#just need to learn how to make patterns...

[sh1-n0bu]

i have noticed a small pattern of elves being on my latest fictional character obsessions and HEAR ME OUT!!

elf who has lived for hundreds upon thousands of years, who had experienced many of the things the world has to offer. sadness of bidding hundreds of farewells to the beauty of life and alliance of different races

elf who even after all his years of living still yet to find a love for himself. regal and seemingly detached to the concepts of relationships elves may be, even they get lonely. some nights feeling a little bit too long, a little bit too cold as they add another layer of blanket over themselves or reaching over to hug one of his puffy pillows like how he would hug his future lover. the coldness of being immortal seeping into his bones and making him shiver despite elves being above the concept of getting sick or feeling the cold temperatures

elf who runs into you by some chance meeting. maybe you were walking in the territory of elves without knowing it, maybe he purposely goes to human residences and towns, seeking adventure, excitement and change of pace. who immediately is enamored by you just by your smile that you flash his way, a kind one, a gentle one, to a nearby passenger. who falls in love with the callouses of your hand, the freckles, the small scars, the little bits of imperfection that marked you as clearly human, very much mortal, very much brittle but still with your own strength that he hasn’t felt before

elf bf who starts to court you the moment he realizes that you weren’t seeing anyone, bringing small gifts, exchanging knowledge, singing you soft ancient lullabies that no other mortal has ever heard before. maybe he finds himself writing a poem about you one day, describing your looks, your feelings, your everyday actions that you may see as mundane but ones he sees as just as courageous and beautiful in their own ways

elf bf who has never seen human flesh or bare skin before, finding the rippling biceps and toned legs of yours to be… curious. a tentative finger touching the muscles here and there, stopping you mid work as he inquires about them in a soft tone. elves of course were magical beings, blessed with magic and eternity and had no need to develop visible physical muscles till the point they become buff or beefy to some extent all due to their magic and ancient powers. the tips of his pointy ear twitching softly, eyes wide in wonder as you explain that contrary to his kin, your own develop muscles if they are put to work in physically demanding job for enough time

elf bf who over time, finds himself obsessively scribbling down any sort of new information about human anatomy on a journal, always asking you new things as he finds himself able to learn more despite having been alive for hundreds upon thousands of years. tracing the old faded scars on your body with the tip of his finger, counting the freckles, kissing the stretch marks as they were all you. regardless of how you see it, to him it was all you, together and healthy. you were alive even if you may have battle scars and he always makes sure to thank the stars as it was thanks to the tribulations you have conquered that you two were here now. staring eye to eye, touching your foreheads together as you whisper about mundane things

elf bf who one day sees you cut down a tree, cut a log off or prepare firewood and finds that he was imagining the bulge of your muscles against himself. big arms caging him in a bear hug, legs to support him and strong back that he could sink his nails into as he moans under you— hold. since when has his thoughts of you turned… impure? since when has he become turned on? sitting there on one of the logs with a painful strain against his pants as he swallowed the saliva that gathered in his jaw down, tearing his gaze away. no no, he really shouldn’t think of you as such, you were still in courting phase after all and elves were a race that took their romances and courting extremely important

yet regardless of his kin’s customs and traditions, your pretty elf bf couldn’t help but continue to stare. his gaze constantly seeking your figure out, seeing you just go through the motions of every life peacefully while he gets pathetically turned on by your actions as if he was still but a fledgling who learned of a kiss. chopping down trees for firewood, maybe you would work in front of a fire or heat for too long and get sweaty, removing one of the overtunics. maybe you’re just simply dragging a bucket full of water from the well, cranking the pulley as the muscles on your arms and back strained

elf bf who finds himself extremely aroused as his mind wanders to the gutters as he just shamelessly stares at your working form. oh, to feel those calloused hands touch his colder skin, palms smoothening over his creamy skin, and down his chest, his stomach and over his bulge. maybe you would tease the poor thing, tease him of how quick he is to get aroused, the pre of his half-hard cock weeping through his underwear and pants like he was some sore pathetic loser. a little virgin. bully him about being unable to use his cock, make him whine at your mean words as his hips weakly buckle under your exploratory hands

elf bf who couldn’t help but imagine the usual sweetness of your attitude gone, replaced by one that was just a tad bit meaner as you pushes his face down into the pillows of your bed, force his hands to stretch open his puckering hole for you to fuck senselessly. imagining you whispering all sorts of filth into his twitching ears, promising to breed him full, to use him to your heart’s content all night long as he whines and squeals like a little lamb caught in the nest of a hungry wolf. who couldn’t swallow down the quiet whimper coming from his throat as he imagined your hand grasping at his long locks, fisting it tightly as you yank him back, forcing him to arch his back and push the tip of your cock to bruise his guts even more

elf bf who waves off your worry when you had managed to hear the embarrassing noise that slipped past his lips, saying that he was having a bit of a sore throat. gods, he would love to actually whimper from having a sore throat of getting his mouth plowed all day by your fat cock head forcing his jaws wiiideee open

elf bf who couldn’t help but get a little needy in his kisses since then. hands that touched your muscles with curiosity now running over your skin as if trying to feebly seduce you. dropping things to the ground a bit too many times, following you close behind even as you told him that some of the work you needed to do required space and for him to be away for his own safety. who straddles your lap all snug, pushing his chest flush against your own as your simply daily evening kisses after dinner becomes a bit too heated. he definitely had little to no experience with the way his tongue kept licking at your lips meagerly, long fingers curling over your shoulders tightly while his bucking hips on your lap as he starts to get hard again

elf bf who has finally had enough of just his meager imaginations, tugging on the strings of your white tunic with shaky hands as he rambles about touching you, you touching him, feeling him, using him — anything dammit! use those hands of yours on him!

elf bf who soon realizes that he had perhaps bitten off more than he could chew when your hands grip at his hips, dragging his clothed cock against your thigh that had him whining like a cat in heat. meagerly, he tries to replicate what you just made him do, dragging his hips back and forth on your thigh but he all but just looks like an inexperienced bunny. which he probably was judging by the things he spoke to you about himself

elf bf who finds so much pleasure in simply grinding against your thigh for now, the precum of his now hard cock weeping through his pants, staining it into a darker color. all cute and red in the face that spread to his pointy ears, cute high pitched whines falling from his chewed up pink lips. a cute, surprised “a-aahn♡︎??” echoing in the room as you pull his eager body against your own. your chest to his back, hands loosely draped over the hip bone of his

elf bf who lets out the most embarrassing high pitched squeals when your hands travel up his body under his clothes, traveling more and more until teasing at his nipples. rolling your fingertips against the soft areola, squeezing and fondling his pecks as if they were breasts. who jolts in place when you pinch at the hardened buds, tugging at them to test the waters as he arches his back off of your chest, a filthy mewl falling as if he was being fucked stupid already

