

3.) Seeing as how hard Jensen is on himself about being a realist, what is it then that triggers him sometimes to enter that warm and dreamlike state? He obviously also doesn't like the fact that as hard as he tries to fight it, he can lose his grip on reality.

A : Not to be a big sap here, but it’s Sneaky! I think a part of Jensen’s fierce and stubborn realism is because he know’s Sneaky is the dreamer. If he let’s go and succumbs to Sneaky’s almost gravitational pull, he knows he will be lost to the dreams. So Jensen’s dreamlike state in the beginning is when he’s drunk and his grasp on his strict guidelines is slipping as he is falling for Sneaky. Jensen knows he can easily become the dreamer that Sneaky is, but he’s too scared to let go. His dreamlike state is a mixture of a few too many drinks and the effect that Sneaky’s presence has on him. When Jensen finds himself slipping and losing himself to that feeling, he knows he has to get out of there and snap himself out of it before he does something stupid.

4.) The way you bring stars into this story, I have to say was really well done. Describing them to be as dragons, holding on to secrets that may not ever be revealed unless they become a supernova ready to explode. It painted such an amazing picture of just how turmoiled Jensen is over his feelings that it almost hurts to read. Why and how has Jensen managed to get to this place with his feelings? Why has it become so hard for him to deal with them?

A : Thank you! The stars were something that kind of slipped into my story without me realizing and then before you know it I had some symbolism there! Yeah, I wanted to portray a distinct difference between Jensen and Sneaky at that moment, so if Sneaky was associated with the warmth and dreams, then Jensen was the cold and untouchable. Jensen got in this place with his feelings because of his stubbornness. If Jensen just let go when he realized he was in love with Sneaky, he could go out and confess to him. However, the emotionally constipated dork he is, Jensen decided to let his feelings fester which always leads to some self-loathing. I have found that the longer you wait, the harder it gets to deal with feelings or emotions. To apply the overused euphemism, Jensen simply needed to rip the bandaid off and get it over with. However, that “star” inside of his just boiled and burned and left it all feeling worse than ever. It hurts Jensen to deal with it because the star is almost like a tumor now. It has been growing inside of him and it controls him. He needs to let it all explode. He’s all bottled up and needs to get these feelings out before it destroys him.

5.) Jensen and Sneaky’s dialogue in this story is so simple and sweet, and surrounded by so much detail and description, which in my opinion, made the dialogue so much more effective. Could you share some insight on your decision to write the story with this style? How important is it for the readers to be able to understand Jensen’s state of mind and inner conflict to truly be able to appreciate the beauty of the simplistic dialogue?

A : Ah, thanks for noticing! I actually used this as a bit of a study for me. I tend to rely on heavy dialogue a lot and I specifically tried to work on a more poetic and descriptive writing. I wanted to make this a very abstract style story with a lot of imagery. I find that stories like those can often connect the reader a lot better because it gives them direct control over the setting and scene. Their own minds are supplying images for the descriptions that I write, so it’s definitely a very intimate and personal writing style. I wanted to portray it like that because the story is a very deep look into Jensen’s mind. I wanted it to be clear that these were his thoughts and the reader was in his mind. There’s nothing more personal than seeing into a character’s thoughts so it’s a very delicate style and I’m very glad it came through so potently! It’s really important that the reader can connect with Jensen and effectively “see” through his thoughts. If I was not able to communicate Jensen’s inner dialogue and conflict, then the writing style would be lost on the reader. So if the reader can successfully make a connection with Jensen, then the simplicity speaks for itself. This style is definitely super-intimate so it tends to be very emotional and abstract, which is why I wanted to use it with this story!

6.) Just as you’ve contrasted reality and dream with cold and warmth, you’ve also contrasted Sneaky and Jensen – Sneaky as someone who does believe in things like miracles and wishes, and Jensen who doesn’t, a true realist. What does their differences contribute to Jensen’s inner turmoil overall?

A : Their differences are created by Jensen’s inner turmoil. Jensen effectively alienated himself from Sneaky in his stubbornness and as he built those wall around his mind. As their distance fluctuates throughout the story, you can see how their differences and contrast changes as well. In the beginning, the contrast isn’t as sharp because Jensen feels closer to Sneaky and he’s dropped his walls just a bit. Then outside is when Jensen feels the most distanced from Sneaky. He’s cold and lonely. Just him and the stars out there, two untouchable forces. So when Sneaky comes outside, he brings that warmth with him and they are closer to that equilibrium and ease of mind. The more guilty Jensen feels about him loving Sneaky, the more he desires to distance himself from him. The contrast is created by Jensen’s turmoil because his own stubbornness is hurting himself as he tries to deny his feelings.

7.) In many ways, Sneaky’s personality balances Jensen’s. The way you’ve written and created it is like the sun and moon, the warmth and cold, etc. And it’s almost as if saying one can’t exist without the other. But can you explain how important balance is for personalities such as theirs?

A : Ah yes, exactly! With the contrasts, I am trying to communicate that Sneaky is effectively Jensen’s “other half”. Balance is extremely important between Jensen and Sneaky’s personalities. Like I said in the above question, they need to reach that equilibrium in order to achieve that peace and balance. Jensen alone is too severe. Everything about him just screams cold and alienation. Sneaky alone is that sunny heat, but because Dreamer was more of Jensen’s story I didn’t take the time to explore Sneaky’s situation. If Jensen’s cold was threatening to freeze him, then I believe that Sneaky’s warmth very well could’ve burned him up as well. Every side has it’s own differences, but Sneaky was just as lost without Jensen as Jensen was lost without Sneaky. So they needed to balance these personalities before they could destroy themselves with it, which was an extremely important part of Dreamer. Sneaky brings that warmth to Jensen’s cold and together they can reach a perfect balance.

8.) Why do you think up to the very end, Jensen was trying to fight off that warmth that Sneaky brought to him? It’s like he very much wanted it, but he struggles so hard to let go of that grip on reality. Deep deep down, what is it that Jensen truly wants?

