#but it's like i feed into the darkness by putting words and images to embody my feelings - which i know isn't the same for everybody

[hornsandthings]

Umm hi I don’t know if you still take ACOTAR requests anymore but if you do can I request an azriel x reader where he’s in love with her and is afraid of rejection but he doesn’t know that she loves him too? 👉🏻👈🏻

hi nonnie, i’ll always accept an acotar request, hehe! did this in headcanon form, hope you don’t mind <3 it’s quite long and a little rough around the edges, but i hope you like it! ps. tumblr mucked up the formatting, some dot points don’t want to be indented. i hope it still makes sense x 

when your and azriel’s paths crossed, it was the mother at work again. after mor, azriel didn’t think he’d ever have the strength for love again. the aching and the pining had taken their toll, and the appeal of the mating bond had faded. to feel it all again, to risk his heart like that again - he couldn’t. and yet, the mother saw fit that he would. 

+++

he first met you in the palace of hoof and leaf, and it didn’t mean anything at the time; a stranger’s kindness, or if he indulged his cynicism, a hawker’s ploy. you were a commoner, a milkmaid who came to sell your products in the markets. he’d been at the neighbouring stall, waiting for the clerk to put together the only tea brew in prythian that could placate his migraines.

“sir, mr. shadowsinger, sir,” you called, “could i offer you a sample of my goat’s milk? maggie-may is very special, her milk can be just as good as a healer’s work, i swear it. try it, try it, sir.” 

azriel looked you over, glad that cassian wasn’t here to make that particular moniker stick. one brow raised in dubiety, he nodded and held out his hand - might as well, he thought, tired and getting ever more desperate for his tea. this didn’t show outwardly, of course; azriel’s face was as neutral as ever, his shadows coiling about his talons. your gaze was expectant as he tried the sample, and while it was a little too earthy for his taste, he nodded all the same. perhaps it had encouraged you too much, because then you asked: “could i perhaps persuade you to buy a pint?”

azriel had no interest at all, yet he couldn’t help but notice the detail: your fraying sleeves, the imperfect glass bottles, the beginnings of dark circles under your eyes. and yet you were smiling, you were sweet, being very generous for someone who had to presumably make a living selling fresh products. not for the first time, azriel made a purchase that only someone of the inner circle could afford, and one that didn’t really benefit him. “i’ll take several,” he said, looking at the handful of wooden caddies, mostly still filled with milk bottles. “i’ll take it all.” 

the clerk then handed azriel his brew while you stood there, wide-eyed and speechless, working through a range of emotions. at first you thought he was mocking you, but when he turned around again, fiddling with his coin pouch, you realised he was serious. “but, sir— maggie-may’s milk sure is delicious, but only in moderation— i couldn’t expect someone to buy it all—”

“as much as you’d let me, then,” he amended, being mindful not to impose or patronise. you bit your lip, trying to tally up the ultimate price, trying to gauge whether this man could even afford it. two gold, you said, trying your luck. azriel merely fingered his coins, placing the expected two and an additional three on the counter. he must’ve noticed your shock; you had frozen, after all, perhaps even stopped breathing. “since maggie-may is so special,” he drawled, earning a disbelieving laugh from you. 

that night, cerridwen, nuala, and elain were very confused at the sight of bottles and bottles of milk laying in wait on the kitchen counter in the house of wind. the note - clearly by azriel’s neat hand - read: use within five days.

+++

from then on, you always engaged azriel when you spotted him in the market. you could never forget his generous first purchase, and so while he waited for the tea master to finalise his special brew, you would entertain him with an endless supply of free samples of new products. over the years, azriel saw your business extend from milk to also include cheese and soap. he learned unnecessary things about your cattle, such as the supposed social dynamics and - mother forbid - adultery that mr. sweet pea the goat seemed prone to. over time, azriel grew comfortable enough to share some of his stories and observations, the things he’s seen in other courts. it took a while to realise you had become more than his mere acquaintance, and perhaps it was because you were outside his usual spheres of the inner circle and his spy network. to have someone outside was new, and a little jarring at times. the different experiences, the contrasting perspectives - it was refreshing, and reminded azriel how far he’d come since his miserable youth. when he was with you, the stakes weren’t so high, the conditions not so dire. you were a spot of calm, a reminder that life could be something other than the court’s defense. 

+++

one time when he visited - his tea no longer a requisite for him to make an effort to come in - you were noticeably subdued. “mr. sweet pea passed away,” you revealed, eyes wet and voice thick. something about that seized his heart, his shadows growing restless. “he was so special.” you actually said that about each of your cattle, something that azriel had started to find endearing, because he knew you really believed it.

social tact was not a strength of his - azriel knew he tended to be rigid and too formal - so he stumbled over some stilted condolences. it felt awkward and impersonal; azriel couldn’t empathise with the death of a pet, but he wanted to make it hurt less. he still remembered what the late goat had looked like the last time you had brought him in - an old thing, with a long beard and a mix of brown and black fur. strong, impressive horns, one which had a sizeable chip missing. 

so that night, he did what he could and sketched that image he had in his mind, of mr. sweet pea looking very wise and ponderous, if a little tired. azriel’s time as spymaster had bestowed him a keen eye and dexterous fingers, allowing him to make the necessary sketches to give his colleagues a clearer picture when necessary - of maps, of creatures, of profiles. they tended to be a little rough and raw, nothing particularly artistic. he thought the same of his current piece, and hesitated over whether it was good enough.

when he finally gave you the sketch the next day, you went very still. he started stumbling over some excuses, but you soon interrupted him with a shaky breath. “this is so thoughtful, azriel. thank you so much.” 

+++

azriel grew bolder, and interactions started to occur outside the markets. he’d invite you for tea, indirectly revealing one of his interests. he was a hard man to read, his expressions subtle when not stoic, but you learned. outside of professional matters, he was rarely straightforward, and tended to express his emotions in delicate, layered ways. his care for you was in the way he listened, how his attention never wavered when you were speaking with him. it was how he kept you close when you two navigated busy streets, how he lifted a wing over your head for cover when it rained, how he was content to spend time with you at your stall - sometimes for hours - despite his preference for quietude. 

+++

when work took him away, you two would exchange letters. azriel didn’t realise how dangerous a thing it was, because you quickly became a very intimate and constant part of his life. the act of writing tricked him, making it easier to truly express his thoughts - there was no pressure of navigating the immediate reaction, no incentive to keep his words short. you managed to draw so much out of him. he was mindful of each letter of yours he received, keeping them safe and tied together with an old ribbon of yours he’d saved before you could throw it away. he would never admit it, but work abroad tended to be overwhelming: while secure in his network’s quality of intelligence, being in another’s territory always meant having to deal with various variables and vulnerabilities, usually unknown. maybe your letters would have made it all a little more manageable if they didn’t elicit such longing within him. your words made him smile, yes, but they also made his heart ache. he missed you.

+++

after a lengthy assignment in the dawn court, azriel was relieved to be back in velaris. his shadows swirled and whispered around his shoulders, eager to feel your presence too. he knew they fascinated you, how playful they could be sometimes. yet, azriel couldn’t find you at your empty market stall. it was odd - you hadn’t mentioned moving in your recent letters, and he couldn’t find you in any of the other market squares either. soon his shadows grew restless, embodying the concern that was rising.

he employed his spy network to find your farm, hoping it wouldn’t be too intrusive to just show up unannounced. you had mentioned some details in passing before - it was a modest place, with a small house and a meagre hill of grass to feed a handful of goats and sheep. the door was answered by two worried faces, who took one look at azriel and grew even more distressed. “our son— it’s not our son, is it? it can’t be— he just—”

“i’m here to see your daughter,” azriel interrupted, too preoccupied to remember polite niceties. they were confused, guarded, but let him through. the hallways were narrow, his wings often knocking against the wall sconces. he listened as they explained your condition - an illness had befallen you, leaving you bedridden for days. apparently a healer had told them it’ll pass with rest and water, and with that reassurance, azriel forced himself to remember his place. right in front of your closed door, he willed his shadows away from his face, called upon his familiar impassiveness. turning around to face your parents, he amended, “may i see your daughter?” 

your room was dark, the curtains drawn. his heart raced as he heard your laboured breaths, and something pulled at him when he saw the small desk in the corner, an unfinished letter atop it. “azriel?” you whispered, voice sounding so small. “is it really you?” 

he neared, taking a cautious seat on the side of the bed. you were shivering, but the thin sheet covering you stuck to your skin with sweat. “yes, it’s me, sweetheart,” he said, the endearment slipping out before he could stop it. his throat closed up immediately after, but your vague movements suggested you didn’t even realise, and that you weren’t all there. he could see the feverish blush high on your cheeks, even in the dim light.

“you’re too big for this room,” you mused softly, making azriel smile despite his worry. indeed, he had to bend down to avoid hitting his head, and keep his wings tucked in uncomfortably tight. he took your hand in his, and even in your feverish haze, you could register the roughness of his scarred hands, but they always handled you gently. “why didn’t you tell me in your letters?” he asked, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles. your discomfort was clear in your frown, in your downturned lips. noticing the basin on the bedside table, he took the damp rag on your forehead and dipped it into the cool water, wringing away the excess before gently placing it atop your head again. 

