#my problem is that my discipline used to be great when i was both severely depressed/agoraphobic AND unemployed

[readymades2002]

trying to do some financial math for if i move out and getting sick to my stomach

[mbti-notes]

Anon wrote: Hi MBTI-notes. INFJ here. Many thanks for your tremendous insights. Your analysis of unhealthy INFJ’s has been absolutely spot on for me. I can see that I can be incredibly, sometimes laughably, unrealistic, have great difficulty being present, and alternate between too cynical and too trusting.

However, despite knowing about the INFJ weaknesses for several years now thanks to your blog, I keep making these mistakes. Some feel harder to change than others - like the difficulty focusing that, in my case, seems similar to ADHD.

I am trying a variety of things including finding the right mentors to bring me back to reality and hold me accountable, DBT, and improvements to basic physical self-care like sleep. I might also consider getting on medications for bipolar I (a diagnosis I have received due to two manic episodes, although they’re not sure if I need to be on meds) or ADHD.

In your experience, what is necessary to successfully close the gap between simply knowing about my problematic patterns and actually changing them? I am really hoping that improvements in emotional intelligence via DBT will close the gap, and also am trying to be more systematic about maintaining and improving my interpersonal relationships. Maybe it will be a combination of many small things like mastering physical health and routines, realistic goals, the right mentors, discipline, etc.

(From the INFJ who mentioned bipolar I). As an addendum, I just wanted to mention that the two episodes definitely involved some psychotic thoughts and behavior, but it's unclear if they fit a traditional manic episode, as I've not experienced periods of little sleep but high energy. It’s quite possible that BPD is a better explanation due to a connection in both cases with a romantic interest. I just wanted to mention this in case it impacted your response at all.

----------------------

"Knowing" about problems means being in possession of the facts, so it comes mainly through observation and gathering information. A lot of people go through life not knowing how problematic their thinking/behavior really is until they get critical feedback or generate very negative consequences. Even then, perhaps they still can't admit to having a problem and they use defense mechanisms such as denial to avoid confronting the truth. Getting through these defenses can be an arduous process. Even though knowing is really only the first step, it can already be quite a difficult step.

If knowing is only the first step, it means it's not enough. More is required. Knowing is not the same as "understanding". Understanding comes mainly through developing self-awareness, which involves the capacity to perceive and evaluate oneself accurately and objectively. Self-awareness can be described as low/high or shallow/deep. To improve self-awareness usually involves going inward, through reflection and introspection, to discover the roots and mechanisms behind psychological issues.

If knowing is about grasping the facts, understanding is about being able to provide a proper explanation of the facts. For example, a lot of people feel low self-confidence very acutely but they have no idea about how it came to pass or why they suffer. When you don't understand your thinking/behavior, it means you don't know the causes of it, the motivations behind it, or the factors that contributed to its manifestation.

That said, when people know but don't understand their problem, they are still capable of some small self-improvement. Generally speaking, they'll seek out advice from those in the know and try to discover some common rules, methods, or procedures for dealing with the problem, which allows them to become more functional in daily life. However, while they can improve a bit, their growth tends to be limited because it remains unclear whether the solution they've found is the correct one. Perhaps they feel some relief or progress, but it doesn't really seem long-lasting. Why? Knowing without understanding means every "fix" you try is basically blind and random experimentation. If something works for awhile, you don't understand why. If something doesn't work, you don't understand what went wrong. This is one reason why self-help methods have a high rate of failure; they simply don't get deep enough into the problem, so self-awareness remains too low.

Using the example of low self-confidence to illustrate, different people suffer for different reasons. For Person A, perhaps it's because of fear of failure that creates too much anxiety to feel confident. For Person B, perhaps it's because they lack knowledge and skill, so they feel too incompetent to approach tasks confidently. Person B needs to improve their knowledge and skill through learning and practice in order to feel more confident. But this remedy isn't going to work for Person A. Regardless of how knowledgeable or skilled Person A is, they will continue to fear failure, because it is an entirely separate issue that remains unaddressed by Person B's remedy. If you were looking to the above two cases for inspiration, you wouldn't get very far without knowing YOUR individual reasons for suffering low self-confidence.

It sounds like you are still in the stage of knowing - gathering the facts about your issues in order to name/label them correctly. It's good you've gotten some practical advice for managing your issues. Using the INFJ functional stack to frame the issues also seems to have been helpful for improving your self-awareness. However, what I'm still not seeing is true understanding. You haven't yet discovered the underlying causes/mechanisms and aren't able to provide an accurate and objective explanation of why you suffer from these issues. In short, it's just harder to solve a problem when you don't know the cause or how it arose.

This is probably one reason why you're running into difficulty with getting clear official diagnoses. People often view an official diagnosis as "the answer", but oftentimes the label is just a way to describe a particular set of symptoms. It doesn't reveal enough about what's really going on underneath the surface. The process of talk therapy ought to be aimed at making better sense of the symptoms, so it's important to pair any pharmaceutical interventions with talk therapy.

I never want to discourage people from self-improvement. I appreciate your willingness to seek out answers. You asked me what might be lacking in your approach and I've given you my best guess. You've focused a lot on "doing" and "following", implementing some commonsense strategies like physical self-care and learning from good mentors. This is certainly a step in the right direction. But from the perspective of analytical psychology, you haven't done enough to go within to understand your own individual psyche. It is likely that working on your emotional intelligence through DBT will deepen your self-awareness. But, at this early stage, there is no way for me to predict if it will "close the gap". If you care about understanding yourself better, be willing to take your therapist's reflections and inquiries as deep as you can go with them.

[burnwater13]

Boba Fett piloting a speeder bike while a member of his Sand people tribe jump from another speeder bike. Image from The Book of Boba Fett, Season 1, Episode 2, The Tribes of Tatooine. Calendar from DataWorks. Concept art by Christian Alzmann.

Grogu was very excited. Daimyo Fett had agreed to tell him the story about teaching some of the Sand people how to ride speeder bikes! Grogu could just imagine how it went. A quiet, thoughtful space, where they could gather together, study a ‘how to’ guide, check the owner’s manual, and review their knowledge using the speeder bike simulator that came with every bike. 

Fennec had cackled when Grogu explained that to her and the Daimyo asked her in a rather annoyed voice if she didn’t have anything better to do. 

“Sure, Boss, I have plenty of other things to do, but what could be better than hearing this story again?”

Before the Daimyo could scold her or apologize to Grogu for the cackling or even look to the Mandalorian for assistance in dealing with her, Fennec was gone. 

Grogu laughed at that. Fennec really must have had some Jedi training. She was an expert at disappearing and Grogu was always impressed by her technique.

“Pay no attention to her, young one. The Sand people do not use traditional environments for educational purposes. All of their learning methods are practical and hands on.”

The Daimyo seemed both proud of that and a little disappointed. Grogu felt that was his fault. After all he’d met the Sand people several times on Tatooine and knew that they didn’t bother with a lot of technology. That was why he was so interested in the story of how they learned to ride the speeder bikes. He figured that if they could learn, then it shouldn’t be a problem for him. 

“It wasn’t that long after they had accepted me as being worth tolerating that we ran into a problem with some spice runners. I was with the tribe, being instructed on the use of a gaderffii. You know, that stick you’ve seen Sand people carrying with them? It is a very versatile weapon and takes great discipline and skill to wield effectively. Let me assure you, I wanted to learn how to use it, but I was by no means the best student of the technique. I was too impatient.”

Grogu kept his face as neutral as possible. He knew that Daimyo Fett was Mandalorian. That his father had been a Mandalorian bounty hunter and that they had both run a foul of the Jedi during the lead up to the Clone wars. Grogu had been deemed to young/small to participate in those events but he had still been compelled to study them at the Jedi Temple. According to Jedi lore, Mandalorians were incapable of patience. If they had been, then they would have had fewer conflicts with the Order because they wouldn’t just shoot and ask questions later.

“While I was learning, some of the children noticed a sound that they had never heard. The men investigated and then a call was made to arm the camp. Not me of course. I was not a member of the tribe. I was their charge, a responsibility, not a trusted member of the family.”

Daimyo Fett took a deep breath and then sighed.

“It was a Pyke Syndicate spice transport and they used high power weapons against my care takers, causing many deaths and much misery. But they were able to get away from us. I was determined, as I helped the injured and fallen, to stop that from happening again.”

Grogu sighed and hung his head. He understood just what that felt like. He was glad that Fennec wasn’t there to joke about any of it, because it wasn’t funny. But maybe that’s why she disappeared. She knew the difference between sad and funny. 

“I convinced the Sand people to let me go after them and I walked into Tosche Station. I found some Nikto biker gang members harassing some folks there and ended up with their speeder bikes, which I brought back to the tribe. After that, well, teaching them how to use the bikes was a bit more complicated. You know that their language isn’t merely spoken. You must use other signals and to be fair, I was by no means fluent in it. There were some missteps. I hate to say it, but the concept of forward and stop seemed to elude them for sometime. It was very hard not to laugh, but you know the Sand people are very sensitive in situations like that.”

Grogu nodded his head. He remembered when Cobb Vanth refused to drink from the black melon and his dad shamed him into it. After that the marshal learned to go with the flow a bit better, but Grogu was never going to forget how aggravated the Sand people had become at him. 

“Hey Boss, did you get through the embarrassing part yet? If you did, the rancor trainer said he’d like it if the kid visited with the rancor. Apparently he’s been too restless and wants the kid to have it take a nap.”

Fennec was back. Both Grogu and the Daimyo jumped at the sound of her voice and then they started laughing.

“Of course. I’ll join you, young one. Your father will be back shortly and we will have a traditional Mandalorian meal.”

“Ooh. Yum. Bone broth and tiny crackers. Count me in Boss.” 

Grogu was going to have to ask Fennec to tell him stories the next time he was there. The Daimyo’s stories were good, but Fennec had a way of sharing information that was very entertaining. Funny even. Yeah. Exactly.

[baddhistory]

What Is This, Anyway?

A youtube channel! Well, specifically, it's the blog of a youtube channel that I'm creating for the specific purpose of putting some good, engaging, actually-fucking-cited history video essays out there.

See, it occurred to me a while ago that maybe, just maybe, all the American zoomers and millennials going around saying things like "I feel like my history education was severely lacking, because in 2020, all the sudden all these protests were referencing historical events that I'd never even heard of, and I really want to know more about history," might actually want to know more about history. And that maybe, just maybe, the reason people weren't engaging with history had less to do with the idea we've somehow been sold that it's Inherently Boring and more to do with lack of access.

The problem is, when I looked around the internet at accessible "history" on platforms like podcasts, TikTok, and Youtube (and, frankly, Tumblr), there were ~4 categories:

Well-researched, accurate history, but boring as fuck*

Pretty well-researched, but lacking citations, context, and/or using outdated, incorrect analysis**

One-off videos, which then become part of the discourse because they sound plausible - sometimes true, usually partly true, partly hyperbole or incorrect extrapolation.

Complete Lies, Now With A Grain Of Truth! - hot takes on history by people who are either conspiracy theorists, propagandists, lying grifters, or all three***

But I am a historian. I work with a lot of brilliant, entertaining, thoughtful, ethical, careful historians who have a lot of interesting things to say, and whose work, I think, would land incredibly well with people who are looking online for history they never got taught in school. It's just that our discipline doesn't value digital projects, for some reason, and that a lot of historians are too busy, and that a lot of us are not great with technology.

And but so anyway, I'm good at public speaking****, know my way around modern technology pretty well, care a lot about history and particularly the way we teach and learn it, and get really irritated both by historians who shrug and say "Well, guess people don't care about history anymore," instead of "How can we reach out to people who want to learn history," and by, well, the bad history I see masquerading as good history across the web.

Because people who want to learn deserve better!

[it has only just occurred to me that putting footnotes in the tags means they will not show up in reblogs. future footnotes will be behind a readmore cut.]

