#too slow and useless and unproductive

[echoesofadream]

taecho a/b/o au where I am an alpha taehyung is omega and he is making me go like this

with his perfect perfect perfect lean toned long fleshy smooth silky soft perfect perfect body he probably smells like earth and ocean and honey and musk and strawberry and caramel and vanilla and my alpha needs to claim him so bad im going to bite him not just his neck I need to bite his thighs and arms but I will bite his neck and give him my mark and I will.breed him

military wife alpha era

[whyse7vn]

KIM NAMJOON

MOONLIGHT BLUES:

“You hear you know whose new song yet?”

“No” You’re lying and you’re pretty sure Namjoon knows you’re lying too but he hums in acknowledgment anyways.

It’s late like past 12 AM late yet you find yourself laying on the grass of Mr Kim Namjoon’s not so surprisingly large garden with the main man himself. You don’t know how long the both of you have been laying there and quite frankly you don’t even want to know today’s been- well correction yesterday’s been an… off day a unproductive day a useless day. You blink up at the stars that decorate the pretty black sky and you could swear they blink back.

“Think it’s about you”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm definitely”

“Cool”

There’s a pause. Silence. Not comfortable but not awkward either. Just silence. You’re tired Namjoon’s tried you know you should head inside Namjoon knows you should head inside yet you both remain unmoving from the grassy floor. You don’t need to turn your head to know he’s deep in thought

thinking

realll fucking hard at that, and at this point he might as well be thinking out loud. It’s like you can hear the cogs turning in his mind hear the questions he’s yet to ask.

You itch to turn and ask him to verbalise his thoughts you have answers of course you have answers. Answers you’ve been sure of for a while now, answers you’ve practiced giving, answers you’ve gone over and over in your head, answers you once tried to deny, answers that no matter how far you try and push them away they come back stronger and truer than before answers you just want to scream out.

The itch to ask grows and grows and after a several moments you find yourself almost talking up the screaming out option but

breathe

it’s like the silence interrupts you. Not comfortable not awkward. The silence you’d both created tells you to wait.

You close your eyes and rest you hands on your stomach.

Silence.

You let out a deep sigh.

The air is thick.

Silence.

You swallow.

Silence.

You begin to heat up

Silence.

You fidget.

Silence.

Your still.

Silence.

You feel his eyes on you.

“Is it?”

The silence no more. “Your ex wrote a song about—”

“Us”

“Us?” His eyes widened yours remain closed.

“Valentine’s day you brought me roses early in the morning he was there”

“What?”

“Not physically, of course, but on the phone was talking about collecting our things from each other when you knocked”

“On valentine’s day of all days?”

“His timing has never really been the greatest”

“Is that why you didn’t ask me to come in?”

“I don’t normally ask, you just come in”

“Yeah but… that day. I wanted you to ask” it’s a loaded answer so loaded it’s practically overflowing with meaning.

“That day. I wanted you to ask”

“Oh….

A pause

“If i had kno—”

“You couldn’t of”

“But if—”

“You couldn’t of simple as that a fault on both our parts it’s in the past now”

“But- right… You’re right”

“It’s rare when i’m not”

“You sound like Jin”

“Or does Jin sound like me?”

He lets out a small laugh and you finally open your eyes and face him.

Namjoon smiles and blinks at you twice endeared you can’t help but blink back. The crinkles by his eyes is what you notice first, genuine admiration behind them your eyes flicker down to his plump pink lips you imagine how they feel slotted against your own. From what you can remember out of the handful of times you’ve kissed Namjoon you know that his kisses are slow. Namjoon likes to savour his kisses, his kisses are perfect… well almost perfect they lack…. commitment per say it’s like he doesn’t give himself fully in the moment he hesitates holds back. You wonder if you were to press your lips onto his in this very moment he’ll hold back like he’s done many times prior or this time will he surprise you? Perhaps he’ll give you everything he has to offer and more. You peel your eyes off of his lips and look at his face again fully. The moonlight paints him blue.

Blue.

Namjoon has always been blue to you. When you had first met Namjoon he had been blue like the ocean. So big, so scary, so exciting, so much you didn’t know but so much you needed to. Then for a major chunk of your life Namjoon was sky blue day or night Namjoon was the sky. He was the support that helped the sun like Hoseok shine bright and the canvas that allowed the stars like Jungkook to twinkle just that extra bit lighter. But in 2021 the year you felt his soft lips on yours for the first time, the year you looked at Namjoon with more than just curiosity and awe Namjoon became moonlight blue. Seeing Joon in this light was different. Seeing Joon as more than support was different seeing him as more than a guide, a leader was different a good different. Seeing Joon as moonlight blue allowed you to see him. Kim Namjoon openly, honestly and truly. Painting him as the moon made you feel things. Having seen him unclothed, bare vulnerable made you feel things. Having seen Namjoon up close, having seen the small and the big things first hand makes you feel things. You only wish you had painted him as the moon, as moonlight blue, much sooner because fucking hell moonlight suits him, very much so.

“Roses”

His voice reels in your wondered mind.

“Hm?” You’re dazed you almost forget what he’s even referencing.

“You knew the song was about roses but didn’t listen to it?”

Ah the song. Jaehyun.

You bite back a smile “Maybe i lied”

“Could of fooled me”

“Now you’re lying”

“Learnt from the best didn’t i?”

This time it’s you who laughs while Namjoon watches just as amused.

But the moment is short lived and as quickly and his smile finds him it leaves you notice almost instantly and bring your airy laugh to an end. Namjoon looks at you charming eyes full of question you raise you eyebrows in return.

“I know it’s in the past like you said but had i asked what would of happened”

“A lot on your mind tonight huh?”

“How could there not be… but please”-he swallows-“humour me this once”

“Humour you?” you go to tilt your head but seeing as you’re now laying on your side facing Joon it’s a bit awkward to do so.

Namjoon says no words in reply but looks at you with hopeful eyes.

“Ok i’ll humour you, had you of asked i would of let you in”

“But didn’t you have plans with Jin? I would have gotten in the way” He says matter of factly.

“I would of invited you”

It’s subtle how his face falls but you notice it all the same.

“Ok but what if- what if i asked you to cancel on Jin”

“Namjoon…”

“Humour me… please” The desperation in Namjoon’s please is almost overbearing. You know the answer he wants.

“I-I would call Jin and ask if we could reschedule if he was ok with it we would done what you wanted”

“And if he wasn’t?” He’s holding onto hope.

You take a deep breath.

“With or without you i would gone to see him like planned”

Namjoon’s eyes flash hurt he goes to speak but his words don’t seem to find him.

“Namjoon-”

“I thought we were-” Having a moment. Getting somewhere.

“And we are! We are but it’s…. all of—”

“I just thought that- nevermind”

“I’m sorry”

“You don’t have to be” he whispers “You don’t have to be i just think… that i need time to think you know about… that”

Your chest tightens as you nod.

“Yeah okay no i get that we-“

“But right now- and sorry if this crazy to ask and sorry to interrupt you but could- can i just.. take this moment for me? can i um…kiss you?”

Your throat is dry as you nod.

“Yeah” Your voice almost a whisper “Of course you can”

His eyes widened like he wasn’t expecting you to say yes and that upsets you a little.

“But this.. isn’t goodbye right?” The words leave your mouth before you can even begin to process them.

“I—”

Too ebarrassed you cut him off “Never mind i just- i didn’t mean to- you can-kiss me just.. kiss me” Your eyes feel as if they are burning staring back at his “…please”

And as much as you try to push it to the back of your mind as Namjoon places his warm palm to you cheek and leans in you can only wonder if this is the last time you get to witness him in the colour moonlight blue.

—

tags: @piw6n @92jinnies @birdie-vhs @earth2ela @hob3loveofmylife @jujubiism @bloopkook @ratchetpizza1 @myntalks @arloo00 @watamotee33 @y2kcy3brz @taiwan0618 @freyadanvers @gguksbeloved @raetf @bbsantc @winuvs @medicinemybish @bxnnyhime @seokmyballs @baetukki @zyaaaszn @thelilbutifulthings @jazminethecreator @meowgiz @jmnscutie @threeopossumsinacoat @cynicalyoongs @lightningpussy54 @eunthv @gigiiiiislife @lowkeykin @iammeandmeisiam @socksfirstalways @knjlvr06 @lailaisarmy @thvkives @xstfudaisyx @xxxanimangxxx @solstice34 @ml8dy @hoeforseoks @futuristicenemychaos @featjunranghae @jksgirlfrl @yeetedandoboi @stellamalonesolaria

[papiliomame]

I've read so many good point for each of them. Here are my thoughts:

Ember and Spectra: To be honest I think we already have people with such "powers". Popular singer with a hardcore fanbase who would do anything for them or scammers on tiktok, instagram and co. just to spread misery for their own self- satisfaction. They are just two more actors in the endless sea of social media and add to the problems that comes with it.

Amorpho and Bertrand: They could easily impersonate high ranking politician, officials and other billionaires and do stupid stuff which could doom society... But then you see what stupid stuff politicians, officials and billionaires do withouth someone impersonating them and it would be no different.

Undergrowth: He can grow plants and stuff yay! We humans are masters in destroying plants and stuff! Yeah, actually not that much of threat to society.

Nocturn: Putting everyone to sleep and let them dream for eternity or deny people sleep with nightmares. Either way makes society more unproductive and would slow society down.

Vortex: I was debating whether I put him in the poll or not because he can potentially end the world, too. Many people would die and buildings destroyed but would society be destroyed? If anything natural disasters would bring people closer together.

Box Ghost: I think many think this is a joke answer but I'm serious with him. We have so many stuff stored in boxes, one critical warehouse or container and logistics would fall apart. And as we see in canon the Box Ghost is persistent, he would do it again and again and again.

Ghost Writer and Desiree: Both reality shapers and big contender for the biggest threat. But both have fatal flaws which could end their schemes as we see in canon. Ghost Writer needs to write in realtime, cannot rewrite and it bound to the set of rules he sets for his story. Unless he becames a supercomputer who can predict how people reacts to his story and can write in superspeed his society endingstory would not become a bestseller. Desiree has also two fatal flaws: she need to hear the wish and she MUST grant the wish. For every society ending wish there are people who which for a better world. It would be race which whish she hears first. And even then in times of misery even more people have hope and wish to get better.

Technus: I was thinking what actual flaws he has that humanity could abuse but I think he has none? We are so entangled with technology these days, the internet can literal control people and without electricity the modern society just doesn't work anymore. And with the rise of "AI" he has even more tools to play with. He is the master of techonolgy and could actually do everything the other on the list could do just with the internet. And how easy people just don`t have media literacy and take that everything a friend/influencer/superstar reblogged as gospel his people-manipulating-power is bigger than Embers or Spectra. Humanity then actually needs to don't use technology anymore to make his power useless. But without technology no society, I mean even making fire or a wheel counts as technology...

I was thinking today about society and stuff as someone usually do on a cold sunday morning and then I asked myself:

No Clockwork, Pharia Dark etc. They are just too powerful and can end the world.

[potterandpreferences]

The Way To A Man's Heart

Pairing: Ron Weasley x Reader

Setting: Half-Blood Prince; For the purposes of this one-shot, Ron dated Lavender in OotP

When you and Ron had started dating, a lot of people were convinced it would not last. Apparently, the school cohort was under the impression that he and Hermione were going to be the Hogwarts power couple. You could kind of see where they were coming from; there had been a lot of petty jealousy on both sides and there had been a sense that it was playground pigtail pulling. And yet, you couldn't help but think that those people were also selectively blind to how toxic that sort of relationship could be. Honestly if it wasn't for Harry, you didn't believe Ron and Hermione would still be friends six years down the line.

As it was, you had come to be somewhat of a secret friend to Ron Weasley. When he was at odds with his two best mates, he could find some solace in your company. Whether it was playing exploding snap, hanging out on the quidditch pitch (even if your feet stayed firmly on the ground some of the time), or - despite what others would believe - doing homework together in the library.

As a consequence of spending so much time with him one to one, it didn't take long to learn some of Ron's tells. When he was really, truly upset, he went off his food. When he was irritated, he preferred something like a pumpkin pasty or a sandwich, something he could tear into. When he was happy, he'd try some of everything, content with a little of lots until he went in for seconds. When he was feeling a bit down or worried, his preference of choice was a hearty stew followed by a warm apple pie with ice cream, something that reminded him of home.

