#rejects corners

[lovelessrage]

Inspired by the last post I reblogged but people need to accept some aroallos will have traditional relationships with one or more people, with whichever labels they want to use for said relationship[s], and some won't. Some aroallos do fit the stereotype of no-commitment hookups, and that's ok! Some don't at all and that's ok too. But to really, REALLY support aroallos, you have to support aroallos in whatever relationship or lack thereof they pursue. Sex isn't an immoral action, it's just a thing to do with one or multiple people. It is a neutral activity that means different things to different people. You don't have to have any love [romantic, platonic, etc] for someone to have sex with them. You don't need a fwb or a partner. You shouldn't have to justify your relationships [if you have them] to allos. You just need what works for you and the person[s] you chose to do it with.

[sillyfairygarden]

uhhh double life but its a snowy medeival story about a wet cat, her ex-husband, and his polycule

[poetryinthedark]

Echo Chamber

I've listened to your litanies for eons;

dogmas and diatribes

against the vulnerable.

And, as I retreat deeper into myself -

introversion from now on,

a kind of conversion,

but with some catharsis

rather than a crisis

of identifying this body.

And, the trauma of smelling death.

I've found solace.

Beneath the slatted beams

where thick marrow forms insulation

from the cold inside, and through

the steepled chambers

hallowed prayer beats

staccato in the hollow halls.

Faithless cacophonies peel off the tolling bell

resurrecting wraiths with a single ring

whose voices burn with something

Unimaginable; liturgies

for the selfish sacrifice...

[ishanijasmin]

alive alive

contemplating the living forces of nature, thinking about life beyond biology (the layperson's perspective)

i have been thinking a lot about how the earth is alive. maybe even how the world is alive. like, alive alive. the all-singing, all-dancing, moving, caressing, feeling, vibing atmosphere that we have all found ourselves in. the twinkle of the stars, the erosion of a cliff face, the coming and going of the seasons, the whip of the wind, the rise and fall of the sea, the trickle of a stream. so much of the earth is not what we regard as being alive, and i find it fundamentally unusual that we reserve the idea of life for things that manifest in a specific way. i’m not a biologist, and the science of the universe baffles me. but i don’t know how to stand at the edge of an ocean, my feet slowly being consumed by the waves, wet silt building slowly around my ankles to stabilise me, without thinking, ‘what is this, if not alive?’ what does the ocean do if not soothe? what do the cliffs do if not hold?

last week i took a boat trip to berlenga island, just off the coast of lisbon. i am always humbled by the ocean—by its vastness, and as someone for whom the titanic is always in mind, by its mercy. on the journey back to the hotel, i sat on the floating front of the prow of our little boat for a while and let my legs dangle, watching the waves, and it was as close as you can probably be to riding the sea.

as i got progressively more queasy, i followed the patterns for a long time, and i couldn’t really figure out which direction anything moved in, including myself. lost at sea, immeasurably. so later, i looked it up. did you know waves move in circles? you probably did. i didn’t. i have absolutely no idea how these natural processes work. if i were in an ancient civilisation, i would get hit by wind exactly one time before being like, ‘wow, this is witchcraft, i’m doomed.’ wind: caused by the varying pressures in the atmosphere? hot air rises and cold air rushes in? a mystery! feels plenty alive to me! why does it hit my face the way it does—why some days the gentle stroke of a breeze on my sweaty back in the summer, and others a force big enough to move oceans? why at the same time? lisbon is a particularly significant place to be thinking about this: a city plighted by earthquake, great fire, and tsunami in a matter of hours, and left to rebuild from the wreckage.

i’ve had this in over my head experience with windsurfing and paragliding, as well. the wind, never tamed, but understood by people who’ve been observing it for a lifetime and who still prefer to use modern technology to double check their voyages are safe. a respect and a fear instilled by regarding these changes around us as almost alive. almost.

it’s not that i don’t trust scientists when they explain simple geological concepts to me—i suppose it’s like intellectually knowing something rather than intrinsically knowing it deep, deep in your bones. how can you demystify that? how can the winds—the oceans, the lakes, the tectonic plates, the rock formations and volcanoes—how can they not be alive? they are growing, shrinking, subsisting and existing like all of us, not just to hold life as an ecosystem, but as motion in themselves—erosion, weathering, death and becoming.

i have been reading braiding sweetgrass of late, which is where a good deal of thinking about this comes from. in the book (at least the half of it i’ve read so far), kimmerer talks a lot about the reciprocity between people and land, and the idea that we are all alive and that the earth, the sky, the land and its processes are not a dead ‘it’ while we are an alive ‘they’. the earth is being all the time and so am i and so are we all, and it’s kind of hard to think about and also to not think about.

