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dumbkombuchakid · 4 years ago

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I’m finding more and more that mindfulness and awareness play a massive role in everything. All the growth I’ve undergone has been rooted in cultivating those skills in myself.

Getting curious instead of judgmental, asking questions and being objective, letting go of outcome and expectations. All of these things seem tiny and maybe insignificant on paper; but in practice have made all the difference for me.

This past Thursday, I met with my therapist (as I usually do on Thursdays) and she told me she was proud of me. I am so grateful for that feedback, for her helping to contribute to my awareness of myself. Awareness extends beyond the present moment, it encompasses patterns and trends and habits and intentions and consequences. It informs decisions and aids processing and understanding. Awareness is the key to it all.

She commended me for staying in wise-mind while telling her about a situation that was upsetting me. She noted that though I had the opportunity to allow my emotions to take control, to pull me into a spiral, I made a choice to remain in control. That’s not what I would’ve done a year ago. That might not even be what I would’ve done a few months ago. Her providing that feedback about my new patterns and trends, specifically my ability to abstain from following old, maladaptive patterns and trends, brought that new data into my awareness. It’s very difficult to be cognizant of your own patterns. It requires parallel processing of data about several versions of yourself in different but comparable situations across a timeline. That’s not a skill that comes naturally; that depth of data about each version of ourselves just isn’t stored.

I am proud of myself. I’m proud of my ability to say that I’m proud of myself; proud of my capacity to believe that I’m proud of myself. For the larger majority of my life (I’m talkin 1st 19 years) I refused to allow pride to penetrate my consciousness. I grew up fearing that I’d slip into narcissism and lose who I was, instead developing into some spawn of my father; a figure I’d associated with all things self-centered and antisocial. Any shred of pride or self-esteem was too great a risk; I’d rather be humble and miserable but secure in my pro-social self-appraisal. I vividly remember the day I felt true self worth for the first time. It was in june, a month before I’d turn 20. That day came a few years after another significant (in hindsight) day when I began working with my current therapist. I fear I may accidentally catalog the past several years here for the sake of clarity and continuity, but the main takeaway point is that I’ve undergone immense growth, all a result of my own innervism.

Innervism is a term I’m borrowing from Elizabeth Lesser, the author of the book Cassandra Speaks. It refers to inward awareness and intentional growth. Tuning in to tune up. If not for facing the things about myself that I didn’t want to get true, I’d never have reached a point where I’m able to act with intention and display a self of whom I’m proud.

I’m far from perfect, and I’ve made a personal vow to never stop growing, learning, listening, and adapting. I will never reach my final form; there is always room for growth.

My point in writing right now is to address some of the cognitive behaviors I’ve noticed myself exhibit when in relationships. In the beginning, when things are wonderful and new and affection has a strong presence, I latch on. I start to fantasize about the future and how my life could play out with this other individual by my side, treating me the way they do at the beginning.

This tendency to idealize based on that first impression, that best-behavior scenario, extends into the period when things begin to slip. When the negligence begins, when manipulative tactics begin being employed. When I am expected both to change myself and also to unilaterally accept the other’s lack of change. I am projected to grow into a mould that aligns with their current state, rather than the two of us developing into a new shape, together.

Internally, this is accompanied by a fear of communicating my feelings. A hesitation to go against the grain and a tendency to shrink and abide by these new terms of engagement. I get quiet and small and they become all powerful. I am aware of the red flags and harm and damage and yet I remain docile and strive for perfection in their eyes.

This is how I’ve always done it, it’s how I’ve been conditioned to behave in relationships. I’ve been conditioned to accept that A) there will be a power imbalance and B) it will not favor me.

I no longer accept that. Today I did something that past me would not have done.

A few important things to note about the situation that allowed me to make this development are that:

1. my “picker” is getting pickier. I’ve always fallen into relationships with narcissists in the past, not because I chose them, but because they chose me and I only knew how to go along. This time, in my current relationship, I made a choice as much as they did. The quality of their character actually had a chance to play a role in deciding whether or not the relationship was worth pursuing.

2. I trust them. I trust that they care about me and want this to work. I trust that they want me to be happy and healthy and that they’re willing to grow.

We didn’t talk much today because he had a big day of doing things that I won’t get into, but then tonight when we did finally get to talk, we spent a long time discussing his day in depth and then never shifted to talking about me. Instead, he started multitasking and doing other things and talking and singing to himself. I told him if he wanted to do those things that was fine, but if we were going to be on the phone that I wanted to him to talk to me, to pay me attention. This didn’t actually turn a result, which hurt me.

Eventually, he got tired and said he was going to turn in, and wished me a goodnight. I said goodnight too, without my typical enthusiasm or affection, and he noticed that those were missing. Instead of asking why though, he simply told me to say it like I meant it, since he didn’t believe me. He has a tendency to make jokes when I’d really rather he be serious, and I’ve stopped laughing along and instead stay true to the tone I want to be received. I don’t want to diminish the weight and value my thoughts and feelings deserve. I’ve decided to not accept less than I deserve.

We hung up and I journaled a bit and felt myself getting worked up, and this is where I did a few things I’m proud of.

I called him back. He didn’t answer, so I recorded a snapchat video and told him how certain aspects of our conversation made me feel, and how I had realized that if I didn’t tell him then he’d have no way to know that those things had hurt and upset me.

This was honestly terrifying, and sending it (and not getting an immediate response) made me feel a whole other type of awful.

I decided to set a timer for 15 minutes and meditate. During my meditation, I focused on a few things. I repeatedly reminded myself that I must let go of outcome; remind myself that I spoke only about my feelings and my feelings deserve to be heard. Silencing all the spiraling thoughts about the conversations that could follow was hard, and I noticed the colors in my awareness shift as more potential outcomes forced their way in. I repeated the mantra “I deserve love” to myself and focused hard on not allowing expectations or theories about what could or may happen in. Those things aren’t real, they’re imagined. I forced myself to choose to refrain from processing events until an event actually occurred.

15 minutes passed and I felt a little lighter. Part of me still really just wanted to cry, but then eventually I got a notification. He said he was sorry, that it was more of a mental hiccup than a true representation of how he feels.

I thanked him - intentionally rerouting from a typical path of saying “it’s okay” in response to an apology. I then wished him sweet dreams and told him we’d talk tomorrow, and I meant it.

It was uncomfortable, I’ll admit. It’s never fun to confront something that hurts you, especially when it’s something or someone that you don’t want to lose. During my meditation I had to remind myself that if someone doesn’t value my feelings or have respect for me, then they aren’t the person I should be with. That’s terrifying - holding people to a higher standard. Choosing to not accept less than what I deserve is something almost completely foreign to me and is fucking scary, but it’s also sort of exhilarating. The idea that mutual respect is now a requirement, that my partner needs to give a shit about me and express that through their behavior is something I deserve. I never used to think about myself as deserving anything - at least not anything good. But now? I put so much effort into who I am and how I treat others. I’m a good, kind, caring person. I know that I am because I do it on purpose. I think that qualifies me as deserving someone who treats me the same.

It’s 5am now. My sleep schedule is off kilter in a big way. I’m going to finally stop and allow this day to end. I’ve already made a to-do list for tomorrow and I hope the day brings joy. I appreciate you reading what I have to write; it helps me to do this and I hope it helps you to read.

Goodnight and sweet dreams, remember that you deserve love.

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philosophicusabicus · 3 years ago

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Diaries in the Loony Bin

The Loony Bin is a group of individuals who could be called “friends”, but maybe that’s too suggestive. At any rate, this group has a diverse set of opinions on politics and sports, with voices across the political spectrum and through many sports. The intersection of politics and sports, in contemporary society, is met with disdain; however, the members of the Loony Bin seek to make it an acceptable space of discourse. Every week, when the asylum isn’t particularly chaotic (there can be no promises as to consistency of date), an entry will be posted, documenting the developments of thought and culture within these walls. Where many see lunacy as a vice, it is seen as a virtue here. The diary herein is will capture all of the voices of this group, but it will use only one narrator, striking many different chords and tones. Topics will change with rapidity, so be always on edge. Though, nothing will get too toxic, as most topics will be treated rather lightly, aiming at parody. We’re in the Loony Bin after all.

Entry #1:

Where saner minds prevail in the Loony Bin, there is the same old chatter about Brady; about how the Bucs will repeat; about the prospects of Tampa’s young roster. But, in the deeper corners of the Loony establishment, there are whispers of a new team in town — a team in the same conference which has been biding its time of late. The St. Louis R… Los Angeles Rams. This team has the defense of a Trump supporter pressed about another investigation; and they have Stafford now, who can be a completely average version of himself and still be better than Goff. They made the playoffs last year with the latter under the gun: by trusted and tried Loony bin logic, there is no world where they don’t fare better this year.

Alas, as we approach the eve of the NBA Finals, we would be remiss not to reflect on the curious outcomes of the playoffs we have just witnessed. The Suns are on the cusp of their first finals in 28 years, walking over a series of teams who were hobbled to their bones. 1st round against LAL, practically no AD. 2nd round against Denver, no Murray. 3rd round against LAC, no Kawhi.

Is anyone else seeing a curious trend here?

This is like the string of upsets that led to the election of Biden in 2020 — think Georgia, Michigan, and Arizona, among others. Speaking of Biden, nobody can say they’re overly happy with what he’s accomplished in his term so far, but then again many are still aboard the “anything is better than Trump” bandwagon. So that mass is just easy to please.

I have a story to relate. A guard patrolling the halls on a foggy evening last month overheard in a ward unit a patient on a delirious soliloquy. Ranting and raving was usual for this patient deep into the night, but this rave, this was different. “Trump’s rhetoric.. his mannerisms.. his behavior.. it is unfit for the Presidency. Nothing need be pinned on him from a legal standpoint for it to follow that he does not meet the standards of the Chief Representative of the United States. If you were to quantify the number of immoral exhibits he has demonstrated, however insignificant, they would add up to a hefty sum: a demeaning and vicious personality. A personality unfit for such a high position. If we have to pick political poison, let’s pick the lesser of the poisons.” The guard began to hear an uncorking of caps, a sloshing of potions, and a loud thump of a corpse, crashing to the floor.

There was a rampant disease going around the property, from hall to hall, greensward to greensward. Its many and various symptoms included: involuntary association with Big Tech, amnesia about mortgage loans and student debt; anxiety related to pressures of the labor and financial markets; headache and fever regarding quality of romantic life; and a strong preoccupation with taking selfies.

The Bin was in lockdown and every non-faculty member had to isolate in their respective wards. Hence, if the patients were to communicate to each other, a new way medium had to be contrived: they call it “Loonygram”.

As I understand it, though admittedly I understand it very little, one performs some kind of slippery action to facilitate the correspondence between users. From what I have gathered though, it has little chance of success without being a certified maniac. Many prefer the pleasure they derive from their own babbling monologues.

While a doctor was trying to rationalize his patient one day he got carried away on a sermon of his own: “Why the fuss over kneeling anyway? Just because some action affronts a symbol you respect, doesn’t mean the intention was to disrespect that symbol. Differentiating actions and their outcomes from intentions goes a long way out there. There was no intent to disrespect what that American symbolism; that was just a byproduct of an effort trying to gain respect for another symbol: social equality”

The patient, strapped to their chair looks helplessly up at the doctor and asks “So… that helps me in here how?”.

“Well, I suppose it doesn’t. Look, it aint all rational out there either, if you catch my drift”.

The patient scrunched his eyes circumspectly at the doctor before his attention was drawn to a fly buzzing on the adjacent wall.

These are curious times within these walls. An episode occurred on the Loony grounds one morning in which one patient wandered over to another, unprovoked, and yelled “my team is winning it all this year!”. The other patient, startled, replied “w..who is your team?” “w..what sport is this even?”

“I am at liberty to express myself; I have the first amendment behind me after all!” cried the provocative patient.

“Indeed, you do. But only where it doesn’t infringe on the freedoms of others” observed the second patient.

“And at what point is that?” jeered the first patient.

“Frankly, I’m not altogether sure. But let’s come to this decision mutually before you spam me with your raptures about the Yankees. Your favorite team is the Yankees, ya?

“How could you possibly.. know?”

“I saw you in the cafeteria last October, forking your pork chops like a feral animal; not long after Gleyber struck out for the 5th time that night either; I saw it in your eyes.”

How that altercation ended remains to be seen, since I merely borrowed it from the journal of another author, who has been missing ever since.

In other rumors, it is with great pain and sympathy that I report an exorcism which took place some time ago in the health dormitory on the fifth floor, all dust and eerie. The patient was being consumed by the demons of his loyalty to the Cowboys.

The pastor on hand, tending to his duties as exorcist, was on the verge of performing his most solemn task, when the possessed man said, as he foamed at the mouth “Elliot… Elliot”

“Excuse me? Elliot? What… Elliot’s going to be the most overrated running back in the league? I’m with you there” laughed the pastor, stuffing a hankerchief in the man’s mouth to muffle his screams.

“Dak. Dak. Dak. Back”

“Dak or not, there is a constant with the Cowboys. At the end of every regular season, they’re barely scratching playoffs.” applying the shock therapy he was taught in his vocational school.

“D..depth a..and.. youth.. a..at receiver” coughs the patient as he loses consciousness for the final time.

“Death and youth make a believer? That’s some sound philosophy my man. You’re impressionable when you’re young so that makes sense, and you live with more respect and appreciation for life as you get old and nearer to death. Truly well spoken”

“This one is one of the better cases, Mary” the doctor says as his assistant walks through the doors.

Tensions are up to a fever pitch these days. Just yesterday, two psychiatrists were shoving each other over whether the condition of the patients is binary or not.

“Their conditions are binary!? That is a very limiting way to view things. If the patient does not want to identify their condition as “sick”, and feels like they want to be labeled ‘sort of sick I suppose’, then the more power to them.”

“No, that is infeasible. If we do not have a clear threshold for their condition, then how can we administer their treatments? At what point? It would be arbitrary.”

“There is no essence of “sickness”; you can’t just define it in any terms you want, just so that it aids your goals; besides, they’re not really sick, sort of.” The insane man, lying on the bed for the entire course of the conversation, just looked blankly and confusedly at his doctors, thinking “so the stories you hear on the outside are true, these people really are Loony huh?”

Some disturbance is happening on the floor below me now, so I must close this entry and I will write another day…

#Politics. Sports. Psychology.

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irelise · 4 years ago

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Fic “Behind the Scenes” - Alex Rider

Trying to dip my toes back into writing, so I thought I’d ramble about some fics I’ve already written! This started off as ranting about my title choice and how they’re usually Final Fantasy XIV songs I butcher in order to forcibly fit the fic, but it expanded into musings about things that didn’t make the cut into the final fic, and potential sequels/things that happen down the line.

