there is a whole ‘people courf thought might be The One’ timeline and i’ve stuck to it too rigidly there’s no way out

ourlightsinvain said:

POLLY/MAL, A SERIOUS ONE

YEAHHHHh idk my evasions on this one mostly boil down to “i wish it didn’t get the weird sterek thing of being trumped up as the Best Gay in MR when tonker/lofty is right there, and great, and incidentally, not subtext.” also people ship it weird, and i think deal poorly with the projected need to rigidly cram maladict into a new end-of-book ”female character slot,” in general

8

Charlie, Connor & Monroe | 2.13

"So what’s this Duncan look like?"

anonymous said:

Hi! I'm starting out as an artist and I love your work, and I'm still trying to develop my style... Any tips for developing techniques and/or drawing style? I'm mostly into comics and you've just been a really cool inspiration and any help you could give me I would appreciate forever thank you and ily uwu

ah man, this question is always so tough for me to answer! if i made an influence map, you’d see how heavily artists like gnat,  doubleleaf, phobs, and a bunch of others, all have styles that have helped me make mine

if you feel like you’re starting to get stuck, i strongly suggest picking up realism, as that was what acted as a HUGE game-changer for me and allowed my style to take the step that i was desperate to achieve!

also, try to know what kind of style you want to emulate! like, finding out if you like impressionism more that photo-realism can help point you in the right direction further along the line

but please note that i’m completely self-taught! these are just things that helped me personally, but in a wider range of things, i’m sure there’re quite a few things to help you carve out your style!

loopy-lupe said:

Hi! I love seeing your different charts on how different types react to using certain functions. (It makes a really good base for writing characters!) But I'd also think it would be really cool if you could do a shadow functions version too! (like an INTJ's Ne, Ti, Fe, Si and etc.)

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Taken from “Understanding Yourself & Others.” Negative shadows. For the positive version, turn negative terms into positive ones.

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anonymous said:

Hello, do you have any illumi head canons? Especially young illumi?

Illumi is shown to be quite dedicated and caring towards his family members, particularly Killua, often in a controlling way, and the point of extremity, but the actions he takes he believes are for the best. The reason he put the needle in Killua’s head was ultimately to protect him. But that made me think how this manifested during the time he didn’t have any siblings.

There would have been a lot of expectations for Illumi, the most likely one to succeed the Zoldyck line for many years of his younger life. Silva would have worked and raised him to excel in the life of assassin, caring only for that and the family. Kikyo seemed to be quite a doting mother to Milluki, Kalluto and Killua (probably Alluka too before all the Nanika issues), but I feel like she was more distant with Illumi because he was the first and Silva wanted to raise him rigidly with little affections.

It was solitary and harsh but Illumi would quickly understand and accepted this as life and train with certain diligence. I think he may have exhibited a tendency to overexert himself when it came to his assassin training, pushing himself over his limits because of all the expectations. 

And somehow this turned into a fic (which is why it took a while for me to answer, apologies)…. It gets a bit long, so the full thing is under the read more.

___

The Zoldyck children began training from the time they were born, but there was a larger focus on tolerance, rather than a time dedicated to direct training during their youngest period of their lives. Illumi likely hadn’t tasted food not laced with some sort of poison before. 

The first real training session he had was extended electricity resistance. Silva thought Illumi was able to handle it, and set the voltage high. He told Illumi he could turn off the electricity at any time, he was just testing how much he could handle right now. He was told to hold two rods, one in each hand, and sit on the chair provided. 

“Okay.” Illumi obeyed.

As Silva turned on the machines, and electricity went through the rods to him, Illumi’s head jolted open with the initial shock. His eyes burst open, his muscles clenched, and he almost let out an audible gasp. 

That would not do. 

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"Are you okay?" Emma asks as she notices Regina’s rigid posture and distant expression. 

It’s movie night and since Henry is at a sleepover she picked a horror movie.She’s always loved them - they’ve never scared her mainly because she watches the cheesy kind of horror movies that are more funny than they are terrifying. 

Even though they’re not that scary Regina still refused to let Emma have them on in front of Henry. 