“i… didn’t want to trouble you with… with something trivial. a few more days and… and i’ll be back to work.” a weak smile pulled at your mouth, and azriel gathered both of your hands in his again. he shook his head at your line of thinking.

“your health isn’t a trivial matter to me,” he said, leaning close and cupping your cheek. in hindsight, it was so obvious that he had been in love with you far longer than he thought. it was all so rueful, the fact that he had let it happen again. despite it all, he pressed a kiss to your hand, trying to ignore how it trembled. your smile strengthened then, tracing a finger over his brow and down the bridge of his nose. azriel took a deep breath to savour the touch, and soon you two were merely watching each other, azriel wondering what thoughts were running through your slightly added mind. your lids eventually started to droop, however, but still he stayed even when you fell asleep, taking care to change the cool rag when necessary. his shoulders slumped when his head fell into his hands, squeezing his eyes shut tight. with such a revelation, what was he to do from now on? 

+++

azriel didn’t think he could be a good lover to you - even if he so very much wanted to be. his job took up so much of time, and it required him to be secretive. azriel wouldn’t ever be able to share everything with you, for the sake of keeping you safe. even if he could, there was just something in his nature that kept him reserved and pushed others away. there were so many things he’d rather leave in the past, and so many more that he wished he hadn’t been part of. there was that, but also his loathsome scarred hands - a reminder of those darker days. no matter how gentle, his touch would always scratch and scrape. once you took notice of how neglected they were, left to dry out and sometimes even scab, you took to work to concoct a nourishing lotion. “you have to be gentle with yourself, azriel,” you had once told him, gently applying the salve to his hands. they were rough but warm against your skin. “you do so much.”

+++

and so, everything he did with you was tinged with a hint of sorrow. he couldn’t bring himself to confront you with the severity of his feelings, but he also couldn’t quite remove you from his life - you had become a friend. you eventually noticed that he started to let his touches linger: when he hugged you, he’d curl arms and wings around you, enveloping you wholly; when you were near, his shadows would stretch toward you, as if revealing a hidden desire. when you reached for his hand, he would always grip it firmly, and when you came very close for some unimportant reason, his gaze would always linger on your face, flicking so often to your lips. 

+++

one night you had invited him over to the farm, wanting to introduce him to the latest addition of your household: a baby goat, just over a week old. she was as white as snow, and kept nibbling at your hair as you held her in your arms. “what should we name her, azriel?” you had asked, too preoccupied to notice how tense he was, hands in his pockets. “i was thinking of marjorie, or maybe miss marjorie… hey, what’s wrong?” his face was unusually expressive, his shadows roiling about his talons as if in distress. putting down the goat, her legs still clumsy and gangly, you stepped closer to azriel, reaching out. he shook his head, trying to school his face but you knew him by now. your shoulders slumped, recalling his strange behaviour over the years - he was present in most ways, but avoidant in others. “i wish you’d talk to me, azriel,” you murmured, taking his hand and hoping he wouldn’t mind the dirt. “you mean so much to me.”

it all bubbled up then in that small barn, the light dim and the smell of earth pungent. you let out a rueful laugh, rubbing your eye. “i’m in love with you,” you said, very quietly at first. immediately you felt so naive to be doing this. the fact was that azriel came from a different life, one that saw him as a leader of the court, who worked with powerful and beautiful people, fae who were richer and stronger and vastly more interesting. azriel’s mere presence in your life was extraordinary enough. and yet, you had found yourself falling in love despite the impracticability of it, found yourself admiring his kindness, his quiet generosity, his strength and resilience and dry humour. you shifted, looking right into his eyes. even if your love was unrequited, he deserved to be told - if only to let him know that he indeed was loved by one more.  “i’m in love with you. i don’t— i don’t expect you to say it in return, but i can no longer keep it to myself. i love you.” 

that threw azriel. he had fantasised of course, indulged in the scenario. but now, as you waited for his response, his thoughts stuttered. what? he wanted to say, unable to believe what he actually so very desperately wanted to believe. you grew nervous as the silence lengthened, azriel’s face as stoic as ever. you shook your head, covering your mouth in regret. “i’m sorry, i— i shouldn’t have said anything—”

he gripped your shoulders tight, gaze intense and voice low. “i also love you.”

“why do you say it like it’s a bad thing?” the solemnity which had tinged your relationship for some time was subtle, but you had felt it, and it had bothered you. 

azriel’s hands came up to cup your face, and he quickly shook his head. “it’s not,” he said, he urged. “it’s not, it’s not.” and then his lips met yours, chapped and rough, kissing you slowly, thoroughly, firmly. the conviction made your heart melt, and you gripped his wrists, feeling his racing pulse and caressing it, kissing him back, standing on your toes, letting him steal your breath. “i love you so much, sweetheart,” he sighed against your lips, nose brushing against yours. you went to reply but then azriel had claimed your mouth again, one hand snaking around to your back and the other to the nape of your neck. the light shifted behind your closed eyes as his wings came down to envelope the both of you, and your fingers reached to tangle in his hair, to trace the shells of his ears.

when you two parted again, his grin was lopsided and a little wry. “i just couldn’t believe it,” he murmured, his eyes shining with emotion. why not? you wanted to ask, wondering what it was that had held him back for so long, but decided to delay it for another day. all you could do was hug him tighter, just glad for the sight of his smile and the feeling of his relief. glad for his happiness.

#acotar x reader #azriel x reader #acotar imagine #acotar fanfic #ugh this isn't my best but otherwise i'll never post D: #also a big f.u. to tumblr formatting

[aukanemin]

Hi I saw your post about wanting requests about Secunda and I just wanted to say... I absolutely love the game, no lie at all. The prose is so beautiful and poetic, it inspires me! I love all of the characters of course but there's just something so heady about the allure of Tizian as your soulmate and I love him so much... I don't know exactly what to request that wouldn't be spoilers, but. if you have facts to share about Tizian? that would be amazing!! Thank you for all your hard work!!

Thank you so, so much!! *--* 

In fact, you can probably guess that Tizian is the most special for me - this is a character that I have been thinking about for a long time and for whom I have very related feelings. I am sincerely glad that you also loved him, and your question put me into a state of such inspired frenzy that I decided to specially make a small drawing to please myself and you;з

 This is not much, but it helped me to get out of a completely devastated creative state, so thank you so much, and I am just bursting with pride that my words and art could inspire someone~ 

There, after the cutout, there are quite a few different things that in one way or another mattered when I wrote Tizian, and which may seem interesting. Words on different topics - sources of inspiration, general motivations, connections with other characters and trends in relationships, some words about Edwardis, Charet and Cybele also. A lot and rather generalized, simple and non-artistic language, but I hope you will like it;*** 

Thank you so much again;з

Tizian's cultural origins are quite diverse, but to a greater extent I imagine him as a Georgian - a man from the warm lands of a dark vineyard, a man of the sea and the refined gloom of a medieval city. But he is a traveler and absorbs culture and traditions as much as he wants, and other sources of inspiration were Mongolian, Greek and Persian culture. He has a southern sensuality and temperament, but at the same time a cold-blooded disposition and a refined gloom of the north. He changes his guises, and the modern empire of magicians, the new Epirus, which was inspired by old Rome, influenced Tizian's perception of himself as a man and a magician dramatically. At the same time, the old Epirus is more based on the Macedonian and Persian empires. 

As I said, Tizian was the first for me in all respects, and, as with the creation of other characters, the Mill, a Russian folk group, greatly influenced me. Their songs have many elements that inspired Secunda and my view of creativity - ballad “Road of Dream” about kindred souls found in the world of dreams, “Believe” about the raven lord of the underworld of Colchis, who offers himself and his helping hand, as well as "Tristan" about the faithful and powerful knight-changer, and, of course “Night Mare”. Charet, for example, was inspired by the song "Hold Me", where it is sung about the king of snakes, who transformed the one who was enlisted for him alike himself and later stole them, and "My Joy" about the loving embodiment of the logos, the demon burning from the inability to be near his human. Holt was inspired primarily by “The Queen” about the lady falcon, the mistress of the northern mountains, who also comes to her bard in her dreams, but remains as distant as a star, a ghost, and partly “Winter”, and “the Lord of Mountain Roads”. 

Tizian was inspired by different characters, or rather my own idea of ​​the villain-sorcerer with all the primal passion and sophistication of the demonic image of the night. Initially he was inspired, for example, by Pitch Black or Walter Padick (Matthew McConaughey), but over time this feeling has become very blurred. Now I draw him after Lisa Edelstein, especially thanks to her curls, striking eyes, refined smile and general refined femininity, which is amazingly easy and pleasant to interpret. In my work, the idea of ​​hyperfeminity and androgyny is in itself important, and Tizian dances between them all the time, although he remains the most masculine and close to the traditional idea of ​​a man from all other LIs. 

Tizian is extremely manipulative, he is one of those who everywhere demonstrates amazing openness and sensuality to the majority of those around him - he is a talented negotiator and diplomat, everywhere uses his natural softness and sensuality, hiding under them an unfeigned rapacity and cold calculation. He is attentive and careful, always trying to play a seemingly unsuccessful situation in his favor, Tizian does not feel any shame, playing on the feelings of others, always remaining impartial and alienated inside, but hardly worth driving him into a corner, he will strike mercilessly and deadly. He loves to confuse people with his contrasts, rumors about him are gloomy and frightening, and he will gladly use any disguise that falls into his hands. 