A : Ah, I’m sorry to say that I’ve cursed Jensen by reflecting my stubbornness onto him! Jensen, despite knowing he was going to lose that battle, had to try one last stand at fighting off what he had so painstakingly tried to avoid. Jensen had spent far too long hiding his feelings and denying himself from this that it was simply a force of habit for him to try to push away. It’s really hard for Jensen to let go of something that he had put so much work into holding onto. Of course, deep down Jensen just wants to love Sneaky and be loved in return. He wants to be able to be free from his cage that he put around himself. He doesn’t want to rely on the cold truth of reality, but he also doesn’t want to be lost to the warm fog of dreams. What he does want is that middle-ground with Sneaky where he can have a dream become reality. In Dreamer, Jensen curses the stars for holding secrets. It’s because he knows that he must go out on a line and actually wish or dream in order for the secret to be revealed. So metaphorically, the secret is whether or not Sneaky loves him back and the wish is Jensen confessing. He won’t be able to find out what the answer to the secret is without making a wish. Jensen’s struggle at the end is very important because it shows how he is able to get the strength to overcome his own mind and his doubt.

9.)  How important was it for Sneaky to finally kind of force that warmth onto Jensen and make that first move? I feel like Jensen would have been at odds with himself for eternity if it’d been up to him.

A : It’s very important for Sneaky to have done that! As we see when Sneaky first comes outside to join Jensen, Jensen is upset by his presence. He doesn’t want to face Sneaky, not after he just barely lost himself to the dreams. But in the classic Sneaky way, he pushes forward because he cares about Jensen. Sneaky knows Jensen’s limits and he knows how to read him like a book. Although Jensen’s mind may have told him that he didn’t want Sneaky out there, his heart was telling him that it was all he needed. It’s definitely a joined-effort to get this relationship going. Jensen is hurting too much to push past his defenses and he needs someone to help him. Sneaky is the obvious answer here, which is why him noticing Jensen leaving the party, coming out to find him, and knowing to bring the jacket means so much. The jacket is another kind of, unknowing metaphor that crept up on me. Jensen of course, insists on going outside in the middle of winter with no jacket and Sneaky knows him so fully and so perfectly that he brought the jacket. And not just any jacket, but his own jacket because he knows it will comfort and calm Jensen. And maybe the jacket and the warmth and the scent triggered something in Jensen so that he could find that bravery and finally let the ‘star’ explode. Jensen for sure could have been at war with his own mind for ages. Not that he didn’t love Sneaky enough to push through, but he needed that extra push from Sneaky, that sign of hope. Jensen needed some sort of validation because he thinks he isn’t enough and that no one could ever love him. The fact that Sneaky loves him and knows to come out and find Jensen when he disappears and to bring a jacket with him, means the world to Jensen and is the exact moment when he starts to let loose and allow himself to feel that love.

10.) What can we expect in the future of your writings?

A : Ah man, I have a lot in the future! My mind works faster than my actual body does, so I have a ton of ideas and half-written stories lying around. I will usually get out of random stories relating to what is going on in the eSports world, so if anything happens I might find a flash of inspiration and write something. I was actually going to write something for Worlds, but never got around to it because of my schedule, but if things slow down I might try to do a Worlds reflection story! I’m also about 7k in on a Sneaky/Jensen/Meteos fantasy soulmate AU, which does not receive very much attention from me, unfortunately, but hopefully I might actually do something with it someday. In the future, I want to experiment more with the abstract/poetic style of Dreamer so you might see another one coming like that! Otherwise, humor and fluff will always show it’s face when I write sneaksen (or any other ships in that case). I like to write AU’s a lot too, so I might mix it up a bit with one of those! (Harry Potter, apocalypse, modern wizard, high-school, marriage proposal and asexual Jensen are all some things I’ve been wanting to write!) Also, for anyone out there, I do take requests, so if anyone wants to see something specific from me, just send a message over my way and I will do my best to bring it to life through my writing! I’d also just like to say that this means the absolute world to me and thank you for the support and love for my writing! I’m so glad that my stories are being enjoyed and this feedback is just incredible! I will continue writing for sure and I hope to grow a whole garden of sneaksen in this awesome fandom!

A HUGE thank you to thefandomambassador for taking the time to let us in on the secrets behind this charming and beautiful story! Cannot wait for the next journey you’ll take everyone on!

To read Dreamer, click here.

[satisfaction-explorations]

https://www.cbc.ca/news/health/canadian-hospitals-expanding-covid-19-care-facilities-1.5516559I started reading about what’s happening in New York at the moment, and I don’t know what to say... it sounds very tough for the people there.

I put quite a lot of things this week that may hopefully be of some use, but I don’t know yet with much certainty because I just started reading about it.

They need a list of- e.g. the 500 overall and specific most effective strategies for anything coronavirus related (within a coronavirus budget- which still needs to be quite high considering how many people’s friends and loved ones are dying and at risk), strategies which you create and find over days, weeks, months, and the year, and as you aim for finding the #1 to #10 methods (be really tough with where you rank things- if you think it’s #1, put it as #50), and slot in more as you find them with estimations of effectiveness results- finding 5-30 high ones a week seems like a great goal (even 5 high ones is better than 1, 2 or 0). There could be the 500 best strategies, ranked, the government does, and a separate 500 best strategies, ranked, the people add to and do (especially for the goals of flattening the curve, influencing people, figuring out the top 20 skills people need to learn and encouraging this, and helping the media to support optimal help and prevent/stop panic, getting people in the optimal frame of mind for problem solving, and helping the most vulnerable with how they earn or get enough money for rent and food). 