where am i with all this? breathing through the crushing feeling in my chest that has kept me company every day since i can remember; thinking about doing laundry, about growing a flower trail up the side of my apartment that the kids next door won’t prick themselves on, on getting rid of the fungus gnats that are plaguing a couple of my plants, about my husband who has a headache and is squinting, about recharging. the ecology and community of self is as alive as anything else. dwelling on the world and where we all fit into it and how to preserve ourselves and each other—the human each other, the animal each other, the plant each other, the tectonic plate rock formation beach gravestone church road brick wall limestone cliff fossilised shell firewood smelted and mined ring earthquake each other.

[adornself]

5-2-24

[lost-in-fandoms]

Manifesting a pole and good race in Spain by having GP make Max drive qualifying with a plug <3 (praise kink, little bit of dom/sub dynamics)

cw: explicit sexual content, probably unsafe driving practices (can't think this is safe in a F1 car), probably nonsense technical talk

"Okay Max, we're aiming for something between zero and plus two in this lap."

Max shifts gears, GP's voice clear in his ears. His focus is divided still, part on the track and part on the pressure of the plug inside him, on the way he's half hard in his fireproofs. As if he's reading his mind, GP speaks again.

"How does it feel, Max?"

It's a thrill, knowing that to anyone else it will sound like GP is only asking about the car, about the settings, about the track, but Max knows he's actually asking about both things at once. Their game, their secret.

"Okay," he says, voice steady. The plug is his smallest one, but it's still an insistent presence in the corner of his mind. At least for now. He knows it will feel different later.

"Three cars ahead of you," GP informs him, and Max wonders if he too is half hard, or if his control stretches that far. "Russel has gone, now only Gasly and Piastri. Recharge off before turn 13."

Max takes a breath in. Holds it.

"And you can go whenever you're ready."

He breathes out, and for one minute and 13 seconds he's one with the car. His heart pumps with the engine, cylinders pushing blood around his body, fingers melding with the steering wheel, feet holding the carbon fiber itself. For one minute and 13 seconds his body and its needs don't matter unless they're bound to what the car is doing.

"And recharge on. Good lap."

GP's voice slams him back to himself, man separated from machine. He shifts, and suddenly his body remembers itself, the sharp bite of arousal stealing his breath for a moment, long enough to muffle whatever GP is saying.

"Sorry, what was that?" his finger doesn't shake as he presses the radio button, not yet, but he still feels charged, electric.

"Box this lap, Max. Anything you want to change?"

An out Max doesn't want.

"Maybe one click on the front wing."

"Copy."

He doesn't go back out during Q1, just sits in the car with the screens in front of him, watching his time drop from p1 to p6, but remain safe. Usually GP stays on his spot on the wall, but Max isn't too surprised when he comes over, leaning over the halo to catch his eye.

"Do you need a break?" he asks, low enough nobody should pay attention to it, but vague enough that even if they did, it wouldn't matter.

"I'm okay," Max reassures, shifting slightly just to check. Now that GP is this close, it's harder to keep his hands away from himself, but he manages. He's being good and he wants to keep being good.

"If you need a break, you tell me. Clear?"

Max nods, but GP reaches forward slightly, tipping his chin up to meet his eyes again.

"Max."

Visual and verbal confirmation, always. That was one of the things GP had made him promise before they had agreed to try this.

"Clear," Max confirms, nodding again. His voice catches a little, and GP hands him his bottle before he can even think about reaching for it.

"Good," GP says, mouth ticking up at Max's responding shiver, before patting his helmet and standing back.

Q2 is a bit harder. Sitting still in the car, nothing to think about but the pressure that isn't quite enough, has done nothing to cool Max down, but still his desire is just a lake: deep and quiet, something he dips into when he's not focusing on going fast, faster than anyone else. It's manageable.

"We're doing a cooldown lap and then you're going again, Max."

Max frowns. It means his lap wasn't good enough, and in his current mindset that's slightly more upsetting than usual.

"Where did I lose time?" not good enough! his brain screams. He clenches his hands on the steering wheel.

"Turn 4, the exit of 10 and then 11 and 12. There's the toggle available for turn 4 if you need it."

There's a long pause. Max grits his teeth, forcing himself to not close his eyes while he waits, knowing it would be catastrophic. He lets two cars pass him by, not even bothering to check who they are.