[my-skull-is-full-of-sunken-ships]

A couple of years ago, when I was graduating from university, I struggled a lot with completing my work on time. My scientific supervisor, who was basically the Gordon Ramsey of my faculty (competent af, but the amount of pressure she put on you was indescribable), didn't make it any easier for me. I was stressed out 24/7 for a whole year.

The worst times were, of course, the days before deadlines. I was supposed to finish yet another chapter of my thesis and complete a hundred tasks and projects for my lectures and seminars.

I have a problem with concentrating on anything for longer than 10 minutes (which may be undiagnosed ADHD, a weird side-effect of my antidepressants, or something else - I don't know), so I have to be creative when it comes to time management. I have two time management tools that I created or adapted for myself. One of them is for when I have tons of work and several days to do it all, and the other is for desperate situations when I have only one day to complete everything.

Here I'll tell you about the first one, which is my favourite: it only requires a pen and a single stick-note (or any piece of paper, really, and it can also be adapted for excel and I’ll show you both variations). Here’s how it goes:

There is a certain number of tasks that you need to do - each one takes a different amount of time and is generally different in complexity.

I usually spend some time figuring out how complicated and time-consuming each one actually is and give them a score from 1 to 10 (or 1 to 5, it depends)

Then there is the number of days I have for these tasks: I subtract one for either rest or (more often) in case I don't manage to do enough in any of the days.

I divide the sum of points I assigned to my tasks by the remaining days and voila - I have a quantitative measure that I need to achieve every day to be certain that I can do everything I planned in time.

It's great if I manage to do more, of course, but overall, when I reach the required number, I can be sure that on the last day I won't have so much work that I won't be able to afford to take a break.

Plus, relatively large and complex tasks can be performed step-by-step without worrying that I have been working on one thing for too long without crossing anything off the list. For example, I might not have finished a chapter but I’ve done enough to give myself 4 points out of 6.

Here’s how my stick-notes looked like:

And this is my excel version of the method:

(don't mind cyrillic writing, these are mostly just disciplines I needed to know for my finals)

I hope it'll be useful for some of you. I'll make a post about my second-best time management tool sometime later.

[deflare]

Day 16 brings us a shiny-bronze set of real bastards: the Minotaurs!

The Minotaurs are a successor chapter to... somebody. Their history is locked down super-tight behind layers of clearance that even Inquisitors can’t break into. Complicating things, there may have been two different Minotaurs chapters in Imperial history--a chapter of ferocious berserkers who didn’t bother working with anyone else, and the modern, more disciplined force.

What’s known about the Minotaurs: Unlike other chapters, they rarely disperse their companies across different theaters, instead tackling every problem as a full chapter. They’re cold and aloof to others. They fight with particular brutality, even by Space Marine standards, with a willingness to eat really nasty losses in close assaults and heavy-duty siege warfare. They’re often brought in to fight internal enemies, like rogue Space Marine chapters. They’re unusually well-supplied for a chapter of their caliber, with a particularly robust recruiting pool. And they seem to answer directly to the High Lords of Terra.*

This all suggests that the Minotaurs are meant to be the High Lords’ agents in the Astartes, the mailed fist of the Imperial government. This plays poorly with some of the other major power of the Imperium, like the Inquisition; the High Lords’ interests don’t always line up with the Imperium’s interests as a whole.

One of the major military actions of the Minotaurs was in the Badab War, a fairly nasty civil war. I’ll go more into detail on this when another chapter pops up (probably the Mantis Warriors or the Lamenters), but the short version is that s Space Marine chapter tried to make its own little empire, and several chapters got embroiled on both sides of the war; the Minotaurs were one of the most brutal of the chapters on the loyalist side of the war.

In another major incident, after Roboute Guilliman woke up from stasis and started reforming the Imperial government, the High Lords tried to rebel against him and launch a coup. During the incident, the full Minotaur chapter arrived in orbit around Terra and... waited. The rebel High Lords had called the Minotaurs in to help their coup d’etat, but the split in the council caused the Minotaurs to wait until the dice had fallen, a looming threat to Imperial stability, until the matter was settled and they departed.

Aesthetically, the Minotaurs have some Greek theming to them; this mostly shows up with character names, but their chapter master also wields a spear and shield like a hoplite. Their grim bronze armor is cool as hell, but once upon a time, they had a whole different color scheme. One that makes the Howling Griffons look subdued.

My eyes.

Anyway. The Minotaurs are total bastards, but I can’t help kinda liking them. Their theming and aesthetics rule, and there’s a certain appeal to a chapter whose whole thing is “attack dogs of the ruling oligarchs”. There’s a certain menace to stories where the Minotaurs show up, an air of ‘shit just got serious’, and that’s fun.

*Who’re the High Lords of Terra?

So as the Great Crusade neared its end, the Emperor decided that running everything through military councils sucked. So he started to set up a civilian government that would administrate the Imperium during peacetime. This loss of influence among the military elite (most especially the Primarchs) was one of the motivating forces for the Horus Heresy.

After the Heresy and the Emperor’s entombment, someone needed to run the Imperium. Guilliman and Rogal Dorn did a lot of the heavy lifting for a while as the Emperor’s regents, but one got put into stasis and the other died (maybe?), so ruling the Imperium was left in the hands of mere mortals. Thus, the ruling council that act as the regents of the Imperium: The High Lords of Terra.

There are 12 seats on the council total, though who fills each one has fluctuated over time. Always on the council are the leaders of: the Administratum (the Imperial bureaucracy), the Inquisition, the Ecclesiarchy (the state church), the Adeptus Mechanicus, the Adeptus Arbites (the Imperium’s police force), the Navigators (mutants who guide spaceships through the Warp), the Astronomicon (the psychic lighthouse that lets Navigators do their job), the assassins, and the Astra Telepathica (the order of sanctioned psykers who allow FTL communication). Various military and religious leaders have occupied the other 3 seats.

A few thousand years ago, there was a fun little period when one guy managed to sit on two of the seats at the same time. This turned out very badly, as the guy became a super-tyrant and caused a period of civil strife called the ‘Age of Apostasy’. Since then, there’s been a very firm one-butt-one-seat rule.

The High Lords are the embodiment of the Imperium’s ossification. They’re a council of amoral, paranoid, nigh-immortal arch-conservatives who care only about maintaining their own positions and power. Each one got to their position through backstabbing, ruthlessness, and the ‘mysterious’ death of their predecessors. Until Guilliman resumed his seat as regent, High Lords didn’t retire; they were assassinated. They sit in their fortified residences on Terra, with no need to care about the endless masses of humanity that they order to fight and die with a penstroke.

In an empire full of people who suck, these guys suck the most.

Master post here

[4daddy-baby]

Visiting Professor

It was with suppressed excitement that I knocked on Professor Erling's

door.

He opened it wide, a smile on the corner of his lips. His tall, broad

shouldered frame moved just slightly to the side, creating a small space

for me to enter.

"I admire punctuality," he said.

I tried to smile back, but I could feel it come out as a thin tremor. I

squeezed in past him, wanting body contact but avoiding it.

The door closed behind me.

His house was immaculate. Stark without being austere. A large, many spined

ebony carving adorned one wall. The couches were black, the carpets and

walls were all white. One green plant. One blue bowl filled with lemons on

the countertop. Everything just so perfectly placed.

*POP*

The sound of the wine bottle uncorking caught me off-guard. I must've

jumped because Professor Erling looked amused.

"Drink, Professor Sherman?" he asked, waving two wine glasses. "Or do you

wish to jump right into the discussion of Fourier's Heat Law," he added

with a sarcastic drawl.

I gulped only to find my mouth was dry.

"Drink would be great," I rasped, then cleared my throat.

We both had meetings in our calendars for the upcoming week to discuss

complex math problems. Tonight was supposed to be a social thing, just to

get to know each other outside of the university setting.

But I could not deny that I wanted more. No, not math. I wanted to learn if

there was truth to certain rumours that floated around in certain specific

group chats.

He handed me the wine. We both sat down on orthogonal couches. I began to

sip.

"It's a lovely place," I said. "Beautiful and sev- serious."

He gestured a curt wave with his fingers.

"You can say severe," he said. "That is an acceptable compliment, in my

books. Though I would use the word - disciplined."

A shiver of excitement ran down my spine. I kept my breathing even.

"You look to be plenty disciplined yourself," I said boldly. "Not all math

professors bring back the same level of discipline that they apply at work

to maintaining their ... bodies."

Even though his light blue shirt was not too tight, I could see his massive

pecs firm up from the compliment. His face, however, remained impassive.

He replied, "I have seen what happens to those who surrender too quickly to

the ravages of time and senescence. And I am only in my mid-forties." He

ran his hand through his light blond hair, making his bicep and pec bulge

again. "Speaking of time, I was intrigued by your paper on time series

forecasting in post-recession investment management. How many quants did

you have working for you?"

He was turning the conversation towards our technical background and I went

with the flow. I found myself excitedly talking about anything he

asked. And yet, when he would abruptly and firmly change the subject, I

found that I didn't begrudge the change at all. With anyone else, I would

have been miffed, if not downright annoyed.

He himself sat perfectly still, with exception of occasional sips of his

wine and some punctuating hand gestures.

At one point, my stomach rumbled in demand for food. I blushed. He

completely ignored it. We continued talking.

There was a bump from the floor above.

I paused and my eyes darted up to the ceiling. I looked back at him. He

hadn't moved or looked away from me. Though I got the sense that there was

a hint of a smile on the corners of his mouth. I sipped some wine, cast one

more look up and then resumed the conversation.

It wasn't until exactly at 7pm when he cut off our conversation and led me

over to the dining table.

I was served perfectly baked salmon and potatoes. He must've had them in

the oven since before I arrived. The timing needed to be precise, as well

as the cut and position in the oven.

He served it on both our plates, drizzled it cleanly with a creamy dill

dressing, and refilled my wine glass.

We both began our dinner. The taste was exquisite. Like everything else

about him. I was shoving forkfuls into my mouth. He was cutting out exact

pieces and chewing calmly.

Suddenly there was another sound from upstairs. A door slamming shut.

I looked back at him, this time my brow furrowed in question.

He swallowed the morsel and then actually smiled.

"That's just my ... son," he said. His eyes locked on to mine in a

challenge. We both knew that he didn't have a family.

My heart started pounding, my face blushed. I couldn't believe it. The

rumours were true?! I wanted to ask, I wanted to- But I didn't have the

courage.

"Oh. Okay," I replied nervously. I fidgeted and then realized that I was

adjusting my growing cock. I brought my hand back up above the table and

kept my eyes on my plate as I ate.

He too resumed eating. The clink of silverware filled silence in the room.

When we were done, he cleaned up the table, rinsed the plates, and put them

in the dishwasher.

"A bit of port to wind down?" he asked, reaching for a different bottle. I

nodded.

We returned to the living room and he poured out the dessert wine. I

realized that the lights had automatically dimmed inside, just as twilight

had fully descended outside.

I tried to steer the conversation to his childhood and his background,

hoping to find out more about his son. But he deftly turned it right back

to my childhood.

"Yes, I was always closer to my mother than my fa-" I stopped mid

sentence. There was a creak from the stairs. And then another.

Someone was coming down the stairs to the living room.

I could see in my periphery that Professor Erling's eyes were locked onto

mine. But mine were locked onto the stairs.

A bare foot descended onto a step that I could see. Then the second one.

It descended again, and again.

Bare, brown calves came into view.

And then, the thighs. Reddish brown, muscular like an Olympic

athlete. Completely smooth, like the rest of the leg.

As the naked upper thighs came into view, I swallowed in anticipation,

wondering if this figure was completely naked. I held my breath as the

crotch descended.

Blue, red, black net, bulge. It took me a second to process what I was

seeing. The bulge was straining against a pair of tight, way too tight and

small, spiderman briefs. It looked like the underwear of a 15 year old had

been forced onto a man. And when he descended even more, I realized that's

exactly what had happened. His shaved crotch was all too visible as the hem

of the underwear could not cover much of his hips and groin.

He descended.

His adonis belt came into view. His taut stomach with four easily visible

abs. Deliciously brown and smooth. Something big and yellow by his side.

He descended.

