#you have to give it time and still commit. chaining thoughts and routines and behaviors really works

[goldkirk]

I opened Pinterest for the first time in months.

That made me realize a lot about how bad I was actually doing and how much of a Waffle House Index use of Pinterest is for adult me, apparently.

I hadn’t realized it had grown that foundational to me in a healthy-brain-exercise-and-hobby-joy way. Nice to know moving forward! It’s another sign I can keep track of and use to spot correlation/indicator patterns earlier my behavior.

I love this kind of thing, it makes me so excited!

[amysubmits]

In your post "Hard Softening", why had you been giving CD "looks" / not feeling submissive in the first place? Because he could not spank you for too long? I thought you don't get "routine" maintenance, but were you unable to feel his dominance (or is it pain?) due to the quiet thing? I guess the related question is what is wrong with not feeling submissive? Does it make you feel unsettled or just wrong? Maybe I am wrong and you do find you need regular maintenance, just not scheduled?

This is fun brain food. Apologies in advance for the book i’m about to type. :)

I don’t think needing maintenance is always about not feeling our D/s. It definitely can be. If I weren’t feeling our D/s that likely would make me require maintenance of some sort. But I also sometimes feel our D/s but still need a role-reminder. Which is what happened recently. 

I guess when I really think about what needing maintenance means to me...it’s basically that my ability to feel submissive and to a lesser degree, to be submissive, requires certain things. 

As a D/s community we tend to think of maintenance as always being spankings and I don’t see it that way. I think maintenance is done through our dynamic itself, for example. Part of why we have rules and protocol and such is to help maintain our dynamic. Ideally, our dynamic itself keeps me from getting ‘off track’ by regularly giving me what I need in order to feel and act submissive, and ideally it also gives CD what he needs in order to feel and act dominant.  It’s also about us both feeling vulnerable enough to maintain our emotional intimacy at the level we crave. Our dynamic suffers if either of us get guarded. I don’t mean to suggest that without rules and such that I’d not be submissive. To some degree, I would be submissive regardless of whether we had rules and such or not. But the level of submission that we aim for is one where I can be obedient to most anything he asks of me, where I can serve him daily, where I can let him make decisions for me and for our relationship with relative ease, where I feel fulfilled and happy about it, too - and that level of submission requires more maintenance vs if we weren’t intentionally trying to have me be submissive. Like before we started DD, I was still submissive in that I would defer things to him when I felt like it, which was often on small things like what ot have for diner or what movie to watch. But I didn’t serve him or agree to obey him or let him boss me around or those sorts of things. So now that I have committed to letting him lead, I have to access being submissive more often and in different ways, and that requires more maintenance and we mostly try to maintain my submission by creating a dynamic that suits my needs. Additionally, there are things we just normally instinctively do that feed into our D/s that aren’t specific rules or agreements. He’ll just naturally do other things that make me feel submissive too, and those things help maintain us, too. I hope the same is true on his side, I hope some of the things I do beyond just following the rules help feed his dominance. 

However, there is no perfect formula for what our dynamic can make it so that we never get ‘off track’ because even if our dynamic stays perfectly the same, the things we’re going through in life are constantly impacting our needs, or headspace, our stress level, our mental health, etc. We sort of use our rules and such to create a sense of structure that hopefully helps maintain most of the time, but then we still have to keep an eye on how we’re doing to do “extra” things as needed.  I think more often than anything else, it’s mental health or stress things that make us guarded and that require us to do “extra” stuff to get back on track

And part of what I was referencing in that post was that even when something “extra” is needed, it doesn’t have to be spanking - spanking is sort of the hard way to soften me. It’s probably more common that he softens me with softness. Often when I get hardened it’s because I’m holding in emotional stuff that I should be sharing with him. So him getting me to open up and share my anxieties or whatever else with him is basically a form of maintenance for us. Sometimes i’ll be guarded and then he gets me to open up and I cry and then a weight is off my shoulders and I feel extremely close to him and that resets my ability to feel and act more submissive again. Or in the past when he was working too much, sometimes just taking a few hours to just spend time together was maintenance because what I needed most was just his undivided attention. And these things aren’t one-sided, because what they all really get to is a sense of intimacy. So if he gets a bit guarded due to his own stress, that can make us feel ‘off’ until he opens up to me, too. 

To go back to your specific questions...

Why wasn’t I feel submissive in the first place? Basically stress or mental health stuff. We had something happen a week or so prior that sort of threw me off. Mabe others are different, but I think getting off track with feeling submissive is just normal. We try to minimize how often it happens, but I think setting a goal of it never happening would be unrealistic. 

The stressful thing wasn’t anything between CD or I, it was just a curveball that life threw at us. We had already talked about it, which usually would soften me - and talking definitely did make me feel better. And the problem was resolved, and was resolved in a way I was really happy with, even, but for some reason I just stayed ‘off’. I guess it was probably more than just that 1 thing, as my overall stress and mental health are sort of compounded issues over the last few years, things have been consistently difficult. We had a lot of tough stuff going on even before the pandemic. So when something challenging happens, it’s never really just that 1 thing. It’s always that one new thing stacked on top of other things. I imagine most people feel that way these days, haha. 