One of the big questions for the government would be, who are the 30-50 types of people who are at risk of suffering the most in the medium and long term, and what strategies can be added to protect them better and better? Another thing to be really aware of is not only New York and the US itself, but vulnerable countries all over the world, as well as vulnerable areas throughout the US? Why? The US is one of the best off countries in the world and has a strong public health system. Flattening the curve as much as possible is strongly needed to minimise people getting rejected from hospitals. However, areas all over the world are 1000x less prepared, 10000x less prepared to protect their citizens from the coronavirus than the US. It may be impossible to stop the spread of the coronavirus in the US because it is such an open country, but to give the most vulnerable countries as best an opportunity as possible to prepare for this. For example, Australia is under a near complete lockdown (can only leave the house for work, medical care, groceries and exercise with 1 person, not allowed to having social gatherings with more than 1 person, thorough clear resources on the primary government website, clear memorable messaging on TV for habits, and police giving out fines for specific not-allowed activities). A big part would be strongly training people to learn the top 20 habits that would keep people as safe as achievable, and asking the media to send out 10,000 memorable ripples for the people who care the least (e.g. criminals) to learn these. But without stressing people out too much, because that impairs thinking and memory. How can the media best help? And what are they doing now that they need to do less of (e.g. expressing things in a way that encourages panic rather than problem solving, focusing on what you can do, and appreciating the rest of your life that’s still happening)? 

Another example is that it seems places where there are vulnerable or at risk people (I called them Level 2-10 people in a post further down) need to be the best protected, which could be done by legal methods (e.g. banning people from going to nursing homes, heavy fines for not following government instructions to protect people, and setting up video conferencing in all homes so nursing home residents won’t be killed by loneliness rather than the virus) and by strongly (and ethically/ non-stressfully) motivating anyone in contact with nursing homes to do exactly what they need to do. You might need a team of 20 extremely effective researchers, specialists and data analysts (e.g. someone who has worked with every aspect of retirement homes over the past 20 years and knows all the details extremely well), each researching recommendations and data, and also giving very good reasons for why for each recommendation. And getting people who will disagree with each other (in an amicable way) working together so they can spot flaws in each others evaluations (i.e. so big and medium mistakes can be prevented more effectively).

You can’t demand perfection (i.e. 100% of people), because you will stress yourself out too much and reduce your abilities, but you can constantly improve (e.g. aim for 10 big improvements a day- even if you fail- 1 big improvement is bigger than 0) towards the required goals.

One thing seems clear though... there is something called ‘wartime production’, where the government pays- or pays and legally forces- certain companies- e.g. ventilator companies, facemask companies, quarantine gown companies, people glove companies, hand sanitiser companies, to produce a tonne of what is needed. And some can be reused every 5 days, right? If you put it in boxes? What do medical experts say- is this safe? 

Especially ventilator companies. If various countries have built hospitals in two weeks, then it is definitely achievable to expand ventilator production an absolute tonne (i.e. build additional factories right now and run them 24/7). And once the epidemic peak is finished in the US, you can give or sell the ventilators to the other 213 countries that need them.

https://www.cbc.ca/news/politics/trudeau-medical-supplies-procurement-1.5516068

"The entire world is trying to get its hands on the various equipment needed to fight this virus. That is why we know that it will be important to have made-in-Canada solutions," he told reporters.

On March 20, the federal government announced its intention to provide monetary support to manufacturers that can retool their assembly lines to make ventilators, masks and other personal protective gear, and to help those already making such products quickly scale up manufacturing capacity.  "This is a priority for our government and we will continue to source new solutions every day," he said in his prepared remarks. “However, If you >>>stay home and >>>follow public health recommendations, you can slow the spread... (and reduce the likelihood of Intensive Care having to reject people who need to be in Intensive Care)". "This is all hands on deck... our government is leaving no stone unturned." The hardest to influence citizens (e.g. criminals) need to be encouraged to meet all requirements as well. 

https://www.cbc.ca/news/health/canadian-hospitals-expanding-covid-19-care-facilities-1.5516559

If someone is hooked up to a ventilator for an average of 1 week, then 1 ventilator might save something like 50 lives, which is a LOT compared to 0 ventilators. So, if ventilator production is increased from e.g. 10 ventilators being produced a day to 10 factories being built by government funding (and you’re one of the richest countries in the world- this funding is 100% there) this means 100 ventilators will be produced a day. Yes- flattening the curve by sending out 10,000 extremely effective (and ethical/ non-freaking people out) waves to influence the hardest to influence people (e.g. criminals) is the best way. But ventilator production is definitely the other half of the coin. What if there are future pandemics from e.g. unethical behaviour (let’s all do our best to influence the hardset to influence 5% to make sure that never happens)? This is all skill building, training and resources for how effective you are with that as well. 

Although it would be a very good idea to take this one day at a time in terms of worrying, or even one hour/ half an hour at a time if you need to. i.e. plan ahead for the future, but your responsibility is your actions over the next day or half hour (planning is an action). 

And all senior decision makers need to regularly get enough sleep and food, and to get serious help with anxiety/ worry (e.g. medication or refusing to worry in your recovery hours/ giving full responsibility to second and third in command during recovery hours). It would be excellent to also hire additional extremely effective people from a variety of relevant fields as problem solvers (even if 90% of the time they don’t get anything and 10% of the time they come up with highly effective strategies), or at least schedule e.g. 1 hour a day (of non-recovery time) to problem solving. 

It would also be an extremely good idea to have a list of the 200 best self protection and mental health protection methods (while still being extremely effective), ranked in order, which you actively research and slot in. This is absolutely necessary for these times. Yes, it’s sad that thousands are dying frequently but the only thing you can control is the effectiveness of your inputs. You must put boundaries. And minimise trauma to yourself after this happens. As well as minimise any legal liability as well (while prioritising the people, which will protect your mental health at the moment.

I don’t really know at the moment. You wouldn’t be able to focus on perfectionism, just on attempting to make 10 huge leaps on the current strategies each day. Or hiring people who will achieve this. 