elf bf who blubbers out uncharacteristic words of “s-shensiitiivgh♡︎ n-no, don’t pinch the-eeengk♡︎♡︎!“ his pleads of your rough hands not torturing his sensitive nipples being replaced with an open mouthed wail when you place a kiss to the pointy tip of his ear. his ears were so sensitive! you knew that and now you were just being downright mean to him as you whisper filth into his ears of acting like a cooped up virgin for merely getting his chest played with. he wasn’t! he was way older than you! slurring out “how c-could you be sooh m-meanngk…♡︎?” as you lick a slow stripe up the pointy helix

elf bf who bucks his hips on your thigh, trying to bounce, trying to move away but ending up whining as his clothed cock grazes against your hardened muscles again. his cute nipples being tortured and groped by your hands, the delicate helix of his ears being assaulted by your wet kisses and licks. any time your hot breath spoke into his ears of how he was such a precious little thing, just like a bunny in heat, he would try to wiggle away. shaking his head with a weak sniffle, his mind churning into a mush as all he could do was to pathetically fuck his cock into your thigh, letting out a soft mewl everytime you buck your leg up to meet his shy excuse of thrusts, jumping in place

elf bf whose minds and body starts to feel weird. the room feeling stifling and your touch making his own skin heat up too much. who tries to tell you that he was feeling ‘odd’ and concerned, yet only to harshly thrust his hips back into your own arousal. eyes widening, a shudder running down his spine at the feeling. still clothed and hidden like his own but good grief, it just felt… so huge since he was sure your human dick couldn’t possibly be much bigger than his own. but no, it got him gulping down the saliva in his mouth

elf bf who bounces himself experimentally onto your own hardened, covered dick, feeling his balls brush against where he guesses is the tip of your strap. his earlier cute whines growing in volume as your torture of his sensitive spots grow worse, groping, squeezing, calling him too eager to get fucked, making him dumb and airheaded. the constant tugs to his chest, the words you spat into his mind so lovingly and the small actions of your hips thrusting up to meet his own weaker excuse of grinding

elf bf who’s voice grow more and more breathier, who finally loses it as he throws himself back against your chest, his head on your shoulder as he let out a wail of “h-hoowt!! t-too ahgg♡︎ haah anhg t-too hoounwt...♥︎!” as he cums into his pants, dirtying the material as a single glob or two of his sweet transparent arousal oozes out through the linen. the dark patch growing into a considerable size, his body racked with twitches and jolts as he cums untouched on your lap. precious little thing getting drunk on the feeling of sex and physical pleasure so much till the point he disregards all of his traditions, bending himself over onto the bed, his hand reaching back to tug you forward by the belt with a desperate whine and a cute blown wide pupils and twitching ears♡︎

⇨ meludir, lindir, legolas, maglor, mairon + whoever you like

[capquinn]

All your dad! Quinn works are absolutely perfect and adorable 🥹🥹 I can’t stop smiling and blushing thinking about all these scenarios you’re writing!!

I would love more dad pieces if you want to take on Quinn with a newborn during the season and he’s somehow effortlessly balancing the team responsibilities and being such a supportive and helping husband/bf with this next big chapter in life becoming parents!! 💙

Since his daughter was born, Quinn has been balancing life as team captain and new father with quiet commitment. Morning practices lead into nights spent rocking her to sleep, and he moves between both worlds with a steady, natural ease.

Every morning starts the same way, often before the sun has even risen, with the soft cry of his daughter stirring him awake. It’s a sound he’s learned to recognise instantly, one that pulls him from sleep without a second thought. Almost automatically, Quinn shifts in bed, reaching out to gently touch your side to silently tell you he’s up before slipping out from under the covers.

The bassinet sits close by, tucked into the corner of your shared room, and he moves towards it quietly, careful not to make too much noise. With a practiced gentleness, he scoops her up, cradling her tiny body against his chest. She fusses for a moment, little hands reaching out, but Quinn has grown accustomed to her needs, the small patterns that calm her.

He begins to sway slowly, his hand moving in soft, rhythmic circles across her back, his voice barely a whisper as he murmurs, “Shh… Daddy’s here. You’re alright.”

In these early morning hours, he feels the weight of fatherhood settle around him. There’s something about these moments, the stillness of the room, the soft hum of the early dawn, that prepares him for the day ahead. It’s not just his responsibility; it’s his privilege, a role he’s embraced completely.

When he hears you stir, sometimes catching you watching him from the bed, he’ll glance over, offering a soft smile, one that says he’s got this, that you can rest a little longer.

Later, as the day begins, Quinn makes a point to carve out time just for the three of you, finding moments of calm amid the morning routine. You settle on the sofa together, coffee in hand, your legs stretched out over his lap, while he cradles your daughter in one arm, his other hand absently tracing soft patterns over your leg. His touch is tender, his fingers moving in slow, familiar circles as he watches his daughter doze, her tiny hand curled around his thumb.

Every now and then, he glances at you, his gaze soft, as if savouring these few minutes of quiet family time before he needs to head out.

“It’s wild how much I miss this when I’m gone,” he murmurs, eyes lingering on her peaceful face, a hint of awe in his voice.

His fingers keep moving over your leg, each touch a quiet reminder of his presence, of his love for this small world you’ve created together.

And when it’s time to head out, he leans in close, brushing his lips softly against your forehead as you linger in the kitchen, then kisses the back of his daughter’s tiny hand, holding onto the warmth of home to carry with him into the day ahead.

After games, no matter how late or how worn out he is, Quinn’s first thought when he gets home is you. He steps through the door, eyes scanning the room, immediately looking for ways he can pick up where you left off. If he sees a pile of dishes in the sink, he rolls up his sleeves and quietly starts rinsing them, his movements calm and methodical, wanting to ease your load without disrupting the peace of the evening.

He’ll take over without a word if your daughter stirs, lifting her from the bassinet with a practiced gentleness. Even on nights when exhaustion is etched into his face, he holds her close, rocking her back and forth, whispering softly until she settles. Sometimes, he’ll glance over at you and give you a tired but reassuring smile, quietly telling you to rest while he handles it.

If he notices the little signs that you’ve had a long day too — a few things out of place, a half-empty cup of cold tea — he’ll gently steer you toward the sofa or the bedroom, encouraging you to take a moment for yourself.

“Go relax, get some rest,” he’ll say softly, a hand on your shoulder. “I’ll finish up here.”

There’s a steady dedication in his tone, a quiet promise that even in his most tired moments, he’s here to make things easier for you both.

And when he finally settles down beside you, it’s with a content sigh, an arm slipping around your shoulders as he pulls you close. These small, thoughtful gestures aren’t anything grand, but they add up, each one a reminder that he’s as much a partner as he is a father, fully present and endlessly devoted.