His bulging pecs and dark brown nipples came into view. His muscular arms

wrapped around a large, yellow stuffed toy. Likely one of those Japanese

animated creatures.

He descended onto the living room floor.

A college student. Pure-blooded native American, by the looks of him. Bold,

sharp cheekbones. A fanged necklace hanging between his pectoral

cleavage. His hair long down to his neck.

I realized that my cock was fully hard.

"Daddy," he said in a soft voice, pitched as high and mewling as he

could. "Won't you tuck me in bed and read me a bedtime story?" His eyes

looked pleadingly towards Professor Erling, completely ignoring me.

The professor stood up. He looked at me said, "Excuse me, Professor

Sherman, but it is time for me to tuck in my little boy." He walked over to

the college boy and turned him towards the stairs. With his arm wrapped

around the boy's waist, he started to take him up the stairs.

Then he stopped. Turned around. And said to me, "Of course, you are welcome

to watch."

He turned back and continued climbing.

I realized my jaw had dropped at some point. I closed my mouth, put down my

port with shaking fingers, and stood up. My cock was tenting my pants and

there was no way to hide it.

I left the living room and walked up the stairs. The lights behind me

dimmed down to total darkness.

---

I opened wide the door to his son's room. It was covered in superhero

posters on every wall. I recognized some GI Joe posters too. And there were

shirtless burly men drawn in an oriental style as well.

There was a half finished lego castle in one corner. A lava lamp lit the

room. The bed was covered in Aladdin sheets featuring Disney's rendition of

the genie. And on top of the sheets was the hot college boy, laying naked

with his hard cock pointing up at the cieling, eyes on his daddy.

The professor was carefully putting away the stuffed toy.

Once he was done, he started to unbutton his shirt.

In slow motion, his pale Scandinavian arms and torso came into view. Pecs

covered with blond and grey hair. No abs but no sign of a belly either. Not

quite as Olympian a build as the college boy, but easily in the 95th

percentile of men in their mid forties.

He hooked his fingers on to his pants buttons and unhooked them.

"Have you brushed your teeth?" he asked the college boy sternly.

"Yes, Daddy," the boy replied dutifully.

The professor lowered his pants, his strong, hairy thighs and calves coming

into view.

"Have you folded and put away your laundry?"

"Yes, Daddy."

The professor lowered his black boxer briefs to the floor. An eight inch

cock, thick, with a purple mushroom head rose up towards the ceiling. I

licked my lips.

"Have you done your homework?" he asked.

"Yes, Daddy," the boy replied, with a note of shame in his voice.

As the professor walked slowly to the bed, he spoke without turning to look

at me. "Some students in my class think that they can coast by without

doing their homework." He clambered on top of the bed, kneeling with his

legs on either side of the college boy's torso. "And then they discover

that they cannot pass my class without doing their homework." He moved up

so that his cockhead was against the lips of the college boy. "A select few

of those students get made an offer by me." He put a finger under the base

of his cock and slowly dragged it up to the tip. A spurt of precum came

gushing out and covered the boy's lips. The boy did not open his lips but

waited patiently. "And some of them even take me up on that offer. For one

week, they have the honour of being my son." He used his cock to rub the

precum all over the college boy's face. "My good little boy." With each

word, he smacked his slimed cock on the boy's face. "Open wide for Daddy's

pacifier."

Immediately, the college boy opened his mouth, eagerly took the professor's

mushroom head into his mouth, and began sucking. The boy's own cock was

hard, long, and dripping. But he kept his hands on the professor's thighs.

My own hand went down to my hard cock tenting my pants and squeezed it.

The professor's head snapped in my direction like a whip, and his face

darkened.

"Hands off!" he commanded, and my hands flew behind my back, clasping each

other. "Only one cock," he continued, "Gets to be pleasured under this

roof. If you cannot control yourself, leave!"

Of course I wasn't going to leave. I sputtered some form of apology but his

attention was already back to his ... son.

As his boy slowly but eagerly sucked his cockhead, the professor reached

over to the bedside shelf and picked up a small children's picture. He

opened it up to the first page and began reading.

"Once upon a time, there was a brave, little prince."

He pushed his cockhead deeper into the college boy's mouth.

"The prince's mother ruled over the largest forest in the lands."

One of his hands moved away from the book and rested on the massive,

bulging, smooth, brown pec of the college boy.

"One day, the prince decided to run away and explore the forest without any

of his royal guards."

He was turning the pages with his thumb as he held the book with one hand.

"The prince saw a beehive. He tried to get the honey, but he only got

stung."

He squeezed the boy's pec and pinched his nipple. Precum gushed out from

the boy's cock, as he moaned in pleasure.

"The prince saw a salmon jump up from a river. He tried to catch it, but he

only gulped down water."

He pushed his cock more than half way in. The boy gagged but the cock just

kept going.

"The prince saw a purple mushroom. He tried to eat it, but it only choked

him."

He put the book on the bed, to the side. He gripped the boy's head with

both hands and skullfucked his student until the gagging boy was frothing

at the mouth. For his part, the boy didn't seem to be opposed to it. He was

holding on to the professor's thighs for dear life, but it didn't look like

he was pushing him back.

The professor removed his cock from the boy's mouth. The boy sputtered and

gasped for breath, but then his mouth followed the cockhead's movement like

a snake being charmed by a snake charmer.

The professor removed his whole body off the bed. The boy turned over on to

his belly, got on all fours, and then moved to hold his ass close to the

edge of the bed, likely lined up with the professor's cock. He, and the

professor, were both facing me. The professor picked up the book again with

one hand while his other hand was out my sight, behind the boy's ass.

"Shall I continue the story, son?"

"Yes, please, Daddy!" he said.

"Mmm... maybe I don't want to continue the story..." His hand behind the

boy was moving very slowly, judging by the motion of his arms.

"But it's my favourite story!" the boy whined. "Please, please, pretty

please, Daddy, with cherry on top!"

"Hmmm... very well then. Let's see. And then the Prince met a white wolf."

His hips thrust forward and the Native American boy gasped.

"The wolf said to the prince, 'Hurry home, little boy, or you will soon get

eaten.'" His hips slowly pushed all the way forward until he must've been

fully in. The boy's eyes rolled back into his eyes in pleasure as he let

out a feral whine.

"The prince replied, 'But this is all my country and one day I will be

king!'" The boy breathed in deeply, adjusting to the cock.

"The white wolf felt pity for the prince, but his own hunger was

ravening. He pounced on the boy and ate all of him except his heart."

Dropping the book to the floor, the professor grabbed the athletic college

boy by his hips with both hands and began to fuck him in earnest. The boy

moaned in toe-curling ecstasy as his professor pounded him from

behind. Minutes went by as the pair mated in this position. I could see a

sheen of sweat on his back and on the professor's chest. They grunted and

moaned but no words were exchanged.

The boy started to breathe heavily. Both his hands clutched the sheets

around him. He let out one long whine and lowered his head to the bed. His

body twitched and jerked.

When his head rose up, I saw that there was cum on the sheets under his

belly.

The professor kept rutting. This hips slapping against the boy's ass over

and over.

And then the professor went rigid and still. All the veins in his muscles

seemed to bulge, but if he was breathing heavily, I couldn't tell.

Then he let out a deep breath, and pulled away from the boy. The boy looked

behind over his shoulder and said, "Thank you Daddy for the bedtime story

and for Daddy's nighttime milkies!" He got up, gave the professor a kiss on

the cheek, grabbed a towel from a dresser, and left the room. I heard the

sound of a shower start.

The professor had put on a bathrobe and he headed back down the stairs.

I knew I was to follow, but I just had to check one thing.

I bounded into the now empty room that smelled of sex. I found the

children's picture book and opened it to the page where the professor had

stopped. I read the words under my breath.

"The wolf took the Prince's heart to the Queen. Weeping, she took the heart

and placed it in a wicker puppet. For years after, the kingdom was ruled by

the wise but fragile wicker king, and for years after, the white wolf

continued devouring any boys that came his way. The End."

I flipped to the cover. "The Prince and the White Wolf" by Erik Erling. I

placed it back on the shelf along with many other similar titles. "The

Black Swan and the White Wolf" by Erik Erling. "The Lonely Dove and the

White Wolf" by Erik Erling.

I hastily left the room and walked back down the stairs.

[qitianyi]

What kind of dance teacher could I become?

In the beginning, I honestly did not want to be a dance teacher because I did not think I was dedicated enough to take on the responsibility. Probably due to personal experience, as a professional dancer most of the time I only focus on my own progress. However, while the nature of the work is both dance-related, the focus of dance teachers and dancers is on diametrically opposed things.

My high school ballet teacher was the most influential person in my training experience. She is a very strict teacher, and her teaching methods are very consistent with the stereotyped training model of ballet. I still clearly remember her recording our weekly weight numbers and strictly requiring us to control our weight and body shape. Her courses require disciplined training and constant pushing of physical limits. When I first started dancing, I did not know what quality of movement I liked, or what kind of movement I thought looked good. My high school dance teacher was my introduction to ballet, and her teachings laid the foundation for my dance aesthetic. I hit my training plateau mid-training, and struggled to maintain my weight while still growing, leading to an eating disorder and irregular menstruation. At the same time, my jumping and spinning skills never improved to the point where I became less and less confident in myself when dancing. My dance teacher also noticed something was wrong with me and she often talked to me multiple times after class. After her patient guidance time and time again, I regained my positive attitude during training. Finally, after three years of dance training, I performed a solo and successfully received an admission letter from the university. She is a very strict teacher, but she also takes great care of her students. She will thoughtfully customize recipes for students who have difficulty controlling their weight and will also pay careful attention to each student's emotions to solve their problems. Not just for me, this ballet teacher's skill level and professionalism impact every student.

As stated in a dance journal: ‘Ballet dancers unconsciously adopt ballet culture, and it affects the quality of their movements (Roche 2011).’ Similarly, as a dancer, several years of ballet training have deeply affected my dance aesthetic. Ballet aesthetics make me prefer dance with lines, shapes, and high-quality technique. Therefore, my ideal dance body is also infinitely close to the characteristics of ballet, including standard dance posture images, light texture of movement and strong stage rendering power. However, professional dancers will go to great lengths to achieve this requirement. In the early days of training I never thought about my ideal dance body, I just followed the instructions of my dance teacher and did every exercise. My ballet teacher always said: ‘What you put into your training, your body will give you back.’ I did not feel much about this statement at first, but after years of training I feel the same way. Like all sports, dancing tests the endurance, physical strength, and mental strength of the trainer. We seem to be doing the same thing every day, just keep practicing and practicing. I even get bored a lot, but I do see changes in my body as I keep training. This kind of change needs to go through a long process, but it does live up to the teacher's words, effort equals return. Years of dance training have taught me the truth that a little makes a lot.

In addition, although I have been trained in ballet before college, when it comes to teaching style, I prefer contemporary dance courses. In my training experience, compared to the lines, images and high-tech movements of ballet. Contemporary dance focuses more on the dancer's creativity, including choreography and improvisation, which inspires students to find their own dance style. During the course, I could feel the teacher encouraging the students to explore their emotions and pay attention to body sensations. By comparison, the training format of a classic ballet class can appear rigid and restrictive. As I mentioned earlier in my training experience, ballet dancers often become frustrated by comparing their own bodies to the ideal ballet body (Wendy 2008). However, training in contemporary dance cured my low self-esteem. It was precisely because of this experience that I had the idea of changing my identity from dancer to dance teacher.

In general, ballet training established my thoughts on dance aesthetics and gave me a standard concept of the training model for professional dancers. Contemporary dance classes have given me the confidence to accept my imperfect body. I believe that I will become a teacher who has disciplined training methods and at the same time encourages students to express themselves in dance.

References:

1. Roche, J. (2011) ‘Embodying multiplicity: The Independent Contemporary dancer’s moving identity’, Research in Dance Education, 12(2), 105–118, available: https://doi.org/10.1080/14647893.2011.575222. 

2. Wendy, O. (2008) ‘Body Image in the Dance Class’, Journal of Physical Education, Recreation & Dance, 79(5), 18-41, available: https://doi.org/10.1080/07303084.2008.10598178.