Judging by Regina’s shift in expression and emotion in the past ten minutes since the film started, Emma can tell Henry is not the real reason. She turns the movie off before scooting over to Regina. She gently tucks a finger under her girlfriend’s chin before turning her head so she can look at her. 

"Regina what’s going on?" she asks again lightly stroking Regina’s cheek to bring her back to the here and now.

"I don’t like horror movies," Regina says rigidly though her eyes carry that haunted expression Emma recognises from when Regina is reminded of her childhood or of loss. 

To most it would seem strange that a woman who was once an Evil Queen would be terrified of horror movies but no matter how cheesy they are, they conjured up memories of Cora and darkness and her own darkest moments. 

Emma nods keeping her touches soft and soothing until Regina’s eyes tell her that the bad memories are passing. Once they begin to go Emma offers her arms for a hug. Regina scoots in to her embrace letting Emma’s touch remind her of her present, of love and happiness and safety. 

"They’re not real," Emma says/ 

"They were," Regina replies and Emma tightens her hold, "Not any more though. Never again."

Originally circulated in 1891 as a privately printed book, by the world-renowned gay Anglo-Irish Aesth­et­icist poet, play­wright and critic Oscar Wilde (1854-1900). Wilde declared himself an anarchist following his encounter with the Russian expatriate anarchist Peter Kropotkin. His artistic work, and his later persecution, trial and imprisonment for his sexual relationships with male lovers were widely and sympathetically discussed in the Anarchist press during the 1890s, and his Anarchist writings were later reprinted by Emma Goldman and Alex­ander Berkman’s Mother Earth publishing company. The essay offers a fascinating exploration of the cultural impacts of anarchistic socialism and individualism — not as a tearing-down of all in the name of rigidly formal equality, but rather a liberating opportunity for all to fully express what makes them unique, and and flourish in their idiosyncrasy.

“We are often told that the poor are grateful for charity. Some of them are, no doubt, but the best amongst the poor are never grateful. They are un­grate­ful, dis­con­tent­ed, disobedient, and rebellious. They are quite right to be so. Charity they feel to be a ridiculous­ly in­ade­qu­ate mode of partial rest­it­ut­ion, or a sentimental dole, usually ac­com­panied by some im­pert­i­n­ent attempt of the senti­mentalist to tyrannise over their private lives. Why should they be grateful for the crumbs that fall from the rich man’s table? Dis­obe­d­ience is man’s original virtue. It is through dis­obed­ience that pro­gress has been made, through dis­obed­ience and through rebellion… .

“It is clear, then, that no Authoritarian Socialism will do. … Under an industrial bar­rack sys­tem, or a system of economic tyranny, nobody would be able to have any such freedom at all. Every man must be left quite free to choose his own work. No form of compulsion must he ex­er­c­is­ed over him… . All association must be quite voluntary. It is only in vol­unt­ary associations that man is fine. … Socialism itself will be of value simply because it will lead to Individualism.

“Art is Individualism, and Individ­u­alism is a disturbing and disintegrating force. Therein lies its immense val­ue. For what it seeks to disturb is monotony of type, slavery of custom, tyr­an­ny of habit, and the reduction of man to the level of a machine… . Self­ish­ness is not living as one wishes to live, it is asking others to live as one wishes to live. And unselfishness is letting other people’s lives alone, not interfering with them. Selfishness always aims at creating around it an absolute uniformity of type. Unselfishness re­cog­nises infinite variety of type as a delightful thing, accepts it, acquiesces in it, enjoys it.”

Support C4SS With Oscar Wilde’s “The Soul of Man Under Socialism”

JLA's "Wicked Trilogy" Cover & Synopsis Reveal!

HEY GUYS!  We are so honored to bring you the BEAUTIFUL cover/synopsis reveal of Wicked the first book in the Wicked Trilogy by Jennifer L. Armentrout author of The Lux SeriesWicked will be released on December 8th, 2014!  You can pre-order this book here!