When Quinn is away, he settles into a familiar routine, making time every day to call, fitting in quick video chats and messages between team meetings and practices. Each call follows a comforting rhythm: he’ll ask about how you’re doing, listen to every little detail about his daughter, then share a bit about his own day, just to keep you both close, even from a distance. He’s always careful to call in the evenings too, timing it so he can catch her right before bedtime, watching on the screen as you rock her to sleep, his voice soft as he murmurs, “Goodnight, Bug. Love you,” knowing she can’t understand the words yet but hoping, somehow, she feels them.

But that routine didn’t come naturally at first. He remembers that first road trip, only a few weeks after she was born, and the way he’d delayed packing his bags, lingering at home as long as he could. He’d held her close that night, pressing a soft kiss to her head as he whispered, “I’ve gotta go to work for a little bit but I’ll be back soon,” his voice thick with the weight of those words. He felt the quiet ache of missing her even before he left, and though he tried to hide it, he’d caught your eyes welling up too, both of you navigating the bittersweet moment. Not quite ready for your tiny bubble to burst just yet.

From that trip onward, little rituals began to form, small gestures to bridge the distance. The night before each trip, Quinn spends extra time with her, rocking her a little longer, talking to her in a low, steady voice as if building a memory they can both hold onto. And when he leaves in the early morning hours, he always pauses at her bassinet, taking a quiet moment to brush his fingers over her tiny hand, his heart heavy with both pride and longing.

“Be back soon, Bug,” he’d whisper, careful not to wake her.

As he adjusts to life on the road with a family at home waiting for him, he finds ways to stay connected. Each morning, he starts his day with a message to you — a quick good morning, checking in to see how the night had been, letting you know he’s thinking of you and counting down the hours until he’s back by your side. He’ll send photos that capture pieces of his day he knows you’ll enjoy — a sunset over the city from his hotel room, a perfectly plated dinner from team meals, or the view from the bus on the way to the arena. And, just for you, he’ll sometimes snap a quick mirror picture in his suit, straightening his tie with a half-smile, even though he’s not a fan of selfies.

But a quiet gesture that started on the very first trip away is the flowers. He hated the idea of leaving you both so soon, with your daughter only weeks old, so he’d arranged for a bouquet to arrive that evening — a way of saying, “thinking of you both. Wish I was there.” From then on, every time he leaves for a road trip, a bunch of flowers shows up at your door in the early evening, right as the light softens, filling the room with the warmth he wishes he could bring himself. Sometimes it’s simple wildflowers, other times roses or soft-petaled lilies. Each bouquet is different, but the card is always the same:

For my girls. I’ll be back soon. Love, Q

On nights when your daughter is restless, the two of you fall into a rhythm, tag-teaming through the long hours. You take turns, each of you catching snippets of sleep between the cries and the soothing. Tonight, it’s technically your turn, but when her soft whimpers start up less than an hour after Quinn last got her back to sleep, he stirs, already aware of how worn out you are.

As he feels you begin to shift out of bed with a tired sigh, he rolls over, gently smoothing a hand over your waist to stop you.

“I’ll get her,” he whispers, his voice hoarse with sleep, but his touch warm and comforting.

Before you can protest, he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder, a quiet reassurance that he’s got it handled, really.

Then, without another word, he slips out of bed and pads softly across the room to her bassinet, leaning down to scoop her up, his hand resting gently on her back as he begins to sway. You watch him from where you lay, heart swelling with gratitude as he settles into the familiar rhythm of rocking her, his figure shadowed in the dim light. And as he hums softly, you can feel the weight lift just a bit, knowing he’s right there beside you, sharing every sleepless moment, every soft whisper, every ounce of love that fills these quiet hours.

Fatherhood may be new, but the way he carries it makes it look like it’s always been a part of him.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

requests are open - let’s daydream!

[lostintransist]

I can't keep doing this to myself...

My brain spit out an idea at me that I don't want to lose so you get to suffer with me under the weight of this idea until I have the time space energy ADHD hyperfocus to start on it.

This is not edited. Goal is to get the thought out of my head, not to make it perfect.

So imagine for me if you will that in some version of the stories for whatever reason I can bullshit into making sense Simon is selected to undergo a new and experimental form of trauma therapy. Used she/her here but when I write it pronouns will be you/yours

He hates it but orders are orders and after losing Johnny (his best mate, his lover, the other half of his soul) he would do just about anything to crawl from under the weight of the grief and guilt. Accepting the assignment means being put under sedation regularly for anywhere from six months to a year. During the sedation your active mind will remian awake and will begin to interact with a simulation that will help deal with the traumas exisiting in his body and mind.

Simon, not 100% on board, accepts the assignment but when he wakes up in some of his worst memorires ignores the woman following him from scene to scene, offering help. Every time he cowers as a child she offers a hand. Each time he bites back the fear flooding his system on a battlefield she offers to take the bullet instead.

For months he ignores her, trying to defeat his demons on his own. This was his mind and his body dammit, he could do this.

She stops offering help but doesn't leave. Trailing behind him in his memories Simon always finds flowers strewn in his footsteps. He never bothered to learn her name. When her laughter starts to haunt his dreams he watches her instead of his memories.

Whoever had programed this simulation had taken great care in creating a realistic interaction point. She makes ugly faces before she sneezes in the barns he has hid in, always complains about hayfever. Her ring finger on her right had been broken before, he can tell from the slight bend between the second and third knuckle. Every time he entered the simulation she wore something different, sometimes tugging on pants as if they wouldn't stay up.

"What should I call you?"

"Mmm?" She looks up from a book she had pulled down from a shelf in a dilapidated kitchen. "Oh, I'm not real so you can call me whatever you want."

He stared at her, frustrations mounting.

"Back to the silent treatment? Okay, this recipe looks actually really yummy," she turns to look back to the book.

Simon stalks up and snatches it from her hands. There is actually handwritten recipes. For some reason this makes Simon's rage double. How? How could this be real? He never opened a book in this kitchen. All that happened here was patching his wounds while waiting for exfil.

Their pattern continues like that until his brain finally spits out Johnny's death. He had been so, so careful to never let that memory come up. When it does Simon is so blindsided that when she offers to help he finally accepts.

Not knowing what to expect from this interaction did not prevent Simon from being surprised at how she handled it. She started to hum as she froze the memory, touching and moving pieces and people until everything had rewound a few moments.

"You have to sit it in, this pain. Talk to him. Tell him everything you didn't get a chance to. The longer you can sit in the agony the sooner it will find peace." She takes him by the hand and pulls him to his love.

Simon cries, like the young boy who needed safety and only found hate or indifference. Through blubbering sobs he tells Johnny every word he regretted hording. When Johnny hugs him back, mouth moving and voice saying things Simon had only dreamed of he found a semblenece of peace.

When his heartrate returns to normal and the only proof this interaction happened is the hollow space in his chest where Johnny will continue to exist his compaion steps back from Johnny, appearing as if from the dust.