And definitely getting people to research what other countries are doing for if any steps are useful or relevant. If your job is to protect your people in the best way possible, while also doing your best to give poor, vulnerable countries as much time as they can to prepare (as their hospital systems will be anything like 1/10th, 1/100th or 1/1000th of yours- time to prepare will help them a lot), then definitely find out and use all of the best methods from all of the countries all over the world. One idea is to see the ways that the poorest countries prepare- e.g. government orders to protect nursing homes and the most vulnerable, getting people to optimise their habits around coronavirus AND  getting all level 2-10 people to do 20x500 things to optimise their lung and immune system health before the coronavirus and applying it to your most vulnerable populations.  I also have a friend in New York who has a collapsed lung- I wonder what specialists would say that the best 20x500 things that people with specific health conditions (like this one) can do to optimise their health before the illness. I think that accepting fate is crucial to protect your own mental health, but I also think that everyone who is Level 2-10 should give it their absolute best to do 20 things x 500 times each to pre-prepare as best as possible... it’s just figuring out what those 20 things are, and I think medical specialists would know what they are the best, as well as general immune and lung optimisers, like taking multivitamins, getting enough sunlight, becoming more and more skilled at meditation, getting your immune system and lungs to the perfect strength and the strongest immune and lung intelligence. 

Also, with closing schools- people have to work, because they have to pay for food and >>>rent (what can be done to help the most at risk renters? This would need it’s own ranked list of 100 things to slot in). Some people can work from home, but others can’t. The idea is that everyone who can pull their kids out of school should, but people who have to go to work? Maybe they would get their kids babysat for free by someone? What people could do this and what people couldn’t? With schools, there would need to be ways to protect teachers and their families though (without scaring little children). 

I also particularly recommend seeing the measures Australia has done, for everything as well as the best methods that all the countries around the world have done. We’re all in the same boat with this so best practices are universal and should definitely be used to save as many lives around the world as humanly possible. Definitely, definitely, find the best methods from around the world and see of what % relevance they could be (or if they could be modified to be as effective as possible for your specific context). Don’t worry about ‘taking’- if this is something you’re worried about, you can help them with something else (e.g. influence) after all this is over. Focus on saving as many lives of your own people as you can possibly achieve within your capacity (while also protecting your own health), and worry about everything else later.

Who are the 30 to 50 groups of people at risk of the highest suffering from the coronavirus, and what can be done to protect them? It may be very hard to put emotional boundaries around that (i.e. block yourself from feeling bad- sympathy, understanding and respect- with strong emotional boundaries- are much more adaptive and healthy in this situation than empathy). However the above would probably be the most important way to minimise harm from the coronavirus. And prevention is usually many, many, many times easier than after effects. Maybe another method is giving people clear, memorable instructions on what they need to do. 

And optimum emotional states for the things they need to do... anxiety might be making people act irrationally- e.g. putting them in fight or flight mode/ generalised anxiety disorder, which makes it harder to access the thinking parts of their brain. What clear instructions can people be given for the top 20 skills they need to learn to prevent the coronavirus from spreading? And how do you motivate the hardest to motivate 10%- and 5% of people?

And stoicism. Stoicism is an excellent mental health supporter (i.e. actually reading books by stoicists). As well as many other types of mental health support. 

https://www.cbc.ca/news/covid-19/italy-covid-19-outbreak-lessons-1.5517520

This sounds a bit hippy but what about if Intensive Care Units and hospitals play super-healing lung & immune system music quietly in the background? Patients can ask to turn it off, but to have it playing continuously in the background. This has the risk of making hospital workers tired (as when you are healing your energy goes to your immune system rather than your legs and arm), but this will help patients a tonne. Maybe it can be done like in airplanes, where patients can plug earphones into something for super healing music? And that it’s available 24/7? So hospital workers have lots of energy but their immune system is boosted as well. 

Boosting hospital workers immune systems with music like this that allows motivation and music more is an excellent idea, and where patients can put in earphones into really superhealing rest music that covers the hospital workers quiet background motivating & immune superhealing music? It sounds hippy but I think this might help severe symptoms heal faster. e.g.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l8wzTdaGjac

I really don’t like people suffering too much, and that’s why I help people. 

But if you’re someone who can’t accept help unless there’s reciprocity, there are three areas that seem connected that are especially close to my heart:

Helping Puerto Rico untie the aid, bureaucacy and social requirements for the rebuilding funding promised for Hurricane Maria. Hurricanes batter their island each hurricane season, and unrepaired houses are at much higher risk of getting more broken. If it takes 10,000 waves to untie the category 5 aid they need so much to rebuild their priorities, it would be so very helpful to add to these waves to help them get it. And maybe to help them figure out how to rebuild houses if there has been 1000 earthquakes and a big earthquake expected every year. Would this be an area of engineering that needs to be created? Or does California know how to do this? It needs to be hurricane surge proof as well. 

Helping Haiti be a politically neutral country, like Switzerland- they really don’t have much power or influence, so being a really strong friend and ally to them while, at the same time, allowing them to work a lot with Venezuela, who provides them with crucial trade and oil subsidies (which they very, very strongly need) and allowing them to work with China, who provide them with funding for infrastructure projects, which will help them an absolutely huge amount. Haiti really does not have much power or influence internationally, so making them like Switzerland would have little impact on the US’s needs or influences. So, being a big help to them, even if they also accept help from Venezuela and China. They are the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere, and 90% of their people live below the poverty line, so everybody should be allowed to help them... Let’s win their support via who helps them the best, rather than threatening to withdraw allyship. Apparently Haiti and the US have a strained relationship, so this would need to be healed somehow though. 

Any way to help the Rohingya find a big picture and short term solution. <3 <3 <3 If it takes 1,000 methods to complete the puzzle of a win/win solution for them, any methods contributed would be hugely helpful. I don’t know how, but any contributions to help them find a big picture solution that is good for everyone would be hugely appreciated. 

