OCs + Discworld Quotes - The Author-Creature

Stories, great flapping ribbons of shaped space-time, have been blowing and uncoiling around the universe since the beginning of time. And they have evolved. The weakest have died and the strongest have survived and they have grown fat on the retelling… stories, twisting and blowing through the darkness. And their very existence overlays a faint but insistent pattern on the chaos that is history. Stories etch grooves deep enough for people to follow in the same way that water follows certain paths down a mountainside. And every time fresh actors tread the path of the story, the groove runs deeper. (Terry Pratchett, Witches Abroad)

When I see you
It’s like taking a rope and splitting up the threads. When twisted tight enough they appear uniform, but as soon as you uncoil them, even so slightly, they split off into a thousand directions. I feel as if I’m being split into a thousand directions.
There’s the most logical part of me. I know better. I don’t want to hurt myself or him, but then there’s you. Oh, you. Most distracting you who splits my heart in two. Most awful for me.
When you run your fingers through my hair I feel more awake than ever. At the same time I feel relaxed, as of I can really sleep. I want to sleep there forever. Your nails itch along my back and all I want is for your palm to lay flat. I want you to hold on, not move and scratch. I want it to stay still but that has other pretenses.
When I tap you on the tip of your nose I really want to be holding your chin, turning it, facing mine. I want you. You’re like a dripping, oozing steak and I’ve got a heart condition. Your red meat could kill me with one bite but I ache for the feeling of the gristle between my teeth.
You’re the apple and the snake. You’re the whole fucking garden and I’m locked outside the gate.

”From the Mahakundalini the universe has sprung. In Her Supreme Form She is at rest,coiled round and one (as Chidrupini) with the Siva-bindu. She is then at rest. She next uncoils Herself to manifest. Here the three coils of which the Kundalini Yoga speaks are the three Gunas and the three and a half coil are the Prakriti and its three Gunas, together with the Vikritis. Her 50 coils are the letters of the Alphabet. As she goes on uncoiling, the Tattvas and the Matrikas, the
Mother of the Varnas, issue from Her. She is thus moving, and continues even after creation to move in the Tattvas so created. For, as they are born of movement, they continue to move. The whole world (Jagat), as the Sanskrit term implies, is moving. She thus continues creatively acting until She has evolved Prithvi, the last of the Tattvas. First She creates mind, and then matter. Shakti, and Kundalini Shakti. The difference between the two is
that they are Shaktis in specific differentiated forms in movement; and Kundalini Shakti is undifferentiated, residual Shakti at rest, that is, coiled. She is coiled in the Muladhara, which means ‘fundamental support’, and which is at the same time the seat of the Prithvi or last solid Tattva and of the residual Shakti or Kundalini. The body may, therefore, be compared to a magnet with two poles. Thus, when completely dynamic,that is when Kundalini unites with Siva in the Sahasrara, the polarisation of the body gives way. The
two poles are united in one and there is the state of consciousness called Samadhi. The polarisation,of course, takes place in consciousness. The body actually continues to exist as an object of observation to others. It continues its organic life. But man’s consciousness of his body and all other objects is withdrawn because the mind has ceased so far as his consciousness is concerned, the function having been withdrawn into its ground which is consciousness.”


legendofstormfall asked:

The faery hadn't dare moved the entire time Kayto was asleep, not wanting to disturb him after he'd drifted off against him. But as he'd looked at the other, he decided he would finally /say something/. And now that the blond was awake, here was a good a time as any. "Hey, uh.. Mate..? D'you think we could talk about somethin', or is it a bad time.."

“….hm?” The Frostaroan questioned, looking up at the other once he was fully awake. Still slightly groggy, perhaps. But it WAS roughly two a.m. “Uh..sure. We’re both sorta just laying here, so I don’t see why it’d be a bad time.” Kayto shrugged as he sat up and stretched a bit. Fairly toned muscles uncoiling under the dark fabric of his t-shirt, soon followed by a lazy yawn.

Despite the rumpled appearance of his clothes and hair, Kayto actually felt fairly rested. It may have been still late at night, but honestly…falling asleep on Ciaran may have given him the best sleep he’d had in awhile. It was sort of nice, to simply be close to another. Listen to their heartbeat, and slowly drift to sleep.

fireplace stories

every time he went away
swinging on the umbilical chord
southward; our eyes did not well,
no one was particularly forlorn

our cinder blocks for shoulders
would collapse as Legos, our baby
rumps would rumple with ease;
Cheshire smiles would uncoil over
Frosted Flakes and music from
an AM station out of Manhattan
would fill the kitchen

Radio Wado, Mami could sing!

we, it turned out, could be us
and he could be him

that was then
when we were kids


“I don’t have friends.”

Victor says the words so quietly, Sherlock isn’t sure, at first, that he means to say them at all.