[warningsine]

Why are we scared of algorithms?

Aurélie Jean. Faced with the unknown, we can develop several possible reactions, including fantasy and fear. Algorithms trigger fear for a number of reasons. Firstly because they are both intangible and everywhere at the same time; we interact on a daily basis with these mathematical and digital concepts, sometimes without even realising. They play a part in important decisions in our lives, for example in disease diagnosis, credit line assignment (in the US) or choice of a romantic partner. Over the past few years, we’ve seen several algorithm scandals relating to gender or racial discrimination. When misconstrued in the media, by politicians or in discussions with friends, all of these things can further mystify algorithmics to the extent that the discipline is rejected, with deep-seated fear building up around it. But as I often say, algorithms are not a black-and-white issue. They are neither good nor bad, they are what we make them. We need to remember that behind each algorithm is a human being.

How can they help accelerate digital transformation and/or the energy transition in businesses?

A.J. A few years ago, digital transformation enabled businesses to reach their clients or consumers. Today, algorithms help businesses understand their clients thanks to data collection and analysis. The arrival of data and algorithmics is just as important as digital transformation, and in some ways accelerates transformation as without digital technology there can be no algorithmic calculations. As far as the energy transition is concerned, algorithms can help measure water or energy consumption in goods production and transport in near real time. You can only develop that which you can evaluate over time. And data and algorithms are a smart way of doing that.

We are not seeing an increase in numbers of women in tech jobs and engineering. What can be done to change that?

A.J. Things are changing, but you’re right numbers aren’t really going up. Action needs to be taken on various levels. At school (from preschool onwards), we need to develop an analytical mindset in children and in students so that they become problem solvers. At home, we need to encourage girls differently to boys in science and engineering. And in society, we need to get rid of all the prejudices and stereotypes about women in these sectors. We also need to talk to men in these communities – they’re the greatest allies for us women scientists and engineers! We’re going in the right direction but we have to speed up the process by having an honest conversation. When I speak to girls studying in their last years at school and at university, I tell them that by choosing scientific and engineering disciplines, they’ll be intellectually stimulated all their life. They’ll solve large-scale problems with far-reaching influence on society and they’ll earn a good living. Intellectual and financial independence: a winning combination!

What will the next technological breakthroughs be? In which sectors is innovation accelerating the most?

A.J. That’s hard to say. As the Metaverse develops, there are bound to be technological breakthroughs in computer vision. I’m a firm believer in advances in sectors like medicine, where algorithms are paving the way for a different paradigm. By that I mean predicting disease risk, and personalising, refining medicine. Great things can be done in this area.

Who or what inspires you?

A.J. I still find Steve Jobs really inspiring 11 years after his death. His creativity and genius were extraordinary. Professor Richard Feynman, whom I regularly quote in my books, and his brilliant teaching technique and infectious passion also inspire me. In terms of technology, I can’t not mention internet communication, which enables me to speak to my friends and family on both sides of the Atlantic whenever I like and without any effort. In 2004, when I went to the US for the first time, Skype was in its infancy and I was still using phone cards to call my grandparents. It might sound naïve, but that changed my life.

[art-of-manliness]

Odds & Ends: June 16, 2023

“What Makes a Truly Great Basketball Player?” I recently stumbled across this 1965 New Yorker article by John McPhee about basketball player-turned-politician Bill Bradley and really enjoyed it; it’s a long but wonderful read. McPhee explores what made Bill Bradley such an exceptional basketball player as well as a first-rate intellect (Bradley attended Princeton and was a Rhodes Scholar). Like these 25 other eminent men from history, he developed both his body and his mind. McPhee finds the explanation for Bradley’s excellence in his unmatched self-discipline. Reading how a young Bill Bradley spent his time both convicted and inspired me.  Ian Bogost’s wry observational tweets. Ian Bogost is a professor of media studies and a writer at The Atlantic. We had him on the podcast several years ago to talk about his book Play Anything. I follow him on Twitter and enjoy his wry observations about life. The ones that delight me the most are his observations about really small annoyances or weirdnesses that you encounter whilst navigating the modern world. He’s a less cranky Andy Rooney. A few of my favorites: He tweeted this out when Kate and I had started a hunt for a new kitchen faucet and had the same frustrating experience. Let me just see the faucet in person and how it works! Nope. All you get is a picture. I will happily die on this hill as well. I notice this when we take our kids for ice cream. They order a single scoop, and the ice cream scooper proceeds to pile a waffle cone with enough ice cream to surely constitute two or three scoops. It’s more than enough ice cream for a grown adult, let alone a small 9-year-old. I guess it’s a nice problem to have, but it’s a funny change in our ice cream culture.  Lems Primal 2 sneaker. Several months ago, I developed foot pain after running around in some clunky running shoes. I figured I’d try out a pair of zero-drop shoes and picked up a pair of Lems Primal 2 sneakers. I’ve been wearing them for the past four months as my daily kick-around shoes and love them. Foot pain is gone. They’re comfortable and have a wide toe box, allowing your toes to spread out.  The Professor in the Cage: Why Men Fight and Why We Like to Watch by Jonathan Gottschall. Research shows that men are drawn to violence, be it the criminal or sporting kind. Why is that? In The Professor in the Cage, English professor Jonathan Gottschall takes us on a personal as well as interdisciplinary tour to answer that question. Using his experience training to be an MMA fighter and his research from biology, anthropology, and sociology, Gottschall argues that men are both made and conditioned to fight. We’ve got a fighting spirit inside of us that can be used for good or evil — depending on how this energy is directed. I had Gottschall on the podcast back in 2015 to talk about this book, but for some reason I’ve found myself thinking about it a lot lately.  Quote of the Week Friends, if we be honest with ourselves, we shall be honest with each other. —George MacDonald The post Odds & Ends: June 16, 2023 appeared first on The Art of Manliness. http://dlvr.it/Sqp8P2

[dee-diary]

Success is best when its shared – Howard Schultz

“It has become necessary to develop medicine as a cooperative science; the clinician, the specialist, and the laboratory workers uniting for the good of the patient, each assisting in elucidation of the problem at hand, and each dependent upon the other for support.”- William J. Mayo in his 1910 commencement address to Rush Medical College.

The hospital houses multidiscipline that help with the delivery of the health care services. Multidisciplinary team is a group of professionals from different disciplines who work on the same project independently or side by side (Cecilia, 2018). It has been found that the multidisciplinary teams up of 30 professionals, including physicians, nurses, midwives, dentists, physiotherapists, occupational therapists, social workers, psychiatrists, dietitians, pharmacists, administrative staff, and managers (Cecilia, 2018). The focus being the primary care of the client therefore each discipline plays a specific role of treating the client.

As a student therapist on fieldwork, I get to witness the input of every discipline contribution to an individual’s case. None of us, including me, ever do great things. But we can all do small things, with great love, and together we can do something wonderful. This quotation by Mother Teresa is one of my favourite quotes on teamwork as it highlights how teamwork has the power to enhance efficiency if we all play our role.

Allow me to break it down to you. After several assessments, the doctor provides the diagnosis. This directs the necessary care and needs for the particular diagnosis. This allowing the nurses to provide management care. For instance, monitor heart rate and blood pressure, draw blood, and admit/discharge patients according to doctors’ orders. The dietician dictates the suitable diet for the patient. Following that, the rehab team being the physiotherapist and occupational therapist work towards helping the patient recover and in essence promote independence (WHO). A patient fully recovers and later discharged. This is all because of the effort of teamwork, working together towards a common vision which is promoting good health.

Within fieldwork, teamwork is practiced. Before I directly interact with a client I consult with a nurse because I value the observations of the nurse in the ward as they closely work with the patients than any other discipline. When I need a patient transferred, nurses assist with the transfer allowing me to take my client to the OT department and the certain treatment goals of the day are met. Today I got to interact with a doctor, and she got to share my patient’s progress on her scope, and I spoke on OT scope, this feeds back to the quote in the beginning by William J Mayo “Uniting for the good of the patient”.

With planning intervention, there are several moments where I have to consult with the physiotherapist at the facility, about the times they have set to see my patient. As a student therapist I do not have a set period of time allocated so I have to work with the availability of the client and that is where planning comes in handy. This involves the structuring of the session, checking if the suitable tools are available at the OT department and if there is anyone else needing those exact tools so there is no shortage of resources when sessions need to start.

In the medical profession, activities related to ensuring access to care, navigating the system, mobilizing resources, addressing health inequities, influencing health policy, and creating system change are known as health advocacy (Maria and Sarah,2017). This in essence would mean attending to the patient’s needs and providing suitable treatment required. Research also states that Health advocacy is both a mind-set and a multifaceted set of skills (Maria and Sarah, 2017). The mindset would involve clinical reasoning and prioritising the wellbeing of patients. The multifaceted skills as an OT student therapist would be knowing how to assess client factors such as Range of motion, Muscle strength, Muscle tone, balance and many more. With the assessment findings it guides the route of treatment. In fieldwork, dignity is another core value I uphold in engaging with a patient, not being judgemental of their choices and including them in the decision making and rehab goals they want for myself by the end of therapy.

With implementing intervention, every morning on prac before treatment of the day commences our clinical supervisor asks, “What treatment do you plan to do today?” Following that, questions the clinical reasoning behind the activity chosen. I believe that is a display of teamwork on fieldwork as the clinical supervisor guides, correct, and support us but mostly importantly helping us grow in our schooling career which is why I am open to the critics that come. Clinical reasoning and relevance to the client’s context are two words that my mind ponders on when preparing for a treatment session.  Health advocacy is said to remain one of the most difficult domains of medicine to teach, learn, assess, and evaluate (Maria and Sarah, 2017). As a health science student, I can admit it is not as easy to learn Health Advocacy, but I believe with as much exposure we get on fieldwork and electives we will someday be proper health advocates and live to promote good health in and out of our professional space.

Beyond fieldwork, I have been a health advocate by dedicating and volunteering my holiday time to a home for abandoned children. I think that is where the love for wanting to adopt kids came from. I got to support the caregivers as there are usually short-staffed as some go on holidays and the organisation is dependent on volunteers that volunteer during those times. I also promoted health and wellness through engaging the children in fun games, crafts, dance, and drama. Being surrounded by children fills me with so much joy. I am also a Sunday school teacher and nothing else excites me as being around children. I just feel they resemble my personality in a way, I am bubbly and talkative when I am comfortable in an environment, and you get to experience a lot of that with children. I think that is why I am still undecided till this day on which path I would like to specialise into after my schooling career. Eventually, life will guide me.

Back to my schooling career, with general feedback we got today, a reminder was given to us to apply clinical reasoning when choosing activities and not choose activities for the sake of it. I can openly confess that I have been guilty of this in one of the activities chosen and it showed as my treatment goals were not accomplished, and it was not appropriate for the patient’s current functioning.

Now that final fieldwork block has begun, I cannot lie and say I was not nervous and stressed about this day coming. It is popular for health sciences students to experience overwhelming stress due to the precise academic demands and intense training required (Maryam F, 2013). The stress felt like the day I wrote my final maths paper two in my matric year. I felt this way as I have not been happy with my performance so far in the midterms block. Midterms is said to prepare you for finals, but I still do not feel prepared at all. However, I do not doubt that I will improve now that I know where my wrongs lie. Although, my final client may be discharged I am still proud at how I confident I was at administering my assessments, everything was just flowing like the waters. I would assess one aspect and it would answer three other aspects of mine. I used to find it quite challenging but somehow, I coped quite well today. Regardless of the final decision of whether my client gets discharged or not, it was a good learning experience for me.

The closing theme of the week is  “Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow. The important thing is not to stop questioning.” -Albert Einstein.