[litsen-lithenna]

Anathema - Chapter 9

Previous chapters: SWG or AO3

The chant of the hammer was echoing loudly around him, the grave notes too much like those of a bell, a toiling bell, which repeated endlessly its omens and announcing, if not death, at least the end of something; of an era, perhaps, or of a mood, an atmosphere which was slowly shifting and turning into something new. The spring was silently rolling towards its own end and with the summer were coming new hopes but also new threats, for the clouds above Tol-Sirion seemed to carry the stench of the North, and slowly it crept down the streams. The Narog itself seemed to suffer from the poison, droplets of evil flowing down Beleriand despite the protection of Ulmo.

The hammer kept on falling, regularly, and the steel beneath it received the blows with an echo of its dirge, as if all the threats which a blade could carry were gathering into the sharp alloy. Curufinwë liked its music. He liked the promises held by the elegy of steel, he liked the hopes which, as the sparks kindled by the blows, sprang around the anvil. He also liked the heat of the oven behind him, the soft breath of the bellows and the crackling of the flames.

As soon as he had been able to walk again, Curufinwë had locked himself up in the smithy which he had made his. During the weeks which had followed, the weakness of his body had been a bit of a burden, and with each breath he drew, a new pain came hitting at his ribcage. His lungs too were painful at times, justifying Tyelkormo’s reproach regarding his bold decision to tarry in the ashen atmosphere of the forge. Curufinwë had had to literally wrestle with his brother, who would have picked him up and carried him outside, hammering that only some fresh air would quicken his recovery.

But what did it mean now, for Curufinwë? A physical recovery was nothing beside the emotional one, and still the needles of his failures and the poison of his inner fights were assaulting him. Hence the long hours bent upon the anvil, sweat dripping down his forehead, muscles tensed as he moved carefully, with the precision of old, the perfectionism of his hands and the intent focus which his handcraft required. Even Tyelperinquar had not dared disturb his father’s studious loneliness, and barely had he dared to stand on the threshold of the workshop, observing, fascinated – as usual – by Curufinwë’s skills, by the delicacy of his movements, the intensity of his concentration, by the way his eyes followed the lines, scanning the beauty of the ores which he would enhance, as much as the bright reflection of the light on the steel. And Curufinwë paid no heed to his son’ s presence, nor to the exhaustion of his own body. He had even stopped caring about his appearance, and the stained and old apron that he wore barely covered a tunic which had been the same for the past days. With his dishevelled braids and the dirt on his face and fingers, his look matched his despair, and if Tyelperinquar did know recognize his father behind these grim and miserable features, he did recognize him in every movement that he made, in the prowess displayed through each delicate shift of his fingers. And Curufinwë’s eyes could not lie either, nor would they let him pretend to be someone he was not.

Sometimes he mumbled words, uttering straps of truth, monosyllabic realities, dulled offspring of a hidden epiphany. He himself did not totally grasp the core of their meaning; they were thoughts, furtively escaping his mind before he could catch their truth, before he could bring himself to understand them. They hastily left his lips and ran away from his reach, muffled and veiled by his own unconscious reluctance to seize them.

Oblivion. That was what he sought, and that was the reason of his immersion, of his delving into work. Burying himself beneath his peerless creations, hidden behind the scoria of these accomplishments. Perhaps would he find in them a meaning, a new breath, which would help him recover the taste of life. Yes… to recover pride and self-esteem in the fruits wrought by his skilful hands, and to unveiled his dignity. His work, at least, would not betray him, his talent would not desert him, and still, as he dived into this ineffable ability of his - his capacity to create, to sharpen, to enhance – he could allow himself not to think. Oblivion. It was himself that he feared, the dreadful dreams and expectations, inexorably imbued with humiliation and shame. He did not wish to think about them, to think about himself, about what he had done and what could still be done.

Perhaps the time had come for him to uncover the lies, all these lies forged around himself; that he was just like his father. That there were in him the radiance, the power and the skill of Fëanáro. That he could eventually live up to him. All lies. All broken. Perhaps he simply needed to discard them. Perhaps he would become another man. Perhaps it would make him more real. For if he stopped trying – and failing – to be just like his father, he could probably manage to become his real self. But what did it mean? Who was he? What was his reality?

Oblivion. That was why he worked so hard, caring neither for his physical needs, nor for his appearance. He sought to protect his sanity, to keep the questions away and to prevent himself from drowning into a swamp of self-bashing, to keep the inquisition of his own mind shut. Tyelperinquar could still watch him, but Curufinwë would not allow him to fathom the intensity of his misery, of his reassessment.

The song of the hammer cradled him, chasing away doubts and fears. A familiar melody of old, reminding him of who he used to be, reminding him of the one he called father. And yet, this melody was but another illusion, a fruitless attempt to summon peace, merriness, and solace. Lessons heard and internalized centuries before, they were parts of him now, and in the hypnotizing chiaroscuro of the workshop, Curufinwë came to wonder if he had been made of them: The lectures given by his father, the advises and ceremonious teachings; how much had they forged him, the eager student, bewildered by Fëanáno’s every word and the wisdom they distilled. Curufinwë had had no such wisdom for his son. Only the shadows of what had been learnt in the past, and even this, he could not give anymore.

They were both used to work together, with his son, if not on the same process, at least in the same workshop – side by side – each silently bent on a new creation, and the young Ñoldo would sometimes ask for an advice, or for his father’s approval. Which Curufinwë never begrudged. All was different now, and Tyelperinquar still stood on the threshold. Since his father had returned to the smithy, he hadn’t touched a hummer nor approached any anvil. He just watched, worried and half hypnotized by Curufinwë’s very movement, his own eyes grasping and learning all they could from his father’s processes.

Unable to look away from the steel in front of him – fearing to see another ghost born out of his mind – Curufinwë did not notice his approaching son, and when he reached out to pick up the tongs, he was most surprised to have the tool hanged to him by Tyelperinquar. His son was smiling, dimly, as if shyness forced him to repress any hasty expression, and as Curufinwë looked into his eyes, he seemed to wake up from a trance.

“Good morning, father.”

