#like you chose to do that its not some compulsive act you have no control over like you chose to help others starve like...you made the

[spacesapphic770]

Lightsinger

This is a slight re-writing and continuation of a story I did about a Hive Lightbearer waking up. This story stems from "What if there were Hive Risen who did not wish to follow Savathun's way?" I hope you enjoy!

It is bright as I wake. I can see it through my closed eyes. As I open them the light dissipates like vapor and all I see is a green sky and a creature of bone and glass staring at me.

“Eyes up friend” it says, its singular eye pulsating with a dull glow as it speaks.

I rise, floating gently from my recumbent position. I look down at my body, flowing robe of a style I am unfamiliar with trailing beneath me. I raise my hands to view them. Waking up like this is a hard sensation to describe. It feels like I am wearing my body. It feels like I am controlling a vessel from a long distance away. It feels like the link between soul and form is tenuous. I click my claws together. The sound they make resonates through me, as though it is a calibration for my senses.

In time, this feeling retreats. When I feel more possessed of myself I try to think of questions to ask the viridian, ocular construct. All I can muster is “…what is this?”

“Well, there aren’t many easy answers to that. You were dead, but I brought you back to life. If you die again, I can bring you back again. But hopefully we can avoid that happening too much.” It laughs uneasily. Its words flow without restrain, as though the act of talking breaks the damn which holds them back.

This is a lot to take in. I have many questions. How did I die? Who am I? Why would you resurrect me? Countless more. The question that comes out is “What is your name?”

“Oh, me? I’m… well I’m a ghost” the construct says.

I look to the construct with visible confusion at its term of address.

“It’s… complicated. We ghosts resurrect the dead with a power called the Light. I saw something in you and chose you-

“So, a ghost is what you are, not who you are. I am interested in who you are small friend.”

The construct is silent for a time. “I’ve… I’ve never really thought of a name for myself. Some ghosts put a lot of thought into it, but I’ve always focused on finding my g-… risen… before focusing on names.”

The construct emanates a powerful anxiety. Its stream of words act as a barrier between it and its nerves. While it can float and does not need supporting, but I feel the compulsion to cup my hands around it. I did not wake alone, and it has regarded me with kindness since my consciousness ignited. There is a warmth that fills me when I think of being chosen by this construct. A warmth that come from its companionship as I alight. The warmth is bright and gentle and soothing. I feel the pain of longing, though for what I do not know. The words rush out before I consider them.

“May I call you Sister?” I ask the construct.

Sister’s boney outcrops begin to spin and she vocalises in what I can only interpret in excitement. For the first time since we began conversing he words are slow and do not mask unease.

“I would like that” Sister says.

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

Sorrow.

I have been acquainted with my people, the “Hive”, and now I learn of their history. Many listen with rapturous intensity. They seem to almost vibrate with intensity as they hear about the rise of the three siblings. The countless worlds obliterated in their wake. In unison they chant “Aiat! Aiat!” with the proclamations of Oryx.

My voice is silent. All I feel is sorrow. Sorrow for the universe that inflicted such tragedy upon the siblings. Sorrow for the loss of the worlds now gone. Sorrow imagining a different path.

Sister senses this well of despair within me. With a hushed tone she asks “Are you okay sister?”

I do not respond. She knows this to mean no.

“Hey, it’ll be okay alright? Let’s go-“

“You. Deathsinger. Ir Addisu. Come to me.” The ascendant interrupts her. The ascendants seem to command great power, both social and physical. I do not wish to test the limits of my immortality with a refusal of their order.

Wordlessly I float to the ascendant’s location.

“It is time to test whether you still retain the power of the deathsong. Meet with Ir Zala. She shall assess whether you qualify as a chorister.”

Silently make a sign of deference to the ascendant and go to meet my mentor to be.

Sister notes my silence and hums with anxiety

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

Three songs for three siblings. A song of deceit, to warp perceptions and walk unnoticed in hostile lands. A song of war, to enrapture all with violence and ensure they tithe to war itself. A song of death, of unmaking, anti-life. Though its full verses are lost, it still retains the ability to make life synonymous with death for those not of its choir.

Ir Zala instructs me in its verse. It is familiar, and old home I vaguely recall. This was my calling once, I think.

I try to sing it. I try to want to unweave creation. I cannot make myself want this. The words reverberate through my hollow husk and I am sick with the world they would make.

Ir Zala sings louder, if I do not join her intensity I will be torn asunder. I try to match her, but I can only summon sorrow, not death. I do not weep, though it is my deepest need right now. I fear for Sister if I showed weakness here.

I cannot-

Please, it’s too much-

I-

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

It is bright as I wake. I can see it through my closed eyes. As I open them the light dissipates like vapor and all I see is the roof of the annex and a creature of bone and glass staring at me, and over her a towering Hive with long flowing robes and a face which embodies disappointment.

“The Light robs us once again. It has stolen the verse from you. Leave, find somewhere else to disappoint. Take the Sky with you find some new way to weave death.”

Ir Zala looks Sister in her eye and sneers.

“You should have chosen the other as I instructed you to. Her verse would never have been robbed by the Sky.”

With this, the deathsinger leaves. Her words are more pain than the death at the hands of the verse was. Again the pain of longing and loss. I tremble with its weight.

Sister and I find a quiet, lonely corner of the Throne World. There, I weep until it is all I am. Sister says nothing, but she presses against me so I know she is there. It is small, but it is what I need.

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

Time passes as I try to find my place in this brood. I cannot. I have not spoken in days, even to Sister. I don’t think I have the strength to. Sister understands, and I love her for this.

I patrol the throne world where I can, to make myself look useful as the one I am indentured to schemes in her shimmering palace.

I follow this empty routine until one day something new tears its way through the throne world. It is of the Sky like me, but it is no Hive. It is a walking armoury, an embodiment of death Ir Zala can only dream of. It sings no verse, but unmakes my kin with ease.

I hide, hoping to be passed over by this storm. But another is on a path to meet it. My ascendant sees me and calls for my aid in this battle against death. I ignite lightning over myself like I was taught, and try to match its intensity. But this small, blue skinned creature. It pulls our some kind of metal rod and it ignites with intensity I’ve never seen. Once again my verse is a whisper in the face of an aria.

A Lightbearer Acolyte joins the fray, maybe together we can turn this tide. Maybe we can-

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

It is bright as I wake. I can see it through my closed eyes. As I open them the light dissipates like vapor and all I see is a green sky and a creature of bone and glass staring at me.

I look around, and all else is cinders. I see the crumbled remains of a Hive ghost next to me. The Acolyte. Must have been.

“Sister,” I say, tears forming once more. “How did you escape with your life?” I embrace her tightly.

“I- When the Guardian ripped through here, she went for the Acolytes ghost instead of me… I- I could have tried to help but I was so so scared Sister… I transmatted away a split second after the other ghost was- I didn’t know if I would make it, I just-“

I embrace her more. “You are safe, that is all that is important.”

We both sit in sorrowful silence. Eventually, we look around. All are dead.

“You know,” says Sister. “The Lucent Brood would believe you dead, just like the Acolyte. This could be our chance to leave.”

This is not the exit I imagined, but it is one I will take. This has never been a home, and the threat of violence no longer contains us.

I nod to sister, and we follow the Guardian’s trail of destruction back to a portal, and to a ship. We manage to find another portal which takes us to a planet with red soil and nest of concrete and metal buildings. It is empty. No one, guardian or Hive, saw us come here.

We are free.

“What… what do we do now? We’ve wanted to be out for so long, I never really thought… I got focused on the leaving bit and now I don’t know what to do.”

Neither did I, but I cupped Sister gently to reassure her that we would figure it out together.

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

We rested somewhere empty for about half a planetary cycle. I let the sorrow and fear flow from my bones for the first time since I awoke with Sister. In its idleness my thoughts raced.

Three songs for three siblings. A song of deceit, to warp perceptions and walk unnoticed in hostile lands. A song of war, to enrapture all with violence and ensure they tithe to war itself. A song of death, of unmaking, anti-life.

In another life, I sung the song of death with people who mattered to me. I believe we took pride in our choir.

It is said that the deathsong was a corruption of the song of creation that weaved together all things.

I ruminate on light and darkness, life and death, creation and unweaving.

When I am once again ready to speak, I speak to Sister. She is confused as to the lack of context, but the words make her chitter with excitement despite it.

“Sister. I wish to be a Lightsinger.”

#destiny 2 #fanfic #OC #Hive Lightbearer #Hive Risen #Hive Ghost #Deathsong #Hive #Witch Queen

[scarsmood]

i saw a post earlier saying that liking knotting in fanfic / kink is a gateway to being attracted to real life animals. i know i'm definitely not into that but now i feel guilty having this kink!

being otherkin and my species having knots, it is something i like but now i am unsure if i should even read stories about that content.

i am 100% against animal abuse and anything involving real creatures, but i can't shake this anxiety. does a hot werewolf with a knot really lead you down a slippery slope? is it inherently bad?

TW: mention and discussion of zoophilia and rape short answer, no. Long answer for explanation: Being into say zoophilia does not inherently make you a bad person. Being attracted to animals would label someone as a zoophile. which is a type of paraphilia. paraphilias are uncomfortable and scary to talk about understandably. We live in a culture that is very morally correct down to our thoughts since we post them online. It is a popular opinion it's not ok to engage with zoophilic content. I'd argue it is okay when you do so ethically and use it for management of your paraphilia. people often say "thats disgusting see a therapist" you know what the therapist says? "you need a healthy outlet so you dont fall into committing acts that are illegal or harmful"

petplay and fictional drawn content like feral furry porn are two outlets that are more ethically friendly. If you are paranoid about supporting beastalists which are people who have actually committed acts of assaulting animals do a background check on artists and pick a few "safe" ones you enjoy. Personally I enjoy red rusker as he touches quite a few paraphilias but seems to be pretty normal. Further more in my opinion when is it not ok to engage in your paraphilia? This is the guide I use for myself: -Is it addicting and making my paraphilia stronger not tamping it down? disengage. -Does it encourage/glorify real acts and "making it real". disengage. -Is the content made with real acts, taken from real acts, or mimiced from real acts (like a scene for scene real event). disengage. -am I in an echo chamber where it seems that everyone around me is just okay with all content that comes through and wants to "take it a step further?" leave that group ideally. When I engage in content for a few of my paraphilias im aiming to normalize my attraction within myself (not shaming or guilt tripping myself), not engaging in any real acts or wanting to as well as overtime working to decrease intrusive thoughts to act ideally to 0, giving myself the confidence that i can identify fiction from reality. CNC, petplay, and breeding with BDSM partners have significantly decreased my paraphilia urges to "do the real thing". Some of my paraphilias like zoophilia havent had an urge to "act" in quite sometime now. I believe i was 15 when I had the last one. While Rape (victim not perpetrator for clarity) for me is something i'm still struggling with since its happened to me so often. I genuinely consider it in my day to day and plan 'in case' it happens. tips for managing paraphilias and experiences, With my rape paraphilia i've had "encounters" as recently as last year. Which means i'm far and away from seeing it as just "acting". As a victim this translates to doing wildly unsafe things from jumping in a strangers car or sudden hook ups with sketchy people. Because it's so "fresh" my compulsions are high. I've turned to a harder lean on BDSM to get the impulses out and play them out in a safe space which has helped quite a lot. I notice the more intense the scene typically the more it helps my impulse and makes me get a sense of control that I chose to do these things and now has a safe resource to seek out these acts without harming anything or anyone. on the flipside with zoophilia I never had any direct interaction with sexual animal abuse. I have met and been encouraged by bestialists to play with them which can be traumatizing but isnt a huge deal compared to the former. (in my personal eyes these are my experiences of course im judging lol) So I dont have a huge urge for compulsions. Typically I'm just playing out attraction for my zoophilia with no compulsions. I do this in roleplay or BDSM play like petplay. This dynamic of no pre-existing trauma or enocunters is much more chill and easy to maintain. The only thing I have to worry about is if a partner is encouraging actual acts or wants to share porn of real acts to me and normalizes it. That would be where i cut them off and say "no thanks!" Find a safe space where you can ethically voice your wants. It is greatly encouraged not to "just hold it in" because when you snap it often means doing the hardest thing possible. similar to drug abuse. If you are of course worried about your compulsions seek professional help. It never hurts to get a second opinion!

#afterdark #erokin #otherkin #therian #asks

[pathologising]

I could literally never sit down and be remotely comfortable with writing how to starve posts...devilish behavior franklyyyy its baffling

#ed tw #ok im done lol im just so baffled by how you can sit down and write how to do this and this and what works and #like...no bc how do you even...like I feel weird as shit abt talking abt certain aspects of my disorder I couldn't imagine like #writing entire how twos and horrifically mean posts and creating fucking GROUP CHATS like no thats a fucked up choice frankly #like you chose to do that its not some compulsive act you have no control over like you chose to help others starve like...you made the #choice to do that.....onlime where children can see...and you tagged it as everything so people can see it...like. um.

[hellsbellschime]

One thing I abhor about the entire GoT franchise is the amount of graphic description of rape, and just how many female characters are given “RAPED” as a plot-pusher or worse an identity, but what sucks more is the fact that the writers (author and shows) turn around and use the argument "Historic Realism" or "It's horrid, it's wrong, but it is what it was in those days" argument, like NO. You are NOT writing a historic piece, you're writing a FANTASY WORLD with magic and Dragons and walking frostbites, yet you CHOSE to make this alternate universe YOU created, that does not need to have its foundation based on ANY of the conventions/practices/history/experiences of the real world we live in, to be the most oppressively patriarchal and misogynistic society EVER. The fact that the franchise could’ve narrated the very same story without any of the rape and abuse scenes added, yet chose to use some of the most sensitive crimes and acts of oppression as not only a repetitive plot-device but a characteristic feature of a world (who’s every last nuance was totally under their control) is DISGUSTING, I mean how fucked up do you have to be to choose voluntarily, to add heinous monstrosities like rape and abuse to a world you have created completely of your own accord, when you had every chance to portray a world where none of these acts had any obligation to be a THING.

And if it’s conflict you’re looking for, weaponising and idealising experiences that real life women face DAILY in worse forms than portrayed on screen, should never be your option especially if half the perpetrators never get their comeuppance. Same goes for TVD, or any other “fantasy” show that builds its own universe and allows men so much space to EASILY discard rape as either “necessary for plot” or like in TVD leaves a lot of space for rape apologists because “compulsion” was used.

Uhhh not to mention, it’s not actually historically accurate either. I mean, to paint things with such a broad brush and say well in Medieval times things were that misogynistic is stupid in itself, because the presumption that the entire goddamn world across the board was more misogynistic in the past than it is now is insane. Different cultures were different, and there were plenty of cultures that treated women equitably and not like property. I mean, didn’t the Vikings have woman warriors? Didn’t they actually allow some form of divorce in instances of spousal abuse? Didn’t they apparently exalt women who died in childbirth in the same way that they exalted warriors who died in battle? And it was far from just Scandinavia that treated women with some sort of agency and equality, so the idea that every place from Lannisport to Qarth was extremely, violently sexist is not analogous to the “real world” at all, and that’s putting aside the fact that this fantasy world is literally just that, a fantasy world.

#anti got #anti asoiaf #Anonymous

[worstloki]

So whaddya know about the Magnus archives through tumblr osmosis (if you’re not already a tma fan) because lately my thoughts have been consumed with Web! Loki and if you don’t mind having to look up stuff about tma avatars I would LOVE to hear your headcanons

- okay so loki has a web thing but its more like... the strings of fate? like he can sense the patterns the universe is setting out and can tell when something important is going to happen and choose to let it or step in because the world is a web of power and loki is at the centre

- because of this when there are powerful artefacts around and he has the chance to use them he will be drawn in (eg. it was awfully convenient that thor was banished right when his arm was touched and he decided to go check out the weapons vault...)

- if its not a powerful artefact its a powerful event and loki can choose to put things in motion or not act on the impulses 

- loki hangs off the Bifrost and knows he can change the fate of the universe positively by letting go; its not just about odin and acceptance its also about thinking that his death will be the only way for good things to come to asgard because he’s got the feeling of 6 legs moving around his head and its telling him that letting go is the right thing to do and even if loki doesn't want to die its for the best

- because loki has experience with the web controlling/compulsing him to do things he learnt to control the web in turn

- you don't think loki landed with thanos and he the grape felt like handing over an infinity gem did you? that he chose to gamble away the 1 he had with the hope to gain the space stone too? surely you don't think loki who knows where the tesseract is just happened to end up with the 1 creature in the universe trying to expand his rock collection

-  it took loki having to fake being more broken by torture than he was and having the mind stone used (mostly unsuccessfully) on him for the course of a year. but then thanos handed him a powerful artefact and sent him to earth and he indeed forced together a team that would go on to change fate for the better.

- Loki can die but the metaphorical spider silk holds him up and suspended from the fall associated with death 

- he wields 2 stones before thanos did and managed to temporarily block off thanos’ access to 3 infinity stones in the process because, again, web. If theres an object of power around it simply wants to be with Loki.

- Loki finds everything about the Black Widow rather ironic actually 

- he can sense the strings keeping someone together and grounding them to reality if he tries to read a person; natasha was affected by his words and he was confused that she pretended otherwise at the end (the parts of her performance that are fake are reversed and she thinks he wouldn't know that??)

- loki can’t go crazy in prison/isolation because his thoughts have always been spiralling and he learnt to deal with it as a child... loki isn't sure if it’d be better to be sane or not because the spider in his head has been giving him a headache for an entire month now and what does it expect him to do from prison

- then kurse gets put in a cell and some of the pain goes away

- he tells the kurse to go to the left because that's what his spider sense is saying is the best thing for the universe at large but if loki had known Frigga would end up dead he wouldn't have done it 

- he’s in prison and another infinity stone finds its way to the centre of the web when thor has to ask loki to help him with it

- “What I could do with the power that flows through those veins.” he says, but when he does get his hands on the aether he sends it away because his instincts are telling him he’ll need to keep the aether with him if he wants to universe to prosper but the last time he listened to the pull of the web Frigga ended up dead so he’s rejecting it for now

- the grandmaster is powerful of course loki ended up in his favour. powerful things just love to be where loki is.