References

Cecilia S P, Herskovic V, Sepulveda M. 2018. Multidisciplinary collaboration in primary care: a systematic review. Family Practice, Volume 35, Issue 2, April 2018, Pages 132–141

Harrison A, Ahmet A, Orsino A, Beck C, Birken C. 2007. Residents as health advocates: The development, implementation, and evaluation of a child health advocacy initiative at the University of Toronto. Paediatric Child Health. 12:567–572

Othman C, Maryam F, Yusof M. 2013.Nature of Stress among Health Science Students in a Malaysian University. Procedia - Social and Behavioural Sciences 105(249 – 257)

Maria H, Sarah D, Ian S, Sherbino j. (2017) Health advocacy, Medical Teacher, 39:2, 128-135

Weller J, Boyd M, Cumin D. (2014). Teams, tribes, and patient safety: overcoming barriers to effective teamwork in healthcare. Centre for Medical and Health Sciences Education, Faculty of Medical and Health Sciences, Grafton Campus, University of Auckland, Auckland, New Zealand.

Quotes by William J Mayo, Mother Teresa, and Albert Einstein.

[kenobihater]

You’re (Probably) Drawing Archers Wrong

Hello, my name is Len and I’ve shot archery as a hobby for as long as I can remember. I have a problem: fanart depicting archery is oftentimes Very Wrong! I feel like most of this stems from not using good reference pictures, and from a general lack of knowledge. So, I wanted to create a post for anyone interested in accurately drawing an archer! Disclaimer: this is not a comprehensive post or a tutorial on how to shoot, and is intended for artists. That said, if you’re interested in archery, you may still find value in this post, though I recommend doing your own research. I’m certain there will be errors here considering I do this as a hobby not a profession, and I welcome corrections. Finally, archery can be dangerous, and even if you don’t read any more of this post, PLEASE read the safety section.

Safety

This part is going to be a PSA, because the thought of someone reading my post, getting into archery themselves, and doing these things? It terrifies me. So, rules number one, two, and three are: never aim at another person (duh), never use a damaged bow or arrows, and never, NEVER dry fire a bow. Dry firing means drawing back and releasing the string without an arrow. This can make your bow EXPLODE. It can hurt you, and even if your bow doesn’t explode, it’s fucked it up so bad that you should never shoot that bow again. Don’t do it, and don’t draw art of people doing it. Okay, PSA done, now onto the rest of the post.

There’s a TL;DR at the bottom!

First thing’s fist: the equipment! Archery requires four things: a bow, a quiver, arrows, and protective equipment (which is usually what I see most posts lacking). The first thing you should do before you draw your archer is decide what type of bow to give them. I’m not covering crossbows because I’ve only shot one once and I also Hate Them. There are three main types of bows: longbows, recurves, and compounds.

Bows

There are two different types of bows that are commonly called a longbow: English longbows, and flatbows (yes I’m considering flatbows a type of longbow to simplify things). English longbows are very large and have a very high draw weight (which means it’s hard to pull the sting back). These were used mainly by the English in the Middle Ages. Flatbows are typically smaller and have a lower draw weight as well as a slightly different profile. These were mainly used by Native American tribes such as the Hupa, the Karuk, and the Wampanoag, as well as prehistoric Europeans and the Finnish, among others. It is often seen in historical fiction and fantasy, and the English longbow is usually depicted as Robin Hood’s preferred bow type. I believe Katniss uses a flatbow in the beginning of Hunger Games, but don’t quote me on that.

Recurves have limbs that curve outwards and are smaller than longbows. Many, many cultures have used these, including but not limited to certain West-coast Native American tribes, the Mongols, the Scythians, the Greeks, the Turks, the Koreans, and the Chinese. Recurves can be made of either wood or of a combination of wood, horn, and glue, making them either composite or non-composite. These are the bows you typically see mounted archers using, and are often used in competitions today. It’s commonly seen in fantasy, and is the bow type used by Legolas, Tauriel, Katniss Everdeen in Mockingjay, Merida, Green Arrow has a lever action, and Hawkeye uses a silly collapsible one.

Compound bows are the most commonly used bow among hunters, are almost always made of fiberglass and either carbon fiber or aluminum, are Technical Looking, and pack the biggest punch for the least amount of effort. It’s a modern invention used worldwide. I don’t know where else to put this, but almost everyone who I know that shoots a compound uses something called a trigger release (pictured below) to draw back the string because it means your release is cleaner.

So, those are the main types of bow! Google which bow would be appropriat for the era and region your character is from, or if they’re from space or an alternate dimension, pick whichever you think fits the character the best.

Quivers

There are two types of quiver: back quivers, like Legolas wears, and hip quivers, like those used in the Olympics. Which quiver you should use varies from culture to culture and time period to time period. If it’s fantasy, set in modern day, or set in the future, you can chose whichever you prefer.

Arrows

Arrows can have shafts of wood or fiberglass, can have real feathers or synthetic for fletching, and can have countless different types of heads. The main two that are in use today are called field points and broadheads, and most commercial arrow shafts allow you to freely switch them out.

The arrow on the top is a field point, used only for target practice, and the arrow on the bottom is a broadhead, used only for hunting or war. You never hunt with a field point, and never practice with a broadhead. Basically every fictional character out there is shooting to kill, so they’ll all use either a broadhead, or a culturally appropriate variation of deadly arrowhead (bodkin, scythian, flint, etc). Do your research! A Native American wouldn’t use a bodkin, and a Scythian wouldn’t use a flint arrowhead!

Protective Equipment

The one really necessary piece of protective equipment is hand protection. If your character uses a three fingered draw or a pinch draw (we’ll speak on draws later), they need either an archery tab, or an archery glove. If your character is using a thumb draw, they need a thumb ring. These three pieces of equipment keep archers from getting blisters and damaged skin.

This is a tab.

This is the type of glove that I use. All an archery glove needs to do is protect your three draw fingers, but it can be more traditionally glove-like than this one. I’ve even seen ones that are a combination leather bracer and archery glove that give big Fantasy Vibes.

This is a ring. Some historical ones can get REAL ornate and pretty.

Another piece of protective equipment that is commonly used is an arm guard or a bracer. Not everyone uses one, because if your form is good the string should not be hitting your arm, so you can get away with not giving your character one. They can vary in style from something like the more minimal one below up to a full leather bracer.

Form

Form can vary greatly and I’m not about to diss other archery disciplines especially ones I’m ignorant on, so just know that not every culture has the same form. I’m just going to cover a few cultures’ variations, and what I’ve been taught by 21st century Midwest archers. There are several aspects to form, as form is just another term for “everything pertaining to how you shoot”. I’m going to break it down into stance, posture, draw, elbow discipline, holding the bow, and anchor. These are not the only aspects of form (there’s aiming, release, and breath control), but these are the only relevant aspects to drawing archers. I will not be covering mounted archery because I’m sadly ignorant on the topic. I recommend doing your own research and looking into Mongolian mounted archery.

Stance

The thing all stances have in common is that you should put your feet a shoulder-length apart, balance your weight equally between both feet, keep your knees slightly bent, and stand facing approximately 90 degrees away from your target. There are three stances that are common that I’m aware of: squared, open, and closed.

Squared stance means keeping both feet squared up to an imaginary line. Open means that you’re facing slightly towards the target. Closed means you’re facing slightly away. I vary between square and open, and to be honest I’ve never noticed a difference. So long as you draw your character standing with a stable stance, facing away from the target, you should be good.

Posture

Your posture should be with your back straight, your hips squared, and should never have you leaning. Below is one of my favorite archery pictures, not only because I love Marilyn, but because it is a great illustration of what not to do posture wise.

See how she’s leaning back? Yeah, don’t draw your character like that, it looks foolish.

Draw

There are four different types of draw that I’m aware of, I’m educated on three, and I have experience with one (though I’m itching to learn to thumb draw). The types of draw are three fingered draw, otherwise known as Mediterranean draw, pinch draw, thumb draw aka Mongolian draw, and Japanese draw, or torikake. I know fuck all about Japanese draws, so I’m not going to speak out of my ass on topics I don’t understand (if anyone reading practices traditional Japanese archery I would love if you chimed in!). I highly recommend doing your own research on which civilization your character comes from and which draw they use, especially if it’s Japanese because I’m not covering that here.

First up is three-fingered. This is the draw I use, and it’s the most common draw in my limited experience in the Midwestern archery community. It is common in Europe and the Middle East. It requires you to use three fingers, partially wrapped around the string. You do not pinch the arrow. Most people place their index finger above the arrow and their middle and ring finger below, though I’ve seen all different variations. If your character is right handed and uses this draw, draw the arrow on the left side of the bow. Lefties do the inverse, and make sure and draw a left handed bow while you’re at it.

Next is the pinch draw. I’ve never shot with this, nor seen it used. It was common in the Americas and for a time in Ancient Greece. You’re supposed to physically pinch the arrow between your thumb and index finger. Your character would need a full archery glove if you draw them with this grip. The release is supposed to be smooth because there’s only one point of contact, rather than three. I believe you would place the arrow on the right side of the bow when using this technique, but I cannot speak with certainty as I’ve never seen it done (again, lefties would do the opposite).

Last but not least is the thumb or Mongolian draw, though it is/was also widespread in Korea, China, Russia, Persia, Turkey, and the Roman and Byzantine Empires. In this draw you wrap your thumb completely around the string and tuck it behind your other fingers. You do not grab the arrow. This draw utilizes your strongest digit, and so it may be less strenuous than other draws. This draw is commonly used with mounted archery. If your character is right handed and using this draw, put the arrow on the right side of the bow (lefties, do the inverse).

Elbows

Another aspect of your draw that is important is elbow discipline. The elbow of your character’s string hand should not point up into the air. It should point straight back, like the picture below.

Now, the other elbow is important, too. Don’t draw them with a locked elbow, instead keep it slightly bent and rotated inwards, like the picture below.

Holding the Bow

Your character shouldn’t have a death grip on the bow. Instead, show it resting in the curve between the thumb and index finger. Here’s a wikihow article that describes the different ways to hold different types of bows that is more succinct than I could ever be. Ignore the crossbow (derogatory).

Anchor 

Everyone needs an anchor. What’s an anchor, you ask? An anchor is a fixed spot that you draw your string back to whenever you’re going to shoot. It’s necessary in order to ensure consistency, which is accuracy’s best friend. Your anchor spot can vary. I anchor at the corner of my lip. Some people anchor underneath their chin. Some anchor to their ear. I’ve even seen some people in Asian disciplines anchor behind the ear or almost above the head, which is incredibly impressive. Bottom line, unless your character’s archery discipline has them draw behind the ear or above the head, you need to have them touching their head somewhere. The only wrong anchor is a short anchor. If you can’t draw the string back far enough to touch your face, that means you’re either trying to draw back a bow with too high a poundage, or the draw length is too short for you. The picture above of the person with the compound trigger release has a good anchor point on their face. The picture of the person with the arm guard has a good anchor point under their chin.

This person, on the other hand? Their anchor is out in space, that is to say they don’t have one (also their elbow discipline, posture, and stance are atrocious). I see this in fanart ALL THE TIME. It’s a pet peeve of mine. Don’t do this, have them anchor to their head or behind it somewhere.

Carrying The Bow

The best way is to just carry it in your hand by the bow (not the string). You can give your character a bow sling, or a back mount like Legolas has as well. You can slip the string over your shoulder and wear it across your back in a pinch, though this may damage the string. The only really wrong way to carry a bow is by the string, though you can damage your bow carrying it on your back if you’re stupid, and I’ve never tried to do so with a compound. Too pokey.

TL;DR

If you’re drawing a fantasy character, go buck wild. Still make sure to give them the right type of arrowhead, hand protection of some sort, a strong stance (no kneeling or sitting), good posture, a sensible draw, elbow discipline, an anchor point (don’t be like the person above!), and a good way to carry their bow, but you can have fun with the rest. If you’re drawing a character from history, research the archery discipline they would most likely use, and draw them with the appropriate bow type, quiver, arrows, protective equipment, stance, posture, draw, elbow discipline, anchor, and bow carry.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Prompt: what if jc was lxc's age (and jyl maybe 2 or 3 years older) and wwx was lwj's/nhs' age when he was brought to lotus pier? (Or anything that involves a much bigger age gap bw the jiang sibs and wwx - where wwx is babey)

Untamed

“You know what,” Jiang Cheng said to his sister, who looked at him. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m not marrying a woman.”