This particular day it was sunny and one of the warmest thus far. Spring was slowly transitioning into summer, and with it exam season was upon the students of Hogwarts. Sixth year didn't count in the same way that seventh year would, but your continued presence in all your chosen subjects depended on passing all of their exams. And so, along with the sunshine, fifth years and up were also being subjected to the heat fueled by their ever increasing panic, which made sitting outside with a nice cool breeze all the more tempting.

You had been attempting to study in the library, but the librarian had all the windows firmly shut and it got a bit too stuffy for your liking. You checked out the books you required for your first exam, and ambled down the corridors in search of an empty courtyard. It was as you were descending the stairs to the first floor that you noticed a certain redhead stomping towards the doors that led outside, with the proverbial storm cloud raging above his head.

Concerned, you followed. He didn't slow his pace or give any indication that he knew he was being followed, something which raised even more alarm bells. Ron, as a by-product of living with the twins, was usually very aware of someone being on his tail. Ron's long legs carried him to the shore of the Black Lake. He followed the edge around to a little outcrop coated in pebbles and stones. These he grabbed at roughly, before launching them out towards the water with a growl.

"Ron? Are you okay? What's happened?" You approached cautiously, making plenty of noise as you walked closer so that your voice didn't startle Ron into accidentally throwing any remaining stones at you.

"Hermione bloody Granger is what happened!" He yelled.

You made a soft sound of understanding at his near shout. "Want to tell me what she did this time?"

Ron sighed, tossing the last stone into the water as he stared at the horizon for a long moment. Then, he sat down on the roots of a nearby tree and started to explain.

"I was revising for transfiguration. Had one of my old essays out for vanishing vertebrates, you know? Figured looking at where I went wrong on something that's bound to come up on the exam would be a good idea."

"I take it Hermione had different views on the matter?" It really had become something of a thing that your entire year and to an extent the years below knew. Never, ever do anything to get Granger started on how you should be studying, and Ron's mirthless chuckle did nothing to change your previous notion.

"She freaked the hell out. Started having a go at me for having got a P on an essay in the first place, told me it was useless trying to learn from rubbish like that, and then told me if I'd followed her revision schedule I'd have already covered the topic and at this point should be onto the practical wand work," Ron spat venemously.

"You know she's wrong, don't you?" It wasn't uncommon for Hermione to tell Ron that he was doing something wrong, and you knew that being told something repeatedly would make the thought that much harder to shake. How many more times would Ron be able to take unproductive, callous criticism from a snobby know-it-all before the thoughts became a fundamental part of his psyche?

"I know but... she just makes me feel like an idiot! I don't get the theory behind magic at a drop of a hat like she does! Hell, most of us don't. But you make one little mistake in your homework and she gets so bloody condescending," Ron sighed. Many thought he was lazy when he tried to get Hermione to do his homework. In truth, it was so he knew what she was expecting in the essay to avoid a rant - her, not the teacher!

"It sounds like it's gotten worse than normal. Actually it sounds like how she behaved when you dated Lavender last year," you commented. To be fair, dating was a very loose term for what Ron and Lavender got up to. It was too public to be just friends with benefits, but there weren't really any romantic feelings. The PDA was a bit much at times, but it was rarely ever Ron that initiated those instances.

"Ugh, don't remind me. I still have the scars from them birds! Mental, she is," he exclaimed. And yet, as you looked closely, you can't help but notice the tips of his ears were getting very red.

"Wait a minute - you're not dating Lavender again are you?!" His eyes widen in shock and he shakes his head, waving his hands in adamant protest.

"Merlin, no! I don't even - " He pulled a face of disgust. "I mean, I dunno, can't believe I dated her in the first place I suppose. Seems like a lifetime ago."

He was lying (you could tell from the way he fumbled for an explanation), but that was okay. You knew the sentiment was true even if he was sidestepping what he was honestly thinking about. You were curious, but you weren't going to push it. This wasn't the time for an interrogation by any means. Thus, you decided to change the topic entirely.

"Do you still feel up to studying some transfiguration? I have some books from the library and all my notes. I even have some cauldron cakes." When he refused both the studying and the food, you smiled sadly at him. "Okay. Well how about we go down to the quidditch pitch?"

And that was exactly what the pair of you did. You didn't feel like flying, so you sat in the stands and watched as Ron flew for a couple hours. He zoomed around the pitch in patterns you recognised from quidditch practice drills, before enchanting the practice quaffle so that he could work on his keeper skills. You called Dobby when you were sure Ron wasn't looking, and when Ron eventually joined you in stands, it was to find a delicious bowl filled with a generous helping or rhubarb and apple crumble waiting for him.

"I thought you might have worked up a bit of an appetite. Some of those drills looked tough," you admitted when he stared silently in surprise, mouth gaping.

"It's like you read my mind!" was all Ron managed to say before he was practically inhaling the food, shovel sized spoonfuls disappearing with complete gratitude no matter how swift.

"I just know you, Ron," you laughed. It should gross you out how much he ate so quickly, but his only fault at foodtime was talking with his mouth full. None ever spilled on his clothes, and his chin was remarkably clean.

When the pudding was half gone, Ron slowed down enough to process what you had said. "How d'you mean, you know me?"

"Well, when you're really upset, you don't want to eat, but flying makes you happy. When you've had a fight with Hermione, you usually tend to prefer something filling and pies and crumbles are your go to when you're feeling a bit down still."

He stared at you like he'd never seen you before. No one else had ever noticed - or at least mentioned - knowing what he liked to eat and when. Oh sure, lots of people had commented on his appetite and knew him not having much of one was a sign something was wrong, but the nuances? What food went with what situation? That was all you.

And, he realised as he ate in companionable silence next to you, this wasn't the first time you knew what he wanted to eat after having a falling out with his friends or stressed out about exams. The cauldron cakes you had in your bag, he liked to eat them when he was feeling nervous about school work. He rarely saw you eat them though so... did you keep some in your bag just for him? And there were all those other times too, when you just seemed to know when he was actually hungry and when he was just bored.

There was a plethora of things unique about his relationship with you that he adored, and he had sort of had thoughts that weren't strictly platonic about you, but this little insight into how much you knew about the things that went unsaid was what made what he was about to do next feel so incredibly right.

"Er, Y/N, I was wondering... would you like to go on a date some time?"

[paganchristian]

Early Homeschool Is A Guide For My Adult Lifestyle.  Slow, Trickling, Creative Practicality.

We do a Waldorf-based homeschool, Waldorf inspired.  There is fun and play and creativity, warmth and love and interactive relationship and time outdoors and studying nature and its symbolism. And there’s cooking and basic chores, to get the child ready for and adapted to the basic, simple habits of real life, in this kind of mindful, relaxed, playful, reverent, meaningful, interactive way, even with the chores too.  And, all these aspects are tied in to everything we learn.  In different phases we do different of these things, at different points during the day, in a rhythm.  

Hands-on, and physically active, artistic things, all these things are permeating all the subjects we study, and to be so in -depth in those ways, we must go very slow and do only a little at a time of the more practical, measurable things.  But in these early grades, it is possible to do that and still get all the basic criteria met for all she needs, and I don’t know how it’s going to go in the later grades, so we’ll see.  

But I want to base my adult life on this model.  I feel like it gets so much that modern, practical world aims miss.  Not even modern world, any world, any culture, well, maybe, .. maybe not any culture.  I think that in some cultures there is an emphasis upon ease, rest, taking breaks, being creative.  I don’t know of it much, but have heard brief mentions about things like this, with regards to certain Southeast Asian cultures and traditional Native American cultures, for two examples that I’ve heard mentioned about that, when I read things, anthropological and spiritual writings influenced by their cultures.

But still, I feel like that really, the world is too productive and too hard-working, too rushed and too eager, too urgent and too panicked.  It thinks there is somewhere to arrive to, like you’ll be ok, and safe, significant and valid if you have achieved this or that in life, ...  Or maybe not always that, .. 

Other times, people think that we are rushing against time to try to make up for some debt, to try to right the balance, to right the scales of justice, to save the world.  But it’s not that for everyone,... 

And for others it could be they are continually striving to right the wrongs we have done by being born into sin, and make ourselves more right with God, or hope to do so, through formally defined spiritual practices,... And to always strain towards that,...  And those people are always overly spiritual in this formalized way to try to prove in some clearly definable measurable, socially agreed upon way that they are being spiritual enough. 

But I feel like even God and spirit are also sometimes, and for some people, better served in this more light, flowing, ease-filled, creative way that is not all about reciting continual prayers for everyone, but in some cases can be things like creativity, play, and so on.  No productive value, and no spiritual overt obvious purpose, yet it’s reaching to God if you keep God and God’s prayers in your heart, in the middle of all of those other things and God’s values in the back of your mind, right in the middle of the playful and silly and creative and active things that serve no purpose, towards saving the world, or being productive or be overtly spiritual. 

And I really want to remember how so much of what the world rushes and strains to accomplish or to correct some perceived imbalance or stave off some perceived disaster, I think is wrong.  Because I don’t think there is nearly as much any kind of impending disaster or terrible imbalance that need to be corrected, ...  or some spiritual height that needs to be ascended to with narrow formal spiritual rituals, ...   or some need for so much productive hard work, ... I don’t feel any of those things are as big or real or great of needs as what people think.  We can get by on much less and it’s good enough, but it’s not just good enough,... It’s better because in creativity, play, and imagination we approach spiritual joy and intuition, wherein God can speak to us through a language that no formalized religious prayer or practice can take its place.  In creativity and free-association thought God can say things that can’t be said any other way, and he gives us signs and ideas in that.  It’s deeply needed, and grossly neglected, misjudged and shunned, as being a waste of time, useless and selfish.  

Humble, low aims, low productivity, low level of achievement or impressiveness, low quality of practical things altogether.  Just enough.  And slow, slow, bit by bit, we get things done.

With any breaks, we get it done.  With creativity, and fun, imagination and playfulness interwoven in every little thing we do. 

And this is how I really want to remember to live my life and if I do then there is so much more leeway and instead of feetlong guilty, silly, or unproductive or not fancy enough, I accept this rustic, slow, playful, fun life of homey activity that revolves mostly around me and my child and on one more than that, but God is there in the prayers I say all the time, in the back of my mind and my heart,... Maybe this is maybe what God really wanted me to do with my whole small, humble life anyway. And even if I strove to do more, be more, be more practical, more religious and more giving to society and so forth, it would be this tiny drop in a bucket of water that no matter how much I gave it won’t matter.  The world doesn’t want or need much of what I have to offer and the more I pour into it, beyond a basic minimum of what it truly needs from me, the more I’m wasting my energy.  It’s a situation of diminishing returns.  The more time you spend trying to make your body strong, you may be wasting your time.  You don’t have to exercise all day, only a little bit each day, and you don’t have to strive to make your life so practical, only a little practicality each day, and beyond that is just wasted effort.  Well, for me, for some people.  Some might need and do more practical things, but for me, I feel it’s really pointless and counterproductive.  

If a frail and fragile plant wants to live, maybe it has to live in a delicate ecosystem.  Maybe it needs a sensitive gardener.  Trying to grow it in a tough, hardy climate might be bad and make it die.  A tough, practical gardener might not have any patience for such a frail, time-consuming plant that needs so much care.  So as for the practical people balancing me out, oftentimes they are like this tough, hard-working gardener that has no patience for my delicate needs.  I really need someone, my group of wild weird people who are equally delicate or sensitive to that delicate, light, creative, intuitive, slow, flowing kind of way of life.  I hope that God can let me find them someday.  Yes I still need to learn how to care for my practical needs.  Sometimes practical people take up the slack where i am unable to be strong enough to care for myself, and I might die without them.  But one day I hope I can do better and go where I belong better.  Maybe or maybe God is strengthening me through these challenges to be where no one understands, where almost the whole world, culture and society where I live, and even almost the whole modern world, every culture everywhere it seems, all over the world, are mostly the same.  Through suffering and struggle and challenge and conflict we can often grow and heal and learn so much.  So I don’t know where my life is going.  But I just hang on for the ride, I just pray. It seems to be working well enough, so far.  I pray it always does.

[calleo-bricriu]

I am, by my own account and occasionally by the accounts of others frustrated by it, almost glacially slow to anger, often kind to people I'm told don't deserve it, and am very, very patient.

I get annoyed easily, but it passes as quickly as it comes on and it has no lasting effect.