Sherlock is slack-jawed, his muscles uncoiling on a pile of cushions in the corner of Victor’s dorm room. His wine glass, tragically empty, lies on its side, too far out of reach. He believes someone knocked it over while trying to walk past him, maybe (probably) on purpose.

Now Victor is sitting on the ancient ottoman, looming over Sherlock, beautiful and reeking of cigarette smoke. Sherlock vows to take up smoking over the summer holiday so he will have an excuse to be near Victor more often, when school starts again. He imagines taking a cigarette from him, placing it between his lips, offering it for Victor’s flame.

Burn me up.

Victor repeats himself: “I don’t have friends.”

“What?” Sherlock struggles to sit up. The cushions shift beneath him. Zeus, who has curled up on the pillow nearest Sherlock’s head, growls a protest, then settles back into sleep with a sigh.

Victor watches Sherlock, his smile gentle, his teeth just showing between barely parted lips. His lips are so full. They look soft.

In the mind palace, sometimes they are soft, yielding and warm and wet. Sometimes they are firm.

Just a reminder, I am writing this fic about Sherlock’s mind palace and all the things he does there. It starts with viclock and will move forward through the series timeline, but right now it’s got a lot to do with uni crushes and how they might play out. 

This bit is from chapter 2 but you might as well start with chapter 1 if you haven’t taken a look yet

sugar face

The first time I saw her face, in a shy little photo sent to me — apprehensive, maybe even anticipating — I bit my lip. What a girl. What a fucking fantastic girl. The sizzle that followed every inch of my body at the sight of her was very, very real. My cock practically uncoiled, getting harder just from the thought of experiencing every possible sexual expression etched on her face.

The dozy, delighted, lazy bliss after every orgasm that came from my lips, my fingers, my cock. The teasing twinkle when she said my favorite word: Daddy. The ocular outrage straining her eyes open when I surprised her with how rough I’d fuck her (as if this was any surprise: a promise, my darling, is a promise.)

doegred-main asked:

Maitimo's muscles seemed to relax as his brother's figure emerged from the doorway, still his expression remained gently unreadable as he wrapped himself in a towel with quick nonchalance. A theory of droplets linked him to the treshold to his private baths and, on the other side the water splashed once as if something had fallen in (or gotten out). "I wasn't expecting you to come so early after the mingling, Curvo." (1)

The prince clicked his tongue pensively, discretely uncoiling his braid from the top of his head and, inconspicuously, taking one step forward, so to remain in front of the door. “I am afraid you will have to come back later to find me ready to travel.” (2 end)

  • Please explain to my Muse why you’re naked.

A thin and enchanting ray of light was falling right upon the lock of his brother’s door, an ironical and seemingly divine portent, or maybe only an amusing coincidence, a lighting effect created by the window pane in a gorgeous display of splendor; Nothing less than a fragment of beauty breaking away from its sacred restraints.

The young Noldo observed it silently, gold and silver floodlighting the corridor in a cascade of trenscental sparks, and with an amused smile he opened the door, leaving the luminous sight behind but keeping its grace in the back of his mind.  

He hadn’t expected to find his brother bare, with only a towel to cover his tall frame, and with another smirk, Curufin respectfully looked away. “And I was expecting you to welcome me with a bit of decensy.” It was no more than a gentle mockery, and the smirk on Curufinwë’s lips was derisive, but not cruel. “As far as I remember, we agreed to leave early, thus I was convinced you would be ready before me.” His eyes were still wandering away, over the furnitures and the walls, notincing a slight unevenness on one of them and the droplets on the floor.

The sound of the water spashing pulled him away of his contemplation, and with a blink, his eyes returned to Maitimo’s face. Curufinwë said nothing, taking advantage of the silence to try to catch any other sound, and his brother’s next movement only awoke his suspicion.

“I see.” He said quietly as he tried to prevent his smirk from returning to his lips, his left hand playing with the tips of his riding gloves which were hanged on his belt.

Despite the mask of impassivity behind which his brother was hiding, a few doubts were creeping through Curufinwë’s mind, bringing with them skepticism and questions. Questions which would surely not receive any answer, and yet, it was hard to ignore them now.

With a graceful movement and a teasing glance, Curufin stepped toward the closest wall, and slowly leaned against it. He was convinced his brother wouldn’t speak, but the game promised to be entertaining… if he could make it last.

“Do you mind if I wait here while you get ready? Tyelkormo is already in the stables and I promised him that we would join him later.”