Just doing Alex Rider fics for now since that’s my current active fandom, but drop me an ask if there are any fics you’re especially interested in from any fandom!

Starting off with: Time (2368 words, gen, Alex & Yassen focused) aka my untagged Inception-flavoured AU where the plot twist was that it was a dream all along That said, this title was probably one of the easiest to come up with and was obviously from the main theme of Inception, Time! Which is fantastic like the whole movie aaaa i love Inception AUs and this fic is probably the one I’m most likely to expand into longfic if I dredge up the motivation from somewhere. It would be a mission style fic, possibly a heist, where Alex and Yassen are seemingly working together in order to steal some valuable intel from another group. Of course, it’s all a dream! Through copious dream symbolism and mind fuckery the real mission was set up by MI6 for Alex to extract intel from Yassen, who by this point is steadily losing his grip on dreams and reality after months, possibly years, spent under sedation.

Yassen has a few tricks up his sleeve, though. He’s aware that he’s (probably) dreaming and he can see the fractures in Alex’s resolve after such a long time of being used and manipulated by MI6. It would only take a little nudge to get Alex to defect -- or, at the very least, to escape.

So while Alex is busy trying to extract information from Yassen, Yassen is trying to do the opposite: inception.

The rest below cut for length and also because they’re nsfw since most of my writing was for the kink meme! Warning for general fucked-upness and unhealthy relationships

at the end, on a dusty road (8154 words, Yassen/Alex) aka the reputation sabotage fic, aka where’s part 3b?!

Title from Origa’s Polyushka Polye:

The wind scatters your brave songs Across the green field. Songs of the past, Leaving them alone with your glory, And right at the end, on a dusty road…

i just wanted something wistful and Russian about past soldiers and fading glory ok....... I came pretty close to titling the fic leaving them alone with your past glory but decided it didn’t make much sense out of context.

ANYWAY my first Yalex fic! Very much inspired by a hodgepodge of comments on Discord about how MI6 would react if they ever saw Yassen paying Alex visits in the middle of the night - “Could they be exchanging information?” “The whole night? Maybe the answer is something more obvious...”

ANYWAY the ending at the moment is pretty open - there’s two main ways I see it going:

1) Yassen comes back shortly afterwards, realises he had fucked up colossally, stays and helps Alex rebuild even though Alex (very justifiably) no longer trusts him. Very slow reconciliation and healing but ultimately happy ending.

2) aka the one where I broke Nanibun’s shipper heart over Discord: Alex and Yassen eventually reunite, but it isn’t until years later, when Alex is nearing middle age and Yassen has faded into obscurity. Alex managed to pick up the pieces of his life and even moved on properly from MI6, and now lives a fulfilling life. Married, 2.5 kids, white picket fence, the whole lot. So what if his marriage is more for partnership than for love? He’s content with the direction his life had taken and has strong ties to his community. He even managed to forgive Yassen, even though it took him a long time.

He and Yassen meet for the last time in a sunlit cafe in spring. Alex looks at Yassen and sees only a stranger with lines crinkling under his eyes.Yassen is getting old, he realizes. He thinks he should be happy that Yassen even had the chance to get old, but all he feels is relief that their paths had diverged. Alex is done with that life and he can never trust Yassen again. All that old passion had burned away to nothing, not even a flickering flame. Even though the initial parting had been painful, Alex had managed to find peace long ago, and he hopes Yassen will be able to do the same. But it's a distant, unemotional hope, the sort of hope you'd have for a distant acquaintance you haven't seen in years. The type of well wishes that are etiquette more than actual sentiment.

He's glad when their drinks are finished and Yassen melts away into the chattering springtime crowd, one final dangling chapter of his life closed at last.

...............or, 3) Alex throws himself into increasingly dangerous situations in an attempt to feel something and dies young.

(part 3b is coming someday i swear! it’s the alternate path where Yassen has second thoughts, tells Alex the truth, and doesn’t send the sex tape to MI6)

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Lemniscate (3562 words, Julia Rothman/Yassen) Not a whole lot to say about this one, except after I finished I realised it was really similar to another fic I previously wrote which also involved a young man desperate to reinvent himself completely being taken advantage of by his superior............ i have a Type

Title - I was jamming out to Locus while writing this which is a song all about an inability to escape from cycles - When fighting back right out of this system/Means falling back right into this space ; When falling back is better than simply/Falling back into pieces again - but it was long and unwieldy so I thought about shortening it to Moebius but that was a bit overdone... In the end I settled with Lemniscate which is also an infinity symbol, Moebius-like shape. Mostly it’s a reference to how Yassen never quite breaks free of his “cycle” even though he’s with Scorpia now - he was Sharkovsky’s slave and bedwarmer and...now he plays basically the same role for Julia Rothman. (Just with a bit more murder and moral erosion!)

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This probably needs a special content warning - major character death (gun suicide from the second Russian roulette scene), gore, necrophilia

closing the circle (3650 words, John Rider & Yassen) aka is it still a gen fic if there’s offscreen necrophilia?

This was originally written for a kink meme prompt for corpse mutilation + necrophilia but then the John and Yassen plot thread kind of took over and I never actually ended up writing the gory stuff oops since it was too out of place compared to the rest. So everything below can be considered not “canon” since the fic diverged so heavily from its original plan (which is why the section numbers skip around - I cut out Yassen’s bits). But if you’re curious, here’s the details for what I originally planned to happen to Yassen (well, his corpse) and the Sharkovsky family, copy-pasted straight from my notes and full of as much karma as I could stuff in:

Yassen’s death, Sharkovsky shoves his fingers in the bullet hole and spits on the body in disgust. Yassen regains consciousness halfway through this; he can feel what Sharkovsky is doing

Ivan comes running in, attracted by the sound of the gunshot. Sharkovsky tells him to do what he likes with the body as long as it’s disposed of in the end. Necrophilia scene? Afterwards Ivan disposes of the body by locking it in the cellar alone with the Dalmatian for a few days

Yassen starts getting his revenge. Ivan is the first to go when he comes to let the Dalmatian out – the Dalmatian savages him and tears out his throat before it’s finally shot. Yassen’s bones get buried along with the Dalmatian. Ivan’s body is kept in the cold storage room in the basement where they kept the old food taster’s body while they decide what to do with him.

Maya, Sharkovsky’s wife, is next. She passes away in the middle of the night. Sharkovsky wakes up next to a cooling corpse.

There are whispers that there is some sort of curse. One of the maids talk about finding blood on the carpet of Sharkovsky’s study. She’s the next to disappear. Some other workers stop turning up.

Finally it’s Sharkovsky’s turn. He dies of poison. The dacha burns down that same night.

A Scorpia agent was sent to tie up loose ends (Scorpia didn’t know Sharkovsky is already dead); Yassen kills him too. He has no loyalty to Scorpia and just wants to be left alone.

Hunter is sent to investigate. He and Yassen talk, in the end, Hunter invites Yassen to come with him, Yassen agrees. But when they leave the dacha and Hunter looks back, he finds that Yassen is gone.

And an excerpt:

Yassen is dead. He does not remember dying. There are some things the human mind tries to shield itself from, and the memory of a bullet traveling through bone and brain to erupt on the other side in a shower of gore is one of those things.

Yassen is dead. He had hoped death would mean oblivion. At his most naïve and optimistic, he had hoped death would mean reunion. Happiness. A return to simpler days.

He discovers, instead, that death is not so different from life, except he is even more powerless now than before.

There is a body on the floor of Sharkovsky’s study. Its hair had once been pale white-blond, but now it is matted with coagulating blood. That same blood spreads in a dark pool against the carpet, clotting the fibres together into ugly clumps, stiff and flaking. The fire in the hearth is still burning sullenly. Its light glistens against the grotesque strands of viscera splattered against the ground, the furniture, the wall. A round hole had been punched into the side of the corpse’s head, piercing bone and brain. That was how the man who had once been Yassen Gregorovich had killed himself. The fingers of the corpse remain loosely curled around the old-fashioned revolver that had been the instrument of death.

The only living person in the room rises slowly from his wheelchair. Sharkovsky’s skeletal face is twisted into an ugly grimace of anger. He totters over to the corpse, nudging it with the tip of one polished leather shoe. “Waste of time,” he says coldly. “Ruining a perfectly good carpet, and for what?”

In a sudden fit of temper, he lashes out with a kick. Once, it would have been strong enough to break several ribs (Yassen knows from intimate experience). Now, the corpse merely flops limply to one side. It incenses Sharkovsky further. He drops heavily to his knees, breathing harshly, and backhands the corpse across the face with one shaking hand.

#fandom: alex rider #My writing #meta

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witchofleviathan-blog · 6 years ago

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Master List of Pagan Servers

Long Night's Hearth A brand new pagan chat for newbies and sages alike. Join us in one of our many discussion topics, or hop into a group meditation. 15+ only! https://discordapp.com/invite/7G4GbVC The Rivers of Auðumbla ☼ The Rivers of Auðumbla is a Norse/Germanic Paganism (but not limited to) focused server for all those who are interested, practitioners, curious, or even just looking to make friends. Our goal is to create a comfortable environment for those who are looking to expand their practice or share their practices as well. This server is a place where all is welcome as we do not discriminate or judge people's identities, practices, or anything of the sort. We are accepting of everyone’s beliefs but we will not tolerate any hateful ideologies as we aim to be a community that people can feel comfortable to be in. Whether you love Norse/Germanic mythology, practice any form of Heathenary, looking to learn or make friends, or just work with particular Norse/Germanic deities we hope you can join us! https://discordapp.com/invite/735HNk5 Norse Devotion Hello! We are a server for anyone searching for a place to freely talk about their deities pertaining to the Norse pantheon such as Loki, Freya, Odinn, Hati etc. We have other channels for witchcraft purposes and for talking about other pantheons while mainly talking about the Norse. Please feel free to join! https://discordapp.com/invite/9N32sNF The Casual Coven We're a welcoming community of younger people from magick-based religions such as paganism, satanism, and wicca. We have older, experienced members willing to give advice to newbies just finding their path, so don't feel turned away if you are just starting off! 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It doesn't matter how long you've been learning or practicing- we would love you to join us! This is a place for learning, discussion, fun and games- all in equal measure. https://discord.gg/USCTMsg gays only (no wiccans) Hello! We are a non-wiccan LGBT pagan server! The only requirements are to be LGBT and pagan! Please, no wiccans. We offer a safe environment for traumagenic systems as well as Tupperbox. We offer -General channels -Meme channels -Spirituality channels -Support -And a welcoming staff and members! https://discordapp.com/invite/s2hFtxH Gaelic Sun Tribe This is a right-wing Irish discord inspired by /pol/ mostly NP trolls but we except post people. https://discordapp.com/invite/zsf4QBa Aphrodite's Grotto Aphrodite's Grotto is an open and inclusive server for any and all people whose experiences fall under the pagan umbrella of the religions of the world. This is a safe environment for pagans who wish to share their romantic experiences, seek advice from a community, or meet other pagans in a romantic setting. We encourage the acceptance of couples as well as single members into the community, as their unique experiences can shed light on many situations. As we grow and learn together, maybe you'll just happen to find the one that's been missing from your life. - Our server features: ° A thorough vetting process, and comprehensive community guidelines. ° Relationship Advice ° Dating Ideas ° Support for LDR's ° A positive atmosphere ° Games and cute bots ° Astrology and Divination ° Spirituality Inclusion ° Breakup Support ° Partnerships ° Self-assignable Roles ° Currently seeking staff Aphrodite's Grotto is a creative space still currently under development. https://discord.gg/yzemPg8 Shamanism The Shamanism server is a place for any wandering soul in search of information about shamanism, altered states of consciousness, trance rituals experienced by shamanistic tribes and a likeminded growing community to exchange with. https://discord.gg/64XbQPp Just Some Pagans A new server for Pagans, Wiccans, or anyone who's interested. All religions are welcomed as long as they remain respectful. •Self-assignable roles •Lots of channels, including some for memes, games, writing, venting. •More stuff to come https://discordapp.com/invite/jeJjhuy

#pagan #paganism

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schadenfreudefreude-blog · 6 years ago

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This is what youth and adolescence feels like

There are beautiful, wonderful, tender memories from childhood I could put in this story; my childhood loves and my pleasant life in gentle, loving surroundings filled with light. But I am interested here only in the steps I have taken in my life to arrive at myself. I will leave in the glowing distance all the lovely oases, blessed isles, and paradises whose magic I experienced; I have no desire to set foot in them again.

And so, for as long as I stay with my girlhood years, I will speak of only the things that felt new, that pushed me onward, broke me loose.

Then came the years when I had to recognize once again the primal attraction within me, one that had to cower and hide in the permitted world of light. Like everyone else, I too experienced my slowly awakening sexual feelings as an enemy and a destroyer, as something forbidden, as temptation and sin. The great mystery of puberty, which I was desperately curious to solve and which gave rise to dreams, lust, and fear, did not fit at all in the sheltered bliss of my peaceful childhood world. So I did what everyone does: I led the double life of a child who is no longer a child. My conscious life was lived in the familiar space of what was allowed, and denied the world rising like a new dawn to me. At the same time though, my life was lived in dreams, urges, longings of subterranean kind across which my consciousness built ever more anxious and fearful bridges as the childhood world within me fell apart. Like almost all parents, mine did nothing to help the life forces awakening within me, which were never spoken about when I turned thirteen and I got the first guy who courted me and I ghosted because I'm so afraid and innocent and then while I was one of the cheerleaders of the cheerleading squad, there's this musician volleyball player Senior Captain guy who became my first boyfriend for six months and broke up with me in Yahoo Messenger because we were in a long distance relationship and I'm not fulfilling the girlfriend duties enough or maybe he found someone else in Manila. After that, I only involved myself to feel attraction through having crushes and I never had a boyfriend after that year and in my college years. My mother strictly taught me when I was fourteen to only give it to the man I'll marry in the future; my future husband should be the first one to get it. And until now, I still obeyed it and I'm still choosing to wait for the right time and the right person. My parents only tried, endlessly and untiringly, to help me in my hopeless efforts to deny reality and stay in a child's world that grew more and more false and unreal everyday. I do not know if parents can do anything else, and I am not criticizing mine in particular. It was up to me to finish growing up and find my own way; I did it badly, like most well-raised children.

Everyone passes through these difficulties. For the average person, this is the moment when the demands of his life come into the starkest conflict with his environment, when he has to fight the hardest to make his way farther along his path. Many people experience the death and rebirth that is the destiny of us all only this once, as childhood rots from within and slowly disintegrates, as everything we have grown to love abandons us, and we suddenly feel the solitude and deathly cold of the universe around us. And very many people remain stuck at this hurdle their whole life long, desperately hanging on to the irretrievable past and clinging to the dream of a paradise lost, the worst and most deadly of all dreams.