Anyway. I basically was in a funk and wanted to be lazy and just do what I felt like doing and nothing else and he knew that wasn’t a good idea. In some cases, if I’m feeling ‘off’, him maintaining his expectations of me helps, but for some reason it didn’t help this time. The looks I gave him were mostly in response to him asking me to do things. I’d do what he asked but I was feeling prickly about it. So I guess maybe that’s why a spanking was “needed”. Ordinarily, if I’m guarded, him getting me to open up and/or giving me his dominance through leadership or whatever, would help me to feel submisise and help me feel better and get me back on track. Where this time I was just in a certain type of funk where those things weren’t helping. I was too hardened to be softened with his attention, presence, guidance. We had to sort of break through the wall the hard way. 

What is wrong with not feeling submissive? Does it feel unsettling or just wrong? 

I don’t think you meant it this way, but just for clarity, if I say that it feels bad or wrong to not feel submissive, I don’t mean bad/wrong in a “naughty” or “bad behavior” type of a way.  We don’t see it as me being bad when I don’t feel submissive. 

Not feeling submissive doesn’t usually feel unsettling, it’s just not ideal. 

For me, feeling submissive is a very good feeling. It’s warm, it’s cozy, it’s feeling useful and needed and valued and cherished, among other good things, all wrapped into one. So I want to feel it as regularly as I can But also, it assists with CD feeling dominant, and with our dynamic flowing well. When I don’t feel submissive, I can still act submissive, but it’s not as free-flowing. There’s a tiny it of tension or friction in the submission - and my submission doesn’t feel as good to CD if i’m more just going through the motions and not feeling it. And if my submission doesn’t feel as good to him, then that impacts our dynamic and it just becomes a chain reaction type of a thing. And when the opposite is true, when I feel really good about my submission, that feeds his dominance, which then come back around to feeding our dynamic and feeding me, and it’s this positive chain reaction. So basically, we try to maintain me feeling submissive and CD feeling dominant because they feel good to us so we just like it, but also because if either of us gets ‘off’ then it ends up having an impact on our dynamic and on each other. 

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Jigsaw // Red: Part Two

Nothin’ Good Comin’

A/N: I re-watched all of season 2 before finishing this. So now my pain is your pain, sorry. Time for Billy to get some revenge. 

Warning: murder, death, violence, mentions of sexual assault  

Word Count: 3,259

Prompt: (i have a feeling this is the furthest thing from what you were hoping for, anon. But...I just can’t see Billy fluff like that so I hope you don’t hate me! Thank you for sending a request!) 

The light came in through the curtains, the silver-gold brilliance of the sun’s first rays marking the early start of a new day. Normally, Billy would have been awake for an hour or two already, moving about in the semi-darkness, performing his morning routine; workout, coffee, shower, news. He liked starting his day before the world did, feeling like it gave him an edge, a sharpness that he could use to his advantage, and he took advantages whenever he could grab them. But it wasn’t a normal morning. It hadn’t been a normal night, either, the two of you lingering in the limbo between sleep and wakefulness, neither of you willing to close your eyes for too many minutes. Instead, the hours were spent committing everything to memory- the way he felt your moans through your kiss, your chest pressed to his. The soft flutter of your eyelids and the way it felt to sink into you. Your legs wrapped around his waist, twined with his or thrown over his shoulder. The way his name sounded and what it did to his heartbeat and his breathing when you sighed it into his ear. He wanted to etch you into his bones and tattoo you into his memory. Every freckle, every eyelash, the distinct weight of your body draped over his, the gentle warmth of your breath on his skin, all of it, all of you.

You brushed your fingertips over his eyebrow, tracing the curve of his orbital bone until your light touch found the birthmark between his cheek and lashes. The fingers of your other hand were threading through his hair, long dark strands spread out over the pillowcase. He didn’t dare open his eyes, the lids shutting even more tightly as you lowered yourself over his chest, lips finding his and fitting together seamlessly. Each kiss that you left him with erased every pair of lips that weren’t yours from his memory, his palms forgetting the feel of anyone’s skin but yours with each press and pass over your back. Billy savored every second of closeness, every last shadow as the night melted into morning and painted the patterns of the window frame on the sheets, holding you like it was the last chance he’d ever have, like he couldn’t get you close enough.

In a way, he couldn’t. Somehow, against any natural instinct or ingrained behavior and contrary to what he thought was better judgement, somehow in the time between getting back to you after his last deployment and the dwindling hours left before he’d be torn away again, Billy Russo had fallen in love with you. And that love presented itself in the form of a dull emptiness that was only quelled when he was with you. It was an ache that he always seemed to have, but he’d shoved bullshit and bravado into it for years, packing it down and trying to fill the deep gouges that his life had scraped into him through neglect and abuse. It stung, like rock salt being pressed into a bleeding wound, but he grew up learning how to grit his teeth and bear it, letting it make him hard, calcified and sharp. With you he’d felt something he never had before; comfort and happiness and ease with himself as he was in the moment. With you, that ache was filled and soothed, the calluses shaved away from the jagged edges around his heart, leaving it less protected and more open than ever before.

“Good morning, Billy,” you mumbled sleepily against his lips, slowly breaking the kiss to melt against his side with a sigh. You trailed your fingertips up and down his chest as you tucked your face into his shoulder.

Billy stayed silent, concentrating on the sound of your breathing, the warmth of your body, the smell of your shampoo. It’s the last good morning for a while, gotta make it count. He tightened his hold on you, flexing his arms and pulling himself closer.

You wrinkled your forehead when he still hadn’t said anything a full thirty seconds later, lifting your head to look at him through the curtain of your hair. Swiping it aside, you propped yourself on your elbow, his hand resting on your hip, thumb slowly circling around the bone. “Hey,” you reached for his face to make him look into your eyes instead of where he was touching you. “Look sharp, lieutenant, what’s wrong?”