Morning? So, another night had passed, and a new day was coming. When was the last time he had seen the light of Arien? Casting aside the questions and thoughts, Curufinwë gave a quick nod and took the tool, but quite to his own surprise, his son did not let go of it, his fingers tightly clenched around the handle. With a questioning look, Curufinwë held on too, and the two Ñoldor stared at each other, both quiet and still, as if trying to decipher each other’s thoughts. Eventually, Curufinwë broke the silence with a grim voice. His throat was sore.

“Are you waiting for something, Tyelperinquar?”

“At last!” Said Tyelperinquar, finally letting go of the handle.” Yes, father. I was waiting for you to notice me, you know, me. Your son.”

Bemused and confused, Curufinwë frowned. He did not understand – or did not want to understand – what this fuss was all about, and he looked at his son with a gloomy pout, his head tilting slightly. Thus, Tyelperinquar continued:

“I have been waiting for you to acknowledge my presence, my concern, my worry. I have been waiting for you to realise that you cannot go on like this!”

“What do you mean?” Said Curufinwë, unwilling to acknowledge any of this, unwilling to cast away the veil which had kept him blind and protected him from the truth, from the dreadful epiphany. Not only did he not want to see his son’s sufferings, but he was also reluctant to admit his own misery.

“What do I mean? Are you kidding, father?” Tyelperinquar’s voice as growing louder, his tone more impatient and his movements had nothing in common with his usual behaviour; hasty, blunt, tactless. “Do you even know for how long you have been locked in here?”

“Enough with your whimsical fit, Tyelperinquar!” Stated Curufinwë sharply. “I am working here. And you know better than anyone that I have to—”

“No, father.” Tyelperinquar’s voice was sharper than his father’s now, and it forced Curufinwë to freeze, catching him by surprise and cutting right into his soul. “I have enough of your lies, of your phony justifications, of your feeble excuses, father. I do not know who you are trying to fool – me or yourself – but it must stop. I am not a child anymore, and you… you should stop behaving like one!”

“Get out, Tyelperinquar.”

“Father, I—”

“GET OUT.”

These last words had been uttered with such a biting tone, that Tyelperinquar found himself forced to step back, as if pushed by the keen point of Angrist. His eyes burning with a new painful fever, Curufinwë watched his son as he swayed on his feet, astounded by the harshness of his father’s words and tone, and Curufinwë was still watching heatedly when Celebrimbor left the workshop, tensed and shocked.

Curufinwë too was shocked, not only appalled by the boldness of his son’s behaviour, but also by his own spiteful reaction. His hands were shaking now, which was totally unusual, and so unlike himself. This too, he would need to forget, to dismiss. The sweet fragrance of oblivion was tempting him again. But only work could help him reach the level of deafness which he needed, and with these shaking fingers, no work could be achieved. Nonetheless, this overwhelming powerlessness did not alleviate his restlessness, and with the heavy gait of a wounded beast, Curufinwë walked to a basin. The water felt cool and comforting on his skin, and the droplets that slid down his face, if they could not wash away his frustration nor his shame, would rip the veil which covered his mind with the numbness of his disillusion. Luckily there was no mirror in the workshop, no reflection, no dull twin to judge him, no one to mimic his foolishness.

He looked down at his hands again. Still shaking. His frustration increased and Curufinwë had to gather all his will to not strike the wall with his trembling fist. There was hate in his heart, but he did not know who he hated; surely not Tyelperinquar. Himself? no, not himself. His behaviour? yes, painfully. His own behaviour and the unknown motives behind it. He did not fully grasp the meaning of it, nor the reasons that hid beneath his reactions. And yet, it felt like the explanation was close, so very close, only a few inches from his understanding. But yet it remained buried under a heap of secret fears and despondency. Nonetheless, he could not remain idle, he could not passively wait for the truth to reveal itself and he was about to try to get his hands back to work when the silence of the workshop was broken anew.

The loud and deep voice which was already calling for him could only belong to one person, and Curufinwë was not sure he wanted to see him right now. But there was no place to hide, and he knew he would have to listen to whatever his brother had to tell him.

“Tidings from Himring.” Tyelkormo yelled as soon as he stepped into the workshop, and Curufinwë’s heart started to pound fiercely. No matter what the news were, it would still be better than another heap of remonstrances, and they would keep him away from his own pervasive thoughts. Their messengers had been sent many weeks before, and the two Fëanorian lords had feared that they had never reached their brothers. With a quiet nervousness, Curufinwë waited for the hammer to fall, expecting the worse. But suddenly, Tyelkormo’s sharp expression shifted and a peaceful smile reached his lips.

“They are all safe, Curvo.”

The hammer which fell upon him was the hammer of relief, of odd gratefulness, and one of the layer of this ominous, blinding veil had been torn apart, allowing a ray of light to touch him.

“Kano is in Himring” Tyelkormo continued, stepping closer. “Just like the Gap, Thargelion had been utterly ravaged, but apparently Moryo escaped southwards to find Telvo and Pityo and they all reached Ramdal, from which they hold the way to Ossiriand, so the East is not utterly taken by our enemy. They all suffered many losses, but they are alive and ready to fight again.”

Curufinwë nodded gratefully, but through his relief another poison was already making its way to his heart. “What of Himlad?” He asked with a dim voice.

Tyelkormo’s smile faded, and Curufinwë saw him swallowed bitterly a formidable knot of angst. “Devastated. Nothing is left, they said, but ruins and dusts. And rotten corpses. Nelyo sent his henchmen to gather the dead, and to give them the honour they deserve, but the orkor seem to linger on our lands…

“… and who knows what shall become of the dead.” Curufinwë concluded with an acrid voice, his tongue weighted by the acrimony of the vision in his mind; his lands desolated and his people slaughtered; farms, towers, houses and fortifications burnt to the ground. Blood on the thick turf and ashes in the winds. And there was nothing to be done. Then the dreadful words came back to his mind: ’To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well…’

“We shall take it back, Curvo. We shall return, slaughter the invaders and rebuild, restore, heal and strengthen everything.”