The sensations and mental images with which the end of childhood proclaimed itself in me are not worth telling here. The important thing was that the dark world, the other world, was back. At the same time, the other world outside me was gaining more and more power over me, too.

When vacation was over before college, I went to Baguio. Both my parents came with me and entrusted me with all possible care to a condominium dormitory. They would have frozen with horror had they known the kind of life they were letting me wander into.

The question was still whether I would, with time, turn into a good daughter and useful citizen, or whether my nature was pushing me onto other paths. My last attempt to be happy under the shadow of the parental house and its spirit had lasted a long time, for a while it had almost succeeded, but now it had finally and completely failed.

The strangest emptiness and isolation I had come to feel for the first time the summer before my sophomore year in college (and oh, how well I got to know it later; this emptiness, this thin air!) did not pass away quickly. I found it oddly easy to leave home, I was a little ashamed of not being sadder, in fact; my mother expressed her worries, but I couldn't. I was amazed at myself. I had always been a sensitive child who expressed her feelings; a good girl, when it came down to it. Now I had completely changed. I acted with total indifference toward the outside world and spent days at a time attending only to myself, listening to the dark, underground currents rushing and roaring inside me. I had shot up very quickly in the past six months and looked miserable, skinny, and immature. Everything girly boyishly lovable about me disappeared; I was well aware that it was impossible to love me as I was, and I did not love myself either. I missed myself who loves writing much of the time and there I was memorizing the periodic table and formulas, solving Physics and Chemistry problems for my pre-med course.

So, when I shifted to Communications from Pharmacy in the next semester, I was neither liked nor respected because I was a new face in the Humanities department. They would say hi to me and asked me if I'm Chinese or Korean. I have no friends at all. No one knows me. Boys teased me and then left me alone, having decided I was a weird, distant, unpleasant sort. I took pleasure in this identity and even exaggerated it, grumbling my way into a solitude that looked like a feminst superiority and contempt on the outside while secretly I suffered constant fits of depression and despair. At school I got by for a while on what I had already studied back home, the class was a bit behind me where we had been because I love writing and journalism when I was in high school because I was the news editor of our school paper in my senior year and I was part of the editorial staff for 4 years in high school, and I got into the habit of viewing the other students my age with a certain contempt, as children. It went on like that for a year. Nothing changed on my first few visits home, and I was always glad to go back to school.

Then it was early November of year 2014. Whatever the weather, I would take little intellectual walks, which often gave me a kind of pleasure that was full of melancholy, scorn for the world, and contempt for myself as well. That was how I felt one evening as I strolled through the city of Baguio in the damp, misty twilight. The wide avenue of public park was completely deserted, and inviting; as I walked down the lane, thickly covered with fallen leaves with a dark, voluptous desire. It smelled wet and bitter; distant trees loomed up eerily out of the mist, tall and shadowy.

I stopped at the end of the road, not knowing what to do next. I stared down at the dark vegetal mass and greedily breathed in the wet smell of death and decay, which something inside me responded to and welcomed. Oh, how insipid the taste of life was!

Someone approached down a side path, his coat billowing in the wind. I wanted to keep walking, but he called my name.

"Hello, Lianne. Huy, Lianne!"

He came up to me. It was Lance, the first guy I seriously liked when we were living in my first condominium dormitory when I was first year in college. He is now a physicist and he studied in UP Baguio. I confessed to him that I like him when I was 16 and we were both cool about it and we are good friends after that. I always enjoyed seeing him and had nothing against him except that he always treated me like a baby.

"And what brings you here?" he called out affably, in the tone that bigger kids liked to take when condescended to talk one of us. "Writing a poem, I bet."

"Never occured to me," I snapped back.

He laughed out loud and walked next to me, chatting. I had completely forgotten what that felt like.

"Don't think I wouldn't understand Lianne. I know how it is, when you're taking a walk like this in the evening mist, with 6PM thoughts, you want to write poems, I know. Poems about dying nature, of course, and the lost youth it's a symbol of."

"I'm not that sentimental. How dare you!" I defended myself.

"Alright, nevermind. Alam mo kapag ganito ang weather it's good to find a nice quiet place with a glass of wine or something along those lines. Sama ka saken? Come with me. I happen to be all alone. Or ayaw mo? Ayaw kita mapariwala if may plano ka maging good model student."

Soon we were sitting in a small pub at the edge of the city, drinking a dubious wine and clinking out our glasses together. I didn't like it very much at first, but still it was something new. Soon though, not used to drinking wine, I started talking my head off. It was as though a window had opened inside me, and the world was shining in; how long, how terribly long it had been since I'd said anything I really felt! I started to give my imagination a free rein, and before I knew it I was telling Lance the story of Cain and Abel in the Bible.

Lance listened with delight. Finally, someone to whom I have something to give! Someone who could make deep talks with me. He clapped me on my shoulder, he called me a deep one fellow and my heart swelled with pleasure: I could finally let myself go, indulge in the need to talk and communicate that had been pent up so long, and feel acknowledged by someone older than me, like I was worth something. When he called me brilliant and smart, what he said sank into my soul like sweet, strong wine. The world shone in new colors, thoughts came to me from a hundred mischievous sources, wit and fire blazed up within me. We talked about our teachers, our schools, our classmates, and it seemed to me we understood each other splendidly. We talked about the Greeks, paganism, and Lance insisted on turning the conversation into confessions of amorous adventures. Here I had nothing to contribute. I had not had any adventures, not worth telling. And what I had felt, built up by my imagination, burned within me but the wine did not free it or enable me to talk about it. Lance knew a lot more about girls than I did, and I listened passionately to his fairy-tale stories. What I learned was unbelievable: things I had never thought possible entered ordinary reality and seemed obvious, normal. These girls in his stories have already acquired quite a store of an experience. Among other things, that girls always want nothing but chivalry and attention, which is fine as far as that goes but not the real thing. You could get farther with women. They were much more reasonable.

I remember the night very clearly. When the two of us started home late, past the dully burning gas lamps in the cool wet night, I was drunk for the first time. It did not feel pleasant. It was excruciating. But still, there was something about it: sweet excitement, rebellion, spirited life. Lance took good care of me, even while gripping about what a total beginner I was, and he brought me home, half carrying me, and managed to smuggle us into the dorm through an open hall elevator.

But after a short dead sleep, I woke up to a headache, sobriety, and terrible sadness. I sat up in bed, still wearing my shirt from the day before, with my other clothes and shoes lying around the floor and stinking of smoke and vomit. Between headache, nausea, and unspeakable thirst, an image rose up in my soul that I had not seen for a long time: I saw my parents' house, my hometown, Father and Mother, my siblings, the garden; I saw my quiet, comfortable bedroom, the school, and the market square, all of it flooded with bright light, radiant, all of it wonderful, godly, and pure, and I now knew everything, had still belonged to me the day before, just a few hours ago, had been waiting for my return, but now, only in this moment, it had sunk forever under the waves, was cursed, was no longer mine. It had thrown me out and now looked upon me with disgust! Everything I had so profoundly loved, everything back to the most distant, golden garden of my childhood that my parents had given me, every bless, every Christmas, every bright, pious Sunday mornings at home, every flower in the garden, it was all laid to waste, I had trampled it under my feet. So that's how I looked in the inside! I, who went around despising the world, proud in spirit. I was a pig, like scum, drunk and filthy, disgusting and low, a wild animal taken unawares and overpowered by hideous urges. I, who had come from the garden where everything was purity and radiance and blessed tenderness, who have loved poetry and Bach music, now looked like that inside. I could still hear my laugh ringing in my ears, drunk and out of control, bursting out in idiotic stops and starts and it filled me with rage and disgust. That was me!

Despite everything, it was almost pleasurable to suffer these torments. I had crept around blind and numb for so long, my heart cowering poor and miserable in the corner, that even this self-hatred, this horror, this whole horrible feeling in my soul was welcome! At least I felt something! The embers still flickered with some kind of fire, a heart still beat in there! I was confused to feel something like liberation and springtime in the middle of all my misery.

Meanwhile, to the other side, things went downhill with me in a hurry. My first binge was soon only a first to many. There are a lot of drinking and running wild went on as I meet more friends who asked me to go out. I once belonged to the dark world. At the same time I felt miserable. I was living in a self-destructive riot. I can still recall how tears came to my eyes once when I left a bar on Sunday afternoon and saw children playing in the street, bright and happy, with freshly combed hair, in their Sunday clothes. And the whole time that I was entertaining and often shocking my friends with my monstrous cynicism at the dirty tables of cramped pubs between puddles of beer, in my heart of hearts I still respected what they were mocking. On the inside I kneeled in tears before my soul, before my past and my parents, before God.

I never felt truly one with my companions. I was still lonely when I was with them, and that's why I suffered so. And I never went along with my buddies to see boys. I was alone and full of burning longing for love. A hopeless longing even while I talked like a hardened libertine. No more was more fragile, more full of shame, than I was. I was anxiously ashamed of the warm, shy moods I so often felt, the tender thoughts of love and care that so often came over me.

I cannot summarize in brief about what I learned from my adolescence stage. The most important thing I learned from it was another step on the path to myself. I'm now young adult. I was an unusual young woman around twenty-two years old, precarious in a hundred ways but very far behind and helpless in hundred ways. When I compared myself to the other people my age, I sometimes felt young and full of curiosity. There were times when people see me gifted and creative. They admire how I write and how I sketch and paint. During college, I was eaten up with worries and self-hatred about how hopelessly isolated I was from other people, how cut off from life. They are all dating but I'm closed.

After college, I lived again at my hometown with my family. This new environment gave me courage and taught me to keep my self-respect. The way people always found something valuable in my words, my dreams, my thoughts and imaginings, always took them seriously and discussed them in earnest, became exemplary for me.

I like music because it's outside morality. I can't keep comparing myself to other people. I sometimes feel like I don't belong, I blame myself for following a different path than most other people. I have to unlearn that and I did. Stare into the fire, look at the clouds, and when ideas and intuitions came to me and the voices of my soul start to speak, I trust them and I don't worry about anything.

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quincywillows · 4 years ago

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hey maggie! i’ve been following you for so long and as my sophomore year of college is wrapping up soon (thank god, online school is the worst), i’ve found myself literally not doing a lot of enjoyable things that i would want to do or really creating/writing in time that i have away from homework/classes. i’m so curious as to how you created and did all of your writing for fun/fanfic things after already having to write so much for your major?

omg a long time follower... hello. hi my pal. so honored you’ve stuck around this long and my apologies that you’ve dealt with me for so long LOLLLL but happy to have ya! CONGRATULATIONS on finishing your sophomore year of college, especially in these crazy times. i really can’t imagine trying to do school productively in these circumstances, so i have a lot of respect for all y’all that are powering through -- hopefully you’ll get some sense of normalcy in the coming school year. i especially commend you, because sophomore year can be tough no matter where you go to school / what your major is (sophomore slump is a real thing). it was my hardest year of college by far, so mad props for doing the damn thing. you’re super powerful for making it and i’m proud of you!!! i hope you’re proud of yourself too.

this question... it’s a tough one. i hear ya. my first major piece of advice is let yourself rest and recharge if you need to rest and recharge. if your semester has just wrapped up, you might not feel the effects of that fully until a few days after you’re free of it. and it’s 100% okay to let your brain take a little break after being in school mode for so long. i totally get the instinct to feel like okay now that i’m free i have to take advantage of it as much as i can and jump right back into these things i love since i should have wanted to do them this whole time... but our brains are strange things. they need time and their own methods to process things, even in ways we don’t consciously realize we need, and sometimes a break is truly necessary. that means from everything that uses brain power, including those things we love so much. and i know it can feel guilt-inducing to just not do anything (like i said, i know that feeling all too well and am living with it Too Much at the moment), but if your brain needs the break, give it the break. don’t push yourself to write for fun if it ends up feeling stressful and not fun. so to start, try giving yourself a day or two with no expectations to write or be creative and just... relax. absorb some media for a change rather than crafting it (my go-to is always reading books when i’m not creating output these days). i would be willing to bet that if you let yourself breathe with no expectations for even a little while, you’ll start to feel your creative urges and instincts bounce back without even trying, just as you’re hanging out and vibing. that’s how it always goes with me, anyway!

once you get the recharge done and you’ve got some mental energy back, then the question remains -- how do we do creative things and stay motivated while we also have other stuff to focus on? i’ll be candid, for me, writing stuff for fun is the escape from writing stuff for work / school. like it keeps me creatively fresh on both fronts to be constantly playing around and working with different ideas, so i try to keep multiple projects going at one time for that exact reason. when i start to burn out on one concept, i jump into working on something else. (the only time this backfires is when everything is in an outline / brainstorm stage, like i am right now, which let me tell you is a whole other ballpark and my nightmare LMAO). but i think all this to say, part of it is just reframing how you look at the writing you do for fun. i dont think of it as stuff i’m doing On Top Of everything i’ve got going on, it takes equal importance and residency in my mind. they’re just different categories of output. in fact, i’m guilty more so of like working on the fun things when i’m supposed to be working on the Work work (hehe), but again, that’s another angle.

so then what are ways we can get inspired to jump back into the fun things, after reframing our mindset and after our recharge? for me, i have a lot of different things i do that keep writing fun for me. the main one -- and i cannot stress this enough -- is building a storytelling community of some kind where you can just have fun, bounce ideas around, and do writing in a very non-stressful environment. i’ve had friends like this since i was 11, and i owe all of them a life debt because they will never know how much they kept me going creatively. there’s just something very inspirational and creatively rich about having a group of people you feel safe to just throw ideas out to (and who you know actually enjoy listening to you ramble -- that one is crucial. i’ve had friends who i thought were those kind of people and then it ended up turning out pretty bad, and that can kill your creative buzz). for example, i would say 9/10 of the fun fanfic ideas i’ve written and shared started, in some shape or form, as me pitching it to my friends and getting to pop off about it and work out the bare bones with that test audience of sorts. plus, if you have writer friends, for example, this is something you can do for each other and not only build your creative friendship, but also support one another. that’s a key to the sprint method, and it’s how @ambitionsource gets written -- i don’t know if ambition would be almost through 3 seasons at this point if esther and i weren’t writing it together and constantly talking and chatting and brainstorming about it by feeding off each other’s enthusiasm. and in the real world, that’s basically what writing courses are for -- your peers and classmates are that community in that class. there’s something truly so invigorating about having that community, so if you can find that, i cannot recommend it enough.

but what can you do on your own? it’s not always easy to find that community, or if you don’t want to, and honestly sometimes its nice to just work creatively on your own with no interaction from others. for me, one thing i do is try to build the aesthetic around the project to get in the mood of it. for me, the biggest method to this is playlists. i’m a huge music junkie, so making a playlist (often times both vibes with lyrical musical and instrumental with movie scores) is like my immediate go-to when i need to tune in or flesh out a new idea and get in the zone. another thing i love doing that always gets me in the zone is doing character tests / alignments / etc. like personality quizzes are my shit, and i love doing it even more for characters. i’ll spend hours over time taking tests and assigning types and stuff just because not only is it damn fun, it really does flesh out character in ways you wouldn’t expect -- you have to step into their mind to answer questions and really think... like oh, how would x respond to y situation... and it’s really eye-opening sometimes! (hit me up if you want a list of the common personality tests i do for characters; i have a folder on my bookmarks bar lol). you can also try other creative things like making moodboards / pinterest boards, or making edits if that’s up your alley.

if all of that doesn’t seem to unblock your fatigue towards doing what you enjoy, my last piece of guidance -- and i know this sounds annoying, but bear with me -- is to just do it. even if you’re not Feeling It, do it anyway. for a little bit of time, bit by bit. that’s the whole conceit behind the sprint method, which takes writing and breaks it into bite-sized chunks. i’m a subscriber to the belief that writer’s block is a myth and isn’t real, and sometimes you really just have to push through your hesitation and do it. 9/10 times, when i do this, i find myself feeling so much more productive and happy and ready to write again once i just break that mental barrier. and whatever you do in that first breakthrough does not have to be brilliant, it’s just about getting back that energy and flexing those muscles -- especially if they’re rusty.

hopefully some of this will be helpful to you as you try to get your rhythm back! let me know if you’re still feeling stuck and maybe we can narrow in on what might be causing the fatigue. best of luck, writing legend!