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WICKED Synopsis: Things are about to get Wicked in New Orleans. Twenty-two year old Ivy Morgan isn’t your average college student. She, and others like her, know humans aren’t the only thing trolling the French Quarter for fun… and for food. Her duty to the Order is her life. After all, four years ago, she lost everything at the hands of the creatures she’d sworn to hunt, tearing her world and her heart apart. Ren Owens is the last person Ivy expected to enter her rigidly controlled life. He’s six feet and three inches of temptation and swoon-inducing charm. With forest-green eyes and a smile that’s surely left a stream of broken hearts in its wake, he has an uncanny, almost unnatural ability to make her yearn for everything he has to offer. But letting him in is as dangerous as hunting the cold-blooded killers stalking the streets. Losing the boy she loved once before had nearly destroyed her, but the sparking tension that grows between them becomes impossible for Ivy to deny. Deep down, she wants… she needs more than what her duty demands of her, what her past has shaped for her. But as Ivy grows closer to Ren, she realizes she’s not the only one carrying secrets that could shatter the frail bond between them. There’s something he’s not telling her, and one thing is for certain. She’s no longer sure what is more dangerous to her—the ancient beings threatening to take over the town or the man demanding to lay claim to her heart and her soul.  

About Jennifer L. Armentrout: # 1 NEW YORK TIMES and USA TODAY Bestselling author Jennifer lives in Martinsburg, West Virginia. All the rumors you’ve heard about her state aren’t true. When she’s not hard at work writing. she spends her time reading, working out, watching really bad zombie movies, pretending to write, and hanging out with her husband and her Jack Russell Loki. Her dreams of becoming an author started in algebra class, where she spent most of her time writing short stories….which explains her dismal grades in math. Jennifer writes young adult paranormal, science fiction, fantasy, and contemporary romance. She is published with Spencer Hill Press, Entangled Teen and Brazen, Disney/Hyperion and Harlequin Teen. Her book Obsidian has been optioned for a major motion picture and her Covenant Series has been optioned for TV. She also writes adult and New Adult romance under the name J. Lynn. She is published by Entangled Brazen and HarperCollins.  

Website ** Facebook ** Twitter ** Novel Goodreads ** Author Goodreads

Stiles was currently lolling around on his bed alongside Malia, his boney fingers were curved around his text book to hold it outright in front of him as he lazed on his back, propping himself up on one of his pointed elbows. His tongue was firmly resting on his lower lip as they parted in concentration. Occasionally, he’d flicker his attentiveness toward the hard-working werecoyote at his side before retreating it back to the endless highlighted text. “How are you doing?” He inquired in his typical hoarse voice to break the lingering silence between them both whilst he readjusted his position, rolling onto his stomach and tersely flicking the page. His eyebrows furrowed rapidly once his head jerked back with lurch, generating his chin to press rigidly against his neck as he flailed his wrist out to wake his hand and briskly turn yet another page. Almost promptly, Stiles shuffled into an upright position so he was resting on his knees with his brows creased in the centre with perplex. “Hold on—” He uttered to Malia with his full fixation settled on his bedroom door as he began to track his way closer toward it before slowly drawing it open and stepping out onto the stretch of landing. He seemed to pick up on distance stifled cries along with a few murmurs that he couldn’t quite analyse but they sounded strangely familiar to him, even with his human abilities of hearing which weren’t all that satisfying considering Stiles had the tendency to listen endlessly to loud and obnoxious music. “Dad?” He swallowed the lump in his throat as he swiftly switched a terse glance to Malia before making his way to the top of the stairs, his fingers naturally hooking their way around the banisher as he peered down them to try and adjust his focus into the conversation being held downstairs in the small dining area. It was rare that the Stilinski’s ever got guests, and if they did- it was never for his father, it was more so for Stiles even though the only female company he really ever got was Malia now and she seemed to find her own way in through his bedroom window rather than the front door. Once again, he took a glimpse from over his broad shoulders to scan for a sign of her who was more than bound to tailgate after him out of instinct along with inquisitiveness.  