But his attitude to the Archon is strikingly different - the character scares and attracts him, and every word you say will affect his train of thought - from the very beginning he builds intrigues and subtle games in an attempt to get closer. He is cold and passionate, distant and loving at the same time - his need and love are sincere, but he is infinitely careful and manipulative while trying to achieve reciprocal feelings. In his relationship with Archon, the imbalance of power is constantly playing, and, as with all LIs, the whole process consists in liberation from these boundaries and dangerous dependencies. But Tizian under no circumstances will become a source of danger and burdens for the Archon - on the contrary, in his plans to be the first and main ally on your side, he will try to use all the resources and opportunities available to himself to support your ambitions - and he is selfish enough so that at the same time he was not affected by the needs of others. Depending on what the Archon needs from him, Titian will behave differently - outwardly, he can either leave the appearance of mutually beneficial business relations based on the exchange of power and resources, or he will emphasize their connection, alone or in plain sight, and push the Archon by all means into a waiting embrace. 

His followers do not seem to him as a family, with a big stretch they can be friends for him - in them he sees a personal interest and treats them the same way as they used to treat him - a tool and a resource. He is a talented and cautious leader, but he always treats people with deep calculation - he had a family that he was deprived of, and he does not easily replace someone, he is not able to love a random person enough. He is deprived of constancy and peace, although all his life he strives and needs them, therefore the only constant that he is able to afford is his soul mate, and for most of his life his thoughts and motivation have always been aimed at this opportunity to get everything he needs. next to them. He is very dangerous if something stands in his way, he has no other place or opportunity to realize himself, he is aware and terrified of his tendencies, but still carefully feeds his demons. 

 Tizian is a talented necromancer and is especially drawn to the dark arts - this is the gift of his patron, Cybele, but from his unobvious talents is the reading of runes and the creation of skillful witchcraft. In reality, he is not as interested in power and knowledge as he wants to appear - his needs and interests are met by few, he is more likely to spend time reading poetry and historical chronicles than aimless greed of arcanic knowledge. Of course, he is greedy and all-consuming in his rage, and in the worst moments his temperament quickly picks up, but anger and a thirst to dominate is not the quality that he would like to see in himself. 

Once in the south, he will face many difficulties and concerns, but, like for the Archon, these lands will not be something that broke him. He is disappointed in the Secunda’s society and its orders, but not surprised, for him these difficulties are just one more step on a long path, he has no special expectations, but he knows exactly what he needs right now. Tizian is a man who needs amazingly simple and understandable things, but is forced to build long multi-walkers in order to achieve these goals. 

In relationships, I would describe Tizian primarily as a person who is amazingly gentle and affectionate - for him there is a significant difference between how he is obliged to deal with the Archon who will not give anything beyond their own benefit, and the Archon who really loves and wants see him near. Tizian doesn't care about power or domination, but he is a person who is easy and pleasant to rely on - usually he will let you do and decide whatever you see fit, but he is always at arm's length if you need his help. First of all, Tizian seeks calmness and comfort, he is amazingly gentle and homey, if you know how to handle him correctly.

The first meeting with him can be described as a moment of instant recognition - as if you see a person with whom you have passed your whole life, but this is not a moment of longing and desperate need, this feeling is very soft and pacifying in itself. In this situation, the Archon will be obliged to maintain their distance and be careful, while Tizian suffers from a lack of attention and a desire to be closer. For Tizian, this will be the right time to demonstrate his ability to influence people and how he can wrap his abilities for the Archon, although to society their relationship will immediately seem strained and cold. Their real meeting, when they can be alone, will have a special impact on Tizian, but at the beginning of a relationship he prefers to play from a distance, watching your actions very closely. He is very open with his desires and feelings, but will allow you to close the distance on your own, he seems invariably reserved and careful, but he has an incredible temperament and passion, which is very easy to let flare up. 

 Titian builds a special bond with Edwardis, their motivations and life experiences are almost identical, and although they have a sharp difference in temperament and position in society, they have a strong relationship based on mutual benefit, interests and respect. These relationships cannot be called paternal or brotherly, they prefer to maintain a respectful distance and observe each other from the sidelines, preferring to influence the Archon separately, without mixing their feelings and attention. But Tizian has the same tendencies as Edwardis - his life was destroyed by a witch hunt, but even if he was not born a magician, he would have to live in a society and under the hand of traditions and laws that are insensitive and inhuman to anyone. Cybele guided him, gave him her own guiding star and the promise of a future he desperately needs - and thereby endowed him with a crushing rage and cruelty that swept away everything else. But as long Tizian will get what he needs so badly, as long he will be next to the Archon, the snake will twist into a ball, and he will become a completely different person - his natural gentleness and caution will be revealed, he has an amazingly gentle and calm disposition and many other possibilities self-realization, not only manipulating and inflicting pain for the sake of survival and personal gain. 

With Charet, as already mentioned in novel, Tizian's relations are very difficult - in one of the outcomes they can create a powerful triad with the Archon, uniting to take care of them and their interests, in the other outcome he will be the best ally if the Archon wants reject their patron. In both cases, Tizian has the most advantages, Cybele knows him very well - as well as the fact that he can change the dynamics of the Archon's relationship with Charet for the better, and at the same time remain happy and satisfied in all respects. At the same time, Tizian has more opportunities and desire to oppose both Charet and even the Archon themselves, he is ready to go against his kindred spirit, if by this he will push them towards liberation from burdens and vices, if then they can be with him forever in the halls of Cybele Tizian tends to be an external, destructive or creative, force, and he is no stranger to being a villain for sake of himself and his soulmate. 

The personification of Cybele is a mare, and Tizian has always had a tender love for horses, like a nomad he was always attached to them. He lost them in order to move to the islands - but in his belongings remains the skull of his old friend, Morena, whom he summons when he needs her. The mare who appeared in dreams was Cybele - in the subtle worlds the patrons are associated with their vassals, in the same way the Archon always feels the movement of the scales of snakes on their skin. In turn, Cybele is a Greek and Roman goddess who personifies the feminine principle, whose lamia priestesses dressed in black horse hair and worshiped the night. Her priestesses were always chosen from the most beautiful and skillful in lovewomen, but they were just as striking and dangerous, as the appearance of a black mare in dreams could be both an omen of death and great love. In the same way, another mare goddess, Hecate, patronized horse breeding and dark magic, she also led the Wild Hunt, raising crowds of the dead, red-eyed dogs and demons in the night.

#secunda #visual novel #ask #tizian #headcanons #tizian x archon #tizian x reader #imagines #dark fantasy #gothic #art #cybele #hekate #androgynous #hyperfeminine #requests

[mightysteelix]

The Sin Of Gluttony

Because this, after all, is still a fic blog. Here's my newest story - and my longest so far. And it did not take as much time as I expected, being finished in two-three weeks. Written to fix the lack of Shirou/Dantes fics and the lack of male "Fate/" kink fics.

Rating: Mature Category: M/M Fandoms: Fate/Grand Order Relationship: Amakusa Shirou Tokisada | Ruler/Edmond Dantès | Avenger Characters: Amakusa Shirou Tokisada | Ruler and Edmond Dantès | Avenger Summary: Shirou Amakusa had been sneaking in Chaldea's kitchen to indulge his gluttony. Thus, Archer enlists one Avenger to help him.Weight-gain kink fic. Don't like, don't read.

WARNING FOR KINK CONTENTS UNDER THE CUT

Additional Tags: Weight Gain; Belly Kink; Rapid weight gain; Magically assisted weight gain; Main character is 18+; Force-Feeding; Teasing; Erections; Mildly Dubious Consent; Feeder Edmond Dantès; Feedee Amakusa Shirou

LAST WARNING FOR KINK

Amakusa Shirou sneaked into Chaldea’s kitchen. Coast - clear. 

The last master of humanity was snoring in their bed, lulled by Nursery Rhyme’s tales. The Servants had taken the opportunity to sleep - expect the most obsessed, who tried to barge in Ritsuka’s room. Even EMIYA, usually restless about his domain, had holed with the rest of his not-exactly family.

As expected. Amakusa planned every heist months in advance, manipulating Servants for the perfect night. As a saint - even if apocryphal - he should reject the pleasures of the flesh: forget the buttery cookies, the fluffy desserts, the sweets that melted in the mouth... Snapping from the trance, he caught himself drooling. His eyes sparkled with desire. He had to fight the sin that would lead him astray.

Yet he crossed the large dining area in a single leap and entered the kitchen. The enthralling taste of gluttony, as captivating as EMIYA’s food, lingered. His own desires were controlling him. For a third night, he would indulge his longing in secret, fill his craving stomach with the most masterful food the world could offer. He would stuff his stomach past the norms of sense, lose himself in the pleasure of food. Perhaps the Fiendish Bodhisattva had cursed him with the unquenchable hunger.