For the most part--and leaving the aspects of my job that require it out--I simply don't enjoy being angry. It's draining and it's a generally useless, unproductive mindset to allow.

I've always been patient to a fault and sometimes a bit too forgiving to the point that it gives the impression that I'm a doormat. When someone crosses a line or hits a limit, my response is always to simply shrug it off and move on as, by the time they've got to that point, I was already finished with the relationship and was simply waiting for the other person to cut the final thread.

I can, however, be pushed too far and when that happens whoever's done it gets to see the side of me that is solely reserved for people who decide that, because I've chosen to no longer put up with their behaviour, do as I'm told without question, or have grown tired of how they've been treating me over an extensively long period of time, that they will try and ruin me.

Those people find out exactly how good my memory is and exactly why it's never a good idea to lie about someone whose job is to archive things, because I will let you. I will stand idly by and let you try and drag me through the swamp,  try and ruin my reputation, ruin my social life and when you finally run out of breath, you'll be seen for exactly what you are in cold, meticulously ordered, exceptionally detailed facts with proof--much of it in your own words, written or recorded--that you are little more than an irritating, minor speck that's easily flicked away and out of my life.

I will not miss you, I will not look back on you with fondness. I will not forgive you, but I will move on so fast you'll be insulted at the lack of impression you were able to leave on me. I will remember every last thing you'd or done.

And I will make certain you live to regret wanting to see what happens when you push a kind and patient person past their limit.

It's not fun if you don't.

I am kind until you give me a reason not to be.

[natsscienceshit]

100 Days of Productivity

I’ve got like, basically no followers whatsoever, so this probably won’t get any attention which is okay! However, just in case it does, here’s why I’m doing it.

I have really bad anxiety and depression that both stem from PTSD, which I am supposedly ‘’cured’’ of - thank you useless CAMHS therapist! This causes me to be super unproductive. I won’t do anything for days at a time, even though I’ve got a voice at the back of my mind yelling at me to do something, to get on task, to do my homework. I try so hard to begin something but it doesn’t feel right - I don’t feel right. When I try doing things whilst I’m feeling down, I am really slow and nothing goes in. It feels like I’m wasting my time more than if I were to do nothing at all. This doesn’t apply just to school work - housework, personal hygiene (gross, I know, but I’m being honest because I know I’m not the only one having the same issue), even maintaining friendships is harder than normal.

None of the advice offered seems to help. Meditation, relaxing baths, exercise, reading, taking a walk, start with the smallest things and building up until you get the momentum - nothing. It just feels like I’m even more broken than I thought I was. Why does nothing work on me?

So, I’ve decided to try this. I know posting it on here, even though basically no one will see it (although, I hope someone will - if this helps me I want it to help others too somehow) will hold me responsible to keep going and work to the best of my ability. 

For the next 100 days, and longer if it ends up helping, I will write down what I’ve done during the day, both personal and professional achievements, as well as how I’ve felt at the start, middle and end of the day. I will try to include photographs of my work too, that way I can ensure I have put 100% effort into my work and it’s something I’m proud to show off. 

It already feels strange and I feel childish for doing this, kinda like I’m not even a functioning teenager/young adult, but it needs to be done! No harm in trying, right? ♡

[goddessofgamma]

Never Afraid of You, chapter 2 (Ao3 Link)  

Contains adult content

Summary: Bruce wakes up next to Thor and it’s all he can think about.  Smut ensues.

Bruce woke up with a sore throat and some sort of pressure on his stomach that he couldn’t recognise. Somehow, despite some discomfort, he could feel his pulse slow and rested, Hulk quiet and content at the back of his mind.  It was easily the first time that he had felt that since he had been away from Earth, and he couldn’t recall a time he’d felt this rested in over a decade.

He reached down to feel what was causing the heaviness on his abdomen, only to be met by a yelp. Memories of the night before rushed through his head as Thor moved his head from Bruce’s stomach, rubbing his eye and moving to sit upright.  I slept with Thor, Bruce thought to himself, knowing it was true but that it hadn’t quite sunk in.  

“Oww, mind my eye,” Thor said as he sat up, emerging from the sheets.  He was naked, his chest bared in front of Bruce, and the sight made the scientist’s pulse race as the images of what they had done came into focus at the back of Bruce’s mind.  The image of Thor on his knees, looking up at Bruce with desire, flitted through his mind, but he also had a recollection of being reassured and comforted by Thor, remembered the tenderness he had shown.

“Good morning, Thor,” was all that Bruce could manage to say, putting on his best nonchalant smile and trying not to make it obvious that his brain was processing a terabyte a second.

“Good morning, Ba-“ Thor corrected himself.  “Bruce.” Thor sounded less self-assured than Thor had ever heard him, almost sounding as thrown as Bruce felt.  

Stepping out of the bed, Thor looked around the room for his clothes.  His body was on full display, the movement of every muscle on show as he rooted around for his pants.  Bruce could still feel within him how Thor’s body had felt on his, how he’d pushed up against him, nearly writhed in pleasure.  He snapped out of his thoughts when Thor spoke again, pulling his pants up as he did so.

“Thank you for last night, Bruce.”  He smiled, a little awkwardly.  “I had a good time, I hope you did too.”  Bruce nodded shyly.  “And since Jane… Shall we say… It’s been a while.”

Bruce couldn’t help but let out a single laugh at that.

“For me too.  I haven’t… since the Hulk –“ he tried to explain.

“Really?”  Thor was halfway through putting on a tunic, but he stopped to catch Bruce’s eye.  “That long?”

“Yeah, I didn’t know whether I could…” Bruce couldn’t quite find the words. Didn’t know whether I could survive having your mouth on my cock without turning green. “But I guess it turns out that I can.”

“Well.”  Thor swallowed and gave Bruce looked Bruce deep in the eyes with an emotion Bruce was unable to recognise.  “That’s good to know.”  He straightened his shirt.  “I should get going; I don’t want to be late for the council meeting.  Perhaps I’ll see you at dinner.”  It was halfway between a statement and a request.

“Yeah, I’ll be in the mess hall,” Bruce promised.  He didn’t always eat there, but the prospect of not seeing Thor again today somehow make Bruce feel a little off-kilter.

His response was met with a nod and Thor walking out of his quarters, leaving Bruce alone with his thoughts.

He had a good time last night. Bruce’s mind was in a haze. He liked being with me.

Bruce spent that day as he normally did any other; helping the citizens of Asgard out in the medical bay and learning from their native healers about their more advanced technology. Most days, Bruce really appreciated his new line of work.  Gaining practice as a doctor in India, Bruce had found that he liked working with people, treating people who had nothing to fear from him, being able to see that he was having a positive impact.  Studying science was another thing he loved, he had done since he was a child, so the split of learning and helping people was usually a perfect recipe for keeping Bruce engaged.  Usually.

Today things were different. He’d been set a chapter of an Asgardian healing tome to read by one of his colleagues, but no matter how much he stared at the paper, it wouldn’t sink in.  

His mind was else ware, remembering and reliving the night before.  Bruce could swear he’d reread the first sentence of the chapter twelve times, each attempt interrupted by the vivid image of Thor on knees before him, Thor’s mouth on him, pushing against him, their mutual desire lowering Bruce’s inhibitions…

After an hour of very unproductive studying, Bruce could admit to himself that he didn’t want the events of last night to be a one-time thing.  Hell, if Thor wanted, he would like to go further.  He thought it was fun, but it doesn’t mean he’ll want to do it again.  Bruce didn’t want to be overly hopeful.  Thor’s the king here, he’s got a lot to get on with.  

Aside from even that, Bruce knew that he’d only acted on his impulses with Thor because he’d had alcohol. He didn’t regret it – he wished he was the sort of person who could have made the same choices while sober – but he didn’t see that being something he could repeat.  Bruce only very rarely had more than a single drink.  He’d only allowed himself more last night because he felt comfortable enough in his company to know that they would be able to handle him, handle the Hulk, no matter what.

He really hadn’t expected to feel so comfortable in Thor’s company when they had first met.  Thor was brash, alien, god-like, so many things that Bruce couldn’t imagine himself being able to relate to.  Looking back now, Bruce regretted not getting to know him better when they were both still Avengers.  It had only been in the time spent on the Statesman that they had grown close.  It had only been the night before that Bruce had realised his growing feelings ran deeper than friendly warmth.

The day went by, Bruce getting as much done in six hours as he would usually accomplish in one, still distracted, still buzzing, the echo of Thor’s touch still playing on his skin.

When the time came for dinner in the mess hall, Bruce left promptly, itching to see Thor again.

He was disappointed when the god was nowhere to be found in the hall.  Sitting between Valkyrie and Korg, he tried to hide the way that his heart had dropped.

“Have you recovered from last night?” the Valkyrie asked as he sat down, smirking at him.  Bruce’s mind whirred as he tried to figure out how she knew what had happened.  Did Thor tell her? Then it clicked.

“Oh, you mean because of the alcohol.”  Valkyrie gave him a strange look.  “I was okay, I didn’t have a lot.  What about you?” he asked the pair.

“You can’t really get drunk when you’re made of rocks,” Korg explained.  The Valkyrie just raised her eyebrows, questioning that Bruce would even ask her if she’d recovered, given that it was common knowledge that she had the highest alcohol tolerance of anyone on the ship.  “Miek still hasn’t recovered, though, he’s taken the day off, he kept dropping his knives all over the place.”

“Have you seen Thor?” Bruce couldn’t stop himself from asking.  

“Not since the council meeting this morning,” Val replied.  “He’s been distracted all day, didn’t even argue back when Loki was teasing him.”

Distracted by me. The thought came to Bruce unbidden.  He couldn’t quite tell whether it was rational deduction or wishful thinking.  

Bruce found himself useless in the conversation after that, not able to think of anything productive to say when his mind was else ware.   He went back to his room much earlier than usual that evening, not even taking time to look at the stars as he walked the corridors back to his quarters.

In his room, left alone with his thoughts, Bruce figured that he should sleep.  He couldn’t figure what else to do, his brain was too busy, too buzzing with thoughts of Thor for him to do anything much.

He tried lying down but all instead of any hope of sleep, the memory of Thor, right here in this bed, kissing him, sucking him off, sprung into his head. Oh god.

Nothing was going to tear Bruce’s mind away, he realised.  Resigned to not being able to switch off, Bruce when to unbuckle his belt. He hadn’t pulled himself off in years, hesitant to since the other guy showed up, but he figured that if he’d been okay with Thor, he’d be fine by himself.

He’d just pulled his belt out of the loops when he heard a knock at the door.  Okay, Bruce, he thought to himself, maybe now is not the time.  Stepping up, Bruce pulled his shirt out of his pants and untucked it so it wasn’t obvious he’s been unbuckling his belt and went to open the door.

The door opened to show Thor waiting there in front of him, biting on his lip and leaning on the doorway in a way that was a bit too overly nonchalant to be genuine.

“Bruce.”  Thor’s eye looked straight into him.  “I wanted to apologize for not being at dinner, I had to meet with the navigation team, but –“ he took a breath “- but I wanted to talk with you.  About last night.”  

“Sure,” Bruce said, waving Thor into his quarters, trying to hide the way that his stomach was doing backflips.  

“I know I told you I had a good time.  It seemed like you did too.”  Bruce only wrung his hands and nervously nodded in response.  “Good.”  Thor tried to lean back on Bruce’s bookshelf, but the books slid and fell as he did so, and he scramble to stack them again.  Is he nervous? Bruce wondered, unsure.  “I had been thinking.  As king, I have many duties; deciding on our future, negotiating trades when we have barely anything to give in exchange, making sure Loki doesn’t cause too much damage…”  He trailed off, his eyes focusing on Bruce.  “I’d be short on the truth if I said that it had not been weighing on me. But last night, I didn’t feel any of that.” Bruce felt his face heat, as Thor took a step towards him and brushed Bruce’s hand with his own.  “I had wondered whether you would be interested in repeating the experience.”

The back of Bruce’s throat went dry, and he couldn’t speak.  Yes, he thought, just agree.  He took Thor’s hand as he tried to form an answer.

“Yeah, sure.”  Bruce was halfway through cursing himself for giving such a short answer when Thor kissed him, not leaving any room in his brain to question himself.

The kiss was hungry, needy, like Thor had spent all day waiting for this.  An arm snaked around Bruce’s back and something in him snapped, feeling the need to be as close to Thor as he possibly could be.  He turned them around and pushed Thor against the edge of his bed.  