It was but the dream of fools. He knew it now, and with each passing day, it had become so painfully clear to him that Himlad was definitely lost. He said nothing though, unwilling to break his brother’s expectations, his hopes and confidence. Tyelkormo was not ready yet to accept it. And Curufinwë could only nod and pretend.

“… Is Himring safe?” He asked after a short silence. “Did they manage to block the Pass.”

“Nelyo retook Aglon. And I believe in him. He has gathered around him the survivors from the East Marshes and Dorthonion.”

Another approving nod, and a genuine one this time.

“All is not lost, little brother. And despair is not our fatality. And although we cannot return yet, we still have reasons to believe in revenge. The Enemy will pay.”

These were words Curufinwë needed to hear, and his brother’s determined tone soothed, momentarily, his aching soul. Since Tyelkormo had stepped in, Curufinwë had done all he could to hide his shaking hands, sticking them in a pocket or folding them behind his back, and luckily, Tyelkormo had not noticed his brother’s awkward behaviour. Or if he had, he had not mentioned it. Now that Curufinwë’s discomfort had slightly vanished, he could finally expect his fingers to behave. Thus, he started to tidy up the workbench, and much to his relief, his hands obeyed him, calm and submissive as they picked up the tools and scrolls.

Now Tyelkormo was quietly watching his brother, waiting for a reaction which Curufinwë was unwilling to give: he was determined to control himself now, and to not let his emotions overtake him again. What had happened with Tyelperinquar had been a stupid mistake which he would not allow anymore. His emotions, as fierce as they could be, had to be kept in bounds, locked within him. They were dangerous, and no matter how hard they would burn him from inside, Curufinwë would not let them get out. It was a vulnerability which he would never accept.

“And how do you feel, Curvo?”

He did not answer, pretending to be too busy with his cleaning. Tyelkormo, who knew his brother’s too well to be fooled, continued:

“’Tis strange to receive such complete tidings from Himring while I get none from you.”

“I have been working.”

“I do not believe you.”

“what else do you think I do, here, if not working?”

“Brooding. Hiding. Feeding your own misery; the kind of things at which you excel.” Tyelkormo said with a shrug. “What is wrong with your hands?”

They had started to shake anew, triggered by Tyelkormo’s assessments which had struck too close to the truth.

“Nothing.” Answered Curufinwë, turning away, folding his arms as to hide his fingers under his armpits. “Thank you for the relieving tidings, brother. Now I must work, so could you just leave?”

“Could I help with your work? I have not been in a forge for decades, I need to practice.”

“No, you do not, Tyelkormo.” Curufinwë was not one to be fooled so easily, and he too knew his brother to the core. He too could see through his tricks.

“Alright. Then perhaps you need to practice something different… such as socializing, sleeping, eating… and bathing. When was the last time you change? Even my hunting boots are cleaner than your shirt, and you know of my tendency to step on orkor’s skulls.”

“As much as I know your inability to stay away from my business.”

“That is different, Curvo, for your business is also mine.” Curufinwë replied with a deep growl but Turcafinwë ignored him as he continued. “Our people count on both of us, and we agreed that you would mainly do the talking with Findaráto and his courtiers about our position here. Now Findaráto himself asks to meet you and none of his pets dares enter your den. Then, well, you know how things usually go in such circumstances; our cousin gets impatient, he sends people to find me, he asks about you and insists that I get you out of here. I refused of course, but now I cannot draw a breath without his pets asking me news of you. I feel like our cousin is growing obsessed with you and it is getting embarrassing.”

“Not my problem.” Curufinwë sighed, barely raising an eyebrow, not even surprised by his brother’s speech.

“It is a problem to me, and my problems should be yours.”

“Where does that come from?” Now, Curufinwë was growing impatient too, and Tyelkormo’s insistence only increased his reluctance. “Moreover, I am convinced that you could easily get rid of these parasites who seem to be after you.”

“Pray tell me, brother, how could I do that?”

“ Scare them; all you need to do is to be yourself.” Curufinwë replied with a sharp smirk.

“I would love to, but I need to look out for my reputation. That is what you told me, is it not?”

Another sigh left Curufinwë’s lips, a longer one, and exhaustion could be heard behind his breath. Of course, his brother did not need him. Turcafinwë could very well deal with Findaráto without him; it was but an excuse, a trick to draw him away from the dust of the smithy. This Curufinwë knew too well. But behind his exasperation and his reluctance to step outside, his determination was growing thinner, weakened by his own lack of confidence regarding himself, and the future which stood before them. There were fractures in the thick walls of his will, and the high throne on which his ego liked to sit was being wrecked by his dejection and his lack of insight. He no longer understood himself, and he no longer saw where his path led.

“Prithee, Curvo” Tyelkormo almost begged, getting hold of his brother’s sleeves, “Let us get out of this place. Come with me. If only for a few hours. Then I promise I will let you dwell in here. I can even get you a blanket, a hide, a litter, everything that such a lonely lair requires.”

“As long as I can keep the ermine…” Curvo said, trying not to hinder the smile his brother had managed to draw from him.

“I said everything, did I not?”

With a few quick movements, Curufinwë took off the apron, grabbed a dark cloak which he instantly put around his shoulders, and followed his brother whose satisfaction was obvious.

“If I may, Curvo, before you bestow your glorious presence upon the king, you should definitely drop by the bathroom.”

[confringo-]

2019 Goals Update

Check it out. I’m procrastinating again with another blog. I’m supposed to be editing my novel right now but I’m not because I like to self-sabotage myself by avoiding the work I need to do to avoid feeling the deep sting of failure at my poor writing choices. 

Here we go! 