Amakusa licked his lips, imaging the feast tonight. “Or my sins crushed me and I am their slave.” He should have rejected it. Yet those greedy desires took over the priest, stealing any control. Against the craving, he had no power. Gulping down his dry throat, he opened the fridge slowly, as if performing a holy rite. Sweet, sweet aroma tickled his nose. His fingers shivered. The light blinded his eyes, used to the dim darkness. As he adjusted, the outlines of the dishes took a concrete form. A large tray of cookies sprinkled white with powdered sugar; a few batches of thick, sweet, and fluffy ice cream.

Above them stood the crown jewel of EMIYA’s cooking - a five-layered cake, patiently decorated. Sugar flowers colored the frosting, each one with crafted petals. Fine glaze ribbons circled each tier. The Archer must have put an entire day in his masterpiece.

And Amakusa would destroy it in sheer, unbridled gluttony - a grave, unforgivable sin. Once he was stuffed, unable to stomach another morsel and pinned in one place by the pain and the weight of the food, he would polish down the cake in the most wasteful, decadent show of greed. His heart beat faster in his chest.

“The feast has started,” Amakusa whispered and took the chosen dishes. The light thinned, before disappearing as he pushed the door closed. Alone in the dark, hidden from everyone’s stare, he snatched a cookie and pressed it between his teeth. They tore the sweet dough. The sugar melted over his tongue.

“EMIYA,” he moaned, “you have outdone yourself again.” After gulping the cookie, he took another. The sweetness excited his tongue. His greedy fingers reached for the next one and it disappeared as quickly. The risk of capture at any moment, red-handed at the crime scene; the off chance his plan could fail drove him to gulp faster. If he did not finish before the others woke up, he had lost.

The ritual ended as the last cookie traveled down in Amakusa’s belly. A whole tray and he was barely stuffed. He had laughed at the tales of Saber’s hunger yet now was outeating her. His fingers rubbed the small curve of his stomach, hidden under his baggy clothes. A solid beginning, yet so far from the gluttony he desired.

“What should I pick now?” he asked himself. The cookies - however heavenly - had dried his mouth further. Some ice cream would serve as a relief. Amakusa opened one tub, a fresh, chocolate wave of coldness pinching his cheeks. “It’s decided.” 

Standing like a hero against their sworn enemy, Amakusa held his sword - a spoon - and broke the dark brown, almost black, layer of syrup.

“Huh?” Shadows hissed out of the ice cream and twirled around his arm. The curse chilled his skin, leaving a deep chain mark. Amakusa tensed. He tried to free his hand, yet the darkness pulled him closer, even more chains shooting at him. One bound his free arm, another warped his legs painfully tight.

They held him above the ground, unable to move a single finger. Only his mouth remained free. Should he scream for help? No, his captor desired that - to break his pride by forcing an admission out of him. He would never allow himself to be caught.

“Do not hope you will escape!” Thundering, evil laugh boomed. Pale sparks flared around the core of the curse. The shadows grew like smoke. Two legs formed under the cloud, covered by a long, dark coat to the ankles. “For your sin has already claimed your very soul!” The Avenger - the Count of Monte Cristo - cackled. His eyes flared brightly like the flames of hell. “No salvation awaits you!”

“This noise for me? Ah, you flatter me, Avenger.” Amakusa smiled, far more sweetly than any pastry. “I doubt you will release me if I ask.” He closed his eyes and lowered his voice to a sly whisper. “Would at least tell me why you took your time to curse me?”

“Politeness will lead you nowhere! The Archer yearned for vengeance.” Edmond walked closer to Amakusa, leaving a trail of shadows behind himself. “His thirst summoned me. The perpetrator must suffer and regret his crimes.”

“Have you stolen Holmes’ job? He will hate it. Very well, you caught me. You can turn me to the Master.” The pleasant way out. The preferable one.

Edmond shook head, his long hair swaying. “No, mon ami. Our Master will forgive you. That would be justice - their justice, yet the Archer does not care about it. He wants retribution, he wants punishment.” The fire in his eyes died as he held Amakusa’s cheek. “You will bear the weight of your sins.”

Amakusa gulped - an exaggerated jest of fake fear. “Does he plan to hang me until my limbs become numb? He must have a strange taste.”

The Count’s manic laughter filled the kitchen, making the utensils on the wall shake. “No, he gave me full right over your punishment. If the greatest Avenger accepts it, it will satisfy his dark desire. No one is observing us, nor anyone will wake in the following hours. Until our time runs out, I will plunge you in my curse.” He took the spoonful of ice cream from Amakusa’s hand. “Enjoy your greed, sinner! Rejoice as you become the embodiment of your sin!”

The spoon aimed for Amakusa’s mouth. He shut his mouth and bent his head backward. Whatever the Count had prepared, he would not comply. Although empty curiosity (or greater hunger) gnawed on his thoughts, eating him alive, he resisted. One word and the Count would stab with the spoon.

“Too late!” The magical sparks lit the kitchen with their pale colours. “You should have fought your sin before eating the bait!” Another shadow - thin like a piece of cloth - forced Amakusa’s mouth ajar.

He struggled to close it. His jaws shivered, pulled back by the bindings.

"Now," the Count continued, “you can repent only through punishment!” As soon as Amakusa’s lips opened, he lunged the loaded spoon in his mouth.

The ice cream had already molten a little. Thick and syrupy, it chilled Amakusa’s tongue. Sweet chocolate excited his taste buds, before emptying in his throat and leaving him craving more. He licked his teeth - some of the treat had stuck there. “Do you plan to feed me the entire night?”

“The punishment must fit the sin! Tell me, priest, how else should I discipline you?” Edmond scooped more ice cream, before pushing it in Amakusa’s mouth. “Three nights I prepared the perfect curse for you.” The shadow loosened its hold. “A curse to please Archer’s and my lust!”

Amakusa had to stop. The Avenger’s plans could only end badly for him. If he clenched teeth again, he could fight the spoons: sweet, sticky, pleasuring… The lingering chocolate taste flared up in the pit of his stomach. He wanted - no; he needed the creamy, thick confection down his throat.

A priest should reject any temptation.

And yet once the ice cream touched Amakusa’s tongue, he gulped down desperately.

“That’s it!” More frantic than a Berserker, Edmond forced a spoonful after a spoonful in Amakusa’s mouth. “Fall in your sin! Embrace your desires and suffer!”

The priest obeyed like a trained pet. He could not reject the tingling pleasure of the sugar. Each gulp moistened his throat, making him shiver with delight before a stronger, fresher taste replaced it. Closing his eyes, he waited for the powerful, familiar fullness. Once hunger had left him, he would eat because he wanted to blow in size: bloated, overfed, huge, indulging. Most thoughts were pushed away, only one lingering. The Avenger must have realized Amakusa enjoyed his punishment.

“You are shaping up perfectly!” The chocolate taste died without a new hit to replace it. “Now everybody in Chaldea will realize your gluttony!” Edmond pressed hands over Amakusa’s belly. “Did you believe I will only feed you?” The black shadows let him on the kitchen counter. “No! You will suffer the results of your sin: your lustful, decadent greed!” Where Amakusa used to have solid abs, now there was a chubby, small belly.

Intriguing. Out of all possible torments: the hellish tower; the soul-sucking nightmares - the Count chose to feed him in person and curse him with fatness. Amakusa smiled like the sun. "You do not lose points for originality. But what are you going to do now?" He took a spoon and fed himself a large scoop of the cursed ice cream. His body tingled as the sweet taste washed over his tongue and he felt himself pluming the slightеst bit.

Edmond snorted. "I have already broken you? Pity. I expected you would rebel for longer. If you had tried to run, I would have had you tied and stuffed for the whole night."

"Not at all." Amakusa's warm eyes locked on the Count. "You have not broken me. I would have eaten the ice cream anyway." He cupped his chin - a little thicker than normal. "Cannot let my careful planning waste. Thank you for speeding the process and feeding me."

Sparks flew around the Count, making the kitchen glow. "Don't talk!" he ordered, tying Amakusa with the shadows once again. "I will fatten you up until you need to be rolled around Chaldea! How could you still eat despite the curse?"

So cute. The big bad Avenger was flustered and his it behind anger.

Amakusa scratched the flab lightly. Small ripples formed around, disappearing at the limits of his newly gained fat. It was a real, permanent part of him; a definite proof of his gluttony. "Be fast, please." He wanted to grow soft, enormous, fattened by his inevitable obsession. And he would make the Avenger admit he enjoyed the night as much. "Perhaps I should have tried to run. I'd rather not waste time on small talk when there is still food."

"I shall make you eat your words along with everything else!" Edmond flared as if burning alive. The shadows boiled and squirmed behind him. One coiled around Amakusa's legs and pinned them to the base of the counter. "Even if you enjoy it now, the night is still young. I have endless time to make it a worthy punishment!"

"Would you drop the pretences already?" Amakusa leaned forward and his shirt rode a little, showing a silver of tan skin. He held Edmond's palm in his hands. "If you admit we both seek pleasure, the night will be more enjoyable."

"What pretences?" The Count pulled his hand free. "I work in the name of vengeance! My only pleasure is the pain of my victims!" He draped over his prisoner and fed him so fast that Amakusa could not talk.