Billy stopped the motion of his thumb to bring his hand up behind your neck, fingers combing through the hair at the nape. She knows what’s wrong. The ache throbbed but was immediately healed as you dropped your lips to his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his eye. “Nothin’,” he fibbed, returning your kisses with one of his own, lips brushing the tip of your nose. “Just tired.” He grinned. “You kept me up all night, I’m gonna have to sleep on the plane.” He knew he wouldn’t.

The smile that you answered with lit the room more than the early morning light that was spilling in. “Had to remind you what you’re coming home to, Billy.”

His chest tightened. Home. The word, to him, had always just meant The States. His apartment was just where he stayed. The few foster families he’d been placed with and the group home he’d spent most of his childhood in didn’t count. They were obligatory, state mandated and regulated constructs designed to make unwanted kids forget that the world didn’t give a shit about them. But home was something he could finally have, because he had you. He tugged you down on top of him. “Like I could ever forget.”

..  .. ..  .. .. ..  .. .. 

He bolted upright, your name on his lips, breaths coming quick and shallow, and sweat beading on his brow despite the chill in the drafty old warehouse. She… Eyes darting over the dilapidated couch cushion, he searched for any sign of the phantom warmth he still felt leftover from your touch in his dream. A sound somewhere between a sob and a grunt, between anger and despair forced its way from his mouth and he gripped his head with both hands. She’s gone. It was a dream, she’s gone. Another harsh sound escaped him as he stood from the couch to pace the cracked concrete floor. The sky outside was still inky black, illuminated by neons and streetlights. He figured that he’d only gotten a few hours of sleep, but waking up in the Hellscape that his reality had become after the juxtaposition of your body over his and your breath on his skin that his tired, fractured mind had conjured would make it impossible for him to get anymore rest, impossible to do anything but move. Before he knew it, he’d tucked your photo into the pocket of his now sweat and muck ridden sweatshirt, pulled his hood up over his head, and barreled down the steps and out into the night.

He didn’t know where he was going until he was sitting on the dented aluminum bleachers, the cold seeping through the thin scrub pants he wore. The distant hum of engines rumbling over the crumbling streets of the boroughs and the muffled shouts from the housing projects behind the ball fields finally drowned out the teasing whispers leftover from his dream. His left knee bounced erratically as he let go of the illusion and focused on the moment. Staring at the dusty home plate on the other side of the chain link fence, the gears started turning, slowly at first before gaining traction, and a plan started falling into place. I know how to flush ‘em out…Frank…Madani… I know how to get their attention…then I can make ‘em pay. He pulled his sweatshirt more tightly around himself, leaning back on the seat behind him and stretched out his long legs on the one below. He found the photo in his pocket, fingers gliding over the glossy paper, and he nodded off, sirens wailing three bridges away as a lullaby.

..  .. ..  .. .. ..  .. .. ..

The sunlight bore into his closed eyelids, slicing them open as birdsong filled his ears and he woke with a start and a gasp. Wide eyes taking stock of his surroundings, he recalled the events of the previous evening, recalled the plan that he’d formed. With a sniff through flared nostrils, Billy cracked his neck and rotated his left shoulder until it popped, releasing the tension that always built up as he slept before standing from the bleachers, hands shoved in his pockets and filthy socked feet carrying him out of the park and around the corner. It was early enough on a Saturday that not many people were out in this part of town, unless they were still straggling back home from the night before, drunk from bars or yawning from overnight shifts. He found the blue MTA sign for the bus that would take him where he needed to go, and stood there quietly waiting for it to come into view. A woman was sitting on the bench under the covered bus stop, but she had no reaction to Billy’s arrival. Typical New Yorker, blinders on and headphones in, doesn’t wanna know how scared she should be. The air brakes puffed as the bus turned the corner, and the woman stood right behind Billy, close enough that when she gripped the rail to board, her fingers brushed his.

He found a seat and took it silently, forgoing fare in favor of a glare that the bus driver didn’t have the energy to deal with, and stared straight ahead at the seat in front of him, the oblivious woman taking a seat a few rows behind him. Before the doors closed and the bus took off, a young man reeking of stale beer and the heavy smell of whiskey staggered by, shooting a look in Billy’s direction, and laughing as he fell into the seat right behind him. Billy narrowed his eyes as the guy leaned around his seat, nearly falling out of it as the bus began moving.

“Look at you,” he was right beside Billy’s ear, arms leaning on his knees and sunglasses perched on his head. He snickered drunkenly. “The hell happened to your face? The hell are your shoes?” Billy narrowed his eyes and cracked his knuckles. The jerk looked around, trying to get the attention of their fellow riders. “Look at this Edward Scissorhands lookin’ fuck. What’s the matter, Ed? Mommy put your face in a blender?” He laughed then, and shoved the back of Billy’s head, a low growl barely audible coming from somewhere in his throat. “You are one sorry sack, buddy. A real fuckin freak.”