#i'm so touched you've been following me for so long and feel comfortable coming to me for advice #i'm proud of you friend!!! you're killing it #writing gabs #writing tips #writeblr #writing #maggie.txt #Anonymous #ask and you shall receive

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introverts01 · 4 years ago

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Exactly how to Go From Introvert to Extrovert

As a child I was very introverted, often investing my time on the computer, reading, playing computer game, or pursuing various other solo pastimes. I 'd hang out outdoors biking, exploring the close-by fields and hills (which today are full of homes), or shooting hoops, but I 'd typically prefer doing these things alone or with individuals I knew very well. I never really felt too comfortable around complete strangers, and also I never ever cared for large household occasions. Psychological tests like the Myers-Briggs secured me directly as an introvert. Any person who recognized me would have defined me as an introvert without a second thought. Like lots of introverts I was pressed by others to mingle extra. But I largely withstood this stress, partially since I appreciated being an autist. I commonly watched extroverts as doing not have in intelligence as well as depth, and also I can't claim I wanted to count myself amongst them.

introvert vs extrovert definition Nonetheless, over a long period of time, I at some point found myself coming to be an increasing number of extroverted. I embraced spending quality time with other individuals, headed out of my means to satisfy brand-new individuals, can pleasantly introduce myself to unfamiliar people, and really appreciated it. The Myers-Briggs examination currently classifies me a character To individuals that know me today, this wouldn't be unexpected. I'm not the sort of exhibitionist I envisioned as a child though. I feel I have actually done an excellent task balancing the introvert and character parts of myself, such that I delight in both types of tasks just as. I really feel just as comfortable remaining at home checking out a publication as I do mosting likely to a brand-new get-together as well as introducing myself to individuals I have actually never ever fulfilled. I enjoy both team and solo tasks, each for various factors. Some weeks I'm much more introverted as well as mainly stay at home with my family members. Other weeks I have a full social schedule with an event virtually every evening. I take pleasure in both just as much. In order to end up being a character, I found that I needed to conquer several blocks to being more extroverted Chances are that if you're in the same boat, you have a few of these blocks also. Blocks to ending up being an extrovert. * Underestimating extroversion. Spending quality time alone as well as with people are just as essential. If you're extremely withdrawn, you might undervalue the positive duty people can play in your life, such as understanding, friendship, development, laughter, and so on. The optimal end result is to strike a balance in between both. You do not have to quit the autist activities you delight in. In fact, when you stabilize them with even more social activities, you'll probably discover them even more gratifying. After a number of nights of being around individuals, I truly anticipate a night by myself to read, practice meditation, create, and so on. And after great deals of time alone or with my household, I'm itching to go out as well as be around other individuals.

hobbies of introverts * Underdeveloped social abilities. Social abilities can be learned like any type of various other ability. One reason autists shy away from social activities is that they do not feel comfy because they do not know what to do, especially if the unexpected were to happen. Being able to launch a discussion with a stranger As Well As feel totally comfortable doing it is a learnable skill. The even more you do it, the better you access it. Embrace the truth that you're a newbie, and also don't contrast yourself to others. * Imagining on your own as the incorrect kind of exhibitionist. If you find the extroverted people around you superficial and probably also irritating, why would you wish to be more like them? You would not. When I was a child, I truly didn't intend to be extra like the characters I understood. Also as an adult, my vision of an extrovert was an in-your-face sales representative that just wished to construct a superficial connection with you so they can sell you something. It appeared very fake and also counterfeit to me. And also of course that vision prevented me from ever wanting to resemble that. But you needn't pick such a minimal vision for yourself-- you're cost-free to form your own vision of a favorable method to be a lot more extroverted. * Hanging out with the wrong people. Why would certainly you wish to invest even more time with individuals you do not such as? If ending up being extra extroverted ways investing even more time with individuals you 'd rather prevent, you'll have no inspiration to do it. Again, you're cost-free to break this pattern and form a social group that you would certainly enjoy to be a component of. * Misestimating on-line interacting socially. On the internet interacting socially has its place in your life, however it's a light shadow contrasted to in person, belly-to-belly communication. Voice as well as body language can connect a whole lot greater than message, as well as emotional bonds are much easier and faster to establish personally. I really feel much closer to the local buddies I have actually recognized for just a couple of months than I do to the people I've understood online for several years but never ever met face to face. It's simply not as fun heading out to dinner with a laptop. You do not have to eliminate on the internet interacting socially, but don't allow it to crowd out conference individuals in your area. If you do that, you'll just cause your interpersonal skills to delay better behind. If you have some of these blocks and want to surpass them, the initial step is to recognize them and also think about how they're holding you back. After that start to work with them equally as you would any type of various other challenge in your life. Emphasis your intents, set goals, make strategies, as well as start doing something about it. It might be unpleasant and clumsy at first, however simply approve that, and obtain moving anyway. Ideas for becoming much more extroverted. Below are some additional ideas for just how to end up being much more extroverted: * Envision the kind of exhibitionist you want to be. What's your ideal result? If you really feel too withdrawn and want to be much more extroverted, start by working with your vision of your end result. Opportunities are that if you've been making little progress in this area, you have a somewhat adverse vision of extroverts. When I created a favorable vision of being an exhibitionist that consisted of structure genuine partnerships with intelligent people I respect (in contrast to arbitrary, shallow interacting socially), I quickly began bring in those relationships. Being a "dumb jock" type of exhibitionist still has no interest me. * Think about connections in regards to what you can provide, not in terms of what you can obtain. If you look for to construct new partnerships based upon common offering and also receiving, you'll have no scarcity of close friends. Determine people with whom you would love to build a relationship, and also start by offering. I've located that my geeky understanding is really a tremendous stamina when it involves mingling due to the fact that there are an awful great deal of non-geeks that had actually like to comprehend geeky stuff much better, and also I can discuss it to them in ways they'll understand. For instance, I've been educating some neighborhood audio speaker close friends concerning blogging and web advertising, and in return I'm learning a whole lot from them concerning speaking, humor, etc. There are several intelligent people around that 'd love to have a nerd as a friend. What can you offer a relationship that will be of advantage to someone else? When you identify what that is (as well as it's most likely many different points), you'll have a much easier time drawing in brand-new close friends right into your life. * Locate the right social group for you. Knowingly think about the types of people you 'd wish to have as pals. There's no guideline that states this needs to be your peers or associates. I really find myself much more curious about making close friends with people who are much older than me as opposed to people my own age or slightly more youthful. Individuals around my age (34) have a tendency to be extremely profession- as well as family-oriented, however frequently in a rather brainless, socially conditioned manner in which isn't focused around any type of consciously selected life objective or belief system. And also people in their 20s, while often highly energetic, tend to be mainly undistinct ... or concentrated on trivial searches that simply aren't that crucial. So it's been hard for me to locate people near my age where we have enough alike for a long-lasting friendship. I seem to have an easier time making close friends with people in their 40s, 50, and also older. They usually have higher understanding and also experience, even more fascinating tales to share, a lot more resources (info and suggestions, financial resources, contacts), and also a much better sense of who they are and what they intend to finish with their lives. Frequently I discover myself going to gatherings where I'm the youngest individual in the room, yet that really feels extremely comfy and typical for me. Don't hesitate to stretch past one of the most apparent peer group and also socialize with individuals from various ages, areas, cultures, nations, etc. You could find the range to be a lot of enjoyable. * Play from your strengths. It's interesting that many autists have no problem interacting socially online. In that atmosphere they have the ability to play from their staminas. However you can likewise use your strengths purposely as take advantage of to branch off right into even more in person mingling. As an example, after I finished university, I satisfied a lady on a local BBS (prior to there was a lot of a World Wide Web). We got to talking online over a duration of weeks. Ultimately we fulfilled personally and also ended up being buddies, and I quickly came under her pre-existing social team via osmosis. My social schedule went from empty to complete almost overnight. That woman, incidentally, has been my other half for the previous 7.5 years. If you socialize on-line, see if you can not use that strength to build brand-new neighborhood relationships. While individuals have actually done this in international forums like on the internet video games, I think it's much easier to try it in local online forums. For instance, there are message boards for individuals that have actually lately moved to Las Vegas. * Sign up with a club. It's old recommendations, however it still works. The advantage is that you'll locate people who share comparable rate of interests, that makes it easier to construct brand-new relationships. One good club can fill your social calendar. As an example, with my subscription in Toastmasters, I get invitations to great deals of various other local social events. I do not most likely to whatever, but it's nice to obtain those welcomes. Plus belonging to a worldwide organization with 200,000 members worldwide creates social invasions around the planet. If you join a club as well as discover that it's not right for you, stop as well as sign up with another thing. My other half as well as I have actually both been with a variety of local social groups that just really did not resonate with us (too boring, too slow-moving, also disorganized, too many alcoholics). However one excellent group is all you need. * Establish your social abilities consciously. You can discover to become better at developing connection, introducing on your own, maintaining a conversation going, asking a person out on a day, really feeling socially comfy rather than anxious, and more. You do not need to be superficial and manipulative regarding it, yet really develop these abilities due to the fact that it will substantially improve your life. One technique I locate very efficient is to ask the various other individual exactly how s/he got started in his/her current profession. 80-90% of the time the person will state something like, "Well, that's a fascinating story ..." And I really like listening to these stories. A small standard collection of social abilities can go a long method because you'll reach reuse them every time you fulfill a person. Whatever ability you 'd like to create, try doing a Google or Amazon search on it, as well as you'll most likely locate plenty of short articles and also publications. Understand that when you hold yourself back from mingling, you're not just robbing on your own-- you're additionally robbing other people of the possibility to get to know you. Just how much longer do you want your future spouse or buddy to stay alone? Right here are some follow-up articles that even more explore this subject: 1. Improving Social Skills 2. An Inquiry for Introverts 3. Danger vs. Reward in Human Relationships

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triscribe · 7 years ago

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Quill the Living Planet

Summary: Hundreds of years after the rest of Guardians are dead and gone, Peter Quill remains. He decides to give being a planet a try.

Rocket was the first to go, his fur long turned to a mix of white and pale grey. Rather than admit to the growing weakness of his limbs and eyes, the feisty little bugger went out in a blaze of glory, blowing up himself and a ship full of Skrull slaver-scientists. They gave him a Ravager funeral, figuring he’d appreciate explosions made in his honor.

Drax went next. It surprised everyone - they thought he would go down in the same manner as Rocket, fighting to his last. Instead, he slipped away in his sleep one night, found the next morning with a content smile on his face. They burned his body, and scattered the ashes on his deserted homeworld, to rest with his wife and daughter.

Mantis died a decade later, helping to ease the passing of others in a refugee hospital on a planet caught up in civil war. With the others fighting on the battlefield, she had no one to tell her to stop, to take a break. Instead, she absorbed as much pain from the fatally wounded as possible, until she just... Stopped. They buried her on a quiet planet the next star system over, one where flowers tinkled like bells in the wind.

Gamora joined them after many years, injured while guiding escaped slaves to safety on a Kree colony world. Her body’s modifications only helped so much, allowing her to keep pushing on long after she should’ve stopped to rest. By the time she collapsed, there was nothing more that could be done to repair the damage. They gave her a traditional funeral of her people, on Zen-Whoberi’s remaining moon.

Nebula faded within the same year - she simply stopped giving her own mods the meticulous care she had in days past, which meant the effects of old wounds soon caught up with her. They put her to rest next to her sister.

It was several decades before the next death, that of Merdu Udonta Quill, Peter and Gamora’s son. He left behind a Terran wife and seven children: Ditha, Yon, Lini, Hethe, Ket, Tis, and Neba. They, along with his father and walking plant of an uncle, summoned the one hundred Ravager Clans for a Captain’s Funeral.

A few centuries later, it was finally Groot’s turn. He’d grown into a huge form, bigger than the one he’d had when the Guardians all first met - one capable of holding up a whole village’s worth of terrified people as the ground beneath shuddered and spewed molten rock. Evacuation ships were able to get all the civilians out of harm’s way by the time he finally collapsed, grinning at his victory. There was nothing left to give a funeral to, but that didn’t stop the planet’s entire population from throwing an annual garden festival in his honor.

After that, Peter was more alone than he’d felt in ages. His descendants were scattered across the star lanes, some aware of their relation to him, many not. A few galactic governments, those of Xandar and Terra and so on, remembered his name, enough to be polite and welcoming when he showed up within their borders. Most places, though, had forgotten who he was; there were only legends among spacefarers of the ‘Starlord,’ who wandered from system to system, searching for the family who’d left him behind.

Part of him laughed at the irony.

Another part contemplated how to destroy himself, and so rejoin his loved ones, wherever they were.

The greatest part of his mind, however, wondered what it would be like to be a planet.

So, he found a solar system with a young sun, picked an orbit just close enough to it for a decent amount of warmth, and got to work. It took a long time to build a decent-sized shell around himself, and longer to sort out what features he wanted on his surface and where to put them. By the time settlers began to arrive, though (grandchildren of his grandchildren’s grandchildren, called by the songs sent out to every corner of the galaxy), Peter was ready. Planet Quill was ready.