The overfilled spoon left his lips and came again, even more full, forcing him to gulp or drown in the ice cream. With each course, his belly expanded - even more extra weight piling on it, stretching his black shirt tighter and making it ride up higher. The speck of revealed skin grew as his little bit of flab engorged in a proper gut - and Amakusa would not stop.

Not that Edmond would let him. Frantic sparks shot around, giving short bursts of light - Amakusa bigger at every one. Laughing madly fast, he scooped through the tub and ensured that all of its contents ended in the priest's mouth. Any moment he expected to break Amakusa's bliss and make him beg for mercy.

But it did not happen. As Amakusa’s body widened, so did his grin. A decadent desire possessed him; he sucked the ice cream from the spoon before Edmond had finished putting it in his mouth. He poked his hands sideways in his stomach and shook it up and down, the vibrations jolting through his flab. The weight over his hands increased, and he put more force to jiggle his forming rolls. The next dose could not come fast enough. 

And even though the Avenger controlled Amakusa, he was fighting on the defensive, unable to find an excuse. Tied and speechless, the priest still rebelled against him. Not only rebelling, but he also held swath over Edmond’s actions. His joy would not end soon; the Count’s anger was burning up. And how could it stay, when Amakusa ate every fattening spoon and took the full bunt of the curse?

The Count dragged the spoon out of Amakusa’s mouth but did not fill it again with ice cream.

“What happened?” Amakusa asked, his nimble tongue licking the ice cream on his lips. “Has it run out? Too bad,” he laughed, his chubbier cheeks jiggling along. “I was just starting to enjoy it. Can we move to the cake now? A bit earlier than I expected, but if there’s no more ice cream left…”

“How?” Edmond broke the spoon in two as if it was a mere twig. “An Avenger - a Servant born of hatred - to bring pleasure? Impossible!” With a flick of his hands, he cleared his pale sparks, drowning the kitchen in total darkness. “I hoped to keep this as my finishing move, but your joy has continued for too long!”

He took the second tub - the first truly empty - and imbued it with his dark power. It glowed a sick green color as the ice cream boiled, bubbles forming and exploding with a strong ‘Pop!’. It melted, leaving a thick liquid full of sugary calories. As soon as the light died, he pressed the tub to Amakusa’s lips.

The viscous liquid slogged down the priest’s throat, and the empowered curse fattened him faster. Even in the darkness, he felt himself expanding, stretching the black shirt to sizes Amakusa never imagined it would reach. Each gigantic gulp sent shocks through his gut. It flopped, pulling the shirt higher. Now it covered only the topmost part of his belly - and soon would free it as the mass of lard did not stop growing.

His pants proved somewhat more resistant, digging deep in his gut. The waistband stretched to its limit, a mound of flesh falling over it. Amakusa tried to reach under it and unbutton his pants, but his chubby fingers could not budge the button. He would have to pop it with his growing gut. An even heavier gulp made his abdomen sag lower, resting on his tights.

Of course, the fattening had not spared them either. His legs filled the dark pants, pushing the material beyond its limit. He felt the brush of air on his bare skin, small holes having formed around the seams. The fabric pressed deep, but with each second the thread unraveled further.

His arms also expanded, losing any muscular definition. Even with the powers of a Servant, he moved them with more difficulty than before. The arm flab quivered with his movements, doubling the pleasure of exploring his flabby body.

And the cushion of his ass softened, taking more and more place over the counter. Amakusa sneaked his hand down his back, squeezing the thick globe of pure fat. His nails dug in the flesh and the ripples traveled to his knees, the flab a perfect conductor for them. Moving up, he groped his large love handles - they have united with the bulk of his gut, forming a flabby ring around him. 

How huge was he? He could see nothing, only feeling his belly bulge and his shirt rise and his pants tighten…  Once the lights came back, Amakusa expected incredible joy and disappointment. He would find how enormous he had become, yet it would never reach his imagination. If his lardy ass covered the counter, the floor would be the next challenge, then the rest of Chaldea…

After each gulp, he leaned back more and more, the sudden weight of his gut proving too much for a Servant’s body - or another effect of the curse? The more his belly surged out, the closer he came to lying down, pinned under the always growing weight of his own fat. Could he even stand up on his own once done? Or he would rely on the Count’s whims: seemingly unpredictable, but completely under Amakusa’s control and in an endless game of cat and mouse?

As Amakusa lay on his back, the warm fat insulating the cold counter, the last spurt of the ice cream fell in his throat and pushed out his flabby sphere of a gut.

“Perfect!” The Count dissolved the shadows and jabbed his fingers in Amakusa’s stomach, above his belly button. The vibrations shook his mass, reaching to his now-ample moobs. “With all this fat pressing you down, you must feel -“

“Perfect.” Amakusa cut in Edmond. He huffed as he sat up, mashing his bulbous gut and forcing more pressure on his soft ass. “Did you believe that you can make me regret it? Abandon my gluttony?” He laughed, feeling his chubby cheeks wobble. “Avenger, this time your plans failed.”

The Count clenched fists. A storm of sparks flared around him, throwing blinding light over the kitchen. Amakusa bowed head, avoiding the sudden brightness. He saw his rolls: wide and flabby, daring almost to touch the counter.

“I failed!” The Count stomped away, causing the kitchen to shake - Amakusa’s fat body included. “I had only to force you to regret your sin, make you detest your desires - to punish you in Archer’s name! And now the night has fallen to ruin.” His body vacuumed all the sparks but the palest light.

“It does not have to be,” Amakusa said. “We have not touched the cake. Your last chance to make me detest the curse. Will you take up to the challenge?”

“Yes,” Edmond muttered. “Yes!” he roared, clenching fists in a triumphant pose. “You, mon ami, will curse my name by the end of the night!” He burnt bright with sparks. The closer he walked to Amakusa, the more air around him heated. “I swear it! As the sun rises, you will curse the Count of Monte Cristo!”

“And I swear,” Amakusa replied in turn, “to make you admit that you have enjoyed the night.” It was a deal with a handsome devil; a bet he would win. He extended his pudgy hand to Edmond’s slender one.

Edmond fell in the trap; once their fingers pressed, Amakusa pulled him closer, making him fall in the mountain of his gut. The sudden movement made Amakusa’s whole body jiggle like a ball of squishy jelly. Trying to push himself up from the soft pile, Edmond only sent greater tremors through it. He spoke horrible curses, his fiery tongue licking Amakusa’s skin. The priest wanted only to keep him there forever, worshiping and feeding him.

Alas, the momentary happiness had to end. Using his shadows, the Count pulled himself free. “I have never thought a priest as you would fall to such nasty tricks.” He draped over Amakusa. His hands groped his flabby moobs for support. “You could have asked.”

“You would have refused,” Amakusa smiled without a trace of regret. “Or I have won?”

“Not even close. I am merely -“ he leaned even closer, above the priest’s lips, “- casting a bigger net.” Edmond massaged Amakusa’s moobs, his fingers squeezing the two sacks of flab. His knees gently kneaded the gigantic mass of his gut.

Amakusa’s pants tightened even more. His erect dick pressed in the flab of his tights, and each ripple of his belly sent a stronger joust of pleasure through it. “And how it helps you to give me more pleasure?”

Edmond’s heated breath touched the priest’s face. “I could chain you with the shadows and leave you here.” One of his hands slipped lower and stroke Amakusa’s dick slowly. “Begging on the verge of a release that is not coming.”

“Is this your rumored cruelty, Avenger?” Amakusa smiled and pulled Edmond in a tight hug. “Then I will reply in kind.” He dragged his flabby hands over the Count’s back, holding them over his tight, tiny ass. Edmond’s dick poked into Amakusa’s stomach. “Now we are even.”

“Do not overstep your bounds, Ruler.” Pressing hands on the counter, Edmond pushed himself up above Amakusa’s face, close, but out of reach.  “I might just decide to leave you packed in shadows as a present for the Archer.”

“Perhaps it is your fault. If someone was… I don’t know - feeding me too fast - I would have no time to play with you.” Amakusa trailed a finger over his fat, empty gut. “Bear the responsibility and keep engorging me. Ensure I grow constantly.”

“Your tendency for shameful moves should have made you a Caster. A warning to the people, who don’t expect sneaky priests.” Edmond jumped off the counter and turned his back to Amakusa. “No.” He snorted, shaking his head. “I knew your nature and still chose to fight against you.” The flame in his eyes glowed. “Enfer Château d’If!” His body tensed and in the next second, he had Amakusa gagged again, while he leaned over his mouth with a chunk of the cake. 

One shadow had coiled around Amakusa’s calves, squishing the fat on them, and slammed them to the base of the counter. A second bound his hands, forcing him to lie down on the table. 

Amakusa smirked and opened his lips. “I won,” he muttered before the Count pushed the pastry down his throat. He gulped the light, extra buttery dough, letting the curse do its job. His tights fattened around his hard dick, embracing it in hot flab. Almost cuming, Amakusa ground them together. The movement shook his stomach, its bottom roll falling onto the tip of his cock and pressing deeper.

The Count moved at a fiendish speed; before Amakusa could gulp, a new portion of the cake had filled his mouth. Using both hands, he tore from Archer’s masterpiece, all in the important goal of feeding his priest. Amakusa twitched, his erection throbbing. 