"I think that is enough today. You did good." Turning on her heel she walks away, disappearing into the folds between memories.

Simon had never seen her leave before, he always ended the sessions before she had a chance.

He lets her help then, this nameless woman. They conquer every memory and the vaguest notions of memories that bother him. This intensive work paired with his weekly therapy leaves his with the skills to deal with the nightmares, the PTSD, and the trauma that still manifests from time to time.

Can one fall in love with a figment of imagintion? Simon thinks he might have. The final session he confesses, brushing his lips against hers as she sobs.

"But I'm not real. Simon, you can't love me I'm not real."

"Johnny's not real either anymore. I still love him. I'll keep you in my bones next to him, both of you keeping me safe."

She runs then, between memories and fears until she disappears and ends the sesion.

Simon, upon requesting more sessions, is informed that he has completed the program and all his care is being turned over to the non-intensive team that his therapist is a part of. Oh she shouldn't have argued with him or cut off their sessions. Now he knows she is real, the woman the knocked around his brain and fought back the demons for him.

Now all he had to do? Find her.

For anything I am currently working on check out my masterlist. This is getting dropped into my drabbles for later.

[zhalfirin-binds]

Square antiprism box

Part I

(many thanks @queercus-books for finding out what that shape is called XD)

Over a year ago I saw this particular kind of box on the bookbinders fair in Leiden (NL). After having been recently reminded of them, I decided to give it a go and try to reverse engineer them from the pictures I found here (check out her other boxes, they are gorgeous!).

After staring at the original boxes for a bit, it was obvious they were not covered on the inside after gathering them. The pattern was visible in one consecutive pattern. It told me that a) the board was laminate with the patterned paper while still flat and b) the box was made from one piece, not single pieces glued together. For that the corners and edges needed to be scratched, but not cut through.

What stumped me in the beginning was what angle to pick for the walls. Naturally the base of each triangle had to be as long as the sides of the squares it connected to, but a too pointy angle at the tip resulted in long boxes that looked rather twisted than having that bulbous look I was looking for.

The solution (after some more staring and a few more paper models) was 'right angles'! Any square piece of board can be made into this box by marking out the center square and have the walls point away in right angles.

Next I cut away the parts that won't be needed (to make sure I don't cut one of the side walls off, I crossed them out). The net of polyhedrons for this box could look different than this and still give me this shape, but with the way the paper pattern is was not visibly interrupted I'm confident this is the net the Dutch bookbinder has used. (It also wastes the least material)

Now it was scratching the other lines just enough so they would bend nicely, but not get too weak to hold the structure and test assemble. Shallow cuts and test bending every now and then helps to get there (also a metal ruler to keep carving the same line)

Cutting the board half way through ended me up with those gaps though. I''m not sure how much they would show if I dressed them just like that, but I decided to not take the risk and reinforced them with a white paper just in case.

The white paper is really just a white strip of paper long enough to go all around the box and a bit wider than one of the triangles is high so I could have an overlap and reinforcement to the bottom too. Part of why I did this was also to see if covering the body would work as I thought it would. With the angled planes the strip of paper bends up and and down, but in the end it's still one straight strip of paper.

I let it dry a bit before adding another layer, this time with the patterned paper and turn in's on top and bottom. In hindsight I could have cut the turn ins to the inside at an wider angle to avoid them reaching onto the better visible part, but then. this is the first time I made this box so I take that as a lesson learned.

Now all it needs is a base and a lid and I'm done.

[lisenberry]

The mountain is you

Chapter 4: I'm scared to let go of what I'm scared to lose

Dom Price x Fem Reader

MDNI/NSFW/18+

CW: Dom/Sub, Bondage, Sex Work, Voice Kink, Size Kink, Oral Sex, Bathroom Sex, Mirror Sex, Boot Riding, Orgasm Denial, Possessive Behavior

(Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3)

AO3

No two sessions with John were the same.  You learned something new about yourself with each one. 

That the act of waiting could be so therapeutic.  Had you ever been so still as when he took his time looping ropes around your arms, breasts, ribs and waist?  Tying the intricate knots just right, in perfectly symmetrical patterns, carefully avoiding your neck and throat.  Reminding you to breathe, and hold your posture, in that voice that sounded so rough you wondered if it caused him pain just to speak. 

That a deep, dull ache that never wavered, no matter how you squirmed or struggled, could be as cathartic as a sharp, fervent strike.  When the bindings compressed your tissue and made your muscles throb with confusion.  Like your skin was too tight, and you’d burst from the pressure.  Until you finally broke through the building panic and let yourself melt into the fibers like well-tailored Chanel suit.

That being helpless wasn’t the same as being out of control.  That surrender wasn’t as much about giving up as it was giving yourself over to something else.  Someone else.  To trust that his patience was his gift to you, and that he didn’t ask for anything in return for a reason.  Maybe being there for you was enough for him. 

He’d certainly been greedy for your abandon.  Collected orgasms from you like they were precious stones, with his mouth and his hands.  Played your body like an instrument to be drummed and plucked.  Mouthed and blown.  Percussion, string, and wind.

All to make you sing.

Little deaths.  Little victories each. 

But it had you feeling a bit like a selfish Sub.  You listened.  You obeyed.  You cried.  You came.  But the more you played, the more anxious you became to give him some release.  Relief.  You wanted to see him taken care of, too.

You’d never bothered to explore new things with Ghost.  He’d had a list of services he offered, but you hadn’t been tempted to branch out from the standard package.  Anything extra, like temperature play or Shibari would cost a premium due to the additional time needed and the specialized skill they required. 

Anyone could spank your ass, you supposed, but you had to pay extra for the finesse.  Now, it seemed like you were getting it all for free.  Or perhaps John didn’t desire anything more from you.  It was simply a one-sided transaction for him, and he was just being nice.  A favor for his old friend. 

But you tried to shake those thoughts away when they threatened.  He’d promised that you’d always know what he wanted.  And never be left wondering what he was thinking.  There was no room for insecurity when he’d stuck to the book when it came to everything else.

And once each scene was over, you stayed a little longer.  After the first, when you’d practically run out the door like the building was on fire, he’d made a point to have food on hand that you could eat together.  Something tasty and satisfying sitting in his gigantic, high-end fridge waiting to be heated up in the microwave and eaten cross-legged on his couch.

Conversation developed more easily, and you weren’t too shy to talk about the things you liked the most (rope play, hot showers, barehanded spanking, his aftershave), and those you weren’t keen to try again (so far, blindfolds hadn’t added anything to the experience for you).  You found him to be funnier than you expected, with a wry sense of humor and an easy laugh. 

You always left feeling...secure. 

*****

The two men sitting across from you at the table of your go-to restaurant for closing deals with pushy potential clients were a father and son, CEO and VP team.  Your company offered a service that they needed desperately.  And they had the audacity to demand it at a cut rate.