There were two large bodies of saltwater: the Draxian Ocean (situated right on the equator, so the currents were always warm) and the Nebula Sea (further to the north, where it seasonally froze over, but was always lit from within by glowing kelp). Across the continents were numerous freshwater lakes and rivers, each named for either one of Peter’s grandkids or a Ravager who’d been decent to him growing up on the Eclector. They all flowed together into the massive Merdu River, which continued on down to the shore of the Draxian. In the very center of the ocean was the Island of Mantis, where the ground was soft enough for bare feet, every tree bore sweet fruit, and the pink flowers all tinkled like bells in the wind.

There was also the Forest of Groot, full of trees with friendly faces, which produced glowing spores every night and little white flowers every spring. Just south of it was the Rocket Desert: by day, an unfriendly mass of dusty scrubland and deep ravines, full of downright hostile cacti covered in sharp, black and brown bristles. At night, however, all manner of small, curious creatures came out of their dens, water welled up from depressions in the ground, and electric sparks danced along the edges of dangerous drop-offs as a warning. Even the bristles of the cacti drooped, becoming soft to touch and revealing tiny, bright orange flowers, which produced bitter seed pods that could be brewed into an invigorating drink.

In the east there was a great wide plain, the Gamoran Grassland, covered in pale green grass with silver veins running through the stalks. Here and there grew flowers of red and pink petals, which parted when picked to produce some lyric of a lively song. To the north were the Yondu Mountains, made of a vibrant blue stone and capped by groves of a tall, bright red reed plant that whistled even when the wind didn’t blow.

Nestled in the very center of the mountain range was the City of Meredithen, the planet’s capital, a place that practically glowed from how much hope and happiness lived there. Further away was the settlement of Kraglintown, where members of the Ravager Clans and the sorts of folk who catered to them were always welcome - provided they didn’t break anything or anyone, of course.

The skies were filled with birds of orange and blue feathers, called Milanos, that soared endlessly through the clouds and were thought to bring good luck to any ship they decided to dance around.

Underground was an expansive network of crystal-lit tunnels, large enough for multiple lanes of traffic and connecting every settlement and city sector, with more than a few hotels, pit stops, and mushroom farms along the way.

Planet Quill became haven and home to many, who developed a culture blended from their own pasts as well as what their protector, Peter Starlord, shared with them from his own. Song was a favored form of subtle (and not-so-subtle) communication, between lovers, rivals, neighbors and so on. The Walkmen, a group made up of people of all genders, were honored performers and storytellers, who came in two kinds: the generalists, who could work in any situation, and the specialists, who would attend events of their field, such as birthday parties, coming-of-age celebrations, weddings, festivals, or funerals. They were as close to a Priesthood of Quill that the Starlord would allow.

Though he avoided becoming mixed up with his people’s political climate too often, there was one law that Peter insisted upon: that all citizens of the planet from age eight and up learn at least one form of combat, be it hand-to-hand, with a specific form of weaponry, or from within an armed craft. As such, the first and only time an invading force entered the airspace above Meredeen, they were summarily handed their asses and kicked back into space. Every other government in the galaxy took note, and the Quillian homeworld was not bothered again.

Had he kept his consciousness in the planet’s core more often than not, there was every possibility Peter would have become a true god to his people, revered and honored by those who lived upon his surface. Instead, he made sure to constantly walk among them in his human form, wearing heavy boots, work pants, a grimy t-shirt, and old red leather trench coat; cracking jokes, sharing stories and songs, and making sure to regularly visit Kraglintown to hang out with visiting Ravagers. Everyone he spent time with, he insisted either address him as Peter or Grandpa, depending on whether or not he could sense they were a Starling, a descendant of his. More than once, he’d been mistaken for a particularly over-the-top Walkman - when corrected, those people usually tried to make up for their error by praising him, often citing their admiration of his heroics with the other Guardians eons earlier. Peter had a standard response to that: “Nah, we weren’t heroic - we were losers who just happened to be in the right place at the right time, with enough collective decency in us to do the right thing. Which, really, is all anyone can hope to do.”

It was well-known throughout the civilized universe that one did not mess with travelling Quillians, because they were even crazier than the average Terran: pulling insane stunts to save the lives of complete strangers, and taking down jackasses who threatened honest folk, from street bullies to intergalactic terrorists. They were a world of lunatics, and proud of it.

Eventually, long after Planet Quill was first formed, when the sun it orbited was no longer young, Peter met one of his many-times-great-grandchildren who possessed the powers of a Celestial. Her skin was dark green; her hair was a blend of shimmering blues; her eyes were solid purple all the way through.

Her name was Yondi, of the Neb-Quill line.

It wasn’t long before people began to call her the Starchild.

In her youth, she spent a lot of time learning from Peter. As an adult, she roamed the universe, battled some monsters, stopped an apocalypse or three, even served as a crewmember with about half of the Ravager Clans. When she felt ready to finally settle down, Yondi returned to her Grandpa’s planet. She went down to the very center, where his core consciousness rested, and carefully, cautiously... Took Over.

Planet Quill, overall, suffered a few minor earthquakes, a temporary slowing of its orbit. Afterward, though, the people continued to have a Celestial wander amongst them, the Starchild smiling and singing and keeping watch over her own descendants.

As for Peter, well, he finally got to move on: to endure shoulder-smacks from Kraglin and his original Ravager friends. Lean against Groot’s bark; rub Rocket’s fur. Press foreheads with Mantis; offer Nebula a simple nod. Get his ribs bruised by a hug from Drax; have the pain disappear after kissing Gamora. Exchange hugs and grins with his son, daughter-in-law, and seven grandkids.

Embrace his mom.

And of course, smack Yondu, call him a jerk, and then wrap his arms around the blue doofus as tightly as possible.

After that, he sat down and told them all about the cool shit he’d made back on Planet Quill.

#guardians of the galaxy #gotg2 #fan fiction #Peter Quill #Celestial #Quill the Living Planet #a what-if #mentions of death at first #but there's a happy ending I promise #or at least a peaceful one

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scurvgirl · 7 years ago

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What Was and What Is

More Seeker of Rebellion AU!

Nimronyn, Sylmae, and this version of Daern’thal belong to @justanartsysideblog as well as a Melarue mention

Uthvir (mention) belongs to @feynites

Aili (mention) belongs to @lillotte17

And yes, I am trying to eat up time. Next part is going to be a biiiig time jump because I have been dying to write it since I started thinking of this AU.

Time is strange as a baby. Every day feels new and exciting, but short because of how much she sleeps. Thankfully after the initial few days, Ash’s sleep is soothed almost completely, and she sleeps significantly more. Nightmares are reduced to lingering shadows in the edges of her consciousness, and her memories are suppressed so utterly that it is almost stifling.

It’s…disconcerting. She knows Nimronyn is not purposefully stifling her memories, merely trying to alleviate the nightmares. It is an unfortunate coincidence that they’re often one in the same. But with the fear of falling asleep removed, time moves in a rapid, albeit stilted, fashion.

Days pass where all she does is babble and try to learn how to move her mouth right, be held by a few people, nap, soil her clothes repeatedly, then sleep some more, only to eat and eat and eat. The liquid diet grows old quickly, and she is thankful when her teeth begin to come in at first.

But oh it hurts. Her entire mouth aches from sprouting the things and she wonders if it is all worth it to be able to eat solid food. She reminds herself of chocolate and that helps, but then her gums will ache and she will have nothing but a cold enchanted toy to rub against them.

Teething brings wailing. Learning how to walk brings frustrated determination. Talking is difficult and her tongue often feels like a useless weight. There is a boy in the clan, Daern’thal, who does not speak, and she wonders if he was simply frustrated at the useless of his tongue. But no, no sound at all comes from him. There are wry smiles and curious looks though.

His hands often hold hers to try and guide her to walk, even though he is not much older than she is. His cries are silent and when he falls she will often cry for him, startling the adults around them. They come for her and she calms immediately only to gesture at the upset Daern’thal. He watches her closely after he figures it out. Sometimes his hands seem to speak and after a while she learns some of the things he means.

Thank you.

Light, which is her nickname now she supposes.

He makes requests sometimes for food, which are mostly just pointing to his mouth or belly, and sometimes his throat if he’s specifically thirsty. She likes to toddle around with him, he’s sweet and likes to grab her things he thinks she’ll like. His emotions are interesting too, so much more communicative than the adults.

He’s adapted and she supposes she can too. Sometimes her sadness follows her around like a heavy worn blanket. Nimronyn and Sylmae often try to pull the blanket away but he doesn’t. He looks at the blanket then to her and sits next to her.

And so Daern’thal becomes Ash’s first friend.

Nimronyn and Sylmae continue to play at being her mothers. She doesn’t blame them, nor does she hold any ill will towards them for it. It is…difficult sometimes to know that they aren’t her parents. She holds onto her mama’s memory. She runs her hands over the split dragon tooth and sometimes she swears she can feel the memories draped over them. Mama and Melarue kissing, a visage that she shrank away from before, but now she wishes they could just…she could see them. Touch them. There is love and potent magic sown deep into the tooth and she wonders if that is what protected her for so long. A sick sort of blood magic using a naturally magical item such as a dragon’s tooth to ensure her survival over all else.

Those are the most difficult days. When the memories are so close to the surface and she has the wherewithal to reflect on why she lived and they didn’t.

But she is getting better at distracting herself. Travel days are the easiest to distract her and sometimes she only feels like she only now lives for travel days. It is where she sees Nimronyn act as keeper and usher her clan up into the clouds – sailing through the sky and thick pockets of scintillating magic. The sky a swirling mess of colors and textures that wrap around Ash’s face and tickle her soul.

She is light and happy in the clouds. Sylmae holds her close as the aravels fly, pointing out bubbles, clouds, and other oddities. Sometimes in the distance, she’ll see another clan traveling. Once, she sees a great dragon with scales that change colors just as readily as the sky around them. She holds her hand out to them in greeting.

“HAAA!” She bellows. Sylmae laughs and spins her around.

“Are you meant to fly, little one?”

Some part of Ash screams out in affirmation, and another reminds her that this would never be possible back home. But it is travel day and she works hard to focus on that and not the intrusive thoughts that seek to ruin her fun.

When they land, reality solidifies again and she is reminded of the odd passage of time and the distance she puts between herself and her world.

Her body grows amazingly quick, but all too slow at the same time. She wishes to be big again, eighteen and tall, her horns almost fully grown. Though they never got to be the beautiful rack she had wanted. One had been broken off, the other had been warped beyond repair. Nimronyn takes care of her horns now, wrapping them and slathering them in what this world’s equivalent of horn balm must be.

When she is four, she overhears a conversation between Sylmae and Nimronyn. Her dragon-mother sounds concerned about her horns and why they’re not shifting away, that other keepers report their children being able to shift their features by now. Sylmae tells her not to worry and Ash hangs her head in shame.

She’s a sham. Not a dragon or the daughter of one. Disappointing them like that feels strangely terrible and she wonders when such affection for them grew. It’s normal, she guesses, to love those who have taken you in.

When they find her she smiles at them and raises her arms. Sylmae swings her up into her arms, smiling and happy. Ash takes hold of her face and looks into her eyes very intently.

“Mamae,” she says. The room grows quiet and a cloud of aw and love bubbles from Sylmae. Ash had previously simply said “Suh-suh” for her, and “Nm” for Nimronyn. They had tried to get her to say Mamae and Memae respectively to no avail.

They…are good, and deserve something from her for all their love. They can never replace what she lost, but they can be new. Mama would want her to be happy and loved, and these two…they are doing everything they can. Nimronyn chases away the nightmares and Sylmae holds her up to touch the magic in the sky. She also lets her see her various weapon collection, which is greatly appreciated.

“Yeah?” Sylmae whispers. Ash nods then looks to Nimronyn, sticking her hand out.

“Memae,” she says, forcing her mouth and tongue to emphasize the differences. Neither of them are Mama, and no one ever will be Mama. But these are good people, and they love Ash, she knows that. It’s in how Sylmae holds her, and how Nimronyn coos at her, even in her draconic form.

And Ash supposes some concessions from her should be given. They refer to her as their daughter and they treat her as such. They don’t know. So she smiles and gives them the names they want, because by all rights they’ve earned them, even if makes Ash’s chest ache.

It’s not their fault. It’s not her fault. But it is what it is.

Nimronyn cups her hands over her mouth for a moment before rushing over to coo over Ash.

“Yes, little light, I’m your Memae.” She gently pets Ash’s horns while Sylmae snuggles her close. Ash leans against her mamae and tries to be alright for a moment. Her second and third mothers, not her first. And calling them this is not forgetting Mama, or disrespecting her memory. Mama would want this, if she knew what was happening, she’d want Ash to have parents who love her.

Sylmae and Nimronyn remain close to her for the rest of the night, cuddling her and reassuring her. Maybe they know on some level that this was hard for their little four-year-old.

Three. It’s weird to think that she’s only four years out from being the age when everything began. Two years out from when she started showing magic. That at least won’t be a problem here. Eight years out from when things really went to shit.

Fourteen years from when…when…. It’s only been five years, but at the same time it’s been five years. If years even work the same in this world as did in hers.

She counts it out for the rest of them. Six for Aili. Five for Nanae. And last, four for Uthvir. They held in the longest, mostly by luck. Nanae and Mama were…together, or in quick succession. The Dread Wolf wanted a decisive victory, and he would have had it, had it not been for Uthvir.

She killed a Templar for them once. Set him ablaze in a most unholy fire for daring to attack them. It was early on, before most of the deaths – but it had been Ash’s first. She remembers the light in his eyes dying along with him. He had held his blade high, running up to Uthvir who was busy fighting off demons, and she cast the spell without hesitation.

She remembers.

Each year the Dread Wolf took someone from her. Each year he brought new horrors to the world, slowly killing it until he struck the final blow. And then to see this world as the one he wanted to bring back, with all the free-floating magic, and the myriad of colors sewn into the world – she can see why he’d want it back. But she can’t for the life of her understand why sacrificing all those people was worth it. Just for a bit of more magic? So the elves could be what they were?

Vicious blood magic. Evil and twisted.

Her sleep does not come easily that night, and she suspects Nimronyn uses stronger magic to keep Ash’s dreams from being too much. When she wakes, she wonders not for the first time if that is how dwarves feel with sleep. Just…there, then not, then there again.

Tiredness clings to her still as she readies for the day. Her body feels ill-fit for her but she doesn’t have the energy to cry about it. Instead, she leans against a now dragon Nimronyn, letting her warmth and largeness comfort Ash.

Daern’thal wanders over eventually, and signs to her.