His moobs - two balls of fat that could rival Raikou’s - strained the black shirt which fought in vain to cover them. His sleeves fared even worse; bits of exposed skin oozed out of the large tears. The tight pants endured the longest, yet as Amakusa’s gut pushed out heavier, fatter, more decadent, the waistband groaned. After an especially heavy chunk, the layer of fat forced it stretch more. The fabric could not take it and with a loud sound tore all the way down to his crotch.

Amakusa moaned as he felt himself cum, soaking his tight underpants. The Count paid no notice, only using the opportunity to force even more food into his wide-opened mouth. The priest’s body heated even more as a haze of incredible pleasure clouded his thoughts. He ate on autopilot, not caring how big he would end - it would not be enough. Thus, they would repeat the night’s session later, when…

The sweet flow of the cake ended. “What happened?” he asked, licking his lips. “Have I eaten the entire cake?” Already? Even with Edmond’s Noble Phantasm increasing his speed, the doughy tower should have lasted longer. Amakusa wanted to check, but his fattened neck and the tight shadows restricted his movement.

“Not yet.” The Count gritted his teeth, turning his head away from Amakusa. The long shade of his collar hid his face. “But I lost my only advantage. You have won. I do not have to feed you further,” he said in a weak tone. Melting away, the shadows released their prisoner.

‘You have won.’ The hollow words did nothing to fill the void in Amakusa’s stomach. He lay unmoving, staring at the dark ceiling of the room while Edmond walked away. “Wait,” he said, just as the Count stood in the door, ready to leave him. “As long as there’s some cake left, you have chances. You can fatten me so much that I would regret it. So fat that I would depend on you for everything.”

Edmond leaned on the door. “And yet you would still like it. Tell me, priest, one reason not to leave.”

“You will never know. I might just realize I dislike my size once the cake is over. Would you risk missing the chance to taunt me over it and mock me? Would the Avenger miss his vengeance? Besides,” Amakusa whispered an octave lower, “I am sure you are as aroused as I was.”

“Even the goddess of pleasure cannot compete with you.” The Count turned, his coat fluttering behind him in an arc. “Very well, priest. You will entertain me for some more time.”

Tomorrow, Amakusa would deal with the questions, the stares, and the consequences. The Great Order, the King of Mages, even simply moving became a distant goal. Tonight he had a cake to finish and a Count to tease.

#weight gain stories #male weight gain #male weight gain stories #weight gain fanifction #Fate Grand Order #amakusa shirou #edmond dantes #chubwritings

[kasienda]