The bus stopped then, and the man stood, laughing as he staggered back out. It wasn’t Billy’s stop. But it was close enough. With a devilish grin he stood and followed the guy down the aisle, the driver letting out a sigh of relief at Billy’s departure. Down one street and through the alley of another he followed his new friend- who happened to be of the same build and size- until they were alone, between two buildings, the man stopping and flicking open a decent sized pocket blade. In a whirlwind of motion that came more naturally than breathing, Billy blocked the attacker’s stab, peeling the knife from this hand by bending it back over his wrist and letting it clatter to the floor. In less than fifteen seconds he had his arm snaked around the asshole’s neck and a grip on his mandible. With one hard crack he snapped the man’s neck and dropped his limp body to the ground. Thanks for the new duds, asshole. Billy stripped off the last remaining vestiges of his hospital stay, clothing himself in the dead man’s jeans, shirt, boots and jacket, plucking the glasses from his head and bending to pick up the dropped blade. Pulling the photos from the pocket of the sweatshirt, he tucked them in the inner pocket of the black, faux fur-lined coat, making sure that he kept you with him as he continued on. He walked back out of the alley leaving his dirty clothes and the corpse of the idiot who pissed him off behind him. That was a good warm up. Back on track.  

It was just a few more blocks and he didn’t mind the walk, preferring motion to stillness and questioning how he ever stood being holed up in some sniper post for days at a time. Before he knew it, Billy was walking up the front steps of a rundown old house that felt disgustingly familiar. He made quick work of the lock, letting himself in as he used to, and took a seat at the kitchen table, waiting for Arthur to waddle out from his bedroom. A half empty bottle of shitty amber liquor stood on the table next to an ashtray and yesterday’s paper, a stickball bat propped against the wall in the corner. Fucker still has that? Unbelievable. His lip curled and he shook his head aggressively, recalling the three times he’d spoken about Arthur in his adult life: once with Frank while they watched Jr.’s little league game, once with Madani while he was using her for intel, and once with you, the only person who’d truly understood.

..  .. ..  .. .. ..  ..

“I didn’t… I didn’t talk about it for a long time. Didn’t know how to- didn’t know who to talk to, ya know? Didn’t know who to trust. Didn’t know- Hell, maybe there was somethin’ wrong with me, right? Maybe I did somethin’ wrong and that’s why-“ He sniffed, nose wrinkling as he shook his head. “Took me a while but I figured it out. Grown man calls you pretty…you know nothin’ good is comin’.”

“That’s fucked, Billy, I’m… “ your hand found its way into his, and he flipped his palm over so that you could twine your fingers together. “It makes me sick that you had to deal with that I… “ you shook your head but your eyes stayed focused on his. “I know what that’s like, not knowing who to trust… thinking you were wrong… this was someone who was supposed to…who you were supposed to look up to and…” you exhaled, anger and heartbreak written on your face.

“Hey,” he shrugged and pulled you closer to him, running his other hand up and down your bare spine as you lay tangled in bed. “It’s okay. Bastard got his, and I’m alright.” Got you now, the rest I can deal with.

“Yeah,” you kissed his cheek just above the hairline of his beard. “Yeah y’are Billy.”

..  .. ..  .. .. ..  ..

The exchange was quick- a few questions about his face, a few denials of any past wrongdoing, Arthur’s fat, wet frog lips glistening as he took a sip of his boozy coffee. The insistence that he’d been unfairly punished finally shattered what was left of Billy’s calm. Unfair. This asshole doesn’t know unfair. This asshole doesn’t know punishment.

“I was happy to love you kids,” he snarled at Billy. “And some’a you” he said it with disdain for the fact that Billy wasn’t one of the some, “were happy to love me back.”

It happened in a flurry of chairs scraping over the linoleum, mugs shattering on the floor and muffled, fearful sounds from the old man. Billy grabbed for the stick, snapping it over his knee easily to leave two jagged, splintered ends. He plunged one straight through the layers of fat over Arthur’s heart to pierce the muscle and cease its beating, ridding the world of one more piece of shit and leaving a nice big crimson puddle of blood, knowing that Madani and Frank would read his message loud and clear. The satisfaction of bleeding the lousy life out of his childhood abuser mixed with the vengeful rage resulting in a dizzying high that made him feel strong for the first time since leaving Krista in a heap on the floor of his hospital room. He helped himself to a leftover sub sandwich in Arthur’s fridge, found a small wad of cash crumpled on a side table, and left the scene, closing his jacket to cover up his shirt, drenched in blood.

Kicking the other half of the broken stickball bat towards the lumpy form of Arthur’s body, Billy exited the house through the backdoor in search of somewhere he could stake the place out. The house next to Arthur’s had been condemned, deemed unlivable, the tool shed in its yard looking more structurally sound than the house itself. Perfect. He hopped the short fence easily, throwing a look over his shoulder to ensure than no nosy neighbors were peeking through their curtains. Satisfied that he hadn’t been spotted, he slipped into the shed and waited, knowing that as soon as Madani got wind of this she’d be there with all her justice and her jealous hatred, knew she’d find her way onto the crime scene even though she didn’t belong there, knew she couldn’t let go of her desire to see him behind bars. Not gonna happen, Dinah.

Only a few hours passed by, Billy silently staring through the window of the shed, belly full and adrenaline levels back to normal, fingers grazing over that glossy photo in his pocket as he waited. When he saw her go into the house, he grinned. So predictable. He’d purposely left Arthur’s kitchen curtain open so he could see what was going on inside, his eagle eyes not needing the scope of a gun for accuracy. Billy had taken a lot of damage through the years, but his eyesight was still as keen as ever. He watched Madani pull her phone from her pocket and make a call that he knew wasn’t to her superior. Yeah, that’s right Madani, call your dog. Call Frank to clean this up for you. A few more minutes went by before he saw her leave, and he exited the tool shed to follow her. The first car he tried was locked, but a second, older model was left open, the owner probably hoping for someone to steal it for the insurance. Billy was happy to oblige, hotwiring it before Madani had even pulled out of Arthur’s driveway. Keeping his distance, he trailed her all the way back to her place, the edges of his brain tingling and stinging with memories of being there, of being with her and wishing it was you. I’m sorry, it should have been you. It always was, for me.  