Do you want to play?

“’M too tired,” she says. Daern’thal blinks then joins her next to Nimronyn, leaning against her as well.

I dreamed that I was riding on the back of a giant butterfly.

He goes on and tells her about his dreams. They’re nice, much nicer than the nightmares that flare up for her whenever Nimronyn eases back to see if Ash can handle it. She can’t, at least not yet. She hopes that once she gets a grip on her magic, she will be able to control her dreams more completely. In her world, her magic manifested at six in bright blue sparks. Will it be the same here? Or will it surface earlier thanks to the ambient magic?

A year later and she has her answer. They’re sitting around a large fire constructed by Nimronyn when one of the warriors tells a funny story. Ash laughs freely and some soot from the fire finds its way inside of her nose. It burns for a moment and then she sneezes.

Blue fire is pushed out from her lungs and out her mouth. It joins the fire, briefly creating stripes of blue in the flames. The clan goes quiet for a moment before Nimronyn lets out a jubilant roar. She moves over so that her head is in front of Ash’s. She puffs out a small flame. With some concentration, reminding herself what it feels like to exhale fire, Ash takes a deep breath and lets out a flume of more azure fire.

Her magic swirls around her in a great rush, heating her from the inside out, manifesting itself in beautiful flames. She’s missed her magic, missed feeling the turbulent hot magic in her lungs and belly. Happy chirping noises emanate from Nimronyn and she presses her beak-like snout to Ash’s forehead. Ash reaches up, smoothing her hands over the smooth scales surrounding her nostrils.

The clan surrounds Ash, all exuding excitement and happiness. Sylmae picks Ash up, shifting her in her grasp to look at her face.

“My little fire-breathing baby,” she says with such affectionate it makes Ash sniffle. Magic was never so accepted back home. Mama loved her and protected her, but she never quite understood. It was no fault of her own, but to be here….

They all stared at her in silent horror. Her hands were warm and her body tingled, still happy to see Mama after a long day. But as she looked around, she grew wary and confused.

Other clan members flared up fire in their palms, excitedly showing her their magic as well. Ash sneezes again, the fire dances over Nimronyn’s scales and the clan cheers. Daern’thal walks over to her, his eyes wide and happy.

She was once called a Saarebas, a dangerous thing, because of her magic. Mama hated the word, said it was evil and cruel, a label that Ash should spur. She was a mage, but she wasn’t bad, and she wasn’t going to hurt anyone just because she was a mage.

Only a monster burns things!

She is not a monster here, and she suspects the very suggestion of it would be offensive to everyone around her – particularly the dragon woman who is now blowing little smoke rings at Ash. She giggles and despite her knowing better, reaches up and bats at them. The air is warm and jubilant.

Family-like.

She takes a deep breath and looks up to the sky, then exhales a plume of radiant fire. The cheers get louder and she is raised up by Sylmae into the air. There is joy and love and pride on her face, and that more than the fire warms heart. She reaches down to Sylmae and hugs onto her for most of the night.

It remains that time is a funky thing. She can’t quite understand it. It passes but some days she feels memories like they are fresh, pressing up inside her still growing skull. Her body grows quickly, so quickly that some days it even hurts. She has the vaguest memories of growing pains when she was little, so bad that once kept her bedridden for a few days. But in this magical world, the healers come to her and ease her pain.

Her magic blooms in ways she had never thought it could. When it used to be she could masterfully cast fire, she is showing aptitude in other areas. Her telekinesis is well-formed and almost as explosive as her fire abilities. Her magic is not a gentle kind, though it’s not inherently violent either. It is bombastic and loud, filling the area with a feeling that is distinctly hers.

There are stretches of time where her magic feels bigger than herself and she has to grow into it. She asks Daern’thal about it and he says it’s normal. His hands are quick and sharp as he tells her about he sometimes felt his magic was an oversized tunic, but he always caught up to it.

By seven, Ashokara is starting to show her height. Sylmae can still pick her up, but she’s rapidly approaching Nimronyn’s elven height so that she can only pick Ash when she’s a dragon. Which suits Ash just fine – she likes her dragon…parent. Mother.

It’s still complicated. But she thinks it’s getting easier to be alright with it.

She hasn’t told them of her name yet, but maybe soon. There are days when responding to Ras is difficult and it feels wrong. Maybe it’ll help to have them know.

Ashokara ends up waiting until she is ten to tell them her name. She sits them down and fidgets nervously in her chair. She is tall and her horns still haven’t shifted away, but they don’t pressure her to change them, even if others in the clan are worried about it.

“Um,” she starts off. She hasn’t hinted or talked about before. Not even to Daern’thal. The only glimpse Nimronyn might have gotten was when she was seeing Ash’s nightmares.

“I…love you, very much,” she continues carefully, “and I understand the weight of a name. The one you gave me is beautiful and meaningful and thank you.”

They nod, confused but loving all the same as they listen to her.

“There is…a lot that I need to tell you. A lot that is difficult for me to talk about, but I am going to start. Because you should know, and I want you to know. First, my name, the name I wore before you found me, Memae, it is Ashokara.” To say her name after all this time…. Tears slip out from the corners of her eyes and she bites her lip, mustering herself to keep talking.

“In my mother’s tongue, the mother before you found me, it means ‘Seeker of Rebellion.’ She chose it because she was fleeing something she didn’t want me to be a part of,” she continues, her voice shaking as more and more tears fall from her. Her vision is clouded with them, her shoulders shake, and she hunches forward in the old pain. Her heart aches with loss. Her emotions are wild and raw, filling the room with exhaustive sorrow.

Hands and arms land gently on her lap and legs. She hiccups and looks down to see Nimronyn looking up at her, tears on her own face. Sylmae stands next to Ash and gently pulls her to her body.

“What a beautiful name,” Nimronyn says softly, “it’s perfect.”

A great rush of relief and grief together rush out of Ash, but Sylmae holds her fast.

“Ashokara. Do you know your mother’s name?” She asks gently.

“K-Kassaren. Mama said it doesn’t mean anything, it was just a name. She…she liked that.” It’s too much, way too much too soon. She can’t –

She falls forward into Nimronyn, heavy and numb as the sobs wrack her body. Her anguish swirls chaotically around her, pulsating in great waves that overwhelm her and her adoptive mothers. But their arms come around her and they use her name and tell her it’s alright, this is a natural sadness.

They can’t replace her mama but they will do what they can to help her. It’s good, and after several hours of soothing and lots of crying, she calms down. Sylmae leaves briefly to fetch chocolate and milk to make a soothing drink for Ash.

Nimronyn gently pets her hair.

“Ashokara – it’s beautiful.”

Ash leans against her on a sofa covered in soft blankets, “M-my nickname was Ash.” She worries a bit if they think she’s making it up. She was just a baby supposedly when Nimronyn found her. But the emotion is genuine and overwhelming enough…

She won’t worry about it, at least not for now. They have promised to use her name and to have a discussion with the clan to make sure they understand. Her name is Ashokara, and Ash is a good nickname. Even if it has a different meaning in their elven.

She turns back to Nimronyn and forces her tongue to form the old words, not in Common, but in Qunlat, “Thank you.” Nimronyn’s eyebrows raise and Ash gives a small smile.

“I said ‘thank you’ in my mother’s native tongue. It’s not mine, but I remember it,” she whispers.

Confusion sweeps over Nimronyn’s face, “You remember all that?” Ash nods slowly.

“There is more to tell but I don’t think I can do that yet,” she murmurs. Nimronyn nods and hugs Ash to her more firmly.

“That’s alright, take your time. We’re here for you, little one, no matter what,” she whispers. Ash leans against her memae and lets herself relax.

The next day, Daern’thal signs something new at her. He is slow and deliberate, his fingers spelling out…her name. Ashokara. She smiles and nods.

“That’s my name, you can sign Ash if you’d like,” she says. He blinks for a moment then nods, signing out Ash in quick form.

In time, she’ll tell them everything, but her name is enough for now. More than enough.

#my writing #woooo even in a medicated haze i managed to edit and get this out #ashokara #seeker of rebellion au #fic #nimronyn #sylmae #daern'thal #ash is going to slowly start opening up about the past #by 25 sylmae and nim know everything that happened #ash is not one for holding onto that stuff by herself so as soon as she is able to talk about it and handle the emotions #she does #melarue #aili #uthvir #kassaran

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tipsycad147 · 5 years ago

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I try and be honest about my mistakes as a tarot reader (and as an herbalist for that matter) but here’s a tip from the successful endeavours archives - I think every tarot reader, especially when starting out, should commit to learning one type of spread really well.

Using one type of spread consistently over an extended period of time (a year and a day is a or thirteen cycles of the moon are both magickal time frames). This doesn’t mean you don’t use other types of spreads, but that you use on spread predominantly.

Learn how to use one spread for a variety of questions. I know some card slingers create new spreads for each new question that comes their way or has different types of spreads for different themes (such as a spread for romantic inquiries versus one for career questions). There is definite merits to both of these styles. But when learning tarot or re-connecting with your practice, I encourage you to choose one spread for almost all if not all of your questions.

By using one spread you are creating a magickal map that is just familiar enough to help you navigate the unfamiliar (i.e. the answer to your questions).

Being familiar enough with a spread that you don’t have to reference a guide book to cast it. With this skill you’ll be able to improvise around the depth of each position. So, for example, one card in your spread of choice might represent “the past” and over time with different inquiries the past may represent everything from actual events that have happened previously to how a problem may have appeared to you previously or past mindsets.

The spread I started learning with was the Celtic Cross Spread which is a tarot spread from the western esoteric tradition developed thought to be developed by Florence Farr a magician, feminist, and seer of the Order of the Golden Dawn. It’s a tricky spread, not only because there are many different versions and suggested ways of interpreting the card positions, but also because there are quite a few cards being read at once. Yet, it remains one of my favourite spreads to read with because it feels so familiar. A common mistake some tarot readers make is using too many spreads that they are unfamiliar with. What ends up happening is that you are not only reading the cards but learning the dynamics of a spread all at once. And that’s a lot for anyone to contemplate at once.

The other spread that I use a lot is the pentagram spread which has a card for each of the five elements of earth, air, fire, water, and spirit. From this spread, I’ve developed all sorts of variations over the years, including the spread that follows. What I hope to illustrate with The Elemental Guardian Spread is how one spread can be read many ways starting with the simple and queerly-forward to the more complex.

While this spread can be used with any deck, I was inspired to create it after getting to play with The Herbcrafter’s Tarot co-created by herbalist and bruja Latisha Guthrie and artist Joanna Powell Colbert (of Gaian Tarot fame). Being not very up on following all the up and coming decks as I’ve been spending less time on the internets (sharing lots about that in Magick Mail), I saw this deck and purchased it on a whim just before it was released because I saw a card that featured dyeing with plants and I’m just that easy to please some days… The way that the deck is set-up (there are no humxn figures shown, only arms and hands of diverse shades, ages, and sizes doing herbcrafty things in the court cards) inspired this spread. If you want a full review of the deck check out Benebell Wen’s enthusiastic endorsement of what is fast becoming one of my favourite decks, too.

The spread consists of five foundation cards - four Elemental Guardians and a central card that is the Heart of the Matter. For the first two ways of casting the spread, the variation lies in how you choose the cards. The final way placing the cards incorporates four additional cards to the mix, building on the original spread foundation. And if all this talk of elements and tarot and herbalism has got you excited join me in The Tarot Apothecary.

The Elemental Guardians Spread

I’ve listed my tradition’s interpretation of the elements, but feel free to apply your own elemental interpretations.

Card 1. The Guardian of Air speaks to and represents the realm of East, communication, ideas, inspiration, the impact of new technologies and social media in our lives, our mental health, our studies, and the ways that we perceive and comprehend our experiences.

Card 2. The Guardian of Water speaks to and represents the realm of the West, dreams, visions, our lineage both behind us (ancestors) and before us (descendants), and the ways we feel and empathise with our experiences.

Card 3. The Guardian of Fire speaks to and represents the realm of the South (northern hemisphere) or North (southern hemisphere), passions and desires, ecstasy, our creative health, and the ways we transform and express our experiences.

Card 4. The Guardian of Earth speaks to and represents the realm of the North (northern hemisphere) or South (southern hemisphere), prosperity and success, our personal legacy, inheritances including cultural traditions and epigenetics, our physical health, and the ways we physically process and energetically digest our experiences.

Card 5. The Heart of the Matter summarises the energy of the spread and helps you to find the language to understand what is happening to you and what you might carry forward with all that you have learned. Sometimes it can be a holy reminder of something you have forgotten or need to pay more attention to. Other times it is a love letter. Often it’s a mix of everything I’ve just described.

First Variation - Choosing Your Heart

Set up your deck by finding all of the Court Cards and sorting them by suit (i.e. place the King, Queen, Knight, and Page of Wands in one pile and the King, Queen, Knight, and Page of Cups in another pile and so on). The first cards you will cast are the positions of the Elemental Guardians and you’ll be pulling these from their corresponding Court Card piles. For example, pull the first card for The Guardian of Air from one of the four Sword Court Cards. Proceed in the same manner for the following three Elemental Guardian cards.

The fifth and final card is pulled one of three ways. You can either pull it from the rest of the deck sans the Court Cards, just the rest of the Minor Arcana or just the Major Arcana. If you’re working on a big life issue, I suggest pulling from the Major Arcana. Or not. Follow your intuition when making your choices.

The Second Variation - Elemental Balance

The second variation for this spread changes the way that the Elemental Guardian cards are chosen. Instead of choosing an Elemental Guardian card only from its corresponding elemental Court Cards (i.e. choosing the Air Elemental Guardian card only from the Suit of Swords), you’ll choose each Elemental Guardian card from all sixteen Court Cards.

This variation means that you can find conversations happening between the elements. Let’s say that you pull a Page of Cups as your Fire Elemental Guardian - this could indicate that the fiery parts of your life need to be tempered by water. The Page of Cups suggests approaching your emotions with a student’s state of mind and to get curious about what you’re feeling - something which can be difficult when we’re feeling fired up or hot-headed.

What I like about the second variation is that it reflects the reality that there is no strict division between elemental energies in our life but instead all of the elements flow and dance and crash together. If you are someone who incorporates elemental balance into your magickal and/or spiritual practice, this is a fun variation to try.

Third Variation - Drawing In Shadows

The third variation adds four extra Shadow cards to the mix. Proceed with casting the spread using any of the variations as described, but beside each of the Elemental Guardians, cast a Shadow card from the rest of the deck. While the Guardian cards describe your gifts and strengths, your shadow card for each element highlights a challenging aspect of that elemental area of your life.

