#his hair and renewed strength and vitality

[krakoan]

AU in which Charles, Erik and Raven are a throuple.

[razorblade180]

Feast of Pursuit pt2

[Day 5]

It was a massacre. There had been abyss domains throughout the adventures of Aether and his friends that had brought them all to their knees outside the portal. This however, might be the first time an event brought such hopeless.

Countless pyro, hell, numerous support and multiple captains of teams laid along the ground utterly battered and bruised. Even Aether himself got a glimpse of what terror was on day 5.

Aether:That turtle has to fucking die.

Tighnari:HOW!? We can have the power but lack the defense! We can gain the defense but lack the power!

Yanfei:Can anyone explain to me how hydro is completely ineffective against an electric shield, but not the other way around!? It’s limiting so much options!

Klee:I don’t wanna play anymore…

Emilie:It struck me from across the field.

Dehya:It tore through my defenses.

Kokomi:It tore through my health! My health! I don’t want to brag but I’m pretty sturdy.

Zhongli:It broke my shield in seconds. Aether, I don’t this one is possible.

Yoimiya:I can’t feel my fingers. Hehe, training with the Raiden Shogun doesn’t feel this electrifying.

Lyney:I don’t want to be that person, but I can think of one person who probably would’ve made this a little easier.

Hu Tao:*sits up*….Aether, I have permission to go ask anyone for help, right?

Aether:Yep. If it’s possible.

Hu Tao:Time to go back to older days.

xxxxx

Hu Tao:*opens door* Hello my old partner in crime. I require your assistance!

Jean:…*closes book* You must be desperate. Is it an Electro Lector?

Hu Tao:It’s much worse. You have to keep everyone alive this time. It might take multiple attempts and you might even want to give up halfway through but-

Jean:Let’s go. You never ask for a healer, so I know this means a lot to you. *walks off* How out of the box is the plan?

Hu Tao:You’re familiar with the setup.

xxxxx

As a funeral director with sacred rites passed down, the essence of death was more familiar to Hu Tao than most people. Even so, rarely was it ever pushed to the limit for too long.

What attempt was this? Five? Fifteen? She lost track. In fact, she wasn’t really keeping track of anything anymore. Movements had become second nature, a torturous yet necessary muscle memory. Lightning called for her demise, but wind pushed away from the brink. Flames ate het vitality while granting her strength and renewing vigor to be eaten away yet again for the sake of power. Again and again, her body was guided by butterflies through the numbing chaos until…

Jean:HU TAO!

A strong shake jolted her out of the flow state she found. The funeral director looked over her shoulder to see Jean gripping Homa to prevent another swing. She was utterly exhausted to the point her hair was undone. The arms of Bennet and Furina held her body tightly in place; both of them were drenched in sweat and elemental energy just like she was from the attacks. Hu Tao finally looked ahead to see the turtle completely limp.

Hu Tao:Oh…it’s dead.*drops to knees* Thank goodness.

Time- 2 minutes and 28 seconds.

xxxxxx

Hu Tao:*face down* Lyney? My humble magician?

Lyney:Yes?

Hu Tao:I say this with respect; you never need to wish your Father was around when you can rely on me.

Lyney:You did this to prove a point!?

Hu Tao: I tend not to take these things too seriously, but Aether and so many others put their time into making me feel strong and dependable. I’m never going to betray those acts of kindness. Crowns aren’t just for show.

Chongyun:And every day you earn yours. *pats head* Good hustle.

Hu Tao:It was a team effort. When in doubt, Sunfire it out. Not to mention a very dedicated actress who knows how to fill a role.

Furina:I want a vacation!! I could sleep forever!

[Day 6]

Aether:Hey. How’s-

Ei:I can kill it.

Aether:….

Ei:We’ve had our ups and downs in the past, but Aether, I can kill this fungal beast. The Terrashroom barely hangs on but I know my strikes will find its mark. My chosen companions have no flaws that k can’t cover; all we need is a bit more power. I am not one to beg or plead, but I am asking you to put your faith in my blade. Let me strike down our enemies.

Aether:…It’s been a long time coming. I believe you. *pulls out crown* Give them hell.

xxxxx

Perfection is impossible, yet if there’s anyone who could get close, it’s the Raiden Shogun. Before fanfare could die, luck could run out, or music could end, Ei’s blade called for another seamless rotation to prolong the battles’s perfomance until it was the enemy that could no longer go on. Ei, feeling the mental fatigue, sighed as she put away her blade.

Time- 2 minutes and 28 seconds

Ei:Well done everyone. A flawless show of our abilities.

Yelan:I think I might hate this event.

Furina:*on her hands and knees* You and I both. There’s such thing as being too popular!

Xilonen:The three of us make a pretty decent core apparently. *sits down* Can’t say I don’t like it, but yeah, this attention sure is demanding.

Ei:I apologize. This formation was easily the most efficient to deal with this enemy.

Xilonen:Oh don’t apologize. Happy to help. *lays down* Ugh, I need a nap.

xxxxx

Aether:Good job everyone. The Teapot has freshly prepared food and the hot springs are in full effect. You should all feel proud. May we continue to get stronger as a team and individuals! *pumps fist*

Everyone:*pumps fist* To progress!

[Day 4, revisited]

Time- 2 minutes and 29 seconds

Xilonen:How did I let you talk me back into this?

Furina:Navia was really bummed out. I can’t say no to her requests. Even if she herself isn’t quite up for the challenge, she at least wanted to see it was achievable. Isn’t helping friends part of the job?

Yelan:Just admit you have a crush. It’s more admirable. It’s settled, I’m requesting time off. I don’t our ambitious leader has a problem with that.

Hu Tao:Zzzzz

Xilonen:This girl is kinda nuts. Not the strongest person I’ve met, but she comes out swinging faster and harder than most.

Yelan:Yep. Raw power is kinda her thing. It’s consistent and consistently reckless. You get used to it.

Xilonen:…So who’s Arlecchino.

Hu Tao:*sits up* Don’t worry about it. *lays back down* Zzzzz

Yelan:She woke up just for that!?

Furina:I respect it deeply.

[eddysocs]

Break Of Dawn — Daemon Targaryen x OC

Summary: Rhiannon has fallen ill, and Daemon is beside himself until she gets better.

Word Count: 626

Warnings: Mention of bloodletting and leeches

Daemon Targaryen paced the length of the dimly lit chamber, the walls echoing his footsteps in a haunting rhythm. He paused at the bedside, his eyes locked on Rhiannon, who lay feverish and pale against the bedcovers. The maester had been relentless in his attempts to draw out the illness with treatments of bloodletting, and Daemon's heart clenched every time a new leech was applied to her delicate skin.

Rhiannon's once vibrant eyes were now glassy and distant, her breaths shallow and labored. Daemon sank into the chair he kept beside her sickbed, his hand reaching out to grasp hers. Her fingers were cold and clammy, a stark contrast to the fire he knew raged within her. "Rhiannon," he whispered, his voice cracking. "You must fight this. You must."

Her only response to him was a softly anguished moan, a sound that pierced through Daemon's soul. He leaned closer, pressing his lips to her forehead, feeling the heat radiate from her fevered body. "I'm here, my love. I'm right here," he murmured, though his voice threatened to show the cracks in the facade of strength he had put on for her.

The maester hovered nearby, his face grim and serious. Emotion did not cloud his judgement as it did Daemon's. "We must continue the bloodletting, my lord. It is her best chance."

Daemon nodded, though his heart screamed in protest. He watched as the maester made another incision, the crimson flow of blood a stark reminder of his new wife's fragility. She winced, her eyes fluttering open only briefly to meet Daemon's. In that moment, he saw her fear, her pain, and it shattered him.

"I'm here," he repeated, squeezing her hand. "You're not alone."

Hours bled into each other, the night a relentless torment of worry and helplessness. Daemon never left her side, his own strength waning with each passing moment. He whispered words of love and encouragement, his tears falling unchecked. He could not bear the thought of losing her, not after he had finally found his true match in this brutal world.

At last, Rhiannon drifted into a fitful sleep, her breathing still ragged but steadier than before. Daemon watched her, his eyes burning with tears he refused to let himself shed. He brushed a stray lock of her raven hair from her face, his heart aching with every beat. "Please, Rhiannon," he whispered to the silent room. "Please come back to me."

The hours stretched on, and Daemon found himself drifting in and out of restless slumber, his hand never leaving Rhiannon's. Dawn was breaking when he felt her fingers twitch beneath his. He jolted awake, his eyes flying to her face.

Rhiannon's eyes opened with great heaviness as she began to awake from her slumber, and for the first time in days, they held a glimmer of clarity. "Daemon," she whispered. Her voice was weakened by the illness, but unmistakably hers.

He felt a rush of relief so profound it nearly brought him to his knees. "Rhiannon," he choked out, pressing her hand to his lips. "You're awake. You're here."

She managed a faint smile, her fingers curling around his. "Did you really think you’d lost me," she chided him. How often had she promised that they’d exit this world together, that no force in the universe would be able to take her from him?

"Of course not. You are a woman of your promises," Daemon replied, grateful that she was well enough to make a little levity of the situation.

As the sun rose, bathing the room in a soft golden light, Daemon held Rhiannon close, finally finding a semblance of peace. She was through the worst, and given some time, would be returned to him renewed of her vitality.

For @sicktember

Forever Tag: @baubeautyandthegeek, @kmc1989, @curious-kittens-ocs, @fanficanatic-tw, @gcthvile, @kenjioharashotspot

[drangeax]

Time and Tide waits for no one

Pairing: Terra/Aqua

Rating: T

Word Count: 1,370

Summary: Aqua was in the Realm of Darkness for twice as long.

Read on AO3

Beneath the eerie glow of the midnight sun, Aqua finds herself staring at the edge of darkness, a desolate expanse of dark waters stretching endlessly before her. She had enough. She’d lingered forever in this forsaken place, clinging to hope that had long withered away.

“Drown…just drown…” she whispers, the vastness of the sea swallowing her words.

Driven by despair, she succumbs to the urge, walking to her soon-to-be watery grave. It reaches her waist immediately, freezing, a thousand needles prickling her skin to make her desist. She wades deeper, the frigid waters rising to her shoulders, making it hard to breathe. 

She stands on the brink finally, head barely above water as she stares at the ominous sky. “Drown…just drown…” she whispers once more, her voice choked with tears as she prepares to let go.

Heart heavy with sorrow, she surrenders, plunging into the depths below. It’s dark and lonesome…a horrible way to die. Aqua hugs herself holding her breath, a counterintuitive action to her goal. The air begins to run out, her lungs desperately craving it as everything fades into obscurity around her.

Drown…

Yet, enveloped in the cold embrace of the seas, in the depths of her despair, a spark ignites within her. Her body struggles, arms flailing until she reaches the surface, a life-saving breath setting her straight. Even more when the silhouette of an island looms on the horizon, beckoning.

Eventually, she’ll make it home.

***

Standing in the forecourt, Aqua gazes up at the castle’s ivory towers, a familiar sight she never imagined seeing again. The castle still recognizes her and invites her in like a joyous old friend. 

As she steps inside, she’s stunned by its pristine condition. There’s no damage. Everything gleams with renewed vitality, no remnants of the fight that torn it apart present. 

How?

Her answer comes when she walks into the throne room, and a man stares at her, eyes wide open in disbelief. She freezes on the spot, her eyes curiously studying the man, trying to piece out why he seems so familiar.

He towers over her, his stature imposing and commanding respect. Broad shoulders speak of strength, while streaks of gray woven into his long brown hair hint at the passage of time. Sparse facial hair adorns his features, giving him a rugged air as if he’d only recently set aside a razor.

Then there’s his deep blue eyes, eyes she’d stared into during unexpected moments…

“Aqua…?” 

***

Terra rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t know where to begin.”