She parked her car and he watched her nervously check her surroundings, one hand near her waistband on the gun she never left home without. He gave her a few minutes before exiting the stolen car and finding the stairwell, climbing unseen to her floor. He opened his jacket, wanting her to see his shirt and how it had gone from crisp white to deep red, wanting her to know what she was in for as soon as she laid eyes on him. He knew she had locks on her door, and he knew she’d bolt them behind her. But he knew it didn’t matter- he knew he’d be able to break the door down, throwing all of his weight and the weight of his hatred, the weight of his anger, the  weight of your loss straight through the bolts and locks. Nothing was going to stop him from getting through that door.

Nothin good is comin for you, Dinah. Nothin good at all.

.

.

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@something-tofightfor​ @its-my-little-dumpster-fire​ @suchatinyinfinity​ @gollyderek​ @thesumofmychoices​ @obscurilicious​ @traeumerinwitzhelden​ @jigsawlover10​ @getlostinyourparadise​ @breanime​ @nananananananananananabatman​ @lexxierave​ @songforhema​ @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes​ @lysawayne​ @roses-in-your-country-house​ @ymariejp​ @belladonnarey​ @audreychaz​ @songtoyou​ @stories-you-wont-hear​ @luminex3​ @ificouldhelpyouforget​

Please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed! 

[everlarkficexchange]

Feast Your Eyes - Chapter 3

by: @lovely-tothe-bone

Written by: @ra3lynn3 @savvylark @lovely-tothe-bone

Prompt 91: Peeta as the tatted, ex-rocker owner of bakery chain (like in in DC-Balto area called dangerously delicious pies). Katniss is an attached (engaged or otherwise unavailable) food critic or reporter doing a piece on him but she and P can’t deny the attraction. Angst and such ensue. [submitted by Anonymous]

Rating: M; later change to E

Warnings: References to child abuse, sexual innuendos, eventual smut

A/N: Surprise! Happy Friday! Here is the rest of Everlark’s Meet Ugly to kick off the weekend. It’s a lot more fun, and will probably make a lot more sense, if you read Chapter 2 again ; ) If you haven’t read any of FYE yet there is a link on Ch 2 to Ch 1. I want to thank @savvylark who had a fairly heavy hand in writing the actual dessert tasting. She took my fragmented descriptions and dialogue and created flowing structure. It was amazing how with such broken, random sentences she somehow knew what my brain couldn’t translate to the page. Together we tweaked and tweaked it to perfection, even up to last night! Her and @ra3lynn3 are absolutely amazing, I feel very lucky to be creating this with them.

Regaining her senses, she shoved her trembling hand into his large warm rugged one.

“Katniss Everdeen. Thank you for finally showing up.” She was not going to let him off the hook, no matter how attractive he looked.

Peeta’s cheeks flushed, “My apologies, I was held up at a bakery sponsored event.”

Katniss was vaguely aware that his voice resembled the one from the phone calls but struggled to reconcile what she had just witnessed of him with the kind way in which he spoke.

“Do you normally make a habit of overbooking yourself?” Katniss remarked.

“Not if I know a woman so charming as yourself is involved.” Peeta laughed lightly and winked at the silver eyed beauty.

“Mr. Mellark let’s –”

“Peeta.”

“Fine, Peeta,” she enunciated through clenched teeth. “I generally record my interviews, so if you could just sign this release form, stating you’re ok with that, we can finally get started.” Katniss tossed the paper on the desk and plopped onto a chair, preparing the recording app.

“No problem. Fire away when you’re ready.” After signing Peeta leaned back and checked his phone as he rubbed a finger at his temple.

“How about you tell me what that entrance out there was all about?”

His eyebrows rose at the question, then he nodded in understanding. “You don’t know who I am, do you?” he queried with a hint of a smile.

Katniss shook her head, waiting for him to fill in the blank.

“I’m a musician, I played lead guitar in a band called Nightlock.” He paused waiting for any flicker of recognition. “We were regionally popular with a solid fan base all over Washington, which turned out to be incredibly beneficial when I moved forward with the bakery.” He explained.

“So that fanfare is part of your routine?” Katniss cocked a brow.

“Ah, no. I mean, that is a…ah…common reaction, yes.” He paused, rubbing at the back of his neck. Gone was the charismatic rocker she had been confronted with, the change unsettled her.

“I usually avoid the front as much as possible. I mostly handle special orders and events, plus teach skills to my employees. When I’m here I am locked away in my own world; measuring, mixing, kneading, icing, piping, sculpting, molding, painting.” Peeta’s cerulean eyes burned brighter as he spoke.

Still, Katniss refused to dismiss his display earlier. “Then why did you come through the front today? Trying to show off?”

“No!” Peeta denied with his hands stretched out. He shook his head and looked down with a laugh, “I misplaced my store keys.” He admitted.

“So how does this bakery run if the owner isn’t on time and can’t keep track of his keys?” She challenged. Katniss was all too familiar with this type of behavior, this pattern of thoughtlessness especially set her off.

“If you must know, I was swarmed by a herd of tiny children.” Peeta deadpanned.