Jiang Yanli’s lips started twitching uncontrollably and she hid her smile behind her sleeve. “Oh?”

“Nope. I’m going to marry Chifeng-zun.”

“On the basis of…?”

“If you take two adult men in charge of two Great Sects,” Jiang Cheng said, doing his utmost best to keep a straight face, “with all the power we can generate between us, we might – maybe – have a chance at disciplining our baby brothers.”

Jiang Yanli burst out laughing.

“There, there. It’s all right,” he said, grinning, reaching out to pat her on the shoulder. “You can join us if you’d like. There’s enough room in Qinghe for two wives.”

“We are not both running away to Qinghe,” she said, giggling. “A-Cheng!”

“What? I think it’s a great idea. If our parents want us back, they can negotiate with Chifeng-zun for it – may they have more luck than they had with the whole medicinal herb debacle.”

“A-Cheng, I am officially tabling this idea,” Jiang Yanli said, still snorting. “Older sibling privilege.”

“I let you out of the womb first as a matter of courtesy,” Jiang Cheng sniffed. “And now you use it against me? A-Li, how could you?”

“Call me jiejie! It doesn’t matter how much older, a few shichen or a few years, older is still older.”

“You probably elbowed me with those sharp pointy things you have on your arms. Weapons of war.”

“Older is older!” she sang. “Now tell me, what did A-Xian do this time?”

“Would you like it in chronological order, or in order of severity? I can also group it by theme, if you prefer.”

“Oh no,” Jiang Yanli said, covering her eyes. “Oh no.”

“And the chief-most theme,” Jiang Cheng said, continuing anyway, “is still called Lan Wangji.”

“Oh no!”

“He has the worst crush,” Jiang Cheng said, shaking his head with endless amusement. “And he just – refuses to admit it. ‘Nooooo, shixiong, we’re just friends, he can’t even stand me most of the time, he’s always trying to get me in trouble, but sometimes he lets me sit next to him and spend time with him and he’s so handsome and I really just want to make him laugh –’”

“We have,” Jiang Yanli said thoughtfully, “raised an idiot.”

“He was fine when we got him,” Jiang Cheng disagreed. “We have spoiled an idiot.”

“This is true. Maybe we should go form a mutual complaining society with Chifeng-zun; isn’t his little brother also an idiot?”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Jiang Cheng said. “Worse: they’ve teamed up. Nie Huaisang buys Wei Wuxian porn now.”

“Oh no…”

“In return for help cheating on his tests!”

“Oh no!”

“So that’s why I’m going to marry Chifeng-zun,” Jiang Cheng concluded. “Our parents may be disappointed by my decision, but with our powers combined, we might be able to save the world from our respective younger idiots.”

“Maybe,” she said, and shook her head. “A-Cheng – about our parents…”

Jiang Cheng shook his head as well, echoing her action but more in denial. It wasn’t anyone’s fault that she took after their father and he took after their mother, that she was born a shichen prior to midnight and he a shichen after and their personalities completely different as a result; it was no one’s fault that their parents didn’t get along, with their mother disdaining what she perceived as Jiang Yanli’s passiveness and lack of passion and their father despising Jiang Cheng’ prickly temper and difficulty communicating his affection without scolding.

It certainly wasn’t Wei Wuxian’s fault for being younger and more brilliant, talented at everything he did and with just the sort of personality their father liked best – the combination of his former best friend and the girl he’d once thought of marrying – and that he’d always made that preference very clear to everyone, even to their mother who often worried that her husband would dispossess her children in favor of his foundling and who lashed out at everyone in response.

That had hurt – hurt a lot, even, and Jiang Cheng was soft and sensitive underneath all his defensive layers, but any time he got angry over it he would look at Wei Wuxian, their little A-Xian, baby Xianxian, who adored his older siblings more than anything and was adored in return, and he forced himself to get over it. He was old enough, by the time Wei Wuxian arrived, to know to whom the blame really belonged.

“I spoke with Nie Huaisang while I was at the Cloud Recesses,” Jiang Cheng said in an undertone, one reserved just for his sister. “He’s asked me to pass along a message to his brother, the next time I go night-hunting, about the whole debacle – he’s so terribly apologetic, you understand, he couldn’t wait for the post – if we get to Qinghe by tomorrow, Chifeng-zun will be able to get to Gusu in time to intervene before our father does something wretched like cancel your engagement and take A-Xian home early from his studies.”

“The engagement I wouldn’t mind,” she remarked. “If Jin Zixuan feels so strongly about it that he’d get into a fistfight with A-Xian, it’s better not to marry, no matter what our mother might think. But on no account is A-Xian to be sent home early! He needs his education!”

Unsaid was everything else he needed, things he could get better at the Cloud Recesses than anywhere else.

“Then we go?”

“We go,” she agreed. Between the two of them, Jiang Cheng had more talent at cultivation, but she was steadier, even in her overall mediocrity: when the two of them flew on a sword together, they could make it much further and faster than anyone expected.

Qinghe wasn’t really close enough for a quick jaunt – they flew all night without stopping – but Chifeng-zun was amendable to their scheme, jumping at once onto his saber and making his way straight to Gusu. A waste of spiritual energy all around, really, but far faster than their father would move, with his Sect Leader’s dignity and retinue, rushing to the Cloud Recesses to save his precious little Wei Wuxian from having any connections in life that weren’t to the Jiang sect, and the Jiang sect alone. 

And never mind how much he needed those connections: needed to have friends his own age, needed to have more time with that crush of his, needed independence and freedom and everything the Jiang sect supposedly stood for - needed for them to support him and act as the foundation beneath his feet, rather than the chains tying him down to earth.

Chifeng-zun – who was only a few years older than they were – was really a very understanding person, getting the problem at once and immediately agreeing with their view on things. Perhaps there really was something to be said about the difference in generations…

“Let me show you to rooms where you can rest,” Chifeng-zun’s aide said, a slender young man with a polite smile on his face as he saluted. “I’ll arrange for refreshments as well.”

“We hate to trouble you, but in all honesty you are a lifesaver,” Jiang Yanli said to him warmly, and he unexpectedly flushed red at the cheeks. “A-Cheng, let’s follow this handsome young man and rest a while before we return to the Lotus Pier.”

The young man was blushing.

“What’s your name?” Jiang Cheng asked, and the blush faded away at once as the man paled a little: it would be one he expected them to recognize, then, and not in a good way.

“This one is Meng Yao,” he said, and saluted again even though he’d already saluted once before, and Jiang Yanli’s eyes flickered to Jiang Cheng’s very briefly before she caught his arms and raised him up.

“I’ve heard of you. Smart and talented enough to get Chifeng-zun’s attention, even so far as becoming his personal deputy - you must be brilliant. Truly, you deserve a better father,” she told him, and he stared up at her, dumbstruck.

“Don’t mind her,” Jiang Cheng said. “She’s trying out this new thing in which she says everything she feels without thinking first.”

She elbowed him. “And isn’t it your fault?” she asked snappishly. “You’re the one who needs to speak your mind more; I’m just modeling good behavior!”

If she’d been older than him – really older, rather than just a few shichen – maybe she would have held her tongue more and played the role of the peacekeeper, trying to protect him from his father’s indifference the way she had tried to when they were both younger, just as he had tried to distract his mother from her with his hard-fought accomplishments. It wasn’t until they had little Wei Wuxian to spoil and care for, a joint task that required both of their attention, that they realized that splitting their forces like that was pointless and self-defeating: it wasn’t actually helping that Jiang Yanli suppressed so much of her spirit until she felt like little more than a reflective mirror with no content, nor that Jiang Cheng nearly worked himself to death trying to prove that he was worthy of his father’s love and respect that he would never receive, and it never would.

So they stopped.

They were trying very hard to stop, anyway.

“You’re very kind,” Meng Yao murmured, and led them to their rooms.

The moment he closed the door behind him, Jiang Yanli turned to Jiang Cheng and said, “I’ve changed my mind about your plan – we can run away to Qinghe. You marry Chifeng-zun, and I’ll marry that charming boy out there.”

There was an audible thudding sound from the corridor outside, as if someone had accidentally walked into a wall, and they both grinned at each other.

“Mother would kill you,” he warned her in an undertone.

“And being married to someone who disdains me enough to fight over my worthlessness in public wouldn’t?” she retorted, smiling even though her expression was tinged with pain: if she had one ambition in life, it was to never become their mother. “The marriage agreement might have been forged by our mothers, but the text of it says ‘the Jin sect leader’s son to the Jiang sect leader’s daughter’. Why can’t I marry him?”

“He hasn’t been acknowledged.”

“Only technically. Everyone knows he’s the real deal, or else his father wouldn’t have made such a fuss about it.”

“But –”

“Anyway, he must be a good man, or Chifeng-zun wouldn’t have promoted him.”

“I don’t know about that,” Jiang Cheng said. “Chifeng-zun doesn’t have the sense of self-preservation the heavens bestowed on a lemming.”

There was a vaguely audible snort from outside their door. It seemed Meng Yao, at least, had the good sense not to leave guests in his house unattended, and no discrimination against the very useful business of listening at doors.

He also had a sense of humor, which was good given Jiang Yanli’s newfound ambitions in his regard.

“Yes, well, I wasn’t saying I’d elope with him tomorrow or anything,” she sniffed, eyes dancing. “Give him some time to prove himself to me.”

Jiang Cheng couldn’t help but smile back. “That’s true,” he said, raising his voice a little. “At Chifeng-zun’s side, he’ll be able to make a name for himself until the whispers all say that his father was an idiot for keeping him away.”

“And if even that doesn’t work, I’ll marry him in and make him help me run the Jiang sect,” she said cheerfully. “Who needs Lanling Jin?”

“Wait, since when are you inheriting the Jiang sect?”

“I’m older! And anyway, aren’t you marrying Chifeng-zun? That means you’ll be away helping run his sect, and that leaves an opening at home for me.”

“…huh. Good point.”

“Maybe you can just swap places with Meng Yao,” she said, starting to giggle again. “And we can all see how long it takes anyone to notice…”

“Our parents might not,” Jiang Cheng said dryly. “But Chifeng-zun would. If only because I have my sights set on his bed, and I don’t think Meng Yao does.”

“You don’t know that; everyone wants Chifeng-zun. Maybe you have competition.”

“Better to have competition than be oblivious. Do you want to hear the whole story about A-Xian and Lan Wangji’s tragic mutual pining disaster? Xichen-xiong told me all the details he’s been leaving out of his letters.”

“Tell me everything!”

[weirdlittlecorner]

Lin Kuei Hospitality: Cyrax

Notes: nsfw, 18+, comfort

Plot: A little slower, a little more sensual. Because Cyrax is a great character and deserves more attention and love

h/t = hair texture

Tags: @lilliannmac @onesillybeach @icy-spicy

—

The five men stood patiently as they awaited your decision. There was no doubt that any of them would show you a good time, which only made it harder to choose. You pursed your lips as you considered your options. Eventually, your attention shifted to the man in yellow. His dark skin and beautiful hair made him stand out as the most handsome of the men. But funnily enough, it wasn’t just his looks that drew your eyes to him. His demeanor was much different than the others. While he was standing at attention, as disciplined as the rest, there was a small crack in his stone exterior. As if he were in pain, though there was obviously nothing hurting him. That you could see, anyway.

It was almost as if he couldn’t stand being in the others’ vicinity. You wondered what could have happened to warrant such a reaction. This was the first time that you had ever seen any of the warriors up close, so you had nothing to go off of. It was most likely just some petty drama that was common amongst roommates- if they could even be considered as such. It would make the most sense. You, too, had your friends that you loved dearly, but you couldn’t imagine actually living with them every day. Either way, it wasn’t your place to pry.