"Track should be clear after the two Ferraris go. Recharge off before turn 13." Then finally, "you're doing a good job, Max."

Max breathes out.

He wishes there was a way to ask him to say it again, to say it right, but he knew what he had agreed to when this had started.

He flicks the recharge off.

"Recharge on, mode 8 and let Russel by. Well done, Max."

Relief washes through him, both for the lap and for the praise, making him wish again he could close his eyes, making him wish GP was touching him while speaking.

GP doesn't come by to check on him this time, and Max is equally relieved and disappointed, wanting to have him close, not knowing if he'd be able to resist the temptation to reach out for him.

His car is the last one out in Q3 and he doesn't know how much of that choice was dictated by GP just wanting to keep him sitting still a little longer, keep him wanting. They both know racing comes first, but he wonders, if it didn't harm his qualification, how much GP would let himself lean into this game they're playing.

"Feel free to push a little more on this outlap."

The vibrations of the car send sparks up his spine now, his lower back feeling a little tense, the plug feeling bigger. His throat clicks when he swallows, his tongue heavy in his mouth. When GP speaks again, Max almost asks him to keep talking through his lap, stay close, say more. He doesn't, but only just.

"Recharge off."

Max wills himself back into full focus, but it's different than it was before. The need to go faster, to come out on top, to push the car, hit the apex, find the limit, be better coils itself around the need swirling in his gut to grind down, to shift, to put his hand inside his own fireproofs, to be good. Max wonders if the people outside can see it, all this need bleeding out, flowing around the carbon fiber, turning with the tyres, burning with the engine. His breath comes in short harsh puffs. He doesn't blink.

"And recharge on. That's P1 for now, good job."

It's harder to disentangle himself from the car this time, to undo the knotted lines of his desires. He feels like he's vibrating, doesn't know if he's shaking or if it's the car underneath him. The sun feels brighter, his skin tighter.

"Box this lap, Max. Everything okay?"

No. Yes. I don't know.

His thoughts are starting to slip, but it's too soon, there's still so long left before he's allowed to.

"Max."

If he'd ask for it, GP would find the way to make it right, even with the limited time they have. But this is right, this is what he had asked for, what they discussed.

"All good." His voice is raspy, he can almost imagine it crackling through the radio. He wonders if GP will come over to the car again, wanting to get a new visual check, knowing that Max has pushed himself further than what he was comfortable with before. He doesn't know if he hopes he does or not.

GP doesn't, but he turns to look at him while he drives past the pitwall, and Max nods, knows he'll see it.

His body feels wound tight as he waits to go out again, set in anticipation for everything after while also trying to stay in the now. He asks for his drink again, wills his hands to be steady. Forces himself to not walk out of the car to go drop on his knees next to GP's stool.

It's relief and torture to drive again, to keep his eyes open and his mind present for every meter of the circuit, knowing he can't afford to slip, not even a little.

"Currently P3 Max. Focus on the exit of turn 5 and 10. Recharge off before 13. You know the tools you have."

Max knows with unshakable certainty that if he was to say now that he needed a break, GP would give the rest of qualifying up for him. He also knows himself enough to be sure he will not need it.

It's impossible to fully disconnect from his body now, to not feel the way the car hurtling around track makes it move and shift, but he curls his needs around each other again until he's holding everything tightly in his gut. And then he drives.

"And that's P1, Max, well done, good job."

The words land in Max's mouth, heavy as if he had been the one to speak them, sweet as if GP had put them there with his own tongue. He lets himself slip just a little, taking a hand off the steering wheel between turn 9 and 10 and shutting out Christian's voice.

He digs his fingers into his own tight, hopes the other part of his brain is spitting out something coherent enough.

Almost time. His whole body thrums with the knowledge of it.

He manages to pull himself back a little, enough to not wobble as he gets out of the car, to clasp hands with Lewis and Carlos, to find words to say during his interview.

And then finally, finally, he gets to walk away, even if just for a few minutes, to go look for GP.

He finds him sitting on the small couch in his driver room, knees splayed wide, eyes focused on Max as soon as he lets himself in.

"Come here," he orders, in the same voice he uses on track.

As he always does, Max goes.

A part of him wants to drop to the floor, but GP tugs him into his lap, hands firm on his waist, mouth finding his with a certainty that makes Max's head spin.

"You did well," GP says when they separate, Max panting and whining already, grinding forward and then pushing back, looking for relief. "You deserve your reward now, right?"

Max nods, letting his head drop on GP's shoulder, mindlessly mouthing at his neck, hands useless around his shoulders.

"So good, so far gone for me already."