Katniss scowled, “What does that have to do with either of those things?”

“Have you ever wrestled your way out of a mob of sugar high six-year old’s? I’m lucky to have made it out alive. Apparently, the store keys weren’t so lucky, they were discovered at the scene of the attack.” He chuckled.

Messalla’s voice interrupted them, “Freshest possible, boss.”  He slid two plates filled with warm samples of baked goods on to the desk. The bakery manager flashed Katniss a proud smile and walked back to the kitchen.

Katniss admired the various confections, longing to dive in after the forty minute delay.

“Look,” Peeta continued, “you just caught me on an off day. You wouldn’t be writing this piece unless Decadent had generated enough buzz to catch your interest, am I right?” She reluctantly tore her eyes away from the delicacies to give him a half hearted nod of agreement.

Peeta smirked, “So, I must be doing okay, especially if The Feast sees fit to do a special interest feature on my bakery and I, rather than the normal dessert spread?”

Katniss nodded again but refused to look him in the eye. She was letting her nerves over the assignment and her frustration with Thom wind her up, taking it out on Peeta. She drew in a slow deep breath, willing herself to give Peeta Mellark a chance, even if he was a smidge arrogant–.

Peeta nudged a plate closer to Katniss interrupting her thoughts, “You’re the food critic, now is your chance to find out that we aren’t famous for our motorcyclist ex rocker. I’ll let the desserts speak now.”

Katniss glanced up through her lashes and found him smiling patiently. She eyed the plate and decided to start with a bite of black forest cake. Before she could contain it, a low moan slipped out. Peeta snickered as she clapped a hand over her mouth.

“I guess that means you’re convinced I’m worth your time?” He leaned back in his chair with a smug look on his face and laced his fingers together behind his head.

“Your wickedly delicious desserts are worth my time.” She corrected, swiping another bite of cake. “One delicious sample won’t earn your bakery a glowing review though, Pastry Man.”

Katniss froze, wondering where the words had come from and how it had sounded to Peeta but he was already moving on so she quickly dismissed the thought.

“Ok try this.” He handed her a portion of apple fritter, his fingertips grazed across her fingers as she scooped it up.

She pretended not to notice the tingling that unfurled where their hands brushed. She did notice Peeta’s concentrated gaze, Katniss foolishly suspected for a moment that he felt a thrill as well.

The journalist cleared her throat in an attempt to regain her resolve, “What else do you have for me to taste?”

At Katniss’s words Peeta gave her a look that revealed her double entendre. She closed her eyes and opened her mouth to try to explain just what she meant but Peeta graciously began a rundown of all the treats, pointing out Decadent’s best sellers. “These cheese buns are always sold out before closing even though we make two batches per day.” The lightly seasoned buttered cheese bun seemed to dance over her tongue. Katniss’s delight was as evident as it was contagious.

Peeta bit his lip at her pleased expressions.

As colorful as they were fruity, the tarts did not disappoint, with just the right combination of sweet to tang. Katniss couldn’t believe how incredible each one was, like bursts of spring and summer. Since her hiring at The Feast Katniss had had more than her fair share of cupcake tastings but even these simple creations were impressive to her astute palette. The croissants were beyond ideal, the crispy flakes shattering to reveal tender insides. She nibbled muffin bits, surprised at the unique flavor nuances in even the typically mundane classics. On and on it went, every dessert morsel as scrumptious and unique as the previous.

This baker was especially innovative, possessing a keen and discerning palate for flavor harmonies. She reasoned that Peeta Mellark was in no need of attention and praise though, once the article was printed he would see the flattering words.

“Well now I know they don’t line up around the block just for a glimpse of that pretty face of yours.” She teased the baker, reluctant to admit her true thoughts.

“You think I have a pretty face?” Peeta bantered back, batting his eyelashes.

She scowled and rolled her eyes while Peeta laughed at her reaction.

“So what’s your favorite so far?” Peeta asked.

“The triple chocolate eclair, I could live off those.” She groaned. “And the cheese buns. It’s a crime for one person to be so talented.”

Peeta’s hand covered his mouth but Katniss did not miss the earnest smile barely covered by his fingers.

“I worked hard to learn my crafts, Katniss. None of this has come easy. I committed all my time to honing each skill I possess.”

Katniss considered him for a long moment then returned to her notebook to compose the last of her reviews.

“So why a bakery?” She asked around a mouthful of cinnamon roll, licking icing from her fingertips.

Peeta’s eyes flitted away just before a bright grin overtook his face, “Baking runs in my family, on my dad’s side. The Mellark’s have always owned a bakery.”

Peeta’s voice grew wistful as he handed her half a pizzelle, “I learned how to bake cookies before I learned how to read. A couple years ago the band was ready to retire. I was ready to get back to baking and everything just sorta lined up. I catered a few high-end events, the right people noticed and offered to help with the startup. Really, I couldn’t have done it without – “

A harsh buzz drowned out his words, his phone started to slide along the desk before he grabbed it.

Peeta’s eyes flashed alarm but he immediately schooled his features, then he was on his feet.

“I have to go. I need to leave right now.” Peeta scrambled around the office, shoved his arms in his jacket, yanked both gloves on, and snatched his keys.

“I am so sorry Miss Everdeen; please can we reschedule?” His gentle blue eyes pleaded.

Katniss nodded mutely, too stunned to respond.

“I’ll send you a message!” Peeta threw over his shoulder as he dashed out.