A Miraculous Reveal - Instagram

I forgot to post this here! Inspired by a prompt from @ladyofthenoodle. She also figured out how this one should end because she’s genius like that. Hope you enjoy! 

~~~

Marinette stared unhappily at the photo on her computer screen. Part of her thought she should be overjoyed at the revelation before her, but in the moment, she only felt frustrated. What was that stupid cat thinking?! Could he be any more obvious? If she didn’t know better, she’d think he did it on purpose.

“Marinette?” Tikki’s familiar voice called. “What’s wrong?”

The dark-haired girl sighed, and then gestured halfheartedly to the picture on her instagram feed. “Do you think I should be more mad at Adrien for uploading this picture? Or at Plagg for being difficult in the first place?” Tikki looked at the picture of Adrien sitting at his desk leaning forward to the camera with light from tall panes of glass windows lighting up his hair in a golden glow. As someone who collected all things Adrien, the picture honestly wasn’t the best Marinette had ever seen. His face looked washed out, and he had bags under his eyes. He just looked tired, and she couldn’t help but worry about him. Especially now that she understood that his plate of responsibilities was larger than she had ever imagined. The image was further spoiled by a random plain white sock floating upright in the air behind him. It was so stiff it could have been hanging from a clothesline.

Marinette observed Tikki carefully as the kwami considered the picture, watching for any reaction. At times, her kwami was amazingly expressive, but Marinette had come to learn the embodiment of creation could pull off quite the poker face when the need arose.

“I don’t see Plagg,” the red sprite finally concluded, her eyes furrowed together in seeming confusion.

“Really?!” Marinette scoffed. “That’s what you’re going with? I already know that kwamis don’t show up on camera, Tikki. What else could that be?”

Ao3 Link Ff.net

“Photoshop?” TIkki suggested lightly.

Marinette rolled her eyes.

“Maybe Adrien threw the sock backwards when he took the picture,” her kwami said.

Marinette crossed her arms over her chest, not remotely convinced by Tikki’s attempts to dissuade her.  “It’d be blurry, Tikki.”

“Not if it was at the height of its arc.”

“It wouldn’t be at this angle,” Marinette argued, pointing at the artifact. She didn’t like physics, but she couldn’t help pick up on some things being a superhero fighting akumas over the rooftops of Paris. “This is like it’s hanging upright. If it was flying through the air it would be bent and floppy.”

Tikki sighed, her mouth opening in search of another argument, but no words left her lips.

“You know who else might know that kwamis can’t be photographed?” Marinette asked rhetorically, and then answered the question herself. “Papillion.”

“Yeah, Adrien needs to delete that photo,” Tikki agreed.

Marinette laughed at Tikki’s sudden change in tune. “Oh, you think so?”

Tikki didn’t bother to respond to the “I told you so,” and Marinette found herself looking at the picture. His eyes were actually green. After her stint as Lady Noire, Marinette hadn’t been certain that her partner’s eyes were that vibrant shade of fresh spring grass. But they were, and for whatever reason that little detail made her feel like she knew him.

And of course, she did know him. He was Adrien. But now… She couldn’t help the giddy little smile that burst over her face as the reality of Chat Noir’s identity really sunk in, and she loved him even more.

“I’m glad that you’re happy,” Tikki observed softly. “That it’s him.”

Marinette twirled around in her chair towards her kwami. “Yeah, me too,” she admitted with a blush. “But goodness, he makes things so difficult sometimes! Why doesn’t he think things through?!”

“Let’s go yell at him!” Tikki encouraged, executing an excited dance in the air.

Marinette laughed. “Alright, then! Tikki, Spots On!”

…

Adrien lay back on his bed, one arm behind his neck supporting his head, and the other hand holding his phone up in front of his face, watching the likes and comments come in from his latest Instagram post. He didn’t really know why he always watched the reactions come in live. The constant notifications and attention from people he had never met had lost its joy and appeal ages ago, and yet, he still couldn’t help but check the recent post every few seconds anyway.

And this post was special. He had an ulterior motive.

“Do you think she’ll figure it out, Plagg?” Adrien asked, daydreaming of a certain Ladybug darting through his window.

“I’d say that’s a pretty good bet!” the mischievous cat like kwami said, snapping the t before phasing out of sight.

Adrien dropped the phone and looked up. “What makes you say…”

Ladybug stood in his window frame. Her blue eyes narrowed as they landed on him, and he wanted to hide from her obvious displeasure.  

“...that?” he trailed off. He leapt from his prone position on the bed, and slid forward, allowing his legs to hang over the mattress as he sat smiling at his mostly unexpected guest.

“Hi, Ladybug! What brings you here?” Adrien greeted brightly as if it was totally and completely normal to have a superhero standing in his open window. Which, if he counted himself, it kinda was…?

Her glare turned frostier, even as she jumped gracefully from the window sill to the marble floor. “Don’t play dumb, Chaton. It doesn’t suit you. Delete it now!”

“Delete what?” Despite her command, he figured it was in the interest of his survival to pretend he had no idea what she was talking about.

“The photo that you just posted to Instagram!” she growled.

He grinned. Ladybug had arrived within thirty minutes of him posting the photo. “So, you follow my Instagram?”

To his shock, pink flushed across her face. “That’s s-so not the point!” she spluttered.

His grin widened. “I always told you, you’d find my unmasked face irresistible.”

Her eyes hardened. “You need to delete that photo now, Adrien!” she barked harshly. “If I could figure it out, Papillion and Mayura can too!”

His grin evaporated in an instant. Shit! He hadn’t thought about that. He darted back to his phone that lay abandoned on his bed, rapidly unlocked it, and then swiped and tapped his way through the app. “It’s done,” he reported, all his bravado gone. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

His partner’s form slumped in relief and she let out a frustrated sigh. Her resigned exasperation with just that dash of disappointment cut deeper than anything she had actually said. He had been needlessly reckless and for selfish reasons. It seemed so obvious now.

“It’s probably not gone, though,” he admitted softly. “I have crazy fans that screen cap everything. And repost stuff. I can’t control any of that.”

“It was only up for like half an hour. I can’t imagine it got too far or that most people will understand its significance. And it’s not the most flattering photo of you honestly, so hopefully less people felt the need to save it.” She flicked a piece of lint off her shoulder, not making eye contact. “How many likes did it have?”

“Around five thousand,” he reported.

“Five thousand?” she repeated in disbelief, her bright blue eyes as wide as the Seine. “I don’t think I could get that many likes in a year! God damn celebrities!”

“Ladybug could,” he told her confidently. “If she had an Instagram.”

“I’m not getting an Instagram as Ladybug!” she countered hotly.

“Why not?” he asked with genuine curiosity. “I imagine you could post some beautiful pictures of the city.”

“Because of stuff like floating socks!” she snapped back. She started pacing in front of his window in agitation. “I might not catch something in the background, and then I would give away my whole identity! I’m not willing to put my friends and family in danger for likes!” she lashed out at him.

His shoulders wilted. She was right. His father had a lot of resources and could probably protect himself even from a supervillain. Maybe Kagami too. But what about Nino, Alya, and Marinette?

“I-it wasn’t for likes,” he whispered, but the objection felt weak even to his own ears. He had only wanted one person to see it. Her. He just wanted her in his life. His actual life. Was that so bad? But his plan had worked better than he thought possible. She had figured out his identity. And that meant…

Knots formed in Adrien’s stomach as the implications sunk in. “You’re right. I didn’t think. Are-are you going to take my miraculous, now?” He wasn’t brave enough to look at her face. He hadn’t thought about the consequences at all. He hadn’t thought about the fact that other people, including his enemies, might recognize the properties of a kwami. Didn’t think about the fact that he didn’t know how to survive without the freedom of Chat Noir. No, he had only been thinking that Ladybug would understand the significance of the photo and if she “accidentally” figured out his identity, then she couldn’t be mad at him for telling her. He had only wanted her to see him and understand him. She was his partner. His other half.

He risked a glance up at her continued silence. She looked like she had been hit by a bus at the question. Her eyes were blown wide and her mouth hung open, and she still didn’t say anything.

“That’s the consequence, right?” he prompted when she didn’t respond. “Someone figures out my identity, I have to give up my miraculous?” He shrugged, trying to hold up a strong front. “That’s what Plagg said a few weeks back anyway.”

He slipped off the ring and held it out to her, his eyes burning with threatened tears.

Her gloved hands reached out, and he clamped his teeth down on the sob that wanted to tear out of his throat. Her gloved hands, which felt strange touching his bare skin, carefully closed his fingers around the cold metal circle and pushed it back towards him. He looked up at her in surprise. Her eyes glistened with her own unshed tears.

“Maybe I should take it. That was Master Fu’s rule, but Chaton…” she whispered, and then rapidly shook her head with her teeth pressed down into her lower lip. “I can’t do this without a partner.”

“You could find a new partner. One who is more worthy of your trust.”

She scoffed. “I can’t just find another partner! They don’t fall from the sky. And yes! I’m not going to lie! You drive me absolutely crazy sometimes! With the flirting and your stupid puns while I’m trying to figure out how to use a lucky charm! When you wouldn’t take no for an answer after asking me out for like the third time. When you fell for fake Ladybug just because you wanted me to love you even though it was so obvious she wasn’t real. And oh my god, you accepted Sass when you were already Chat Noir! Ugh!”

His shoulders slumped, and his eyes burned with unshed tears. When she laid it all out like that… maybe she needed to find a new partner. Someone who understood the responsibilities his power brought him, and would respect her boundaries, hopefully better than he had.

She dropped to her knees in front of him, and her red gloved hands gently took his own, and squeezed reassurance. She tilted her head down to catch his fallen gaze. And she smiled softly at him.

“But Chaton, you’re also the person who can figure out my crazy plans with almost no explanation, the person who has taken hit after hit for me. I’ve literally watched you die in my arms, more times than I prefer to think about. I have the nightmares to prove it. You talk me up and encourage me when it feels impossible to succeed.”

She gripped his hands harder. “Hell! I would have quit being Ladybug on the first day, if it wasn't for you. I don’t know how to tell you this, but I need you. No one else can even come close to replacing you. Not even if I trained them to fight because you do more than watch my back. You just know how to lift me up when my world has fallen apart.”

Hot tears slipped past his defenses as her words settled into his being, planting soft seeds of warmth.

“Please don’t cry,” she begged.

He wiped his tears away furiously. “Thank you, LB. it feels really good to hear you say all that. Sometimes, I’m not sure where I stand with you. Some days I feel like your best friend, and other days, that annoying weird kid you wish you never had met.”

“Chaton,” she crooned. “I care about you so much. I promise I have never once wished that I hadn’t met you. You have become a huge part of my life!”

“You too, LB! You’re the best thing in mine.”

She blushed and fidgeted. It was actually weird to see her as anything other than confident and focused. Her nervousness relaxed him, made him remember she was just a teenager like him.

“I love you,” he blurted into the growing silence. “You make me feel like I have value and a purpose. Like I’ve done something good, and that I’ve done it well. I don’t feel like that very often. And I know I’ve said it before, and I’m not expecting anything, but I just… I wanted to say it just once… as myself.”

“You love me,” she repeated, her form rigid as she stared at him with wide eyes as if she couldn’t believe it.

He laughed. “Yes! Why do you sound so surprised? I’ve only told you three times before!”

“But that was Chat Noir. Adrien told his friends he was in love with someone but he didn’t give a name. I’m the person Adrien is in love with.”

He placed a hand absently to his neck. “It’s not like I could tell my friends your name. It’d be dismissed as a celebrity crush.”

Then her comment registered and his green eyes shot up to her masked ones. “Wait! How do you know that I told my friends that?”

She glanced toward the window, and took a step back. “Uh… well, you see…” she stuttered. And that was weird. He’d never seen Ladybug so nervous, and yet, her body language tickled his memory with its familiarity.

“Do I… do I know you in my civilian life?”

Ladybug bolted to her feet. “Well, this has been fun,” she said rapidly, a nervous smile stretching across her face. “I need to get going now. Remember to be more careful with your social media accounts. See you at patrol tomorrow, Chaton!”

He darted in front of her before she could launch her yo-yo out his window, his mind awhirl. He had only told three people that he was in love with someone. Nino, Marinette, and Kagami.

None of them seemed likely to share that information with anyone else.

And Ladybug definitely wasn’t Nino.

He had seen Ladybug with both Marinette and Kagami. But… his lady was clever. She might have tricked him. And of those two, only one of them made sense.

“Marinette?”

Her face fell into her hands. “Tikki’s going to kill me.”