…imperfection is in some sort essential to all that we know of life. It is the sign of life in a mortal body, that is to say, of a state of progress and change. Nothing that lives is, or can be, rigidly perfect; part of it is decaying, part nascent. The foxglove blossom, — a third part bud, a third part past, a third part in full bloom, — is a type of life of this world. And in all things that live there are certain irregularities and deficiencies which are not only signs of life, but sources of beauty. No human face is exactly the same in its lines on each side, no leaf perfect in its lobes, no branch in its symmetry. All admit irregularity as they imply change; and to banish imperfection is to destroy expression, to check exertion, to paralyze vitality.
—  John Ruskin, “The Nature of the Gothic”
humility in humiliation

Yesterday I posted a picture of myself, and that was actually only one of many I took in that changing room, and one of maybe two or three I could bear looking at; I suppose they were “lucky angles”, those ambiguous shots where you can’t tell one’s weight with certainty.

There was another picture I intended to post, one in an unflattering, almost maternity type dress, and me half-amused holding my huge bloat baby belly, which I still think is a funny picture, but the thought of potentially hundreds of people seeing it, asserting, analyzing and assessing my weight gain terrifies and humiliates me.


Sometimes I wonder who even remembers my other body.
I’m convinced the majority is secretly jubilating that I’m not the thinnest anymore.

And suddenly it becomes clear why some people rigidly post “before and after” progress photo sets, while simultaneously demanding people not comment on their bodies despite the subject at hand;

Being told that I looked near death’s door may validate my lost perception of being ill, but at the same time it manifests my current status of looking healthier, which I embrace and reject so viciously and ambivalently.

The Place You'll Always Remain

I wrote another thing real quick.  It’s post-my ending (AKA THE REAL ENDING) of AFiN. It’s like… one part angst, two parts fluff?  Maybe the other way around.  Eh.  IN ANY CASE HERE YOU GO


Tension hung between them as Gabrielle spread their bedrolls in the grass. Being back in Greece was a relief after everything that had happened in Japan, but something still didn’t feel quite right. Xena poked rigidly at the embers of their campfire, her eyes darting from her saddlebags to the fireflies in the distance and then back to the smoldering ashes. She was always quiet, but she’d been unusually withdrawn for the past couple of weeks.

Probably still upset about not being allowed to sacrifice herself for those souls. Gabrielle frowned. Did she really have that much of a death wish? Clearly her own faith in her redemption was weaker than Gabrielle had thought.

“Xena,” she said with a sigh and sat next to her. Xena didn’t look up until Gabrielle touched her arm.

“Hm?”

“Are you okay?” It was a stupid question, but she felt compelled to ask it anyway.

A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Xena’s mouth. “Yeah,” she said, her eyes softening as they met Gabrielle’s. “I was just…”

“Thinking?” Gabrielle finished for her. She reached out to take Xena’s hands and ran her thumbs over the roughness of her knuckles. Xena squeezed reassuringly. They were a warrior’s hands, strong and hard, but they knew how to be gentle.

“Yeah,” Xena said again.

Gabrielle tugged at her, nodding towards the bedrolls she’d pulled together in customary pallet formation. “Don’t.” Xena started to shake her head, but Gabrielle insisted. “Come on, Xena. It’s late. Lie down with me. Please?”

Xena’s smile warmed a little and Gabrielle knew she’d won. “You know I can’t say no to you when you ask so nicely,” Xena said, a touch of humor in her voice. Gabrielle grinned. It was good to see her coming back into herself.

“I could ask a lot more nicely than that,” Gabrielle said, her voice low and sultry, as she ran a hand up Xena’s thigh underneath her robe. Xena swatted her away and she frowned. “What?”

“I just don’t feel like it yet.”

“Xena,” Gabrielle chided, pulling her down into their nest of blankets. “You can’t keep agonizing like this. You didn’t do anything wrong. Everything is going to be just fine. You’re allowed to enjoy yourself, you know.”

Xena turned away, her mouth half-open, searching for the right words. Gabrielle pulled one of her hands to herself and kissed the flesh of her palm and then the inside of her wrist. Xena shivered.

“No guilt,” Gabrielle whispered, massaging her hand as she planted another light, slow kiss farther up her forearm where the robe fell away, the muscle hard under her lips. “Just us.”

Xena didn’t meet her gaze. Gabrielle rose and moved to straddle her, reached for her chin and tilted her face to look into her eyes.