Let’s say that you pull the Seven of Pentacles as your Shadow card for Earth. As a Shadow card, the Seven of Pentacles can show indecision about what do to with your hard won harvest and difficulty coming up with a long-term vision for what you’re trying to accomplish. Sometimes the Seven of Pentacles shows up as a card warning that you’re falling into the trap of imposter syndrome - especially when it is inverted. If you pulled the Knight of Pentacles as your Guardian of Earth the cards could be suggesting that you need to take time to connect with a truer version of who you are and what you’re capable of.

“Through the wisdom of {the Elemental Guardian message} I understand/acknowledge/release/embrace {shadow card lesson}.”

Taking our previous example you might construct the following interpretive sentence:

Through the wisdom of seeking a true vision of myself I release the belief that I am somehow not enough.

Part of the power of shadow work is learning how to name and speak aloud those names of the hidden parts of yourself. This is one of the reasons why tarot, with its centuries of meaning, graphic illuminations of mystery, and seventy-eight mirrors of sub/consciousness, is such a great tool for shadow work - it helps us to name the unnamable.

Go out and name your unnamable, witchfolk and plant hearts. Cast your cards a thousands time and wear a pattern into the altar of your heart. Know your shadows and speak your stories.

http://www.wortsandcunning.com/blog

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swamiamarjyotievents-blog · 6 years ago

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canaliculi · 8 years ago

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Radio Star

Welcome to Night Vale

Station Management/Cecil Palmer; mentioned pre-Carlos/Cecil Palmer

NC-17: dub con, aphrodisiacs, broadcast molestations, tentacle sex (all implied), + solo, voyeurism, Carlos being a sappy baby.

It’s Listener Appreciation Week at Night Vale Community Radio - a historically perilous time for broadcasters. Particularly so when fans aren’t careful with their postage.

The surprise and unneeded companion fic, where we see just how appreciative one listener is.

Carlos didn’t listen to the radio anymore.

…Really!

Okay, okay, correction: Carlos shouldn’t listen to the radio anymore. And, he at least didn’t listen to the radio when anyone else was around.

There were quite a few factors that had led to this decision. He was the head of his scientific outcropping, for one thing. The leader his fellows looked to for guidance. It simply wouldn’t do for them to see him reeling at Cecil’s blithe and otherworldly announcements.

Packs of roaming dogs – possibly anarchist and almost certainly the product of a society that glorifies gang violence.

Glow clouds that drop heavy animal carcasses onto the streets and then join the PTA.

Pyramids that are nothing more than viral advertising, not that that has ever worked. Oh, but that actually reminded him, he was out of cereal, wasn’t he?

All of this and so much more, so much worse came falling out of Cecil’s mouth like he was reporting on a vaguely interesting pile of rocks collected by a local fifth grader. Cecil’s mouth. The radio host greeted him with the biggest grin every time they met. Like he was excited to find Carlos still existed, thrilled that the particular array of molecules and atoms and weird in-between fluids that constituted Carlos had remained in his absence. Cecil would remember himself, eventually; would cough or look away. Sometimes he would bite his lip to aid in chasing away his smile.

And Cecil was so tongue tied around him. It was charming, or it would have been charming, except that speechlessness in Night Vale seemed to be catching and contagious, as Carlos was often struck by the same. Directly after every blurted neat - which was more often than not but not as often as one might think – Cecil’s mouth would pull down into a devastated pout. When Carlos managed to string more than five words together, which generally turned into five paragraphs of science, Cecil’s mouth would hang open, just slightly, his eyes big and wide and totally enraptured and totally uncomprehending.

Carlos sighed and ran a hand through his hair. It still hadn’t grown out, but his haircut had just been a couple weeks ago.

Which brought him to the second factor in his decision to not listen to the radio. When all was said and done, it wasn’t, strictly speaking, surprising to hear an inflammatory and incendiary editorial from a newscaster. The… topic was unusual (and made Carlos pretty embarrassed if he thought about it for too long), but people made mountains (they’re real, Cecil) out of what Carlos considered anthills at best, all the time.

But those editorials rarely prompted full blown vigilante justice. Or at least, those editorials usually took longer before their words could seep into a population and cause it to explode outwards in violence. It had taken Cecil, like, twenty minutes, tops, to convince a town to turn on one of its own. Even a few of his small band of scientists had been taken in the sudden, violent tide. Over a haircut! When they’d gotten back, Carlos had questioned them thoroughly and scientifically, and very calmly, using scientific methods. He had not grabbed at the unevenly shorn locks of his hair in an outward display of unmanageable stress and confusion.

The shared look they had pinned him with meant something like what the hell are you talking about? And then they had said, “What the hell are you talking about?”

So, that was a little, uh.

It was-

It was definitely not good.

A later, admittedly calmer and more thorough examination of the three wayward scientists hadn’t revealed any lasting damage or abnormalities. No busted or bleeding eardrums, no apparent trigger words (they tried barber and Telly and hair cut and, to Carlos’ everlasting chagrin, Perfect Carlos) – all of which revealed nothing worse than a splitting headache and an overwhelming desire to get a slice at Big Rico’s. Oh, and Mikaela got a sunburn, which she used to request sick leave for the rest of the week. Carlos couldn’t fault her there.

Overall, they were about as close as any of them felt to normal here in Night Vale.

“…one of you out there has been using writing utensils…” the radio said, as if in dramatic emphasis of his point. Well, technically the radio did not say this, Cecil said it. In his deep and resonant voice, tone ominous and dire, dropping into a lower register as he drawled out the words writing utensils, unfurling and sinister. It drew a small shudder down his spine, his flesh pinching up into pricks of gooseflesh, and somehow, Carlos both coveted and dreaded being the target of that sentence.

Uh, that is to say, Scientifically Speaking, Cecil was a talented orator.

And used this talent for really terrible things. Carlos frowned at his dashboard, the dated knobs and tick-marked horizontal-line display of the radio, feeling the spark of Cecil’s words trying to catch in his brain. The dried out hay stack of paranoia, ready and eager to distrust those around him, particularly, as Cecil pointed out, those who knew his most incriminating secrets.

Turn on them now, Cecil didn’t have to say, before they turn on you.

His hands gripped the steering wheel tight, knuckles going pallid where the dark skin of his hands was a thin stretch over the bulging ridges of his joints. With the slippery ease of oil spilling across water’s surface, Cecil changed direction, and led them directly to Factor Three of Carlos’ Decision to Listen to the Radio Never, or Okay, Maybe Sometimes but Only Privately. Whichever.

“Just the other day, I was talking to Carlos - perfect Carlos - our resident scientist whose hair, I must say, is growing back quite nicely.”

Perfect Carlos, said with the distinct impression that Cecil was swooning, stricken with love, and Carlos shifted in his seat, embarrassed even by himself. Embarrassing, and yet, enjoyable, in a way that somehow made Carlos feel distinctly that he was taking advantage of Cecil. The scientist couldn’t explain it, to himself or to anyone else, except that maybe it was some undefined sense of guilt. He knew he wasn’t perfect, after all; whoever Cecil thought he was, whoever it was Cecil was truly gushing about on the air waves, it wasn’t Carlos. To take enjoyment in his proclamations, then, was wrong.

Now, whether this wrongness was accepted by his body or not, well, he couldn’t control that. The hot curl of warmth in his chest, his stomach, the goofy grin. The fluttering, almost giddy feeling-

“I mean, it’s kind of at that in-between stage, where you know someone has gotten a haircut, and it’s sort of growing out, but you can tell they don’t really know how to style it yet – Listeners, I’m not usually one for the scruffy, unkempt look, but Carlos the scientist wears it well!”

Uh, was his hair that bad? Cecil had said it was growing out, right? Carlos fiddled unconsciously, or perhaps self-consciously with the soft, curling ends of his hair, wondering how he could fix it. Since the red light he’d been sitting at for the past few minutes wasn’t showing signs of changing anytime soon, Carlos yanked the rearview mirror out of place, startling at the glimpse of something, rotting and ghastly in his backseat, but focusing mostly on examining himself, wondering if there was something he should be doing differently with his hair.

He ran a hand through it. He shook out the front, tried out smoothing down the sides. It always seemed to bounce back to the same configuration, dark and messy. Unkempt. Maybe he should slick it back? The idea of another hair cut – just a trim this time! – flitted uselessly through his mind, and Carlos was almost offended the thought had existed in the first place. There was no way, after the Telly Incident, that he was going to get his hair cut.

At least, not before he had a serious conversation with Cecil. So, probably never.

The loud, ear-piercing shriek of a diving bird of prey broke him out of his thoughts. The light had turned green, and an SSP officer cleverly disguised as a Slow Children: Are the First to Go sign was shaking their balaclava-clad head at him, holding a megaphone in one spray painted hand. The officer lifted the megaphone to their mouth again, and the shriek erupted from its cone shaped end once more, prompting Carlos to wince and clap his hands over his ears.

“All right, all right, I’m going!” he replied.

He worked his jaw up and down, trying to dislodge the stubborn ringing the officer’s polite notice had brought about in his ears. His actions weren’t particularly effective. He turned up the radio instead, hoping he could at least drown out the high, sharply-pitched whine that was almost certainly a sign of late-in-life tinnitus.

“…is happening currently in the station,” Cecil was saying. Carlos frowned, curious, as there was a thick, heavy pause and then a quiet intake of breath. “N-Noooope. Nothing like that at all.”

Huh. That was weird.

It was probably nothing.

Well, no, it was probably something, but it was probably something Cecil could handle. Whatever it was.

“In actual news, Old Woman Josie reports that the inhumanly tall, winged creatures who are definitely not angels, and who all go by the name Erika, have been having some, uh-” Now that was unusual. Cecil stalled for words so infrequently (on air, at least) that any slip up counted as statistically significant. “Sooooome issues with the water heater. She didn’t expand, or tell us why she thought this was news worthy, but, there you go!

“Personally, I don’t see why she needs hot water,” Cecil continued, and now Carlos was really paying attention, because his voice had lost its normal composure. Strained and tight, like he was holding himself back from something. He was still mulling this over when low groan came out over the radio, the sound shooting through his body like an electrical current, heading straight down to his-

Oh boy.

Distraction, he needed a distraction now. What had Cecil been reporting on? Old Woman Josie’s angels? No, something to do with her water heater. But it would give him an excuse to go over there, and maybe sneak a closer peak at her angels anyway. Focus on the science, not on the breathy – was he panting now, Jesus, Cecil – voice that delivered the news. He had a goal now, an idea of what was going on in town; the reason he listened to Cecil’s show, as Carlos told himself. He could – he should – just turn the radio off right now-

“Oh, yes, do keep going,” Cecil purred, an expression Carlos had never heard encapsulated so fully, and it was followed up by a wet, choked gasp. Yeah, it would probably be for the best to keep this on. “With the, uh, news! Of course. The news.” How Cecil made that phrase sound so dirty, it should have been illegal. Was it illegal? Did this count as some sort of public indecency?

Cecil continued on with his report, voice deep and rough and making it very difficult to concentrate properly on the content of his speech. He was talking about something, and Carlos, through the application of logic and critical thinking, could conclude for himself that that something was, well, somewhere. Existing? He was thankful there weren’t many other drivers out on the road. The rest of Night Vale was probably busy listening to Cecil’s broadcast as well.

Carlos dug his nails into the faux-leather finish of his steering wheel, gritting his teeth. There was a sharp, angry thrashing in the pit of his stomach that caused Carlos a brief moment of panic before he recognized it for an emotion and not, say, a grotesquely huge parasite about to erupt through his skin and viscera. Though even that might be preferable to the admission that he was feeling a bit possessive of the radio host currently giving a breathless report concerning the secret police dropping canisters of tear gas onto reporters. Just the thought of that, and its possible ramifications – freedom of press, at least! – should have doused his arousal, but to his shame, it really didn’t.

Well, it did a little, but then his mind helpfully crafted a scenario in which he was in the booth with Cecil, biting and suckling at the other’s smooth flesh, licking long, slow stripes over heated skin while Cecil trembled above him, fingers tangled in the perfect hair he so loved to extrapolate upon and body squirming, pinioned in place by Carlos’ hands on his hips while Cecil forced himself to concentrate, to finish the news segment and get to the weather, wherein he would-

No, no, that wasn’t helping things, thanks though.

One his hands had even drifted down to his lap, palming at himself through the rough denim of his jeans. It was testament to how badly Carlos was affected that he allowed himself a moment, enjoying the little tingles of electricity flaring through his body, rolling his hips against his own hand. And god, Cecil was not helping matters, releasing a noise on air that was nothing but tortured consonants and then a high-pitched, thready whine that had Carlos longing to be in that sound booth with the radio host, so that he could give Cecil what he so desperately needed.

Not, uh, not that he knew what Cecil needed. Though with the way the radio host said his name, Carlos thought he had a pretty good idea of how he could help Cecil.

“…About the station? About how it was definitely not the site of strange, or unexpected, o-or slick and, uh, distracting events?” Cecil was saying. Carlos had managed to wrest control of his hands and had them both firmly planted on the steering wheel once again. The few coherent thoughts he had were dedicated to wondering if he had accidentally turned onto one of the spatial-loop streets again, because he was pretty sure he should have reached the used car lot by now. “Well, that was-”

Cecil cut out again, and Carlos grit his teeth so hard he could hear the tension sizzling in his ears and above that white noise sound was nothing but Cecil’s muffled groaning, and slick, wet sounds, like flesh sliding on flesh, little strangled gulps set to an uneven, irregular beat, like something was hitting the back of Cecil’s throat repeatedly and wow, Carlos was going to crash his damn car if this kept going. In the back of his mind, it occurred to him that he should probably be worried about what was happening at the radio station.

There was a wet pop and then coughing, and then wet, ragged breathing. His mind, unbidden, provided him a wonderful image of Cecil on his knees, Carlos’ hand buried in his hair and dragging him off his aching cock. Pop, just like that, when those talented lips slipped off the head of his dick.

“Uhhh… Where was I?” Cecil sounded utterly disoriented, dreamy and languid even as his voice came out thick and gravelly, like the deep, sonorous sliding of tectonic plates. “Oh! Yes! The… station. Everything is great, here! Here, at the station. Yup.” Okay, Cecil didn’t sound believable there at all. But he had interns, right? Night Vale wouldn’t actually let something bad happen to their beloved radio host.

Right?

Carlos drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He pulled his car over, just to get a better idea of where he even was, not to prepare to turn around and head to the radio station. If something was happening there, maybe it would turn out to be scientifically interesting. Definitely worth looking into. The angels could wait, Carlos reasoned. And for how helpful they seemed to be around Old Woman Josie’s house, they could be considered withholding when it came to indulging scientific curiosity.