They tried so hard to impress you with their staggering wealth and impressive portfolio, they must’ve forgotten that this was your job.  That you weren’t fooled by overwhelming displays of douchebaggery.  By smoke and mirrors.  Cutting through the bullshit was what you did best.

And as dinner went on, they piled it waist high.  Flung it around like monkeys at the zoo.  In the end, you just had to plug your nose and wade through it with patience and your head held high.

Fuck them, their rare car collection, their villa on Lake Como, and their 75-meter yacht.  You were ready to give in, to take the loss just to get them to stop fucking talking so you could go home and take off your bra.

The waiter had just brought over another round of drinks when you looked up to see John find a seat at a nearby table with an older couple who looked to be in their late sixties, and a beautiful woman in her early thirties.

It only took a second for his gaze to meet yours across the room.  It was exactly the type of situation you had avoided with Ghost.  That awkward breaking of the fourth wall when you ran into each other in the real world.  Outside the protection of your carefully curated sessions.

You tried not to stare, but it shook you more than you thought it would.  Part of your contract was that you’d be exclusive.  For safety purposes, you’d have no sexual partners outside of each other throughout the duration.  It was one of his hard lines. 

One you could easily keep.  Was it so hard for him?

He even had the gall to look angry, eyes darkening perceptibly even in the distance as he held up his phone briefly. 

A second later, you received a message on yours.

Meet me in the bathroom.  Five minutes.

Surely, he wasn’t serious.

Your companions were still talking away, congratulating each other on their mastery of the universe, as you quickly typed your response.

Wife or girlfriend?

Taking a sip of your water, you smiled impressively to the older man naming dropping who he was playing golf with over the weekend.  Taking great care not to turn back toward John, whose daggers you could feel as sharply as though they were lodged in your skin.

Sister.  Fucking the father or the son?  Or both?

You looked up at the dynamic duo and stifled the urge not to vomit a bit in your mouth.

Ick, no.  Clients.

There was a long pause before he responded, but you still didn’t look back at him.  His presence was too much for the room.  His hold on you too strong for polite company.  The vibration of the next message jolted you like a jump scare.

I gave you an order.

The blood drained from your face.  Your mouth went dry.  Your panties, on the other hand, seemed to catch both like a grounding rod of sensation.  Hot and slick.

Fine.  But don’t be nice, you typed, before adding.  Please.

You did look up then, just in time to see John nod once before excusing himself and disappearing down a long hallway.

“I’m getting the feeling that I’m being dicked around here, gentlemen.  I’m going to take a minute in the ladies’ room.  When I come back, if you don’t have a number ready that I can work with, I’m going to walk out that door and instruct my assistant to stop taking your calls.”

Not that she could anyway.  You were still working on that particular aspect of her job description.

But that, along with any other concerns, disappeared below the surface when you opened the door to the single restroom in the back of the restaurant.    

“Did you really just say ‘fine’ to me, like a whiney little brat?  ‘Don’t be nice’?  Hope you know what you’re asking for, sweetheart.”  He growled from the corner behind the door, just before he pounced on you like a panther in the dark.  Eyes flashing with a sort of calm, primal hunger.  The kind that waits, as long as it takes, despite the sweet smell of fear in its prey.  Despite the promise of how good it will taste.

You stumbled back out of instinct, only to hit the hard wall behind you.  Trapped.

“Yes, sir,” you stuttered.  Suddenly not really sure at all.

Outside of your sessions, text messages had been an open space.  Where you were free to object to somethings and discuss others.  Negotiate times and dates.  But as his hand spun you around gruffly and gripped your hip from behind, fingers just above your pubic bone while his thumb massaged deep circles where your ass met your spine, you realized you’d miscalculated somewhere.

You'd never thought of yourself as manageable.  Moveable.  You took up space.  You were a lot to handle.  No one ever called you “cute” or commented on how nicely you cowed and begged over their knee.  Not until him.

Not until you watched from the mirror above the cold, stainless steel sink as his other massive paw cupped your jaw.  This man made you feel like a ragdoll.  A toy.  A mouse trapped in the jaws of that big dark jungle cat.

"Just for me, aren't you?”  He raked teeth and stubble along your cheek.

You were boneless then, even more pliable under this sudden mean streak.  The hand at your jaw trailed lower, skipping past your throat and neck, and your head rolled backwards against his chest without its support.

It paused to slip under the fabric of your top and bra, to cup your breast and pull it free.  There was a primal hitch of breath in his teeth as he admired the way he could cover it all.  A stiff, darkened peak notched between his knuckles as he gave it a painful squeeze. 

“Use your fucking words.  I thought we’d been through all this.”  He didn’t sound like himself.  Patience had gone out the window somewhere and you scrambled to right yourself.

To get him back.

“Yes, sir.  All for you, sir.”  You met his eyes in the mirror in the way he trained you.  Wanting to be good.  “I’m sorry, I just—"

Another squeeze, tighter and concentrated on the bud of your nipple.  This time, the hiss was yours as the sensation rippled straight to your sex.

He was big enough to swallow the moon.  Eclipse the sun.  Envelope you into darkness.  There was nothing but the stars bursting behind your eyelids as his other palm slunk lower from your hips to the hem of your skirt. 

As stealthily as an avalanche of rocks and sand.  Abrading and disrupting everything in its path until it settled back up to the base of you. 

"Please,” you whispered, whimpered, on some foreign tongue that felt too big, too thick, to be yours.  

Because he was in your mouth.  Lips against yours, tongue pummeling inside. No affectionate peck, but an assault that promised to leave you maimed.  A kiss you’d never get used to.  One that would only consume you.  His solid body against yours from behind as he bent over you and arched you into him.

The grip you had on the sink felt strong enough to leave marks.  Dents.  Tiny little divots like bird prints in the snow.

"Open up, brat.  If you ever hope to fit the real thing, you still need more practice."

He found you wet, a small accommodation as you muttered a silent thanks to your nature.  Your brain needed him, and your body did its best to oblige.

"I want it.  Please, I’m ready."  He’d dangled what you desired most in front of you like carrot.  You’d get down on your knees and beg if you could only escape his hold.

"Maybe next time.  After you show me how good you can be."

His long, thick fingers disappeared three at a time, to the gnarled and swollen knuckles before your eyes in the mirror.  Knickers notched to the side and your skirt up around your waist.

The cry that slipped from your lips would’ve been heard across the restaurant if hadn’t had the clarity of mind to bite your tongue.  The satisfied huff from his could conjure magic.  Gods and monsters.  Things best left dormant. 

He liked it like this, you could tell.  Where you both could see in the stark, fluorescent reflection.  The dark hair of his hand reemerging from your depths silky and dripping with slick.

The glass was like a barrier, a window or a picture frame that kept you hanging just on the outskirts of real and make believe, as he circled those same fingers again and curled them back inside, tormenting your most vulnerable weakness.  