Peeta clenched his fists around the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white. He felt his rage building inside at the unfairness of it all. Eli was a child Peeta mentored, only 14, too young to suffer at the hands of the people he should have been able to trust.

“Home is supposed to be a safe place!” Peeta yelled to the empty seats in his vehicle.

No child should fear their own home. Peeta shook his head in disgust, at the injustice many foster children have dealt with, abuse in a foster home. Peeta had kept his cool as he filled out the report at the police station but on the drive home, privately, he was honest with his internal turmoil.

Eli came for his shifts the previous week at the bakery with several tell tale signs of physical abuse. Bruises in strange places, excuses that just didn’t fit, “I fell,” he remarked. “You know brothers,” he dismissed and “I’m just clumsy.” All excuses Peeta had heard before.

Excuses and lies that easily fell from Peeta’s own teenage mouth.

The young boy Peeta had taken under his wing wouldn’t admit any misconduct. Peeta asked further questions, only to be shut down. From his own experiences, Peeta knew he had to try a different approach. Unless the boy was willing to admit the truth it, it would have only broken the boy’s trust if Peeta called social services himself. He had to build that trust and earn Eli’s respect.

Peeta pleaded with the boy to tell his mentor if he was ever in trouble, without hesitation, Peeta would be there for him. Today Peeta had an especially terrible feeling in his gut. When Eli didn’t show up for his shift, he knew to keep his eye out for his phone. He didn’t want to cut the meeting short with the intriguing sweet and sour journalist, but when he received the ‘X’ sent from Eli’s phone, he knew what was more important.

With each of the teens Peeta mentored he had worked with them to set a plan in place. If they were to find themselves in trouble, they would send Peeta a text, a predetermined code. Peeta would pick them up when they needed help, ask questions later. Some of the kids chose to simply text an ‘X’  like Eli did.

As he drove, Peeta replayed the incident in his mind. The battered young boy, trying to hide his injuries, the pleading for mercy from his own foster parent, before Eli’s eyes met Peeta’s. The look of relief that Peeta saw wash over Eli brought a cold chill down Peeta’s spine.

It was all too familiar.

Peeta’s hands started to shake so intensely, he had to pull his car over.

[donnerpartyofone]

ramblings

honestly i hate it when people use this word in their content or URLs. i hate it as much and in the same way that i hate the overuse of the word “random”. both represent tactics designed to absolve the user of any obligation to communicate clearly, stand by their opinions, or otherwise allow that the things they choose to do and say and support are symptomatic of who they really are as an individual--as if the things that you engage with are just “something that happened”, like the weather, and there’s some separate secret “you” that has nothing to do with the waves of activity that appear to emanate from your person. not that everything has to be a manifesto, but constantly qualifying your every action or feeling as chaotic and indeterminate is insecure at best and fraudulent at worst. at any degree of severity, it is at the very least just fucking annoying.

but, i’m thinking about quitting tumblr again, and this line of thought could probably be safely categorized as a ramble. i mean i’ve been thinking about it for years, as much as anybody of my vintage does, although my ordinary complaints have just had to do with obnoxious technical and community issues. this net neutrality disaster is really pushing my buttons. can i really afford, mentally, to keep using a yahoo product? but the thing is, as soon as i think this, i’m assailed by internal synthetic echoes of the kinds of radical voices i’ve absorbed from tumblr itself. this is one of my worst personal problems, that i internalize other people’s voices with extreme success. so, as soon as i think about boycotting yahoo by leaving tumblr, i involuntarily imagine someone telling me that i’m an elitist pig for theatrically divorcing myself from a major corporation when many people, who are perhaps the most victimized by corporate behavior, can’t even choose to remove toxic corporate material from their lives, and that my empty gesture is even less than symbolic when i don’t know who picked the orange sitting on my desk and i’m typing this out using a slave-manufactured Apple product furnished by my employer who rather famously tortures its blue collar employees. this morning i was feeling good about using up leftovers for my lunch instead of letting them turn into climate-destroying food waste, until i thought about where the stray mayo packet i just used was going to wind up, and moreover where the plastic bag i used to tie up that trash was going to wind up, and what an asshole i was for thinking about how i can recycle the tin foil i wrapped my sandwich in when in fact recycling plants have been linked to cancer in their employees. i may have congratulated myself this morning for repairing my thrifted shoes with glue instead of throwing them out and replacing them, but the fact that they’re under my feet right now and for as long as i can keep them doesn’t affect the fact that some animal is going to be choking on them when i can no longer make use of them. so, the same internalized radical voice that calls me a huge piece of shit for participating in this or that march or protest, even though i do vote and i do put money toward needs and causes when i can, that voice is definitely here to tell me that dramatically leaving tumblr after seven years makes me at least as much of an asshole as does continuing to use it.

if you exist anywhere left of center lately, your available political energy is pretty routinely sapped by infighting that seems to insist that if your intentions as well as your strategies are not absolutely virginally pure, then you need to just shut the fuck up and pull on your hair shirt and bury yourself alive until a real rain comes to wash all the scum off the streets. it’s like, no progress shall be made until a progress arrives that simultaneously and equally improves all areas of life, leaving no remote potential for debate in its glistening wake. nothing you do matters because everything you do is evil and there is no shortage of people who can prove it to you. the cultural climate i live in has made me really adept at proving it to myself. like the second you think even of certain A list celebrities who use the rewards of their meteoric careers in order to give back to their communities, you can say, well, what’s the carbon footprint of one of their concerts? what’s the point of doing anything at all? it feels like there are really just two ways you can live your life: you can aim for self-actualization, which may do wonders for your personal identity but which seems to require constant material sacrifice on the part of everything around you, OR you can relegate yourself to some sort of extreme jainist existence in which you deprive yourself of every personal indulgence to the point that your individuality is so degraded that the question of the meaning of your life looms larger than ever in relief.