“…everyone’s favorite scientist, Carlos! Isn’t that… something!” Carlos sucked in a sharp, trembling breath, because whatever he had expected out of today, it had definitely not been Cecil saying his name like that, his voice so dark and rough. Like Cecil was right there with him, was seconds away from pouncing on him with predatory intent. “He’s heading over there right now, to do some sort of science, I would imagine! And all without the use of writing utensils, Steve Carlsburg.”

It was absolutely a problem when even Cecil’s aggressive, Steve-Carlsburg-induced annoyance did little to dampen Carlos’ arousal. Though he wasn’t super keen on hearing Cecil say anyone else’s name at just this second. And Cecil just sighed, sweet and wistful.

“Apparently, Old Woman Josie – or perhaps her tall friends, who are totally not angels, you guys – or perhaps just her faulty water heater, have become the subject of Carlos’ scientific inquiry.” There it was again, Cecil’s voice dipping into those lower registers, the words spilling from his lips like thick black ink. It sent a shudder down Carlos’ spine.

“Can you even imagine?” Cecil was breathless.

“Being the subject of such focused, intense scrutiny?” Oh. Yes, Carlos could suddenly imagine that. Imagine Cecil-

“Helping out both science as an over-arching ideal, and a beloved member of our small community?” That, somehow, finally, was the last straw, Cecil saying it like he was in process of dragging Carlos down a dark hall, like they were already tumbling into sheets together, like Cecil was lying spread in wait and ready for Carlos to pull him to pieces.

Carlos fumbled with his belt and unbuttoned his jeans, yanking himself out with almost too much forth and trembling as his fevered skin was exposed to the artificially cooled air of his car. His car, god, he was in his car, but he really didn’t care. He fisted himself, hips bucking, feet scrambling to plant anywhere on the flooring that wouldn’t result in the engine revving to life. The last sane part of his mind was reminding him that he really shouldn’t be doing this - the consequences for law-breaking in Night Vale were often vaguely sinister or sinisterly specific, and while he didn’t remember which one Public Indecency fell under, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

There didn’t seem to be room for anything in his body but bright, flaring need. It was a heat that sparked along every inch of nerve, root and ending alike. A heat that made his toes curl and his chest ache and pooled low in his gut while his heart beat became rapid and erratic. And all he could hear was Cecil, his quiet panting and bitten back whines, voice rumbling and grating and deep. Cecil, saying his name. Carlos, he would say, sighing and longing and full of too much, so many emotions Carlos couldn’t name them all, oh, perfect, yes-

And as perfect as the image was, of Cecil lost in pleasure beneath him, a pliant and eager thing, an inscrutable piece of Night Vale itself subject to rigorous scientific inquiry as Cecil would say. As wonderful as all that undeniably was, Carlos’ body jerked and stuttered and he came into his own palm thinking of Cecil on any other day. His face lighting up – sometimes literally – at the sight of Carlos, how Cecil acted like nothing of note existed outside of the space Carlos immediately existed within. How Cecil had once spent literal hours listening to Carlos ramble about science and though Carlos would eat his own shoe if Cecil had retained more than a sentence’s worth of information from it, the radio host’s attention had never drifted, his eyes never glazed over; Cecil had never tuned out the boring, stuttering scientist who got too enthusiastic about possibly-non-existent earthquakes.

Hell, Carlos even thought of that annoying way Cecil had of condescending to him, when something ridiculous and outrageous and against all laws of reason and science happened, something that was just so completely Night Vale happened, like Carlos was the outlandish one, not this insane town.

Most of all, though, he just thought of Cecil, strange and sweet and intimidating and utterly smitten. Of the terror of instantly and how the disappointment he’d expected to follow such a proclamation had never come.

The weather report was drawing to a close as Carlos slumped bonelessly in his seat. When his heart stopped thudding so loudly in his ears and his breathing rate had returned to its typical 16 breaths a minute, Carlos began to move again. Cecil came back on, sounding for all the world like the past 30 minutes of broadcast hadn’t occurred. Well, except for him referencing it? Carlos guessed? He still wasn’t sure what was going on, but Cecil sounded like himself again, if vaguely annoyed and disappointed.

“Remember, Night Vale, every mistake you make, every minor indiscretion you commit, carries unspeakable – and, I might remind you – completely avoidable consequences.” Carlos shuddered, unpleasantly this time. “Stay tuned next for the quiet, vigorous sounds of lemon scent scrubbing, and deep, unflinching feeling that you will never truly be clean again.”

For once, as Carlos stared at his white-splattered hand, he thought he knew exactly what Cecil meant.

“Good night, Night Vale. Good night.”

#cecilos #f!tag: WTNV #status!tag: complete

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curtiskyle · 4 years ago

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#Best Premature Ejaculation Drug Surprising Cool Ideas #How To Use Clove Oil For Premature Ejaculation

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theharvestersbook · 6 years ago

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03: Invidia

"I thought these things were extinct," said Dr. Levi Invidia, his voice echoed deep and resonant down the long dining table. As he spoke, he probed the dubious-looking preparation that had been set before him. "Obviously, they aren't," Ava replied from the other end of the table, where a similar dish had been set in front of her. She was a long woman with a sharp face and a tight, black dress that Invidia would not admit noticing. "At least, they weren't yesterday." She looked at Invidia and smiled that wicked way he loved and added, "Perhaps they are today." "You know I've never been particularly fond of turtle stew," Invidia reminded his partner from across the table, "so I am curious how it appeared on the menu this evening. You did promise a note-worthy return for me." "It's loggerhead stew, my love," Ava gently corrected, "and you should think of it in symbolic terms." She spooned a morsel from her entree and delicately placed it in her mouth. She watched Invidia as she slowly savored her meal. "A little premature, don't you think?" Invidia raised his eyebrows and dipped into his stew. He inspected the bite-sized chunk of turtle closely, and then sniffed it before pulling it from his spoon with his teeth. He chewed for a moment and then looked at Ava with mild surprise and said, "What part of the loggerhead did you say this was?" "The tenderloin, love," Ava said as she smiled demurely. "You have to pry out the backbone to get at it. But I think it's quiet worth the trouble, don't you?" Invidia chuckled deeply and said, "Yes, yes. I admit. Quite tasty. However, the symbolism eludes me, my dear. I have not had my revenge on Caretta. I do not have her in my grasp. I don't even know where she is. So, while I appreciate the sentiment, I question the symbolism." "Oh ye of little faith," laughed Ava, "Didn't I promise you all sorts of surprises when you returned?" All pretense had slipped from her face, and Invidia could tell she was about to burst with some news. She stood up and walked slowly toward Invidia. He watched her as she floated her hand over to the water dragon on her wrist, one of the precious few items they had managed to escape with, and touch it softly. Immediately, his wrist began to tingle. Curious what she had sent to him, Invidia pried his eyes from Ava's svelte figure and touched his own water dragon. A map with a flashing beacon appeared in the air. It seemed vaguely familiar, perhaps just on the other side of the Peninsula from where they were dining. He studied the map for a moment, and then looked up at Ava, who had stretched a supple arm across his broad shoulders as she perched herself on the armrest of his chair. "This looks to be very close to our main artifishery processing plant, next to the desalination plant at our Southern Port," he said as he continued to study the map. "Very good, my love," Ava encouraged, "It's actually in one of those dreary little harvest villages that serve the artifishery." She smiled at him again, purposely holding back the punch line, but looking at Invidia with such knowing eyes that he immediately realized what it meant. Invidia's face broke into a wide grin, and he jumped to his feet, his voice rumbling, "You found her?" Ava nodded with wide eyes and Invidia burst into laughter. "Ha, ha, ha! You have! You found her! You've done it!" He clapped his hands together and practically danced around the table. Ave smiled at Invidia's rapture. "Finally," Invidia chortled, "After all these years. I wonder what she looks like. I wonder... " He spun around and looked at his partner. Ava looked back at him, smiling and not saying anything. “What does she call herself?” he asked. “Maya,” she offered, with a smile. “There’s something you’re not telling me,” he said, exploring hers face for clues. “What is it?” His eyes widened and he guessed, “Is there someone with her?” Ava nodded slowly and said, “There is indeed, an old man they call ‘Papa Gill’.” Ava let her words sink in, and just as Invidia was about to respond, she added, “And she has a child, a girl child. Her name is Meredith.” Invidia had all but forgotten what Ava had endured. He looked at her now with new admiration, almost awe. She had found them, herself. After a millennia of hide and seek, she had found them. Ava sat and basked. She knew what she had accomplished, for him, for herself. For herself. And she knew that he wanted her because of it. She could feel the power shifting, sliding in her direction. So, she just sat and silently reveled, trying to control her breathing, while he looked at her with his black eyes. "It seems as though things have changed," nodded Invidia. He stepped toward Ava, reached out and touched her hair. "Indeed, you have changed. Before my very eyes, you have changed." He smiled at her, and she smiled back, but for different reasons. "What will you do?" she asked. Invidia turned and considered the question. "How certain are you that it's them?" he asked. "You should go see for yourself," Ava replied, "but I am confident. It’s them." Invidia nodded and thought for a moment. "Then, I will visit the APP and see foe myself before we do anything," he said. "There have been too many tragedies in that region for us to risk another without being completely certain it is merited. Otherwise, confidence in the Corporation might be damaged, and we must protect the brand." "What about Superbia?" Ava asked, "Should we consult her?" "No," snapped Invidia, "I'm sick of getting permission from that silly bitch every time we do something, or think about doing something. This isn't Proteus, and there is no Convene." He let out a sigh of frustration. "I don't know why we keep pretending." Ava's smile faded slightly. She pursed her lips and frowned slightly in thought. "But if our goal is to find and restore Proteus, doesn't it make sense to keep the old governing structures in place?" she reasoned. "If we restore our sleeping population, the collective consciousness will remember Superbia as being the leader of our party." Invidia turned, held his water dragon up, and made a swiping motion toward his desk on the other side of the massive room that served as their dining and living areas, as well as Invidia's office and library. Both Globavision screens lit up as the electronic signal from the water dragon activated them. "Too much has changed," rumbled Invidia, "To think that we can restore Proteus and simply pick up from where we left off over a millennia ago is naive... and dangerous." As he reached his desk with the two Globavision screens, he made a few subtle hand motions and Ava's map appeared, floating in the air over his desk. Ava stood up and walked toward Invidia, still frowning slightly. "Are you suggesting that our mission has changed?" Invidia made a few more hand motions in the air, and zoomed in on the map. He waved his hand slightly to scroll across the landscape being displayed in front of him. He spoke without looking up from the scrolling landscape. "Think about it," he said. "What has always been our mission, our purpose?" "Honestly, darling," Ava said with a slight huff of exasperation, "I don't feel like playing guessing games this evening. Why don't you just tell me what you are thinking?" She stopped and stood opposite Invidia, looking at the map as he continued to look for something. Invidia stopped what he was doing and looked at Ava with dark purpose. "Our mission, from the beginning," his voice almost growled, "has always been to control the human population on this planet. That is the Realist mission. Wouldn't you agree?" Ava nodded, "I suppose you're right. But what does that have to do with restoring Proteus?" "We've already achieved that mission, Ava." Invidia looked at her with black eyes that reflected no light. "Thanks to you, and your wonderful Globavision, we control their minds. Leviathan Financial controls their wealth, and the other divisions feed their unending appetite. Even Ira Wrath gives them the destruction they love so much with his 'protection systems' and his Inter-corporate Murderball League." "Of course," Ava agreed, half-laughing, "just like those ridiculous gladiators the Romans loved so dearly, hacking each other to pieces. What a bore." She rolled her eyes in disdain. "Precisely," nodded Invidia, "Humans are like a pack of hungry dogs that will turn on each other in an instant without proper guidance and training. Feed them, keep their simple minds busy, and they are utterly controllable. We've achieved our mission." Invidia walked around his desk toward Ava, who stood long and lithesome and leaning to one side, holding her own arms in a casual way. His eyes took her in completely as he slowly approached. With a knowing smile, Ava spoke softly, "But darling, what you and I want goes well beyond the Realist mission. Let's be honest. We still want Proteus. We need Proteus. We just don't want the Proteans that will come with Proteus. Without Proteus and what she holds, how else will we remove our only remaining obstacles?" Invidia smiled broadly. Was it love, or was it lust? His feelings for this woman, truly, his partner, were complex. He could admit that to himself. The other powerful women he knew tended to annoy him with their bitchiness. But this one, she was different. A bitch? Yes. But, the kind he liked. When he thought of her, he understood what Creatives meant by "soulmate". She was like an extension of himself, a mirror image. And he loved it. He stepped close to her, close enough to smell her and feel the heat of her body. He gently caressed her shoulders and said, "With the limitless power of the Kentron Generator, we will remove Socordia from the picture, completely. Then, you and I will control the only three things that really matter, communication, wealth, and energy. All the others will fall in line, because they need what we control." "What about Superbia?" cooed Ava. "That peacock?" smirked Invidia. "She's too wrapped up in the fashion division. She still believes that being elected the leader of a thousand-year-old political party from a society that no longer exists, somehow gives her power. This is a different world. One without Proteus and the Convene." Invidia paused and breathed it all in. He looked into Ava's eyes and knew they were together, completely. "Once we have Proteus and the Kentron generator," he continued, "I'll kill her myself, ... in front of the others, and no one will say a word. And they will fall in line, just like the humans have. Feed them. Stimulate them. Control them. It's that simple." "Mmmm," purred Ava as she moved in closer to Invidia, "you know I love it when you talk to me that way." She wrapped her arms around Invidia's broad shoulders as he reached around the small of her back and pulled her closer. Invidia felt her body against his. "Tomorrow," he murmured, "I'll go to the artifishery to see whether this Harvester of yours is Caretta." "And if it is?" whispered Ava. "If it is, then we begin. And Marcus won't be there to stop me this time. No one will be. I'll bring Caretta and Edifus here to tell us where the generator is. Once we have that, we can dispose of that old fool." "And what about his daughter?" Invidia chuckled in his deep, resonant way. "Oh, Caretta is all yours, my love. All yours. What use do we have for a queen of a dead society in this brave, new world?" "Mmmm," replied Ava, "I've never had any use for queens anyway. Never." Invidia looked over at the dining table. "I think your loggerhead has gone cold." "Oh, that's alright," said Ava as she wriggled free from his grasp. She touched the water dragon on her wrist, and the already dim lights went out. Only a few, scattered candles flickered weakly. She walked a few steps toward a doorway on the other side of the room, then turned and looked back at him. "I have other things heating up for you." Lightening flashed in the wide window behind Invidia, and lit the room just long enough for him to see her, poised on the other side of the room. He smiled. Just before starting after her, he looked over his shoulder at the sky outside. Heat lightening lit the thunderheads heading toward them. A storm was coming.

#the harvesters

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