Small Secrets

Where I work
out of doors
children come
to present me
with an acorn,
a pine cone–
small secrets–

and a fat
grass snail
who uncoils
to carry his
whorled house
over the top
of my table

With a pencil
I nudge him
back into
himself, but
fluid horns
unfurl, damp
tentacles, to

probe, test
space before
he drags his
forward again
on his single
muscular foot

rippling along
its liquid self-
creating path.
With absorbed,
animal faces
the children
watch us both

but he will
have none of
me, the static
angular world
of books, papers–
which is neither
green nor moist–

only to climb
around, over
as with rest-
less glistening
energy, he races
at full tilt
over the ledge

onto the grass.
All I am left
with is, between
pine cone & acorn,
the silver smear
of his progress
which will soon

wear off, like
the silvery galaxies,
mother of pearl
motorways, woven
across the grass
each morning by
the tireless snails

of the world,
minute as grains
of rice, gross
as conch or
triton, bequeath-
ing their shells
to the earth.

–John Montague, A Slow Dance, 1975


The staircase spirals 
like a snake
uncoiling surreptitiously
like a sly smile
slithers across a devious face
like a rattle
concealed in the grass
with each step
trepidation echoes
like a premonition 
like the taste of venom
waiting to strike
when you are 
too dizzy and weak
from climbing in circles.

Afterward, there was a lot of discussion about what people had thought it was. The noise had seemed to come from all corners of the sky at once.

Journalists, armed with the thesaurus and apocalyptic scriptures, fumbled and were defeated by it. “A gulfy deliquescence of deranged and harnessed air” … “A volcano of the invisible, darkly construed” …

To the pleasure faithers with tiktok affections, it was the sound of clockworks uncoiling their springs and running down at a terrible speed. It was the release of vengeful energy.

To the essentialists, it seemed as if the world had suddenly found itself too crammed with life, with cells splitting by the billions, molecules uncoupling to annihilation, atoms shuddering and juggernauting in their casings.

To the superstitious it was the collapsing of time. It was the oozing of the ills of the world into one crepuscular muscle, intent on stabbing the world to its core for once and for all.

To the more traditionally religious it was the blitzkrieg of vengeful angel armies, the awful name of the Unnamed God sounding itself at last - surprise - and the evaporation of all hopes for mercy.

One or two pretended to think it was squadrons of flying dragons overhead, trained for attack, breaking the sky from its moorings by the thrash of tripartite wings.

In the wake of the destruction it caused, no one had the hubris or courage (or the prior experience) to lie and claim to have known the act of terror for what it was: a wind twisted up in a vortical braid.

In short: a tornado.

Why snakes get a bad rep is beyond me. I’m far more likely to die from the venom pumped out of the fangs of society than that of any cobra.

I look forward to my expiration date, on which the snakes can finally uncoil from my body and slither away. In their wake they leave a transparent shell from their molting, a serene after image of a past presence.

I quote as I listen. In all books there are places where the stones seem to be coming loose, stones that with a flick of a finger we might pull or dislodge and pocket, like that dark volcanic ore in the summer wall outside Augusta in Shawshank, in that field a field no more, not yet meadow. 

The old books are wildest, the least cultivated, the meadows crazed with flowers and sown with salt and teeth and men’s bones under rain and sun and a thousand turnings of the same moon and the same stars, wheeling and circuiting, surprised in their changelessness as the gods were with us in what we do and do again. 

I read, which means I ramble. On each walk I take each evening the four or five best thoughts round themselves into a story that’s not about that walk but about something else, something that would make that walk vast and indeterminate, like a snake uncoiled. Or say the walk itself is a journey or a pilgrimage, beginning here and ending there. But the story of that walk forms a circle and links itself like a snake coiled around those four or five revolving points, like pylons straddling the mountains, and single lights reiterant as light itself falls. 

Quoting is like this. I read Emerson, Robert Burton, Montaigne, even Shakespeare like this: not through but over. These books I find myself reading in reverse, following some irregular (memorial) beat, more often than forward, at march tempo. Or say whatever I quote, each time, is the epigraph to that single book I’ve yet to write. Instead of the dozen I will. I took a braid out of Baudelaire once for a sheaf: ‘Quelle ordre impérieux ! quelle fanfare de lumière !’ etc. But Coleridge would have been just as good, or better.

There are fields untilled that meadows remember, as they turn wild again. I miss the east.

And the underwire in my one good bra just snapped, my (step) grandmother just found out she has cancer in her spine…. Like uncoils really just go for some good news right now. Just anything.


So these are my idiot children. 

Neither have ever had a problem with the feeding tongs before. Until last feeding day. Both managed to bite the tongs when they grabbed their dinner. Sithis completely ripped them out of my hands, and because of the way he struck, he somehow managed to end up with his whole body upside down? And he finished his meal just like that. 

Vaermina, though. This little darling. I don’t know how she did it. I honestly have no clue. She bit, and she curled around the prey and the tongs, and so I set them down to wait until she uncoiled. Well when she finally did, she was inside the tongs. I was almost impressed, except that I then had to untangle her. Oh, and she popped the prey. So that feeding experience was just really great for everyone. Hoping tonight goes a little smoother. 

Please excuse the mess in Mina’s tank… I didn’t notice it until I was feeding her, because her hide had been over that spot. It was replaced while her mouth was full.