Health Goals

1. Lose 10 inches from my waistline by the end of the year.

5 inches by June

5 inches by December

I’m not doing too well with this. I’ll tell you more about why that is in a later section, if you get that far. The short of it all is that there were days that were Too Much for me and I just shut down. A suicide prevention workshop that took more out of me than I expected. My sister’s birthday that my mom tried to ruin with her “Family First” bullshit. I lost a little bit off the waistline, true, but I haven’t been consistent. Hopefully, being unemployed for a little while will help me get into the habit of exercise. 

2. Learn to cook 6 vegan meals (not snacks)

One meal every two months, I said. And here I am. Still no progress. I mean, I’ll have all the time in the world for a couple of months so we’ll see what will happen. Mom wants me to go do driving lessons (Hey whaddup I’m Joey I’m 25 and I never learned how to drive) so I’ll be out and about. That’s my one big problem with cooking/baking these days. Going out is such a chore. I don’t want to look at people after dealing with People for a whole work week. 

Now, the excuses will be off the table. Shit. 

3. Clean room while listening to a  new Night Vale episode podcast.

I’ve actually been doing this! It’s not the best system but I have been keeping the clutter from getting too much. I’ve been listening to Hannahlyze This and they’re doing this whole arc of episodes surrounding perfectionism and it’s been very helpful. Anyway, I marie kondo-ed the fuck out of my closet (for the most part) and it’s a lot less crazy in my room. This month has been difficult but I still have a couple of days to do my second round of cleaning. 

Writing Goals

1. Finish HSHL (His Smile, His Laugh) by June 30th, 11:59PM

Listen, I’m more behind than I care to admit but I’m also going at this faster than I expected. It’s weird. Part of me thinks I should’ve been done by this month, another part of me realizes that, all things considered, I’m doing well. I hate to admit that I’ll only be able to finish this novel because I won’t have a job in May or in June. It’s like I can never fully admit to being a Big Boi Writer because I haven’t done what most writers have done: Write a Book While Holding Down a Regular Nine-to-Five. 

But I think I blogged before about using what advantages I have. Right now, it’s Mommy’s Money. No matter what, I’ll be a writer. I write stories, I let people read them. I’m a writer. I have to tell my pride to ease off because my confidence can’t breathe in this kind of environment. 

I’m taking this very seriously. If I don’t have a finished product by June after a literal month of unemployment, I’m going to be disappointed.

2. Submit draft to AT LEAST 25 agents starting July 15th.

3. Submit 3 stories to 10 journals/magazines

Okay for these two, I can’t say much of it because I still have to do the first one, but soon! 

4. Finish “Julian’s Body” by February 28, 11:59PM

5. Finish “Forgive My Weakness” by January 31, 11:59PM

The first goals I did this year. I want to brush them off as easy and I don’t want to talk about how difficult it was to finish them both before my deadlines. But we’re not doing that. I’m going to allow myself to be proud of what I accomplished with those fics. I wrote them, I started my novel, I went to work. I did that. I’m capable and I shouldn’t take that away from myself. 

6. Read at least one book/full lit mag/journal per month.

I almost jerked it this month because I thought I could read the Dungeon Master’s Guide from cover to cover. I realized quite early that it read like a textbook. I hate textbooks. Still, I powered through and took what I could get. I read most of it. I set up a decent campaign for a couple of friends. Hopefully they’ll enjoy it. That shit ain’t easy. I will cry if they end up getting bored. 

This month I’m also reading Alice Isn’t Dead by Joseph Fink. I started reading it yesterday and I’m more than halfway through. See the difference between a textbook about creating a fictional world, and actual fictional world. 

Actual Fictional World. Huh.

Work Goals

As of writing this, I’m resigning in one day. It’s a bittersweet feeling since it’s been such a huge part of my life and the people I met along the way have been amazing and I’ll miss them. At the same time, I’m so tired of dealing with everyone’s bullshit. I learned that I’m not someone for a managerial position. 

Although, I’ve got something down the line (it’s dark and murky and I have no idea if it’s actually there) that might mean another job like that but I hope that it doesn’t deal with the same issues. 

1. Set up QA team by April 1st, 12:00PM

Got that off its feet and it’s doing fine. Right now it’s still in the infancy stage and things still need to change but I’ve gotten the ball to roll. The people handling this situation are far better suited to make this baby fly. 

2. Set up monthly incentive program by April 1st, 12:00PM

3. Set up phone rep incentive by April 1st, 12:00PM

Do you know how hard it is to start an incentive program? Pretty fuckin hard, m8. Alas, I failed these two. Or rather, I didn’t have time to get them started. I was tired of work. I was unable to ignite the tiniest bit of motivation to even work up the brainpower it requires to persuade the higher ups to see what the account needs. Besides, the QA program is still figuring itself out. That needs to become solid before we can do anything else. I could’ve stayed a couple months longer but I just couldn’t stomach it any longer than May. 

4. Do minimum 4 writing workshops at Spark

Okay, I’ve got an idea of a lesson plan ready. I’ve got Real Life Reference Material. And I have unemployment waiting for me. All I have to do now is set it up and make it a real thing. 

Money Goals

1. Get new debit card from BPI by April 17th, 12:00PM

I had to change it to April 17th because of...me not wanting to leave the house and actually do this. Goals can change. As far as my other goals, this is bottom priority. Still, I had to do it. My new card doesn’t arrive until the 8th so I won’t be able to make any changes to my patreon, spotify, and amazon. 

That means I can’t finish my clearance at my soon-to-be ex-company and that may delay my final pay. Regardless, it’s the set cards I chose to be dealt with. I wouldn’t have had to wait so long if I’d done this in March but here we are. No use crying about that now. At least it’s done. 

2. Pay mom back for treadmill by end of year.

I’m mad at my mom for personal reasons. Still, I’ll look into paying her shortly. It depends on the money situation the next few months. Again, bottom priority. And, as of this moment, I can’t be arsed to feel any sense of urgency around this. 

Five months in and the year is shaping up at little bit. I’m not where I want to be or where I imagined myself to be but I’m getting there. And I’m gonna be unemployed so honestly I can’t escape any farther.