“Thank you,” Thor managed to get out between kisses.  He hiked his way up the bed, laying down and pulling Bruce on top of him.  Bruce kissed him again, tongue playing against Thor’s own, letting his hand run its way down Thor’s body. When Bruce reached his thigh, Thor tipped his head back and moaned.  

Given a moment to think, Bruce remembered he hadn’t given the best of responses.

“You know this is good for me too, right?” he reassured, breathless.

“Glad to hear it,” Thor responded, unbuttoning Bruce’s shirt as he spoke.  “I wouldn’t ask anything of you that you don’t desire.”  I do want this, Bruce thought as Thor pushed his shirt down his arms. I need this.

Once his chest was bare, Bruce kissed Thor again, pushing him down and slotting one of his legs between Thor’s.  He was torn between wanting to be as close to Thor as possible and wanting to undress so that that could happen.  

One of Thor’s hands raked his chest, the other reaching behind for his ass.  The taste of Thor on his lips, the friction of Thor rubbing against his erection, the feel of his hands pulling him close, reminding him that he was desired every bit a much as he wanted Thor, it was almost overwhelming to Bruce, but too addictive to stop.

The hand on his chest lowered, reaching into his pants and Bruce nearly shouted.  Don’t stop, god, keep going.

Bruce must have unwittingly vocalised his thoughts, because Thor responded.

“I don’t plan on stopping any time soon.”  His voice was low.  “But perhaps we should undress.”

Nodding, Bruce slipped his belt off and slid his pants down, while Thor did the same, taking a little while longer with his tunic.  Bruce’s breath caught in his throat when he saw Thor bare.  He tried to keep himself on track, focus on what would come next.

“Er, so what is it you want to do?”  Bruce cringed as soon as the words were out of his mouth, but he had never gone so far with a man before and he didn’t know where to start.  

“Whatever you want.” Anything.  I’d want anything.  Bruce grew harder at the thought, and he didn’t miss the way that Thor watched. “Although, perhaps you’d like for me to decide.”  Bruce nodded. Thor guided Bruce on top of him again, legs open, either side of Bruce’s hips.  “Do you like this?” he asked against Bruce’s ear.  “Would you fuck me?”

“Yes.” Bruce’s reply was as sure as anything he’d said all day. God, yes.  The feel of Thor’s legs around him, drawing him in was too delicious to refuse.

“Good.” Thor sounded relieved.  “There’s some lube in my trouser pocket.  I’m guessing – you said you hadn’t done this in years – that there’s no need for protection on your end?”

“That’s right,” Bruce replied, fishing around in the many pockets of Thor’s trousers trying to find the lube.  He got there on his third try.  “What about you?”

“I believe you were there for my last physical, doctor.”  Something about the way Thor said his title renewed Bruce’s gratitude for his seven PhDs.  “And there has been no one since Jane.”

“Right.” Bruce nodded.

“So…” Thor’s eyes were dark. “Shall we get started?”

Giving his reply in his actions, Bruce shuffled them both to the edge of the bed, so that he would have better access.  He tore open the lube packet and watched Thor’s eyes follow him, hungry.

Thor sighed, canting his hips, waiting as Bruce spread the lube around his fingers.  Legs were spread wide around his hips, and Bruce had to steady his breath as he trailed his fingers down to brush and delve into Thor’s hole.

“Bruce,” Thor breathed as Bruce pushed his way in.  “More.”

Unsure of what to do, Bruce thought it best to follow Thor’s guidance, pushing in further.  He would have found it difficult to ignore Thor’s request anyway, when he looked so good, sounded so desperate.  Bruce started thrusting his finger in and out, tentative at first and then with more surety, emboldened by the sounds Thor was making.  After a minute, he added another finger, and tried angling them to see whether it would elicit a different reaction.

“Yes,” Thor breathed as Bruce reached deeper, and Bruce tried to reach for the same spot again. The god’s head was thrown back, his muscles rippling as he moved in time with Bruce’s thrusting fingers.  Once he’d gotten into more of a pattern, Bruce let his mind wander a little from the precision of his fingers.  He let himself feel the pressure of Thor around his fingers, wonder how it would feel around his cock.

It was Bruce’s turn to let out a stream of profanities. God, I need him soon.

“Can I…?” He carried on with his ministrations as he asked.  

“Please, Bruce.  Now.”

Bruce couldn’t, would want to deny him.  He reached back for the lube and prepared himself, trying not to worry about whether he’d be any good for Thor after ten years of abstinence.  Seeming to sense part of what was in Bruce’s mind, Thor reached for his hand as he pushed in.

For a second, Bruce’s vision whited out, lost to pleasure.  He could hear moans, couldn’t tell whether they were his or Thor’s.  As his sight came back to him, he saw Thor, laid out, head thrown back fingers clutching at the sheets.   I don’t know whether I’ll survive this, Bruce thought.  The sight gave him nearly as much pleasure as the feeling.

“All good?” Bruce had to check.

Thor seemed too lost in feeling to answer.  Instead, he tore one of his hands away from the sheets and clasped at Bruce’s ass, pulling him close.  Bruce’s hips nearly buckled.  

He began to thrust, drawing back and in again.  With each movement, Bruce felt the pull of Thor’s hole tight around him, so good he couldn’t believe.  

Maybe it was because he’d gone without for so long, or because Thor was his partner, but Bruce’s every feeling was amplified.  Bruce could swear he could pinpoint each individual neuron firing, the electric impulses from his cock, his whole brain feeding him pleasure.  He felt Thor’s hands, raking up his back, legs wrapped around his own, every possible bit of body language Thor could give to show how needy he was, how deep he needed to be filled.  

The thought of a king, a god, open and wanting, just for him, would have usually confused Bruce, but there was no room for that in his head.  He increased the pace of his thrusts, just wanting, needing to be in him more, be in him now.

Time passed - Bruce had no concept of how long – lost in a haze of push and pull, the slap of their bodies against one another, the heat of Thor’s body under his, around his.  This feels so good.  Why does he feel so good? He had no idea whether this was normal, to feel such heat and need and connection with someone you were only friends with benefits with, but right now it didn’t seem to matter; he was with Thor, in whatever capacity, and all he could think was that it felt right.

The sounds emanating from Thor’s mouth got louder as Bruce changed his angle.  

“There, Bruce,” Thor pleaded.  “Keep going!”

Bruce’s eyes snapped open at the command and he couldn’t look away.  Thor’s pupil was blown, the other eye-socket sparking, the muscles in his arms moved every time he urged the two of them together.  Lower, Thor’s cock, unattended to, was so hard it pointed to his chest, jogged with every thrust.  Bruce wrapped a hand around it, jerking him off, liking the feel of it, loving the reaction it provoked.

Where he’d previously been able to give commands, Thor could barely get out a single word, entirely focused on taking all that Bruce would give.

Feeling himself begin to get overwhelmed, Bruce, unthinking, placed a kiss to Thor’s chest.  He increased the pace with which he pulled Thor’s cock to match his thrusts, pumping into him.

“Bruce,” Thor begged, his voice uneven and suddenly he was coming, spurting from his cock, spilling onto his chest. He was clenching around Bruce, not just around his cock, but with his legs, holding him in and Bruce couldn’t keep control, so he let himself lose it.

“Thor.” He spoke the word like a prayer against Thor’s neck as he came, unloading himself into him, buried as deep as he could go.  Still on his high, Bruce felt detached from reality, seeing stars and feeling only Thor.

When he came back to himself, Thor was sitting up, pulling him in for a kiss.  Although they were still intertwined, the kiss was soft, tender, unexpectedly so.  

Once Bruce had moved to get off of him, Thor got up and found a towel to clean them off.

“Thank you,” he said softly as he passed the towel to Bruce.  “I hope you know I enjoyed that a great deal.”  

“I could tell.”  There was no point in lying.  “I enjoyed it too.”  Come on, you can compliment him better than that, Bruce mentally reprimanded himself.

“I could tell.”  Thor didn’t look smug, he bit his lip and traced Bruce’s body. “We should do this again sometime.  I best be leaving, I don’t want to disturb your sleep anymore than I already have.”

“You can stay if you like?” It was supposed to be an offer but it sounded like pleading.  I slept better with you last night than I have in the ten years on my own.

“You wouldn’t mind?” Thor confirmed.

As response, Bruce just opened the sheets for the other side of the bed, inviting Thor in.

Bruce drifted off with a kiss placed softly below his ear.

[threewaysdivided]

Mental Health Help List

I’ve never really brought it up on this blog but in the past I have (and sometimes still do) struggled with pretty bad anxiety and depression (don’t worry: I’m doing perfectly fine right now). After talking to another user I thought it might be good to put together a list of strategies that I’ve found helpful during bad patches, in case they can help anyone else.

Disclaimer: Obviously these aren’t one size-fits-all and they certainly shouldn’t be used in place of a therapist. If you are struggling with these or similar problems, please seek professional help.

Mindfulness/Meditation Exercises

I know some will pooh-pooh this, but psychosomatics is an actual thing. It can be harder to bring your thoughts to a manageable place if your body is in a state of high alertness, agitation, panic or other stress. Calm one, calm the other.

Breath Slowing your breathing into a regular rhythm can do a lot to help you settle down. I find breathing to the count of four (4 second inhale, 4 second exhale) to be a comfortable pattern.

Grounding/Settling Exercise (long) This one comes courtesy of the School of Philosophy and is about pulling your mind away from your thoughts and fully into the present moment.

Find a comfortable place where you can sit/ lie with your arms and legs unfolded.  Settle into a comfortable slow breathing pattern and close your eyes.  Cycle through your senses:

Grounding/ Touch Fall down into your body’s weight. Feel the surface beneath you and beneath your feet, letting it press into and support you. Be aware of how your clothes hang on your body. Feel the air on your skin. Hold for 30 seconds.

Taste Open your mouth. Become aware of what you can taste. Observe but try to avoid analysing. Hold for 30 seconds.

Smell Focus on what you can smell. Be aware of the different smells around you without analysis or comment. Hold for 30 seconds.

Sight Open your eyes. Allow your mind to perceive colour and form without comment. Hold for 30 seconds. Close your eyes.

Hearing (I) Listen to your immediate surroundings. Observe without analysis or comment. Hold for 30 seconds.

Hearing (II) Extend your hearing out to its furthest. Perceive faint and distant sounds without comment. Hold for 30 seconds.

Rest Rest in the awareness of your surroundings and your body. Cycle back to any senses you found particularly comfortable. Hold for at least 30 seconds. Open your eyes when you feel ready.

Simple Sleep Exercise (short) Find somewhere comfortable to lie down.  Settle into a comfortable slow breathing pattern.

Grounding/Weight Fall down into your body’s weight.  Imagine your body becoming heavy and sinking into the surface beneath you.

Eyes Keep your eyes closed if possible.  Give attention to how your eyeballs and the area around them feels - heaviness, pressure, weight etc. Allow your eyes to fall back and rest in your head. If keeping your eyes closed is uncomfortable, find something that is easy to look upon. Hold your vision there and let your mind perceive form and colour without comment.

Thoughts Allow yourself to think without attempting to hold a chain of thought.  Keep a notepad nearby - if a thought feels urgent or like it needs further attention, write it down for later then let it go. If your thoughts start to become muddled, disjointed or nonsensical do not attempt to refocus - you are probably close to falling asleep and doing so will only bring you back to alertness.

Musical aids: Sometimes your brain will attempt to dwell and fixate on distressing thoughts/emotions despite the exercises.  In this case, it can help to play background music to give yourself an extra focal point that doesn’t demand your full attention.

Here are some of my go-to calming tracks: Gabriel’s Oboe (The Mission) Chance Meeting (Skyrim OST) Tundra (Skyrim OST) Atmospheres (Skyrim OST) Greenpath (Hollow Knight OST) Queen’s Gardens (Hollow Knight OST) Reflection (Hollow Knight OST)

Talk to Someone

If you’re on your own it can become very easy to start dwelling on harmful thoughts and fall into a cycle of negative reinforcement/circular logic that sends you into a downward spiral.  Even if you’re intellectually aware of the fact, it can be hard to convince your own brain when it’s being irrational and heading into unwarranted distress or self-loathing.