- who put surtur’s crown into the fire and managed to get out alive again?

- no u don't understand Loki literally can’t look at the tesseract and not take it. 

#sorry for the late reply i have a bunch of asks i haven't gotten around to answering because i want to take actual time to write answers #you cant just send over an amazing idea and expect me not to take the time to enjoy it #I've listened to The Magnus Archives but didn't really pick up on the whole idea of avatars and entities #the stuff that was happening seemed strange but normal to me #which sounds bad I know but nothing was really off about the episodes with Webs? #just people casually going missing you know #anyways loki's brain isn't a bag full of cats its a bag full of 1 spider that is extremely annoying and gives loki a headache on occasion #its still loki though so i'd like to think loki can control the web's influence on others to an extent #maybe he can make people paranoid or scared about thinks #loki sees spiderman and just stares at him #asgard doesn't naturally have spiders so if giant ones appear randomly when loki has especially bad nightmares you know who to blame #AU where loki accidentally ends up with all the infinity stones #they just keep finding their way to him #the nova corps decided asgard would be safer to keep the orb #loki as odin: *sweating* yeah that's fine just leave it with us #he doesn't want all the stones in one place but they keep ending up here #the collector returned the aether after it 'refused to cooperate' and he 'would never be able to finish the collection bc of the soul stone' #vision gets the stone removed because its too dangerous for him to be keeping one in his forehead where anyone can try and steal it #the earthlings hand it to thor to keep in the vault because 'asgard is a secure place now that loki is dead... no offence' #you'd think the time stone would never reach loki though since strange has it right? #WRONG #loki pops by the sanctum to return a book he borrowed a while ago and suddenly finds himself the new sorcerer supreme #Stephen is still a student at this point in time and Loki refuses but they insist he'll only keep it for a week till he graduates #a week later Stephen says its foolish to give a new student one of the most dangerous artefacts and loki ends up with it #forget Thanos #give me Infinity War but its Loki trying NOT to get all the stones because if they get together Nemesis will form #Loki cant put the stones anywhere else in case Thanos gets his hands on them so pocket dimension it is #Thor:Ragnarok doesn't happen and Loki is still Odin #Loki shows up on earth seeking help and asking the avengers to NOT let Thanos reach him on earth because he's got the soul stone #there are only a few beings with enough power to keep the stones from thanos and all of them refuse to take the stones from loki

[theculturedmarxist]

Essay quam videri

hey, so this election is the first time I’ve been old enough to vote. im not a Democrat; I was doing work for bernies campaign and was pretty heartbroken when he suspended his campaign cause I know that biden is a rapist piece of shit and kamala is a fucking cop. but when the time came to vote in the election I voted for biden anyway cause I was told it would do more to protect people who were harmed by trumps campaign I don’t expect any sort of real change with biden and I worry that electing him will pacify civil unrest and provide people with a false sense of security,, but I felt like I wouldn’t have any right to be upset about trump being re-elected if I didn’t vote but do you think that voting for biden was fundamentally wrong? I’m trying to figure out how to navigate living in an evil system and sometimes I don’t know if it’s better to opt out or to participate and support an evil that is nominally better than another evil just wanted your opinion cause most ppl I know are on that “vote blue no matter who” shit

Hey,

I do understand how you feel. It can be really confusing, and it is a difficult question to come to grips with, trying to navigate an evil system and to minimize the damage your participation in it brings. This isn't an indictment of you personally, but an indictment of the world in which we live. One of the most horrid aspects of Capitalism is the barbarity that it makes us all ineluctably complicit in. Most people participate in the evils of this system through no real desire of their own, but because Capitalism has developed over the centuries a number of means to coerce participation. You can't have slavery without slaves, and there were always slaves because they created the profits that shackled them. That doesn't make picking master's cotton a fundamentally wrong act. You're a captive, and the captive's first duty is to survive, and secondly, to escape.

This ubiquitous coercion naturally makes any mechanism which we are invited to participate in suspicious. This recent election is a prime example: do you vote for this senile, racist, war-mongering, pedophile rapist, or that senile, racist, war-mongering, pedophile rapist? Do you vote for the man who put the people into camps, or vote for the man that built the camps? Do we bear the ills we have, or fly to others we know not of? You're right to be wary of participation. Part of its purpose is to instill a feeling of complicity in the crimes that result, either in yourself, or cast over some other party. The Democrats took advantage of this over the last four years to berate Trump for doing everything that Obama and Biden also did. They did and said the same things during Bush II's presidency. Now they exchange gifts with him and have brunch. It's theater, and they're all in the same troupe.

Do you know what constitutes bourgeois moralism? That it is pointless, epitomized in the phrase "thoughts and prayers!" It's wishing for good rather than doing good, hoping to be passed over by evil instead of working to destroy evil. Why do the bourgeoisie love philanthropy? Because it does nothing to lessen human misery. That is the essence of bourgeois moralism: seeming rather than being. The proletarian has no use for something so impractical, and you should not let yourself be fettered in this way. It will do you no good, nor anyone else. You will merely appear to be doing good, which is far worse than being nakedly evil.

Whether you decide to vote or not, and who you cast it for is entirely your prerogative. Haranguing the voter for participating or not, in a system they do not control, have no voice in, nor any real method of shaping, for people they had no hand in choosing, is nothing but vapid bourgeois moralism. It's a sleight of hand, transferring the guilt for Trump's crimes from the people that perpetrated them—Trump himself, the bourgeois that supports him, the thugs that carry out his orders, and so on, the willful perpetrators—onto you, the individual that had no part in any of it. This tactic is used to assuage the guilt of those who are willfully either complicit in a real sense or complicit in spirit. The same charlatans that try to shame you into voting want you to ignore that they've spent the last four years casually participating in the society that Trump runs, and dutifully supporting his regime with their taxes and commerce, and facilitating it with their compliance. They have nothing to offer you for your vote, because they are bankrupt themselves, bereft of the moral fortitude they fault others for not having. All they want is absolution, and the onus does not lie on you to give it.

That not casting a vote gives you no right to be upset about the outcome of that vote is another facet of this, a fallacious tactic on the part of the bourgeoisie. Not casting a vote is a vote in itself. Your assent and support is something that should be earned, not demanded, or expected, or brow-beaten out of you. If there is no candidate that you believe deserves your vote, then the only responsible choice is to not cast it. To say otherwise is to disembowel the very meaning of democracy. The compulsion of assent renders it meaningless.

With that said, is it fundamentally wrong to vote for Biden?

I think that isn't as useful a question as, what do you hope to accomplish by it? Biden as an alternative to Trump is a false choice—we have Trump _because_ of Biden. He didn't spring from nothingness, after all. Biden, and the rest of the political class at the behest of their corporate donors, have for decades shaped policy, enacted legislation, and brick by brick built the road that brought us to Trump. That is in addition to the Democrats' faux opposition to Trump, and their total collaboration in acting with him and the rest of the Republican party. The danger you want to mitigate is as much the legacy of the Democrats as it is the Republicans. They work in tandem in order to hold the people you wish to shield hostage against you. To put it simply, there is no Trump without Biden.

Yet neither is one exactly like the other. While they are both bourgeois politicians representing bourgeois cliques, they represent different factions of the plutocracy and their interests. Does the US go to war with Iran, or with Russia? Does the US continue to spread fascism in South America or in Southeast Asia? You can choose not to choose, and there is nothing fundamentally wrong with that. You can choose the person that supports bombing country A or the one wanting to sanction country B, and there is nothing fundamentally wrong with that, either. In the grand scheme, your personal, individual vote amounts to very little. You'd might as well fret over which brand of soap you buy at the store, which brand of cereal, or your search engine. If there is no ethical consumption under Capitalism, then it would seem to follow that the only ethical choice is to not consume—to commit suicide. Even if you make your own rope from your own home grown organic hemp, you are still injuring the working class by doing the work of the bourgeoisie for it. Capitalism robs us even of escape in death.

What is fundamentally wrong is casting a vote based on nothing but wishful thinking and delusion, of which "Blue No Matter Who" is a byword. The bourgeois voting for Biden at least has the virtue of voting for their own interest. "Blue No Matter Who" is an affirmation of nihilism, that not only can they do nothing, but they also expect nothing. It isn't a political strategy. It's naked resignation. The consumer society that Capitalism has shaped has induced people to believe that their desires can be bought. Buy this soap and 5% of the sale goes to preserving the rain forest. Donate 30 cents to end starvation in Africa. That is the mindset at work here. The removal of Trump is just another item to add to the cart. Vote, and all the discomfort and ugliness that Trump has made them aware of will go away. Things will go back "to normal." They are deluding themselves that think this is not normal.

Mao himself says that nothing is wholly good or wholly evil. Good may come from evil actions, and evil may result from good actions. Gavrilo Princip had no idea that when he killed two aristocrats that he was setting in motion events that would not only lead to the deaths of millions of people, but also the death of the empires he hated. Your vote is just another small piece of an ongoing, dialectical process of events and actions and decisions leading into and influencing one another, most of which is largely outside of your control. Years from now you might have reason to regret it, or to celebrate it, or maybe even both. Actively making that decision, however the outcome, at least means that you chose to be rather than to seem, and that’s the first step to doing good.

#biden #trump #obama #voting

[bountybossier]

You’ll Not Feel the Drowning | PotW Chatzy

with: @phobiasarefood @damn-fine-cup-of-tea @boogaloomagoo

tw: gore, murder, death

It came to Nicodemus in flashes. Flashes of a stranger’s life but they were his hands driving his beaten truck. It was his hand that held the carach-coated knife. His keen precision that drove it into the back of August Trudeau, inches away from his spinal cord but close enough to so many branching nerves. The name meant something to him somewhere. Somewhere far gone. The intent wasn’t to cripple and as the paralytic agent worked its way through the man, the hunter watched. Waited as the thrashing stopped and the breathing slowed. Face perfectly impassive. He operated at the basest Bossier instinct: pure efficiency. August stared, limp and open-mouthed, as the hunter hefted his weight over his shoulder and moved through the dark of the woods that rimmed Dark Score Lake. When Nicodemus came through the treeline, puffs of cold breath slow and even, he didn’t know how he got there. Only that it was where he needed to be. The both of them. Time to get to work. With August’s blood seeping into his clothes, he drew closer to the lake.

There was no rhyme or reason when it came to the journey towards Dark Score Lake. Margot had gotten out of her bed, like so many times before, descended the stairs, out into the dark of night. Except this time, a pair of keys were clutched in her grasp; of course it would be this night that her father wasn’t home, though any thoughts of him were lost to her conscious mind. The inexplicably gripping force slid the key into place, turning the ignition, and her truck rattled to life, soon enough pulling onto the road. It hadn’t taken her long to arrive, leaving the car on as she dazedly stepped down and began making her way towards the body of water. Nothing but pure instinct leading her on, one she knew the origin nor the purpose of, but one she didn’t, and couldn’t ignore.

Lynn sat in her living room, watching a late night infomercial. She couldn’t sleep. She didn’t want to sleep. It was that eye. The one that had been haunting her for...how long had it been? It felt like forever but logically it was only since the town went dark. Wasn’t it? Or had it been there longer and it was only the darkness that revealed its presence to her? She closed her eyes in a blink - more out of habit at this point than necessity - and when they opened she found herself on a beach, standing at the edge of the water. How? How had she gotten there? Lynn wracked her brain and could remember nothing. What time was it now? She glanced down at her wrist only to remember that she’d taken her watch off this afternoon to charge it. Turning around, she tried to determine exactly where she was. Was she back at the ocean? It wouldn’t be the first time she’d woken up there with no recollection of the journey. That too had started recently. Along with the eye. Was the eye behind everything? The scent of the water proved that this was not the ocean, but the lake. Dark Score Lake. Well that was new. Movement in the surrounding woods caught her attention and Lynn turned around to face them. In that moment she realized she wasn’t wearing her contacts either, so her eyes would be glowing red. She braced herself mentally, preparing to turn invisible if needed, and called out, “Hello? Is anyone there?”

Javier glanced at the corner of his office. The eye was there again, looking right at him. Much like the rest of the things he had been seeing since he arrived in White Crest, he chose to ignore it. Of course it worried him, those things he was seeing, but he could not report any of that to the Bureau, and so he kept his silence. The agent reached out to get his cup of tea, his eyes closed shut as he grimaced. Lukewarm. Cold. Water. He took a step back and shook his foot, in an attempt to get it to dry faster, if not at all. This was too quiet to be the ocean. He had woken up too many times by the ocean shore this week to mistake this for it. The still surface, partially covered with fog. He was standing by the lake this time, he realized, tea cup still in his hand. It was about then that he heard a voice calling out in the distance. Getting his flashlight from his jacket, the agent turned it on and responded. “Hello ?” It appeared that he was not the only person here. Maybe this woman would be able to tell him why he was here.

Nicodemus stood sentinel. Waiting. For what? He wasn’t sure. But it was important. It was also important for the four of them to be there, with their plus one of August Trudeau. It wasn’t important to him, personally, but rather something else. Something dormant in his nerves, bloodstream, that wanted him to act and move. Puppeted. The hunter picked his eyes up off of the lake’s surface and dropped August’s weight from his shoulder. A centimeter of give came and prevented the other man from crashing to the earth, but just like that, it was gone and the hunter set to dragging him across the wet grass and dirt to stand between the three. Eyes glowed red and he looked at them first, before his eyes skipped over to Margot. He knew her but his face didn’t say so. Then there was a flashlight and he looked at that, clocking every single movement that didn’t stem from the lake. Then, he spoke in a language old and inhuman. “Gather around him.”

Margot remained silent, bare feet sinking into the damp grass beneath her. Somewhere beneath this veil that had appeared over her conscious mind, the thought of calling out to one of them registered in her mind. She should be talking, asking something, piecing together what had happened and why they were there, and… Then her gaze lowered to the body Nicodemus was dragging behind him. Though she immediately recognized him, the compulsion to rush towards his restrained form was itself forced into submission, a hooded, vacant gaze meeting his glistening eyes that seemed to exude the utmost confusion and terror. Doing as she was instructed, the blonde began to step towards her bound father, stopping just an inch or two short of his side. This didn’t feel right. Something churned inside of her gut, a sickening swirl of anxiety that refused to be displaced. Still she stood, waiting for the others to join around her captive father.

As the others joined her, Lynn felt herself lose control of her body. Had she ever had any in the first place? The fog in her mind told her that she did not. She was not here for herself. She was here to serve. Him. Moving to join the others in the circle, she pulled the knife from her belt. When had she put it there? It must have been at some point in the blank period of time between watching TV and ending up here. Even more, it was a knife she did not recognize. A knife that was not one she owned. How? That was the most common question among all of this. How? Stepping toward the body on the ground, she took a closer look at who it was. Some man that she’d seen around town, but did not know. Surely he would not be missed. Surely that was why he had been the chosen sacrifice. Lynn knelt down next to him and used the knife to cut open his shirt. She placed a hand on his forehead, more to brace herself than to hold him down, and felt an instant rush of fear flood her body. He was terrified and it was oh so delicious. Lynn closed her eyes for a moment as He allowed her to feed from the dying man. Thank you, Lynn thought, knowing that He could hear her. With the knife, she carved the symbol into his chest. It was large and deep and would provide plenty of blood. She didn’t choose which symbol to carve. As with all of this, it was chosen for her. She turned back to the others, face impassive, and said in a language that only they could understand. “We must collect the blood. As much as we can.”

Approaching the rest of the people gathered by the shore, Javier looked at the man tied up on the ground. Javier himself looked as if he was wearing a mask, and looking at the scene through it, as if he was not there, not really. The feeling in his gut told him that none of this was right. And yet, right after the red eyed woman cut a symbol into the man’s chest, the first thing he did was get his knees on wet, muddy grass, empty his tea cup on the ground and approach it from the man’s wounds, his other hand pressed firmly against the bloody chest. The crimson red was staining the cuffs of his white shirt, but he did not stop and instead forced the poor man to sit up to keep the blood flowing smoothly. The cup nearly full, Javier let go of him like he was a used tissue, and looked up at the other three. “Is that enough?” The words were spoken in the same ancient, forgotten language. Setting the cup down on the floor, where everyone could reach it, he -something inside him- started drawing symbols onto the floor with August’s blood.

“Yes. It’s enough. Waste none of it.” The smell of blood didn’t alarm Nicodemus. It never did. Even then, his brow twitched as he peered down at August. A meaningless act of defiance as he gave way. As the woman cut curved lines and the man collected the blood. The hunter crouched down and pressed his hand into the deep lines that marred the man’s flesh. Even through the paralysis, the man was trembling. Terror. Nicodemus scrunched his nose and spat. The man had soiled himself. A surprisingly human response. He felt peacefully empty, his head full of seabreeze. It no longer seemed to ache and the call of silence was treacherous. He began to draw near the man’s head with purposeful, languid strokes of his own blood. “We give you His greatest gift,” he said, voice a flatline. It didn’t sound like his own, yet it was his tongue that moved. “The gift of dying first. The sea will drink of your blood, eat your eyes, and in the end…” He paused and tilted August’s head to meet his eyes. His were content half-moons that halved the wide, bloodshot eyes of a dying man. “It will be your bones that line the floor of His generosity.” He moved his eyes away from the man under his hands and looked to the other three. His eyes shut for a moment as his hand stopped moving. “In the midst of black waters, we wake the dreaming,” he began to intone. “Sea becomes land, land becomes sea. Water to blood, bones to mud. The sound of His waters becomes a siren's call. One by one, we become the drowned until the sea swallows all…”

Margot: Onto her knees, unfazed by the chilly, damp ground beneath her. Singularly focused on the task at hand - one she carried out, not of her own volition, but of His. A grander, higher purpose, one that maneuvered her hands to dip into the cup, to press into the earth and form lines and patterns she somehow knew intimately, as if peering through the haze of a long forgotten dream. Clarity in the act of smearing crimson into muck, fluidity in the words murmured under her breath, echoing those of another. Her voice, and yet so utterly foreign to her waking mind, but they flowed just as easily as August’s blood had; effortless. She would have flinched at the pain emanating from her right bicep, if it were unexpected. This was all a part of His plan for them. Crimson dyed into the grey of her sweater, collar slipping down as she shifted to complete the symbol - pale flesh giving way to an angry red, scorched into place by a power she did not need to know but understood all the same. The same symbol Lynn had carved into her father’s chest. Her focus flitted to him, unfeeling, cold; his tears seemed to shimmer in the depths of her crystalline gaze, pleading. Didn’t he know? This was happening for a reason. To be used for His purpose… He should be proud.

“In the midst of black waters, we wake the dreaming,” Lynn joined the chant after Nicodemus finished his first recitation. “Sea becomes land, land becomes sea. Water to blood, bones to mud.” Her tone was flat and although she’d never heard these words before this moment, she knew them perfectly. Knew them as though they’d been imprinted on her since birth. Dipping two fingers into the cup of blood, she helped draw the symbol around the body. It was the same one she’d carved into his chest, and it was repeated over and over again on the ground around the dying man. “The sound of His waters becomes a siren’s call.” With each stroke of her fingers, the same stroke burned into her forearm. Nevertheless she persisted. This was important and all she had to do was remember that all of this was for Him and the pain hurt a little less. “One by one, we become the drowned until the sea swallows all.” As quickly as the chant was over, Lynn started again, finishing the last of her symbol and standing to look down upon the body. She knew He would reward them. Praise them for being good disciples. All of the pain and confusion would be worth it in the end. All thanks to Him. The Great One.

The more Javier painted on the floor with August’s blood, the more pain he felt in his forearm. His shirt which was once stained with the poor man’s blood, was starting to get damp with his own, although he ignored it, too focused on the divine, extraordinary, important task that had been given to him by Him. The man on the floor did not seem to understand what it was that they were doing, he noticed, as he drew lines a few inches from the man’s head. Javier smiled at the man, a smile even reached his eyes. How lucky was August to have been chosen by Him ? Done with his task, the agent rolled up his sleeves. The thought of having something carved on his forearm, like a tattoo, should have triggered some kind of reaction, anger, panic, but he glanced away from it as if he had not even noticed, and instead joined the pair into their chant. “In the midst of black waters, we wake the dreaming,” he began, bending down to grab the man under his arms. It was unsure where this decision came from, but Javier was compelled to pull the man toward the water. Then, with the help of the others, August would be drowned and offered to Him. The chanting went on as he stepped himself into the lake, moving back toward the water. “Sea becomes land, land becomes sea. Water to blood, bones to mud. The sound of His waters becomes a siren's call. One by one, we become the drowned until the sea swallows all…”

Nicodemus looked upon their work and felt nothing. A great gift, the embrace of the deep. As they carved and painted the man, they too became painted. Red, angry curves cut through the skin at the back of his right hand. The one he had stabbed August with. A Judas imprint. He looked at the others, as the same gifts cut into their skin. A shared gift. A memory of being called to higher action. As the strange man across from him started to tug August toward the water, the hunter did the same, the man’s weight nothing to him. The water was cold on his legs, his back. He felt both very close and very far away. “Hold him down. It is normal to fight for now but time...” he called out as he gripped the man’s frigid shoulders and pushed him down. “Time is a teacher.” With paralysis in August’s blood, it wouldn’t be much of a fight. It was better that way. Better for the meat, better for His taste.

The chant from before was on Nicodemus’s lips again. All thoughts that should have had Nicodemus himself fighting but he did nothing of the sort. Through joint effort, he continued to push August further into the waters. Yet, the man’s body bobbed. His stomach kept breaking through the water, the place where the symbol had been carved stretching and shifting obscenely. His head still firmly underwater, the bubbles started to slim until only a few remained. Still alive. The lines where the red-eyed woman had carved a blessing into him started to tear and split, slowly yet audibly. Fingers crept through the openings until it became clear that there were no fingers. They were tentacles, slim and thin. Wiry and thrashing. Bloody and viscous. The skin continued to pulse and shift as something continued to press through it. As if it didn’t quite have the strength yet to break through. The hunter glanced at August’s face through the blood and dark water, wide eyes jumping back and forth between every warm body in the water. August’s muscles started to slack. The carved mess of the man’s stomach finally burst. A large, oblong head with skin the color of a drowned man’s rose from the mess that was once August’s chest. Large, jaundice-colored eyes with black oblong pupils stared at them from the crimson abyss before it pulled itself out of the man’s body and slumped into the water. A bloody trail led away from them as the creature swam further into the lake. August Trudeau went slack and as Nicodemus’s skin tingled, nerves alight, he sensed something coming towards them through the water. 

Margot had begun to chant along with the others, monotonous, droning, a calmness seeped into the tone - a release of tension and questions and fear from the previous weeks as everything finally came into fruition. All the searching had led up to this one, glorious moment of clarity. Pale fingers joined in dragging her father along into the murky waters of the lake, continuing the chant as she stared ahead, allowing herself to be led by their joined voices, and a pull that gave her instruction without a voice to be heard. She didn’t need one, none of them did - they knew all that was necessary through Him. She pressed deep atop one shoulder, watching as each contour of August’s features slipped beneath the surface, waiting. They would soon be rewarded. Her gaze was drawn to his pulsing stomach, the form contorting as though his intestines were slithering serpents beneath the red-stained flesh. When they eventually slipped through the tears carved within, the mass given birth - so beautiful, so stunning, and perfectly in His image - following it as it slithered into the dark. 

But it was far from over. Bubbles began floating up to the surface just a few feet away from them, sparse at first, then roaring, and soon enough twin pairs of slippery pale flesh emerged from the middle of the lake. They swerved in tandem, approaching the group and slithering over August’s now lifeless body, wrapping around legs, burst abdomen and neck, before pulling the weight further into the lake. But something was happening to the water where the tentacles had emerged; the flat surface began to sink, as if a whirlpool of sorts had appeared, and yet the rest of the water seemed to go undisturbed. The area caved in further as the limbs dragged their charge along, before finally slipping into the seemingly never-ending cavern of darkness. For a moment, there was nothing. Before Margot could even register that a second had ticked by, a beam of light emerged from the darkness, a beacon that seemed to shoot up into the very heavens. So blinding that she flinched away, her forearm brought up to shield herself from it’s brilliant light.

Lynn continued to chant as she followed the group into the water. She helped hold the dying man under, knowing this was what He had chosen. When the man’s stomach began to shift and writhe, she watched with rapt attention. Once again this was His will. How lucky was this man that he was being given such a gift moments before death? To be turned was a great Honor. One she hoped would be bestowed upon her one day. As the surface of the water began to bubble, Lynn took a step back and watched on. A smile graced her lips as the two larger than life tentacles reached out, almost as if He was reaching out to greet them, then grabbed the man’s body and dragged him into the water. And then it was over for a split second before a beacon of light shot out of the water and filled the entire area, blinding her and causing her to stagger back to the beach. Within moments she came back to herself and the full weight of everything that had just happened came rushing back to the forefront of her mind. She turned to look behind her toward the lake, still not able to actually see anything, and whispered, “What have we done?”

Emerging from the water were two tentacles that could not have belonged to anything known to man. There He was, Javier thought, with no trace, whatsoever of concern as to what He was. Javier trusted Him. As the tentacles wrapped themselves around the man -blessed be this man for being chosen by Him- and dragged him away, Javier turned to watch as the lake opened up. He could have sworn he saw a cavern in the dark. A deep, abyssal cavern. Before he could realize that this was all over, a bright light, beaming, pulsing, blinding shot out of the water. The man covered his eyes with both his forearms, turning his back on the light. As he glanced at the three other people, and saw his valued, cherished tea cup tipped over by the shore, still dripping of blood, Javier covered his mouth, looking as if he was going to be sick. After all these years of training and working, this was by far the most traumatizing shit he had ever lived through. What the fuck had he done. He remembered everything, and yet, he knew that he would have never done that. "What the fuck," if he avoided cursing most of the time, now might have been the moment to break that rule.

The two tentacles pulled August under and dragged him away, ripples left in their wake. He seemed pleased with the offering and Nicodemus stepped aside as it happened. All too eager to please. Looked on as his eyes attuned to the dark ahead of them. A hole opened in the lake and drank its fill. The hunter stepped backwards toward the shoreline. Then, it seemed the sky opened up or the lake met the sky. Whatever the fuck it was, it was bright and he stared right at it. He swore and fell back on his ass. And with the light, came clarity like a swift backhand. Clarity that his knife was one of the two left on the shore. That there was so much fucking blood in the dirt that his senses filled with the smell of copper earth. That the man they brutalized and ritualized was a father, then the sobering thought that he had likely killed fathers before. Nothing like this. He tried to blink his way back to sight, tried to find his footing. When he heaved, nothing came. Vague outlines and shapes of strangers came and went. “What the fuck just happened?” He echoed the other man’s sentiments as he eyed the back of his bloodied hand. “Oh hell. Oh fuckin’ Christ,” he rasped, the life back in his voice even as he suddenly felt more tired than he ever had before. His attention went to Margot Trudeau. “Shit. Margot?”

Whether it meant to act as a trigger or otherwise, Margot slowly regained her senses, arm lowering to reveal a ghostly pale face twisted in shock. It all came crashing down upon her, the first wave of many. Each one a realization of the deed she and the others had carried out. Her father… Her father. A gasp stole from her chest, tears that had budded from the brilliance of light giving way to an agonizing, all consuming grief - one that felt wholly misplaced and wrong. So, so wrong. Bleary gaze stared down at her hands, still trailing with water and faint streaks of crimson, bleeding into her sweater. She had done this. They all had a part, but she...“No,” She slowly edged herself back towards the lake, then quicker, wading faster and further out. “No -- Papa? Papa! Give him back!!” Ignored were the freezing temperature and stillness of the water, ignored when she couldn’t feel the bottom of the lake any longer. He had to be there, somewhere down in the dark. Maybe they had been wrong - he was drowning, maybe. He could still be saved, yes, yes, because if not… Oh dear God, what the fuck had she done…?

Lynn bent over at the waist, resting her hands on her knees and trying to wrap her head around everything that had just happened. There was a small part of her that just couldn’t believe they’d actually done those things, but the rest of her knew it was true. She’d lived those experiences as if in a trance of some kind. Was it the same for the others? Their words filtered through in bits and pieces, and Lynn mostly ignored them, but there was one that stuck and wouldn’t let go. Papa. She furrowed her brow as her mind tried to catch up. Papa? Why would some- Oh. Oh no. Glancing up, she watched as the other woman, Margot, moved back into the water, screaming for her father. “Shit.” She looked to the two men before heading into the lake herself. “Come on! We have to get her out of there.” Swimming out to where Margot was, Lynn rested a hand on her upper arm and tried to gently reason with her. “Margot, we have to go. Come on. You need to get out of the water before you get sick. We can figure all of this out together, but back on land.”

Kicking off his shoes, Javier went after Margot. The water seemed much colder than it was minutes ago when they all stood there. He was not sure yet of what it was that had just happened, but he understood this well : they had just murdered this girl’s father, and offered him to some sort of creature that lived in the lake. And now, she would end up in hypothermia if they did not get her out of the water soon enough. Arriving where the two women had stopped, he looked over at the red eyes lady, “He’s gone. We have to get out of here,” all he could hope for now, was to get her out of this state of denial and despair. They had bigger problems now : getting rid of evidence on the shore, getting rid of their bloody clothes, getting back home without being seen, and getting themselves a nice, good alibi. Javier could have sworn he had seen the other man in his neighborhood lately, and probably could use that, but those two women would have to come up with something, and he would not let the grieving daughter be their demise. “We are getting you of here, we cannot stay here any longer.”

The hunter wanted to leave. His head wanted to split right down the middle and spill itself over the dirt. It was a funny thing. A singular, strange moment where Nicodemus wasn’t himself that brought him some kind of peace. He didn’t want to think about what it was they had done, as shock and horror rippled through their small group. Numbness settled his bones. They had taken a life and given it to something else in the span of mere breaths. As Margot ran into the water and the other two followed, he didn’t move toward them. Even as they talked and mourned and panicked. Someone was dead and they weren’t. That’s all it was. That was all it needed to be. Goddamn it. He trudged toward the water, eerily silent, and started to pull the three of them out of the water with strength further empowered by the sheer will to get the fuck out of there. Walked them back to the lake’s edge with a grunt. “He’s gone,” he said with finality, as he echoed the other man yet again. Angry and bloodied, numb and restless, the hunter let them go. “He’s fuckin’ gone and we all need to leave. Fuck all else we can do.” He stepped away and without looking back, departed into the reawakened, near-blinding light.

#potw: into the darkness #chatzy: youll not feel the drowning #c: lynn #c: javier #c: margot #chatzy

[questionsonislam]

Will you explain the verse: "Say: I have no power over any good or harm to myself except as Allah willeth" (al-Araf, 7/188)? According to that verse, does the human will have no importance?

Man or jinn wills and Allah creates. It means nothing takes place without the will of Allah in the sense of creation. Satan chose to rebel and not to prostrate using his own will, and Allah created his choice.

“Say: I have no power over any good or harm to myself except as God willeth” (al-Araf, 7:188) emphasizes creational willing. According to that verse, does the human will have no importance?

Allah has got two ways of willing.

First: Creational willing.

Second: Juridical willing.

Juridical willing: Allah shows through the prophets He sent what he likes and dislikes. This will of His manifests Allah’s orders and prohibitions. The Quranic verse which is translated as “If ye reject (God), Truly God hath no need of you; but He likes not ingratitude from His servants.” (az-Zumar, 39:7) indicates this “juridical will” of Allah’s.

The feature of this willing is that it is an order which only shows Allah’s contentedness and satisfaction and which does not include enforcement. The Quranic verse “The truth is from your Lord: Let him who will believe, and let him who will, reject (it)” (al-Kahf, 18:29) emphasizes people’s freedom in the presence of this willing. This freedom is also a requirement of the testing which people are put through.

Creational willing: This kind of willing means Allah’s creating, making and inventing. This willing is a reflection of might; it is creative, forcing and it cannot be opposed. It is possible to see the most gnomic statement about this willing in the verse which is translated as “Verily, when He intends a thing, His Command is, "be", and it is!” (Ya Seen, 36:82).

The verse which is translated as “Say: I have no power over any good or harm to myself except as God willeth” (al-Araf, 7:188) emphasizes creational willing.

As explained above, creational willing cannot be opposed or avoided as it is the last decision of Allah. However, it does not mean that it does not leave any options for human beings and forces them into things which they do not want to do with their own free-will because besides this kind of willing, there is also juridical willing. For instance, a murderer wants to kill someone without a fair reason; he puts his will into action and shoots the man to death. It happens in spite of Allah’s juridical willing which does not give consent to and which forbids that act. However, that man will not die and nobody can kill him unless the creational willing, which is the last decision of Allah, allows it.

When one evaluates the truth from this point of view, it will be seen that there is not a statement which restricts people’s freedom, in the Quranic verses regarding Allah’s creational willing. To sum up, human beings do something good or evil using their own free-will, power and self-control. And Allah creates the thing one wants to do if He wills to create it.

2. In the verse above, Hazrat Prophet (pbuh) is ordered to say clearly that he can obtain what is good for him and be protected from what is harmful for him only by the will and wish of Allah; the Messenger of Allah fulfilled that order; thus he informed people, without having any complex, that his means and abilities were limited with what Allah gave him because he was a human being and that he did not have any extraordinary power on his own. Thus, he showed his sincere allegiance to Allah indirectly and displayed an exemplary attitude as to what kind of consciousness of servitude man needs to have in the presence of Allah.

To know when the Doomsday is means to know the ghaib (unseen, unknown). A person who knows the ghaib may have the power to know what will bring good and what will bring bad things for him in the future and may act accordingly. The Messenger of Allah (pbuh) stated that he did not have such a power and that his main function was to convey people information containing good news and warning in such a way to help them.

As it is seen here, our Prophet (pbuh) did not like to be attributed some qualities independent of the bounties and grants of Allah; he always emphasized that his duty was to be a good servant to Allah, to fulfill his duty of prophethood and conveying the message of Allah fully and to try to help people find the guidance. Regarding the issues like life in the hereafter, Hell, Paradise, angels, devil, which are in the scope of the ghaib and which are beyond man’s knowledge, he informed people as much as Allah let him know based on His permission; however, since he was not given any information about when the Doomsday would strike, he was ordered to tell people that he did not have any information about it.

It is not stated in the verse that Hazrat Prophet (pbuh) does not know anything about the future by any means but it is stated that he knows nothing about the future except what Allah informed him. Not everything relating to the future is regarded as the ghaib; man can have some definite information about the future and can know something based on his information about the laws of Allah regarding the universe called the laws of nature, his experience and his mind. What is emphasized in the verse is not that the future is completely dark for human beings but that man cannot have any knowledge about the beings and events and about what is useful and what is harmful unless Allah lets him.

3. In another verse regarding the issue, the following is stated: "But ye will not, except as Allah wills; for Allah is full of Knowledge and Wisdom." (al-Insan, 76/30)

While in the previous verse in the same chapter, it is stated that a person who wills will take the path to his Lord, in the 30th verse, it is stated that Allah will encompass those that He wills with His mercy. That is, sincere believers surrender themselves to the will of Allah with all of their belongings.

We were not created based on our own will; we were not born in the country where we were born based on our own will, either; the family and the environment that we belong to were not chosen based on our own wish and will. They all took place with the manifestation of the divine will. Everything takes place in accordance with the plan He has made in the pre-eternity based on His infinite knowledge and His will.

After coming to the world and reaching the age of “responsibility”, that is, the age of discretion, our wills start to take part in our lives. We are desired to be led by being notified with divine commands. At this point, we need to stop and think. After the notification and being shown the right way, a person is let choose using his own will; on the other hand, God’s will prevails as it is stated in the verse “But ye shall not will except as Allah wills”. We see the conclusion that “man is bound by the divine will within a certain limit”. A person can find the right path if He wills, but if not, he cannot. In this case, what are people held responsible for? If we just look only at the outer appearance of the verse without analyzing the indicated meaning, we might think that the claims of the Qadariyyah and Jabriyyah schools turn out to be correct. However, the matter is of ultimate importance and subtlety. It is hard to come to a conclusion unless its wisdom is comprehended. As it is stated in the 30th verse, Allah tells us about the limit of possibility and will that He has put between Him and His servants; in other words, the border of the right path. Unless a person reaches the level of that border with the help of his mind, intelligence and will, and religious advice and knowledge, Allah will not manifest His supreme will; and for this reason, the door of guidance path will not open for him.

Do we not encounter this limit regarding almost every matter? Without plowing and without any strife, by only sprinkling seeds onto dry soil, how can we expect yield from these seeds? People are obliged to do what they are expected to regarding this matter, and then, the rest depends on the divine will. At that point, we cannot will unless God Almighty wills. Unless He manifests His guidance and help, we cannot enter the right path and cannot benefit from the thing we have started.

We can summarize the issue as follows:

There is no such a decree like compulsion or invalidity of human will. What this is all about is the situation of crossing the limits of possibility and will that we have mentioned above. When that limit is reached, the divine will and guidance of the Almighty God play their roles above all sorts of will; He opens the door of guidance for the ones whom He wills or He does not open it for those whom He does not will. The door of guidance will not open for the ones who have not been able to use the will, and as a result, who will not be able to take themselves to the mentioned border.

The statement “You cannot will unless Allah wills” describes the ability to choose and to wish which Allah has installed in the creation of human; no extra meaning is included because bestowal of this kind of ability on the humankind is emphasized in a number of verses in the Qur’an with definite and clear expressions. Thus, we can count this as a strong principle of Islamic teaching. Moreover, the one who desires this will and ability to be available in man is Allah, the Exalted, Himself. For this reason, the choice of guidance or deviation by a person is within this extent. That is to say, as far as we comprehend, there is no contradiction. The fact that the verse consoles the Prophet (peace be upon him) due to negative reactions he received, that the deniers are described as “evil ones” as if it was their basic quality is a strong clue of their deviation from guidance and deserving Allah’s punishment because of their evil intentions and unjust deeds. And it stands as a message for us to interpret the statement “He takes the ones whom He wills to a right path” as “the ones with well-intentions and who desire to enter the right path.

If Allah had not granted us will in this world as a requirement of the position and the trial of this world and if He would not have let us choose whatever we wanted, then nobody would have had this kind of right to choose. O people! That is, you should know that your ability to choose denial or rebellion depends on God’s permission, too. If He had taken hold of the rope around your necks from the time you were born onwards, like He did with angels, mountains, rocks, sky, the moon, stars, the sun and plants and so on, in other words, if you had been created without your wills, none of you would have had the right to choose whatever you wanted.

Only man is provided with this opportunity. Freedom of rebelling and challenging has only been given to man based on Allah’s law. Therefore, the obedience of man is much more different than other creatures. That is, man’s obedience to Allah is different from the slave’s obedience to his master. Since freedom to rebel has been granted, man’s obedience is a lot more precious. Angels, mountains, skies, stars, the moon, animals and plants are also Allah’s servants but their obedience is their nature.

#Allah #god #islam #quran #muslim #revert #convert #revert islam #convert islam #reverthelp #revert help #revert help team #help #islam help #converthelp #prayer #salah #muslimah #reminder #pray #dua #hijab #religion #mohammad #new muslim #new convert #new revert #how to convert to islam #convert to islam #welcome to islam

[ocean-in-my-rebel-soul]

[Untitled] [Solas & Lavellan]

For @buttsonthebeach and @dadrunkwriting

Tags/Tw: blood, injury, graphic injury, major character death, harm to Solas, post-Trespasser

Words: 2.6k

Rating: Mature

===

“Hahren.”

Elara’s voice is clear, if tired–and far too close. Solas turns and slips, falls to his knees in the mingled mud and gore of the battlefield. Fire ratchets up his wounded leg, a bespelled arrowhead still embedded deep into his thigh from an earlier injury. It festers without his permission and pays his objection–and spells–no mind.

“Solas, it’s time for this all to stop.”

“Is it, Inquisitor?”

He bows with exhaustion over his knees, hand straying to the wound. A myriad of others pepper his skin–a crossbow bolt that grazed his shoulder and tore off the pauldron on its way, a bloody gash across his cheek where a lucky knife had struck. Solas can count four broken ribs on one side alone and knows the ligaments in his left knee have been torn beyond repair. His vision swims without focus in a way that only heralds head injury. 

He takes an aching breath in and breathes out a healing spell whose cool mana plays over his skin to little effect. The only thing he can do now is to ignore the injuries, to focus on anything else.

She comes, sword in hand. Her vallaslin glows an unearthly green-gold from her face, the light straying down her throat. Elara bears the evidence of heavy battle; her flesh arm runs red from the elbow, blood seeping through the seams of her vambrace and gauntlet to drip down her fingers. Her chest-plate is covered in dents and abrasions beneath the mud and viscera that clings to the metal. Elara tears off her helmet and tosses it between them. Her hair, matted with blood, sticks sickly down her brow and cheek. Solas can smell death on her, following her footsteps.

Elara stops before him, a scant thirty feet separating them.

“Hahren,” Elara says again, and only this time does he hear her desperation.

Ichor drips from her sword’s fine edge. Falon’din’s grace wreathes through her aura; the geas has seeped into her skin like a puppet’s strings pulled by an invisible hand. Solas has no doubt that it is Falon’din’s compulsion that propels her forward with jerky, halting steps.

“Elara.” Her name falls from his lips on a sigh. “We’re too late, I’m afraid.” Solas sweeps his gaze toward the heavens; the scars of the Veil are hardly visible here, on this no-name plain in some human empire, but they’re there. Solas can feel them in the way his heart beats erratically in his chest, in the way his shoulders are the lightest they’ve been in thousands of years. 

The Veil has fallen. The freed Fade permeates every rock and tree and creature of this world anew, casting the old world aside.  

Solas coughs, covering his mouth with belated politeness, and is unsurprised when his palm comes back stained an angry, wrathful red.

“You can stop this.” 

She always believed in him, despite the coolness that grew between them, verging on distrust. Elara had trusted him, once, tentative and wary. Solas barks out a wheezing flash of laughter. What good had it done either of them?

“I don’t think I can,” he murmurs. “Though I will admit to wishing for just that.”

She’s closer now, an arm’s length, maybe two, away. Elara’s hand is clutched tight around the hilt of her ironbark sword. Her arms shake–all of her shakes. Solas can briefly see the child panicking beneath her stoic, blank-faced mask.

Something in him folds like leaves in a storm and Solas buckles, an intangible gale battering against him to rend him immobile.

“Calm, now, Fen’Harel,” Elara says, but it is not her voice, they are not her words. “The time for reaping is at hand.”

His eyes shut for but a moment. “Lethanivir.” Solas huffs, and everything in him aches. He would not be surprised if he were actively consumed by an invisible fire; every inch of him burns from the inside out. “It’s been some time. Tell me, how is life in the Blackened City?”

Falon’din’s smile curves across Elara’s face, sinister despite her own warmth. It’s gentler here, on mortal lips. “She trusted you, you know,” Falon’din says casually, “in the beginning. But you never warmed to her, not as you did to the others, even as you stuck by her side.” 

He closes the distance and crouches at Solas’ flank, the creak of Elara’s armor barely heard above the din of the fighting around them. He drops her sword to the ground without a care. The way he tilts their head is so quintessentially him, but the motion is foreign, alien on Elara’s frame. It’s jarring in the worst ways.

“That’s simply the way of it, isn’t it?” Falon’din sighs, brows pinched with feigned concern. “Who could trust the Dread Wolf? You never were a good friend, Pride. Not before, and not now.”

“If being such meant allowing the continued subjugation of our people, then no,” Solas wheezes. “I am glad to have never been a good friend.”

Falon’din only regards him, Elara’s dark eyes glowing with the same green-gold of Falon’din’s magic. Their mouth twists. “We could have had it all,” Falon’din says lowly. His gaze softens. He brushes their fingers errantly over the torn edges of what remains of Solas’ blood-streaked fur mantle. “We were meant to rule. We still can, the two of us,” he says, like a secret, like an oath.

In his peripheral vision, Solas sees the ocean-blue glow of power at his fingertips. “That we did was an accident of fate, nothing more,” he grits out. His voice booms through the plain. “No one desiring power deserves it–us least of all.”

“The great and powerful Fen’Harel, so self-loathing.” Falon’din’s lip curls with disgust and he pulls away. “You were created to rule. You are a God, called to this world to lead. Come, Pride, rise from the muck. We will take our rightful places, you and I. Think of what we could do together.”

Solas shakes his head. “You know I cannot.” He looks up to Elara’s face, the mortal mask of his immortal kin. “Is she still there?” he asks. “The Inquisitor?”

They smirk, sick and thin. “She is,” Falon’din says with a gleeful nod. He flexes their fingers and studies their hand with exaggerated fascination. “This one is mine, completely.”

“She didn’t know what it meant when she chose your sigil, Reaper–you could have been any of us. Your being here is an accident, not an act of fate.”

“And the results would have been the same, would they not? You still would have cast down your precious Veil, and we still would strike the moment you sundered the chains you had wrought. No matter whose symbol this one wears, she will always be your doom.” Falon’din pauses. “You always did have a soft spot for the broken ones, but you rarely broke your own toys.” He flicks the fingers of their prosthetic hand idly.

Solas snorts, and Falon’din’s smile slips. “You know what happens next,” Solas says. His blood pulses with magic and the immortal poison that corrupts it as he struggles to his knees. “I killed your last avatar. I will destroy this one, as well.”

“You always did like wrecking my things.” Falon’din sighs, heavy and put-upon. He shrugs their shoulders. “But I think, dear Wolf, that this time will be different. Even now, even with the Mother’s grace, you wane–and when you finally fall, I shall be the one to take you.”

Falon’din’s magic flutters erratically around Elara’s frame, just out of mortal sight, and Solas sharpens his gaze on her face, past the veneer of the god that wears her visage. “Elara,” he says, quickly. “You are Elara Virenehn, of clan Lavellan. You are Lavellan’s knight. You are–you are the pride of your people. You must remember.”

Their aura lights in bursts of magic. “What–what are you doing?”

Solas leans forward, reaching for her, hands scrabbling at Elara’s vambrace and the enchanted prosthetic that rebuilt her left arm–the hand he had to take, the hand he had unwittingly poisoned with his plans, her hand the symbol of his continued failure. 

He can’t give her much, but he must try. 

“Remember your clan. The lessons of your Keeper. You can fight him, Elara. You must.”

Their hands spasm. Their flesh arm twitches, clenches, as if pulling against an unseen force. Sweat begins to bead along their shared brow. 

“Good,” Solas whispers. “You’re strong. Remember that, Elara–you are strong, stronger than most. You must close your mind to him. He is but a spirit, twisted by his delusions of godhood.”

Falon’din screeches. Their sword-hand opens, agonizing in the slow-motion movement, and he stretches to reach Elara’s discarded sword. “She is mine, Pride! You will not take her!” 

Solas grits his teeth, hands sinking into the edges of Elara’s vambrace to hold her back, but Falon’din shoves him back with a backlash of magic, strong enough to bring Solas to his knees in the muck.

With a pained, drawn-out groan, Falon’din drives their hand to the earth and finds purchase around the leather-wrapped handle of her sword. He rises to their knees clumsily, as if fighting for every inch. The oppressive compulsion for stillness temporarily lifted, Solas comes to his feet with a clatter of his own armor.

“My friend,” Solas whispers. Falon’din fights for control beneath his gaze, rising to their feet, hand gripped so tight around the handle of Elara’s sword that it bleeds. Solas trails his fingers over Elara’s temples, fingers glowing with the weight of the spell that would break her bindings.

His mouth has barely shaped the first syllable of the blessing when the sword drags through his armor to pierce him. It digs into his ribcage as it passes.

“Pride,” Falon’din pants. Sweat drips freely down their face, clinging to Elara’s dark lashes, drawing clear tracks in the dirt that mars their cheeks. “You always thought–ngk–that you had the upper–upper hand.”

Solas’ hands flutter. He reaches deep within himself as blood wells in his mouth. Mythal’s grace lay dormant in his chest; she was the better healer of the two of them, and her storm-tossed ocean of power is as calm as a dead sea where it beat in time with his own heart just a moment before.

But, as loathe as he is to claim it, Fen’Harel is his own god.

His dwindled power courses through him, a wellspring quickly running dry as it races to pour out from his fingers. The world falls away and still, with trembling lips, he shapes the spell. Solas brushes the holy fire over Elara’s face, tracing the brand that tethers her to the fallen Evanuris, and watches as the thick, black lines of her vallaslin begin to evaporate into smoke. The scream that tears from her throat is a deafening, multilayered chorus.

Her poisoned blade rips through Solas’ gut as Falon’din flails in his attempts to escape.

Solas fights to keep his hands on her, scrabbles for every point of contact. It’s not complete, not yet. If any mark of her brand remains she could stay tied to the god for as long as he wishes, unable to counter his commands. Solas repeats the blessing and wrings more of himself out with the spell even as his blood falls freely to color the earth beneath them.

Falon’din’s shrieks echo over the land and buffet against Solas and his magic like a great storm. He kicks and punches and slaps at whatever he can reach with Elara’s hands, leaving her blood upon the dirty, worn metal of Solas’ armor.

Solas dips his hands along the column of her throat, the little of it that lay exposed by her armor. He’s close, he knows; Elara’s vallaslin drips from her brow to her collarbones, and it’s almost burnt from her face. Solas grunts when Falon’din pulls the sword out only to slice into him again, and again, the enchanted ironbark bolstered further by Falon’din’s magic.

Solas falters. Falon’din’s compulsion sweeps over him once more, demanding his submission. It floods his mind and bears down enough to break his concentration, and in his fumbling, Falon’din stabs him once more.

“If you will not yield, Pride,” Falon’din pants, “I will tear out your heart and scatter your form to the winds. I will rend your power from your bones!”

“No–nnnng–need.” Solas grips Elara’s shoulders and pulls himself up the blade of her sword. There’s not much left–he must be quick, he must–he must—

Solas curls himself into her in a mockery of a lover’s embrace and lets the spell burn through him. Holy fire courses through every cell of his being; it scalds like the lava fires of the Deep Roads, bursting from his chest. Falon’din screams in his ear.

The world whites out, and Falon’din’s voice fades.

=

“Solas. Hahren, Solas, please. Wake up, please wake up.”

He wavers in and out. The Fade colors the edges of his vision when he blinks his eyes open. Elara hovers over him, her face blotting out the sky.

Elara is free of the vallaslin. She is bloody and torn, but she is free.

“Inquis—” A wracking cough interrupts him; his hand comes back covered with blood and spittle.

She shifts where she kneels beside him. “Don’t talk. By the— Don’t talk.”

“There is… so much… to say.”

“No,” Elara says. Panic rises in her voice. “Stay, please. You’re a god, one of the Creators.” She traces her fingertips over the mangled wolf’s head on his chestplate; he watches her expression morph to dismayed grief when they are stained red with his blood. “You–you can heal yourself.”

“Too powerful, Lethanivir… But not for you.” Solas chuckles weakly. “Surprised me again.”

Elara keens and bends forward, covering him with a curtain of dark curls. “I have to save you. I have to. If I cannot fulfill my duty to my people, then what good am I?”

“That path… leads to destruction. I… should know.” He coughs and something in him snaps. Solas sags, boneless, into the biting edges of his mangled armor. It will be soon, he knows. Will the Fade recognize him in his true form? Will he be remembered?

“What happens now?” Her voice lies muffled against his armor. “If the gods aren’t truly gods, then where do we go? What happens when we die?”

“I am not sure,” Solas admits, “but… I go knowing you are here… and that is enough.”

“Solas—”

“Pride of the Elvhenan. Elara of the Dalish.” His laugh is barely a stuttered breath. “I had broken our people… and you brought them together… once more… to fight me.”

“To save the world,” she says fiercely. Elara mutters under her breath, a prayer or curse or both, her voice shaking. “Solas… He called you Pride…”

“Yes.”

“Does… Does that mean you were a spirit of wisdom once, or of pride? In the days of Arlathan?”

“The distinction… is not so simple,” he grits out. “Pride and wisdom… friend and enemy… many are both and–and neither.” His vision swims, and he closes his eyes with a sigh. “Before, when the Song… was everywhere… the Mother called me. She gave me gifts… asked for my counsel.” Blood foams at the corner of his mouth and drips down his chin.  

Elara’s hand is blazing hot against the cold of his cheeks. “I forbid it, Solas,” she says, the long-dormant authority strong as silverite in her words. Her tone offers no argument but her own. “You must stay. I order you to stay, Creator or not. You bound yourself to my Inquisition.”

And see where it got us, he thinks, chuckling inwardly. “Don’t cry, lethallin,” he says, though he’s not sure it comes out as such. “Spirits are… never truly gone.”

The green of the Fade spins merrily in his mind’s eye, and he can feel the Song flooding over his skin, sinking into his bones with a soothing familiarity.

“Ar lasa mala revas,” Elara whispers. “Be free, Solas.”

Ma serannas, Elara, Pride of the People. Solas sighs and lets the Song lull him to sleep.

#Solas #Lavellan #Solas & Lavellan #not shippy #Elara Lavellan #series: Lavellan's Knight #post-game #post-trespasser #fen'harel #falon'din #cw: blood #cw: injury #cw: major character death

[phantoms-lair]

Just finished the Be Cool Scooby Doo Finale and I have some thoughts

(This is going to have spoilers for it, obviously)

Now, my feelings on this incarnation of Scooby Doo have always been mixed. They’ve done some stuff I really loved and some stuff I absolutely loathed (Not counting the art style, which I think even the Artists didn’t like, judging by how they tried to get away from it as much as they could with the backgrounds, monsters, etc.)

But the 2 part finale, Professor Huh I liked. I liked it a lot.  It could have gone the Mystery Incorporated route so easily. Fred’s family situation in MI contained some of the darkest most twisted parts of the darkest Scooby Doo incarnation ever, from finding out his father was a treasure hunter who had kidnapped him as a baby to the clusterfuck that was his biological parents. It seemed so much of the series was designed to hurt Fred. And the revelation that Fred’s Dad was the most feared inmate in a maximum security prison, a criminal who committed incomprehensible crimes and only communicated through a hand puppet, could have gone that route so easily.

 But it didn’t. Instead of being a paradigm breaking shock, this was an old wound for Fred, albeit one he’s perhaps never fully come to terms with. And I was very pleased with Daphne’s echoing of my own thoughts “Oh, now you make sense.” because this does explain a lot about Fred’s own behaviors. More so the longer I thought about it.

(under cut, this got long)

One thing I love was, no matter how much Fred would deny it to Rose or anyone outside the gang, it was obvious he still loved his father very much, he just didn’t know how to deal with him. And Donald Jones/Professor Huh clearly loved him too, as we discover, much like Sirius Black, he broke out of jail for the sole purpose of protecting his son. Also the vulnerability Fred’ shows to the gang. Voicing aloud the fear that he might be as crazy as his father couldn’t have been easy, and was likely something he’d been dreading since early childhood. The fact that he could trust them with it was touching.

Unfortunately for Fred, despite Shaggy’s comment to the contrary, I think there’s some truth in it. In MI Both Ex-Mayor Jones and Brad and Judy Chiles were driven by greed. And while Jones would chose his son’s life over his greed (as opposed tho the Chiles who psychologically tortured their son) both put their greed before his happiness. Unlike them, Professor Huh was not motivated by greed at all. He got nothing material out of his crimes, nor were they based in revenge. His motive was never stated, but I think I can make a guess.

I think Donald Jones suffered from a variant of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. That his crimes (which were nonviolent nor, as stated, for material gain) were compulsions. (Why the compulsions took the form of unintelligible and impossible crimes I’ll get to in a bit.) I don’t think it’s a coincidence that he chooses a hand puppet to talk through and his costume involves a hand on the back of his head. When he’s acting out on his compulsion, he’s a puppet, not in control of his actions. He may have responded well to therapy, given his awareness, but he didn’t get that and after all this time its probably going to take a lot of work to bring Donald Jones back to who he was. I think in some ways he’s trying, It was established early on the Professor Huh only communicated through his hand puppet, but we hear him speak otherwise throughout the episodes, but only to Fred and his friends. The sentences are non sequiturs with no relation to anything happening, but I think it’s him trying.

And though it manifests very differently, I think Fred has his own obsessions and compulsions he’s dealing with, specifically centered on solving mysteries and making the world make sense. It’s why Cutler knew that he could take advantage of Fred by dangling a mystery in front of him, when all logic and reason would dictate Fred catching him and turning him in. Because he knew when it came to mysteries Fred physically couldn’t help himself. Not that Fred is aware his thought processes are anything but sane and normal. He doesn’t recognize his own obsession for what it is (Which in retrospect makes me a little less mad at him about the Christmas episode. He wasn’t able to properly recognize Daphne’s problem until he’d dealt with his compulsion to solve a mystery)

In the end, though. Fred’s manages to accept his father as he is. The hand puppet scene was such a good one. It both acted as a bookend to the series, the puppets being introduced in episode one, and demonstrated Fred’s sincere desire to reach out to his father.

While Professor Huh has difficulty expressing himself in an understandable manner, he is easily able to understand the world around him. Fred could have simply said what he wanted. Using the puppet was a bigger message of acceptance than any words could have been. And it reached him. “It’s time I turned myself in” and “But you love the Mystery Machine” were normal sentences relative to the situation, the first time we’ve heard Professor Huh do that.

They may be on opposite ends of the spectrum in terms of order and chaos, but they love each other very much.

As for the why of the crazy nature of Professor Huh’s crimes, we see it in the barber scene, as for the first time ever Shaggy and Scooby’s ruse is turned back on them. When Professor Huh requests them to use a croissant to put his eyebrows on his shoulders, it’s obviously a nonsensical request, typical of the character, right up until he demonstrates on Shaggy and Scooby.

Be Cool had come the closest to calling out what I’ve dubbed Crack Theory A, that Shaggy is a wizard and unaware if it. The thing is, Donald Jones warps reality too, if anything on a larger scale. And I think that’s the problem. Fred describes his father as “...a great father. A  computer engineer and one of the most rational people on the planet.” In Goblin King we saw Velma have a total blue screen as being confronted with the supernatural being real. Imagine how much worse she would have reacted if she’d discovered it was real by discovering she was a witch? 

Donald Jones pushed the fabric of reality, because he wanted it to push back. He was a man who believed in logic and science and discovered he could ignore them. It’s why his crimes, which were public and elaborate left no clues, they were done with magic. They defied logic and reason, like hotglueing multivitamins to the ceiling of military helicopter carriers, suspending a cruise ship between two buildings, and leaving messages via a llama chewing on a note that would finish eating it the moment it was done being read. They made no sense because there was no objective, other than being as random as possible.

And here’s the kicker. I think Fred’s magic too.

Yes it sounds insane. This is the most ration and grounded we’ve seen since the seventies. Why on earth would I think he’s magic?

The

 Mother 

Fucking 

Mystery 

Machine

This isn’t even all it’s forms. Not to mention the built in forensics lab. almost all of which is controlled by a button Fred has on a key fob. Button. Singular. And it can be any mode, or he steer it with ease. And yeah, it didn’t attach itself to a mecha, it unfolded into one. The Mystery Machine must be the most enchanted item in the world.

Fred, however, is even less aware he could be magic than Shaggy (since Shaggy at least joked about it) and I don’t think his father would tell him, if indeed that was what was responsible for his own issues.

Actually there’s one more instance that Fred might be magic aside from the Mystery Machine. The sock puppet Fred was made by Daphne in the first episode. It’s the simplest type of puppet, it can talk and waggle it’s arms, but nothing like changing expression. It’s has those serious eyebrows from the moment of it’s introduction. Except in one scene

Here’s it’s got a more gentle expression

Matching Fred’s own as he uses it to tell his father he loves him,

#Scooby Doo #Be Cool Scooby Doo #I have thought way too hard about this #And spent too much time writing it #I may lay down for a bit

[aced0g]

Be Your Worst Self

I was tagged by @loveydoveypiperwright​ , so thank you! I’m sorry I haven’t done a tagging game in a while but I��m getting there :DD

Rules: Take this quiz for your character(s) and post the results!

I’m gonna tag @fallout-and-dragon-age​ & @ace-amatus​ but thats only if y'all want too. Have fun if you do!

So for my ocs its going to just be easier to go by the personality type rather than list each oc out individually cause there would be a lot of overlap, that being said, here we go~

You Are an Emotionally Volatile Nightmare:

Your heart guides you and sometimes that’s not as dreamy or romantic as it might sound. It’s true that your feelings often inspire you to heal and create, and as long as those feelings don’t steer you wrong, you’re capable of truly visionary accomplishments in the name of empathy and love. Feelings, though, aren’t always gentle and sweet. You know that better than anyone because your own emotions -the same overwhelming forces that inspire you to make the world a better place - can take you to very dark places, especially if you believe that the subject of your ire has shown unwarranted cruelty toward you or something you hold dear. You know that your feelings aren’t necessarily rational, but that doesn’t stop you from dramatically blaming other people for causing you pain. Of course, you might not even stop at crying; that notoriously brilliant creativity might even spur you to express your wrath artistically - nothing says “emotional stability” like a morose, vengeful poem.

-Evander Virani: Does it match up? Yeah I’d say so. He’s experienced a lot of trauma and while most of the time he pushes his emotions down or tries to act like a positive “everything’s going to be okay!” person he’s about one bad thing away from having a breakdown. When he’s truly happy its one of the few times he can just forget about his problems and enjoy the moment. Most of the time he’s in this in between stage of pure terror and extreme sadness. It makes him appear like he has a level head. When he’s angry though it tends to lash out as a literal burning rage. He loses control of his magic and sort of engulfs his arms in flame and takes his ire out on whoever pissed him off (he hates being angry because it scares him. He doesn’t like losing control). His creative outlet is forging knives and swords. He does want to heal though, he’s tired of being the cause of destruction. He wants to help and heal, not only others but also himself.

-Aspen Lavellan: Does it match up? Kinda? I wouldn’t call him volatile. Aspen’s got a pretty level head on his shoulders. He has learned how to act diplomatic. When he is presenting himself as Inquisitor to the public imagine a Raymond Holt type of personality. When he’s with friends though he likes to pull pranks and just have a good time. He doesn’t want to be serious all the time because it makes the situation feel bleak. He wants there to be positivity in his life. Though, I would say that when he is truly angry it’s a type of silent wrath that’s terrifying. You can see the burning hatred in his eyes and he has the skill to hit his target with three arrows before they even know whats going on. When he’s truly angry he will keep fighting until he’s completed his goal or he dies trying. He does carve dalish patterns into his bow so that could be considered creative? Aspen is a protector. He wants to help others, keep them safe and that could translate into healing. He does what needs to be done to keep people safe, and sometimes that means making the hard decisions that others can’t.

-Arthur Cousland: Does it match up? Yeah. Arthur’s usually able to stay in a good mood. He’s an optimist and doesn’t like to bring people down. He’s gentle and wants to help heal and create. It’s why he enjoys playing his lute and singing. Songs can inspire people, or at the very least cheer them up. He may be a noble but what he does with that sort of money and power is give it away to others. He gives his coin to those on the street who need food, or he’s been known to give his blanket away as well saying he’ll just buy another when they reach the next town. He’s got a big heart and he wears it on his sleeve. The only way he can hide when he’s sad is if it’s raining so that the rain can hide his tears, or if he goes off on his own for a little while (he hates burdening others with his problems and often leaves for an hour or two to just climb a tree and have a good cry, though Alistair catches on and works with Arthur to realize its okay to let others help him when he is sad). When he’s angry it’s hard to think logically. He listens to his heart and when he feels betrayed or that someone is going to bring harm to his friends or the people he’s protecting he will fight tooth and nail to protect them and kill whoever is provoking them.

You are a Narcissistic Monster: 

You’re the best - right? Wherever you go, the spotlight finds you, and you’re hardly complaining. you can’t imagine your friends care, since, after all, you’re so generous. Well, that’s what you like to think about yourself. You’re generous, enthusiastic, and fun, so if you compulsively steal the spotlight, it doesn’t really matter. If you fuel drama just to feed your thirst for a dramatic life, is it really that bad? Is it really so wrong for you to be the center of attention? Does it really matter how other people feel about it in the long run? Of course, you’d never say no. You’re the generous friend, and you’d never hurt anyone on purpose just to keep all eyes on you... right? Every now and then, you imagine your funeral and how all of your friends will go on and on about how wonderful, magnetic, charming, and generous you were. 

-Sorian Surana: Does it match up? No, not really. He’s cocky, headstrong, and a bit of an asshole sometimes but I wouldn’t call him narcissistic. He’s proud of himself, and yeah he’s proud of himself and takes pride in his looks but not because that’s all he cares about. Sorian is a trans-man elf mage who was mistreated in the circle and then joined up with the wardens and transitioned. He went from thinking he would have no future to being one of the legendary Grey Wardens, and then he actually looks the way he’s always wanted to! So of course he’s going to seem a little vain or narcissistic sometimes, but it’s only because he never thought he’d make it this far. And, if he’s being honest, he fucking hates the spotlight. He’d much rather be just one of the Wardens instead of The Hero of Ferelden, Arl of Amaranthine, and all those other titles. He’ll be in the spotlight, but it doesn’t mean he enjoys it. Besides, he should be allowed a little bit of cockiness (mages in The Awakening DLC are so OP by the end of it, literally Sorian knows so many spells and can conjure the dead turn into a bear, wield a great ax while shooting fire storms at people, and at the same time have a constant aura of changing elemental magic that deals damage to his enemies.)

You are Shockingly Violent:

There’s no getting around this: you desperately need to attend anger management. You’re just as headstrong and opinionated, and your energy and enthusiasm can turn into explosive violence at the drop of a hat. You’re a walking time bomb of seething rage, and the more you try to hide it, the more it escapes in unpredictable, volatile mood swings. Do yourself a favor and invest in a stress ball or gym membership before you do something you really regret

-Kyra Lavellan: Does it fit? Yeah. She chose the Reaver specialization for a reason. Kyra is a very energetic and enthusiastic person. She does what she feels is right and gets upset when people don’t see that she’s doing the right thing even if it might not morally line up with their beliefs. As a kid she’d often get into fights with the other kids of her clan and was always sporting some sort of bandage because of it. She has a better control on her outbursts as an adult, but she still lashes out especially when she’s in pain or very annoyed. Her anger is great in battle though. She fights with the ferocity of a dragon and won’t admit it out loud but she does enjoy having the power to physically shred her enemies with her hands. Before she knew how to control the reaver power she would keep attacking, sacrificing her own health to get the job done and make sure the others were safe. Once she learned how to keep conscious and keep fighting things went a lot smoother. 

-Alrik Hawke: Does it fit? Kinda? Hawke’s in denial really. He wants to protect people and make them happy, it’s why he chose to be a spirit healer, why he’s always cracking jokes and trying to get others to smile. He does have a lot of anger though. It’s just under the surface, though its quite hard to really bring out. See Alrik is a werewolf and his anger is tied very closely to the wolf, so for him getting angry isn’t just an outburst of words it means he could lose control and shift. He doesn’t want that. He keeps a tight lid on his anger and it only really comes out in moments of extreme stress, like the deep roads or when slaver’s are trying to recapture his best friend, or when people keep calling Merril a monster, or when Templars get too close to Anders. Okay so maybe he does have a lot of anger. Like I said he’s in denial. 

You are a Two-Faced Liar:

Your friends know you talk behind their backs. Not that you’re a bad person - you just can’t help letting other people know how you really feel about some of the crazy stuff your loved ones have told you. Unfortunately, you’ve talked and talked and talked, and now, they all know you’ll talk if they confide in you. You know it, too, and you still can’t help it. No matter how hard you try, you simply can’t force yourself to be as loyal or honest as you want to be. At least you’re charming enough to keep making new friends and replacing the ones who felt too hurt or betrayed to trust you again.

-Zachariah Hawke: Does it fit? Yes and no. Zach has a big heart, but as a rogue he knows sometimes it’s better to lie and be dishonest. I think this would have been more of a problem back in Lothering, unable to keep friends because he keeps telling his parents about them and over sharing, not out of malice but because he gets so excited that he just needed to tell them. I think over time he would become the one with no friends and as an adult he knows how to keep his mouth shut. The only person he really overshares with now is Varric, and later Fenris when they’re in their relationship together. Zach isn’t trying to hurt anyone by talking about them he just... can’t keep all of their problems locked up with his because it’s too much. Zach’s the type of guy that smiles to hide what he’s going through and he wants to help his friends so much, but to keep it all inside would cause him to fall apart. 

#oc meme #my ocs #my ocs: zachariah #my ocs: alrik #my ocs: kyra #my ocs: aspen #my ocs: arthur #my ocs: sorian #my ocs: evander

[mouseblob]

Intrusive Thoughts

" An intrusive thought is an unwelcome involuntary thought, image, or unpleasant idea that may become an obsession, is upsetting or distressing< and can feel difficult to manage or eliminate. When such thoughts are associated with obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), depression, body dysmorphic disorder (BDD), and sometimes attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), the thoughts may become paralyzing, anxiety-provoking, or persistent. Intrusive thoughts may also be associated with episodic memory, unwanted worries or memories from OCD, posttraumatic stress disorder, other anxiety disorders, eating disorders, or psychosis. Intrusive thoughts, urges, and images are of inappropriate things at inappropriate times, and generally have aggressive, sexual or blasphemous themes. "

Today I am going to talk about my experience with intrusive thoughts. Some of my thoughts could be triggering to others, I will put " * " around thoughts so you can read at your own risk.

 One thing I need to say from the start is you are not your thoughts, thoughts are totally separate from reality. Just because you think of something does not automatically mean you will act on it. 

 Intrusive thoughts affect me most when I am upset or angry, but do randomly happen at weird times like when i'm doing homework or laying in bed. I am transgender ( ftm) ,experience dysphoria, have anxiety and a past of self harm. ( I show symptoms of having anger issues but I don't officially include this because I am not diagnosed and may just have a bad temper). I am mentioning this because its some of the reasons that help me understand why I have the thoughts I do. I never talk about this because im afraid people will think of me differently and see me as dangerous. But I am talking about this today because I don't want people to think they are alone and the only ones going through this.

Most of my thoughts include self harm, strange sexual thoughts, harm towards others and " what ifs".

** Some of the self harm thoughts I have include burning myself when im holding a lighter, breaking my bones, stabbing my hand with a pencil and hitting my head. I have never acted on these thoughts and have been clean from self harm for a year.

** I am not a sexual person at all, I mean I make jokes but I am still unsure if I ever want to engage in sexual activities so even the simplest thoughts of being intimate with someone that Im dating make me uncomfortable.

** I do have a bad temper, I can become irritated very easily but I never am and do not plan to be aggressive towards others unless its for self defense, so these thoughts would ever be actions. I will have the certain thoughts of putting myself into a fight and harming someone if they make sudden noise.