Aqua’s brows knit together, arms folding across her chest. “Anywhere is fine, as long as you do.” Her eyes drift to the distant whispers of conversation in the room, the two children present most likely speculating about her. “I get the feeling I missed so much…”

“I’m sorry,” he says, his tone tinged with regret.

“You said that already but no matter how many times I say it’s fine…”

His expression softens, the pain evident in his eyes. “I didn’t expect this to happen. You were gone, vanished—I didn’t know what to do.” 

A heavy silence settles between them, her heart aching with what she could only describe as vicious claws tearing everything in its path. Regret. Misery. Despair. 

“So everyone just gave up on me?” she questions.

“Nobody could reach down there—I tried so many times but— 

Her heart sinks as she meets his gaze. “I’m lucky you even remember me,” she says, giving him a weak smile.

Terra pulls her into a hug, the warmth of his embrace a stark contrast to the emptiness she’s felt for so long. I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you. Tears dampen her shoulder as he apologizes again, his voice muffled against her skin. I’ve missed you.

“This...this is too much for me,” she murmurs, gently patting his back as she pulls away slightly. “I need time…rest a bit…” After a deep breath, she adds, “Tomorrow…I want to know everything.”

He nods in understanding, reluctantly releasing her from the embrace. “I’ll help you settle—

“I know where my room is,” she interjects, her eyes lingering on him briefly before she turns and walks away.

She couldn’t deal with this right now.

***

Her old room remains frozen in time, a poignant reminder of the life she left behind. The bed, meticulously made since her departure years ago, offers a glimpse into the past. Stars and other trinkets still cling to the walls decorating her room. An unfinished project sits patiently on her desk, a silent testament to her interrupted existence. It’s surprisingly clean for all the time that went by.

Terra kept it clean.

She sighs and searches through the drawers pulling out her old pajamas: black shorts adorned with tiny stars and a simple white shirt. Changing into them, she sinks onto the bed, her gaze drifting to the ceiling, staring for what seems like hours.

Where does one even begin after such an abrupt return? How does she deal with Terra? Tomorrow promises to be a challenging day. She’ll be forced to digest and process two decades’ worth of things she missed.

A soft knock on the door draws her back to the present. “Miss Aqua, father says dinner is ready,” a small voice calls from the other side. It’s one of Terra’s children, a reminder of the life he’s built in her absence.

“Thank you, but I’m not hungry,” she replies, feigning indifference as she turns away, burying her face on a pillow. Tears well up in her eyes, the weight of the situation crashing upon her. 

None of it made sense. How could she have lost twenty-two years of her life in the blink of an eye? She hopes it’s the Realm of Darkness playing another one of its cruel tricks on her, a nightmare from which she longs to awaken. 

***

“...replica body started giving out…leave a ‘legacy’ of sorts, a proof of existence…” Terra explains away, just as she requested.

But Aqua can’t focus. It’s overwhelming to fully grasp his words as they echo against the chaos brewing in her mind.

“And I needed students to pass on the Keyblade and our Master’s—

“Stop,” she interrupts, uncomfortable with his words.

“Am I going too fast?”

Shaking her head, Aqua responds, “I just don’t understand why you didn’t choose your students instead of…” She can’t bring herself to finish the sentence.

Is this…jealousy?

Terra’s expression shifts, understanding dawning on his eyes as he gazes at a broken branch on the tree above them. “I needed a reason to live,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “I gave up. I couldn’t go on. Not without…”

Aqua follows his gaze, her eyes landing on the broken branch and the frayed remnants of an old rope attached to it. It lines up perfectly with the bench they’re on, and the weight of his words is suddenly too real.

“Oh…”

“They saved me…raising my children is what keeps me here. I don’t regret it,” Terra continues, his voice soft but resolute.

She sighs and buries her face in her hands, a million questions still burning in her mind. What’s a replica? Why don’t they last long? Who was Xion? Who were half of the people he mentioned? Where’s Sora? 

Frustration. Anger. Anxiety.

“Are you ok?” Terra's voice breaks through her thoughts, his hand tentatively resting on her shoulder.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be, but that’s beside the question.”

Terra nods. “Ok, next question then,” he says, changing the subject.

“Where’s Ven?” she asks, unsure if she wants to know. “If the castle has returned to its normal form, where is he? You should’ve found him…”

His face darkens, a shadow passing over his features. “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask.”

“Terra, where’s Ven?” she presses, her tone firm.

He sighs heavily. “Ven is—he went looking for you. No one’s seen him ever since. Last I’ve heard he’s been up to dubious things.”

Aqua’s frown deepens, unease settling on her chest. “What do you mean, dubious things?”

Terra shifts uncomfortably, scratching the back of his head as he avoids her gaze. “Things that sound more like something Vanitas would do…”

[return-to-twisted-wonderland]

Here's Epel’s brother, Dravin Felmier

🌼🌼

Dravin Felmier

Dravin: Wealthy, Prosperous, Gold, Strength, Power

Inspiration: Golden Flower from Rapunzel

House: Pomefiore

Personality Traits: Dravin is gentle, patient, and empathetic, possessing a quiet strength that is often underestimated. While Epel fights to prove his toughness, Dravin finds power in kindness and patience, valuing the beauty and vitality of life. Though he has a soft appearance, he holds firm beliefs and possesses a resilience that surprises those who underestimate him.

Unique Magic: “Bloom of Vitality”

Dravin's Unique Magic allows him to channel a calming, golden aura that has the power to rejuvenate minor injuries or revive wilted plants. This energy spreads warmth and eases pain, creating a sense of peaceful renewal to those around him. The aura’s soothing effects can calm aggressive individuals or temporarily boost their strength through a sense of encouragement and hope.

Healing Aura: Dravin can use his golden energy to mend small wounds or ease exhaustion in himself and others.

Bloom Empowerment: His presence brings a sense of inner calm and strength, amplifying his allies' focus and resilience in tense situations.

Revitalization: Dravin's aura can encourage plant growth, causing flowers to bloom or greenery to thrive wherever he directs his focus.

Weaknesses:

Limited Range and Duration: His power is most effective in close range and fades quickly after he stops channeling it.

Energy Drain: Extended use of his magic can cause fatigue, especially when trying to heal more than one person at a time.

Vulnerability to Stronger Magic: His magic is vulnerable to dark or intense spells, which can diminish its calming effect.

Appearance and Outfit

Physical Appearance: Dravin has a fair complexion and a soft yet healthy glow to his skin, with lavender-blue eyes similar to Epel’s. His hair is a soft, lavender shade with gold blonde highlights, wavy and kept slightly longer. He has a delicate but athletic build, reflecting a hidden strength.

Uniform Modifications:

Golden Floral Embroidery: His uniform has subtle golden embroidery resembling vines and small flowers, especially around the cuffs, collar, and shoulders.

Sunflower Pendant: He wears a small sunflower pendant that symbolizes both his magical ability and his gentle personality.

Natural Elements: He carries a ring with a flower charm that occasionally glows when he uses his Unique Magic.

Personality: Dravin is calm, thoughtful, and resilient, with a natural warmth that makes others feel comfortable around him. While he may seem passive at first glance, he is firm in his beliefs and unafraid to defend those he cares about. He has a love for plants and spends time caring for the Pomefiore gardens, taking pride in bringing life to everything he touches. Dravin is a calm, gentle presence in Pomefiore, with a nurturing side that makes him a reliable support for those around him. He values beauty but believes true beauty lies in kindness, health, and vitality, in contrast to Pomefiore’s focus on external appearances.

His World is Based On: Kirby

🌼🌼

A gentle lad compared to his brother.

ALSO KIRBY!

[pe4nutastic]

Escape to Earth

After that little warm-up drabble that I wrote the other day, I've decided to get to something that I've wanted to write for a while. I don't know how good it is exactly, but I'm just happy to have finished it at all. In any case, this drabble focuses on an early chapter of Giegue's life whereby George, Maria, and Giegue (as a kid ofc) attempt to escape the laboratory facility where the caretaking experiment involving them took place. Specifically, this writing thing opens into a major point of conflict when they are stopped by a fully-seasoned adult Psion guard.

Trigger warnings (as always) are in the tags.

Actually on second thought, just to be safe. Trigger warnings are as follows: body horror, death, gore, blood. If I've missed anything please do let me know and I'll fix it immediately.

Small stubby four-digit hands grip the slim yet notably thicker wrists of a tall slender being, sharp claws desperately digging in with great futility against cold hard skin.  It’s like trying to move a weighty statue, but this is no statue.  Against all reason, this thing he had put himself in front of, was a living creature, but something didn’t seem quite right about it.  A slight shudder shakes his petite body like a leaf in the wind.  Something felt weirdly… empty about it.  An inexplicable twinge of revulsion and he almost feels inclined to shake his head at, were it not for the currently dire situation at hand.  Something…

… –scary!  Awful!  Not normal!

The thought comes barrelling through like a bullet; faster than he can ever have hoped to stop it.  Faster than he can even chide himself for being so cruel over its appearance and body.  Faster than he had even realized what it meant to teleport in one go and teleported in kind to save his dad from this thing.  Because its eyes, previously transfixed upon the fleeing form of the human man emboldened enough to defy the supreme will of the Psions themselves, had slowly–almost lazily as if this were little more than a mere inconvenience–had swiveled down to make more direct contact with Giegue’s own, large and panic-widened pools of dark blue.

Voids.  True voids.

His mouth drops open, agape in petrifying fear.  It’s easy to mistake them for being like his based off the immediate physical characteristics… but this is different.  There’s nothing reflected in them.  Not even light or a spark of life.  There’s nothing behind them… –no understanding for anything other than to address the situation as it saw fit.  Just holes etched into a deadened visage.  Another shudder runs through him, this one far more violent than the last, as if he had just been drenched in water far beyond its piercing freezing point.

A monster.  A true monster.  Just like the scariest ones in all those old fairytales. Except it’s real.  Like a nightmare come true.

It’s terrifying.  Awful that it looks so much like him, but with an extra set of eyes and more refined features.  Is he… is he… one day going to be like that too–?

He can’t look any longer.  But, even as the impulse strikes him hard, he bites back the urge to avert his gaze or screw his eyes shut with a ferocity that would certainly draw blood if he had any… –heros don’t do that!  With renewed willpower, pointed teeth somehow gritting harder than before, claws finding strength beyond that he had thought to be his absolute physical limit to dig in more as he tries harder to push the Psion’s arms up and away from its target.  To somehow get the intended attack to change course before it can launch beyond any stopping it.  For a moment, he dares to glance back… his dad, George, disheveled (from short brown hair to his clothing) and crumpled on the pristine floors from an especially bad fall in a few initial attacks that just about missed anything vital.  Just about, but not quite.  A few bad scrapes (from what could be seen under dress pants, now torn at the bottoms and riddled with a few odd holes) oozed a moderate amount of red life liquid… –blood!... and burns scorched across now exposed forearms.

Mouth pressing into a tight line with a subtle twitch to it at the sight of his father in such a state, Giegue looks back and somehow pushes even harder.  It’s hard not to immediately let go and come running to his dad… to check on him more closely and do whatever he can to help him feel better, but if he does then, the Psion will definitely finish its attack.  Its final attack.  A small rat-like tail lashes sharply amidst the ever-rising tenseness of his midair posture, arms shaking as the adult Psion starts to effortlessly push back in the most efficient and graceful of motions, frustration starting to wet the corners of his eyes over his own lack of strength.

He isn’t like the Psion.  He can’t do all the things that it can with its powers.  He can’t do anything as advanced as it can.  He can’t even fight back.  Teleporting, floating, and moving small things is all he can do.  But he has to do something anyways.  He’s the only one that can here!  The only one of these creatures that will!  Please, please, please, if there’s anyone beyond the cosmos itself, let him find the strength to do something.  A bright flicker of luminescent blue light outlines his hands before shorting out like a glitchy screen.  A pang of sharp pain as a small crack appears on his arm and with it, a small chip flicks away and falls to the greyscale floors with a dull clatter.  Anything.  Another crack appears in his opposing arm before the luminescent blue returns more steadily, tracing every new crack that appears with its shimmery blue light as it slowly moves to outline the rest of his body, eyes screwing shut against the pain and effort as he regains ground and begins to move the offending Psion’s arms–said appendages starting to sport spidery cracks of their own–back and up along with their violent blast of energy.  Even if it’s only a little bit of power… even if it hurts… even if it takes everything he has until he has no more power left to give.

Please let him save his dad.  At that, a blinding flash of that same blue abruptly erupts everywhere, his short ears abruptly filling up with a piercing static-y nothingness, as it flares and weaves about wildly across the entire space like a particularly violent array of solar flares.

He isn’t a hero, but he’d like to be someday and use his powers to help others.  And if not that, then to make things that will help others and make them happy.

He isn’t a human, but he’d like to live on Earth with his parents and see all the things that they’ve told stories about.

He isn’t alive the same way that his parents are… that humans are… but somehow, everything can be figured out anyways.  That’s what family is for isn’t it?

So long as they have love, everything will work out in the end.

There’s no control.  Just raw power that keeps on emptying out of his body.  It’s like a tap that keeps on running, but with no means of turning back the crank.  Floors smash in a flurry of heavy dents, cracks, and greyish dust that puffs up as a result of some especially critical impacts.  Surrounding walls warp and bend inwards, suffering a few.  The redirected attack of the adult Psion had struck the ceiling and left quite a sizeable dent in it as a result–any chunks that could have otherwise fallen from it eradicated by the sheer power of its attack–before the pure and unadulterated psionic power, growing more and more in strength as it continues to seep out its source’s body at an exponential rate, strikes the same location and with it busts a gargantuan hole straight into the vacuum of space.  Not that Giegue can register any of it in his current state; completely overrun by power he was not yet prepared to properly utilize and incapable of stopping, even if he could regain enough cognizance to do so.

Nothing comes through, only dull impressions of things breaking, crunching, being destroyed and flung about with sickening smacks.  Nothing stops the unending devastation.  Nothing relents until a bloodcurdling, piercing, familiar sound punctures the dull, blinding, static-y fog which had hesitated little in filling his brain the moment pure psionic power had gushed out his tiny body and in the process of doing so, had almost broken it.  Struck with dull yet not less agonizingly painful headache, the young alien finds himself not in the air between himself and the adult Psion but on the ground a little distance away as if violently thrown there, the Psion in question nowhere to be seen… or anything else for that matter, with the air now caked thick in a grey layer of dust unnaturally suspended in it.  Squinting rather sharply as he props himself back up, a small hand moving to gingerly rub at a temple as he does so, he can almost make out a shadowy humanoid figure running off in a wrecked panic followed by the sound of a ship engine starting up, but he isn’t entirely certain.  Not with how overpowering his headache and consequent disorientation is.  Thinking is like trying to wade through molasses; difficult and incredibly slow.

A moment or two passes, the young alien blankly staring at the destroyed surroundings of the very facility which had been the only home he had ever known, and slowly but surely things gradually come into focus:

The piercing sounds of a singular note tortuously reverberating through the monochromatic and angled landscape of what had previously seemed like endless hallways.  The very hallways that Giegue himself and his parents had been traversing through to leave for good before being brought to a sudden and violent halt by the guards; a situation which had further escalated once an actual Psion entered the ‘playing field’ amongst the myriad of robots and other creatures he hadn’t quite seen before until now.

A sharpness he had never experienced before until now; oozing and pulsating wretched agony along the cracks and small chips littering his hands right to his forearms.  An odd, almost strangled, sort of sound pushes itself out his throat at that, as if somehow the shrillness and simplicity of the sound would ease away the horrid sensation now embedded in his arms.

The characteristically sanitized scent of the facility… –now marred by something vaguely metallic.  Like rust.  

… … …

A smell he had only ever detected from his parents.  An indication in humans that their life fluid had been granted a way out from their bodies.

Blood.  And quite a bit of it at that.

Gripped by a suffocating panic all at once, he fully pushes himself to his feet against all the pain and stumbles just a bit, before running towards the strongest of all the varying sources of blood slowly coming into view of his olfactory senses.  His gait is uneasy yet determined.  Weakened yet desperate.  Hoping against all hope that the worst hadn’t happened.  And yet, with every step he takes, the dusty air grows clearer and with each bit of additional clarity, more of the devastation he had not been able to register before comes into view.  Part of the ceiling seems to be sealed The hallway is riddled with numerous craters, cracks, and bits of broken floor, wall, and ceiling pieces wildly scattered about.  Smashed and warped bits of what used to be robots and heavily modified organics lay across varying points of his path, most either contorted beyond recognition or torn apart completely, bits and pieces of metallic parts and burnt flesh generously thrown askew.  Blood in an array of different colors splattered and dripping from the walls; a pop of color that the monochromatic landscape had desperately needed, but certainly not like this.  Guards that had not been smart or fast enough to take cover.  Collateral damage from the conflict.

Every horrible sight imbues a sharp pit and insatiable queasiness to where his stomach would be (if he had one) and quick aversion of his gaze away.  Out of sight.  Out of mind.  He doesn’t even want to think about the dreadful implications let alone admit to them.  Not when he’s already plagued with a flurry of nightmarish imaginations and pain.  Not when he has to get to his mom.  To make sure that she’s okay.  To help if… somehow… she… isn’t…

A freezing halt.  Both in thoughts and in hurried movements.  An enormous pool of red liquid comes all too clearly into view with a piercing clarity, especially once the last of greyish dust clears from the air.  Blood and in it, torn scraps of pink clothing and a few golden strands of hair with a definitive wave to it, as if something had been torn apart and vanquished so thoroughly, not much more could remain afterwards.

He stares.

His mind fills with a painful buzzing, rat-like tail beginning to tensely tap atop the cold and utterly ruined floors.

And stares.

The surroundings blur and blot out everything but the gruesome sight before him, clawed digits digging into his stout ears and yanking them down in such a way, if he had the strength, might have otherwise torn them off.

And stares.

Time seems to slow.  Reality and anything else utterly removed from this moment.  Teeth gritting against the invisible pain blossoming anew, exacerbating that which had already been plaguing him and adding more.  This moment.  This moment...

And… –s t a r e s.

A moment.  The buzzing reaches its fever pitch abruptly, all at once from its decidedly more humble beginnings.

Snapped.  An unfathomable coldness seeps into and infects every single fibre of his being.  He barely feels like himself anymore.  Untethered to anything, but the very dreadful truth he could not look away from.

Utterly transfixed.  Suspended in a neverending nightmare.  Unable to say or do anything with the realization that crashes into him.  Static short circuiting every single complex thought that attempts to form.  He’s stuck in this moment.

Stuckstuckstuckstuckstuck…. until… –

Gone.  She’s gone.

A stray thought which somehow miraculously starts to form; against all odds, or perhaps as part of an exceedingly delayed shock-induced process, something tethers him back.  Hands fall from his ears, tail-tapping atop the ground intensifying, legs turning to jelly and ruthlessly sending him plummeting to the floor.  He could never feel it before whenever he’d stumble and fall while playing make-believe with her, but this time everything juts into every nook and cranny of his body with a hot and fiery vengeance.

It hurts.

Something begins to build up in his throat.  Something raw, visceral, and utterly unbecoming of the crystal clear coldness displayed by the species.

It hurts.

He falls properly from his knees and lands face-first in the only thing that remains of her anymore.  His body begins to shake with a renewed violent vigor.

It’s all his fault.  

That something rises in intensity, reverberating in tune with the shaking of his body.  Rising and rising and rising, pressure building inside while the cracks across his hands and arms begin to glow with a gentle red luminescence…

All his fault.

The something bursts out in a shrill high pitch, slightly gurgled by his position, but no less piercing and rending.  Nothing else feels right.  Nothing else fits.  He just emits a bloodcurdling scream as if that would somehow empty out this excruciating pain and make everything alright again.  He screams and screams and screams until… !!!!!

A peculiar sensation.  An overwhelming static-y force on its own frequency cuts through the painful buzzing like a knife through butter.  A psychic attack on the mind.

He passes out and into a dreamless void emptiness.

[theguestblogging]

The Power and Significance of Hanuman Chalisa in English

The Hanuman Chalisa, a revered 40-verse hymn dedicated to Lord Hanuman, is a cornerstone of Hindu devotion. Composed by the great poet-saint Tulsidas in the 16th century, this devotional song has transcended time and geography, captivating the hearts of millions. As more people across the globe seek spiritual solace and understanding, the Hanuman Chalisa in English has become a vital bridge, allowing non-Hindi speakers to connect with its profound spiritual essence.

The Origin and Essence of Hanuman Chalisa

The Hanuman Chalisa was written in Awadhi, a dialect of Hindi, by Tulsidas, who is also renowned for his epic poem, Ramcharitmanas. Each verse of the Hanuman Chalisa is a tribute to the mighty Hanuman, highlighting his strength, wisdom, and unwavering devotion to Lord Rama. The hymn is not only a praise of Hanuman's virtues but also a prayer for his blessings and protection.

Translating the Hanuman Chalisa in English

The translation of the Hanuman Chalisa in English has made this sacred text accessible to a wider audience. While the essence and rhythm of the original composition are challenging to replicate, translators strive to maintain the devotional fervor and spiritual depth. Here is an example of the Hanuman Chalisa in English:

Glory to Hanuman, the ocean of wisdom and virtue, Hail the Monkey Lord who is an illuminator of the three worlds. The messenger of Rama, possessing immense strength, Anjaneya, the son of Anjana and the Wind God. With a golden complexion and great brilliance, you wear earrings and have curly hair. You hold the mace and a flag, and a sacred thread adorns your shoulder. You are the incarnation of Shiva and delight in listening to Rama’s praises. Your form is colossal, your splendor brilliant, and you remove all fear. You are the abode of the eighteen siddhis and nine nidhis, and you grant boons to all.

Spiritual Significance

Reciting the Hanuman Chalisa is believed to invoke Hanuman's divine intervention in overcoming life's challenges and obstacles. Devotees chant it to seek courage, strength, and wisdom, particularly in times of distress. The hymn's verses encapsulate the heroic deeds of Hanuman, inspiring faith and resilience.

Benefits of Reciting Hanuman Chalisa in English

For non-Hindi speakers, chanting the Hanuman Chalisa in English allows them to experience the same spiritual benefits and sense of connection. It provides an opportunity to delve into the rich tapestry of Hindu mythology and understand the values embodied by Hanuman. Some of the benefits include:

Mental Peace: The rhythmic recitation of the verses calms the mind and reduces stress.

Spiritual Growth: Understanding the deeper meanings fosters spiritual enlightenment.

Courage and Strength: The hymns empower devotees to face life's challenges with renewed vigor.

Protection: It is believed to ward off negative energies and provide divine protection.

The Origins of the Hanuman Chalisa

Tulsidas composed the Hanuman Chalisa in Awadhi, a dialect of Hindi. Each verse praises Hanuman's extraordinary qualities, recounting his strength, wisdom, and unwavering devotion to Lord Rama. This hymn not only venerates Hanuman but also serves as a source of spiritual strength for devotees.

Translating the Hanuman Chalisa in English

Translating the Hanuman Chalisa into English is a delicate task, aiming to preserve the original's devotional essence while making it accessible to a global audience. Here is a sample of the Hanuman Chalisa in English:

Spiritual and Practical Significance

The Hanuman Chalisa is recited by millions seeking Hanuman's protection and blessings. Devotees believe that chanting the hymn helps overcome obstacles, grants courage, and fosters wisdom. The Hanuman Chalisa in English allows non-Hindi speakers to partake in these spiritual benefits and to understand the profound teachings of Hinduism.

Benefits of Reciting the Hanuman Chalisa in English

Reciting the Hanuman Chalisa in English offers several benefits:

Cultural Connection: Non-Hindi speakers can connect with Hindu culture and spirituality.

Mental Clarity: The rhythmic verses promote mental peace and focus.

Spiritual Insight: Understanding the hymn's meaning deepens spiritual awareness.

Empowerment: The hymn inspires courage and resilience in facing life's challenges.

Protection: Devotees believe the hymn provides divine protection against negative influences.

The Global Impact of Hanuman Chalisa in English

The Hanuman Chalisa in English has played a crucial role in spreading Hindu spirituality across the globe. It has made the teachings and devotion to Hanuman accessible to a broader audience, transcending linguistic and cultural barriers. This has fostered a deeper appreciation of Hinduism's rich traditions and values, encouraging cross-cultural spiritual dialogue.

The Origins and Structure of Hanuman Chalisa

Tulsidas composed the Hanuman Chalisa in Awadhi, a dialect of Hindi. The hymn consists of 40 verses, each glorifying Hanuman's divine attributes, including his strength, wisdom, and devotion to Lord Rama. It begins with two introductory Doha couplets, followed by 40 Chaupais (quatrains), and concludes with a final Doha. This structure is designed to encapsulate the essence of Hanuman's character and his significant role in the Ramayana.

Translating the Hanuman Chalisa in English

Translating the Hanuman Chalisa into English involves not only linguistic conversion but also capturing the hymn's devotional spirit and poetic beauty. Here’s a more detailed rendition of some verses of the Hanuman Chalisa in English:

Hail Hanuman, ocean of wisdom and virtue, Hail, Monkey Lord who illuminates the three worlds. Renowned hero, you possess immense strength, Anjaneya, son of Anjana and the Wind God. Your golden complexion radiates with splendor, You adorn earrings and have a mane of curly hair. Carrying a mace and a flag, you are the epitome of valor, A sacred thread graces your powerful shoulder. Incarnation of Shiva, delighting in Rama’s praise, Your colossal form exudes a brilliant aura. Dispeller of fear and harbinger of hope, You are the repository of the eighteen perfections and nine treasures, And you bestow boons to all who seek your grace.

Spiritual Significance and Benefits

The Hanuman Chalisa holds immense spiritual significance for devotees. Reciting it is believed to invoke Hanuman’s divine protection and blessings. The hymn’s verses recount Hanuman's heroic deeds and his devotion to Lord Rama, providing a source of inspiration and spiritual strength.

Key Benefits of Reciting Hanuman Chalisa in English

Cultural Bridge: Non-Hindi speakers can engage with Hindu spiritual practices and culture.

Mental Peace: The rhythmic recitation promotes calmness and mental clarity.

Spiritual Growth: Understanding the hymn's meaning fosters deeper spiritual insight.

Empowerment: The hymn instills courage and resilience to face life's challenges.

Protection: Devotees believe the hymn wards off negative energies and provides divine protection.

The Role of Hanuman Chalisa in Modern Times

In today’s fast-paced world, the Hanuman Chalisa in English offers solace and spiritual grounding to people from diverse backgrounds. Its teachings on devotion, humility, and courage resonate universally, providing guidance and support in times of need. The hymn’s global reach has also facilitated a broader appreciation of Hinduism’s spiritual richness and philosophical depth.

Personal Stories of Transformation

Many individuals have shared personal stories of how the Hanuman Chalisa in English has transformed their lives. From overcoming personal challenges to finding inner peace, these testimonies highlight the hymn's profound impact. For instance, a young professional struggling with anxiety found solace in daily recitation, leading to improved mental health and spiritual well-being. Similarly, a student abroad discovered a sense of cultural and spiritual connection through the hymn, alleviating feelings of homesickness and isolation.

[xasha777]

In the year 2154, the world had changed dramatically. The fusion of technology and biology had led to the emergence of a new kind of human, one that could interact with the environment in unprecedented ways. Among these evolved humans was Elara, a young woman with striking green hair and vibrant green eyes. She lived in Montlhéry, a small town in France known for its historical significance and its cutting-edge research facilities.

Elara's green hair and eyes were not merely aesthetic; they were the result of genetic enhancements that allowed her to photosynthesize like a plant. This unique ability made her a vital asset to the Montlhéry Institute of Advanced Studies, where she worked as a biotechnologist. Her contributions were focused on developing sustainable energy sources and improving the quality of life through advanced biological technologies.

One day, while conducting an experiment in her lab, Elara received an urgent message from Dr. Marcel, the head of the institute. The message was cryptic but clear: "Project Verdant is in jeopardy. Meet me at the old observatory immediately."

Elara hurried to the Montlhéry Observatory, an ancient structure that had been repurposed for advanced astronomical research. Dr. Marcel was waiting for her, his face etched with concern. "Elara, we've intercepted communications suggesting that a rogue faction plans to sabotage Project Verdant. We need to secure the data and ensure the project's continuation."

Project Verdant was a top-secret initiative aimed at harnessing the power of photosynthetic humans to create a renewable energy source. If successful, it could revolutionize the world's energy supply. Elara's role was crucial, as her unique abilities were central to the project's success.

As they worked to secure the data, Elara's mind raced. She knew the implications of failure were dire, not just for her, but for the future of sustainable energy. The rogue faction, known as the Technos, opposed any biological advancements that threatened their technological dominance. They were ruthless and well-equipped.

Just as they finished transferring the data to a secure location, the observatory's alarms blared. The Technos had breached the perimeter. Elara and Dr. Marcel had to act fast. Utilizing her photosynthetic abilities, Elara absorbed light energy from the observatory's solar panels, amplifying her strength and speed.

They navigated through the labyrinthine corridors of the observatory, evading the Technos' drones and security bots. Elara used her enhanced reflexes to disable several bots, buying them precious time. Dr. Marcel guided her to a hidden passage that led to the old radio tower, where they could send a distress signal.

At the radio tower, they encountered the Technos' leader, a man named Raze, who had been enhanced with cybernetic implants. Raze sneered at Elara. "You think your green tricks can stop us? Technology will always prevail over biology."

Elara stood her ground, her green eyes glowing with determination. "You underestimate the power of nature, Raze. It's not about dominance; it's about harmony."

With a swift motion, Elara unleashed a burst of energy, temporarily blinding Raze and his accomplices. She and Dr. Marcel managed to send the distress signal before escaping through an emergency exit.

The response was immediate. Reinforcements from the institute arrived, securing the observatory and neutralizing the Technos. Project Verdant was safe, thanks to Elara's bravery and quick thinking.

In the aftermath, Elara reflected on the events. She realized that her journey was just beginning. The fusion of technology and biology held immense potential, and she was determined to ensure it was used for the greater good. With Montlhéry as her base, Elara continued her work, knowing that the future of sustainable energy depended on her and others like her.

[mystical-blaise]

Dadriel #11: Fear is Not My Future

Azriel reminisces fondly about the past as he simultaneously dreads what the future holds.

Read it on Ao3 here

I haven't posted anything in a while and needed to get this out of my head. Mostly fluff with a little side of emotional hurt/comfort. Enjoy!

Remember this, the shadows used to hum as Azriel held the entire world in his hand. 

Not that he needed their heeding. After all, how could he forget how impeccably both Llyr's and little Catrin's heads fit wholly cupped in the heart of his palm? 

A heartwarming, idyllic match. So miraculously perfect. 

Almost as if the Mother herself had measured his hand's span. Both of the two wriggling babes a wonderfully complicated compliment into his life—just like their mother. 

He'd never forget his first time like this. Seeing them nestled in his hold, was against a background of fuzzy snow-white whirls. The backdrop of a blanket between them.

For a while, he had been nervous to hold them like that soft to marred skin. Worried how the roughness of him would feel against such tender flesh and featherlight wisps of hair. So when he'd often hold them at night when they were newborns, he would with a blanket between them.

And it wasn't until Gwyn had caught him one night, finally realizing what he was doing, that she calmly, gently told him, Remove the barrier, my love. 

Barrier. The word tolled through him like a clear bell of challenge. 

Barrier. It had been years since he'd allowed any between himself and his beloved mate, his friends—or around his hands. He loved the feeling of Gwyn's palm and fingers, now strong and roughened from years of training, against his own. He found comfort and clarity in her touch. Renewed vitality and strength.

And wouldn't his children gain the same?

Fear, uncertainty, were the ultimate hurdle. But eventually, with deep breaths and the shadows and Gwyn's loving support and gentle coaxing, he had held them. One at a time, their tiny, precious heads in his palm, the weight of them in his arms a joy he still couldn't comprehend.

Gods, they had been soft. They'd been so wondrously soft. Like his shadows whispering over him. Like fate and love and magic given form.

Perfect. 

The sweet image of their small heads nestled in the center of his palm as he cradled them was imprinted on his soul, imparted with a promise. 

A promise he thought about every time he glanced at his hand. 

While Gwyn fretted and assessed the twins' lives in reaching milestones, Azriel measured the passing of time by his hand.

The once perfect fit was long gone, Llyr and Catrin not even needing the extra support of it anymore, each of them able to hold themselves, sit on their own. Their inquisitive son was even starting to pull himself up on furniture. 

Catrin was getting there, but she seemed content to allow her brother and others to bring things to her. Which still worried Gwyn, though their family did their best to allay her ruminating.

Don't worry, Berdara. My father often said how late I was at walking—until I saw something I wanted. Catrin is just willfully stubborn, just like her mother. Gwyn had stuck her tongue out at Nesta for that. But, her Valkyrie-sister continued, when she finally sees something she really wants, that little Valkyrie is going to run, not walk. And then you will beg the Mother for her to sit still again. 

And Azriel had little doubt about Nesta's claim. 

Even now in sleep, her ever-growing wings splayed beneath her, spread out as wide as her arms, her forehead was puckered as if she was scheming. Her small rosebud lips with the perfect bow were parted on soft puffed breaths, little snores that reminded him so much of watching Gwyn sleep. Though with her onyx hair, he could only imagine she was the spitting image of her namesake. Apart from her wings and the wavy ringlets in her hair, the little girl was most definitely a Berdara. 

He peered over at the other crib. His son, even with his porcelain skin and copper coloring, was Azriel through and through. A quiet boy, always content to assess a situation before trying. And Azriel swore Llyr was paying close attention to the shadows more now than ever, enough to make the Shadowsinger wonder.

Catrin's pitiful whimper called his attention.

It was a nightly ritual now whenever he was home—when nightmares dragged him from the little sleep his body called for—to check on his family as they slept. 

Safe, Singer. 

Safe. All of them were safe. No demons from his past or enemies of his present were here.

And that had been that promise the first time he'd held them with no barrier between them.

His children would never know the true reality of cold. Never know the bite of shackles on their wrists or ankles. They'd never long for comfort. 

They'd never question if they were loved.

Their safety would always be assured.

Safe to sleep. Safe to dream. Safe to love.

They'd have everything he didn't have. And he'd make sure of it with his last breath.

That was his promise.

And yet…

His knuckle gently smoothed over Catrin's forehead, over her chubby cheek. 

Every day, he compared their heads to his hand. Every day it sunk in that they were bigger, no longer fitting to the dimension. They were growing up. Every day was another day closer to—

Arms circled him from behind, and he stretched his wings aside as a pointy chin rested on his bare left shoulder. He sighed into her, loving to be surrounded by her softness and her scent.

"You all right?" Gwyn asked.

"Yes." He swallowed thickly. "Couldn't sleep. And you?"

"Nightmare," she sighed. His arm encircled her as he kissed her temple. Her soft chuckle caught him off guard. "Just look at them. They're getting so big." 

His throat bobbed, his fingertips and shadows grazing over the peach fuzz of the babe's cheek again. "They are. It seems they are doing new things each day. It's truly remarkable."

"It is. And yet…it worries me."

"Gwyneth Berdara, worried? No. I can't believe such a thing," he teased, earning a little playful nip to his shoulder.

"The more they move, the farther they go, the more dangers await. Cauldron, the House of Wind is built on top of a godsdamn mountain. It suddenly feels like a death trap. I shouldn't even dare blink when they're awake."

"The House won't let anything happen to them, love. Neither will we."

"Still, I'd feel better if we need to take precautions. Be proactive. Cover corners, secure doors and knobs. Gates around the stairs and fencing off the training ring." She eyed him. "How would you feel about covering the tips of your wings?"

Azriel snorted. "Gwyn, I love you and your creative mind, but there's no way in hell. Illyrians have had babies forever and I haven't read one single instance of eyes getting poked out by wing tips."

"If you insist." She exhaled, her eyes taking in the dozing girl in the crib. The shadowsinger tightened his hold on his mate. "Does it…does it make you a little sad, too?"

His lips twitched. His clever copper-headed wife always saw straight through to the heart of the matter. "It does."

"I don't know what I'm going to do when they leave to be on their own one day," she confided, her mouth trembling slightly against his collar. "Though I guess it's silly to think about right now, one day they'll be starting their own lives. It'll be up to them. They won't need us."

He kissed her again, tugging her ever closer to him, glancing between their sleeping children. "We'll always be there for them. And it's not silly in the slightest. I am, too. I think perhaps it's the nature of parenthood. The blessing of children comes with the curse of constant worry about what they will face, what the future holds. The perils. The heartache. I just…I don't want them to feel a moment of pain."

And he wouldn't be able to bear it. Because that was the risk of letting down barriers of the heart and soul—it left one vulnerable to the worst heartbreak, the greatest pain imaginable. 

The tactile fear of losing it all after he'd finally allowed himself to feel, to accept.

A panic he used to solely place on Gwyn and now…

"I wish I could relieve your fears and mine, Shadowsinger. But…it's not practical." He peered down at his lovely beauty, falling immediately into the teal orbs staring up through heavy lashes. "Some pain is simply a part of life. The elation and happiness of first loves, families and friendships can't be had without risk. Without having faith. Because you go in knowing that things could end with heartache and loss. I don't imagine the fear will ever abate. But it's worth it to experience love, is it not?"

He didn't take his eyes off of Gwyn, remembering all the times he almost lost her, had seen and felt her pain and dread. How he'd witnessed her drift away from him after the birth of their children. Hell, forget about battle; he'd been more terrified of losing her on the birthing bed—and their twins. 

Yet she was here. Now. They all were.

And he would relive his haunted past over again if it meant he'd end up right here.

Arm still wound around Gwyn, his fingertips left his daughter's brow to tip up his mate's freckled face. He'd memorized it long ago, each freckle as familiar as his own scars. And as he stared down, felt the touch of her skin against his own, without linen or fear between them, he dipped his face down and pressed a tender kiss to her lips.

Every kiss was a blessing. 

Every touch was a miracle. 

Every fear was worth living. 

The love for his family was worth everything. A love he would hold forever in his heart and carried in the palm of his hand.

[ignitification]

Midoriya Izuku - Green for Hope, Red for Burning Passion

I always asked myself why exactly Horikoshi has changed Midoriya's character design so drastically.

Indeed, we go from a character called Yamikumo who looks like a feral child with the bad habit of eating his nails off, and drinks more coffee than humanly possible to an anxious bunny who smiles awkwardly and does not know how to accept compliments.

To me, the difference is absolutely insane. Izuku's hair and eyes are uniform and reflect his character and surname. However, a thing that I find peculiar is how the dark (Black/Green) and the Red theme are a constant throughout particular tellings of his character.

The legendary red shoes are one of Deku's main features. It's part of his character. However, I just got to think why exactly (especially having an idea on why was green used for him) and I think that the answer might be very very banal. However, I do think that this is not the only reason.

First of all, there is the most simple reason which I could think of: Midoriya Izuku is described as plain. In my opinion, plain does not really define Midoriya but the concept of him being bland and capable of melting into background is fundamental to express him in the most little details (however, there are few things which inwardly contradict this description: first and foremost his freckles). But as it might be, and Midoriya is indeed considered not worthy look at for more than once (at least as described in the manga - which is also one of the reason why his design has been changed so much, as Yamikumo had literally zero chance to go unnoticed), it appears clear how this suppression of character, of wanting to relegate Mido to a background role is what instead pushes Izuku forward to make a bold choice of something like wearing red shoes. They are strikingly particular, and noticeable: which means that Midoriya is not happy about being an npc, but instead wants to be noticed and in some way stand out.

The second reason, which I mulled over if was relevant enough is All Might. A recurrent color in all All Might's costumes is Red (and Blue, which kind of reminds of Superman and the American Flag. A fact that I found interesting as well if how AM wears Blue, Yellow and Red while Midoriya wears Green and Red, and of course Blue and Yellow together form Green).

And finally the third and final reason (at least, for now) is that Red, as a colour reminds Deku of Kacchan (even if arguably, we see in the first panel of the manga how Izuku wore already his shoes so this might be false and instead it might refer to the fact that Red is Izuku’s favourite colour only), who we know he associates with victory. As the mental image of Kacchan, who was red eyes, is his substitute for him being able to stand proud, strong and capable to win, Izuku might want to express this strive to be strong.

But what do these two colours mean, stand alone ?

As for Green: this colour, in different cultures, is associated with "Hope" . I think here the main gist and general going is that Midoriya represents Hope for the Heroes, Hope for the Unwanted, the Broken and the Damned (the Villains). I talked about Izuku being a Symbol of the New Society here, but in short, with Izuku Midoriya being fundamentally associated to the colour green, I think Horikoshi wants to express two things: how Izuku never loses hope (to be a hero, to have a quirk, to be a friend to Katsuki who bullied him for years or Shouto who straight up challenged him even before getting to know him, to reach and to save everyone) and how he represents and spreads hope for others (Eri, Kouta, the same Todoroki and Katsuki).

Green indicates life, renewal, harmony and safety. Which, in this sense, points out Izuku's nature as a person and how he is bound to feel restless unless he provides comfort to everyone, and that desire to save desperately anyone who he can reach. Green is a calming and soothing colour. It also stands for prosperity, freshness and progress - which point out not only the conclusion of Deku being N1 Hero, but as well at him 'changing up' the society and becoming the Symbol of Hope and Change (on which I briefly touched upon here).

However, on a negative side it also stands for Greed (wanting to be a hero and follow AM steps even when he had a hard time adapting his body to his new quirk) and Envy (Bakugō first and foremost and the generally heroes and those who has time to wield their power properly). In this negative meaning of the colour, I think Izuku’s selfless nature comes to the surface even more: how he feels bound to feel negative emotions which spur his renewal and development (after all, he did unlock Black Whip after Monoma had insulted Bakugou), but at the same time use this emotion toward a bigger goal (him being mad at Shigaraki, but at the same time wanting to save him - I wrote about this too here).

Green, is, finally, the colour of the Heart chakra: an expression of how Midoriya puts everything before him, because his heart cannot take the selfishness of thinking of himself first, which also come hand in hand with his sacrificing nature and reminds of his name meaning and the association made with the number 9. Indeed, “Opening the Heart chakra allows a person to love more, empathise, and feel compassion” - which in short, stands for an externalisation of Mido’s personality.

On a shorter note, in Japan, the colour green represents youth, eternity, vitality and energy - which, in its own way is both a confirmation and a denial to other references made in Izuku’s character, such as his dangerous nature, him not being concentrated to live on for more than he is allowed to fulfil his duty (him being tied to number 9 and so on), and at the same time it reminds us of OfA, as it gains more power and energy and at his cheery, youthful persona.

As for Red, as the colour of Blood, it also stands to indicate '' Danger, Sacrifice, Courage" (which reconnects to his name's theory and numerology, of which I talked about here, in short).

In addition, red is usually used to professionally gain attention (it's hard to miss something so bright) and convey confidence. We know for a fact that Deku has been wearing red shoes since he was a kid (or at least, since he met Bakugō, which coincides with Izuku being four) and that despite being Quirkless, he always showed courage in standing out to people even when they thought of him as 'inferior' because on his unusual condition.

Among other negative meaning, there is an overflow of temper, anger, agitation, and overbearing, demanding and oppressive behaviours. As clear as day, these characteristics relate more to fiery Katsuki than Deku, but as stated before, Deku puts Katsuki as model and adapts his combat style to resemble Katsuki’s. So, this overflow of energy and action is a double-edged sword which affects both Katsuki and Izuku in different ways (and is mellowed out in Izuku’s character by his other soothing characteristics , but more on that later).

Also, Red, in Asia is a lucky colour which might (or not) hint at how, despite everything Izuku got his 'lucky' chance to inherit AM's power and follow his dream of becoming a hero. Particularly, in Japan this colour is associated and denotes strength, passion, self-sacrifice. A transmission of feeling as complex and empowering as the ones Deku fills while he is living his everyday life as a future hero, summed to his nature and inherited quirk.

Red is also a magical and religious color. It symbolized super-human heroism to the Greeks and is the color of the Christian crucifixion, which might be as meaningless as other things, but in this case it might greatly relate to the type of enormous power Izuku tries to reign in, and to the self sacrificing spirit which he proves again and again.

So far, the meanings of the colours which have been associated with Deku are in line with his name, his personality and even the storyline which has been drawed out.

Among other meanings red represents power, courage, energy, passion, and creates physical effects such as enhanced metabolism, enthusiasm, higher level of energy (which comes back to the initial reasons on why Deku chooses Red as a distinct colour for himself and his shoes).

The color red is linked to the most primitive physical, emotional, and financial needs of survival and self-preservation.

Finally is also the colour of leadership, determination and courage. So in short, the colours red, where it indicates energy, action and strong emotion-filled desires and aspirations, is also weak to overbearing aspects which transform empowerment into negative traits (which is what, in the end, is represented by Bakugou). It is also strong-willed and can give confidence to those who are shy or lacking in will power (the shoes in Deku’s case). 

Red is the colour of the First (or Spine) Chakra and usually allows a person to be grounded and connect to universal energies, while Green is the link between spiritual and material.

What do these two colours mean in association with each other?

Onto how these two colours are related to each other, especially considering the premises made, we see that Red (life-giving properties, trust, belonging and violence) and Green (health, eternity, youth and greed) are not only opposites, but they complete and balance each other out. Indeed, to reign over emotions and actions, to red is usually added green which indeed is a pain-relieving patch for red’s intensity (the theory of Bakugou and Deku being two sides of the same coin are thriving).

Midoriya Izuku is an intense person. His personality allows him to balance out his power with a selfless nature, and while he himself is sweet and caring, his fiery eyes (and shoes) express for him his utmost sincere feelings, which deep down are very telling. As mentioned before, Izuku responds to Monoma when he insults Bakugou and makes a jab at how actually Bakugou is the one who ultimately terminated AM, by unlocking a new dangerous and powerful quirk, which is so powerful and fiery, and red in his intensity, that they need Shinsou’s intervention to actually calm him down.

Izuku is a overly protective person: he has forgiveness as a foremost characteristic and even if he does mention how he will not forgive Shigaraki for what he has done, on second though he realises that even a ‘monster’ like Shigaraki deserves to be saved, and therefore his other nature takes over.

Therefore, the coexistence of these factors, and his personality are probably at the origin of why Midoriya has had such a drastic make-over before becoming Midoriya Izuku, and why the colours of Red and Green are fundamental in the description which lets us have a full picture of Midoriya as an individual: something who is full of hope and energy, striving to express whisk power and passion while trying to concern only himself with the danger that comes with his mission to save everyone.

[ofdemonessence]

Delia's weak voice quivered as she mustered a small smile for Killian. Her gratitude and love for him shone through her tear-filled eyes. "Thank you, Killian," she whispered, her voice filled with vulnerability. "I... I don't know what I would do without you."

As Killian carefully helped her into the tub, Delia leaned back against his chest, feeling his warmth and strength enveloping her. She took a deep breath, allowing herself to relax and find solace in his presence.

"I'm scared," she admitted softly, her voice barely audible above the sound of the running water. "But with you by my side, I know I can face whatever comes next. You give me strength, Killian, and I trust you with all of my heart."

Delia closed her eyes, focusing on the connection between her and Killian with every passionate kiss. She reached out with her senses, seeking the familiar energy that radiated from him. As she concentrated, she felt a gentle flow of warmth and strength, his aura intertwining with hers.

Gently, Delia placed her hands on Killian's chest, feeling the subtle vibrations of his energy beneath her fingertips. She allowed herself to absorb the soothing and revitalizing essence that emanated from him, drawing it into her own being.

In this intimate exchange, Delia took in the essence of his aura, allowing it to infuse her with renewed vigor and vitality. As she absorbed the energy, she could feel her weariness gradually fade away, replaced by a sense of rejuvenation.

They remained in that moment, connected and intertwined, as Delia replenished her energy from Killian's aura. It was a silent exchange of unspoken love, trust, and support, strengthening their bond and providing Delia with the power she needed to face the challenges ahead.

Once Delia felt a surge of revitalization coursing through her, she gently withdrew her hands and opened her eyes, a spark of gratitude and determination in her gaze. Her wounds were sealed and in the process of healing. With a soft smile, she whispered, "Thank you, my wolf. Your energy, your presence, it gives me the strength to keep going. I'm so grateful to have you by my side. Are you alright though?" She ran her hand through his hair, massaging his scalp, "I hope I haven't drained you too much..."

@monsterxlayer

Killian's initial frustration was turning into a deep concern for the woman he loved. Delia's tear-filled eyes, once vibrant and full of mischief, were now filled with weariness and pain, and he couldn't help but blame himself for putting her in this state.

As Delia struggled to speak, her voice feeble and strained, Killian listened attentively, his anger dissipating as he realized the gravity of her situation. He gently brushed a strand of hair from her face, his touch tender despite the urgency of the moment. "Princess," he whispered, "Let's get you back to full strength."

With great care, Killian lifted her up again and carried her to the bathroom. He knew the delicate balance they both walked, and he was determined to help her regain her strength. As they entered the bathroom, he leaned her against the sink, filling the tub with warm water, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Hey, hey, look at me," he murmured, his voice gentle as he knelt beside her. "I'll be right here with you. You can rely on me. I'll get with you on that bathtub, I'll help you feed, you will be alright princess, I won't let anything happen to you." He kissed her lips as he took her clothes off and carefully laid her in, until her body was almost entirely covered by the water.

Then he took his clothes off and got in the tub with her, placing his body behind Delia, holding her closely so that she could lean her head on his chest. "It's okay," he whispered gently, stroking her long hair. "I'm here princess, let's do this, alright? You know already what to do, feed on me, it will make your body stronger." He started caressing her wet body, placing gentle kisses on her neck, and collarbones, "Just take all you need."

@ofdemonessence

[i-drink-and-i-write-fics]

The Lord of The Golden Flower

Summary: Glorfindel knows how it feels when the darkness closes in. Being one who was lucky enough to return to Arda, he understands better than most. So when the darkness comes for the one he loves, he will do what he can to calm you until the dawn returns.

Notes: a little piece I wrote for @themerriweathermage. Part of the mini-verse he and I created.​

TW: depression, mentions of depression

He had seen this before. The sadness in the eyes, the lethargy, the desire to eat everything to fill the hole or eat nothing because you lacked the strength. Feeling the dark clouds cover the sun, encasing your life in night.

Glorfindel knew all too well as those clouds haunted him from time to time. Filling his dreams with the night he died. With the shock and confusion of being reborn. To a world where most of who he knew were taken from him. He would lock himself in his Talan, never accepting visitors not even his long time friend Erestor.

But he didn’t know what to do when those clouds claimed you. His love. His other half. Watching you go through the motions he had gone through before, put a hole in your husband’s heart. He wanted to heal you, but he also knew this did not have a solution like a physical wound.

You were wrapped in the thickest blanket Glorfindel owned, despite the fire raging in the fireplace. It wasn’t for warmth; the weight gave you comfort as if being hugged. You had started on the bed, but was now sitting on the floor, your back against the side of the bedframe as you faced the balcony. The doors weren’t even open, but it was easy to see that dark clouds had come to Imladris, as if to mimic your thoughts.

There was a soft knock on the door and Glorfindel knew instantly whom it was. He had warned everyone he could reach to stay away from his Talan for now, but this person would always be the exception when it came to your well being. 

It was the new Lady of Imladris, your best friend. And she had done what she did best: baked. She held a basket filled with an assortment of pastries from cookies to brownies to croissants and of course, blue berry muffins. The season had just ended and the fruit was fresh from the bush. Glorfindel took the basket, nodding a silent thank you before taking the jug of water and bottle of miruvor. While that would be what you would need, both the Lady and Glorfindel knew it would be a while before you were ready to drink it. Still, he was grateful for the drink that would renew your strength and vitality. The Lady then handed over fresh tea leaves before returning to her duties. 

Glorfindel went to work setting up the table by the fireplace with all the food that had been brought. He knew it would be a while before you would accept a bit, but he never wanted to make you wait when that desire came. He set the jug of water on the table after pouring some into a kettle and placed the bottle of miruvor on a shelf for later.

He then walked over to the balcony and gently opened the doors. The dark clouds where there, but had brought rain with them. The water amplified the smell of the flowers in the valley, drifting into the Talan and filling the air. Glorfindel then took a seat next to you, wrapping his arms around your blanket-burrito form, his golden locks acting as a second cover. 

“Meleth-nin, how it pains me to see you this way,” he murmured into your hair as he held you close. He always called you his love or his wild flower, the latter for your personality and love of nature. 

You didn’t respond to your husband, instead just burrowing deeper into the blanket. But that didn’t deter your elf.

“It is alright. I know the darkness is consuming you and that you have no desire for the food you love or tea to drink or to see friends. For now your life has become a moonless night.”

You whimpered and snuggled closer to him.

“But never fear, Wild Flower. For the night is always darkest before the dawn. And I will always be here to make sure you see that beautiful sunrise.”

[childofchrist1983]

“Youth is wasted on the young!” How true is that statement!

The older we get the more we long for the days of our youth, when we were more energetic, and our joints didn't creak everytime we took a step. When we look into the mirror and see a new wrinkle or gray hair, we wax nostalgic for the days of smooth skin and shiny locks.

In this passage, we are told that youthful vitality is not lost to us, not through God. He will renew us as the "eagle." Eagle. Not sparrow, or swallow, or hummingbird. But the strong and mighty eagle, who can fly up to 10,000 feet, who has over 7,000 feathers to keep it warm and dry, who has exceptional eyesight and seems to soar effortlessly. The eagle is a symbol of strength and grace.

Through God, we have the ability to maintain our own strength, stamina and vitality. Through God, we are renewed. Through God, we are made young again. And it is through Jesus Christ that we are able to live out our lives in the Holy Spirit. May we never forget who He is, nor forget who we are in Christ and that God is always with us! What a wonderful Lord, God, Savior and King we have in Jesus Christ! What a loving Father we have found in the Almighty God! What a wonderful God we serve! His will be done!

Thanks and glory be to God! Blessed be the name of the LORD! Hallelujah and Amen!

Father God Almighty, Lord Jesus, I thank You for giving me the strength and stamina of the eagle! I thank you for restoring to me the vitality and energy of my youth. Let me use it to better serve You in willful and humble faith and boldness.

Help us to all be one in You daily. May we seek You and Your Holy Word as well as the peace and all the fruits of the Holy Spirit today and everyday. Help us to walk in a way that is worthy of this calling You have guided us to. Help us to live this new life walking in Your ways and will and giving You praise for making it possible. Help us to value the true and eternal riches more highly than the passing and deceitful riches of Earth. Help me to walk in Your Holy Spirit, to seek You and Your will. Help my thoughts to turn to You in the little pauses and intermediate moments of this day and everyday.

Help us so we may us remember all You've done and still do for us and take joy in the blessings and life You have given us. May we all be humbly and faithfully honored and excited to worship, glorify and serve You daily and to do Your will. You have been so good to us, far more than we as wretched sinners deserve. You are so good! So wonderful! Forever and always!

Thank you for being the best friend we could ever have! Thank you for Your endless mercy and love that has saved us. Thank you for always protecting us and providing for us and for Your Spirit to help us when we are in need. Thank you for adopting us as part of Your family in Heaven and making us one of Your own. Thank you for being our present help in times of trouble (Psalm 46:1). Thank you for always being near and for loving us. Thank you for giving us a reason to love others and so many more reasons to love, praise, serve and follow You. Thank you for Your selfless and sinless sacrifice. Thank you for Your guidance and protection. Thank you for Your Truth and light. Thank you for Your wisdom and strength and grace. Thank you for everything! Your will be done! Blessed be Your mighty name! To You and Your Kingdom be the glory forevermore! In Your name I humbly pray, Amen and amen

[thoughtsonhurtandcomfort]

My Little Mermaid, part 5

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Synopsis: a human man finds a mermaid washed ashore in a storm. His dream come true becomes her nightmare.

Content Warnings: mermaid whump, lady whump, creepy whumper, obsession, captivity, torture, noncon touching, starvation, exhaustion, heat, escape attempt,

Tag List: @deluxewhump @freefallingup13 @strangerthanx @whumpinggrounds @just-a-whump-lover @kixngiggles

Author’s Notes: thanks so much to everyone who is along for the ride so far. I’m really enjoying this, even if Myla isn’t.

btw, her name is means either “soldier” or “gracious/merciful” depending on the language (it’s a feminine variant on the names Miles), and I think that suits her well...she’s a fighter and protector for her pod, but has softness reserved for those she loves

Hayes means “hedged area” and I like that that implies being trapped

----

There’s no mistaking the shift in her captor’s demeanor after that. He regards her coldly, when he regards her at all. He doesn’t visit nearly as often the next couple of days and she wonders if the fool thinks that his absence is somehow a punishment, when in fact it’s a relief.

It gives Myla time to reconsider her escape plan. The dull points of the comb he tried to gift her with gave her an idea. She may be unable to tear the walls of her enclosure with her hands or teeth, but if she had a tool, something sharper, perhaps…

It doesn’t solve the problem of what she would do once she was out. She could be miles from the ocean for all she knows. But the only thing on her mind is getting away from Hayes.

For now she bides her time, waiting for the right moment. She hopes to rest and regain her strength, but instead it dwindles. It hurts to breathe through her bruised gills, and the stale, unmoving water is barely breathable to begin with. She barely sleeps in spite of her desperate need for it. There’s no room to stretch or swim, and she can feel this deeply in her tense muscles. On top of all that, the human only brings her half as much food as before. Rather than wait by the side of the pool, he tosses it in twice a day and leaves. She eats every horrible bite of it but is never full.

On her third day she realizes that if she doesn’t try to leave soon she might not be strong enough to try at all. So when she hears the door to the outside slam, the rev of an engine, the crunch of tires on gravel, she doesn’t hesitate.

Myla props herself out of the water and perches on the edge. She takes a few practice breaths with her lungs. She has had to get used to using them more than ever before.

She scans the room for something to cut through the mesh with. There’s little in the room that would be of any use, but her eyes land on a pair of gardening shears poking out of a pail.

Carefully she makes her way over to them. It’s harder than last time. She feels heavier and weaker than before and her arms are still not used to bearing her weight like this. But she pushes through it, driven by the need to escape.

She grabs the shears and puts the handle in her mouth, then begins the trek to the wall. Even after crossing the short distance she has to stop and rest a moment. It doesn’t bode well for trying to move across the land beyond these walls, but she’ll worry about that when she gets there.

Myla holds up the tool and examines it. She’s never seen or used anything like this, but the end is sharp, and that’s all she needs. She holds the mesh with one hand and uses the other to stab it with the tool.

A rush of triumph rushes through her when the material rips under the sharp blade. It’s the first good feeling she’s had in quite a while.

She keeps at it, hacking and tearing with renewed vitality. She can see outside! She can see the sky and clouds, she can hear birds! She can smell salt on the air!

The ocean, though, is nowhere in sight.

One thing at a time, she reminds herself.

Soon the gap is wide enough to fit through. Myla tosses the shears aside and pulls herself through.

A light breeze tousles her hair and she breathes in as deeply as her lungs will allow her. It’s beautiful out - a bit warm, but clouds peppering the blue sky enough to provide some cover. It is the sort of day she would spend exploring and playing with her friends or traveling with her pod.

The thought of them urges her forward. She can hear seagulls in the distance, her only indication as to the direction of the ocean. Between her and it is an expanse of lawn and then a forest, with a dirt path cutting through.

At least the lawn is grass and no longer concrete. She’s grateful for its soft brush against her tail as she pulls herself forward bit by bit. No matter how tempting it is, she doesn’t look back.

It’s a long and grueling journey just to reach the edge of the woods. By the time she arrives at a tree to lean on she is gasping for breath. The hot air is merciless. Her arms ache. Her tail is useless deadweight.

Myla allows herself a moment to lean back and close her eyes, arms folded over her growling stomach. She thinks of the cool water and the promise of real food. She thinks of comfort and safety and friends…

She forces her weary eyes open. There will be time to rest later. Now she has to move, before he returns.

She turns back onto her front and moves from the grass to the trail. It’s a mix of sand and dirt, pebbles and broken shells. The dread of dragging herself over the bumpy surface is alleviated only by the sight of sand. That’s promising; where there is sand there is beach, and where there is beach there is water…

Without the gentle grass to glide over she has to move even more slowly so as not to hurt her tail. No matter how carefully she moves the pull of her scales over the rough ground is uncomfortable, but she is patient and her reward is no further injury.

The path is flat at first, but begins to slope slightly downward. It grows steeper as she continues forward. Her arms burn and tremble from the effort by now. Her skin feels overheated, though the shade from the trees provides at least some relief.

Still she doesn’t look back. She doesn’t want to see how little progress she’s made; what matters is looking ahead.

But she’s so sore, so tired...the shade is cool and the thick trees provide a sense of safety she hasn’t felt in days or longer. By now she wheezes with every inhale.

Maybe...just a little break...To catch her breath, to let her arms rest. But what if I’m close...

Her arms make the choice for her. They give out and Myla crumples to the ground. She presses her forehead to the cool dirt.. Every inch of her is warm and weary. Exhaustion grips her mind, tries to pull her under. She closes her eyes. Just for a moment...

It feels like the blink of an eye. But when she opens them again the sun has moved significantly, the trees casting long shadows around her. She lies there heavily, blinking the sleep from her eyes. How much time did I lose?

Too much.

In the distance, but not distant enough, she hears a vehicle and then the telltale crunching of gravel. A door slamming.

The sound terrifies her into action despite feeling as though she’s made of stone. She forces herself back up onto her arms and crawls down the path, no longer bothering to be careful.

Maybe he won’t notice. Maybe he’ll go the wrong way.

Her panic doesn’t help her strained breathing. Not paying attention to where she’s going, her palm lands on a sharp rock. She hisses and stumbles, landing face first in the dirt.

No, no, no…

Myla’s arms shake violently beneath her when she tries to push herself up again. She feels like they are screaming at her to let them rest, and she wants to scream back we can’t, we can’t!

The sound of another door slamming reaches her.

Her blood runs cold. She drops to the ground and drags herself with her forearms.

And then - footsteps.

She isn’t even close to the sea, and she knows it.

Mumbled cursing, twigs snapping under heavy boots.

Myla stops moving and lays there staring ahead at the path that seems to go on forever. Tears blur her vision.

I didn’t make it...

“There you are…”

[the-warlock-syndicate]

Who preys on the predators? Apex predator my ass.

The vampire stalks the cobblestone streets of London, searching for an easy meal, compliant, unresisting. They are new to the city, and have neither the support of a coven, nor the convenience of a thrall.

He spots a small figure, leaning against a lamppost. A girl, slight of figure, and uncommonly beautiful, despite her unkemptness. The yellow light of the gaslamp washes out her skintone, casting an amber pallor on flesh while highlighting the twigs and leaves embedded in the tangled messy hair.

Despite all this, she smells earthy. Like fresh loam, and mud. Curious. The streaks on her face might have suggested an unfortunate encounter with the collectors of nightsoil, but the stench of human refuse is absent.

She looks up, as if startled, meeting the blood-red gaze of the vampire, like a mouse staring into the eyes of a cobra. Her eyes were a vivid green, curiously not washed out by the light.

Curious. It was all very curious. What was she doing here? A beggar or vagrant perhaps, but at this hour? No gentlemen would employ the services of a streetwalker as unkempt and covered in leaves.

And had the vampire been here earlier, he might have wondered how long was she standing there. Unmoving, unfatigued, without twitching a muscle or fidgeting.

But his mind has no time for curiosity. Beneath the mud and leaves and twigs, she is uncommonly beautiful, her skin spared the ravages of the pox, and beneath the skin, he senses a great wellspring of vitality, life so as to shame even the nobility, who feasts on all manner of foods and exercise their bodies for war.

He cannot stop himself. He dashes towards her, fangs extended, before grappling her, plunging his fangs into her neck as if in a lovers embrace.

Something is wrong. The vampire's kiss mixes pleasure and pain, and if not a moan, then a gasp would be the likely result of his predation. The blood is viscous, and the familiar iron tang is absent as it slowly seeps over his tongue. Filled with vitality yes, but bitter, in a form inaccessible.

Panicked, he attempts to pull away, but her flesh, once soft like tender meat, is now rigid and unyielding, and his fangs are as nails, embedded into the stubborn grasp of oak. He cannot escape. He must pull his fangs free but they are trapped. He cannot break them off, a fangless vampire would starve within a fortnight.

She sighs, and smiles, content. This is no prey. A predator this is, but not ambush, nor speed catches it's prey. It is akin to those queer weeds found in the cold humidity of the colonies, the Carolinas which host those plants of Venus. Or perhaps more obscure plants, those of the jungles of South America.

She reciprocates, despite his panic, and embraces him, her arms inexorable in their weight and strength. She cruelly strokes his brow, and then holds him close as creepers and ivy begin to snake into his open mouth, questing root tendrils burrowing neath his eye lids.

There is an audible cracking noise. Her feet are gone, and roots crawl like woody serpents into the ground, shattering the cobblestones and seeking the soil beneath. A sense of vertigo overtakes the vampire, as his vantage point grows higher and higher.

The flesh, once yellowed by the gas lamp, has turned green as it retreated from it and was lit by the cold unsympathetic light of the moon. A pale green, growing darker as the skin turns to bark, freezing that face of uncommon comliness, even as it leers in a smugly beatific smile at the vampire.

In the quiet darkness of the night, there is only a tree, and the panicked, muffled screams of the trapped victim. When the sun arises, it's flesh will smolder as it is rejected by the purifying light of the sun, and it's ashes will renew and enrich the tree, magical nutrients of death converting to sustenance for a being of life.

The guard dares not take an axe to any tree which was not there the day before.

And fools still come to London, thinking themselves safe in the smoke and pollution of industry, as if the trees do not persist there.

dryads would make excellent vampire hunters:

they wield the power of the sun

they probably don't have blood to suck

only problem is that they're got kind of an immobile venus fly trap situation going on so they'd have to figure out how to attract the vampires

[1vintage]

Ocean Vuong on Metaphor

below is a transcript of an Instagram story from Ocean Vuong, available here in his story highlights under Metaphor.

Q: How do you make sure your metaphors have real depth?

metaphors should have two things: (1) sensory (visual, texture, sound, etc) connector between origin image and the transforming image as well as (2) a clear logical connector between both images. 

if you have only one of either, best to forgo the metaphor, otherwise it will seem forced or read like “writing” if that makes sense.

~

a lot of ya’ll asked for examples re:metaphor. I can explain better if I had 15 minutes of class time (apply to UMASS!). But essentially, metaphors that go awry can signal a hurried desire to be “literary” or “poetic” (ie “writing”), which can lose traction/trust with a reader. in other words, a metaphor is a detour—but that detour better lead to discoveries that alter/amplify the meaning of what is already there, so that a reader sees you as a servant of possibility rather than someone trying to prove that they are a “writer.” One is performative, the other exploratory. In this way, the metaphor acts as a virtual medium, ejecting the text’s optical realism into an “elsewhere”. But this elsewhere should inform the original upon our return. otherwise the journey would feel like an ejection from a crash rather than a curated journey toward more complex meaning.

example:

“The road curves like a cat’s tail.”

This is a weak metaphor because the transforming image (tail) does not amplify/alter the original. The transfer of meaning flattens and dies. Logic is weak or moot: A cat’s tail does not really change the nature of the road. You can certainly add to this with a few more expository sentences which might rescue the logic—but by then you’re just doing cpr on your metaphor.

Sensory, too, is weak: a cat’s tail has little optical resemblance to a road other than being curved (roads are not furry, for one.)

So this is 0 for 2 and should be scrapped. (Just my opinion though! Not a rule!)

okay so what about:

“The road runs between two groves of pine, like the first stroke of a buzzcut.”

this is better. the optical sensory of the transforming image (a clipper thru a head of hair) matches well with the original.

but the logic feels arbitrary. again it doesn’t substantially alter the original.

in the end this is just an “interesting image” but not strong enough to keep I’d say.

Now here’s one from Sharon Olds:

“The hair on my father’s arms like blades of molasses.”

Sensory connector: check. A man’s dark hair indeed can look like blades (also suggestive of grass) of molasses.

Logical connector: check. the father is both sharp and sweet. Something once soft and sticky about him (connotations of youth) sweets, has now hardened the confection no longer fresh etc.

It’s an ambitious metaphor that is packed with resonance. In other words, it does worlds of work and actually deepens the more you dit with it. A metaphor that actually invites you to put the book down, think on it, absorb it, before returning. a good metaphor uses detours to add power to the text. poor metaphors distract you from the text and leave you bereft, laid to the side.

lastly, the prior examples are technically “similes” but I believe similes reside under the umbrella of metaphor. although a simile is a demarcation, ie: this is “like” that. but this is “not”, ontologically, that.

however, I think something happens in the act of reading wherein we collapse the “bridge” and the mind automatically forges synergy between the two images, so that all similes, once read, “act” like metaphors in the mind.

but again this is all subjective. you might have a better way of going about it.

Another very ambitious metaphor is this one from Eduardo C. Corral:

“Moss intensifies up the tree, like applause.”

This is a masterful metaphor, risky and requires a lot of faith, restraint, and experience to pull it off.

Difficult mainly because we now see a surrealist “distortion” of the sensory realm: origin IMAGE (moss) is paired with transforming SOUND (applause).

There is now a leap in comparable elements. But the adherence to our two vital factors are still present.

Sensory: moss, though silent, grows slowly (the word “intensifies” does major work here becuz it foreshadows the transforming element). Applause, too, grows gradually, before dying down.

Logic: the growth of the moss suggests spring, lushness, life, resilience, and connotes anticipatory hope, much like applause. In turn, applause modifies the nature of moss and imbues, at least this moss, with a sense of accomplishment, closure, it’s refreshment a cause for celebration.

God I love words.

~

I’ve gotten so many responses from folks the past few days asking for a deeper dive into my personal theory on metaphor.

So I'm taking a moment here to do a more in-depth mini essay since my answer to the Q/A the other day was off the cuff (I was typing while walking to my haircut appointment).

What I’m proposing, of course, is merely a THEORY, not a gospel, so please take whatever is useful to you and ignore what isn’t.

This essay will be in 25 slides. I will save this in my IG highlights after 24 hrs.

Before I begin I want to encourage everyone to forge your own theories and praxi for your work, especially if you’re a BIPOC artist.

Often, we are perceived by established powers as merely “performers,” suitable for a (brief) stint on stage—but not thinkers and creators with our own autonomy, intelligence, and capacity to question the framework in our fields.

It is not lost on me, as a yellow body in America, with the false connotations therein, where I’m often seen as diminutive, quiet, accommodating, agreeable, submissive, that I am not expected to think against the grain, to have my own theories on how I practice my art and my life.

I became a writer knowing I am entering a field (fine arts) where there are few faces like my own (and with many missing), a field where we are expected to succeed only when we pick up a violin or a cello in order to serve Euro-Centric “masterpieces.”

For so long, to be an Asian American “prodigy” in art was to be a fine-tuned instrument for Mozart, Bach, and Beethoven.

It is no surprise, then, that if you, as a BIPOC artist, dare to come up with your own ideas, to say “no” to what they shove/have been shoving down your throat for so long, you will be infantilized, seen as foolish, moronic, stupid, disobedient, uneducated, and untamed.

Because it means the instrument that was once in the service of their “work” has now begun to speak, has decided, despite being inconceivable to them, to sing its own songs.

I want you, I need you, to sing with me. I want to hear what you sound like when it’s just us, and you sound so much like yourself that I recognize you even in the darkest rooms, even when I recognize nothing else. And I know your name is “little brother” or “big sister,” or “light bean,” or “my-echo-returned-to-me-intact.” And I smile.

In the dark I smile.

Art has no rules—yes—but it does have methods, which vary for each individual. The following are some of my own methods and how I came to them.

I’m very happy ya’ll are so into figurative language! It’s my favorite literary device because it reveals a second IDEA behind an object or abstraction via comparison.

When done well, it creates what I call the “DNA of seeing.” That is, a strong metaphor “Greek for “to carry over”) can enact the autobiography of sight. For example, what does it say about a person who sees the stars in the night sky—as exit wounds?

What does it say about their history, their worldview, their relationship to beauty and violence? All this can be garnered in the metaphor itself—without context—when the comparative elements have strong multifaceted bonds.

How we see the world reveals who we are. And metaphors explicate that sight.

My personal feeling is that the strongest metaphors do not require context for clarity. However, this does not mean that weaker metaphors that DO require context are useless or wrong.

Weak metaphors use context to achieve CLARITY.

Strong metaphors use context to SUPPORT what’s already clear.

BOTH are viable in ANY literary text.

But for the sake of this deeper exploration into metaphors and their gradients, I will attempt to identify the latter.

I feel it is important for a writer to understand the STRENGTHS of the devices they use, even when WEAKER versions of said devices can achieve the same goal via different means.

Sometimes we want a life raft, sometimes we want a steam boat—but we should know which is which (for us).

My focus then, will be specifically the ornamental or overt metaphor. That is, metaphors that occur inside the line—as opposed to conceptual, thematic, extended metaphors, or Homeric simile (which is a whole different animal).

My thinking here begins with the (debated) theory that similes reside under metaphors. That is, (non-Homeric) similes, behave cognitively, like metaphors.

This DOES NOT mean that similes do not matter (far from it), as we’ll see later on, but that the compared elements, once read, begin to merge in the mind, resulting in a metaphoric OCCURRENCE via a simileac vehicle.

This thinking is not entirely my own, but one informed by my interest in Phenomenology. Founded by Edmund Husserl in the early 20th century and later expanded by Heidegger, Phenomenology is, in short, interested in how objects or phenomena are perceived in the mind, which renewed interest in subjectivity across Europe, as opposed to the Enlightenment’s quest for ultimate, finite truths.

By the time Husserl “discovered” this, however, Tibetan Buddhists scholars have already been practicing Phenomenology as something called Lojong, or “mind training,” for over half a millennia.

Whereas Husserl believes, in part, that a finite truth does exist but that the myopic nature of human perception hinders us from seeing all of it, Tibetan Lojong purports that no finite “truth” exists at all.

In Lojong, the world and its objects are pure perception. That is, a fly looks at a tree and sees, due to its compound eyes, hundreds of trees, while we see only one. For Buddhists, neither fly nor human is “correct” because a fixed truth is not present. Reality is only real according to one’s bodily medium.

I’m keenly interested in Lojong’s approach because it inheritably advocates for an anti-colonial gaze of the world. If objects in the real are not tenable, there is no reason they should be captured, conquered or pillaged.

In other words, we are in a “simulation” and because there is no true gain in acquiring something that is only an illusion, it is better to observe and learn from phenomena as guests passing through this world with respect to things—rather than to possess them.

The reason I bring this up is because Buddhist philosophy is the main influence of 8th century Chinese and 15th-17th century Japanese poetics, which fundamentally inform my understanding of metaphor.

While I appreciate Aristotle’s take on metaphor and rhetoric in his Poetics, particularly his thesis that strong metaphors move from species to genus, it is not a robust influence on my thinking.

After all, like sex and water, metaphors have been enjoyed by humans across the world long before Aristotle-- and evidently long after. In fact, Buddhist teachings, which widely employ metaphor and analogy, predates Aristotle by roughly 150 years.

Now, to better see how Buddhist Phenomenology informs the transformation of images into metaphor, let’s look at this poem by Moritake.

“The fallen blossom flies back to its branch. No, a butterfly.”

When considering (western-dominated) discourse surrounding analogues using “like” or “is”, is this image a metaphor or a simile?

It is technically neither. The construction of this poem does not employ metaphor or simile.

And yet, to my eye, a metaphor, although not present, does indeed HAPPEN.

What’s more, the poem, which is essentially a single metaphor, is complete.

No further context is needed for its clarity. If context is needed for a metaphor, then the metaphor is (IMO) weak—but that doesn’t mean the writing, as a whole, is bad. Weak metaphors and good context bring us home safe and sound.

Okay, so what is happening here?

By the time I read “butterfly,” my mind corrects the blossom so that the latter image retroactively changes/informs the former. We see the blossom float up, then re-see it as a butterfly. The metaphoric figuration is complete with or without “like” or “is.”

Buddhism explains this by saying that, although a text IS thought, it does not THINK. We, the readers, must think upon it. The text, then, only curates thinking.

Words, in this way, begin on the page but LIVE in the mind which, due to limited and subjective scope of human perception, shift seemingly fixed elements into something entirely new.

The key here is proximity. Similes provide buffers to mediate impact between two elements, but they do not rule over how images coincide upon reading. One the page, text is fossil; in the mind, text is life.

Nearly 5000 years after Maritake, Ezra Pound, via Fenolosa, reads Maritake’s poem and writes what becomes the seminal poem on Imagism in 1912, which was subsequently highly influential to early Modernists:

“The apparition of these faces in the crowd: Petals on a wet, black bough.”

Like Maritake, Pound’s poem technically has no metaphor or simile. However, he adds the vital colon after “crowd,” which arguably works as an “equal sign”, thereby implying metaphor. But the reason why he did not use “are” or “is” is telling.

Pound understood, like Maritake, that the metaphor would occur in the mind, regardless of connecting verbiage due to the images’ close proximity. We would come to know this as “association.”

Even if the colon was replaced by the word “like,” the transformation, though a bit slower, would still occur.

In fact, when I first studied Pound years ago, I had trouble recalling whether this poem was fashioned as a simile or not—mainly because the faces change to fully into blossoms each time I try to recall the poem.

Now, let’s look at a simile that, to me, metaphorizes in the same way as the examples above, in the line we saw before from Eduardo C. Corral:

“Jade moss on the tree intensifies, like applause.”

The origin/tenor image (moss) is connected to the transforming element (applause). This metaphor suggests, not an optical relationship, but a BEHAVIORAL one.

Both moss and applause are MASSES that accumulate via singularities: grains of moss and pairs of hands clapping to form a larger whole.

By comparing these two, Corral successfully suggests that moss grows at the RATE of applause, creating a masterful time lapse effect. Applause speeds up the moss growth, connoting rejuvenation, joy and refreshment. That something as mundane as moss deserves, even earns, jubilance, also offers a potent statement of alterity, that the smallest flourishing deserves celebration, which in turn suggests a subtle yet powerful political critique of hegemony.

The poet, through the metaphor, has recalibrated the traditional modes of value placed on the object (moss).

And no other context is needed for that.

You might disagree, but when I read Corral’s line, I don’t SEE an audience clapping BESIDE the moss. I see moss growing quickly to the sound of clapping. Although the simile is employed, the fusion of both elements completes the action in my mind’s eye.

Like Maritake and Pound, metaphor has OCCURRED here—but without “metaphor”.

HOWEVER, the simile is still VITAL. Why?

Because the transforming element is abstract (applause) and looks nothing like moss. We don’t want moss to BE applause, we want the nature of applause to inform, imbue, moss.

The line, I feel, would be quite poor if it was formed sans simile:

“Jade moss is applause on the tree.”

The “is” forces transposition, which is here akin to slamming two things together without mediation. We also lose the comparison of behavior, and are asked to see that moss BECOME applause, which doesn’t have the same meaning as the original.

So, although the simile fuses into metaphor (via association) in the mind, such a metaphor would NOT have been possible without the simile.

Similes matter greatly—as tools towards metaphor. Why?

Because (thank god) our minds are free to roam.

To summarize, one of the central strategies (and, to an extent, purposes) of the Japanese Haiku is to juxtapose two elements to test their synergy. This impulse is grounded in Shinto and Buddhist concepts of impermanence and structural malleability. That is, all things, even ideas and images, are subject to constant change—and such change is the most pervasive nature of perception.

The Haiku then becomes the perfect medium to test such changes. This principle is of central importance to me because it is rooted in non-dualistic (or non-binary) thinking.

The poem becomes the theatre in which fixed elements can be transformed, their borders subject to being dissolved, shifting towards something entirely new—to “create”, which is the Greek root to the word “poet.” The metaphor, then, is more like a chemical, whose elements (like hydrogen and oxygen), placed side by side, becomes water.

In this way, Buddhism’s influence on my work and, specifically, my use and understanding of metaphor, is a foundational QUEER praxis for alterity.

The reason why I emphasize the malleability of simile’s impact is that, although syntax and diction can aide a metaphor towards its more luminous embodiment, the ultimate key to its success is you, the observer.

YOU have look deeply and find lasting relationships between things in a disparate world.

In this sense, the practice of metaphor is also, I believe, the practice of compassion. How do I study a thing so that I might add to its life by introducing it to something else?

At its best, the metaphor is what we, as a species, have always done, at OUR best: which is to point at something or someone so different from us, so far from our own origins and say, “Yes, there IS a bond between us. And if I work long enough, hard enough, I can prove it to you—with this thing called language, this thing that weighs nothing but means everything to me.”

In the end, it is less about how you set up your metaphors (you will eventually find a way that suits it and you) but more about how you recognize your world. THAT is not easy to teach—it comes with patient practice, with a committed wonder for a world that at times might be too painful to look at. But you must and you should.

Good metaphors, in the end, come from writers who are committed to looking beyond what is already there, towards another possibility.

This calls that you see your life and your work as inexhaustible sites of discovery, and that you tend to them with care.

That’s it. That’s the true secret to a strong metaphor: care.

Lastly, I want to recommend the work of BIPOC poet and theorist, Thylias Moss, who discovered the Limited Fork Theory, a theory which suggests that the mind engages with the world, and especially with ideas, including text and art, the way the tines of a fork engage with a plate of food.

That is, only so much can be held on the work/mind with each attempt to consume, and that no “work” can be possessed in its entirety, which I find happily congruent with Lojong.

What a wonderful anti-imperialist and forgiving way to engage with our planet and its phenomena. Thank you, Mrs. Moss!

And thank YOU for sticking around through my little seminar.

I hope this has been helpful. Again, this is just my 2(5) cents! Now I’m going to sleep for four days.

In the meantime, me-ta-phors be with you.

—O