If you feel like you’re trapped in a negative thought pattern, one of the best things you can do is reach out to another person. If you’re not comfortable telling them exactly what’s happening, that’s okay - all you’re really looking for is a rational anchor who’ll be willing to stay with/ talk to you until your brain can break free of the spiral and focus on other things again. Once you’re out of the hole, you can make plans to see a therapist/otherwise handle things - right now you just need a leg up. (Important: You may feel like you are burdening, bothering, stressing out, interrupting or should otherwise avoid contacting anyone. This is irrational bullshit trickery on your brain’s part. Caring goes both ways; there’s absolutely nothing wrong with saying “Hey, I’m in a bad place right now and could really use someone to talk to.”)

What if no-one’s available/ I don’t have anyone to contact?

If you can’t reach anyone or are convinced that you shouldn’t bring friends/family into it, you can get help by contacting your local crisis support and suicide prevention groups.  They’re called crisis support for a reason - even if you’re reasonably sure that you aren’t going to go through with anything, you should still call if you’re in distress and need help.

America:

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 24-hour, toll-free, confidential suicide prevention hotline available to anyone in suicidal crisis or emotional distress. Call: 1-800-273-8255 Online Chat: https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/chat/

Crisis Text Line: 24/7, nationwide crisis-intervention text-message hotline Contact: Text HOME to 741-741

Trevor Project: 24-hour phone hotline for for LGBTQ+ individuals (plus limited-hour webchat and text options) Call: 1-866-488-7386

United Kingdom:

Samaritans: 24/7, toll-free crisis line throughout the UK Call:  116 123 (UK),  116 123 (ROI)

Canada:

Crisis Services Canada:  24/7, toll-free, nation-wide suicide prevention and support network (plus limited-hour text and regional chat services). Call: 1-833-456-4566

Australia:

Lifeline: 24-hour nationwide crisis support, suicide prevention and mental health support services (plus limited-hour online chat). Call: 13 11 14 Chat: https://www.lifeline.org.au/get-help/online-services/crisis-chat 

Beyond Blue: 24/7 nationwide information and support for anxiety, depression, and suicide (plus limited-hour online chat). Call: 1300 22 4636 Chat: https://online.beyondblue.org.au/Webmodules/chat/InitialInformation.aspx

Follow this link to find additional help and support services in other countries.

Record your small wins: ‘Things I did today’

Going to give a shout-out to my Dad for this one.  During bad times it can be easy to convince yourself that you’re totally useless and unproductive.

Something he suggested, and that I’ve found really helpful, is to keep a log of all the productive or enjoyable things you’ve done each day.  And I do mean all of them:

Made your bed? Write it down.  Prepared food for you and/or your pet? That too. Tidied/organised something? Did laundry? Watered your plants?  Fantastic. Talked to someone (IRL or online)?  Made or reblogged (a) post(s)?  Found a cool video? Netflix Binge? Played a Game?  Yep, all of that. Left the house?  Ran errands?  Exercised?  Splendid. Did some work towards a project/ homework/ study?  Absolutely put that down. Actually finished a project or reached a milestone?  Biggest, Boldest, Fanciest Note you can.

The fact is that it’s very easy to discount all the small contributions you make each day - especially if, like me, you’re a former perfectionist or compulsive overachiever.  I found this list to be a good weapon against irrational self-criticism - a way to present my brain with solid, irrefutable evidence that (while they might not be big or fancy) things were being done and I was being productive, no matter how much I felt I wasn’t.

Make things

Being creative helps.  It doesn’t matter what you make, or what the quality is, the act of making gives you something to focus on that produces a tangible end result.  Hard to feel useless when you’ve got solid proof of your efforts right in front of you.

There are ~7.53 billion people on Earth, but there’s only one of YOU.  Take care of it.

[atomic--peach]

Southern Saying

 Because it’s not just Australia that has weird saying.

Cadiwampus: slightly crooked or messed up

“Does this picture frame look cadiwampus?”

Cadycorner: not quite next to, kind of diagonal to something.

“They live cadycorner to me”

Way out yonder: Someplace far off, usually at least 20-45 minutes outside of town

“Wow, you live way out yonder”

Dagnabit: A more polite version of God Dammit. (Also see Dagumit)

“Dagnabit! I burnt the cookies”

Goober: an unpleasant or annoying person or another word for a penis. sometimes used playfully for a child

“What a goober!”

Fixin’ to: Going to or getting ready to do something or go somewhere.

“I’m fixin’ to fry up some eggs, do you want some?”

Ugly as homemade sin: used to describe something particularly ugly, like your great aunt’s couch or your sister’s wedding dress

“That paint in her parlor is ugly as homemade sin”

Jerk a knot in your tail: Scold someone, something your mama threatens to do to you if you don’t stop acting a fool

“I’m fixin’ to jerk a knot in your tail if you don’t straighten up”

As all get out: Completely or ridiculously

“He’s rich as all get out”

Can you carry me to___?: Can you take me to this location?

“Can you carry me to the hair salon?”

Gussied up: Dressed up, looking your best.

“What are you all gussied up for?”

Just fell off the turnip truck: Stupid or gullible.

“Does he think I just fell off the turnip truck or something?”

A month of sundays: A long time; how long it’s been since you called your aunt.

“I haven’t seen you in a month of sundays”

Mosey: To go or get along.

“I’ll just mosey on over to the bar while i wait for you.”

What on God’s Green Earth?: What in the world?

“What on God’s Green Earth are you talking about?”

Fifty-leven: The under of times your mama told you something

“I done told you fifty-leven times you needed to get your oil changed”

You can’t ride two horses with one ass: You can’t do two things at once.

“I know you wanted to run track and play football, but you can’t ride two horses with only one ass”

Up one side and down the other: Completely like something, very similar.

“She’s her mama up one side and down the other”

All-yins: Similar to Ya’ll or all ya’ll.

“Get out of my house and go play somewhere, all-yins!”

Like you own cotton in Augusta: being lazy or unproductive.

“Don’t just sit around like you own cotton in Augusta, get a job!”

The Sun don’t shine on the same dog’s tail all the time: You won’t always have good luck.

“You’re smiling now, but remember; the sun don’t shine on the same dog’s tail all the time”

Shake the dew off your lily: Hurry up, a polite version of “shake the piss off your dick”

“Shake the dew off your lily and get out here to see your grandma!”

Nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs: Very anxious or skittish.

“Waiting for my test score, I’m nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs”

Sweating like a whore in church: Sweating a lot, either from the heat or from nerves.

“It’s so hot, I swear I’m sweating like a whore in church!”

Don’t act ugly: Don’t be unpleasant.

“I don’t care if she’s sleeping with a married man, don’t act ugly”

Bless her cotton socks: A version of Bless her heart, usually used in pity/ amusment.

“Her brothers took her on a snipe hunt, bless her cotton socks”

That dog won’t hunt: That thing won’t do what you want it to, and you can’t make it.”

“I tried to get my TV working, but that dog won’t hunt”

Eat the south end of a north bound goat: Something gross or disgusting but you’re too hungry too care.

“My son used to be so picky, but now he’d eat the south end of a north bound goat.”

Seven ways to Sunday: Completely, all around.

“I know I’m supposed to go to the PTA meeting, but that yoga class wore me out seven ways to Sunday.”

Slap you to sleep, then slap you for sleepin’: Unreasonable, extremely annoyed or angry.

“You can’t please my manager, she’ll slap you to sleep and then slap you for sleepin’“

Kick your butt to Christmas and dare you to walk back: Beat you up and dare you to mess up again.

“If you throw that football in my house again I’ll kick your butt to Christmas and dare you to walk back!”

Useless as a screen door in a submarine: Something worse then useless.

“Johnny want to go hunting with his daddy, but as loud as he is he’d be as useless as a screen door in a submarine”

Anybody’s dog that’ll hunt her: A promiscuous person, or a person with low standards

“She can says she’s picky, but she’s anybody’s dog that’ll hunt her”

Faster than a knife fight in a phone booth: Moving fast or quickly.

“He’s on a diet, but when the pie was served he was on it faster than a knife fight in a phone booth” (Also see “a one legged man at a butt kicking contest”)

Shit’n’get: Got fast, do something with haste.

“You took twenty minutes to do your hair, so we’ve gotta shit’n’git if we’re going to get there on time”

Messed in your Easter bonnet: Done something embarrassing in public”

“I told you not to talk to his new wife at the church barbecue, but now you done messed in your Easter bonnet”

Couldn’t pay respect: Being broke, out of money.

“I know I just got paid, but now I’m so broke I couldn’t pay respects”

Depress the devil: something an extremely negative person could do.

“I hope Karen won’t be there, bless her heart but she’s so negative she could depress the Devil”

Hunt Geese with a rake: something really tall people are said to do.

“That girl on Kate’s basketball team is so tall, she could hunt geese with a rake”

____ The fool out of___: To do something really effectively.

“Shit! I just cut the fool out of my finger!”

The Hell you say!: A saying of disbelief.

“Jessica found her boyfriend doing what?! The Hell you say!”

More than a hat rack/ More than a coat rack: Use your head or your brain, or put some elbow grease into something.

“It’s a push door bot a pull, try using your head for more than a hat rack”

“It’s not that heavy, use your body for more than a coat rack!”

You know not: You don’t know the half of it, usually used during gossip sessions.

“I heard Mary is sending her daughter to charm school” “Oh you know not”

Snockerpussed: Drunk

“Slow down! The last thing you need is to get snockerpussed”

Rub some whiskey on it from the inside: Drink and you’ll feel better

“You’ve got a back ache? Try rubbing some whiskey on it from the inside.”

Beats all I ever did see: Seeing something strange or ridiculous.

“Did you see what happened to Mary Jo’s roof? Beats all I ever did see”

Shootfire!: An expression of frustration

“Shootfire! My car’s got a flat tire!”

Hitch in your giddy up: Walking strange for one reason or another.

“I spent all day in the garden yesterday, and now I’ve got a hitch in my giddyup.

Tore up from the floor up: an absolute mess.

“Did you see her after the block party last night? The girl was tore up from the floor up.”

Too busy to cuss the cat: too busy to be bothered by something small.

“Bake sale? Girl, with football season and graduation coming up, I’m too busy to cuss the cat!”

Like a chicken with it’s head cut off: Running around frantically or hysterically.

“She found out there’s a project due tomorrow and now she’s running around like a chicken with it’s head cut off”

You can’t swallow a quarter and crap a dollar: You can’t take poor quality and make it better.

“I know you said you can change him, but you can’t swallow a quarter and crap a dollar Darlin’”

That’s their tale, I sit on mine: Just because they’re gossiping, doesn’t mean I will.

“Is that what she said? Well, that’s her tale, I sit on mine thank you very much”

Too big for your britches: Acting more important that you are.

“Since you got that promotion, you’ve been acting too big for your britches”

Scare the beard off Jesus: Something particularly startling or disturbing.

“Did you see what color her daughter died her hair? Why it would scare the beard off Jesus!”

Act like you got some raisin’: Act like you had good parents. Don’t act wild.

“What are you doing with your shoes on my couch?! Act like you got some raisin!”

Useless as tits on a bull: Not only is it useless, it doesn’t make an sense.

“I love these new jeans, but these tiny little pockets are as useless as tits on a bull”

Been done gone: have been gone for a while now.

“John? He moved out of town a year ago, he been done gone.”

Within a gnat’s ass: way too close. usually used in dangerous situations.

“I came withing a gnat’s ass of cussin’ her out.”

Does a cat have climbing gear?: A obvious question with an obvious answer (Also see “Is a frog’s ass watertight” and “Does a one legged duck swim in a circle”_

“Do I want to go to the football game? Does a cat have climbing gear?”

A Job that don’t pay: a waste of time.

“Girl don’t even think about it, that man’s just another job that don’t pay”

Could kill knee high cotton: Something that smells really bad.

“She’s a pretty girl, but her breath could kill knee high cotton!”

Only got one oar in the water: Not all there, a little crazy.

“She’s only got one oar in the water, bless her heart”

Plumb: Extremely, completely and totally.

“You don’t need to be out there acting plumb crazy”

Like a cat’s been sucking on it: stringy, thin, unhealthy or ugly looking.

“Ew, my hair looks like a cat’s been sucking on it”

Tuck your tongue behind your teeth, you’re crazy’s showin’: Stop talking, you’e starting to sound insane.

“Tuck your tongue behind your teeth, your crazy’s showin’. I think you’ve had enough to drink”

My stars in heaven: Oh my God

“Oh my stars in heaven, have you seem these china patterns?”

Like a bag of cat’s fighting: what you look like in unflattering clothes.