there’s also the question, as evidenced by all this leftist infighting, of who is even smart enough to think of as much as one thing to do that’s actually a good thing to do. even if i were to let go of my entire life as it is to commit myself puritanically to some cause, it seems like a sure thing that i’d pick the wrong cause, with a world of negative side effects for other causes. and on the general matter of choosing sides, i don’t even think i know what, like, anything is anymore. i saw this post float by the other day that said something about how sick the OP was of the fierce leftist protection of sexual predators, as if defending rapists were a popular tenant in left-of-center parties, and the post had tens of thousands of notes and i just couldn’t figure out what the fuck it was even referring to from real life. i understand that there’s a lot of talk about how, speaking in very limited terms, “democrats are as bad as republicans”, and i understand what that’s about structurally speaking, but as far as “left” and “right” goes it seems like the language has completely broken down to the point that it doesn’t even refer to anything anymore other than some almost facelessly broad ideas about whether you think the government should help you or leave you alone about X. maybe what i’m really trying to say here is just that i have no idea what the fuck anyone is talking about to the point that just being alive is like being permanently trapped in some foreign country without a single cent of local currency.

so anyway, once i’ve achieved a subterranean level of depression over the fucked up shit that happens as a direct result of every minute that i even exist on the planet earth, i ALSO start to collapse under the slings and arrows of another internalized voice, that of a shitheaded rightwing alpha dog who sees guilt as a symptom of extreme weakness, of useless fragility. and to some degree that’s true, if my main state of being is this dissolving soreness, then how could i possibly be effective even at something that appears to be “the right thing to do”? and moreover it’s like if every single thing i could conceivably do with my life is categorizable as “evil”, then “evil” ceases to be a worthwhile judgment to make and abide by. everything is nothing and nothing is everything so you might as well just do whatever you want, right? but of course that’s not acceptable because in doing whatever i want, with no regard for the worldly consequences, i still feel terrible. so to try to treat that condition, i for-just-one-instance choose to go to the tiny neighborhood grocer next door to the constantly-expanding chain store right next to him, and i remember to bring cloth reusable grocery bags, which of course i know will just be choking out flora and fauna after i’m dead or stopped using them, and then the radical leftist voice in my head berates me for just “doing good” as a hollow gesture designed to make myself feel and look better, and we’re back to everything is nothing and nothing is everything all over again.

and why even worry about this, or literally anything, when at any moment we’re all going to be bombed off the face of the planet because we’ve elected, seemingly for entertainment’s sake, this scandalous id monster who isn’t even a real politician? i’m running out of these daily pills that i need for some real dumbass reasons, and i need to make an appointment for my annual medical humiliation in order to get more of them, but it’s so hard to care. over the last several years i built up a certain amount of personal pride by “being brave” and submitting myself to normal adult maintenance routines, but the more of them i’ve been through, the more they just feel like some sort of kafkaesque ritual whose only result is its own existence. and if i’m just going to boil to death in the rising oceans anyway, why bother?

the most rational idea that my tiny shitty brain is able to come up with is that the best most of us can do is to just do what feels “right”, as often as is practically feasible. so i think, well, leaving tumblr would be a thing, even if it doesn’t make a real difference in real life, it would be something i did based on a feeling of at-least-vague altruism. but then i think of all my friends here, people who are remote and in bad spots in their lives who i can at monitor in some well-meaning way, and i think about my family members here and their excellent art projects that are facilitated by this place, and like doesn’t my thought process indicate that i think all of THOSE people are evil parasites too? i mean what is the ultimate extension of the logic i’m trying to employ here? when i think about that i feel like a bigger sack of shit than ever before. then i kind of start thinking about all the people in the history of my life who have openly categorized my depression, whatever its sources and symptoms at the time, as just me being a pill, being difficult, being negative, being counterproductive, looking for attention: the explicit or tacit response being, “why don’t you just _______?” but i don’t know what this ________ is that’s supposed to replace all my feelings and behavior. i guess that’s kind of the point of this whole thing, that i have no idea what the alternative is supposed to be, to all this, and how i can “just” do that instead.

so, maybe just because it’s something to do, i’m thinking of moving over to blogspot or something that makes me feel even slightly less complicit in the actions of these cartoon villains that run everything. i understand that if i do that, then i’ll be lucky to maintain relationships with even like ten of the people whose presence here i know and love. i assume i would just continue on as normal, although without the benefit of this often-amazing kaleidoscopic font of images and ideas, and the ability to glibly inject some “hilarious” thought of mine into other people’s uptake streams, and the surprise discovery of new and exciting people via the entropy that rules my dash. or maybe i won’t risk all that, and i’ll just sit tight right here, because what really would be the actual result of my bailing? maybe i’ll just delete this later today, when i’m feeling sufficiently embarrassed and overexposed about it. i guess i’m going to go spend money i don’t deserve to make on some stuff that i don’t need to have, in a place that damages the world when i have to live in both obvious and invisible ways, while i think it over, for the rest of my natural life. 

[hitodama3]

Nightmare Daddies, Part 1