The Grandmaster cleared his throat impatiently, motioning toward the line of men once more. Clearly wanting you to hasten and pick one so the rest could return to their business. Offering the dark-skinned man a warm smile, you nodded, “Come on, let’s get out of here,”

—

“Thank you for my new buzzsaw. I was able to try it out today; your work is very impressive,” The man, Cyrax, whispered as the two of you made your way through the long corridor to get back to your room. You smiled at the compliment, though that nagging confusion didn’t allow you to fully enjoy his words. His new buzzsaw. The one that had been amongst the new additions to the Grandmaster’s standard request.

What exactly did a clan like the Lin Kuei need all this new technology for? Again, it really wasn’t your business what your clients did with your products. But you couldn’t help but wonder... Whatever was going on, you just hoped that it was at least somewhat ethical.

__

The impending ‘improvements’ were a sensitive subject amongst the warriors. Cyrax had taken the most offense to the idea, as any normal person would, yet his fellow assassins thought that he was the crazy one. No, what was crazy was forcing one to give up their free will in exchange for the efficiency of automation. But he didn’t dare challenge the Grandmaster. Doing so would result in the most severe punishment; as if becoming a fusion of flesh and metal wasn’t already punishment enough.

“Hey, I noticed that you kind of… seem at odds with the others. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but I just thought I’d ask if you wanted to talk about it,” You broke the silence, sinking down onto the bed and patting the space next to you. He claimed the empty space, sitting close enough so that your knees touched.

By the way his brows knitted together, you half-expected him to tell you. But he merely shook his head after a moment, “I am not at liberty to speak on the matter. But thank you for your concern,” His voice was even and had that same cold quality that was the standard, but you could tell that there was great sadness behind his words.

Instinctively, you opened your arms out to him, willing him to position himself in between them. You weren’t really sure what you had expected to happen, but soon enough, Cyrax was locked in your warm embrace. You gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. The two of you stayed like that for a few moments, basking in the silent comfort of each other’s embrace. But soon you felt his shoulders stiffen, along with a kiss being pressed to the base of your neck.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” While you had been excited for tonight’s proposed activities, now was obviously not a great time. You wouldn’t ask him to perform for you just because it was what the Grandmaster had ordered. He needed, deserved, a break. And while you would certainly enjoy the contact, you refused to degrade the man. But he clearly didn’t think the same way. Not when his face was still buried in the crook of your neck.

“I understand that. This is something I want to do,” His words made you shiver as renewed excitement tore through your abdomen. Well, in that case…

A rough hand quickly found its way into your h/t, h/c locks, effectively undoing the delicate hairstyle. A pleasured shiver wracked your body as he used your hair to bring you closer to him as you two shared your first kiss of the night. You hummed as the tip of your tongue darted out to drag itself across his bottom lip, granting you an elicit moan in return.

Without breaking the intense oral lock, Cyrax’ hands freed themselves from the mess of hair in favor of untying the knots in your overshirt. You moved your dominant hand to assist him in the process while your other hand remained cupping his face. Shrugging to remove the fabric from your shoulders, you reluctantly pulled away to unclasp your bra. Seeing that you had things under control, Cyrax removed himself to focus on shedding his own clothing. But not before giving a hard, playful tug on the hems of your pants, effectively pooling them around your ankles.

A giggle slipped past your parted lips as you bent down, yanking your pants, along with your panties, off the rest of the way and kicking off your boots. You repositioned yourself so that your knees pressed against the soft sheets as you returned the favor to your partner. Eager fingertips clawed at the form-fitting armor, as if that would make it disappear faster. Cyrax hummed in amusement at your eagerness before unbuttoning the clasps and untying the knots for you. Impatience turned into wonder as your hands brushed over his chest. His abs. His shoulders. All of which were hard bands of muscle, but also soft in a way. Even his body reflected the gentle demeanor that had separated him from the others. The two of you were content to sit just like this, fingers exploring each other’s bodies.

You embraced each other, much like how you had done previously. Though this time, the intention was very different. The warmth radiating off of the two of you was almost unbearable, but you ignored it as you took to kissing each one of his prominent muscles. He sighed softly, enjoying your impromptu muscle worship. This continued until the pooling heat in your respective pelvises won out and you just had to go further. Cyrax shifted so that his legs boxed in your hips. Pressing himself against you once more, he brought his lips down to your manubrium to plant soft kisses in the crevice of your breasts. Meanwhile, his right hand was making quick work of his pants and boxers, his hard length pressing against your inner thigh. Which, if you might add, was already slick with your dripping arousal.

There was obviously no need to pregame, as you were both more than ready. You didn’t think that you could tolerate more teasing, anyway. Impatient once again, you wrapped your hand around the head of his penis to guide him in. The man groaned as your walls began compressing his cock immediately. With a few more pushes, he was completely in, reveling in the feeling of being consumed by your flesh.

Sighing, your arms found their way around his broad shoulders as he began thrusting into your tight core. The sounds of your mutual pleasure were only slightly louder than the creaking sounds the bedposts made as they scratched the wall behind them. Your e/c eyes closed in bliss as you enjoyed the rocking sensation of intercourse. His lips found yours once more as his speed increased and his hands made their way to your s/c legs. In a fluid motion, your ankles were craned toward the headboard as he pushed himself deeper. The sensation of your cervix being stroked caused you to scream, and you were glad that no one could hear you. You hoped not, anyway. What were once your gentle fingertips rubbing your lover’s back turned into talons that began clawing at the tingling flesh.

If it had hurt, he didn’t complain. But despite your muddled concerns, the feeling of you scratching his back only enhanced the warrior’s experience. He grunted each time your hips met, feeling his climax approaching. And you were right there with him, your smaller body trembling as the familiar knot twisted in your stomach. It kept building, and building until the knot finally uncoiled itself with a burst of wet heat. It felt as if the sun had just imploded inside of you and that you should be a pile of ash. But you were whole, despite the thick dick that was still stretching your pussy relentlessly.

Your screaming had grown impossibly louder as the warrior continued to batter your walls in anticipation of his own orgasm. What seemed like endless abuse to your cervix abruptly ended when you felt a spray of liquid spattering against the muscle. Your lover grunted, his brown eyes screwed shut and his bottom lip bleeding from his teeth cutting through the skin, as he hosed your insides with his warm semen.

Despite having finished, Cyrax made no move to pull out. Rather, he chose to rest over top of you, his cock warm inside your trembling hole. You allowed it.

There were no words. Maybe when you could think clearly again, you would be able to find your voice. It might be a little hoarse, to accompany the ache that would surely be present when you tried to walk in the morning, but that sounded like just that: a morning problem.

[aggressive-positivity-network]

Tf2 headcanons? Aw yeah! So let's say a new merc joins the team. They're a total asshole: Cocky, sarcastic, overconfident, refuse help. But both Spy and Scout see right through that, it's a defense mechanism. How do they go about making this person comfortable enough to not be an asshole?

*chanting* HURT COMFORT HURT COMFORT HURT COMFORT HURT COMFORT HURT COMFORT HURT COMF

Okay, jokes aside, this is one of my favorite tropes. Maybe I’m too naïve to believe that some people are just mean to be mean, or maybe it’s a sort of comfort to know that even the worst people can be understood, but either way, WOOOOOOOOO!

*****************

An Ass For An Ass

Headcanons

Scout:

To be honest, Scout’s threshold for asshole-ery is pretty high. Growing up with eight brothers will do that to you.

But when the new recruit came around, something immediately rubbed him the wrong way.

Recruit always stole his thunder with the crass jokes and over-the-top displays. Every battle turned into a competition, which messed with Scout’s system of fighting. He never had to focus much on his own team before, and now he had to worry about keeping his own reputation upheld while trying not to get stabbed, shot, or blown up.

Recruit also kept hitting on Miss Pauling - even after reminding them again and again that she was lesbian, and was not and never will be into dudes.

“Come on…you just haven’t been with a real man yet…”

“No, no, I’ve been with a lot of men. Real men. I just wasn’t into any of them. After a while, it was kind of obvious.”

But what really pissed a lot of people off was Recruit’s fighting style.

They were an absolute monster on the field - that’s why they were chosen - but every interaction was treated as some sort of survival scenario.

One would think that would be a good thing, but Recruit was ridiculous.

No matter what the situation was, he was fine, he was okay, he could take it, he could fix it.

He could be killed only inches away from a Medic because he would never yell for one. Sometimes Recruit would even show visible anger at being healed. It got to the point where Medic didn’t heal him at all, and just allowed him to die as to not waste time he could give too more grateful patients.

Missions were even worse.

He followed orders to a T, but Pauling had to beg him to leave a failed mission, or to leave without completely destroying the site.

Everyone just took it as Recruit showing off, or having something to prove as a rookie.

It was annoying, but ultimately harmless in most circumstances.

However, it all came to a head when Recruit tried disengage a sentry by himself and was severely injured.

Both Engineer and Medic, who had had to fix most of Recruit’s past and current recklessness, ripped him a new one, one chewing out after the other.

“What we’re you thinkin’, son?! One crossed wire and you woulda blown the whole base!”

“Zhe only reason you are allowed in my lab at all is because it’s in my contract. Personally, I vould have rather left nature to it…”

Since then, Recruit did exactly as he was told, and nothing else. And most of the team liked it that way.

But Scout recognized some warning signs immediately. Fatigue, near silence except for missions, self-isolation, snapping when people got too close…it all paved the way for a pretty nasty (and, for Scout, very familiar) result.

One night, Recruit was sitting on the balcony, and Scout came out with two bottles - a beer for Recruit and a root beer for himself.

(Scout can only drink on the weekends because one, unlike most, he can’t go to work hung over because his job requires a lot of movement, and two, he has no restraint and can’t stop once he starts.)

“What do you want?”

Scout shrugged. “Depends.”

“On what?!”

“What are ya willin’ to tell me?”

Recruit just looked at the beer and sneered.

“Can’t we just skip this?” Scout said. “Maybe get to the part where you tell me what kinda Sally Sob Story we’re dealin’ with here?”

Recruit looked away.

“Aw, c’mon, don’t tell me you don’t got one. ‘Cause you do. I can see it a mile away. So what happened? Pop leave? Somebody died? Lotta brothers and sisters? Ma had a few too many and smacked ya around?”

Recruit didn’t turn around, but Scout could tell he was crying. He had hit a sore spot. Hard.

“Hey, pal, listen…”

Scout trailed off, then slowly began again.

“…the only reason I know is ‘cause I’ve been through it, ‘kay? Outta everybody I knew, I only trusted me. And that was great when I did a good job, ‘cause I knew I put me there.”

Scout opened his bottle of root beer and took a long swig.

“But when I screwed somethin’ up, it’s like everybody I ever knew just let me down. The one thing I could count on was gone.”

Recruit looked at Scout with tears in his eyes.

“But ya can’t do everything by yourself,” Scout continued. “Believe me. I learned that the hard way.”

Scout laughed, but it was mostly to clear the air. He didn’t get serious very often.

Recruit hadn’t touched his beer, but was leaned over the balcony with his head in his hands.

Scout sighed and looked up at the stars.

“But here’s somethin’ that nobody told me - it gets easier, y’know that? You just gotta relax and cut yourself some slack.”

Recruit shifted uncomfortably. “But the Administrator said…”

“Yeah yeah yeah, I know what she said. Gave ya that whole speech about how bein’ part of the team means discipline and focus and whatever. It’s all bull crap. She don’t know the first thing about bein’ on the field. If she did, why’d she hire us?”

“Sh-she said my perseverance was an asset to the team.”

“Perseverance, my ass. You know what would be an asset to the team? Stayin’ alive for more than fifteen minutes!”

Recruit looked at his feet. He had blinked away his tears, but he still looked on the verge of falling apart.

Scout put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it a little.

“You’re a great fighter, Recruit. You’re one of the best…that’s why you’re here. You got nothin’ to prove to nobody. Not to me, not to the team, not to the Administrator…not even to yourself. You’ve made it, kid. You’ve made it.”

Scout slid his hand off Recruit and started to walk away.

“Hey.”

Scout turned to see Recruit in the process of opening his beer.

“Thanks.”

Scout smiled. “No problem, pal. Plenty more under Demo’s mattress.”