GP somehow manages to get his hand inside his inner layers, index finger pushing on the plug before toying with it, dragging gasps and moans from Max, making him writhe in his lap, keeping him still with the other one on his waist.

"Please, inside," he begs, feeling tears gather on his lashes, "please."

He's shaking now, all the coiled desire ready to snap, but GP shushes him, finally taking out the plug and immediately replacing it with a finger before Max has even the thought to complain.

"Two?" he asks, waiting for Max's breathless assent before pushing his index finger next to the other, pleasure and pain shooting up Max's spine in a show of sparks.

"You can come whenever you want, you have earned it."

Max closes his mouth around the collar of GP's team shirt, trying to not be too noisy, and grinds forward against his stomach, too many layers between them, feeling his fingers twist inside him.

He's so so close, he just needs...

"So good, Max," GP says, before Max can even think about stringing enough braincells together to form the whole thought. "Good boy."

Max comes with a jolt, untouched in his underwear, biting down on GP's shoulder, shaking and gasping his way through it as he tries to get somehow even deeper, closer.

He's still boneless and floating as he feels GP replace his fingers with the plug again, whines even if he knows they don't have time for him to properly fuck him now, knows it will have to wait for later. Feels a kiss being pressed onto his sweaty temple, then another on his hair.

"Breathe now," GP reminds him, still unflinchingly steady, even if Max can feel him hard underneath him. "Good boy."

Max knows he soon will have to gather himself again and go for more interviews, knows he will feel the ghost of GP's hands on him for the rest of the day until they can properly fall into a bed, reassurance and taunt wrapped into one. For now though, he lets himself be held and praised, content.

[maxwell-grant]

From Shadow Magazine #39: Road of Crime

I want more of you to appreciate how often part of The Shadow's plan to uncover in-depth crucial information about a case or it's suspects boils down to "send Harry Vincent somewhere and let him make new friends", and the fact that it works.

For further context: Graham Wellerton is a very smart, very cagey and very bitter ex-criminal currently trying to turn over a new leaf and redeem himself through extensive philantropy with his evil bastard uncle's inheritance (he is the main character and the story is about his redemption). Wellerton spends much of the book trying to ignore the people after him that forced him into criminality, but he's so paranoid that, just before the climax, he ends up viciously and venomously turning on the people that pulled him out of jail and overlooked his past and housed him and inspired him to try and better himself, even spouting how stupid he was to trust anybody.

I was right when I was crooked. I trusted no one then. I refused your friendship because I suspected everyone who ever pretended to be my friend.

That same guy also repeteadly let a stranger from Michigan into his home for chat with never the slightest bit of suspicion, not even when Harry's visit is interrupted by Wellerton's wife (the person that basically forced him into crime). That same guy has also spent this whole book scared of The Shadow, terrified that The Shadow will pick up his trail again and come for him, regardless of his attempt to reform (completely unaware that, not only has The Shadow never once lost his trail, but has been working silently to ensure he stays reformed).

That guy? Never once suspected Harry. Nobody ever does unless they're villains. Harry Vincent is just The Most Trustable Man Alive.

[soulinkpoetry]

I can take rejection as easy as taking my breakfast in the morning. But yours…. yours is a jagged pill that tears the esophagus on its way down.

@soulinkpoetry

When it comes to you it’s a different story.

.

[tiredmaster]

I desire him carnally.

[inigostears]

WHY is he LIKE THIS

[professional-little-lark]

Maybe I just want the new eggs to be given a chance

[psylynt-p]

[all I have to give]

don't really know

how to let go or let

whatever in. if it

could be an option, I

might choose eternal silence

and stillness, as there's when

I feel the most peace. and

it's not great, not joyous or

exciting, doesn't inspire

me at all... but

I'm okay with that. I don't mind

nothingness, for I feel

it's the most honest expression

of existence.

---

where was I before now?

where will I be after?

I hear Death whisper

the most beautiful poetry.