“Darlin’ I love you, but your butt looks like a bag of cat fighting to get out in those jeans”

Backsass: Back talk, something that will get you whooped.

“Don’t you back sass me, I’ll whoop your ass”

Even Jesus can’t save you: you’re in big trouble, not even the the Lord can save you. 

“Your mama found out what you did last night, not even Jesus can save you now”

[demonslive]

school is literally killing me. why is the hell is dual credit chemistry and thing? and why is it so damn hard. it could be soooo much easier but instead i’m here dying a slow and painful death. pre calc too. dual credit pre calc is killing me. and the teacher is making me want to stab my own eyeballs. english has been ok, i like my teacher. i know no one is really reading this so if it’s like a vent thing. i don’t know really, school feels off. i feel off. i felt so unproductive in general during the summer, and i just felt so useless that i really hoped school could help me get on track, and it is but at the same time i feel overloaded already, and i can’t get on track, to be productive, and have those type of grwm tik toks i see, so yeah, that sucks. but it’s school. yeah, anyway that’s it

[kjsadd]

My mother used to say my eyes were bigger than my stomach. And it’s true that I tend to bite off more than I can chew – literally and figuratively. Like many other adults with ADHD who are consciously or subconsciously counteracting a lifetime of “lazy” and “unmotivated” labels, I commit to doing more than I possibly can. My heart says “Yes,” but my executive functions say “No,” and this leads to perpetual disappointment, and a repeating cycle. As a result, I often feel like I don’t accomplish much. I feel unproductive and useless, even when I’m frantically running around most of the day. I judge myself harshly. I call myself a failure. It’s an old fictional story I keep telling myself. But I’m working on counteracting this and regaining confidence with my “I-did-it” lists. The premise is simple: Change your mind set by making a to-do list and an I-did-it list. When you start taking inventory of the tiny tasks you’ve completed, your dopamine and energy levels shoot up. You can then ride the wave of that energy to complete yet more tasks. The cycle is invigorating and effective.

Whether it’s making my bed, exercising, or working on a project, my mindset flips when I commit to five minutes. I’m sure I can do that, and so I do. The best advice I have ever received was from my writing teacher, August Birch, who said, “Start writing one word per day, without missing a day, for at least 60 days. One word becomes five sentences, which becomes three pages.” I’ve tried to follow other authors’ writing advice, but they almost always suggest writing a page a day. And some days the mere thought of a whole page stopped me from writing one word. Like many adults with ADHD, I resist habits. Doing the same thing every day is tedious torture, but it is also incredibly helpful when trying to manage a project that feels unmanageable. Work on a project you’re avoiding for only five minutes. Take one tiny action. The confidence you will gain from that first tentative step will inspire you to leap eventually.

When I’m stressed, my executive functions slow down. I can’t concentrate, and my energy level drops. If I have to complete a difficult task, it goes to the bottom of the to-do list and lingers there for way too long. Why and how do these barriers pop up and block my ADHD brain? Some days, I’m bombarded with worry. Other days, I’m overwhelmed and don’t know where to begin. And still others, intense emotions block my attention. All I see is what I feel. Now, when something interferes with my ability to concentrate, I pause, take a step back, and think about what’s getting in my way. Careful not to overthink, I take time to contemplate the cause (they tend to repeat) and think about the solutions that have worked in the past.

[estrellamientos]

Damnum Ferre ch.1

So I mentioned on @canon-typical-violence that the first chapter of this fic exists.

Their first civil conversation afterward is held at blaster- and sword-point, respectively. The second one goes worse.

Hux passed through conscious shakiness or disorientation some hours ago; he has long been worn down to what feels like two-dimensional nothingness but lacks the smoothness to be glass. Glassy calm he knows well, and fury like the flat of a good blade (his own, for instance), and this is neither. He’s something depthless and empty and abraded, lacking the wherewithal to find itself repulsive.

There are marginal advantages to this. For example, while he would normally take a running inventory of pain before moving on to not allowing it to affect him, Hux currently can’t manage to keep a listing of the damage in his head. This applies to all of the damage at hand, admittedly, but tabulations of what matters can be written down just as this is disregarded. He works easily through the due diligence of sacking the erstwhile Resistance base for all the nothing it has to provide, at any rate, and through their own forces’ withdrawal. He does not think about pursuit at this time, the way he does not think about the common features between one breath and the next.

It is not that he has ever forgotten the taste of blood, particularly his own, but that it is staying in his mouth beyond all reason, currently. This is odd. Psychosomatic, he presumes, unless he’s managed enough reverting to old bad habits to tear the lining of his throat. Irrelevant, at any rate, as in he will not permit it to become relevant. He does not stop.

By the time Hux can in good conscience return to the *Finalizer* he feels like Crait’s sanded off the surface of his skin the way it seems to have grated the contours of his mind. Not that anything hurts, save when he breathes. Merely that he seems to be lacking things he shouldn’t need to lack: edges, definition, grip; the ability to meaningfully distinguish stimuli that are himself from those that are not.

It does not notably impair his functioning, at least not to a degree that is intolerable; however, that is given the fact that the scale for said range of tolerance is currently a quietly horrible study in adaptation all its own.

Hux watches over the buzz of busy misery that surrounds him, not least because it wouldn’t do for him not to be tracking it, but he does not issue reprimands for individual acts of incompetence. None are irreparable—in fact (he may feel toward this later, should he remember to) people recover remarkably well, it’s merely the density of casual mistakes to recover from—and the apparent widespread agitated despair is too universal to selectively punish. Selection of particular actors would be unproductive even as examples to the rest. The solution, whatever it is, lies beyond mere individuals.

Beyond most individuals, anyway.

He knows better than to keep his distance from Kylo Ren now but Hux finds himself doing so anyway, at least for the duration before there’s a ship solid under his feet again. It is a somewhat pathetically short span of time, he realizes later, for all that it seems to stretch infinitely while he’s within it.

Ren allows the search and the withdrawal (Hux sternly does not call it a retreat; therefore neither does anyone else) to happen without any incident significant enough for people to bring to Hux’s attention. This is an acceptable state of affairs, though perhaps only in the way that inevitable things must be.

He waits, then, until he can corner Ren, and does not delude himself that Ren doesn’t know he is being cornered, in the particular manner that passes with little effort for drawing him aside into an unremarkable and vacant mid-level meeting room Hux knows the template for better than his own bare hand. There is a casually risible normalcy to it, of table and chairs and blank walls lacking sufficient importance to merit a viewport. If the lights were on it could be anywhere in spacetime after the first _Resurgent_ launched.

Hux does have his blaster ready, this time.

(Armitage Hux’s gift is preparation in advance; likewise his curse. He is, however, not in the habit of making the same mistake twice.)

“I don’t know if you can stop a shot from this distance,” Hux says. His teeth still taste like blood, so mildly there’s the impression of it being just the natural state of things at this point. It feels almost more like a faculty of the air, especially given how dry his mouth is. “I don’t know if you do either. I *do* know—” Know what? Not what Ren’s willing to risk on the subject, beyond that it’s enough to have walked in front of Hux without complaint. For all Hux knows Ren wants to die outright. It’s as close to a working theory of what he’s been witnessing as any. “You killed Snoke.”

Ren turns to face him, slow, easy. This is in no way outside what Hux went in expecting, when Ren let himself be steered to leave his back open so easily as to be outright consent, when the door reformed behind them. Ren is an egotistical, hubristic idiot, but he is not dead.

Neither of them bother with light, and the ship is running on her mildest level of power conservation. It’s a preventative measure, while they determine how much damage there is for the unscathed and the functional to make up for, for how long. The trace available illumination is sufficient, both for this conversation and for operations throughout. What light there is collects in Ren’s eyes and, when he speaks, shows on his teeth.

“Do you now,” he says, his voice rough as well; from salt, presumably, and from screaming. Ren fumbles some of the emotional coordination he’d need to achieve a noteworthy level of cruelty, but Hux notes the symbolic effort of it as a matter of record.

The problem with standing close enough to Ren to not be backed against door or wall while promising a shot in the spine—or, now, the gut—is that Hux can’t evaluate him as a whole threat. He simply doesn’t have the needed width in terms of viewing angles. As such he has to choose: he can watch Ren’s face, like a man who is having a conversation.

Or he can watch Ren’s hands, like a frightened animal, and feel it in his neck.

Hux has considered before, generally in the context of early childhood education (and, more prosaically, particularly while illuminating others on why they have forfeited any right to tell him their opinions on early childhood education), how much of the distinction between sentients and subsentients can be demonstrated by way of death. A subsentient animal has no meaningful understanding, fear, or anticipation of its own demise. It cannot develop a conception of its inevitability in general, nor a particular preference between facing an oncoming death and looking away before the moment of impact. Nor can it act on such a preference—or against it—were it to somehow internalize one anyway.

Confrontation, cowardice, and the rest of that family of emotions are a sentient prerogative. This is naturally relevant at even the lowest levels of human acculturation, for reasons that should be patently obvious and yet still forced Hux into *years* of mere parodies of would-be academic debate.

He’s sure Ren would have an opinion on the subject, if prompted, for Hux to be irritated by, were he to be given the opportunity. If he hasn’t developed it, Hux is resigned to confidence in Ren’s ability to determine one on the spot. Ren, as a murderer and a telepath, is uniquely disposed to potential usefulness with regards to analysis by the living of the experience of death in general; it is Ren *himself* who would make the effort useless at best. He is an unreliable witness consistently more interested in finding ways to make himself an obstacle than in relevance or truth. That Hux has never had that *particular* debate with Ren does not change the fact that he knows this.

When Ren’s arm moves too fast and fluid to bother with, when his lightsaber hums to life at the corner of Hux’s eye, Hux does not particularly react. He flinches on some level, and he feels it on his face, but it’s doubtlessly both unimpressive and unimpressed: more a microexpression with delusions of grandeur than anything else. His blaster stays perpetually steady.

“Of course I know, Ren.” Hux couldn’t keep the tiredness from his voice to save his life; as such he doesn’t try. “I know everything.”

Ren does something like laugh, like he thinks the lie is for his benefit: short, barking, not quite wild. His features don’t reach wildness either, merely managing to reach *for* it, even with the advantage of drinking in flickering red plasma light as an intensifier. There is remarkably little of him left, all told, if only the excisions were relevant or permanent. In both of their cases the net effect is not dissimilar to the feeling invoked by surveying the wreck of the *Supremacy*: the vast majority still usable, patently alive, objectively a unique threat and enduring achievement, yet stripped of menace despite largely retaining its function. “No you don’t,” Ren says. Staring at him, and not swinging, like he thinks he’s managing to say something else.

“I know you’re hopelessly outmatched,” Hux answers, dry in both form and function. His own tongue slows him down, sticking to the roof of his mouth.

“By *what*?” Ren snaps, but the rage makes no travel down his sword arm; Hux only realizes belatedly that it could’ve. The matter didn’t cross his mind for—many reasons, but not least among them is the fact that neither of them are looking at their weapons at all. The hum of Ren’s saber this nearby sounds positively faulty, though Hux lacks enough experience with simple uses of kyber to know from that how much of it is due to flaws of the crystal or of the housing, or of the character of lightsabers more generally. “Organa has *nothing*,” Ren’s going on, making a solid effort at passion, his voice snagging roughly on itself, “and the girl is—”

“Irrelevant,” Hux says. Ren lets him. (Hux, for his part, lets that carry him away; it doesn’t occur to him not to.) “They are currently irrelevant. You’re outmatched by yourself. You are on track to burn down everything of value in this galaxy and, presumably, should you continue to—to miraculously survive your mistakes otherwise, in the next.”

“I should kill you for that,” Ren halfway growls, making no effort to do so. Something of the ambient loss gives the ludicrous impression that the idea is new to him.

Hux holds his gaze accordingly. “You should,” he says. His own voice runs more placid about it than he’d expected. “And you won’t.”

“Really.” Ren is trying; this is noticeable; it’s why he fails. He’s never been able to be the threat he ought to be in mere conversation, Hux has found. It’s not surprising that what serves him in power and menace on the battlefield isn’t recaptured into a static exchange merely by the presence of the sword that represents it.

If it were just Ren’s lethality in question, that aspect of him would never go missing; he is self-evidently a weapon more obviously than he is a man. But Ren doesn’t work as a sustained, present ultimatum any more than a lightning strike could, and his lightsaber is fixing to give Hux a headache.

“So why not just shoot me, General? You remembered a gun this time.”

It’s surprising that Ren’s aware, even that much, of what went through Hux’s mind in the throne room. Barely less so, come to think, that he didn’t contest being assigned Snoke’s death at all. Hux says, “I’ve no great interest in dying, Ren.” Pointedly.

“Then what’s this *about*?” Ren’s lip pulls back from his teeth; Hux can’t tell if the line of brutal light at his side shifts with a tremor of the blade or just with Hux’s own blinking, gaze too fixed on the fire that paints Ren’s face. “You’re right, I should j—”

“I am invested in my continued survival and that of the Order,” Hux cuts in. He does not have to try hard at all *to* make it cutting, an accusation of a contrast worth noting out loud. This is the only reason he manages to do it, the same way he manages this conversation’s fixed tableau largely through the kind of even immobile calm that can only come from holding a blaster steady. “And my assessment of your inevitable, *contagious*, and self-inflicted ruin—” It awes him to see Ren take even that with merely a twitch, which is why Hux keeps going. He’ll rationalize it into a test later. It is not a test now. “—was dependent on you taking up the mantle that would destroy you *alone*.”

“So you should—“ Ren shakes himself for a second, from the neck up only. It completely ruins any authority or composure acquired by rephrasing. The central problem being, of course, that he doesn’t need it. “No. You *will* help me.”

Hux will deny, later, to himself, that he then spends a second imagining saying no. It rips through him anyway; it is unexpected; it is wholly unmanageable. Left to his own devices Ren is in fact sure to drive the Order into the ground. It will splinter faster and with less hope of salvage than any Republican dream. And, curiously—given Hux doesn’t think he would’ve made this assessment a week ago—he thinks Ren really would even know it was his own fault. Maybe even entirely.

For a second he imagines that: Saying no. (Leaning into the saber blade he won’t deign to look at, even, before Ren thought to do something more elaborate. There’s something seductive about the furious plasma at the corner of his eye, a manner of drawing him in of a vertigo-like genre with the kind of hubris at which Hux succeeds as much as with flight at which the human body fails.) Turning the entire conversation into one last spiteful feint. Letting Ren, for the first time in his life, experience the consequences of his actions.

He imagines the consequences themselves by the end of the beat, though. What it actually means—anathema—for the Order to fall. (And for Hux, were he to do otherwise and survive to see it, a neo-Republican execution; even if they end the war with enough collaborators to form a jury he can’t imagine anyone would waste the time.)

Hux thinks of Rae Sloane wearing the blood on her uniform like rank insignia; of the first flash of certainty of knowing that his father was not the Empire, that his father was a disgrace.

Snoke was not the First Order. Hux is not the First Order. Even the millions dead today were not the First Order. And Ren *certainly* isn’t.

He’ll give Ren nothing else aside from this pause: let the man know Hux still had to think if he has to, if he’s even equipped to notice, but Hux offers no change of expression, no resigned or irritated breath. He wouldn't be standing here if in the end he didn't know already exactly how this story goes.

Clipped and atemporal, the words as at home in his mouth now as they would have been five days or months or years ago, he says, “Of course, Supreme Leader. What do you need?”

At that Ren still stares at him, oddly slow to adapt. “I’d be more convinced you mean that,” he says, “if you weren’t still pointing a blaster at me.”

The corner of Hux’s mouth twitches quickly, to an extent that may or may not be visible. “Naturally,” he says, already thumbing the safety back on. Shifting his gaze isn’t necessary for that, nor for holstering it, although he knows immediately that keeping the conversation up to standards is about to get vastly more uncomfortable. He expects mistakes, as such, like breathing. “Sir?”

“Incredible.” Ren’s voice is flat in a way that makes the Republican in him positively blare with it.

It’s harder to read his face once his saber retracts, but the last relatively detailed look Hux gets gives him the odd impression Ren reciprocating on the armistice has happened without his conscious assent. The surprise seems too deep and fundamental to merely be a (honestly unmerited) reaction to Hux himself.

Ren takes a step back as he returns his saber to his belt, spending the rest of the distance between himself and the room’s normalcy to the point that he almost walks into the table, the motions far less polished. “So this is a truce?”

“Truces are for enemies, Ren,” Hux says. Ren looks at him for long enough that Hux’s eyes readjust in the interim, so perhaps it was the wrong thing to say. Certainly Hux has pushed further and in more directions than he’d at any point intended, egged on by every time Ren let him. Presuming Ren’s not about to change his mind about that and snap Hux’s neck, he’ll have to reassess. For now, in order to watch Ren blink at it more than anything else, Hux pitches his voice away to add, “Lights to fifty percent.”

Fifty percent lighting on even slight ship-wide energy austerity is entirely forgiving; he catches Ren’s face on the end of the reflexive blink that lets him, too, school himself accordingly. “Right,” Ren says. “Enemies.” He sounds not sarcastic as much as like he was recently made aware of the idea of sarcasm and is still forming a conclusion on it. “So what do *we* need, General?”

Hux shifts into parade rest; he even allows his spine to have an opinion on doing so, briefly, before he dismisses it. “We need to know where we stand,” he says, wonders idly if Ren finds a double meaning in it. Then he immediately gets carried away again. “The majority of the dedicated fleet is intact but a full survey of the damage will take time. A full survey of the death toll will take longer. The rest of our forces are largely dispatched on the frontlines of invasions of what had been selected as vulnerable targets prior t—” Prior to Starkiller. Hux swallows the mourning viciously and clears his throat after. “We can expect them to begin reporting back soon if they haven’t already, and that will give us a better picture of what we have to work with for recovery. For now I r—”

Ren raises his hand and Hux stills. He stills *immediately*, giving the lie to his own performance, stopping so fast he feels his pharynx click. All Ren does with this, though, is to scrub his hand over his face; the other finds the small conference table he’d not quite backed himself against and leans slightly on it. Hux understands the impulse on both counts, but it does Ren no favors. He doesn’t need them; this continues to be the problem.

(He will. Will he know?)

“Better question,” Ren says after a moment, his tone an oddly fragile tangle of resignation and embarrassment. “Now that you’re committed to not shooting me if I do, does anyone need *me*, or can I—can I get some sleep.”

The tiredness in Ren’s voice scrapes along Hux’s own bones, which is overall unsurprising. Beyond the obvious of their recent exertions, even Hux’s rudimentary understanding of the Force indicates it must require some manner of energy tax from its practitioners. He blinks, though, waylaid enough in thought to answer on a slide further into autopilot prompted by the obvious mistake of it, like Ren’s an errant subadult or some uppity commander. “Even under crisis a significant disruption of sleep/wake cycles is a choice of last resort,” he says on blank didactic reflex. “And even for essential crew. The alleged gain in having *any* given person present can only be weighted against the cost of their absence after considering that loss of function from sleep deprivation is immediate, punishing, and progressive, as well as compounding on itself. The idea carries the same wretched cost-benefit ratio as returning injured soldiers to the field when others are available. A—”

Ren is staring at him. Differently, this time, the emotion gap produced by the drop-off in threat filled with Hux’s own belated humiliation.

Hux bites his lips savagely, resigned to the certainty that his face is coloring with embarrassment. Those debates had taken *ages*, immediate practical relevance making them worse and more protracted than the issue of death, back when Order command had been laboring under an even worse infection of old Imperials spoiled by upbringings where they’d had lives to underexploit—even to waste—than it currently is. So much of Hux’s life takes place in contexts where he can better things by explaining them that the reflex endures long after he’s lost his grasp on common sense.

(The only thing that curtails it is certainty of lack of *understanding*—that is, a guarantee of failure—and Ren is not Snoke. Of course that has disarmed him.)

“My apologies,” he chokes out. “Habit. There were—arguments. For a long time. About establishing priorities, by people who didn’t *recognize*—” Hux strangles his own voice again before Ren can, though at this point he’d probably welcome it as help, before realizing at last why he’s actually doing this.

Because Ren just blithely handed Hux permission to tell Ren to hurt himself and all but promised he would do it in the asking, and Hux still needs to tell him no. The good thing is Hux knew to talk himself out of doing otherwise before he even recognized the option. The bad thing is that the managing of it is so hard Hux has to spend his own dignity on necessity and do so out loud.

“We don’t,” Hux says, still drawn inexorably to take the long way of it, more so knowing now he’s hit on something Ren is crushingly, subhumanly inept with, to an extent Hux can’t yet so much as model. The realization that both the down payment on Hux’s continued survival and the delayed cost of him making it this far will have to be fixing Ren to at least manage to fake it, and the prospect of in *any* way *fixing Kylo Ren* is—”We don’t hurt our own unless it is necessary for the advancement of the First Order. And recovery efforts are already in motion. Yes.”

“An actual answer, Hux.” Ren is still staring: nakedly, some kind of upset Hux isn’t going to further disambiguate for as long as he can afford to read Ren as not planning on lashing out with it. For now Ren looks merely like an impending implosion, and Hux can not care. Any extent to which this manages to penetrate far enough to be refreshing is annulled when Ren remembers his own rank, though, even slightly. “And then you’re dismissed.”

Shifting to an actually pertinent routine distracts Hux from the knowledge of his off-script failures as much as anything could. Ren may not appear disposed to push on any of those fault lines currently, all the fight gone out of him with the decision that Hux doesn’t merit fighting, but Hux’s mind will surely pick up the slack. He nods sharply. “Sir.” Thinks before he speaks, this time. *Not* about the open wounds of the present, or about the other questions Ren has opened, unintentionally and in great density, thus far. “It’s… in everyone’s interest that you rest, frankly. We can reconvene when—”

*When we’ve both recovered somewhat,* he almost says. Hux himself isn’t sure quite why he opts to kill the sentence so viciously instead. It’s not too gentle on Ren; aggravating him further now has ceased to be useful. It’s not irrelevant; it is the strict description of his concern at hand. It’s not impossible; Hux can’t afford not to recover.

What, then?

“Right,” Ren says, into that emptiness, after a moment. “All right.”

The way his eyes fall shut seems more than anything like the action of gravity on a great and inert weight (seems like Hux has ceased to exist), not like the function of a mere human body, such that Hux can’t find him pathetic quickly enough to be affected. Instead he’s seized with the nonsensical urge to ask if Ren plans on falling asleep here, on his feet, in a mid-level conference room. Strictly speaking, as far as Ren’s poor decisions go, something that *human* is unlikely to be beyond him.

Hux leaves, instead, exactly as requested and without another word. Quickly, as well; it is somehow even more uncomfortable than being watched by Ren *not* to be. He is aware of no gaze on his turning back, not even of the air-pressure shift he has gathered is the Force as metaphor made real actor.

It’s not that Hux’s sense of such things has ever been inerrant, or even reliable; it is, instead, exactly enough to make him wonder, and nothing more.

He does hope that Ren has the sense to drag himself off and actually rest. It happens almost in spite of himself. Hux can recognize, regardless of the quickly-ignored opinions of his individual bones, that this has been brutal for Ren as well, because it has been brutal for everyone, to varying degrees.

Ren will be more bearable when he is more effective. At worst, when he inevitably gets in Hux’s way, that will enable Hux to act with the confidence that Ren meant to and proceed accordingly. At best…

Who knows? Hux thinks, so suddenly that for a moment it drags him almost to a stop. Who would know? Who has *seen* it? At Ren’s best—

Maybe he’ll even be useful.

[rosiecomedown]

22.10.21

Today did not start well, I want to say that it was a « late bloomer good day » because I could not get out of bed until 1pm, and did not do much in the afternoon, like I just stayed inside and read and felt lonely, but it ended up being a pretty good day later! I think it is okay to have bad days, slow days, « no bone days », from time to time: I still find positive things now. I did not have school today so it was easier to just stay in bed and not study or do my basic chores (the dirty dishes in my sink are typing rn…). But I did get up, and I had a drink with some old friends (pretty cool ones might I add) in a bar, it was a chill autumn night and it felt good to be out in the city, and after I went on a little walk on my own because I had not moved a lot earlier and wanted to change that (I walked 5000 steps which is not that bad considering), and I did feed myself (a bit too much and too sugary this morning, and I was too lazy to cook vegetables, but tonight I bought a Lebanese sandwich that was delicious and healthy!). Overall, not that bad!!

Also, I feel pretty content / happy. I felt pretty tonight, and i really needed to see people, talk to some friends, it was really uplifting because I was feeling a bit isolated (it is easy to, in a big city like this).