While his other still worried and bullied your poor nipple.  He stretched the offering of your flesh up to his mouth, biting and sucking until you bucked and writhed along his hand for more, more.  Just a little bit more.

He felt on top of the world.  And you were his puppet on a string.  Brought to life.

But in your mindless dash to reach the end of his rope, to plummet off the side into the wind, your backside hit against his rigid length.  Once again reminded of what you’d been denied.  What you were fighting for.

You leaned into it, ignoring your own pleasure to steal a chance at his.

But he spun you around so fast, his fingers leaving you cold and empty, that you teetered precariously before he could lean you back against the sink.

“Spoiled little bitch, always whining and going on.  Haven’t I been nice to you?”  His tone lightened, to the point of…regret?  “I’ll indulge you, then.  But will you like what you get?” 

"Yes, please, sir!”  You weren’t going to waste the kindness as you settled down in front of him.

The tile floor of the bathroom cold and hard on your bare knees.

“The only way you’re coming today is on my old boot,” he slipped his leg between yours, helpfully, giving you something to sit on and a needed friction along your unsatisfied folds, “while you fuck me with your pretty little face.”

Sir thought you were pretty, was the only message your horrifyingly needy Sub brain could hear.  You weren’t too deep in subspace yet, but if you weren’t careful, you’d need to be carried from the restaurant in his big, strong—

He interrupted your warring brains with the tip of his cock against your cheek and a warm, heavy hand on the back your head.  Not even enough pressure to guide you.  More of an anchor, as it tipped you back just enough to find his eyes.

Signal fires, burning bright.

Emboldened, you opened your mouth as you would for your inspection, flattening your tongue and waiting for him to test you.  Eager to please.

“Don’t look at me like that.  You’ve got the big brass now, don’t you, brat?  So, show me,” he taunted, the flesh bobbing heavily just out of your reach.

Tentatively, you moved forward, clutching the sides of his thighs for balance and licking out at the rosy meat in front of you.  You’d never expected to see it for the first time in the dingy bathroom of an overpriced downtown restaurant, but it was indeed massive.

He wasn’t being overly boastful in that you’d have trouble taking it unprepped.  As it was, your mouth could only work him in halfway, as you hollowed your cheeks and took him just to the point of gagging.

You could still breathe through your nose, and you weren’t choking yet.  You were doing okay, but that didn’t stop him from using that hand on your head to pull you back when your throat started to fight him.

“Easy, now,” a softening at the corners of his eye lids, as your own teared up at the intrusion. 

Somehow, you fell into a clumsy rhythm where he didn’t take any control and you focused on the enjoyment of him.  The smooth, salty skin of his dick along your tongue.  The rough loops of his shoelaces against your bare cunt.

And before you knew it, you were so close to coming that he pulled his foot away just in time for his cock to go rigid against your tongue.  

“Ah fuck, that’s good, sweetheart,” he muttered an oath to the ceiling.

You blinked your betrayal through dazed eyes and shuttered around nothing while he took his release all over your face.  By the time he milked the last drops along your chin, he paused only a second before wetting a paper towel in the sink to clean you up.

He tenderly wiped away the pearly ropes of his spend first, then the eye makeup that had smudged along your cheeks.

You didn’t look that bad, you thought, as you focused on yourself in the mirror and quickly put your tits away.  You were a bit wrinkled, and your nose was leaking snot like a puffy faucet, but no worse for wear.

“Tell those wankers you had an allergic reaction or something.  You’ll be fine,” he assured you as he found your lip gloss in your purse and moved to help you apply it.

You let him, with a reassuring smile of your own, before taking his hand along with the gloss.

“You all right?” you asked, needing to check on him.  You’d done something new.  Potentially crossed a line.  It mattered to you that he’d enjoyed it.

“Bloody grand,” he grinned in a way that made you believe him.  Left no shadow of a doubt.  “Now get out there and give them hell.”  He gave you one last once over before slapping your ass and sending you out ahead of him.

“Yes, sir.”

You left the restaurant on a high like you’d never felt before.  Your cunt ached, inside and out, and it hurt to swallow, but you’d closed the deal.  With your clients, and with John, too, in some way.

And you swore you heard him chuckle as you texted him to set up your next session on your way out the door.  He’d left you hanging without an orgasm. 

Not nice at all.

[nightlyrequiem]

Be Still My Heart

Chapter 9- An Explosive Setback

Masterlist AO3

New Chapter Every Saturday

You're the best in the meth industry but a new product suddenly pops up. You and your boss, Valeria, must figure out who is making it so you can take back the market. All the while tension is building between the two of you.

A/N: Valeria is kind of mean this chapter. She gets nicer in the next one, pinky promise

Tags/Warnings: Illegal Substances, Boss Employee Relationship, Angst, Some Hurt/Comfort, Violence, Manipulation, Suggestive Themes, Smut (But Only in CH20.), Dual POV

There's a cobweb in the corner of the lab. Fine, silvery strings of silk woven together in an intricate pattern. A large spider inhabits it. Evidence of it's dinners existing as dried out corpses of flies and whatever else was unlucky enough to wander into it's web. another spider, a smaller one slowly crawls along the wall. Carefully approaching the web. For whatever reason you're unable to look away. anticipating a fight among them. The smaller spider steps one leg onto the web. Sending invisible vibrations down to the owner, who is hidden in a crack in the wall. It's legs dart out inquisitively. The intruder steps onto the web, walking along the silk with minimal caution. Just a few more. The larger spider darts out and attacks. You watch the spiders strike out with their thin legs. Imagining their tiny fangs - too small to pierce through human skin - sinking into each other's exoskeletons. You had assumed the larger of the two would win. It has home field and size to it's advantage but to your surprise, the larger one falls still. Having succumbed the smaller one's venom.

You turn away to get back to work. Losing interest after witnessing the conclusion to such a riveting fight between arachnids. A part of you is still bitter over not being accepted by your peers. Though you aren't sure why. It's not like you respect most of them. Valeria is really the only one you can feel any glimmers of respect for. Even Diego, to a minuscule extent holds some. Whatever. It doesn't matter. What does matter is perfecting your craft. Maybe you'd be able to be better if you had taken more than just high school level chemistry but it's nothing more than a small obstacle. Sweet Meth was a huge step in the right direction. You want to go further. 

You're pouring over chemistry textbooks. Trying to ignore the headache behind your eyes. That's probably why you never pursued anything more then you had to. Though your ability to work with and understand chemicals is certainly higher than the average person, you aren't all knowing. There's a dark area within your mind where your knowledge just ends. You pertain a certain intrigue in the chemical world but learning about it always bored you. Mixing them and learning about what they do is okay enough but you couldn't tell anyone what the charge for a phosphors atom is. Truth be told, learning gives you a headache.