“I love you, Gabrielle,” Xena said, her voice breaking. Gabrielle’s pulse quickened. Her chest still fluttered every time she heard those words. She cherished them like the most rare and precious of gems. She swore she would remember each and every time Xena ever said those words.

She swept her eyes over the lean, perfect body beneath her, and then something occurred to her. She pulled Xena’s robe open and pushed it off her shoulders.

“Gabrielle—“

“Wait,” Gabrielle said softly. “I need to see.”

Xena shifted accordingly to help Gabrielle remove the last of her clothing.

Gabrielle reached out and touched her shoulder where an arrow had pierced her broken, hanging body. Understanding lit in Xena’s eyes as she took a long, shaky breath.

Her fingers trailed from one shoulder to the other, then down her arm, then down her chest to her stomach where she let her touch linger. No new scars. A vision of Xena’s body, mutilated and riddled with arrows, flashed in her mind and her throat clenched. She touched the familiar scar on Xena’s chest, the old one. It was still her body, somehow. It was still her.

“Gabrielle,” Xena said, softly this time, soothing and slow and warm. Gabrielle rolled off of her and collapsed into her, burying her face in her shoulder. Xena’s arms enveloped her, firm, solid. Real. “I’m here,” Xena whispered, running her fingers through her hair. Gabrielle pushed harder into her shoulder, wanting the closeness to chase the memories away. “I’m here now,” Xena repeated, kissing the top of her head. “I’m not gonna leave you again. It’s all right.”

“You don’t know what it was like,” Gabrielle said, her voice muffled and quivering. “Finding you like that and—“

Xena cut her off and pushed her back to look into her eyes. “Shh. Don’t, Gabrielle, no.” A pleading note edged her voice. “It’ll just upset you more. Looks like we both have some things we need to work on not thinking about, huh?”

Gabrielle nodded, shaking now. Xena hugged her and held her tight. As usual, Xena put her own feelings aside to jump to comfort her partner. She was always doing that. It was beautiful and heartbreaking and one of the things Gabrielle loved best about her.

Gabrielle sat up and sighed. Xena looked up at her, her eyes light and piercing even in the dark. Those eyes begged her to forget, to be happy, to love her and let herself be loved. The constriction in her chest slowly unfurled as she touched Xena’s cheek and then her lips. Xena kissed her fingertips, sending tingles shooting up her arm. She pulled at the strings on Gabrielle’s own robe and watched it fall away.

Xena sat up, reached behind her neck and captured her lips. Gabrielle moved willingly into her, craving the contact, the familiarity, the assurance that everything between them would be the same as it’d always been. She pushed Xena’s mouth open with her own and sucked in a hard breath at the warm, curling pressure of Xena’s tongue against hers. Xena responded in kind, and for a moment the kiss was almost frantic, Xena’s ragged breaths and reassuring murmurs filling her ears as their fingers raced to shed the rest of their clothes.

Then she twisted and Xena caught sight of her tattoo and paused. “Turn around,” she said, marveling—reverent, almost. Gabrielle slumped.

“I hate it,” she said. It was just another reminder of everything that happened, everything she would burn the Fates’ loom a thousand times over to take back. Xena adamantly shook her head.

“It suits you. It honors your strength…” She kissed between Gabrielle’s shoulder blades and the bard found her breaths quickening again. “…your courage.” Another kiss, lower this time. “You—“ A kiss at the small of her back. Xena’s hands roamed over her body as she spoke. “—are the bravest person I’ve ever met.” Gabrielle stiffened as Xena’s hands worked at her hips, traced patterns over her inner thighs. Her eyes fell closed and her blood sang. “And the kindest, and the purest.”

She wheeled around to push Xena back down, her hand resting in the center of her chest. She stared down at her, her gaze unyielding, taking all of her in by force. Xena froze, staring back, seeming to give way to her command. Her breathing drowned out the chirping of crickets and crackling of the embers in the fire. All of Gabrielle’s senses were flooded with nothing but Xena, the nervous flicker of her eyes, the clean smell of her, the pooling of her long, dark hair against their pillows.