“No, I mean…for that. I needed that tonight.”

“Oh…yeah! Sure. Don’t worry about it.”

Scout went back inside and to his room - but not before checking the cameras on the balcony a few times. Just in case.

Over the next few months, Scout kept helping Recruit break some old bad habits.

Recruit learned to take criticism without getting angry, to leave tanked missions, and to take care of himself.

He still occasionally flirted with Miss Pauling, but it was now more of an inside joke than anything.

Recruit still isn’t perfect - he still cringes a little when he’s healed, and falls back into survival mode when times are stressful - but he is now a much happier, much healthier person.

Spy:

Spy’s asshole wasn’t a merc, per se.

They were more of an informant, usually giving out important facts about locations, missions, and a target’s history.

Sometimes they would even use the Administrator’s PA system to announce new rules and reminders.

This would be perfectly fine - after all, you get kind of tired of hearing the Administrator all the time - except for the fact that Informant was the most sarcastic, most nasally, most apathetic, most matter-of-fact person on earth.

Even outside of a work setting, which was rare because they stayed in their office most of the time, Informant would go out of their way to be as condescending as possible.

Especially to whoever they considered to be in the “less intelligent” category: Heavy, Pyro, Scout, Demo, and Soldier.

To all the “others,” he turned every briefing into a contest to see who knew more at any given time…which, of course, usually meant he won.

“Now, does anyone know where his address is? Come on, any takers? Yeah, I thought so.”

Unlike Recruit, which would only warrant a few grumbles here and there from the team, Informant was the subject of a lot of hissed complaints and terrible rants from even the calmest of members.

Informant was the only one who could get under Heavy’s skin - a personal pet peeve of his was being considered less intelligent or less of a human being because English wasn’t his first language, which Informant chose to remind him of constantly.

It began with a few simple jabs at his grammar or word structure, but once Informant figured out that Heavy wouldn’t hurt a fly outside of battle, the taunts grew more and more daring.

Heavy would usually ignore Informant, which would only exacerbate their need to be noticed. This led to some pretty nasty interactions - from spouting the statistics of Russia’s average intelligence to even saying Heavy was a disgrace to his country by being a literature major.

“How’s that Russian literature major treating you? You know - in America.”

Sniper and Medic had tried to set Informant straight, but Heavy refused to accept any help. This was something that was his to bear, and his alone. He knew that they both took their own helping of harassment.

But one day, Informant went a little to far.

He did the one thing you should never do: insult Heavy’s family.

“You mother and sisters can’t do anything more than wait for you. No wonder you’re the only source of income.”

Before he knew it, Informant was against a wall, struggling to breathe, blood running into his eyes.

Heavy walked away after the incident, and told Medic about it, but he refused to heal him. Informant had called Medic a Nazi on more than one occasion.

This, finally, is where Spy comes in.

Spy was walking by Informant’s office, when he heard a strange sound - barely suppressed hiccups and sobs.

Despite his aversion to displays of emotion, the promise of seeing one of his greatest enemies as their lowest was too amusing to resist.

He knocked lightly on the door, then slowly opened it - always the master of drama.

Informant was under their desk, bloodied and bruised, sobbing into their knees.

Spy entered noiselessly, sitting in Informant’s office chair and lighting a cigarette.

It was only when Spy made a dramatic exhale of the smoke that Informant looked up, tears streaking their face.

They stared at each other for a moment, and then Spy finally spoke.

“Oh, how the mighty fall. Flown too close to the sun, have we?”

Informant couldn’t do much more than snivel and retreat farther below the desk.

“Who did it?” Spy asked. “I want to give them my regards…and maybe a bottle of wine.”

“H-Heavy…”

“Oh? Well, if anyone can bring him to blows, it’s you.”

Spy put his feet on the desk and continued to blow smoke out of his nose, thinking.

“It’s strange,” he said. “Most offices have at least a few pictures of family. A trip to the beach, perhaps the zoo…?”

He took a quick glance around.

“No children. No army mates. No graduation photos or a large catch at a local lake. The only personal item you have is this…”

Spy picked up a Rubik’s Cube. The plastic still around it crinkled.

“Unused.”

Informant looked at the floor.

“I like to keep my personal and professional life separate.”

Spy pursed his lips and squinted.

“How noble of you. But I don’t think that’s the case. You know what I think, Informant?”

Spy took his feet of the desk and bent down, looking Informant in the eyes.

“I don’t think you have a life.”

Informant’s eyes went wide for a moment, then his face immediately crumpled. Bullseye.

Spy smirked and got up from the chair, starting to leave.

Informant’s sniffling turned into sobbing, and before Spy could put his hand on the doorknob, muffled wailing filled the office.

Spy closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. He was trying not to remember something. But the imagery was too strong.

He remembered hiding under a table, like Informant was. People screaming and cursing at each other in French. His knees all scarred and his nose runny from a cold that should have resolved weeks ago. Waltz music coming from next door, trying to drown out the fighting. Glass breaking. Biting his knuckles so he wouldn’t whimper or cry.

Spy’s hand closed into fist. He took a deep breath, and turned to face Informant again.

“But to be fair…”

He walked towards the desk, putting his hand in his suit pocket. He got on his knees and pulled out a pink handkerchief.

“…I don’t have one either.”

He offered the handkerchief to Informant, who put it to his face, still staring at Spy through red eyes.

The pair were silent for a moment, with Spy putting out his cigarette and lighting a new one while Informant cleaned themselves up.

“But the difference between you and I,” Spy said, his voice wavering a bit, “is that I am a Spy. If my information got into the wrong hands, it could be the end of me and my team.”

He tapped his cigarette on a nearby trash can, letting the ashes fall into it.

“But what are you hiding from?”

Informant took a shaky inhale, the handkerchief still covering his nose and mouth.

“W-what?”

“Why do you feel the need to be, as Scout puts it, a tier five jerkazoid?”

Informant sniffled. “I…I didn’t think I took it that far.”

“Took what that far?”

“I just…snrk…I thought that’s what I had to do to get them to take me seriously.”

Informant laughed, but their heart wasn’t in it.

“I’m five foot four with red hair and freckles. I look more like someone’s Andy doll than a contract killer. I thought maybe if I knew everything…I’d be worth it.”

They shrugged.

“At best, they’d be impressed. At worst, they would never get close enough to me to know the truth: the only reason why I’m here is because I can rattle off a few names and that I had good grades in school because I had nothing better to do.”

Spy’s chest ached. He didn’t know why, but it was a strange feeling to him.

“Mon ami…”

He cleared his throat.

“If half of the team is any indication, you don’t need to be Nikola Tesla to be hired. Hell, the fact you can read is an anomaly in itself. But there is something you must understand…”

Spy cleared his throat again. His voice had gotten quite unstable all of a sudden.

“Intelligence is measured in different ways. Scout could never read even the simplest of children’s books, but his physical intelligence - reflexes, spatial awareness, aim - is phenomenal. Medic would have to put my spine back together if I even attempted to do what he does on the field.”

Informant snickered at the joke, or perhaps the image it conjured.

“And me,” Spy continued. “I can speak almost any language, adjust to any social setting, charm anyone, fool anyone…kill anyone. Just like you, I can remember, and I use the information I absorb mostly to show how superior I am to all my lowly colleagues.”

Spy furrowed his brow and looked away.

“But I know less about myself than even my enemies. I have hidden it so deep within my mind that I can hardly remember…or perhaps would rather not remember…who I was before this mask of mine.”

Informant hesitated. “I…I’m sorry, Spy.”

Spy sneered and puffed a few smoke rings.

“I don’t want your sympathy. I want you to have some self-respect - and respect for my teammates. Because next time you are beaten within an inch of your life, you might catch me in a less generous mood.”

With that, Spy got up, reached into his suit pocket and presented a small MediKit, which he tossed to Informant.

“I’d suggest freshening up before going to any more briefings.”

Informant nodded, and set to work healing himself.

Spy started to leave, then stuck his head back in.

“And hang a few posters, would you? Your office looks like a prison cell.”

Finally, the Frenchman took his leave, adjusting his suit and nodding solemnly to the team members he happened to pass - or scowling at them, depending.

He glanced over the security feed, and once he was satisfied, made his way to his smoking room.

Spy closed the heavy oak door, poured himself a small glass of scotch, and sat down in his chair next to the fireplace.

He put a magazine on his knee and began to flip through the pages, but his gaze soon started to wander.

He closed the magazine, tossed it into the fire, leaned into his hand, and wept.

…So what became of Informant?

Well, after a reluctant heal from Medic and a few well-deserved apologies, Informant began to try and break the cycle of self-sabotage.

The process took a lot longer than Recruit’s did - especially since Informant’s transgressions were a lot more egregious - but, little by little, they began to heal.

A lot of the time, the other mercs would have to tell them to tone it down a bit, or to cut him off completely if necessary.

Informant still almost has a panic attack if he doesn’t have the right papers, and his office is still pretty bare, but he took Spy’s advice - a few AC/DC posters hang on the leftmost wall.

As for Spy, well…he needs to have a talk with Medic.

******************

I am so sorry…this is all so messy and weird. One is so much longer than the other, and I’m not even sure half the dialogue sounds right.

The two headcanons were just typed out at different times, the first where I had less motivation and the second when I had more motivation. This wasn’t on purpose, it just happened.

I hope you still like it, though!

[halliewriteshockey]

In which the Kraken comes to my hometown

Some notes on the game last night, since I just really need to talk about this. There are gonna be like three people who are interested in my take so this is for you guys.

They’re not really playing as a team yet. More like discrete pieces all wearing the same uniform. However, I did see occasional flashes of brilliant teamwork (that mostly got foiled by the Oilers and their actual team chemistry) and there’s a promise of good things to come.

Their power play is uhhh sad. Penalty kill isn’t great but at least we didn’t allow any goals during them. They seemed fairly disciplined and only got a few penalties. 

We started off mostly in our zone but by the end of the game were generating some excellent chances. The Oilers’ goalie was fucking superb and he robbed us blind over and over. 

Haydn Fleury and Jamie Oleksiak are building excellent chemistry as a D-pair. Also it was fun to watch Haydn bodying random Oilers into the boards. I know he’s 6′3 but he doesn’t seem big to me somehow. But he plays a very physical game! (At one point he fell and an Oiler was trying to check him but ended up just sort of... falling on top of him. squish)

More under the cut as I ramble my thoughts.

Nathan Bastian may be separated from his soulmate but he’s playing well. He somehow managed to break two sticks on one face-off and judging from the look on his face, he had no idea how he did it either. Someone said something and he just gave the most adorably baffled shrug as he skated back for his third stick. (Also I’d love to know why people are so hard on him for his skating? He’s not fast, that’s true, but he’s agile and quick in corners and he has no problem controlling himself.)

Our defense is not strong enough yet. The Oilers’ was much better. We had a lot more shots on goal but they were the only one with a goal until literally the last minute of regulation time because they were so vigilant about defending their goalie. Also, Tyson Barrie is fuckin’ killing it. He was on the ice for most of the game, and while I’m not saying he’s the only reason, it’s true that he was off the ice both times we scored. Also, getting to see his adorable face in person made my year.

Grubi is superb. (To no one’s surprise.) He only allowed one goal and his playing was a delight to watch. Joey Daccord came in for the third period and he did great too, although he was at the far end and I didn’t get to see his adorable face, dammit.

At one point, Alexander True was too close to Grubi in his defensive position, and Grubi put a hand on his ass and just... gently scooted him over so he could see.

All the Silvertips boys were sitting right behind us but I didn’t get a picture because they were too close and I didn’t want to be creepy. My daughter meeped when we bumped into several in the gift shop though, because she has no chill.

Jordan Eberle was a standout for me, as were Fleury and Bastian, and unsurprisingly, Jared McCann was awesome. Brandon Tanev was scratched, probably just to give him a day off. I don’t think we’re gonna get super far this year but we have a good, solid foundation and it’s gonna be fun to see how it goes. 

(Also, I’m going to training camp on Monday, so I will have a ton of pictures after if anyone wants to see them!)

Bonus: