#which inspired this latent thought

[catofoldstones]

“They’re making the dance about Alicent and Rhaenyra when it’s supposed to be between Aegon and Rhaenyra!!!!!” buddy, the source material is called the Princess and the Queen, and you won’t like who the princess or the queen is, but one point at a time

[hauntingcryptids]

Back In The Old Cemetery

Dhawan!Master x Reader - Previous Gomez!Master x Reader

Summary - On the anniversary of Missy’s death, you go to a nearby cemetery in order to remember and honour Missy in some way. However, you keep running into a random man throughout the day who seems determined to talk to you.

Based On This Request - Anonymous said - “Recently read “Did You Miss Me?” on your old blog, honestly amazing. If you’re open to it, may I request a similar scenario between Dhawan!Master x Reader? Maybe where they reunite for the first time after Missy’s death and admit they both still love each other despite the regeneration?”

Warnings - canon typical violence, references to season 10, descriptions of character death, romantic loss, sadness/depression, let me know if I missed anything and I will add it

Word Count - 4593

A/n - Gender Neutral Reader (but is referenced to own and be comfortable with wearing makeup). Requested by this lovely anon! Use of Y/n. Proofread but not beta read. I hope that you enjoy this! :) 

This is loosely inspired by Hunter’s Moon by Ghost, primarily the second verse and just other Ghost songs and their vibe because I am obsessed with them.

Also, I’m sorry that this took so long. I was not having a great past couple of years. But I really appreciate the love for my old series(which I am slowly rewriting) and thank you so much for this request! I really hope that you enjoy this! :)

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You felt like you were being watched. You had been feeling this way for a while now, at least for the past couple of months. You just chalked it up to a bout of heightened anxiety, however, due to the camera-filled and 24/7 news cycle-filled world that you now reluctantly called home. Life was so much simpler on The Master’s TARDIS. 

It was ironic that her space was so calming given the nature of The Master and her chaotic lifestyle, but Missy’s ship was. The previous life and relationship you had with her always quelled any latent anxiety you felt about your home planet and people. Your life, alone on Earth, without The Master could never compare to the time you spent with her. Without Missy, you only became more aware of how miserable Earth could be at times. And despite her disdain for the majority of Humanity, you could tolerate your people more effortlessly with Missy’s help than you ever could manage without her presence in your life. She helped you with so much, but now she was gone forever.

You never properly entertained the thought that you were actually being followed, but as Missy had told you often, you were naively unaware of your ability to attract curious eyes. Missy had meant that as a compliment, despite the ominous tone. That is how she became fascinated with you, after all; by observing your quirks and interests from afar until she finally made herself known to you. You were simply just anxious without Missy. Simply anxious about being in a messy world without your person to help you sort out the mess. You weren’t actually being followed, right? The Doctor, even though you weren’t close, would step in, wouldn’t she? Especially after what happened to The Master and how the news affected you, right? You were just anxious, is all.

But if you were being followed, it wouldn’t be Missy playing a little trick on you. It couldn’t be her. She’s gone and she would never be coming back for you. The likelihood is that either your imagination was getting to you, or an enemy of either The Doctor or The Master was out to get you. Or it was just some random human being a creep. But it definitely wasn’t Missy. She died: that’s what The Doctor told you. Missy died alone and without you there to save or comfort her. And you knew The Doctor wasn’t lying about the fact that Missy was gone forever because she would have come to reunite herself with you if she was alive. But again, Missy died. You had to keep reminding yourself of that fact: Missy is dead. She’s gone. She’s never coming to save you. Ever again. 

Today was the anniversary of when the newly regenerated Doctor informed you of the tragic news that Missy had died. The sentimentalist in you needed to mourn today, however, your plans to celebrate Missy’s memory added to your anxiety. You needed to honour Missy for yourself, but what if there was someone out there in your town, or the world, or the universe trying to get you? Today would be the perfect opportunity for an enemy to hurt you when you were already emotional and susceptible. 

Eventually, though, you did convince yourself to leave your apartment. Today was for Missy, after all, not you. When the date caught your attention a couple of weeks ago, the first step of your plan was to go to Missy’s old Human job from when you first met. You would be torturing yourself by doing this, but you needed to purchase two bouquets of flowers. After purchasing your mournful bounty, you would walk to the nearest cemetery. Then, at the cemetery, you would leave one bouquet in remembrance of your beloved Master while taking the other bouquet home with you to memorialise Missy there as well. You even considered preserving it so you could have an idol of memories for longer.

Looking back on your history with The Master, it was probably an incredibly bleak omen for your relationship with her, but during Missy’s lunch breaks and on your travels home from work, the two of you would stride through the little parklike cemetery just around the corner from the shopping centre. Both of you would always be incredibly surprised by how beautiful the cemetery was; there was an assortment of trees that would offer ample shade to the gravestones and there was a winding cobblestone path fenced by flowers throughout. There was also a tall, cleanly cut hedge that bordered the whole property, alongside the iron gates delicately surrounding the cemetery. 

Missy genuinely loved that little cemetery. Before you knew that she was an alien, she would often say that this cemetery was the most beautiful thing on Earth, other than you. You always asked her how she could possibly know every place on the planet, to which she would only wink at you teasingly. After discovering her true nature, her statement made more sense but you still wondered why this cemetery was so special to Missy. She could travel anywhere she wished, in all time and space. It never failed to shock you that The Master, the infamous rogue Gallifreyian, would treasure such a simple place. So where else you would go to mournfully celebrate her beautifully chaotic life? In your mind, there was no other option.

When you walked toward the small town shopping centre where Missy cemented her Human facade, you wrapped your coat tighter around your torso. You were cold, yes, but you needed something to hold onto to brave all of the resurfacing memories. You sighed deeply when you entered the shop and then briskly moved to the shop's mediocre selection of flowers without looking up from your feet. 

The flower options and pre-arranged bouquets always looked more expensive and put together, even well into the winter, when Missy was working here. All of the bouquets she gave you were of the best quality. 

“Never less than the best for you, my love,” Missy would always respond with this line when you complained that you didn’t need anything fancy.

Missy might have lied about buying flowers from this little shop, now that you thought about it. But you would rather choose to believe that Missy manipulated her “superiors” into buying and displaying more expensive bouquets and flowers to enhance the reputation of the place rather than her lying to you.

“Excuse me?” A voice sounded to your side, tearing you away from your thoughts of Missy. You turned sharply to the person trying to get your attention. He was a man a couple of inches taller than Missy with mesmerising dark amber, mixed with coffee and chocolate, eyes that were filled with care. He was wearing a button-down, slacks, and a heavy-looking deep purple coat, which seemed a bit out of place given the weather hadn’t turned properly cold yet. Maybe the man just ran cold?

“I think you dropped this.” The man held out a case of lipstick, intending to return it to you. You were shocked, still disoriented from being ripped out of your thoughts. You accepted the lipstick with a curt ‘thank you’, ignoring the jolt of electricity that passed through you when your hand accidentally brushed against the stranger’s fingers.

You immediately turned back to the display of bouquets before you, gripping the case of lipstick tightly in your hand. You had assumed that the man had left to either look around the shop or to leave, but to your horror, he continued to stand beside you. He returned your item. So, why hadn't he left yet? You just wanted him to leave your side. You didn’t want to interact with anyone more than you had to today. Today was too horrible for you to pretend to be friendly with strangers. 

“Looking for anything specific?” The man asked after an agonising silence from the two of you just standing side by side in front of the flower display. He didn’t sound creepy like many people, usually men, sounded in situations like this, making you believe that he was actually curious. Even if he had good intentions, that didn’t dissolve your desire to be left alone, but you tried to be as nice as you could today.

“Something respectful. Not gaudy or obnoxiously and obviously meant to be gifted as an attempt to woo a Tinder match on a first date.”

“So like, cemetery flowers?” You whipped your head back to look at the stranger because of that question. Could he see your plan on your face or in your posture?  How could he tell what your intentions were? The stranger shrugged his shoulders, almost as if he heard your thoughts. 

“Yes, cemetery flowers.”

“These are quite smart. Whoever you are planning on visiting would love to have these on their grave.” The man plucked a bouquet wrapped in dark red wrapping from the shelf. The bouquet consisted primarily of fresh crimson roses and red salvia, with sprigs of baby’s breath and forget-me-nots to round out the assortment. When they were in shadow, the roses practically looked like dried blood, which thanks to Missy you knew what that looked like a bit too well. 

You paused, sucked in a breath, shocked by the man’s forward nature. Then you quickly grabbed the flowers, shoved the lipstick into your coat pocket and moved to purchase the bouquet without another word being given to the stranger. You hoped that the man would have left the store by the time you had finished purchasing the flowers, however, he stopped you once again by the exit of the shop.

“I hope you have a good time at the cemetery.” He said, smiling, as if this was an everyday occurrence, but, like before, you didn’t respond. You rushed out of the shop so overcome with a torrent of emotions. You just needed to get out of there. You didn’t even realise until you were far away from the shops and the stranger that you failed to choose a second bouquet for yourself. You hoped that the second bouquet would be one similar to the ones Missy would gift to you, but because of that strange man part of your plan for the day was ruined. You would have to go back to the shops tomorrow.

Eventually, you slowed to a meditative walking pace on your way to the cemetery. After many deep breaths, you managed to decrease and steady your erratic breath and rapid heart rate. You tried to forget your interaction with the stranger and just refocus your mind on Missy: the good, the bad, the happy and the sad, all of your time with her. You just wanted to be surrounded by the memory of your lover, in general, but also to remember her existence in the most reverent way possible. Even though the weight of her memory was a heavy burden to carry, you had to do this for her.

Halfway to the cemetery, the moon emerged from its hiding spot behind a cloud. It was still light out, but the full specialness of the day became apparent to you. The orangy-red hue of the night’s Hunter’s Moon was soft but you imagined that it would darken and grow deeper in tone the longer it hung in the evening air into the night. Apparently, even your solar system wanted to help you mourn the loss of Missy. 

Along with cemeteries, Missy loved abnormal moons. She would always drag you out of your apartment or plead with you to retrieve her from The Vault in a basement at St. Luke’s University so the two of you could go stargazing, or moongazing as it were. She loved Hunter’s Moons in particular, both because of the season they appeared in, but also because of the eerie atmosphere. 

You finally entered the cemetery through the tall and squeaky black gates that enclosed the cemetery just as it was beginning to grow dark outside. After walking along the pathway for a few minutes, you saw the familiar bench where you and Missy would always sit. 

Once you took a seat on the bench, you looked around the large, enclosed, cemetery. It had been a little over a year since you had been here last and you realised how much you missed this place. It truly was beautiful, in the gloomy and bittersweet way that many cemeteries were, but beautiful nonetheless. 

You wished that you could have something tangible to remember Missy’s death and life. A trinket or object of Missy’s that would now be yours. Like all of the families that had loved ones buried in this place, they had something more tangible than you did. You wanted what they had. Even though death is never easy, their situations were easier to comprehend than yours. Missy died on a spaceship in the future galaxies away from Earth. You had nothing left of her and it felt as if nothing ever happened because of it. 

Suddenly, you remembered the lipstick that the stranger had returned to you. You removed it from the pocket you had hidden it in in the rush of everything. You stared at the lipstick, curiously. The item definitely wasn’t yours. It looked like the one Missy would always use. But how could the stranger have this? Was Missy’s lipstick in your coat pocket this entire time? That didn’t make sense. You had worn this coat before and the lipstick wasn’t in any of the pockets. Not to mention the fact that Missy never went anywhere without her lipstick. It was unlikely that she would ever ask you to carry it for her.

You stared at the lipstick in your palm and reminisced about a random night when Missy was trapped on Earth. It was the night of a Hunter’s Moon, just like the one you sat under tonight. The Doctor graciously allowed Missy to leave The Vault for a night so the two of you could celebrate your anniversary.

The two of you went to a fancy restaurant that was far too expensive for you, but Missy took care of the bill as it was meaningless. Given her motto, any expense might have been excusable to The Master if you were the one asking for or needing something. After your meal, you somehow convinced Missy to go to a club. You bribed her by stating that she had never been to a Human club before. So why not go to one with you? Finally, the two of you drunkenly stumbled through your favourite cemetery under the light of the blood-orange moon while sharing a bottle of Asgardian mead that Missy had apparently stolen from the halls of Valhalla. At the time, you didn’t know whether or not to believe her because of how drunk she was, she easily could have been exaggerating. You later asked The Doctor about her story and to your delight, and The Doctor’s embarrassment, the story was real and unembellished. 

You and Missy had briefly stopped at the bench you were now sitting on. You probably wouldn’t have recognised the bench after your drunken night out except for the fact that Missy carved your and her names onto the arm of the bench. Your names were intertwined in typical Gallifreyian marriage writing, where the names are entwined together to signify the bond between those in the relationship. 

Despite the momentary rest, you had to beg Missy to return to The Vault that day because you were cold and your feet hurt. Missy never wanted that night to end but you promised to cuddle her for at least two hours before leaving for your apartment. You wished that you could stay, but The Doctor hadn’t allowed you to stay the night in The Vault. 

After much convincing, your stubborn alien lover eventually agreed to your deal. Before leaving the cemetery though, Missy reapplied her lipstick and then kissed you all over your face and neck. You had to return Missy to The Vault in that state, much to The Doctor’s disgust. It was a great memory and a great day that you wished you could replicate with Missy. It saddened you to no end that you would never be able to do that, though. The Master was dead. 

“May I sit here?” The voice of a man broke you out of your haze. No, not any man, the man. The stranger from the little shop that Missy used to work at was standing beside the empty seat on the bench.

“Did you follow me?” You shot back, angrier than you intended because he tore you away from Missy again. But this was all just too strange to not be angry about.

“Would a normal person follow a stranger into a cemetery?” 

“No, but whoever said that you were a normal person?”

“What’s the fun in being normal?” The man crossed his arms with a smirk. You turned away in order to hide your slight smile. He was fun, you had to give him that, even though it upset you to admit this.

“People might trust you more.” You said after you regained your composure. 

“The only person I want to trust me is you.” Again, you were shocked by the man and his forwardness, which appeared to be becoming a regular occurrence.

“Are you chatting me up in a cemetery?” 

“Is it working?” The man’s smirk grew confidently and part of you just couldn’t resist his smile. You sighed defeatedly. You scooted over a bit on the bench to be closer to the carved arm and to allow enough space for the stranger to sit comfortably. You looked up to the moon as the man sat down. The Hunter’s Moon was now a deep orange with tones of red around the edges. There was another strange silence haunting the air between the two of you, until the man ruined it. You were starting to become used to this stranger’s habit of randomly breaking silences.

“Are you here for someone?” He sounded kinder, softer, than he did what asking you questions at the shop.

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“That’s because you’re interesting.” The man bumped your shoulder with his. You hummed sceptically. This man, though intriguing, was like no person you ever met. He didn’t seem to care about social norms or what society deemed to be acceptable. Who else would flirt in a cemetery? Well, Missy would, but she was an alien. 

“I’m kind of here for someone, yes. Their body isn’t here, but I like coming here, or any other cemetery really, to remember my person. I haven’t been to this cemetery in a while though, memories and all that, but I knew that I needed to be here tonight. What about you?” 

“Yes, I’m here for someone, too.” 

“I’m sorry.” You meant this genuinely. You didn’t know the man beside you and he had a propensity for behaving in an unorthodox manner, but he was still a person. You knew how hard it was to lose someone and you would never want to belittle someone’s grief. You locked eyes with this stranger for the first time since the moment in the little shop and held his gaze. You found it to be bizarre to feel so connected to a stranger but here you were talking to this man about Missy. You barely even talked about her to your best friends.

“There is no need for you to apologise, love. You weren’t the one to rip me away from the person I care about the most.” He bumped your shoulder again. Given the fact that you were facing each other now, you couldn’t take the intensity of being so close to the man. So, you looked away, flustered.

“Wow, I never thought I would have so much in common with a stranger in a cemetery.” You joked. You leaned over the arm of the bench slightly to move away from the man. You didn’t want to disgrace The Master’s memory in any way; it would be best to keep this stranger at a distance. To comfort yourself, you ran your hand over the carving Missy made, trying to commit the pattern to your mind to the best of your ability.

“You never know, you could meet the love of your life anywhere. A little shop, for instance.” The man still sounded positive despite your slightly uncomfortable demeanour. You liked this man, but you were worried that you were disrespecting Missy by even entertaining the idea of seeing someone else. How could you even be with someone else after The Master?

“Yeah, a little shop meet cute …” You traced the carving again absentmindedly while staring at the moon and the clouds passing over it. But the man once again distracted you from your sadness, though it wasn’t because of something he said like the many, many times before. Instead, the stranger pulled out a pocket watch that looked suspiciously too familiar. 

“Where did you get that?” You grabbed the man’s wrist and pulled his hand, and inadvertently him, closer to you in order to inspect the watch. It was old, properly old, not just decorated to look like an antique. It looked identical to The Master’s watch.

“Oh this, I’ve always had it. Since I was a child, an orphan, abandoned, found in the storm.” Missy had told you stories about her past, one of which was when she, he then, had been hiding in a Human form at the end of the Universe. You turned the watch over in the man’s hand and saw the circular Gallifreyian carved into the back of the object. You tentatively ran your finger over the writing, tears threatening to spill from your eyes.

“This is not possible.” You croaked, still looking at the watch in the man’s steady hand. How could the man beside you have Missy’s watch? Unless they survived. Unless she regenerated. But The Doctor said they died. She was certain that they died and would not be returning. Could The Master really be alive?

“Y/n, love, anything is possible.” The man whispered in your ear as you felt him move and place his arm around your back. He softly rubbed circles on your back but you didn’t feel it. You felt like your world was spinning and nothing was certain any more.

“It’s not you. It can’t be.” You shook your head. This couldn’t be possible. Your grip on the man’s watch and hand tightened when you finally looked up at him, scared. When you looked into his eyes, that’s when you began crying. He looked so worried for you, but there was hope and love laced into the look he gave you. You shook your head, still not convinced that The Master was really stilling beside you, holding you. But The Master nodded and smiled.

“It’s really me, darling. I swear on lipstick and Asgardian mead. Nothing in this Universe, any Universe, could ever keep me away from you.” The Master wanted to wipe your tears from your face, but before he could you jumped into The Master’s arms and practically knocked him over into the other arm of the bench due to the force of your hug.

“Master, is it really you?” You asked into his shoulder, not able to control the crazy mix of joy and sadness you felt. 

“Of course it’s me, darling. You didn’t really think that I would just leave you on this miserable planet alone, did you?” The Master caressed the back of your head and every so often placed a kiss on the side of your face. 

“But how? The Doctor said -” You shoved yourself away from The Master wanting a clear answer, but he cut off your excited questioning.

“The Doctor is often wrong, especially about me.” The Master smiled and winked at you triumphantly. You let out an ecstatic noise that you had never made before in your life and hurled yourself into The Master for another bruising hug.

“Can we go home now?” You mumbled into The Master’s purple coat.

“We?” The Master asked hesitantly.

“Yes, why not we?” You pulled back from The Master again with a worried look written on your face. You couldn’t help but be a bit worried after everything. The Master had just returned to you, you didn’t want to lose him again so soon.

“You aren’t bothered by my new form?” The Master questioned while gesturing to himself.

“No, you’re still The Master. You’re still my Master.” The Master smirked before leaning close to you. He cupped your face in his hands and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“I knew that I loved you for a reason.”

“I love you so much. And I’ve missed you so much, Master.”

“Well, no more missing me. We are together now and nothing is going to rip me away from you ever again, and you are right, we should go home. It has been far, far, too long.” The Master removed himself from your arms and stood from the bench. He held his hand out for you, wiggling his fingers enthusiastically. You gladly accepted his offer and then proceeded to interlock your fingers.

“Before we get to my TARDIS, I should warn you that the ship looks quite different to how you will remember it.” The Master informed you as the two of you walked down the cobblestone path toward the gates of the cemetery. 

“That’s okay.” You said into The Master’s shoulder as you braced your body against his to withstand the massive gust of wind that blew through the gates of the cemetery. The rest of autumn appeared like it was going to be a cold one.

“Really? You’re comfortable with everything being so different. I thought that you would be having a more difficult time with this.” The Master shed his coat and placed it around your shoulders. 

“Change is easier with you, Master. And I would rather have you in my life in a different form than not in my life at all.” You cuddled into the rouge alien’s coat. He, like his previous regeneration, smelled of smoke and whiskey. Missy also smelled like cranberries, whereas this new regeneration of The Master slightly smelled like cinnamon in combination with the whiskey and smoke.

“My previous regeneration would have made fun of your sentimentality, but this regeneration loves the attention.”

“Good! There is a year’s worth of affection that you missed out on.”

When the two of you reached the door of The TARDIS, which now appeared as a large home rather than Missy’s preferred look of a wardrobe, The Master stopped you and caressed a hand down your face. His eyes, though very different than Missy’s, displayed the same devotion and love for you. Things change, but at the same time, everything stays. The Master was still your Master, just in a different package. And you still loved them, no matter what they looked like.

The Master finally leant forward and captured your lips in a passionate kiss filled with all the love and longing he held for you, as the night’s Hunter’s Moon cast a warm glow upon the two of you. There will be so much adjustment ahead of you both, but you know that you will be able to succeed and overcome the difficulties to come as long as you and The Master are together.

[talonabraxas]

Seat of Prana Talon Abraxas

What is Prana?

"He who knows Prana knows Vedas" is the important declaration of the Srutis. You will find in Vedanta Sutras: "For the same reason, breath is Brahman." Prana is the sum total of all energy that is manifest in the universe. It is the sum total of all the forces in nature. It is the sum total of all latent forces and powers which are hidden in men and which lie everywhere around us. Heat, light, electricity, magnetism are the manifestations of Prana. All forces, all powers and Prana spring from the fountain or common source, 'Atman'. All physical forces and all mental forces come under the category 'Prana'. It is the force on every plane of being, from the highest to the lowest. Whatever moves or works or has life, is but an expression or manifestation of Prana. Akasa or ether also is an expression of Prana. The Prana is related to mind and through mind to will, and through will to the individual soul, and through this to the Supreme Being. If you know how to control the little waves of Prana working through the mind, then the secret of subjugating universal Prana will be known to you. The Yogi who becomes an expert in the knowledge of this secret, will have no fear from any power, because he has mastery over all the manifestations of powers in the universe. What is commonly known as power of personality is nothing more than being successful in life, more influential and fascinating than others. It is all due to the power of this Prana. Such people manipulate everyday, unconsciously of course, the same influence which the Yogi uses consciously by the command of his will. There are others who by chance tumble unaware of this Prana and use it for lower purposes under false names. This working of Prana is seen in the systolic and diastolic actions of the heart, when it pumps the blood into arteries in the action of inspiration and expiration during the course of breathing; in the digestion of food; in the excretion of urine and faecal matter; in the manufacture of semen, chyle, chyme, gastric juice, bile, intestinal juice, saliva; in closing and opening of the eyelids, in walking, playing, running, talking, thinking, reasoning, feeling and willing. Prana is the link between the astral and physical body. When the slender thread-link Prana is cut off, the astral body separates from the physical body. Death takes place. The Prana that was working in the physical body is withdrawn into the astral body.

This Prana remains in a subtle, motionless, unmanifested, undifferentiated state during the cosmic Pralaya. When the vibration is set up, Prana moves and acts upon Akasa, and brings forth the various forms. The macrocosm (Brahmanda) and microcosm (Pindanda) are combinations of Prana (energy) and Akasa (matter).

That which moves the steam-engine of a train and a steamer, that which makes the aeroplanes fly in air, that which causes the motion of the breath in lungs, that which is the very life of this breath itself, is Prana. I believe, you have now a comprehensive understanding of the term Prana about which you had a very vague conception in the beginning.

By controlling the act of breathing you can efficiently control all the various motions in the body and the different nerve-currents that are running through the body. You can easily and quickly control and develop body, mind and soul through breath control or the control of Prana. It is through Pranayama that you can control your circumstances and character, and can consciously harmonise the individual life with the cosmic life.

The breath, directed by thought under the control of the will, is a vitalising, regenerating force which you can utilise consciously for self-development; for healing many incurable diseases in your system; for healing others and for other various useful purposes.

It is within your easy reach at every moment of your life. Use it judiciously. Many Yogins of yore, like Sri Jnanadeva, Trailinga Swami, Ramalinga Swami and others, had utilised this breath, this force, the Prana, in a variety of ways. You can also do so, if you practise Pranayama by prescribed breathing exercises. It is Prana that you are breathing rather than the atmospheric air. Inhale slowly and steadily with a concentrated mind. Retain it as long as you can do it comfortably. Then exhale slowly. There should be no strain in any stage of Pranayama. Realise the occult inner life-powers which underlie the breath. Become a Yogi and radiate joy, light and power all around you.

Pranavadins or Hatha Yogins consider that Prana Tattva is superior to Manas Tattva, the mind principle. They say, Prana is present even when the mind is absent during sleep. Hence Prana plays a more vital part than the mind. If you go through the parables in Kaushitaki and Chhandogya Upanishads, when all the Indriyas, mind and Prana fight amongst themselves as to their superiority, you will find that Prana is regarded as the highest of all. Prana is the oldest, for it starts its functioning from the very moment the child is conceived. On the contrary, the organs of hearing, etc., begin to function only when their special abodes, viz., the ears, etc., are formed. Prana is called Jyestha and Sreshtha (oldest and best) in Upanishads. It is through the vibrations of psychic Prana that the life of the mind, Sankalpa or thinking, is kept up and thought is produced. You see, hear, talk, sense, think, feel, will, know, etc., through the help of Prana and therefore Srutis declare: "Prana is Brahman."

SEAT OF PRANA

The seat of Prana is heart. Though the Antahkarana is one, yet it assumes four forms, viz., (i) Manas, (ii) Buddhi, (iii) Chitta and (iv) Ahamkara, according to the different functions it performs. Likewise, though Prana is one, it assumes five forms viz., (1) Prana, (2) Apana, (3) Samana, (4) Udana and (5) Vyana, according to the different functions it performs. This is termed as Vritti Bheda. The principal Prana is called Mukhya Prana. The Prana, joined with Ahamkara, lives in the heart. Of these five, Prana and Apana are the chief agents.

The seat of Prana is the heart; of Apana, the anus; of Samana, the region of the navel; of Udana, the throat; while Vyana is all-pervading. It moves all over the body.

SUB-PRANAS AND THEIR FUNCTIONS

Naga, Kurma, Krikara, Devadatta and Dhananjaya are the five sub-Pranas.

The function of Prana is respiration; Apana does excretion; Samana performs digestion; Udana does deglutition (swallowing of the food). It takes the Jiva to sleep. It separates the astral body from the physical body at the time of death; Vyana performs circulation of blood.

Naga does eructation and hiccup. Kurma performs the function of opening the eyes. Krikara induces hunger and thirst. Devadatta does yawning. Dhananjaya causes decomposition of the body after death. That man is never reborn, whenever he may die, whose breath goes out of the head, after piercing the Brahmarandhra.

THE COLOUR OF PRANAS

Prana is said to be of the colour of blood, red gem or coral. Apana, which is in the middle, is of the colour of Indragopa (an insect of white or red colour). Samana is of the colour between that of pure milk or crystal or of oily and shining colour, i.e., of something between both Prana and Apana. Udana is of Apandura (pale white) colour and that of Vyana resembles the colour of archil (or that of ray of light).

THE LENGTH OF THE AIR-CURRENTS

This body of Vayu is 96 digits (6 feet) in length as a standard. The ordinary length of the air-current, when exhaled is 12 digits (9 inches). In singing, its length becomes 16 digits (1 foot), in eating it comes to 20 digits (15 inches), in sleeping 30 digits (22 inches), in copulation 36 digits (27 inches) and in doing physical exercise it is much more than that. By decreasing the natural length of the expired air-currents (from 9 inches), life is prolonged and by increasing the current, duration of life is decreased.

THE CENTRING OF THE PRANA

Inhaling the Prana from outside, filling the stomach with it, centre the Prana with the mind, in the middle of the navel, at the tip of the nose, and at the toes, during the 'Sandhyas' (sunrise and sunset) or at all times. Thus the Yogi is freed from all diseases and fatigues. By centring this Prana at the tip of the nose he obtains mastery over the elements of the air; by centring at the middle of his navel, all diseases are destroyed; by centring at the toes, his body becomes light. He who drinks air through the tongue destroys his fatigue, thirst and many other diseases. For him who drinks the air with his mouth, during the two Sandhyas and the last two hours of the night, within three months, the auspicious Sarasvati (Goddess of speech) is present in his Vak (speech), i.e., he becomes eloquent and learned. In six months he is free from all diseases. Drawing the air at the root of the tongue, the wise man thus drinking nectar enjoys all prosperity.

[eddiestightywhities]

SATURDAY SHNIPPET

posting apropos of nowt bc i've worked on this today and am a bit in love with it (cross your fingers for me the feeling lasts!). it's from my buddie accidental sexting wip partly inspired by the absolute masterpiece that is @wildehacked's I Love You But I Need Another Year. it's eddie pov with manchurian catholic undertones and i'm just under 5k and ed's hasn't even got a hand on his dick yet lmao. large font is the boys texts (buck's have Buck: as a precursor). buck's dating tommy 👀 as this is during the nun!marisol/pent-up eddie thing.

!! mature !!

.

Badly need to switch my brain off, you know? Just don't really know how to do that right now. 

Which is—a bit of a lie. Eddie's learned plenty of relaxation techniques over the years. He knows several breathing exercises and an array of calming mindful practices he could employ. It's just that Eddie's sort of become low key invested in whatever Buck's version of Eddie relaxing might be. Which is probably just because Buck knows him so well, and will be at least able to continue distracting Eddie till Eddie gets tired enough to drop off.

Right?

He really could do with loosening up first, though. 

Buck: OK. so you gotta think about like. something you don't usually think about…… 🧠❓🤔 

Fuck knows why but the Buck&Tommy porn reel is at once scrolling Eddie's brain again, his dick twitching a little in interest against his thigh and—Jesucristo, Eddie has to concentrate really fucking hard now to get his messed-up head somewhere very much other than his best friend's sex life. 

What is wrong with him?

Sure, Buck and Tommy fucking is definitely something Eddie doesn't usually think about, but shit. He has to shake his head to dislodge the image of Tommy's hulking silhouette bracing Buck, and he's really, truly hoping his manchurian Catholicism hasn't been harbouring some sort of weird latent homophobia all this time. 

He just does not want to be thinking of Kinard while feeling this horny. Buck's image, however, is so familiar to Eddie— seared into the lining of his grey matter—that he's not really sure there is anything he can do about getting rid of it. Not unless he wants to run the risk of the stuff he's so desperately trying not to think about sneaking it's way to the forefront of his mind once more. 

Buck: got something in mind? 

Um. 

Buck: picture it now

Buck: and i don't mean like the weekly grocery list or whatever btw

Buck: something sexy 

There's a record scratch in Eddie's brain. 

Hang. The Fuck. On.

Is Buck really doing what Eddie thinks he's doing? And is Eddie—is Eddie really contemplating just… Going along with it? 

Eddie's thumbs are moving across his phone screen of their own accord.

He can't let himself think sexy thoughts. All he can think of is Buck. But Buck did say something different...

Eddie types.

Yeah.

Fuck. 

Buck: alright. okay. take a deep breath. in fact take a few

Buck: and picture…… whatever it is. then start tracing your fingertips over your belly in small circles. start around your belly button. then make them bigger. big, sweeping circles

Buck: but slowly

Buck: and softly 

What in the name of Eddie's sanity is actually happening right now? And why is Eddie's body just—doing exactly what Buck is telling it, without Eddie giving it permission? 

Eddie's fingers are rough against the soft skin of his abdomen, the tips catching a little in the hairs just below his belly button. 

Like a bur on a sunny afternoon. 

He's thinking of Buck. Nothing sleazy, of course. Just Buck in his turnouts. Buck wearing that really nice burnt orange sweater Maddie and Chim got him last Christmas. Buck in a tank and shorts at the station gym. Just—Buck. 

And this, and touching his body the way Buck is telling him to, it all feels... It feels good, actually. Really fucking good. 

Buck: still with me eds? 

Eddie has to type the message out with his left hand, the right one busy drawing strange patterns over his own skin.

Ueah. Feels nice. 

¿Qué carajo?!

Buck: now do the same but up and down your thighs

Eddie does, and—oh, damn, it's—he really likes that. Thinks about Buck's hands doing the same over Buck's thighs. Wonders if Buck is doing it himself. Then he tries to worry about him thinking about that, but can't because Buck is texting him again.

Buck: and keep taking lots of big, deep breaths

Eddie breathes, big and deep, on Buck's instruction, and finds himself sighing quietly when he exhales. His fingers roam across his right thigh, then up the left, then up and over his belly, and back again. 

His phone buzzes against his chest. 

Buck: good? 

Eddie's picturing Buck holding his phone propped up on his own chest, other hand stroking his belly, just like Eddie.

Jeah. good

Buck: now touch your chest

Eddie keeps breathing, slowly, thoroughly, his hand doing exactly what Buck tells it. Then his fingertips skim over his right nipple and fuck, fuck he really likes that, so he finds the left one and does the same. Then he kind of rolls it between his forefinger and thumb pad before absently pinching at it—which rips this strange, strangled sort of sound out of him from somewhere deep in his chest, part gasp, part grunt, and his already fairly plump dick now springs up to full attention, bouncing slightly beneath Eddie's makeshift bedsheet blanket fort.

Buck: you still with me? 

Here. With yio

Eddie really, really wants to touch his dick—only Buck hasn't said that he can. 

Oh fuck, oh fuck, what the fuck.

.

play or nay, tags are under the cut! let me know in the notes if you'd like tagging if/when i finish this!

@inell @rosieposiepuddingnpie @sortasirius @angela-feelstoomuch @woodchoc-magnum @kitteneddiediaz @watchyourbuck @treasurehuntbuck @daffi-990 @eddiegettingshot @mazzystar24 @colonoscopys @shitouttabuck @lamardeuse @exhuastedpigeon @lamardeuse @veronae-buddie @wildehacked

[adventuresofeme-sea]

J is for Jealousy

This was inspired by the recent posts by @mouselungs and @differenteagletragedy I have a Derek jealousy headcanon, and here it is:

Being such a sweet guy, he won't express his jealousy directly. No displays of possessiveness either. No. For Derek, his latent insecurity and feelings of inadequacy come out. Not that he thinks that you would cheat on him! Never! But… he is long familiar with not feeling good enough and while he's made some progress in that regard, those feelings lurk deep inside and make themselves known on occasion. Like a serpent whispering in his ear. About how that other person might be able make you happier than he ever could.

So, as always, Derek makes a plan. He's going to demonstrate his love for you even more than he already does, prove that he deserves to be with you, that he can make you happy. He starts taking you out on fancier dates, and dressing up a little more for those dates. You start getting flower and coffee deliveries to your work because he was "thinking of you". He starts doing that thing you like ;) more often and becomes more adventurous in many ways.

Eventually you notice that your amazing lover has somehow become even more amazing these days, which is great. But there's also a frantic and almost desperate energy to him during this time as well, which is not great.

When you initiate a TALK with Derek about what you've noticed, he plays innocent at first. He tries to shrug off his behavior as just appreciating you as you deserve, which isn't a lie. It's just not the whole truth. As you, seeing his defeated, slumped shoulders and guilty, shifting eyes, know it. When you persist, he finally admits to feeling jealous recently, in a small voice with his head hanging low, feeling ashamed to reveal his petty thoughts.

Looking at your precious boyfriend, who now resembles a sad puppy, how could anyone resist the urge to cuddle and console him? After your TALK (and repeated reassurances that you want him, not some other guy) he mostly reverts back to his normal state of being. With one small exception. Seeing your previous delight and appreciation, he continues to do that thing you like on a more frequent basis.

[sineala]

What are your thoughts on the run that completely rewrote Tony’s origin so that he wasn’t Howard and Maria’s biological son? Is that still the current origin story they’re going with?

Thanks for asking! This is still Tony's current origin story and I hate it. I think it was poorly thought-out and that every subsequent thing Marvel has done to attempt to address it has somehow made it worse. I think they've managed to tell an incredibly upsetting and unpleasant story, portraying adoption in an extremely negative light, that has pretty much only made life worse for Tony and not even in a way that's narratively interesting.

I have some salt about this, yes.

I'm not against adoption retcons in general, and I'm not against retconning character backgrounds. I get the impression it was unpopular but I really liked the retcon of Carol's background a couple years ago in the Life of Captain Marvel miniseries by Margaret Stohl -- instead of her being a human given powers by the Psyche-Magnitron, she was revealed to have been secretly half-Kree, and the device merely catalyzed her latent powers. Her mother was secretly Kree and Carol never knew. The miniseries actually had a really nice scene of her and Tony talking about families, because understandably Carol (also now Car-Ell because, yes, she has a Kree name) now had a lot of complicated feelings. Kelly Thompson's Captain Marvel run continued to explore the implications of this, as Carol found out that she actually had Kree relatives. So Carol's got a new half-sister, Lauri-Ell, and they were immediately thrown into a situation where Carol had to defend her and believe in her and it was great and also now they're friends. Well, family. Friendly family. I think Lauri-Ell was probably the best thing about Thompson's Captain Marvel run and I'm honestly really glad Marvel went there.

Tony didn't get anything like that.

As far as I know, the way Kieron Gillen approached his Iron Man run was by not doing the reading and then completely winging it. And while winging it isn't inherently bad, it did mean that not only did he not know where he was going, he didn't know what had come before. That, combined with the fact that a lot of comics writers want to "make their mark" on a famous character meant that he was probably wanting to go for something big. Hence, adoption. Which, again, isn't inherently a bad idea; it can definitely give characters a lot to explore. It's a little odd as a choice for Tony who as far as we know is Howard and Maria's biological son in every other universe in the multiverse; there's no motivation given for why 616 should be different, and off the top of my head I can't name any other characters who only differ cross-universe in adoption status, although now that I think about it I bet there are probably some universes where other people raised Peter Parker.

Also "Arno" is a really odd name choice for Tony's brother. I get that Gillen was pulling the name of a future relative from the original Iron Man 2020 issues, which if you're gonna read one thing is a deeply weird thing to pick. I remember people asking him why he didn't name Tony's brother Greg. Ultimates is a universe where Tony in fact has a brother named Greg. That would have at least made some sort of multiversal sense. Apparently Gillen just… hadn't known Greg existed. Great.

Okay. So you're gonna tell a story about adoption. You're going to reveal that a beloved character has been secretly adopted all along and no one knew. What are you going to get out of it? What are you going to accomplish? Here are some possible choices. You could tell a story that's inspirational and representational to fans who are themselves adopted or have adopted children, because now their hero is just like them. You could tell a story about how Howard and Maria adopting Tony meant he was very much loved and wanted, because they consciously chose him and made him a part of their family. You could tell a story about how Tony, who has been an orphan for a very long time, has suddenly discovered that he has living family -- a brother, as well as his biological parents. You'd be giving him more people in his story, more people who could care about him, and I think you could tell a lot of interesting stories about Tony's new family dynamics. He could have had family who loved him, or at least hung around to interact with him -- Tony's only other relative we've ever seen, his cousin Morgan, hasn't been in an Iron Man comic in years, and also usually tries to kill him. But they could have taken this opportunity to make some changes. Imagine! Tony with a bigger family! Who cares about him.

That's not what Marvel did.

The reason Howard and Maria adopted Tony was that they needed a decoy son who was not their biological son (Arno) so that the alien who had genetically modified Arno wouldn't realize that Howard had undone his work. So that's why they adopted Tony. It wasn't because they wanted him specifically, loved him, wanted to give him a family, any of that -- they just needed a decoy. And in that light, the fact that Howard didn't love Tony looks even worse. Now it's not just "I never loved you," it's "I never loved you and I only ever wanted you to fulfill this weird plan I had going with an alien." Now you're telling the story "of course I never loved you, Tony; you're adopted." (And then he tries to sell Tony to Dracula.)

And that's… not a great look. Sure, not all stories have to be positive, but superheroes usually have some kind of relatable backstory, and it's easy for people to want to relate to them, and I feel like maybe you want to think a little harder before writing Tony as adopted when his childhood was already terrible and his family hated him. It could have been a really nice story about families of choice and how much Tony's adoptive family loved and wanted Tony. And it wasn't. Because Howard had been established for years as having been abusive. A story about a toxic adoptive family is not really great representation. "I never loved you" was pretty bad but "you're adopted and I never loved you," I think, sounds a lot worse.

You do also lose some plot elements by retconning Tony as adopted, namely anything having to do with him having a genetic relationship to Howard and Maria. And for the most part this isn't going to be relevant, but now you can't really easily tell a story about Tony inheriting alcoholism or general addiction or depression or whatever from his father. (I mean, you still can if you really want to; you'd just have to establish this as being true of his biological parents. But Marvel has not done that and does not really seem all that likely to start, because that would require putting them in comics and they're not doing that anymore.)

After Kieron Gillen left the book, Bendis came on. And I know Bendis' kids are adopted so I can understand why he'd want to tackle the adoption plot and really flesh out Tony's family. So a large portion of Bendis' IM run was about Tony's quest for, and eventual discovery of, his biological family. At the time, I figured this might actually be a good plot -- if they're not going to retcon out the adoption, they might as well lean in. I was looking forward to having Tony meet his family. The guy could definitely use more family, and I thought it would be great to see him interacting with them and developing new relationships.

That also didn't happen.

So what about all his new family members? His adoptive brother Arno? His biological mother and father?

Well, actually, they hate him too. All of them!

Arno went evil, is currently evil, tried to take down Tony, and is now trapped in VR or something. (To be fair, this wasn't Bendis' fault; Dan Slott did this in the subsequent run.)

Jude, Tony's biological father, is a Hydra agent who tried to kill Tony's mother. He met Tony once. He also tried to kill him. (This one was Bendis' fault.)

Amanda, Tony's biological mother, is a rock star and SHIELD agent who decided that now that Tony was living in a constructed, non-original body… he was no longer her son. And she wanted nothing else to do with him. She hasn't been back; yes, this was also Dan Slott's work. This is both cruel and bizarre because this is definitely not Tony's first brand-new body. If he's going to be dead to her because this isn't his original body, then he's been dead since at least Onslaught. If this was going to be a problem for her, it should already have been a problem as soon as she met him.

(That was one of the big issues for me with Slott's entire run in that a lot of it was about Tony having a crisis that he maybe wasn't really Tony because he had a new body. I was just like, dude, where have you been? Why is this only a problem now?)

So now Tony, who was already abused by his adoptive father, has discovered three new members of his family, all of whom also hate him!

Anyway, basically the only family Tony had who loved him was Maria. At least he had her, I guess.

So what's the point, really? He has more people to hate him. If you're going to give him new family, couldn't you give him one person who at least likes him? Carol has a retconned half-sister now, who loves her. Why couldn't Tony have something like that?

It's not even interesting pain, for Tony. This isn't anything different than what he already had. It just involves more characters now. They had the chance to use the adoption arc to really transform Tony's life and give him a whole new family to interact with and tell a story about choice and family and being loved and wanted. Instead, he has three new family members who hate him and who probably won't be appearing again anytime soon anyway. What did this even accomplish? What do we get? A story about how, once again, none of Tony's family loves him, that even more of them exist and they hate him too, that his adoptive family abused him, that's probably going to make adopted kids reading these comics feel pretty bad. I don't think this is really an accomplishment.

In conclusion… uh… this is me complaining about the adoption retcon to @blossomsinthemist while I was trying to figure out how to write this post:

Sineala: they never loved him but now they REALLY never loved him and also here's his biological family who never loved him either Sineala: i mean, i'm not opposed to giving tony more family but maybe they could… not hate him Sineala: i feel like tony should marry into a large and affectionate family Sineala: …actually, this is basically the avengers Sineala: never mind, he already did Sineala: if you don't have your own loving family, store-bought is fine

So, yeah. That's where I stand.

[coarsely]

Build a pokemon team for your ocs

Jumping on from @thanataes, because I thought this was such a fun idea! I may have gotten a little carried away, but I really like pokemon :) it's really fun to look at what suits their aesthetic, their fighting style, their personality, etc, while trying to create a balanced and workable team.

Ucalegon, Nod's most beloved warrior.

Ucalegon is someone fairly concerned with aesthetics, but also as a fighter for Nod has to have a fairly balanced team. She often uses eletricity to taze and shock people, but also lives in a fairly urbanised area, hence the eletric and steel types. There is a certain level of mystique to her, which Absol represents, while also being considered wild and uncivilised by the Bronze Eden populace, which Lycanroc shows. Tauros acts as a good balance for the rest of the team's speciality, while also showing how full-on she can sometimes be.

Hendrix, leader of the Undark.

Hendrix's team are all visually related to water creatures, although only two are actual water types. While he is heavily involved in the pirate aesthetic, he is not actually one, so I thought it would be fun to show that by only visually looking like sea creatures, while not being one. I chose two poison types, because he is mildly radioactive. Most ground attacks are physical, which suits his physical and aggressive nature, hence my choosing of those. Barbaracle was chosen because Hendrix does have barnacles in different places on his body, so it just makes sense. Garchomp, I can't really explain, it just feels right to have at least on dragon type on there. There's a certain status symbol thing with dragon types, and he is a leader of sorts, so it fits in!

Vítor Cadogan, former Gladiator of Golden Glimpse.

Vítor was quite fun to do. Aside from Mimikyu, I tried not to choose too many recent pokemon, to show he's a little older than maybe you'd first expect. Once being a superhero for Golden Glimpse, I tried to make his team more varied, to have more options in a fight. Lucario evolves with high friendship, so it's nice to have that sort of implication that Vítor treats his pokemon very well. Jolteon is honestly mostly chosen because Golden Glimpse is visually very yellow, and it's cute to imagine one curling up in his lap. Porygon2 is because it requires a lot of trading to evolve, and Vítor is someone very well connected. His protective instincts are symbolised via Aegislash, and his secretive nature while also being very socialble feel well represented by Mimikyu.

Dr Edgar Edwards, former heavyweight champion of Bronze Eden.

As his title suggests, Ed was once a highly successful boxer in Bronze Eden, winning the heavyweight championship 3 times in his career. This is why Hariyama and Machamp are there! Steelix and Weezing I chose due to his rags to riches story, which both represent to me with the sleek steel form and the pollution tophats. Houndoom feels like they fit in very well as a guard dog, which in a way Ed is one himself. Venusaur just felt right to add there. Very large, poisonous, and Ed is a war criminal who is not far off 8 feet tall, so it just feels good!

Diomede, exiled leader of the Vagor.

Diomede is a horse girl, so Mudsdale was an obvious choice. His actual steed though is an elk, which Sawsbuck sort of emulates, so I went with them too. Crobat was fun to add because of the whole "cannot evolve without high friendship", while also being scary-looking, which hints at how much he loved his people when he was part of them, but doesn't necessarily show it. Golurk, being inspired by a golem, also shows that latent protective instinct he had. Being a ghost type also feels like it shows those are just memories now, which i like. Bisharp was chosen as Diomede is a weaponsmith like most Vagor, and Bisharp looks like it would help out! Bouffalant works well as being a Vagor is also about working in tandem with the wilderness and with the untameable megafauna that roam Nod, which Bouffalant is clearly inspired by.

Saccade, Punisher of Neo-Babylon

For Saccade, it was important almost every pokemon felt recognisable as an animal. Saccade is quite a down-to-earth, no nonsense person, so these choices sort of infer that with their recognisable designs. Two are normal type, further cementing that she isn't someone majorly into the flashy looks of other pokemon. The exception to this is Noivern, who I'd imagine she rarely deploys as a sort of "suprise tool that will help us later". Mabosstiff, some of you might have noticed, is a shiny! I imagine Mabosstiff as a gift from her spouse when they were still alive, who Saccade rarely brings out in a fight either, for fear of losing them. Durant was chosen frankly just because I really like durant! Gallade, because in between these two pokemon she's hesitant to bring out, I think she needs a more aggressive partner to compensate. This team was also very fun to put together!

This was so fun to do! I'm gonna tag @megarywrites, @solipseismic, @revenantlore, @noblebs, @dyrewrites and @cream-and-tea, and of course, absolutely anyone else who is as taken with this concept as I was! Here is a link to the team builder, enjoy yourselves!

[mealvaan]

Two Heads are Better than One

Vahri'a's picatrix was lain amid the unwashed ceramics, a small stone keeping it spread flat. It hadn't been cleansed in a while, and some of the inkwork had worn with time and friction, for Vahri'a had stopped using it as a grimoire altogether last year. However, there was the occasional spell of use that remained within these pages and not yet on his skin. This was one of them.

He worked his fingers over the geometry, his own latent aether to the page. With the flick of his wrist, he pulled in a touch of the signature aether from atop the neighboring plates, funneling it into the equation — then the splay of his hand dissipated it in completion of the spell.

"Now it'll wash off easily," Vahri'a demonstrated. He lifted the plate vertically, picked up the basin, and ran the water over its surface. The once-stuck morsels were swept away in the current, leaving the ceramic plain and clean. He handed it to Mana.

"You can do this with ephemancy?"

"With arcanima, yes."

Mana took up the remaining plate and washed it off, then stacked the two parallel on the drying rack.

"Whew! Thank you. I'll need to learn that one some time," she said, then tapped her chin with a curious index finger. "I wonder if you could modify that spell so that it just removes the stuck-bits entirely…"

"Arcanist spells primarily work for non-living matter, save for spoken humors which we understand quite intimately. The once-living and the living are the realm of the thaumaturge and the conjurer respectively," Vahri'a was quick to answer in what Mana knew to be his 'teacher voice', though he cleared his throat out of it. "But, I don't see why it can't be done. All things are made from aether."

"Exactly," Mana said, brandishing a wooden spoon like a wand. "If I knew the alchemical composition of the food, surely I could factor that into the spell?"

Vahri'a had never thought of this key interaction between three seemingly adverse disciplines: alchemy, the culinary arts, and the magic of arcanima. Visorless, Mana was rewarded with the rare sight of her cousin… impressed. Speechless, even.

"Can I take a copy of this spell?" Mana asked, breaking the silence and picking up Vahri'a's picatrix.

"Ah, it's a little complex. Let me make a copy for you," Vahri'a offered, gently taking his book back.

"At least let me supply the aetherial ink, then. That's expensive."

"I have more than I would ever need. Consider it a gift."

"You've already done me enough favors."

The ambient sound of water crashing against bathroom tile occasionally interspersed their conversation, and had become welcome background noise at this point. What perked both their ears was a hum — coming from behind the thick washroom door, T'orii hummed a momentary ditty. Either she had forgotten entirely that the two were just outside, or she knew and didn't care.

"Our song of hope, she dances on the wind… higher, oh higher…"

Vahri'a's heart thumped and thawed.

"I know how I can pay you back," Mana chimed. She was looking at Vahri'a, who had been looking far away. He knew immediately what she meant and his ears braced to the top of his head, yet she spoke it all the same: "You've a brilliant mind, Vahri'a, but in the Goddess's name — let me help you with the matters of the heart."

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Back in Everkeep, Ish'kirya thought he had the best bedroom setup achievable to man. It was a massive project he undertook when he turned twenty-one and finally started earning his own money (the True Vue way), when his first cashed check was lush.

Oddly, Ish'kirya was inspired by the luxury pod hotel he stayed at. It was a rare visit to the 4th Level, and he hadn't expected there to be amenities of any sort on the production floor, yet it seemed like those who worked in the factories stayed late oft enough to require such a thing.

By the time Ish'kirya had finished with his bedroom, it was the pod's concept taken to new levels of comfort and automation. Everything predicated on a pre-programmed 'morning time'.

Half a bell before the morning time, the room would gradually fill with natural ambient sounds — miscellaneous bird calls, the gentle rustle of wind through leaves, and a dash of white noise that helped everything blend together (and leave out unsightly audio blemishes).

A quarter of a bell after that, the room would slowly introduce a golden glow, starting from the gradiated strips he placed on the floor and slowly rising to the ceiling, until the whole room was bathed in faux-sunlight.

Once the scheduled time hit, the birdsong would hit its apex in a much more forgiving alarum, and a beam of sunlight would soak in over his face from a carefully placed electrope light. The upper half of the mattress floated up and forward, while the latter stayed steady; the bed would prop him up in a reclined sitting position, the perfectly placed eye-beam moving with it, and he'd wake to a synthetic sunrise.

By the time the project was done, his room was a holy sanctum, the comforts of which had never been achieved even by the Residential Sector commissioned for millions of credits by Praxis Park. He achieved it himself, and that was the beauty of Alexandrian society. Everything was by design. There were no gods. Only mankind could determine what was best for mankind.

Ish'kirya awoke in the Sheshenewezi Springs inn room. Sunlight filtered through the dilapidated window as distant, uncurated birds called — eagles, he thought. He still lay vertical, but the sun beam hit his eyes anyway. Rubbing stardust out of his eyes, he sat up, awake.

Huh.

He didn't like looking at his face in the morning light, ignoring the mirror entirely as he brushed his teeth and splashed his cheeks with lukewarm water. How he missed closets that would cycle outfits out for him, mists that tacitly applied his lotion, primer and foundation.

Truly, Ish'kirya couldn't be bothered with any of it, and he got right to the meat of the day. Straight from the sink, he sat at the bedside bureau. Little pieces of electrope were undergoing delicate engravings with a needle and pocket knife. He had a nice laser cutter that he used to hook up to his computer at home for electrope matters…

"You're up early," grunted Iron Lotus, who finally awoke. Ish'kirya turned around. He was still getting used to seeing her without her helmet, before her own morning ritual.

"Woke with the sunrise. What can I say?"

"You say a lot. Is the levin rod ready then?"

"Nope. A little bit of patience goes a long way, you know." It was taking longer than he expected, though he'd never admit it in so many words. Lotus stood and took a look at his workdesk. He looked up at her expectantly, hoping his return-fire gaze would deter her from watching over his shoulder.

"You're working with a pocket knife?"

"There's a needle here too, if you look with your eyes."

"Mm."

"What? Use your vocabulary," he scolded, turning his chair all the way around. "We're not fuckin' lush on tools, you know."

"There's probably something better to use."

Ish'kirya hated these vague sentiments. His mothers were big fans of them; nudging him in an indeterminate direction, expecting him to get it with the faintest 'suggestions' of advice and patting themselves on the back for words that barely counted as hints. He gave Lotus a withering look, but her back was turned. Great. He'd be passive aggressively nudged to success from—

"Here."

By the time he turned his back, Lotus had approached him. Between fur-lined digits was what Ish'kirya could only describe as a tiny spear (he had seen the like in RPGs); a thin implement with a bladed edge on the end, sharpened to a tight point. The whetting wasn't even, but the end was precise enough despite the more than apparent handmadeness to it.

"What's this?"

"Scalpel."

Ish'kirya took it into his own hands and twirled it. A scalpel, she said. He tested it on the side of the desk, watching it curl up a wood shaving in its wake.

"Cool."

Lotus said nothing. They weren't the type for please's and thank you's, between Ish'kirya's brash demeanour and Lotus's unapologetic silence. Despite how far behind Shaaloani was, it possessed of niches that Ish'kirya hated to admit he needed. Perhaps he would learn to find it enough.

"How long will it take?" Lotus broke the silence.

"I'm a getting tired of this 'are we there yet' routine, you know. It's giving three-year-old."

Lotus stared dead at Ish'kirya, then made her way downstairs for breakfast. Truly, the preferable means of communication between them was non-verbal.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Red's night terrors, regrettably, had become a natural alarum for Imogen at this point. She awoke to his scream with a jolt still — that much hadn't been blunted and desensitised, yet — but she relaxed easier than she did the first time, her hands ghosting over Red like a shawl.

"Red. It's me," she said no louder than a whisper, and clinically shook him by the shoulders. It was a gentle jostle, like riding a chocobo carriage on an uneven road. She modulated her voice to rise slightly with every "Red", until she was speaking at normal volume (which, for Imogen, was anyone else's outdoor voice).

Eventually, he quieted awake.

"Sorry," he said. "I—"

Imogen cut him off. "I was having a weird nightmare, so cheers for that."

Red rubbed Althyk's sand from his lashes, turning his bleary blues to her. "What about?"

"I don't really wanna talk about it, honestly."

"Fair do's. Me neither."

Imogen kicked her way out of the blanket and cracked some fire crystals under the kettle, which had a permanent place on their stove. The Kugane estate that Yoki had rented was certainly intended for weddings, she thought; nowhere else would they offer a kitchenette next to the bedroom. She walked her fingers through the tea bag labels, flickering past the various citrus and ginger variants. She fished out two mild greens and dropped them into twin cups — the handleless, Hingan variant.

Red eventually got up and joined her, watching the kettle. He poured it out as she held out the ceramics. He insisted on doing the honey, too, and Imogen was particular about how squeezy 'one squeeze' was.

She wasn't used to seeing the moonlight against the grey of his hair, so she didn't look at it. She only ran her eyes along the fissures of his scars, relieved to still see most of them there.

"Kanpai," said Imogen.

"… Sure," snorted Red.

Imogen brought her tea to bed and took Red's once-place on the far side, where fear-wrought sweat still clung to the sheets. Her breath skid along the surface and turned to fog, then in her impatience, she scalded her tongue with a flinchless sip.

Red didn't drink his tea yet, and that was fine. Imogen was so easily offended by the star, but not him. She slipped a tome off the bedside table by her and waved it at him.

"We've still got a chapter of this pillowbook to devour," she said enticingly, and Red laughed. She didn't know what she'd do if that was taken away from her too, so she savoured every note, memorised the key.

"I thought ye hated th' last chapter."

"Yeah, that's why I want to read more of it. I need more kindling for my fireplace of ire. I'm a hatred-engine running out of steam."

"Or — 'ere's a wild idea — ye actually enjoy the story—"

"I would rather be devoured alive than admit such a thing."

T'was a strange metaphor, yet Red skated past it gracefully. "Right. I'll be Lord Aurumspire and you'll be Lady Bronzebosom?"

"No, let's mix it up this time. You read Lady Bronzebosom's lines."

"I'm flattered, dove. Y'think I've got the bosom to pull it off?"

"Bosom doesn't sound like a word anymore."

Red languidly held one side of the book from the top, and Imogen supported the other with a limp, lackadaiscal wrist. She thumbed the wearing pages, and noticed that they were almost through the novel entirely. Her breath hitched on something in her throat she didn't know was there. She had every temptation to just close the book on Red's fingers and try to read in silence.

Every temptation save one. One small voice in the back of her head, that she gave voice to quietly.

"Let's try and finish this tonight."

"Eager fer the climax?"

"Shut up."

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The bead-woven entryway parted for a pair of chesnut brown ears, one bisecting the curtain and the other following quickly after. A'tari sat up straight on her sleeping mat, tail fraying at the ends.

It was just A'khadia.

"You should have knocked!"

"On fuckin' what?" A'khadia popped his head back and punched a fist through the curtain in its stead. A'tari chortled, her laughter its own little song, as she waved him in.

"Okay, you can come in now. Thank you for finally showing some decorum."

"Don't get used t' it." He cut a path through the generous space that they'd been given for the festivities, astral wind prickling in his wake. He wasted no time in sitting, cross legged, across his sister. He wasted even less getting to the point. Even the Warrior of Light couldn't dodge it.

"Ye alright? Y'left the council faster than I could blink."

"Of course! I just… had so many ideas, I needed to write them down."

There was no parchment in sight; they both stared at the empty space where it would've been. A'tari was a bad liar when it came to A'khadia specifically, for the sheer reason that she already knew he'd call her bullshit no matter what she said.

"Tari, s'kosher if yer overwhelmed. No one ever makes me do a speech 'cause they know I'd rather jump off'a cliff."

With a great, windy sigh, the Warrior of Light was toppled to her deathbed with mere sentiment.

"It's different for you. They ask me to do speeches wherever I go. Just because I'm a bard doesn't mean I'm good with words!" She pressed her palms into her eyes until she saw stars, the pressure staying her impending headache. "And I don't know anything about war tactics or intertribe politics. I'm not a leader! All I do is hit things until they die."

"Ye saved the star more'n once. Yer more right to be a leader than I am."

"Saving the world doesn't mean you're any good at leading it."

Only recently, she'd accepted the mantle of sage advisor, someone worth following. Past the stars in her eyes, she hears flashes of echo-embedded memories: a horrific wet gurgle parting wisened scales into soft palates of flesh — chalkboard screeches, manic and unyielding to metre, amid blinding gold — and not so far off in the distance, the full, swelling silence of Elene'shpya amid the fading twinkle of electrope.

"I don't know what I'm doing, Khade. Why does everyone think I know what I'm doing? Why does everyone think I'm you?"

A'khadia's hand was ilms from A'tari's shoulder before it retracted, fingers frozen mid-stretch. "Me?"

"You built all of this, palisade by palisade. You made every decision that kept these people alive. I gallivanted my way around Eorzea and fell into success."

A'khadia shook his head. "That ain't fair, Tari. Lizha designed the layout, the farms… I just helped hunt down th'seeds. Dusa stopped me makin' some stupid, headarse decisions n' took 'em into her own hands. And without yer help with the O'ghomoro, we'd all be tempered by now. It's never bin' just me."

A'tari breathed deep of her brother's words.

"I wish the Scions were here," she said, curling up into herself. She couldn't keep the secret from her twin for too much longer, but how she missed them. Alphinaud taking care of silk-spoken words, Alisaie having such a way with compelling ones — swooping in when A'tari suddenly forgot all the vocabulary in the star, Echo and all. Urianger and Y'shtola's thoughtful solutions to age-old problems, Thancred and Estinien's furtive efforts with people on the ground — where A'tari couldn't keep track of the small, moving parts, tunnel-visioned entirely on the monstrous threat in front of her. G'raha and Krile's innate senses for space and aether, concepts she could only dream of grasping, to see beyond what the barely-mage was capable of. And, though she never thought she'd miss it rather than fear it, Tataru's unstoppable sense for business — it encompassed everything she was struggling to do here today.

All these thoughts filled the silence between them. They fell into it often, the twin satellites.

"Let me help ye wit' the speech," A'khadia offered.

"No, you can't do it for me. I can't keep letting people do things for me because I can't. You've already done enough for our people, all because I was scared—"

"Never said I'd do it for ye. Lemme help."

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

It's been eleven years since Dalamud ravaged Eorzea. All those years ago… near everyone we knew was suddenly gone. We'd barely grown beyond cubhood, and now we had the weight of the Antelope's legacy on our shoulders.

It weren't easy. All the family we had was each other, y'see — our mother and Nunh were in Thal's hands — an' the options weren't plenty. We made the 'ard decision to part ways. But it wasn't 'cause we decided t' give up.

I had no idea how I was going to help other people, let alone a tribe. I wanted to figure out who I was, what I was good at. I travelled across Eorzea and threw myself at everything. I'm sure many of you know the habits I fell into, drinking deep of my cups, staying up until the Lover's Bell, living from paycheck to paycheck. A'khadia supported me despite all that.

An' I didn't know how t' live without people aroun' me. I wasn't built ind'pendent like that. I travelled 'tween the tribes and y'let me learn yer ways. Ye didn't have to, and some of ye couldn't — I was another mouth t' feed on top of everythin' that'd happened. But ye all humbled me. I learned so much about our people. A'tari kept me company on the suns that no one could spare a hand.

It was in finding my own way that I learned how to be strong for other people.

It was the strength a' other people tha' helped me find me own way.

The Rising always sits under the constellation of the Goddess, the Balance. Nald'thal presides over it too. They both call us to keep, well, balance — between the self and the people. Between each other. To give when you take, to help when you're helped. It's one of life's many cycles that the Traders preside over.

Thank ye all for comin' to our Risin' memorial celebration today. Ye've helped us all so much, an' we wanna return it. Tari and I'll be sittin' here all evenin'. If ye need advice, a lil' helpin' hand, or even jus' an ear to listen, we'll do our best. We ain't miracle workers — we ain't the Warden — but we're both better listeners than talkers, anyhow.

… That's it! We're gonna sit down now. Come one, come all!

Yeah, jus' lemme take a leak first.

— Khadia Nunh of the Windrunner Antelope Tribe, and the Warrior of Light of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn The Seventh Astral Era, Yr. 11

[hornyforpoetry]

Classic 20th Century Japanese Writers I Recommend

Over the past three years, little by little, I have begun to explore the beauty of Japanese literature. I had some reluctance at first due to the fact that the first Japanese I read was Haruki Murakami (no offense to his fans, but his writing style doesn't appeal to me). Even if you try not to be prejudiced, sometimes the brain works against you. I've taken a much further step back since then and decided to get my hands on some classics. I always liked the classics better. An apparently wise decision on my part, as I found some exceptional literary gems. I'm still at the beginning of exploration and it's a slow process (quality translations are few and far between in my country; luckily more and more classical Japanese authors are coming in lately, which brings me nothing but joy), but this is a short list of 20th century Japanese literature that I recommend.

1. Ryūnosuke Akutagawa (1892 - 1927) // Hell Screen (1918) // Spinning Gears (1927)

One of the greatest Japanese authors in history, Akutagawa is known as the "father of Japanese short stories". In my opinion, he fully deserves his title. His short stories are something unique in world literature, developing a wide variety of themes. He explores in his writings both old and new Japan, but maintaining a precious, enchanted air. Its style is easy to understand, but retains a certain poetry. Akutagawa instills in his characters an air of mystery and, in a certain way, grotesque, as if he could sense the dark side of man.

  "Hell Screen" is inspired by a 13th-century volume of stories about the painter Yoshihide, commissioned to paint a screen depicting the Buddhist Hell scene. The theme of the artist's obsession with creation is a recurring theme in world literature, and Akutagawa brings it back in a new light. ”Spinning Gears” on the other hand takes place in the modern era and has a certain autobiographical feel to it. The protagonist narrates a series of events that he goes through, but these are often interrupted by his own thoughts and even hallucinations. The line between reality and fiction is finely demarcated, and the fall from one side to the other is sometimes imperceptible.

2. Yasunari Kawabata (1899 – 1972) // Thousand Cranes (1952) // Beauty and Sadness (1964)

  The first Japanese to win the Nobel Prize in Literature, Kawabata is an important writer both nationally and internationally. Many of his writings have spread throughout the world. His protagonists are usually respected men, but tormented by a hidden, obsessive side that they try to curb. His style is delicate but concise, being generally devoid of unnecessary literary flourishes. Kawabata's construction is subtle and carefully contoured, knowing when to alternate shots.

  "Thousand Cranes" is a short novel about a young unmarried man who has an affair with a woman older than him. Despite the age difference, the young man begins to develop an obsession with the woman, an erotic and even scary fascination in places. It is a story about passion that transforms reason, that brings horrible chimeras out of the human soul. "Beauty and Sadness" revolves around a former affair between a respected writer and a painter. The nostalgic notes of the past merge with the monotony of the present. While the central female figure is resigned and accepts her fate with simple coldness, the male figure seems to degrade at the first push and to live in a slight reverie, throwing himself into the nets of a past that only he idealizes.

3. Osamu Dazai (1909 – 1948) // The Setting Sun (1947) // No Longer Human (1948)

  A tragic genius par excellence, Osamu Dazai was obsessed his whole life with the idea of non-being. He had a latent fear of the idea of living among humans. His style is the most similar to that of Western writers among the Japanese authors I have come across so far. Like French decadents, he led a miserable life marked by alcohol, sex and suicidal tendencies. What makes him unique in literature is the way he manages to capitalize on the anguish, anxiety, fear of the human being that he suffers from and expose it in a poetic way in his writings.

  "The Setting Sun" centers on a woman in her early 30s who lives with her opium-addicted brother and her widowed and ailing mother. The snake appears as an obsessive idea, a protector and a harbinger of death at the same time. The woman seems to have a corrupted soul since childhood, a tendency towards alienation, towards misfortune, towards darkness. The fear of loneliness is combined here with the fear of closeness. "No Longer Human" is a prose memoir with many autobiographical elements. The protagonist is presented through all three stages of his life, from childhood to adolescence to adulthood. The young cartoonist is terrified of the darkness within him, which turns him into an inhuman being. Despite his desperate attempts, he finds it impossible to be honest and connect with people. His life is haunted by the tragedy of a lonely soul, scared of his own self, terrified that the world will find out about the monster that lies within him.

4. Yukio Mishima (1925 – 1970) // Confessions of a Mask (1949) // After the Banquet (1960)

Every country has that historical character that seems to be taken out of legends, but which was as true as it can be. Yukio Mishima is that character of Japan who is not talked about enough outside the borders. He had a tumultuous life, involved in art and politics alike. He wrote literature, essays, plays. His vocabulary is rich, lyrical, powerful. The images he conjures are terrifying, but clothed in poetry. He was not afraid to express the ideas he believed in, his political views, his observations on society, but he never forgot to express his art in a unique and sublime way. His voice is a universal voice, the meditations are of the whole world, and the freshness of the spirit is eternal. Mishima had a hidden talent for entering the darkness of the human soul and bringing out from there everything that could be both terrible and beautiful.

  "Confessions of a Mask" is one of his most famous works. The young protagonist recalls his childhood and adolescence, exploring his homoerotic inclinations and the passion he develops for characters in agony. The images suggested in this prose are jarring, dramatic and aesthetic. Everything from the construction to the wording to the image is beautiful. "After the Banquet" has as its central character a woman in early old age. This is a charismatic character, slightly rude, but charming. Mishima balances the woman's free spirit with her fear of dying and disappearing without anyone to honor her memory, while a political battle rages in the background.

[fairylandblog]

Types of Fairy Dust

Folklore, fantasy, and fairy tales have long used fairy dust to symbolize magic, transformation, and awe. Generally, stories depict fairy dust as a shimmering, ethereal material that grants wishes or allows flight, yet each story varies in its properties and applications. Each sort of fairy dust has its own abilities and properties, reflecting the many roles fairies and their magic play in human imagination. Flight-related fairy dust is famous. Fairy dust is a shimmering powder that lets characters fly in J.M. Barrie's Peter Pan. Golden, bright fairy dust requires belief and a joyful thought to activate. It symbolizes fairy magic's whimsical freedom and capacity to transcend physical constraints. The dust's association with happiness and belief shows that magic is physical, emotional, and spiritual.

Other fairy dust heals and protects. Fairies are sometimes kind and utilize their abilities to help people. People believe that their silvery or light blue dust has healing properties. This may heal wounds, treat ailments, and fight off evil spirits. Fairies, who safeguard the environment and humanity, exhibit compassion, much like this fairy dust. The fairies protect balance and harmony with this dust, which shields them from malevolent powers. Transformative fairy dust can change looks or make ordinary objects remarkable. This dust appears in stories where fairies help humans achieve a goal or conquer a difficulty. In certain fairy tales, dust can convert a pumpkin into a chariot or a torn robe into a ball gown. These cases show multicolored or sparkling dust, signifying magic's unlimited possibilities. This transformational dust represents change and the concept that magic may unleash latent potential or produce something spectacular from the banal. Dark or cursed fairy dust represents the darker side of fairy magic in several legends and fantasy worlds. Unlike its beneficent cousins, this dust is either black, gray, or dark and menacing. It causes turmoil, misfortune, and even harm to people it affects. Trickster fairies or evil spirits sometimes utilize it to prank or avenge offended humans. This dust reminds us that not all magic is beneficial and that fairies, like people, have complex and unpredictable agendas. Dreams and creativity are associated with rare fairy dust. People claim that this delicate, sparkling dust fosters creativity, enables vivid dreams, and grants access to magical realms during sleep. Sometimes, painters, poets, and writers connect it with dream fairies or muses. This dreamy dust suggests that fairies are representations of our inner creativity and amazement, linking magic and the human mind. Fairy dust in legend and fiction reflects fairy magic's complexity. Each variety gives wings, heals wounds, inspires imagination, or warns about enchantment's sinister side. Fairy dust symbolizes magic as a force that transcends the mundane and opens up possibilities beyond the natural world. It captures wonder and reminds us that magic occurs wherever we see it—through belief, imagination, or storytelling.

[hauntingcryptids]

Soft Spot In The Hearts Of A Murderer

Simm!Master x Reader

Summary - The reader has a panic attack after hearing people being killed day after day on The Valiant, and The Master comforts them.

Based On This Request - Anonymous requested - “Hi! May I ask for a soft fic with The Master where they hypnotise The Reader?”

Warnings -The Year That Never Was, The Reader has a panic attack/anxiety attack, hypnotism, hypnotism without consent, canon typical violence

Word Count - 1095

A/n - Gender Neutral Reader. Requested by this lovely anon. I will link the other fics inspired by this request HERE, if you would like to read them. I hope that you enjoy!

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

For some reason, The Master allowed you to roam the halls of The Valient unaccompanied, maybe with the supervision of a guard or two, but usually, you could just go your merry way around the ship. However, you rarely ever did this. You never wanted to see what was occurring on the Earth down below, you didn’t want to see the Toclafane unleash a flurry of lasers onto Humanity, and you didn’t want to see what The Master had done to any of your friends. 

You were a coward. Or, at least, you thought that. Martha was Gods-know-where, her family were being used, and everyone aboard was being tortured and degraded, except for you. And you couldn’t do anything to stop The Master because you were so crippled with fear.

The past couple of days you have been staying in your room all instead of roaming The Valiant on occasion. You assumed that no one would notice your absence. Unbeknownst to you, though, The Master was causing hell to everyone around him whenever he didn’t see you. He constantly tried to escape the day’s plans, but apparently destroying the planet Earth and scouring it for a “fugitive” was difficult and time-consuming work. But eventually, the day was mostly over, and The Master was free to spend some time with you, just in time for dinner.

The Master made his way past random Valiant guards and security toward your room. He thought about what he would order for dinner in order to impress you, which he desperately wanted to do. He had absolutely no idea about how you were feeling or why you were absent today. But if he had been aware, he would’ve spent the entire day trying to cheer you up and make you feel special.

A gentle knock on your door startled you away from your anxious mind. You thought that you might just ignore it, as it was probably just a guard. But then there was another set of knocking, and you noticed the rhythm. Was it like that before? You couldn’t tell. And again: knock knock knock knock. You rushed to the door, worried that you had waited too long and now The Master would be upset with you. You had never seen him upset with you, but he always seemed upset when he was with someone else. He would probably be upset with you at some point, so why not now. 

You opened the door tentatively.

“Ah! Y/n, it’s lovely to finally see you.” The Master smiled at you, but his eyes looked clouded with latent rage. You cursed yourself. You should have gone out of your room today to see him. 

“I missed you today.” The Master up again when you didn’t respond.

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologise. We all have reclusive days. I just hope that I haven’t done anything wrong to worsen your mood.” The Master entered your room without asking you and instantly began looking around. He actually wasn’t trying to be intrusive, he just wanted to get to know you better. And maybe if he knew you better, then he would know the best way to get you to love him.

“No, no of course you haven’t done anything wrong.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, Y/n.” The Master suddenly stopped looking through the bookshelf he had gifted you, trying to see which books you have read, and he turned to face you.

“I don’t know what -”

“I know that my presence here hasn’t been the most comforting. I have destroyed your planet and terrorized your people and I have, frankly, been a right menace aboard The Valiant, especially when there are some political manoeuvres that I have to plan. All I am saying is that I would completely understand why you would hate me, Y/n.” It almost looked as if The Master’s eyes softened as he spoke, but you assumed that it was a trick of the light.

You didn’t know how to respond. You wanted to say something brave, something calling out The Master’s horrible behaviour, but nothing formed because your anxiety seemed to be controlling everything at the moment. You were too scared that this was all a trap and that The Master would kill you after you revealed your true feelings. But then a rolling thunder sounded around The Valiant.

“What was that?”

“Oh, just the evening patrol.” The Master nonchalantly responded. 

You felt your chest tighten. You immediately thought of Martha. What if this was the moment she was caught and killed? You could have done so much during your time aboard this ship, yet you did nothing. 

The Master was saying something, but you couldn’t hear him over the thumping of your heartbeat in your ears. Your breath began to quicken and heave. You suddenly felt incredibly dizzy, and the room looked like it was spinning. You tried to move to a nearby chair, but you missed the seat and stumbled onto the ground. You heard The Master calling your name, but you were unable to respond; you were far too focused on the anxiety attack you were having and the horrible thoughts circling around your mind.

“Hey. No. Don’t do that. Everything is going to be fine, sweetheart.” You shook your head ‘no’. Things did not feel fine. The Master joined you on the floor and stroked your arms and face soothingly. He hated seeing you like this. Is this how you acted when he wasn’t around? Did he cause you to be in this much pain? The Master never wanted you to hide anything from him, even your bad thoughts. The Master just wanted to comfort you and know the real you.

“Look into my eyes. Everything will be calmer in a moment.” The Master held your face softly in his hands and brushed his thumbs across your temples. You met the commanding alien's gaze tentatively. His eyes were beautiful; they were a warm brown with green specks and waves rolling through his irises. You never noticed that before.

A calm rushed over you. You were no longer plagued by the thoughts of Martha dying or that you were not being brave enough or that you were not being a good companion to The Doctor. You were so calm and relaxed in fact that you felt your body grow limper. You fell into The Master’s chest. He brought two of his fingers to your chin and gently moved your face to look at him.

“Now, tell your Master what’s wrong, sweetheart.”

[roobylavender]

Omg I'm glad I found a fellow new teen titans hater (or at least critic) because while I think Wolfman had some really neat ideas it really amazes me how so much of what he's written for Dick is like the polar opposite of his character for 40 years and how people ignore that simply because they don't read golden/silver age batman... like I hate reboot Nightwing as much as anyone but it's crazy to me how people think he's always been the most anal about his moral code as if it didn't take years for him to develop it after watching Bruce (like in canon: https://64.media.tumblr.com/f20ae729d626788129a371dab7f790db/5b84ba907a5dc5f9-ac/s1280x1920/e0e719108502d4fa51364eb748450141fd1bcedd.png), or how he'd give up college/a day life to be Robin when in canon he was the one all gung-ho about going to college while Bruce hoped for him to stay home (and ironically enough Bruce quit Wayne Industries himself so he could focus full-time on being Batman lmao: https://64.media.tumblr.com/48945b33fa70a2bfbded0fe6c83017d0/68e853c82fce0d82-5a/s1280x1920/32e3b3ab44fa7364ca82eb63bb8c6d5bbbbb7132.png), or even that Dick wouldn't have the patience to mentor children or something when the literal purpose of creating Robin was to be a role model for children to relate to and sef-insert themselves as his friend, hence why he always excelled in school and sports and stuff...like Bill Finger even created this concept of "Robin's Regulars" to show that Dick liked kids and inspired them (https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wpPLG-yJpJw/S5v2_3KXjdI/AAAAAAAADnM/1aOMBWuCmT0/s400/robinsregulars.jpg)... the good part is that NTT took place when Dick was just 18-19, I can easily pass it off as his angsty phase that he grew out of in the same way Peter's Ditko era is passed off as his edgy college kid phase in-universe that he outgrew thanks to his friends lmao

admittedly i think trying to ascertain any kind of moral code from bruce or dick in the golden age is a bit of a directionless endeavor bc the writers switched things up soooo often depending on whether they want to pander to morality or comedic value 😭 like there's a golden age issue where bruce quite literally lets= someone die in an electric whirlpool of some kind omds it was hysterical. but yeah interestingly with wolfman i like a lot of the things he did with dick as a character if i view them as developments resulting not only from his personal foray into adulthood but also from the distance that started to grow between him and bruce. it was completely logical for dick to reassess a lot of the things he wanted back when he thought it was going to be him and bruce forever versus at present when bruce clearly no longer wanted to sanction him being robin and dick took that to mean he wasn't good enough (even though bruce was merely being protective and trying to respect dick's own ability to choose his own path in life). the problem with wolfman is that rather than portray it as a series of newfound assessments made in context of newfound developments in dick's life, he wrote these assessments as if they had been lodged in dick's mind since the day he was taken in. which to me at least seems to diminish the significance of dick's development into a more agitated, hyper-emotional control freak. it's not supposed to be something that's always been there. it's more latent. dick's belief in himself with respect to his relationship with bruce sort of hung by a thread for the entirety of their tenure together. that's what happens when you let a nine-year-old become a vigilante and spend nearly nine years together thereafter fighting crime with him as your exclusive partner. it builds expectations, hopes, dreams. for his entire life dick was building up to this.. fantasy almost. and when he went to college it still wasn't so bad because even if there was a desire to be independent he still felt like he had bruce's support. the fantasy remained intact. it was only when dick started to realize that being in college hindered what he really wanted to do with his life, and then bruce opposed him on it, and then they proceeded to disagree on a number of other things—as respectfully as they could admittedly. that was the nice thing about the early 80s. they actually talked in the truest sense of the word—and then bruce finally cut the cord (so to speak) on robin existing as a required extension of batman, that the floodgates really opened. every latent positive emotion that dick had ever felt in his life because of what he believed bruce had given him unconditionally was suddenly up for dissection. and that's how you proceeded to get the neurotic ticking time bomb we know and love so well today. or at least that's how i like to conceptualize it in my head

[ironchef13]

Hello Psychic Puppets!

A Psychonauts x Hello Puppets crossover idea that anyone is free to use. Starring my new OC (that's also free to use)

-Albert Mentallis thought his life couldn't get any weirder. At age 10 he learned that he had an uncle who was a famous psychic inventor, and that he himself was psychic as well. From then to age 13 he spent a few summers at a summer camp for psychic children run by the agency his uncle worked at. At age 14-16 he did an internship at said psychic agency. It was fun and all but not really something he thought he wanted to do for a living. Now he is in college and what started out as research on an abandoned warehouse for a Halloween story on his college newspaper turns into a fight for survival against evil living puppets from a canceled children's show. And to top it all off he has a sentient hand puppet, named scout, stitched onto his hand. Luckily thanks to his expert problem solving skills and latent psychic abilities (He is admittingly a little rusty) he is able to escape the warehouse alive and is able to save Scout from dying thanks to his psionic healing abilities. Now that Albert has escaped there is one thought that crosses his mind. "I should probably call Uncle Otto"

Facts about My OC Albert Mentallis

-An average young adult in college and distant nephew to Psychic Seven member Otto Mentallis. Their relationship is average at best but that's because Otto is usually focused on his inventions, and they live practically on opposite ends of the country, so they only see each other on rare occasions. (Think regular looking guy with short spikey hair)

-Though not a super genius like Otto, Albert has a very exceptional intellect. He has photographic memory and can solve problems in record time. His problem-solving skill are one of the reasons he was able to survive Riley's tests fairly easily. (I like to think of him as the modern-day Albert Einstein, hence his name)

-While most psychics embrace their abilities, Albert is a little self-conscious about his. He doesn't want people to judge him, or be compared to his uncle, so he pretends to be non-psychic most of the time. His specialties are clairvoyance (hence how he is able to mind swap with scout so easily), Psionic healing (a rare but useful ability) and a "Radar Sense" meaning he could use his psychic powers to amplify any of his senses if he wanted to. Which is useful considering the warehouse is dark and his head is covered in a burlap sack.

Final Notes: the one sad part about Hello Puppets is that Scout dies in the end without ever seeing the outside world. Though I guess it wouldn't be a good horror game if there wasn't a bittersweet twist at the end. But this story would be able to explore how Scout would react to seeing the "host world" for herself. It would also be interesting to see how the other Psychonauts, both young and old, would react to a paranormal entity like scout. Personally, I bet Sasha and Otto would have a field day with her.

I hope you find this idea inspiring.

[rootlessinterloper]

A particularly schizoid piece, thought up in the manic headspace brought on by 30+ degree weather and inspired by two Walter Benjamin essays: 'The Task of the Translator', and 'On Language as Such and the Language of Man'.

I have previously written that there is a liminal sublimity in imperception, wherein I argued that it represents a profound multifaceted seeing rather than some kind of epistemological mistranslation. What is mistranslation? Is language, in all its many forms, not the very fabric of im/perception?

Translation is not a secondary operation to something’s ontological formation; it is an inherent part of a Thing’s – a text, a face – Object-Existence. Traditional views of translation argue that meaning is lost when texts are grafted between written languages. But what is found? It is a nonlinear process performed on behalf of the original Object itself, not its recipients. To receive, and in doing so translate, the gaze of another, for example, is an action performed not for the sake not of the gaze’s beholder or beneficiary but of its very patron. What is found, then, in translation, is a mode of Potentiality emanating from the Object itself. Translation arrives from the future, both binding in fixed time and space and granting an incredible Object-Permanence.

Object-Potential refers to a reflexive self-subsistence inherent to every Thing. The Thing demands of itself to convey its own latent capacity for translation, paraphrasis, dissemination, construction, and deconstruction; a most brilliant affirmation of self-existence. Yes, translation is a real material task performed by silent interlopers, agents of an epistemological process that exists at a scale beyond human-time, but it fundamentally emanates from the Object itself. It is a deliberate act of self-preservation. 

In Walter Benjamin’s native German, the verbs ‘to translate’ and ‘to survive’ are closely related: überleben, übersetzen. In Russian, ‘to translate’ is «переводить or перевести»; perevodit’ or perevesti. The prefix «пере» or pere- denotes a crossing or re-doing action. In the imperfective verb form, the «водить» or vodit’ means ‘to drive’ or ‘to guide’; in the perfective aspect, the «вести» or vesti can mean ‘to lead’, or ‘to conduct’. Translation, as expressed in the Russian language, is the re-conducting of negotiations, re-leading, re-driving – a directional verb of motion and action. The verb is functionally the same in Serbo-Croatian – prevoditi/prevesti – and, to my knowledge, other Slavic languages (off the top of my head I recall that the Slovene word is prevesti also, but I cannot attest to the West-Slavic Czech, Slovak, or Polish, nor others with Proto-Slavic heritage). 

English does not have a consistent grammatical capacity to express reflexivity – people can wash or pleasure or harm themselves, and one can enjoy oneself, but the grammar is awkward. The aforementioned Slavic languages are different. In Russian, the process of translating, as with countless other verbs, is a reflexive and autonomous one; it is not performed by one actor upon a passive Object but rather by the Object itself. Take the phrase  “I like this weather” (ironically prescient as I write this in the midst of a feverish heatwave). I, the Subject, the grammatical focus of the sentence, like, the verb, which moves unidirectionally from myself, Subject, to a docile and dormant Object, this weather. The weather is an unmoving and flat entity, completely decontextualized and irrelevant without I, myself. What epistemological arrogance! I, I, I, me, me, me, my opinion, what I like, myself, my own. 

In Russian the phrase could be «Мне нравится эта погода», ‘mne nravitsya eta pagoda’. Although the word order remains the same (pronoun, verb, Object), the meaning is drastically different. Eta pagoda, ‘this weather’, is in the nominative grammatical case and, as both subject and object, it is performing a reflexive process. The suffix «ся» at the end of a verb means an action performed by a grammatical item’s self, for itself. The ‘I’ in the sentence does not take the nominative form of «я» or ya but rather the dative grammatical case «мне», mne, which is used for the indirect grammatical object. So a more complete and accurate translation would really be ‘this weather pleases itself to me’, or ‘this weather makes itself appealing for me’, or ‘this weather makes itself likeable to me, me, the mere indirect object, recipient of its autonomous process of likeability’. 

To end the semantics and rambling and bring this back to down to earth, I will note that the same principle of reflexive verb format applies to translation. «Этот текст переводится» (Etot tekst perevoditsya) would usually be ‘This text is being translated’ but a more accurate version might be ‘This text is translating itself’, or ‘this text is re-leading itself’, or ‘re-negotiating itself’ or ‘re-self-conveying’. Reflexive verb; autonomous, self-initiated and self-fulfilled process. As writes Benjamin, the act of translation emanates from the Object itself. The same is true in Serbo-Croatian where sebe or simply se functions the same as «ся» or sya. ‘Prevode se knjige Ive Andrića’ – ‘Ivo Andrić’s books are translating themselves’, or, to render literally the Yoda-esque verb-first construction that is common in that language, ‘re-self-conducting are the works of Ivo Andrić’. 

What is this all to say then? The English language lacks the grammatical toolkit to express the act of translation’s true ontology. It self-continues its own lifespan, expands its own Object-Permanence, and immortalizes itself, creating a self-realized trajectory of transcendence. To translate between written languages is to help convey a Thing’s Object-Potential; to be a servant to a text. Of course, language is more than the written word. Faces, eyes, touches, sounds and sights, music and energy, can all too be translated, but the principle is the same: we are simply aiding along an Object’s re-self-preservation, re-self-transcendence. Translation is not a conveying or a copying like using a stencil or grafting skin but rather a most incredible epistemological transformation, one which expresses the fundamentally reciprocal relationship between Language-Being and all Things. 

Language families have taxonomic groupings (as demonstrated by my above tangent) but all languages, from written English to the sound of waves, have suprahistorical harmonies which are expressed only in the reflexive translating act, which takes as its target not one Object but rather the universal entirety of Language-Being itself. The attainment of Object-Permanence through translation is not simply for the Object itself but rather part of a broader, holistic process of Language-Being’s autonomous reproduction; we are grooming a great linguistic super-organism, not through some linear historical march of direct, word-to-word translation but through a fragmented teleology in which we tend to an intricate web of reciprocal de/construction and knowledge dissemination. 

In fact, such word-by-word translations are supremely unfaithful because they inhibit transformation; they obscure intent and make themselves seen rather than the Object. Perhaps an example will accentuate this rather unorthodox point; let me use a previously-stated one. Take the works of Ivo Andrić. His seminal 1945 novel The Bridge on the Drina is about political memory and identity in Ottoman and Habsburg Bosnia across centuries; the historical perspective comes from a silent narrator, the Mehmed Paša Sokolović Bridge in the town of Višegrad. The novel has only been translated into English once, and poorly. The Serbo-Croatian title is Na Drini ćuprija, which can indeed be translated as The Bridge on the Drina; such a translation, however, misses a crucial context. The Serbo-Croatian word for bridge is most – it is a pan-Slavic root word instantly recognizable to any reader from Bohemia to beyond the Urals – but Andrić does not use it, opting instead for the Turkish loan word ćuprija, to represent the region’s multilingual and cosmopolitan cultural landscape, as well as the historical antagonism from the region’s Ottoman occupation. The original text is actually filled with such ‘Turkisms’, and yet all are lost in the simple, one-to-one translation into English (perhaps a better title would be Ćuprija on the Drina or something of the sort; I cannot say). 

Mistranslation, therefore, is a misnomer. There is no such thing as mistranslation. Poor translation – yes, if it fails to capture the intent of Object from which it emanates; de-translation – perhaps; non-translation, anti-translation – yes, when the translating agent makes itself seen rather than its muse. But mistranslation? No, as the transformative process can only produce and create and synthesize, not retract. Meaning and intent can be changed, and the resulting product will become alien indeed, but they cannot be eliminated. A good translator knows this. The translator is a stranger, and translation is his liminal domain. It is in such a space itself that we find the most answers, in the transformative state, the realm between Objects, the place upon the walls where the shadows dance. Of course, rootless interlopers such as I are already here. 

EMF

[akkivee]

More Kuko ramblings because adhd, but i was driving and listening to Closer, which made me think about HitoJaku, and then Hitoyas slightly retconned backstory, and then chapter 4 of the dhbat manga, and then about Kuko and Sawamura parallels. But something we haven't seen touched on in a while is Kuko's latent anger issues, violence streak, and the sadism both of those issues inspire.

you actually beat me to talking about this thought myself lmao i’ve been planning on a creepy kuukou ‘month’ for october where i just draw kuukou with his darker aspects when i can and his viciousness was part of the plans lmao. like i still don’t how much of sougyaran bam💥 i should be taking literally or anything at all lmao, but like combined with sawamura’s story and the rocky vibes sougyaran bam 💥 has, i was going to put it out there that maaaaaaybe kuukou might be implying a body count in his chorus

and like i still can’t get over the shock on kuukou’s face when the bully tried to kill himself and kuukou intending to take the full blame for it all in that very chapter like idk??? i feel like there is a sort of violence that shaped him and he’s been fighting against with varying degrees of success lol, but especially in those early chapters where he’s still wearing that dragon sukajan

but it’d be great if that was the underlying issue in the upcoming drama track!!!! 🙏🙏🙏

[on-softs]

i love your fic so much and you are such a good writer and this line made me crazy: “A small part of Danny has always been prepared for this, at the ready; he’s been waiting for a bad Max Verstappen crash since he first saw Max climb into a car as a teenager, fear for his life a latent twin carried inside Danny next to the love for him, the way a gold-medal throw is stored inside a future Olympic shot-putter from birth” and the way that worry and care daniel has for max carries over to little max as well makes me!! crazy!!! i could read 100k words of it

Ahh thank you so much! The Olympic part of that quote was inspired by something similar I read in Middlesex by Jeffery Eugenides (VERY GOOD BOOK) which I thought was such a fascinating way of capturing the idea of the potential stored inside every person. And that Danny’s potential to love Max had also always been there since long before they’d even met. SAPPY.

I am trying to stick the landing of this fic in the next part. Thanks for reading what I have so far!