“You are my tree in the forest,” Gabrielle said, her voice even and serious, her gaze still unbroken. Xena reached to trace the curve of her hip, her lips parted slightly, as she returned Gabrielle’s stare in open, unadulterated awe.

Xena looked at her like that the whole time and it filled her with a heady, reckless joy. Every time she looked into those endless blue eyes she saw herself as Xena saw her: a golden lioness in the night, an idol, a goddess. Xena worshipped her with her hands and her mouth, made her tremble and cry out and dig fresh marks into that new, unmarred flesh.

“Now, these are battle scars I can wear with no guilt,” Xena said, motioning at the scratches on her back and arms, with a lightness that filled Gabrielle with relief. They both laughed, uneasily at first, but then again with abandon and bliss.

Xena kissed her tenderly, cupping her cheek, and she was fragile and young again for a few fleeting moments.

“Xena,” she whispered, trailing her fingertips across her lips, “you’re mine, aren’t you?”

Xena grabbed her hand and kissed it over and over. “Only yours. Forever.”

They lay together, safe in each other’s arms, and Gabrielle felt as infinite as the night sky. Xena’s lips painted stars on the canvas of her body until she could no longer sense them, lulled into half-sleep by the final darkness left in the campfire’s wake.

No matter what happened, her mind whispered as dreams took her, some part of her would live forever in this moment. No future could take this away from her: the peace, the warmth of Xena’s arms against the cool night air. She had never once been more sure of every decision—every mistake, every tortured step down every rugged path—in her life that had led her here, to where she belonged, and to the place she’d always remain.

DSM-5 Diagnostic Criteria for Obsessive Compulsive Disorder

A. Presence of obsessions, compulsions, or both:

Obsessions are defined by (1) and (2):

  1. Recurrent and persistent thoughts, urges, or images that are experienced, at some time during the disturbance, as intrusive and unwanted, and that in most individuals cause marked anxiety or distress.
  2. The individual attempts to ignore or suppress such thoughts, urges, or images, or to neutralize them with some other thought or action (i.e., by performing a compulsion).

Compulsions are defined by (1) and (2)

  1. Repetitive behaviors (e.g., hand washing, ordering, checking) or mental acts (e.g., praying, counting, repeating words silently) that the individual feels driven to perform in response to an obsession or according to rules that must be applied rigidly.
  2. The behaviors or mental acts are aimed at preventing or reducing anxiety or distress, or preventing some dreaded event or situation; however, these behaviors or mental acts are not connected in a realistic way with what they are designed to neutralize or prevent, or are clearly excessive.
    Note: Young children may not be able to articulate the aims of these behaviors or mental acts.

B. The obsessions or compulsions are time-consuming (e.g., take more than 1 hour per day) or cause clinically significant distress or impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of functioning.

C. The obsessive-compulsive symptoms are not attributable to the physiological effects of a substance (e.g., a drug of abuse, a medication) or another medical condition.

D. The disturbance is not better explained by the symptoms of another mental disorder (excessive worries, as in generalized anxiety disorder; preoccupation with appearance, as in body dysmorphic disorder; difficulty discarding or parting with possessions, as in hoarding disorder; hair pulling, as in trichotillmania [hair pulling disorder]; skin picking, as in excoriation [skin-picking] disorder; stereotypes, as in stereotypic movement disorder; ritualized eating behavior, as in eating disorders; preoccupation with substances or gambling, as in substance-related and addictive disorders; preoccupation with having an illness, as in illness anxiety disorder; sexual urges or fantasies, as in paraphilic disorders; impulses, as in disruptive, impulse-control, and conduct disorders; guilty ruminations, as in major depressive disorder; thought insertion or delusional preoccupations, as in schizophrenia spectrum and other psychotic disorders; or repetitive patterns of behavior, as in autism spectrum disorder).

Specify if:

With good or fair insight: The individual recognizes that obsessive-compulsive disorder beliefs are definitely or probably not true or that they may or may not be true.
With poor insight: The individual thinks obsessive-compulsive disorder beliefs are probably true.
With absent insight/delusional beliefs: The individual is completely convinced that obsessive-compulsive disorder beliefs are true.

Specify if:

Tic-related: The individual has a current or past history of a tic disorder.

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