**What I mean by "what ifs " is asking myself if I actually feel a certain way about something and if I actually did something. * examples * 1. I will consistently worry if im actually transgender even when im diagnosed with dysphoria. 2. I will walk out of the house and have to check if I actually locked the door 3. At night I will not trust myself that I finished homework and plugged my phone in to charge.

**One of the most recent experiences I had with intrusive thoughts is when I was shopping. I was in an aisle looking for an item on a shelf, there was very few people in the aisle so there was no need for anyone to bump into eachother. I know that being touched unexpectedly even in the slightest makes me irritated, that's why I chose to go in this aisle because it seemed like I could steer clear from anyone else. I was standing there near the shelf closely so I wouldn't be in anyone else's way while I checked what else I needed from my list when a woman bumped into my shoulder lightly, she was polite and said sorry but my mind still reacted in red and had the thought to punch her. I said no problem quickly and rushed out of that aisle moving to a completely quiet one where I could calm down. I knew I wouldn't hurt anyone but when im in those type of mindsets I always doubt my self control.

Some videos that I recommend that talk about intrusive thoughts is ' my weird OCD thoughts' by nihaokaili ( link here) https://youtu.be/3hTtkh_Gs1c and ' what are intrusive thoughts" by Kati Morton ( link here) https://youtu.be/Mz7xVjo57ik.

I cope with these thoughts by listening to music, drawing, talking to friends, petting my cat, cleaning, really just anything to distract myself from not processing the thought.

I hope this was found interesting or helpful.

#intrusive thoughts #intrusive thinking #thinking #mental health #information

[hollowgroverp]

              ALEXANDRA CUNNINGHAM

(age.) sixety five (species.) werewolf (occupation.) ob/gyn (residency.) arrived january 2018 (mirror.) halston sage

❝  a pavement of the past

Alexandra Cunningham was born to a life that was shrouded in darkness and she spent most of her young life completely unaware of the fact. To say that she was sheltered would be an understatement. Elizabeth Cunningham had no idea what she was getting into when she met Morgan. Morgan was a cruel and evil man with a hunger for power, he destroyed packs to take them over and gain new territory. He believed the supernatural were superior and his ideals aligned with the clave, his thirst for power caused him to do terrible things. Wanting to solidify his line he wanted to have children, a son to carry on his legacy. As karma would have it though, fate would not give him a son. He’d married Elizabeth to take over her father’s pack and she’d given him two daughters. The eldest had been raised as more of an enforcer in hopes that when they had a son she could help train him, for years and year they tried to no avail for a son and then came little Alex. Giving up hope that Elizabeth would give him a son Morgan decided that he’d take a different path with his youngest and that Elizabeth no longer was of use to him. Even before Alex was born Morgan had begun to seek his goals elsewhere. He’d impregnate women from other packs in hopes that he would get the son he’d thrived for and with each daughter, he was disappointed once more. Regardless he thought there could be potential to use these children to his advantage someday so he did not give up hope that they could be useful for him. He kept these children secret, of course, keeping up the rouse of his happy little family, his manipulative streak rearing its ugly head.

Alex would be raised sheltered from her father's dirty dealings, unaware how cruel and unkind he was or that his pack was driven by fear and power. When she was a few years old her grandfather mysteriously died and Morgan took over his pack, her mother began acting strangely and suddenly she was sick. Everyone had been told it was cancer and at four years old Alex lost her mother. Her father was there for his little girl and so began his mission. Raised away from the ugliness of the world in which her father thrived Alex very often only saw the best in the world. She was raised to be kind and caring but also how to defend herself. Secluded to life with her pack she really didn’t know any better, she truly believed that this was how life should be. She was a little girl who would pick flowers on her walk home from school or befriend the children who didn’t always fit in the best. Defender of those who could not do so themselves she grew into quite a woman. 

As you would expect that world couldn’t stay as it was for too long, as Alexandra began to grow and come of age she slowly but surely began to see the world differently and grew closer to seeing the world for what it was. When she was just shy of her fifteenth birthday, Morgan decided that it was time that Alexandra triggered her curse. For members of their pack that meant killing someone in cold blood. For a girl with not a cruel bone in her body, it was earth-shattering. She didn’t want anything to do with it but it was forced upon her. Alex was heartbroken for months after that. Eventually, she picked herself back up and carried on but that was the first misstep Morgan made in shattering the sheltered bubble he’d place Alexandra in. For a while things carried on as normal, she went to school and she was even allowed to attend the local university with hopes of going to medical school when all was said in done. Discouraged from that she settled on Nursing as her father felt it would take too much time away from the pack. Unlike most of the kids on campus, Alex wasn’t allowed to live on campus, she had strict rules of coming straight home after class, without fail she was always accompanied by another member of the pack. Morgan swore it was for her own protection, fear that his enemies might try to harm her. In reality, it was his form of control.

Not having a normal college experience with parties and friends made Alex long for the socialization and she would often time find herself trying to bypass her security detail to simply interact with her peers. It often fell short but the lack of socialization gave her plenty of time to focus on her studies. By the time the Supernatural Wars had broken out she’d been working at the local hospital for several years as a nurse. Morgan’s numbers dwindled quickly as he waged war on the human forces. With each defeat, he grew more erratic, more dangerous, and with that, he grew sloppy. Slowly by surely the threads of his lies began to unravel one at a time and the truth came out. Each new piece of information crumbled the very foundation of Alexandra’s life intell the truth came out about her mother and her grandfather. Morgan organized both of their deaths in his thirst for power and his growing army of children showed that. The life she had known was a complete and utter lie and when the truth came Alex knew that she could not stay. Staying meant being complicit and while she could claim innocent through ignorance the last twenty-five years, she could no longer be blind the crimes of her father and her pack.

So she ran, gathered what she could, emptied her accounts and she ran. Morgan was furious, it was betrayal at a time where his temper was shorter than normal. With the war coming quickly to an end and their pack’s numbers dwindling he couldn’t allocate the resources needed to track her down right away. This gave Alex the head start that she needed. Those first years had been a struggle for a girl who had never really experienced the world or lived on her own. Figuring out basic things like making money was a struggle and even more so when she was in hiding. She made friends along the way who would help her, her mother family would set her up with people to do the same, and at the kindness of almost perfect strangers, Alexandra was able to start building a life for herself. Most of her early years were spent overseas in hoping to hide away properly. She went back to school for a while to pursue her medical degree when the opportunity allowed her to. Sometimes she’d come close to be discovered and be forced to run again, leaving behing a life she’d built and friends she’d come to care about. It was hard on Alex.

After many years she became so good at running she’d found a way to build her life for herself in it all. She’d found a love for children and the whole pregnancy process and chose to specialize in helping mothers through that very important time and so she became an OB/GYN. She made a home for herself in safe havens all over the world before returning to the states and a town called Summerdale. The family there that took her in was kind and she loved her life, after 6 long years there she was discovered. Her older sister had tracked her down once more and Alex thought without a doubt she’d want to take her back to Morgan.

Finding solace in a city that never slept, Alex made a home in New York City for two years. It was easy to blend in with the crowd, go to work and do what she must to survive. It was here that she stepped into a whole mess of trouble for herself. In an attempt to get her to have some fun, her friends had dragged her out. Really, Alex was excited to get home to her dog until a rather charming young man offered to buy her a drink. One thing led to another and all it really should have been was a one night stand but it proved to be so much more when she started getting sick. She was a doctor, she knew better. Alex panicked, she loved children and the idea of being a mother actually made her rather excited but the idea of raising a baby with her lifestyle, always on the run, it wasn’t right for a child. She’d considered tracking down the young man from that night but the truth was she could hardly remember his name so she’d given up on that idea and settled on the idea that she was going to be a mother. 

Alex wanted nothing more than to be a good mother to the little bundle growing inside of her and with each passing day that attachment grew. Her fear of being found grew with each passing day as well but the idea of having to part with this little baby of hers was heartbreaking and Alex was torn. All hope seemed lost when she met a woman who would turn her world upside down. The next six months would be a blur to Alex, a hazy recollection. Compelled to do so she tracked down the young man, who’s name she’d learn to be Scout. In a manner that was nothing like herself, she demanded money from him to pay for her medical bills and confessed her plan to give the child up for adoption after all was said and done. It felt like an out of body experience, watching as she talked about the child she’d become so attached to as if it were nothing. The idea of giving up this child made her heartache but she had no control over her own emotion or actions. She’d report back everything that happened only to be compelled to do something equally cringe-worthy and this process took place for months leading up to the birth of her child. That day she had felt so close to breaking the compulsion placed on her, but she’d failed. 

The little girl would be named Briar and any rights Alex had to her would be signed over. When all was said and done Alexandra was compelled one last time. She was compelled to forget the last 10 months, forget Scout, forget Briar, forget all of it. Instead, she was left with a story, she’d been working in the ER when a  patient’s husband attacked, the injuries she sustained had been so severe her body had gone into a coma but she’d finally pulled through. When she had she discovered she’d been found and that she was forced to run once more. So Alex left New York once more in fear for her life with no idea what had occurred to her. If she had really put thought into it she would have realized that a werewolf’s healing wouldn’t have sustained a coma for that length of time and that the story held a flaw. It felt as though something was missing and she couldn’t shake the feeling, it lingered in the back of her mind always right at the tip of realization but never baring the full truth of it all. Finally tired of running Alex decided there was no safer place in the world for her than the town of Hollow Grove, a safe haven where the strongest enemies of the clave resided. Which in turn meant the strongest enemies to her father. The interview process had been rough, unable to lie about who she was Alex was upfront about her father which in turn had led many to be worried about her loyalty to the town. Ultimately, those she had met along the way in life would pull through for her and Alex would settle into her new home in Hollow Grove.

❝  the nature of the beast

Alexandra is a girl anyone would easily describe as kind. Despite all the dark and terrible things that she had experienced in life, all of that had only served to solidify Alex’s belief in the world and herself. While many would grow as cruel and as hard as the world had proven to be to her Alex persevered in spite of it all. She’s a fighter, maybe not in the traditional way that most would think but in her ability to always push through to always fight for those who can not fight for themselves. Having not really been properly socialized during her key developments year at times Alex can be a bit fumbly or struggle to understand social queues. She truly still believes that it is good in just about everyone which can often lead to people manipulating her because they can see how niave she can be. 

#all #werewolf #halston sage

[jbankai89]

Never Let Me Go [29/37]

A/N: Next update will be February 22nd. Enjoy! :)

Chapter Twenty-Eight – Home Sweet Home

After another five hours of flying, most of which Yuri spent curled up with Otabek, talking softly, eating, or sleeping, they finally landed.

They did not land in a traditional airport, but in an empty field instead. From the nearby small crafts parked on or around the field, Yuri had to assume that it was some kind of airport for plane enthusiasts or something—he was too tired by the long flight to really care very much.

Unlike with takeoff, as the plane's wheels bumped and skidded across the field, the triplets seemed to be enjoying themselves, rather than the reverse, and squealed delightedly along with their father as they landed, while Yuuri looked on with an amused smile as he shook his head.

“Home sweet home!” Viktor proclaimed as he unbuckled his seat belt and moved to the back for the stroller, while Yuuri turned to the triplets and began to unstrap them.

“Yeah,” Yuri replied, more to Otabek than to anyone else, “home sweet home.”

The couple turned to look out of one of the windows. It was overcast and spitting the occasional droplet of rain, but it was not miserable to look at for one simple reason—they were free.

Yuri reached for Otabek's hand and gave it a small squeeze, which he returned at once.

“Guys,” Minami said, snapping Yuri and Otabek from their little bubble. “Stop making googly eyes at each other and let's go!”

Yuri snorted and unbuckled his seat belt, just as Viktor zipped by with the folded up stroller under his arm.

“Can...can I help?” Otabek asked suddenly while Yuuri, Minami, and Phichit all followed Viktor with a kid in each of their arms.

“What?” Yuri blinked, and the omega frowned when he saw Otabek duck his head a little like a puppy being scolded.

“Don't...I don't want you to feel like you can't do anything on your own, but it feels...right to help you right now,” Otabek explained, while he sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and chewed on it nervously.

Yuri reached out compulsively and gently rested his thumb on the skin below Otabek's lip, pulling on it gently until he released it, and Yuri leant in for a kiss.

“I love you, Beka,” Yuri murmured, “you know that...right?”

“I...” Otabek bowed his head, but Yuri caught his chin gently, and eased his gaze back up. Otabek's eyes were troubled, and he looked uncertain of the answer to the question. “I think so. I'm not too...broken?”

“No, of course not,” Yuri replied as he moved to stroke Otabek's cheek, and kissed him again. “Beka, you're amazing, and definitely not broken. I love you as you are, remember that, okay?”

Otabek appeared at though he did not wholly believe Yuri but nodded nonetheless, his mouth still twisted into a little frown. Yuri kissed him again, and again, grinning as he did so, until at last Otabek cracked a small grin, and chuckling, he finally returned the kisses.

“Come on, then,” Yuri said with a gentle smile, “help your poor, pregnant omega waddle his way off this plane.”

Otabek seemed to brighten at this invitation, and though Yuri did not feel he really needed the help, he let Otabek do it. It felt nice, and right, and he could not stop smiling as Otabek rested his hand against Yuri's back, then led Yuri off the plane where the others were waiting.

Outside everyone was standing by the plane while one of the plane attendants was unloading the cargo, which included a small pile of bags and an animal carrier.

The carrier was empty and Makkachin was standing with Viktor and Yuuri, nosing the triplets. When Yuri and Otabek got closer, the dog seemed to sense their presence and turned with an open-mouthed puppy grin he lurched for them, but thankfully his red leash stopped him from going very far.

“No, no, Makkachin!” Viktor said with a laugh, “you don't want to hurt Yurio!”

Yuri snorted at that, while Otabek stepped over to the bags and opened the one that read, Yurio, on the bag tag. He pulled out a zip-up hoodie and handed it to Yuri, who tugged it on gratefully. Thanks to his protruding stomach the garment wasn't nearly as baggy as he would have liked, but it staved off the slight chill in the air, and Yuri offered his alpha a grateful smile.

Yuri wrapped an arm around Otabek's waist as the pair finally headed over to the others, and at last the dog was calm enough that he did not jump up, but did sniff at Yuri's pregnant belly curiously, as though he knew that there was a baby inside it.

Despite the rain, Kelowna was beautiful. Snow-capped mountains were visible in the distance, and the field was surrounded by dense forest not unlike the kind that had surrounded Otabek's home back in Russia. A pair of multi-person ATVs were waiting for them just beyond where the plane sat; the others had all climbed into them, and were watching Yuri and Otabek expectantly.

“Come on, you guys!” Minami called, “we're taking these back to the main road, and we're driving the rest of the way there!”

“Are you sure that's the best idea?” Yuri asked uncertainly while he eyed the three toddlers perched in Viktor, Yuuri, and Minami's laps with no protection, and at the same time Otabek wrapped a protective arm around Yuri's waist, his hand pressing into the side of the omega's pregnant stomach pointedly.

“It's not far, and we're driving slowly,” Yuuri replied with a small smile. “Minami-kun and Viktor will tell you that I'm the worst at being an overbearing parent, so if I say it's okay, really, it's okay.”

Both Minami and Viktor snorted as though they were agreeing with the brunet, causing Yuuri to flush a deep red. At the same time, Yuri exchanged once last look of uncertainty with Otabek, then with a small sigh of defeat, he climbed onto the ATV with his grandfather and Phichit, who was at the wheel.

“Ready?” Phichit asked them with a little grin, and Yuri pointedly took Otabek's hand. Phichit laughed, though the sound was warm, and not cruel.

“No,” Yuri replied as he shifted a little closer to Otabek.

“Great, let's go.”

Phichit revved the engine, and Yuri shifted closer to Otabek with a soft whimper of fright. Yuri clung to his alpha, while Otabek tightened his arm around Yuri, as though remembering that Yuri did not deal well with high speed, and they rumbled off.

As promised they were not going very fast, but every bump or dip in the field that they hit made Yuri cling to Otabek tighter, and when Phichit sped up a little, both Otabek and Yuri, in eerie, perfect unison began to yell, “Baby on board, baby on board!”

“Would you two calm down?” Phichit demanded, not looking away from their path as he spoke, “your neurotic backseat driver-ness is making me nervous.”

“Yuratchka has never been fond of speeds where he is not in control,” Nikolai remarked with a warm chuckle. “He would not even ride on the back of my bicycle down to the market—he always insisted on riding his own, or we would walk.”

“Hmm, well that certainly explains a lot,” Otabek teased softly, then kissed Yuri's cheek, which was cherry red with embarrassment.

It took them less than five minutes to trundle across the field and make it to the road where Minami, Yuuri, and Viktor were already waiting with the girls by a large red van, the middle row filled with three car seats, and Yuriko, Viktoria, and Antonia were already all buckled in, each holding onto a different toy and babbling to one another happily, not a care in the world. Yuuri was folded into Viktor's arms, smiling warmly as he watched his children, while Minami's eyes were fixed on the approaching ATV, and its driver.

Phichit screeched to a halt, making all the passengers jerk in their seats, and he rushed off the vehicle and over to Minami, who smiled broadly when Phichit pulled him into a brief hug.

Chuckling a little at their sweet budding romance, Yuri climbed off the ATV more slowly, and circled to the front to help his grandfather over the uneven ground and to the waiting van. Yuri could feel Otabek following behind them, and in his periphery he saw his alpha bouncing from foot to foot, as though he did not know what to do or how to act.

For the moment, Yuri chose to ignore him, and focused his energies on guiding his grandfather to the front of the van, and helped him to climb into the passenger seat.

“You're a good boy, Yuratchka,” Nikolai said with an affectionate pat upon Yuri's cheek once he was seated, “I am very proud of you. You have endured more than anyone could ever expect of you in so short a time, and you came out of it, once more, whole, and more or less unscathed. I am so proud of you, my grandson—and, of course, I look forward to meeting my great-grandchild soon.”