What's worse is you're giving yourself a headache for no reason because nothing in this textbook is making sense. Your eyes might as well be glazed over as you scan the words that are slowly beginning to morph into other things. Lines curving in ways they shouldn't making it harder for you to read. Nothing is telling you or even hinting at what chemical is responsible for addiction. Of course, that would be dopamine, but you don't have access or any clue in how to trigger it. What chemical causes the brain to release it? You wouldn't know because this dumb textbook won't tell you. You set the textbook aside and decide to just figure it out through trial and error. Like the forefathers of science did. Ecstasy is pretty addictive and it makes the user feel euphoric. Both of which would have someone coming back for more. Sodium Hydroxide is what you need. 

With your body suited up you carefully measure out your ingredients. Sulfuric Acid, liquidated sugar, Acetone. Sodium Hydroxide. You carefully mix it with Red Phosphorus and heat it. All you have to do is figure out the proper ratio for Sodium Hydroxide and you'll have perfected the Sugar Meth. You allow yourself to glimpse into a small fantasy of yours. Your meth is a success and completely out selling the other stuff. Nobody says anything but you can feel the grudging respect. Right as you turn around to check on the Red Phosphorus and Sodium Hydroxide mix, the flask it's boiling in explodes. Shooting glass shards flying in every direction. It's not a small explosion either. Expensive equipment is damaged and the force of the explosion itself throws you against one of the big metal containers. The back of your head slams into it and there's an angry pain in your ribs.

Your vision swims as things catch fire. You barely register the shrapnel sticking out of your arm and chest. You panic. Worried about burning to death even though you know the smoke is more likely to kill you first. You attempt to get up and only make it halfway to your feet before your ribs cramp. You gasp and crumple to the ground. Only embedding a long piece of glass further into your forearm. Fire blazes out of control in only a matter of seconds. Reaching the contained pseudoephedrine. Your arms and chest are wet with blood. You feel like a scared animal. You try to crawl towards the stairs, but you can feel that light, numbness spreading through your body. You pass out before you can reach them.

                            *                             *                          *

In the darkness, you begin to register a sensation. Something distantly painful. your brain attempts to ignore it but when it sharpens you wake. It takes only a second for the pain to rush you. Descending upon you like a pack of rabid dogs. The lights are bright and there's an older man kneeling next to your side, weaving a needle and thread through your arm. You can feel a small pop each time the needle penetrates through your skin. You hiss in pain and jerk away.

"Keep still." He barks. Roughly grabbing your arm. 

You look around. Confused and still dazed. This doesn't look like a hospital. Valeria is in the corner, gaze dark and arms crossed over her chest.

You're still at the compound.

"Ow!" You flinch. Turning and looking at the 'doctor.'

"Whoops, sorry. I have shaky hands." He murmurs. A dot of blood wells up where he mistakenly poked you. As the fog clears, other parts of your body begins to hurt. There's a small burning feeling along your chest and arms and it hurts to breathe. You flex each limb in turn. Right arm, left arm, right leg, left- you gasp in pain. You can barely move your leg and trying sends a sharp pain shooting up your calf. 

The man finishes and stands.

"Okay. All patched up." He says. Looking over to Valeria. "She has some fractured ribs and her tibia and fibula in her left leg are also fractured. Though not by a lot. she won't be able to walk probably for five or six weeks."

Valeria sighs. "Okay."

The doctor leaves and you wish he wouldn't. You fucked up big time. Blew up the lab. The supplies. You don't have to look at Valeria to know - or feel - how pissed she is. The atmosphere in the room gets significantly heavier with the man's absence.

"What the fuck did you do?" Valeria growls. Storming up to your side. She has uncrossed her arms and her hands are clenched into tight fists at her side. Knuckles whitening like it's taking all her self-control to not hit you.

"I'm- I'm sorry." You stammer. "I was trying to find what-"

"You dumb bitch!" She cuts you off. Voice raised. "How stupid and irresponsible can you be? I thought you were supposed to be smart. Do you understand how much this is going to cost us? You completely destroyed the lab. The equipment is ruined the supplies are all contaminated. Nothing was salvaged. Nothing."

You close your eyes and avoid her gaze. Chest burning with shame. Or maybe it's one of your wounds that's burning. 

"You are so useless." She continues. Slicing you open with her barbed words. "I should kill you for this. I can't stand to look at you right now." Valeria storms out with her insults lingering behind. Despair floods your body at what you've done. You won't even be able to cook for a while. No lab, no supplies, you probably can't even stand on your own.

[unknowable-known]

You are infinitely more than and bigger than and different than being consciousness

It looks like every teacher is talking about "you are consciousness" as if consciousness is the ultimate state to be striving for. Some teachers are talking about the idea of 'awareness' as if awareness is higher than consciousness. Please notice that no matter how you call it, the idea of 'consciousness ' or the idea of 'awareness' are only concepts formulated by the Mind.

The idea of 'awareness' is simply pointing to the ability of discernment which is beyond being conscious. Is there really such a thing called 'consciousness'? Other than a concept formulated by the Mind, there is no such a thing called 'consciousness' to be determined. The Mind can make conceptual assumptions all it wants, but the Actuality is not able to be pinned down by the Mind.

As infinite Radiant energy yourself, you are beyond anything you can describe. You are infinitely beyond consciousness. You have ultimate ability of discernment. The ability of discernment is the ability to discern yourself while never departing from yourself an iota. Just like you are by default infinite Radiant energy yourself, the ability of discernment is innate. It means that you don't need to learn the ability to discern, you are it already.

For example, you can discern the appearance of 'consciousness' and you can discern the disappearance of 'consciousness'. However, the Mind would assume the appearance of 'consciousness' as something called 'birth of 'me' or 'me' waking up from a 'coma'. Of course, you are able to discern the disappearance of 'consciousness' and the Mind would mystify it as something called 'my death' or 'me falling into a state of coma'.

There is never a 'me' getting born or waking up. What happens is a discernment of your own morphing of energetic patterns. When you start to dream, you dream about a character called 'me' walking around in a world called 'dream world'.

Does it mean that an actual person called 'me' is being born in a world called 'dream world'? No, what happens is a discernment of your own morphing of energetic patterns.

Morphing of energetic patterns is like morphing of holographic patterns in a laser light show, there is no actual change whatsoever, there only seems like having a lot changes. You as infinite Radiant energy yourself seem to undergo an infinite number of apparent changes but never depart from yourself a tiny bit.

Is consciousness actually consciousness? Not really. The idea of consciousness is just a simplified and partial abstraction assumed by the logical Mind. Other than assumptions, we don't actually know what this is. For example, scientists seem to have tons of explanations for the phenomenon called dreaming, but no one actually knows what dreaming is.

I don't attempt to define what consciousness is or what dreaming is. All I can say is that they are magical energetic patterns of infinite Radiance, which is YOURSELF.