[poetryinthedark]

[ishanijasmin]

fashioning the self: a journey through wardrobe + identity

it’s a sunday afternoon in what i would safely call the early middle of summer. i shove a coat and a suit into a reusable grocery bag, and shuttle it through a heaving euston station. i have twenty minutes to wait for my train because its delayed, so i beeline to oliver bonas to see what’s happening in fashion today (it’s the same thing that’s been happening every time i visited my parents for the past three months. i don’t think i have once successfully bought something at oliver bonas, not for lack of wanting to, but i guess for lack of being able to justify spending £70 on a cardigan. there’s a watermelon-shaped wallet on sale that has me like, surely you wouldn’t be so crass as to make a palestine emoji-themed wallet, but you can never tell with capitalism.) this morning i checked my facebook for the first time in a month and realised my profile picture is from my wedding, which was nearly two years ago. and that led to me going through my profile pictures and cringing at my teenage self, but not changing it because summoning the emotional energy to go through my photos and potentially upload something would be saying that i still care about facebook and i don’t know if i want to do myself like that.

i don’t know if it’s the dopamine window shopping trip, the woman next to me whose sparkly outfit i compliment, the hate scroll, the empty seat at the euston station piano that i half-contemplate filling, or the fact that i feel increasingly unable to represent myself the way i want to in my own body and closet that has me thinking about fashion today. in reality, i’m always half-thinking about it. it’s been something that governed me since i found myself part of the myfitnesspal generation aged 14.

i think sartorial representation is difficult for most folks - the idea that you’ll stumble upon the right combination of clothes and makeup and nail styling and hair and weight and muscle tone and race and gender and ability and you’ll be covetable and interesting and beloved, but like, in an easy and consumable way that raises no queries, and preferably in a way that can be completed in an afternoon. the makeover is a sexy, sexy idea, right? the makeover gives the impression that you can be done. nay, the movie itself gives the impression that you can be done, by the sheer requirement for it to have an ending. i used to feel like my wardrobe could be finished, and around the age of 27 i concluded that it can’t, because i am never finished; the thought of it is nerve wracking and exciting and numbing in equal measure. to never be finished is beautiful, but to still have things to accumulate (and thereby, to shed) is kind of sickening. 

the phases i’ve been going through have brought me to where i am, which is kind of loud but also uncertain. i’m wearing silk sweatpants my tailor and friend, kelsang, made for me on commission. these are my latest and greatest attempt to merge my style and my heritage - a mashed up inside joke nod to me spending a quarter of my life in the gym with material i could literally never wear there. and they look good, but i don’t know if they look good on me. last year i opted to get myself a name necklace, inspired by sex and the city’s carrie - but i couldn’t bear to get one in english, so i got one in hindi despite the fact i deliberately skipped learning the alphabet in learning the language. where i am right now has me feeling phony - it really highlights the in-betweenness of my existence, in a way that normcore or only wearing black didn’t really tap into because the only wrong way to go monochrome is not to do it. it also has me feeling boring. i don’t know how to put things together anymore, i don’t feel like i have the right shoes for my outfits, and it feels like i’m leaving the house in a turtleneck and jeans 70% of the time.

this isn’t helped by the suit in my tesco bag being a peacock blue tailored commission from around 3 years ago, that’s seen me through a bunch of stage shows and some particularly extravagant days out. me retiring it to my parents’ house means accepting that this isn’t me right now - i’m not the person wearing a turquoise iridescent suit out and about, just maybe to a wedding once every 3 years. i don’t know who that makes me now. the pieces we abandon, temporarily or forever, the ones that we acquired that don’t fit who we are now or the person we thought we could become—these are all goodbyes, not just to the apparel, but to the person that was or could have been.

yesterday i went to a party dressed as shania twain from man! i feel like a woman, and i put on eye makeup for the first time since my wedding and felt uncomfortable with myself, caricaturesque, because more so than ever, i don’t really feel like a woman. yes, i am growing into my body in a lot of ways, getting stronger slowly, but i found myself on the tube wanting to say, ‘don’t worry! i don’t do this all the time.’ do what—wear poorly applied eyeliner? it’s london and literally no one cares how well your makeup is applied because you can bet they’ve know someone who can do a full face on the central line and compared to that incredible subset of people, we are all bronze medalists in the femme olympics.

all this discomfort and, and every one of us just a ball of neurons in a flesh vehicle. i am ever moving and changing, whatever that looks and feels like: all black or in wild technicolour, long hair or short or shorn or shaven, suit or sari or sundress or sweatpants, showing up. showing up and calling my dad to tell him i’m late and i love him, always steadily coming to terms with my imperfections. leaving my clothes in the liminal storage space of my parents’ garage because i myself stand perpetually in the liminal space between my parents’ house and my own, between who they made me and who i am making myself. to be done is be perfect is to be finished, and when i am finished i will be dust, and there’s some sort of deep relief somewhere in knowing that.

[adornself]

unfinished rought draft

[misspermitted]

Emotionally Regulating be like:

Good news! You completed step 1 and recognised you were emotionally unregulated.

Bad news! Yo Narrator what was step 2 again? Narrator??