Yuri felt his face flush, and he placed two hands on his stomach, just as Otabek stepped up to his side.

“It is soon, isn't it?” Yuri asked, “like a month and a half or so.”

“We're going to get you to a doctor soon,” Viktor said as he circled to the driver's seat, and climbed in before he continued to speak. “We just have to finish up some paperwork, then we'll take you to someone. How good is your English?”

“I'm fluent,” Otabek offered with a shrug, “I've had dealings with people from all over, so I speak it fine.”

“I know some bits and pieces,” Yuri replied, and shifted his gaze to Otabek. “Will you be my translator?”

“Of course, Yuri,” Otabek replied, his voice a low purr, that made Yuri's face flush pink, “I'll be anything you want.”

“—Can you be his French maid?” Phichit cut in teasingly.

“Or naughty housew-husband?” Minami added.

“Or sexy gardener?”

“Good one!” Minami praised, and the pair high-fived, while Yuri rolled his eyes and Otabek buried his red face in his hands.

“Okay,” Viktor said between chuckles, “everybody in. We still got a way's to go before we can crash.”

Still distinctly red-faced, Yuri was ushered first into the very back of the van, followed by Otabek, Phichit, and Minami, who all sat squished together in the back (Minami shamelessly perched in Phichit's lap to make room for them all, the latter couple somewhat giggly as they cuddled together) while Yuuri sat in the middle next to the triplets. He took to the task of slamming the sliding doors shut, while Viktor started the engine.

“Everybody ready?” Viktor asked as he turned to glance at his kids, who all began to giggle when he made a silly face at them. “All right! Off we go!”

Viktor pulled away from the curb and onto the street, while he flicked on the radio at the same time. Someone was talking, jabbering in English so fast that Yuri only caught every other word, but he was uncertain whether that had to do with the language, or the fact that he had been travelling for close to fifteen hours, and he was well beyond exhausted. Soon, it shifted to some music, and it slowly lulled Yuri to sleep, his cheek pressed to Otabek's shoulder comfortably, with his alpha's fingers tangled in his hair.

~*~

“Yuri,” a gentle voice said, fingers tickling through his hair, and Yuri groaned.

“Yuri,” the voice said again, “come on, baby, wake up, we're here.”

“Where's here?” Yuri asked groggily, but did not open his eyes.

“Our new home. Come on,” Otabek shook him gently, “wake up. Don't make me carry you.”

Yuri opened his eyes and immediately winced as the bright sunlight stung them. Otabek pressed his glasses into his hands hastily, and Yuri tugged them on.

“I thought you were just trying out an Elton John look,” Otabek teased as he helped a still half-asleep Yuri out of his seat belt, and it was only then that he noticed that the van was completely empty. “Those glasses are prescription?”

“Sort of,” Yuri replied as he yawned, “the trainers decided the best way to try and break me was to keep me in literal darkness for months on end, so my eyes aren't really used to light anymore. How long was I asleep? I—”

Yuri broke off as he glanced up, and gasped at what he was seeing.

It was a beautiful two-storey house built into the mountainside overlooking a crystal-blue lake. The water was dotted with large islands, and the mountainside where the house stood was surrounded by towering fir trees, giving them privacy from any possible neighbours or holidaymakers on the water.

The house itself seemed to be constructed of some sort of tan-coloured wood that Yuri did not recognize, with large, single-paned windows and a dark shingled roof with a chimney. It was a dream house, and to imagine himself living there was just short of ridiculous.

“You were asleep for barely twenty minutes, Otabek said from behind him, just before he wrapped his arms around Yuri's waist and pulled him flush against his chest. “What do you think?”

“It's...wow,” Yuri replied as he continued to stare wide-eyed at the house. “Viktor sure didn't skimp.”

“He really didn't,” Otabek replied with a soft chuckle as he gave Yuri a little squeeze. “Want to see the inside?”

Yuri bit his lip to stifle his grin, and spun in Otabek's arms. His plan for a romantic just us sort of moment was impeded somewhat by Yuri's baby bump getting in the way, but Otabek did not appear at all bothered by this, but instead chuckled warmly as he rested his hands over it, and leant in to kiss him.

“I never stopped thinking about you, Yura,” Otabek murmured, “not once. They kept telling me that you were nothing, calling you horrible names, and they would try and convince me that you were this ice-cold, manipulating...person, but I never believed it. I was upset with you, and I was heartbroken that you tricked me to get...well, pregnant, but I think I understand better now why you did it. It was to protect yourself.”

“Yeah,” Yuri nodded, “it was. At first...I wasn't really thinking about what being pregnant really meant, you know? I just...” he paused and shook his head. “It doesn't mean I don't want this baby, though. I feel like...they're mine, and I want to protect them, and watch them grow up...with you by my side.”

Otabek smiled, his bottom lip quivering a little as he gazed at the omega. Yuri leant in, one hand on Otabek's cheek, prickly and unshaven, and he pulled his alpha into a kiss.

“I always be by your side, Yuri,” Otabek murmured against his mouth, “we're free, we're safe, and I promise you that I will give you and our baby everything I can in order to have our happy little life.”

“Even if we were in a cave with nothing, I know we could make it work,” Yuri replied as he chuckled softly. “All this...” he waved his hand vaguely towards the house, “it's just icing on the cake.”

“Well, let's go look at all the icing then,” Otabek replied, making Yuri laugh as they headed inside, hand-in-hand.

~*~

The inside of the house was just as beautiful as the outside. The main floor was open-concept, with cream carpets in the living room, along with dark brown leather couches and armchairs around a fireplace and huge television. The sliding glass doors at the back of the space looked out on a wooden balcony stained a dark brown, and were in full view of the lake.

The kitchen, painted soft blues with a white tile floor, granite countertops, and oak cabinets was filled with top-of-the-range appliances, mountains of food, an overstuffed fridge, and gorgeous copper pots and pans hanging from one of the walls. Next to it was the dining room, with a large dark brown table decorated with a centrepiece of three tapered red candles, and in addition to the carved wooden chairs around it also sat four high chairs, all of which had been labelled, Antonia, Viktoria, and Yuriko, along with one blank one, yet to be named.

Yuri smiled warmly at the last high chair as he rested his hands on his stomach and leant against Otabek while they gazed at the piece of furniture.

Meanwhile, Yuuri was in the living room with the girls, Phichit and Minami playing with them while Nikolai looked on with a small, indulgent smile. Viktor was in the kitchen, apparently preparing a snack for everyone, with three bottles warming in a saucepan on the stove and the electric kettle had been switched on, with a line of mugs waiting to be filled. He was smiling to himself as he pulled down a box of cookies from the pantry, and the whole scene was so peacefully, wonderfully domestic that Yuri almost wanted to pinch himself to make sure that it was real.

“Come on,” Otabek murmured after a moment as he kissed Yuri's temple, “more icing upstairs.”

On the second floor of the house, they found eight bedrooms and two bathrooms. Because of so many rooms being squished together they were all modestly sized, but far from what Yuri would consider small. Like with the high chairs, all the doors had little labels on them—Phichit, Minami, Yuuri and Viktor, Nikolai, and a room for the triplets bearing all three of their names. At the very end of the hall on the easternmost side, there was a door labelled, Otabek and Yuri.

“I guess this is us,” Yuri joked, and Otabek smiled weakly. “Hey, you all right?”

“Fine,” Otabek replied, his voice a little more roughened than Yuri had expected it to be. “Just tired.”

“Well, let's test out the bed, then,” Yuri said, and felt his cheeks redden at the accidental innuendo. Otabek chuckled as he tightened his arm around the omega, and reached for the doorknob.

From the door, Yuri could see an attached bathroom and second bedroom with a wooden sign on the door, blank for the moment, but decorated with teddy bears—the baby's room.

The space was warm and welcoming, with soft grey carpeting, walnut furniture, and cream walls, with a large king-sized bed layered with too many pillows and blue-grey blankets. A huge bay window overlooked the lake, and would give them a perfect view of the sunrise every morning.

“Wow,” Yuri breathed, his eyes wide as he stared around at the room. “This is...amazing.”

Otabek stumbled a little over the threshold, and Yuri pressed a hand to his chest as he turned to see that the dark circles had returned to surround Otabek's eyes, and he looked less like he'd been awake for four or five hours, and more like he'd been on his feet for three days.

“Sorry,” Otabek grunted as he righted himself. “Maybe...just need to lie down for a minute.”

“Come on, Beka,” Yuri said as he took his hands, “let me take care of you.”

“I should...I should be taking care of you,” Otabek protested feebly as he yawned, “you're the pregnant one, not me.”

“And you went through something awful, and are doing the stupid strong and silent thing when you don't need to,” Yuri accused as he led his alpha over to the bed and forced him down onto it before he stripped off Otabek's shoes, socks, shirt, and pants, leaving him just in his underwear. “You're allowed to give yourself time to recover, you know, I won't freak out over that. Now, come on, bed.”

Otabek eyed Yuri, confusion registering in his gaze, but after a moment he huffed and shuffled under the covers, where Yuri joined him almost at once. He pressed his back against Otabek's chest, and he let out a soft sigh as the alpha wrapped an arm around Yuri's waist and gently cradled his stomach.

“Just a short rest,” Otabek mumbled softly, his words slurred. “Then...” he dropped of to sleep suddenly, and Yuri felt his hands upon his protruding belly slacken a little.

“Rest as long as you want, Beka,” Yuri whispered, “I'll take care of you until you're better.”

The baby thumped at his insides as though in agreement, and Yuri smiled.

If you like my work, please consider throwing a few bucks into my Digital Tip Jar. I am a starving artist, and I like not actually starving to death :P

NLMG Masterpost

#otayuri #otayuri abo #otayuri omegaverse

[ifuckinglovestvincent]

St. Vincent by Immo Klink for Spex Magazin für Popkultur #376 (September/October 2017)

English translation thx to a lovely L chat anon: After the success of her last album, what's next for St. Vincent? Three years, a Grammy, a successful series of concerts complete with weirdo costumes, her own guitar design for people with breasts and a magazine cover with Marc Jacobs. "New York" is her latest haunting single that yearns for older times, and expresses love for her adoptive home. The song's style also refers back to the musical simplicity of Clark's previous work. An uncomfortably hot Summer day in London would have passed as some bizarre fever dream, if before the release of her latest, and as of yet untitled new album, St. Vincent was drinking Berlin beer with our editors and happily giving the inside scoop. Despite meticulous planning prior to the interview in July, its spontaneous nature meant it was hard to know what to ask. Annie had recorded two purposefully blurred guitar songs, one to be discussed before the conversation and one during. A female assistant dressed in a black cape and some extravagant shoe-work acted as door woman to the entrance of a room at Park Studios containing a wooden box, the inside of which was painted neon pink. Inside sat Clark like a high priestess in black light. An appropriate setting to share secrets. However, she is at first rather silent when asked concrete questions about new songs, but in the end the setting works conclusively. The discomfort is part of the concept. Interviewer: Annie, thank you very much for the mysterious reception. Will you now foresee my future? Annie: (laughs) We will see. I: It smells very good in here. Is that incense? A: The scent is coming from a candle. Meetings should be an experience for all the senses. I: You said once that for every album you've had a figure in your head around which all themes have been built. For Strange Mercy it was alcohol dependence, the bored housewife, with St. Vincent a cult leader. What has been in your consciousness regarding these songs? A: Manic Panic meets Poison Ivy from The Cramps. I: We are currently sitting in a pink, florescent box. There seems to be a color concept happening here. A: Yes, the color palette for this album is completely florescent. Florescent colors are very bright and at first seem cheerful, but can soon become too intense and then aggressive. This is exactly like my coming album. I: Would you consider this album to be the logical next chapter following St. Vincent? A: I don’t know whether you can apply logic to music. Before I wrote the new songs I knew only three things. I wanted the songs to be strong and powerful. I wanted to programme beats. And I wanted a steel-pedal guitar. I began with these three anchors. I: Most of social media expressed surprise regarding the fact that New York was not a guitar-based song. A: Really? I put so much guitar in it. I: So was it your plan to not make a rock record? A: I’ve never done it before. I definitely wanted to have big guitar moments on the album. Have I ever really made a rock record? So far very few people have heard the new songs, and there isn’t much known about the album. I’m looking forward to the interpretations and criticisms. But if someone doesn’t feel it’s a guitar record, should we not question both possible realities? I: Possibly. Do you already have an album title? A: Yes, but I still can’t reveal it to you. I: Perhaps then we can speak about something more tangible. You current tour is named after one of your new songs “Fear the Future”. A: This is intended to as an order; be afraid of your future! I: What should we be afraid of? A: Oh boy! We are living in insane times, and it’s only getting worse. I don’t know if you’ve heard: America has chosen Donald Trump, a woman hater and compulsive liar, as its president. America has said to someone like this: “You seem to be the right leader!” I: Do you believe Trump will complete the four years of his term? A: That would shock me. The countless scandals within the first six month of his presidency have sustainably ruined his reputation. Besides, I don’t have the impression that being President suits him very well. The only possibility we have of getting rid of this fear of the future is to name these things. “Fear the Future” means I am trying to regain control and make something constructive out of all the chaos. I: What strategies do you follow in order to cope with these fears? A: I don’t sit around all day worrying about the future. Today more than ever the personal is political, and the political has become personal. A lot of us move around in this world alone, meanwhile for many people it is a political act - for a great many marginalised people it is naturally the latter case. I have long thought about what I can do. Some of my friends are politically active, for example in the Black-Lives-Matter movement, or have previously worked for Obama’s administration. It seems to me most sensible to use the platform I have with my music to, for example, raise money for Planned Parenthood or other charitable organisations. I: At the beginning of this year you celebrated your directorial debut with the premiere of The Birthday Party. You chose to present your film not as horror, but as a black comedy. What role does humour play when it comes to fear? A: The absurd is definitely our zeitgeist. To go further, to drive the whole thing to the extreme, can be incredibly funny. I: Does this exaggeration work for you as catharsis? A: Definitely. The album deals with the themes of power and seduction in such a striking way that one could almost feel it as fraud. Sexuality is no simple matter, but I present it in a very obvious way, wherin there is also a lot of humour. I: I also heard the new songs as asking for a conquest. A: Songs sagen manchmal mehr über denjenigen aus, der sie hört, als über den Künstler. Ich kann also nichts, dafür,, wenn Sie überall Vaginas sehen (laughs). I: With all the careful production before release, does it not bother you if you feel you are misunderstood? A: I put a lot of time and energy into this record. I love this album. However once it is released there is nothing I could possibly say or do to make you love it just as much. That is out of my hands, and that’s the way it should be. It is no longer mine, it belongs to everyone who hears it. I can at most give you a pair of important details: I recorded majority of the album in my studio in Los Angeles. The rest I recorded in New York. I: In New York you give a nostalgic look back at a place that appears to no longer exist. Is New York still the city you… A: ...love the most at heart? Absolutely! You know, every love is complicated. For me it simply stopped being my main place of residence. In the end I started spending a lot of time back in Texas, or I was working in my studio in LA, so just wasn’t in New York anymore. I: Nostalgia can also be another way of reacting to current unpleasantness in the world - a very comfortable one. A: I have a terrible memory, therefore nostalgia doesn’t really work for me. I don’t think the past tense is all that helpful anyway. Of course can learn from their mistakes, this has made the history of mankind. Earlier grief is inflicted again and again, but prevents us from moving forward. I: A common thesis states that certain adverse circumstances can strengthen cohesion and solidarity in disadvantaged communities. A: Yes, but the most important thing for marginalised people now is to not fight one another. A byproduct of patriarchy is women fight other women. That helps no one. I: In Germany there is a lot of hostility among left currents, when their principles really belong together in solidarity. For example in feminist circles. A: Yet feminism is not a fixed idea, it is constantly changing. There is place for diverse stances. Feminist ideas find themselves in an ever wider context, on which they may have stumbled along the way. At home, I also know that women are mutually shamed, because one does not correspond to the ideal. It is unhelpful to argue about whoever embodies feminism. I myself do not engage myself with a group, but prefer to let actions speak. Being a strong, independent woman is for me the strongest sign. (A bell sounds) I: Is our time already up? A: Almost. I have a few answers recorded. Would you like to hear? I: Of course! A: (Plays around with her mobile phone until a distorted voice rings out) “David Byrne’s brain is a national treasure.” (noise) “The name St. Vincent comes from a Nick Cave song called ‘There Goes My Beautiful World’. It refers to the line ‘And Dylan Thomas died drunk in St. Vincent’s Hospital’.” (noise) You knew that, or you would have said so. Thank you for not asking. I: You’re welcome. But since we’re talking about names: Who is this Johnny you keep singing about? A: Johnny is a recurring character who has accompanied me for three albums now. For me he’s like a friend, a family member and a fiance. I: But now he lives on the street. A: There’s always hope.

______________________________ Buy the issue here Original translation post from L Chat

#Is she using the media as concept art ... #mixed media #St. Vincent #Annie Clark #Spex #LP5

[make-eye-contact-and-smile]

Out of evil, much good has come to me. By keeping quiet, repressing nothing, remaining attentive, and by accepting reality - taking things as they are, and not as I wanted them to be - by doing all this, unusual knowledge has come to me, and unusual powers as well, such as I could never have imagined before.I always thought that when we accepted things they overpowered us in some way or other. This turns out not to be true at all, and it is only by accepting them that one can assume and attitude towards them. So now I intend to play the game of life, being receptive to whatever comes to me, good and bad, sun and shadow forever alternating, and, in this way, also accepting my own nature with its positive and negative sides. Thus everything becomes more alive to me. What a fool I was! How I tried to force everything to go according to way I thought it ought to. - An ex patient of C. G. Jung (Alchemical Studies, page 47)

I feel that this; "Taking things as they are, not as I wanted them to be... accepting my own nature” This articulates the great exhale of my life. Accepting reality. Not wishing for magic [god]. Accepting mortality. Not wishing for eternal life [heaven]) These two enlightenments have been the great relief of my life. Living is no longer a desperate clinging to what I think I "need” to be true in order to survive. Living is pure joy. I have a genuine, ardent fascination with what is known and unknown. I feel love, without rhyme or reason. --- As a child you don't know about social queues, you care less about what people think and you're more impulsive. You're most likely to act instinctively. When I was young one of the many classes my parents enrolled me in was Ballet, a prerequisite of which was to dress in a pink leotard with a pink tutu etc. pink, pink, pink because, we're girls right? My 4-6 year old self refused, and I proudly wore a blue tutu for the entirely of my ballet career, which may have only been a year. 