I still have lots of things to do tomorrow: wake up early to go on a run (I did not have the strength this morning), and probably study or read a little in the train. Before going to sleep tonight, I need to tidy up my room, prepare my things for tomorrow, and maybe read a little.

I feel excited to go to my auntie’s this weekend! Can’t wait to spend time with my family and eat some good food. Again, it really is the little things. A bad day is not doomed to stay bad until the end. And even if it is, it’s okay to have bad days and to just stay in bed, in the comfort of the warm sheets, when the world outside feels too hostile. For me, I have found that going on walks helps a lot, it makes me feel like my day was not completely useless (no matter how unproductive I have been). Seeing beauty everyday is enough to keep me going. I love watching the sky, the city, the trees, the people… What also helps is seeing people: in general when I feel down I isolate myself, but that is the worst thing to do because usually spending just one hour with a friend makes me feel better - I hate feeling lonely (I do need to recharge my social battery quite often though).

Good night, and I wish all of you reading this (just me lol) a beautiful day tomorrow and a night filled with magic dreams.

[euphoriaofapril]

July 03, 2021 7:25pm

I’m unsure if it’s just because of the weather why I am feeling blue for the past days – the whole week were gloomy and rainy, but hot and humid which I find so weird. You know that this type of weather is the least of my favorites. It makes me feel lazy and unproductive, added by the fact that I am on my red days hence the serotonin level is super low –which makes me feel sooo emotional, clingy, and sad. I really feel sad.

I’m trying to acknowledge how I feel that I am overwhelmed with all that is currently happening right now in my life, I cannot focus, I mind is all over the place, I can’t get things done. I feel too pressured with no one to blame but myself. I can’t think clearly to be honest – but I am trying. I hate the feeling of not being in control of what I do, or the way I should respond into certain things. I hate that I can’t follow my planned schedule, I hate to adjust and start again. This is where I am struggling. I am not used to not knowing what I am doing, not being able to do what I need to do, deliver the tasks I need to finish. I just feel lost. I am not used to being someone who needs to depend on someone else, it’s always the other way around which I am always willing to do and give, yet this time I feel useless, and I am starting to doubt myself. I am not in my best state, and sadly I don’t feel confident at all.

Can you do it? I was asked by one of my closest friends. That was the question that shot me back to my senses. Can I really do this? Do I really want this role? Am I ready for this? I did an excellent job in my previous role, and confidently doing my daily tasks. But this time, this new role I am blessed with is something even bigger than what I used to have, with a huge responsibility to fill in. It was a granted prayer, I only wished for a new role to start with, yet I was given with something even bigger. I need to catch up and learn as fast as I can, and I feel like my progress is super slow. There are times I want to cry, but instead of facing it, I tried to escape. All I do is escape and it’s prolonging my agony of not being able to deliver what is expected of me. And this must stop, I can’t continue being like a coward, I need to face it and embrace it fully. I want this and I must do my best to continue and face all the challenges ahead.

I had enough time to adjust, and there’s no other reason to run away now. The only option I have is to go forward. And I will prove myself that Yes, I can do it. I will make it, honey. I will succeed and this is going to be the best reward for myself yet. I know that I am struggling right now, but 1% improvement daily will make me 100% better in 100 days. I will start to organize my sched and restructure my plan, I shouldn’t look now for any diversion or distractions, rather look for inspiration and motivation to do my best. He is giving me all the resources I need, blessed me with the people who can help me. Now I am dropping this mask of the fake confidence I was trying to wear the whole time and be comfortable and humble to ask for help from my colleagues.

I will be kind to myself, and I will take this one at a time.

God, please help me. I can’t do this all by myself.

[lilith-swbf]

How about Viktor nursing a sick yuuri for the domestic prompt thingi? ^_^

Sorry this took a while, darling! It’s a little long, so it’s under a cut. I hope you like ♡

-

“Viktor, really…you don’t need to worry so much…”

It was disquieting, hearing Yuuri’s normally soft, easygoing voice rough and weak with sickness. It felt…wrong, somehow.

"I'll be the judge of what I need to worry about, love."

Curled up on the couch in his pajamas, Yuuri was as snuggly and comfortable as someone with a thirty-nine* degree fever could possibly be. His face was pinkened with a sickly, unnatural flush, and while he protested that he didn’t feel very bad, Viktor could see the feverish pain in his brown eyes. He had been sick for almost two days with something that was beginning to resemble the flu, and it didn’t look to be ending any time soon.

Yuuri had a strong immune system, but on the rare occasions that he got sick, he usually went the whole nine yards and was down for several days. Viktor just hoped that this didn’t turn out to be the strong strain of flu that had been going around the rink; Mila had gotten it most recently, and it had put her out of commission for nearly two weeks. It was awful stuff.

“I’m staying home tomorrow. I won’t run off to the rink and leave you here like this again,” Viktor stated, squeezing excess water into the bowl on the floor. He folded the cool, damp washcloth and gently settled it on Yuuri’s forehead, making sure that his bangs were brushed back out of the way. “Yakov was very understanding when I called him and told him. It’s flu season right now, after all. If I did go, I might spread any germs I’ve picked up from you.”

“Hopefully I won’t get you sick…” Yuuri’s chest rose and fell in a rasping sigh; his chest was audibly congested. “I don’t like keeping you from practice.”

Viktor leaned down to press a quick kiss to the side of Yuuri’s head. “You’re not at all. I’m choosing to stay. Besides, it’s not like I could concentrate, anyway. I’d be too worried with you here all alone.”

“Really, though, I’ll be fine,” Yuuri protested again, giving Makkachin an absent scratch on the head when he nosed under Yuuri’s hand and gazed up at him sadly. He was worried, too, it seemed. “It’s nothing to make a fuss about. You should at least practice a little tomorrow, Worlds is only a couple of months away. An hour or two of being alone wouldn’t kill me.”

Viktor ignored him and picked up the thermometer, flicking his wrist a couple of times to settle the mercury.

Yuuri sighed again. “Viktor…”

“Hush your mouth, and open it,” Viktor said firmly.

Yuuri wilted and obeyed, and Viktor had to hide a smile as he slid the thermometer into the pout.

The tea kettle whistled merrily from the kitchen, so Viktor rose from his seat on the couch, giving Yuuri’s shoulder a pat. “Keep it under your tongue. I’ll be right back.”

Yuuri’s eyes slipped shut. “Mhm.” His cheek squished against the pillow, and he let out another tired sigh through his nose that quivered just a little.

Viktor’s heart ached for him. Poor thing…

Once in the kitchen, he strained and prepared the tea as quickly as he could, dropping in a spoonful of honey and squeezing fresh lemon juice into it. His mother had sworn by this ginger tea; when he had been ill as a child, it had always been soothing and delicious on sore throats, and it really did seem to help chase away the sickness faster. He hoped that it would at least help Yuuri’s throat feel better, if nothing else.

He gazed out the window, eyes absently following the snowflakes to the ground as he stirred the hot, fragrant tea. The tiny flurries sparkled in the light of the streetlamps on their way down, adding to the several inches already blanketing the ground. It had been a long, cold winter, and while Viktor was used to it, Yuuri wasn’t quite yet.

A sudden string of dry, violent coughs from Yuuri jolted Viktor out of his reverie and hastened his steps back to the living room, tea in hand.

Yuuri had rolled onto his side and pulled his shirt up over his nose and mouth as the coughs wracked his body. The gravelly sound of it raised the hair on Viktor’s arms. He sounded bad. Makkachin wiggled in place beside the couch, whining in distress, as if he could tell Yuuri was hurting and didn't know what to do.

Viktor quickly set the cup on the coaster on the coffee table and sat back down on the couch, resting a hand on Yuuri’s convulsing back and feeling quite useless.

He hated this, having to helplessly watch while Yuuri curled in on himself with each painful, unproductive cough, tears beading at the corners of his eyes. The coughing rattled his chest like a fragile bird cage, and by the time the fit began to wind down, Yuuri was red-faced and visibly shaking.

Oh, it hurt to watch. Viktor didn’t particularly like the wheezing quality his breathing was starting to have, either. Again, he had failed to cough anything up, and Viktor knew that it could spell trouble if that continued.

He gently ran his fingers through Yuuri’s sweaty hair, saddened by the pain warping his features.

“That hurt,” Yuuri panted weakly, scarcely above a whisper. With trembling fingers, he handed Viktor the thermometer that had fallen out of his mouth.

“I know, love,” Viktor murmured, stroking Yuuri’s hot cheek, “I’m sorry you feel so bad. I would take it away if I could.”

Yuuri leaned into his touch, eyes fluttering shut. “That feels nice,” he said softly.

Viktor flattened his cool palm on Yuuri’s cheek, earning a weary sigh of relief. With the other hand, Viktor laid the damp cloth that had fallen to the side back on Yuuri’s forehead, then held the thermometer at an angle underneath the lamp, his brow creasing in worry at the numbers. The fever had gone up again, undeterred by the medicine.

“If this gets much higher, I don’t know…” he hesitated. “We may be taking you to the emergency room. I don’t like that the fever has stayed this high for this long, and that cough worries me.”

“I’ve had higher fevers than this before. It will go away eventually.” Yuuri fumbled for his hand, giving it a faint squeeze.

Viktor sighed and stroked the soft back of Yuuri’s hand, idly rubbing the ring on his finger. “I just wish I could help more. I feel like there’s not much I can really do.” He had never seen Yuuri this ill before, and he had to admit, it frightened him. What if it turned into bronchitis, or pneumonia? Or something worse…?

“You’re doing a good job of taking care of me,” Yuuri assured, managing a smile. “I’m sure I’ll be better in no time.”

Viktor smiled back thinly. Yuuri didn’t sound too convincing.

“I’m just sad that I don’t have a sexy nurse’s uniform to wear while I nurse you back to health,” he joked weakly, trying to lighten the mood. 

Yuuri breathed out a hoarse laugh, sitting up slightly against the pillows and holding the cloth to his forehead so it wouldn’t fall again. “That would have taken your nurse rating from a ten to an eleven, for sure.” His voice was beginning to whistle. He was well on his way to losing it.

“Alas, I’ll have to stay a ten,” Viktor lamented with a dramatic sigh, picking up and handing Yuuri the mug of tea. “Be careful, it’s hot.”

As Yuuri sipped the tea carefully, Viktor studied him as subtly as he could. His breathing was a bit shallow, as if he were too worn out from coughing to take deep breaths. His eyelids kept falling shut. He was obviously exhausted.

“This is really good,” Yuuri whispered, tapping the mug with his fingernail and making a tiny tink tink sound. “Ginger?”

Viktor nodded. “My mother would always give it to me if I had a cold.”

Yuuri’s lips curved into a faint smile. “I wish I could thank her. It feels good to my throat.”

A lump rose in Viktor’s throat, and he swallowed it down. “I know she would be glad to know it helps.”

Yuuri gave Viktor’s knee a squeeze in wordless comfort, and the small gesture of sympathy touched something deep in Viktor’s heart.

Once Yuuri’s sipping slowed down, Viktor gently took the mug; good, he had managed to drink about half of it. It was the only thing besides water he had eaten or drank all day… “Go ahead and sleep. Rest will help your body fight off the sickness faster.”

With a labored sigh, Yuuri obeyed, lying down on his side and drawing his knees up to his stomach. Viktor reached for the blanket to cover him, but then thought better of it. He didn’t need to get too hot.

“Stay with me?” Yuuri asked quietly, reaching up a hesitant hand that Viktor immediately took.

“Of course. Get some rest, solnyshko.” As Yuuri’s eyes slowly closed again, Viktor leaned down to kiss his forehead, keeping his lips pressed close to the unnaturally warm skin for a moment. Another wave of concern rose at how hot it felt.

“I love you,” he whispered softly, and Yuuri’s hand lightly squeezed his own, too far into sleep to answer verbally. Though he had drifted off, the pained expression on his face didn’t completely go away. It made Viktor’s chest feel strangely heavy.

Viktor settled in his chair with a quiet sigh and picked up his book, resigning himself to a long night of watchfulness. There was no way he would be getting any sort of restful sleep with Yuuri this sick. Best to keep an eye on him in case he woke up and needed something.

With snow softly falling outside the window and Makkachin curled at his feet, it should have felt cozy and warm, but Viktor was too worried and restless to indulge in the comfort.

He just prayed that Yuuri didn’t get any worse.

-

(*102.2 degrees Fahrenheit)