Is 'energetic patterns' indeed such a thing called energetic patterns? Not really, but as a convenience for expressing myself, I choose to use such a concept for the sake of pointing.

Of course, you can keenly discern all kinds of morphing of your own energetic patterns. You don't have to learn it; your ability of discernment is innate and not acquired.

You can innately discern the apparent coming and going of 'consiousness'.

You can innately discern the apparent coming and going of thoughts.

You can innately discern the apparent coming and going of emotions.

But you are never confined by consciousness, thoughts or emotions just like dreaming energy is not confined by whatever appears in a dream story.

You will never be able to pin down what 'consciousness' is or what 'thought' is or what emotion is.

What is noticing? Noticing is just a different way to say discerning. Discernment is not analysis or figuring out. Discernment is simply discerning the morphing of energetic patterns without analyzing them or defining what they are.

Don't worry about death. You as infinite Radiant energy has no such a thing called birth or death. All you can do is inherently discern your own energetic patterns. What you call 'birth' is not actually birth. What you call 'death' is not actually death. Even 'energetic patterns' are not actually energetic patterns. Any attempt to pin down what they are will not be successful.

You don't really need the help of the Mind to know yourself. You are infinitely intelligent energy yourself. The functioning of the Mind is just an energetic effect of yourself.

Please keep noticing or discerning. There will be a knowing that will come to you automatically without the help of the Mind. You are infinitely more intelligent than the functioning of the Mind.

You don't need to comprehend yourself. But you will know yourself without comprehension.

-BeingIs

[zerogutzz]

hello everynyan. I've been alive and well and thriving with my boyfriend who's been at My House :] but other than thag IM ATTEMPTING TO MAKE A COSTUME WITH MY BEAR HANDS.... I sewed the hood a little bit.

this shit HARD!!! but very fun

[puppyeared]

who up seeing their disorder in a fictional character but feel like its not their place to put a name on it

[actual-corpse]

Saw a YT vid with the title, "Fandom Can't Handle Asexuality"

You're right, they can't... Because it doesn't fucking exist to them.

[sesamenom]

anyone know if bookbinding glue works on canvas? im thinking i want to add a shield to my halloween costume next year and am trying to figure out how to attach the front

[felucians]

With the news coming out on Wilbur Soot, a lot of people need to learn - or relearn - the signs of abuse before it gets to physical abuse.

A lot of people also need to remember that they have a parasocial relationship with these influencers and that none of us will ever know the whole story.

[bibleofficial]

it’s me & my faggoty ass scrunchie against the world

[thedreadvampy]

it's been a strange arc so far

when I was 19-21 and having an extremely imbalanced relationship with someone in their mid 30s I was like 'we are both adults so the fact that this is fucking me up is my fault'

when I hit my late 20s and saw how young people in their late teens and early 20s seem now I was like 'oh wait I was so fucking young I didn't know shit about my own limits or about managing relationships and I don't know why someone in their mid to late 30s would be into that except for nefarious purposes'

the weird bit is now I'm into my 30s - not even that far into my 30s - and while I still wholeheartedly believe that last thing about how young (and self destructive) 20 year olds are, I'm also kind of like 'huh, actually nobody I know that age has their shit remotely together and frankly the reason this fucked me up is because NEITHER of us knew what the fuck we were doing it how to cope, for different reasons and at different life stages, and there probably wasn't any malice or intent to control as much as there was Blind Flailing.'

[mars-ipan]

overcoming anxiety (through practicing the things that scare you) is so interesting. i used to be horrified of taking up space or alerting other people of my presence. now i'm compelled to tell strangers i like their outfits or hair or earrings- on bad days i tell maybe a quarter of them. do i still overthink it? absolutely. but i call attention to myself to tell someone else my opinion. and with the way they tend to smile and tell me "thank you!" i'm pretty sure it's taken to heart.

i used to be horrified of making phone calls as well. this is one i'm still getting over- i just Don't Like Doing It. i used to have a phone call routine that i still joke about- realize i need to call someone, cry, avoid it for a few days, suck it up, write a script, memorize the script, cry again, final script read, make the call with the script in front of me. and i would be Exhausted by the end of it. i don't cry when i need to call people anymore. i'm even needing scripts less and less- i've found out that people actually won't kill me if i talk a little too fast or stumble on my words. i doubt i'll ever like making phone calls- i especially hate robots (i'm afraid they'll mishear me and direct me wrong or a person will suddenly show up and i won't be prepared)- but i can make them now.

i get overwhelmed really easy. just a thing that happens to me. my brain is really really good at taking one task and breaking it up into thousands of little tasks and it feels like i'm drowning. if i try to make it fewer larger tasks then it starts to feel insurmountable. i was completely lost on how to deal with this (other than avoid until you get that panic attack and can do work in the post-catharsis calm until 6:00 AM) until one night when my dad (who i often meet late at night due to overlapping mental illness symptoms) asked me how to eat an elephant. i looked at him, confused, and he said "one bite at a time." that was way more effective than any other analogy i've seen has been. "light at the end of a tunnel"- i don't feel like i'm moving forward, i feel like i'm scaling a wall. "steps on a trail"- i can see my destination, but it feels impossible to move forward. but eating an elephant? that sums it up perfectly. this huge task which seems impossible at a glance. but it must be done. so you eat the elephant, a bite at a time. every time i'm overwhelmed i repeat that phrase to myself. it hasn't made any major changes yet, but it keeps me calm enough to start before i hit the panic attack, which i'll take.

i was such a perfectionist growing up- i actually thought it was a good thing (school always taught me to strive for perfection). but it made me scared to try new things- if i wasn't immediately good at them, then it clearly wasn't for me. i'm still not great at starting new hobbies, but i try a lot of new things within the hobbies i already have. i test out different ways of making art, i try new puzzle games i don't understand, etc. and the feeling of steady improvement reminds me that i don't need to be good right away. some of the most satisfying moments don't come from immediately being good- they come from achieving that skill over time. i'd like to try to learn to sew soon.

idk it's interesting. i rewire my own brain's fear response by doing the Horrifying Thing enough times for me to understand that no i will not die. and while i'm doing it it feels like nothing is changing. i get so stressed every time- it can actually take a lot out of me (turns out fight-or-flight burns a lot of energy). but i look back at then vs. now and i realize how far i've come, and i can't help but think "huh. neat"

[asterdeer]

video called "pirate shirt tutorial that actually makes sense" with a thumbnail clickbaitingly copying bernadette banner's style, which does the exact same thing as bernadette banner's video but more confusingly and without a diagram in the video itself, also failing to understand that bernadette banner's channel is primarily a history channel and not a sewing tutorial channel so telling people they don't have to hand-sew the pirate shirt or they don't have to thread-pull is unnecessary because bernadette banner literally said "do this however you want, i just do it this way because it's how i learn about historical dress practices" in her own video. couldn't ask for better youtube entertainment