Somewhere along the road to adulthood I learned about society, I was told what the rules were, I learned how to be self-conscious, try to fit in, to hide my body and it’s potential particularities. I learned about caring what other people think of me, in short - I became well versed in social anxiety and low self esteem and lost my individual spirit and carefree nature. 

I have spent the past two years discovering all the ways in which this has manifested in my life, and working consciously to free myself from them one by one. That blue tutu is a proclamation of the rebel inside of me (inside each of us - we are all weird and different) and a reminder to my adult self to be more like that un-coordinated little girl in blue, twirling amidst a sea of pink. But who taught me how to manage my thoughts? Who taught me to differentiate between healthy, helpful thinking styles & unhealthy, unhelpful ones? Who taught my parents this? Why was this vital contributor to human flourishing left out of out societal construct? Education and modern society didn't fail, because they never even made the attempt. Out of fear I found religion and in religion I found fear, and this was a cycle I got myself stuck in for about 15 years. I had always considered myself to be a very ordinary girl. Aside from divorced parents and a mild emetophobia (for everyone who doesn’t know, that means fear of vomiting), I felt like I had been hit by the lucky stick in life - I was too young to remember my parents divorce, I was without a doubt spoilt by them both as a child - and spoilt and well liked by every other significant adult in my life.My parents always got along, in front of me anyway, and I ended up with four incredible parents as I see it.I’ve been positively showered with love from my immediate family, with the added bonus of, to this day, having five sets of living grandparents.

I never complained, I was your a-typical “good child”, I never talked back, I never took drugs, I never played up in school. This was partly because I never felt I had anything to complain about, but also because throughout my life I developed a strong desire to never be a burden to other people.

This desire was distinctly solidified when I was 16 going on 17, and my baby brother (six years old at the time) was diagnosed with a terminal illness called Muscular Dystrophy. I had never heard of such a thing. That was when the panic attacks started. In true “good child” fashion, my immediate reaction was to internalise, I did not want to cause any additional pain to my parents, so I tried to suppress my mental and physical reactions to this. I didn’t want to demand any more of their time or ever risk causing any additional worry to them. I remember the bouts of nausea accompanied by a pounding heart that I thought you must be able to see through my school blazer. I can remember concerned faces, but I don’t think they knew any better than me that it could be rooted in anxiety.

Christianity had been a vague, happy, social factor in my life for about 6 years at this point. I was intrigued by the magical ideas it represented and the friendly people it seemed to attract, whom I felt safe and loved around.My friends all went to church, I went socially - it fit my meek demeanour.

With the discovery of what Muscular Dystrophy was though, and the reality of it in my life, three major thoughts formed in my mind; GUILT / FEAR / WEAKNESS: (and/or helplessness) Why did this not happen to me instead of him? I remember feeling terribly constrained by my limiting human-ness, if I were a super-hero and could choose a super power, I could pull it out of you and put it into me (if the wretched thing MUST go somewhere). Why aren’t I smarter!? Why had I studied ART, of all the stupid, useless things, why hadn’t I been interested in science, why wasn’t I a better person - stronger/smarter.  I wish I was brainy so that I could go out there and find a cure and fix the problem that had devastated my family.I created a very external mindset for myself at this crucial time of my life. I felt weak, in-capable and out of control.Bad things had happened to me and my family and I had absolutely no answers, no power to solve it and knew no ways to deal with these emotions.

Helplessness, victim mentality, and totally void of a bigger perspective, I turned to Christianity. Jesus offered everything that I yearned for; Peace, Joy, Freedom, but above all - HEALING. I threw myself into belief head first, clinging for dear life to the idea that “God can heal”, and, like a race-horse, put on blinders to anything that would threaten the truth of this idea. Vague questions would come to me throughout this time, “The Bible says that Homosexuality is wrong… but I don’t agree with that?”, “No.” I would tell myself, “Don’t even go there, you can’t risk acknowledging that the bible is wrong about that because if it’s wrong about that then, what else might it be wrong about? It could be wrong about healing.” So don’t think about it. I NEEDED this to be true, I NEEDED healing to be possible/true/attainable in order to go on with my life. It was my coping mechanism, and I suppose one day I might be grateful for it getting me through what it got me through at the time, however all I can see from my current perspective is how detrimental Christianity was to my self-esteem, to my strength as a person and to my mental health. Apart from this, religion offered consolation and comfort. togetherness, community, and after the existential crisis I undertook when Muscular Dystrophy entered my life, Christianity satisfied my yearning to understand why we exist, and why bad things happen. Throughout my 10-15 years as a Christian, I developed a dependancy on something other than myself.Christianity taught me that I was nothing and Jesus was everything, under the masquerade of “humility”, it undermined my self-sufficiency until it was virtually non-existent.Religious thinking made me a fearful, weak, distrustful, scared, external, unworthy version of myself. I actually found that in enabled me to be unforgiving, to hold grudges, to be unmotivated and to feel powerless.Waiting for Jesus to act is a great excuse to do nothing and still feel like you’re always right. I tithed, I prayed, I fasted and wished for healing of my brother, for personal protection from any sickness and pain and from death.In short, I spent years BROODING on fears of sickness, pain and death, which I deemed unbearable.Mortality was downright terrifying and I NEEDED God to save me from it. This fostered my fear and victim mentality, propelling my emetophobia to dangerous heights. This is a common phenomena when someone deals poorly with trauma, they feel out of control and so they desperately try to gain control over something. Sometimes this outworks itself as fear of heights or obessive compulsive disorder, for me, I guess I chose Emetophobia. They, and by they I mean the scientist and psychologists, describe Emetophiobia as an acute state of anxiety because you desire and strive to attain absolute control, but as intellectual beings who are subject to disease, we do know, deep down, that vomiting is not a thing that you can ever be totally in control of, and we therefore spiral ourselves into tighter and tighter knots. I wasn’t just controlling what I said, I was controlling what I thought “take captive everything thought and make it obedient to god” - I didn’t even let myself swear in my mind for a while there. It wasn’t until the day came that I actually became physically sick, and my phobia was pushed over the edge and I simply couldn’t get better by any medical or spiritual means, that started learning about mental health, that I realised just how much damage I had done to myself. I began to very practically work on ways to develop my self-esteem, to decrease my social anxiety and to nurture my internal sense of capability - and I tangibly saw and felt the positive impact of these -godless- things in my life. This was the beginning of a very difficult and painful battle in my brain. As I worked on my own personal resilience, and fostered my capabilities, the NEED that I had for a miraculous healing diminished. The need that I had, to feel protected from any form of sickness or pain, to be rescued from my mortality, started to evaporate.Once I stopped fetishising the idea of healing, suddenly every red flag that I had ever squashed like a whack-a-gator arcade game became something that I actually gave brain time to; God coming before human relationships, homosexuality being a sin, the innumerable biblical contradictions, the whole dinosaur thing (paleontology having been my first career dream, quashed by the unreconcilable differences between it and intelligent design, also by the deeply flawed education system, but that’s another can of worms altogether), the general ignorance of it all and the lack of intellect it fostered.The reason I had always pushed my curiosity under the rug is to do with fear, fear of facing my own awareness, laziness, feeling ill equipped, think someone is better for the job than you, not being smart enough, etc etc. either way it's a poor excuse. I’d finally acknowledged all the doubt and it was my duty to address it. It was a long year and a half process of addressing the red flags, trying to reconcile them with my world view, being afraid of how they challenged my worldview and how they would change life as I knew it, things like; I feel that faith should be an educated decision, not a blind one, but how can it be? How does one know that they have the right answer? How do you know that another theism (or atheism) doesn't have it right? The Son or the God? Some say they are definitely separate (Jesus is Son, offspring), some say they are one and the same (Col 2:9, the trinity) The Bible is a VERY subjective book. Every faith, every church in that faith, every person in that church can create their own interpretation. Who was Jesus? I have a problem with dogmatism, how can a human like me claim to have the absolute truth? What about the people who believe the opposite to you and also claim to have the absolute truth, are you claiming they’re less intelligent than you? What about people like Appeloneus of Tiana (a Greek philosopher who's claimed he had the powers to heal, raise dead and other miracles. Was persecuted by the Romans and was crucified like Jesus. Died on the cross, ascended to heaven and came back, appearing to his followers. He is said to have lived at the exact same time as Jesus. But with far less popularity.) Which is better, Medical treatment or prayer? If you think that prayer is only about praising god, then we can’t compare the two, but we can compare medical treatment with claimed of intercessory prayer (this type of prayer works at about the rate of chance - 50/50) if it only works at the rate of chance, then that’s not really a method... There was a lot of back and forth, a lot of telling my own brain to “shhh”,  a lot of internal turmoil and a whole new array of fears and doubts. My world view was changing, my belief was evaporating and I couldn’t ignore it anymore - more over, I didn’t WANT to ignore it anymore. It took me a long time to work up the courage to tell my significant other what was going on inside my head, because I knew what Christianity says about Christians dating non-Christians, it’s a no-no. The old phrase “unequally yolked” popped up many times, it had been drilled into us, “God comes first, God comes before human relationships."As I had feared, I was told that if I wasn’t going to believe in god, then we couldn’t be together.To tell someone you love, who says they love you “Here I am, this is me” and be rejected because of that is no small thing - after all, I was still the same person, with the same personality, the same humour, taste in movies, love for coffee, books, baking, the same love for them.Yet I suddenly I had a fatal flaw, disbelief. This reaction definitely added to my assertion that the Christian laws of love are questionable to say the least. If you can choose to cause yourself pain by separating yourself from the person you love, then there is something deeply wrong and deeply/plainly religious about that. Either that or, his love for me simply wasn’t strong enough, and this was an easy way out, which I honestly lean towards.Now I just suppose that I became someone who he didn’t like, and there’s no blame in that. We just became incompatible. I’ve very glad, honestly, relieved to have become the person that I have, and I can’t wait to continue growing and changing and improving. So, there I was, rejected, my world view turned up on it’s head, not sure what I thought or who I was, and two days away from trip to America with three friends. All of whom were no-doubt felt slightly dejected by the idea of nursing a heartbroken girl in the middle of an existential crisis while on holiday in California. It was a blue and tearful first few days, and I boarded the plane alone at the crack of dawn, seated next to the very large mother of a very large family who couldn’t contain her very large arm inside her own seat/personal space. It took all my will power not to loop both my arms around her sizeable left bicep and nestle my head into her shoulder, but I didn’t. I took a sleeping pill and watched film after film after film and didn’t sleep a single wink. I can’t remember most of those 14 long hours, but I landed in LA feeling rough but exceptionally glad to be far away from home. As I stood waiting in the LAX pick-up zone, my face split into the first smile for days as Tess, Sharee and Amanda came careering into view, their mouths open wide in excitement and all their arms flailing out the windows of the white Land Rover in greeting.Beneath all the “You’re here!!! We’re all together!!! On Holiday!! In LA!!” Laughter and hugs, I knew there was an extra tightness in all their embraces, an extra decibel in all their excitement that said “We’re going to take care of you”, and I only loved them all the more for it. We drove straight to a hotel that we had been eyeing off from across the pacific, and ordered all manor of eggs, avocado, bacon, toast, hash browns and that bad black American coffee - the experience was complete.

I was surprised, as were they, to discover that, I was fine.I was more than fine, I was the life of the party. I couldn’t contain my laughter, I felt free and peaceful and joyful.The worst had happened, and now I could think what I wanted, learn what I wanted, be who I wanted, without fearing the loss of love, because I’d already lost it. There was no moment of “de-conversion”. It was a long process of de-constructing lots of small beliefs that I once held as sacred, and releasing the clutching grip of my need for them to be true. "Scared by compelled to follow my conscience and my reason where it would take me” Initially I felt like, even if god existed, god would understand my desire to search and go where my conscience led me. I didn’t want to be the type of christian who was scared of the monster int he corner, I wanted to confront it, I wanted to, as Paul says “Give a reason for the hope within”. As I reflected on my time as a Christian, I realised I had been selfish and narcissistic. I'd been 100% obsessed with protecting number one,  protecting myself from the things that I feared; illness, loss, pain, judgement, humiliation - to name few. In promising freedom from these things, oddly, Christianity perpetuated their sustainment. It colluded with me, or rather, it allowed me to collude with myself in this festering cycle of self blame, hate and then justification. It told me, it's okay to have these problems, you're just a weak human and it's out of your control - wait for God. I couldn't argue out of that because I didn't WANT to be in control, I didn't WANT to take responsibility. I was lazy and afraid and didn't want to think about other problems in the world because if I let myself feel those things, then I would feel a ravaging desire to do something about it - and I didn't think I was capable. I didn't want to let myself feel because I was too afraid that to act, to feel judged, incapable, but most of all challenged in my fears. Over time, my humanity grew like grass. Newly fearless - or headed down that road - I left my dehydrated humanity out on the plain of society, open wide to the worries of the world, and it caught fire quicker than lighter fluid. Loosing your faith, and deciding to leave religion isn’t an easy path to take. As David Hayward (The Naked Pastor) puts it, “We find ourselves with all this physical evidence that a lot of the stuff we have been taught isn’t true. This is when a Christian realises that they might be an Atheist, and that is scary as hell. Pun intended.” The threat of loosing your community, friendships, world view and significant other all in one foul swoop is incredibly intimidating. Not thinking for myself though, was no longer an option, so I left.

I’ve been asked if I left because I was offended, or because I didn’t get healed of my illness, or freed from my fears, and I can’t express enough that this just isn’t how it played out.I left because I found answers elsewhere, that the church had never given me in 15 years of searching.I left because it didn’t encourage freedom of thought, and because of all the things it did discourage; equality, individuality, curiosity, self-esteem, self-reliance. When I first set out, I wanted to have the strongest faith that one could have.I reasoned that the only faith worth having, is one that can stand up against all other knowledge I could possibly attain. I didn’t want to be an ignorant Christian, I wanted to be one who had taken the time to investigate everything and decided that this god was the one true god. I thought also that if god is out there, surely this is the only kind of faith he would want, not blind faith. I started to question what Christianity said it was, if the bible is a reliable source of wisdom, I didn't know if there was a god. And what I found was that the Christian god didn’t hold up to my scrutiny, and I discovered that atheists are among the happiest, most loving, least prejudiced, most inclusive, most productive, inspiring, interesting, interested and enamoured people. I stumbled upon the term ‘Religious Moderate” and was appalled to realise that I had been the definition. “The problem that religious moderation poses for all of us is that it does not permit anything very critical to be said about religious literalism. We cannot say that fundamentalists are crazy, because they are merely practicing their freedom of belief; we cannot even say that they are mistaken in religious terms, because their knowledge of scripture is generally unrivalled. All we can say, as religious moderates, is that we don't like the personal and social costs that a full embrace of scripture imposes on us. This is not a new form of faith, or even a new species of scriptural exegesis; it is simply a capitulation to a variety of all-too-human interests that have nothing, in principle, to do with God.” - Sam Harris I am seriously interested and will spend the rest of my life reading, listening and learning about the universe. But my identity is no longer affected by the answer. I feel so comfortable in my own skin for the first time. I feel so certain of what I believe. So at ease, there is no mental battle over fighting belief or unbelief. Most of all I don’t feel ashamed of what I believe. As a Christian it was always quoted at me “Don’t be ashamed of the gospel you live for” but I was always ashamed. I never wanted to share it. Now I can see that that was simply my cognitive dissonance saying “You’re being told you should feel this way, but you don’t because, deep down you don’t believe that it’s true.”But now, I feel certain, and proud, and I want to share it with anyone who wants to hear it.Peace of mind - the deafening silence that comes when the battle between what you’ve been told you “should” or “need to” think and what you actually think is true, ceases. If the great exhale of my life was accepting things for the way they are, not the way I “want” or “need” them to be, then my first breath of life was I finally feeling sure of what I believe. And this is the third step, being public about it, not fearing the that presuppositions others held of me. The knots of my preverbial stomach loosening with each breath. I am finally free to be myself. To think what I want when I want and to change my mind at any point, my prerogative. So here it is; I am an Atheist. I simply don't believe that god exists. I don’t believe in Atheism, I accept that there is a great deal of evidence to suggest that intelligent design was not the culprit for the world around us. I make the assumption that the supernatural realm is not real, based upon the recognition that the existence of god has not been demonstrated, so I’m not going to rely upon god as a conclusion. I think the bible was written by stone-age fisherman who were trying to figure out the world, I think it was their first attempt at philosophy, psychology, education, government and controlling the masses. I see the Bible is a unique historic attempt at that, which is commendable, but that is all. I would now describe myself as a Secular Humanist, the goal of which is is human flourishing. “Finding out what is in humanity's best interests based of the facts of reality, and what methods are most likely to lead us to the best understanding of what is in our best interests.“We recognise that there are things that we have learned thought the entirety of human civilisation about what works and what doesn’t, about advancing ideas of individual autonomy, fairness, equality, opportunity, tolerance, liberty, peace and co-operation. All goals discovered over the course of human experience and they seem, by all measures, to increase human flourishing.” Or, to use Matt Dillahunty’s simplified definition; “Let’s strive to find better ways to do better. We seem to be stuck here on this rock in space interacting with each other, in a world where we need to make decisions, and while there are plenty of people that say their god is giving them the answer, we don’t have any good reason to think that’s the case. So let’s set those gods aside until they’re demonstrated, and try to work things out for ourselves.”

Congratulations for making it to the end.