Warmth burst in his chest like a firework going off. Adrien felt like he was floating above the ground. He was just that elated. He knew Ladybug’s identity. And the girl behind the mask? She was amazing! And she was already his friend.

He stepped forward and seized her in a hug. “It’s you!” he laughed, giddiness spilling from every fiber of his being.

She didn’t reciprocate. Instead, she remained frozen in his embrace - awkwardly patting his shoulder. He immediately let her go and backed away with an arm to the back of his neck as his nerves caught up with him.

“Sorry,” he muttered, heat blooming in his face. “I am so excited to know that you are Marinette, I… I got carried away.”

“H-how can you be s-sure that I’m Marinette?” she asked, pink spreading from her mask to her ears.

He smiled fondly at the suddenly very familiar stutter. “You know I can see the resemblance now, right? It’s really obvious. Plus, who else could live up to Ladybug, but Marinette?”

She fidgeted and turned away from his gaze. “Y-you can’t tell anyone.”

He rolled his eyes and took another step towards her. “I know how the superhero schtick goes.”

She crossed her arms across her chest and glared at him. “Really? Have you already forgotten why I came to visit you today?” And here she was all Ladybug righteous fury.

He blushed. “I only did that because I wanted you to know who I was. No one else. And trust me to guard your secret better than my own. I know you have a family to protect.”

“You say that like you don’t,” she observed with a frown.

He shrugged. “I mean, I guess I have my father. But I hardly ever see him. So does it count?”

Adrien immediately regretted saying that as an awkward silence descended upon them. A silence that he had no clue how to fill.

“I’m sorry, Adrien,” she finally whispered, and then she took a step forward and her spotted arms encircled around him.

“What for?” he asked in surprise. He stood frozen uncertain and amazed at this turn of events, before he let his arms wrap around her petite form and his chin rest on her shoulder.

“I just… I don’t think I ever understood why having a connection with me as Ladybug was so important to you,” she whispered in his ear. “I didn’t realize that it would be just as difficult to make friends in your civilian form as it would be as Chat Noir.”

He pulled back a little, but just enough to take her hand and bring it to his lips. He kissed her knuckles as he always did. But unlike usual, she didn’t pull away or rebuff him. In fact, her cheeks blazed red the way Marinette’s often did in Adrien’s presence.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“F-fine,” she stammered, snatching her hand out of his hold like she had been burned.

“You just... usually pull away sooner. And your face is all red,” he pointed out, gesturing to her cheeks with his free hand.

She punched him in the shoulder. And it hurt more than he was willing to admit. He wasn’t transformed at the moment, but he tried to play it off.

“You don’t have to be a jerk about it!” she admonished him.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, his eyebrows furrowed in genuine confusion.

“You’re making fun of me,” she whined.

“I swear that I’m not.”

“Then why do you keep teasing me about being embarrassed?” she shot back.

“I… you’re embarrassed?” he asked. “What on earth would you have to be embarrassed about? You’re amazing!”

“You know who I am! You can remember every time I’ve put my foot in my mouth or embarrassed myself horribly in front of you with every attempted confession,” she spoke rapidly, her hands waving around wildly. And he found himself smiling softly. This behavior was all Marinette. And he loved it. Then her words registered. His eyes widened, and time froze and he felt as alert as he did facing an akuma. He could see her hands fidgeting nervously, her heaving chest as she struggled to replace the air she had just used, the faint pink still staining her cheeks, and her blue eyes darting away in self-consciousness.

“Confession?” He tried to keep the hope out of his voice, but he failed.

Her eyes widened before her face fell into her hands again, as she mumbled incoherently into her palms. And god, this blending of Marinette and Ladybug right in front of him was making him dizzy. He stepped forwards again and gently pulled her hands from her face, revealing swirling orbs of blue that peeked out from under her dark eyelashes.

“I’m the boy? Me?” He asked. Her blush darkened, but she gave a slight nod. He laughed in absolute delight. “I’m the boy,” he repeated, but this time it was a revelation and not a question. If he felt like he was floating before, he was flying now. And he was never going to come back down to earth again.

“Me. Adrien. I’m the boy you love,” he rambled, a grin as wide as the Seine stretched across his face. “You rejected Chat Noir-me for Adrien-me.” He was never going to stop smiling.

“Adrien,” she whined, over enunciating all three syllables of his name. “Stop looking so pleased with yourself!”

He shook his head. “But you love me. Ladybug loves me.”

She blushed yet again, and offered him a gentle smile. “Yeah… I guess she does.”

He caressed her cheek and leaned into her space. “May I kiss you?”

She nodded.

His right hand cupped her while his left slipped his fingers between hers. His lips pressed into hers. Just a touch, lingered there for a moment relishing in the gentle contact. She felt soft, warm, and tasted sweet like fruit-flavored candy.

It wasn’t his first kiss.

But it was the first kiss he could remember.

He pulled away to see her face still lost in the contact. Her eyes were closed with her head angled up, and she had the smallest smile. Warmth bloomed in his chest at her expression.

Posting that picture had been the best idea he had ever had.

Unless of course, Papillion figured him out. That would lead him straight to Marinette whether or not the villain had cause to suspect she was Ladybug.

His stomach turned to ice.

No… he wouldn’t let that happen. He would protect her. He was Chat Noir, and Chat Noir always protected his partner. He always did whatever needed to be done, whether he had to sacrifice himself or just simply created a distraction.

His eyebrows shot into his forehead. That was exactly what he needed to do!

“I have an idea!” he exclaimed.

...

Ladybug refused to open her eyes. She wouldn’t recover if she opened them only to discover that the last two minutes had only been a dream.

This wasn’t her first kiss, and it wasn’t even her first kiss with Adrien. But the first one had been in the middle of a battle with no time to savor the moment. This is the kiss she would choose to cherish in her memory.

He pulled back, and she tried not to chase him, but she wasn’t ready for him to go.

“I have an idea!”

Her eyes finally blinked open at the excitement in his voice. “An idea?” she asked. “F-for what?” Why was she still stuttering?!

His meadow-green eyes were vibrant, and he still held her hand. The contact was grounding her even if the gloves of her suit remained between them. “To solve my floating sock problem. We need a distraction. Can you detransform?”

Her eyebrows furrowed. “What? Why?”

“Please?” he begged and somehow his eyes got wider and softer, and his lower lip trembled in an over-exaggerated pout. She was going to have to work on her resistance to that look. “We could do this as Ladybug and Adrien. It might even work better at solving the sock identity vulnerability, but it would do that by putting your identity more at risk if we show any public affection in our civilian identities. It’s better to do this as Adrien and Marinette.”

“Spots off,” she whispered. Chat Noir was the person she trusted most in the world.

The familiar buzz tingled down her form, and Adrien was staring at her like he’d never seen her before all over again.

Her face and neck blazed in sudden embarrassment. “What?” she asked, looking down at her fingers.

“I just… it really is you,” he whispered, his voice filled with awe. “I mean, I knew that, but… but now, it’s real.”

Tikki took that moment to flutter up between them. “Marinette, what are you…?”

Marinette waved her off. “Not now, Tikki! It’s too late. I’m sorry!” She turned back to Adrien. “What did you have in mind?”

He grinned so brightly. Seriously, she was going to get sunburned from his smiles, and reached a hand out to her. “Come here,” he directed as he pulled her into his arms. It was terrifying how good it felt to be held in his arms. She felt hot and cold, vulnerable and safe, nervous and loved. And she felt it all at once. It was quite the heady experience.

Then he touched their foreheads together and she got lost in his eyes, which beamed with absolute adoration all directed at her. Heat pooled into her cheeks at the intimacy of their unwavering eye contact.

She chided herself. They had been in far more intimate and compromising positions in their suits. But right now, they were without their masks. And she felt so much more vulnerable.

But also giddy with joy.

After only seconds had passed, Adrien pulled out his phone, and snapped a few pictures of them, but his eyes never left her face until after he finished. Only then did he glance down at the screen to view their results.

“What do you think?” He asked, swiping through the burst of shots as he turned the screen to show her.

Looking at the pictures, Marinette couldn’t breathe, let alone speak. The only thing more powerful than seeing Adrien’s love sick eyes focused intently and unerringly on hers was seeing her own expression mirroring his own. She brushed his hand away and went through the pictures herself more slowly, tears threatening to drop from the corner of her eyes when she landed on her favorite. In the image, Adrien was smiling like a child tasting sugar for the first time in its life, while Marinette looked dazed like the world had just been turned upside down, which it had, but in the best possible way.

She had to clear her throat before she could speak. “This one,” she said, handing the device back to him.

“I like this one too,” he agreed as his fingers flew across the small touch screen, setting up a new Instagram post. He turned the final result towards her, so she could read the caption.

Spending the afternoon with my new girlfriend.

“What do you say? Are you ready to become social-media-official with me?” he asked with a smirk. But his free hand was rubbing the back of his neck.

The nervous tick threw her, and she realized he wasn’t just creating a distraction. He was also asking her out, and he was nervous. Somehow that calmed her.

She bit her lip and nodded again. And suddenly he was kissing her again, and she hoped that she never got used to the sensation. It was perfect. Even though she disapproved of his recklessness, part of her was really glad that he had posted that picture if it meant she could have a dozen more moments like this.

When he pulled away, he buried his head into his phone once again. She frowned at how quickly he was distracted, and looked over his arm to see what he was adding to his post.

When I kiss her, I feel so dizzy I see spots.

“Adrien!” she scolded, slapping his arm. Was he seriously going to risk her identity for a stupid pun! He laughed, and immediately deleted the sentence. “Okay! Okay! How about… the princess of my heart?”

“Totally over the top cheesy!” she screeched, trying harder to wrestle away his phone.

Before she succeeded, he hit the “share” button. Then, he immediately surrendered the device to her, and pulled her back against his chest, his chin resting on her shoulder as they stood cheek to cheek, looking at his phone, which was already lighting up and buzzing with dozens of notifications. Marinette watched in abject fascination. This was almost unfair.

Within two minutes, Marinette’s cell had started ringing, and over the next five minutes, Alya had called fourteen times and left four voicemails. Exasperated, Marinette texted her back.

I’m trying to make out with my boyfriend. Quit interrupting!

That ought to get her to shut up.

Sure enough, Alya sent her a squealing emoji in response and then there was silence.

Within ten minutes, the new photo had exceeded the five thousand likes of the deleted picture. Congratulatory and heartbroken comments poured in almost faster than Adrien or Marinette could read.

Another five minutes passed, and the newly formed couple jumped apart at the sudden pounding on Adrien’s bedroom door.

“Adrien, would you please open this door right now and explain how Ms. Dupain-Cheng came to be in your room without going through the front door,” Nathalie called from the other side of the wooden barrier.

“I guess that’s my cue to leave,” Marinette whispered, stepping away from her new boyfriend - she had an actual boyfriend - and towards the window.

Adrien immediately grabbed her hand. “Actually, it might be better if you stayed?” he said nervously. “I may not have thought this entirely through either… as this photo is obviously in my room. It’s easier to explain sneaking you in here than is explaining where you disappeared to.”

“Adrien!” She hissed. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Hopefully love me forever?” He suggested with an exaggerated grin.

“Adrien!” Nathalie yelled through the door.

Marinette laughed. “You might want to open the door before your father's assistant gets akumatized.”

“You’ll stay?” he whispered, his trembling eyes the only sign that he was scared to face the dragon on the other side of his bedroom door alone.

She nodded, and threaded her hand through his. “You and me against the world, right?”

“The world plus Nathalie. She’s scarier than the rest of the world,” he said cheekily even as he unlocked and opened the door.

God, Marinette was completely in love with this dork. And she was going to have to put up with him, his ill-thought-out-over-th-top schemes to impress her, and his stupid smug smirk for who knew how long.

Maybe forever.

But then again, maybe none of those things were so bad.

#miraculous ladybug fanfiction #ladrien #identity reveal #fluff #adrien doesn't think things through #Ladybug yells at him #MLB Instagram #My Own Content #miraculous reveal #social media official #love confessions

[sorciere-astrale]

THE HARE AND THE RABBIT

Hare and rabbit are lunar animals. Whether in the Americas, Europe, Asia, Africa or anywhere else in the world, they are associated with the moon. They can be seen in the dark spots on the night sky.

But they are also linked to the Goddess Earth (for those whose beliefs it is), as well as to the underworld because they dig galleries. 

They are therefore linked to the element of the earth.

In our rural cemeteries, where he frequently makes his home, it is not uncommon to see him rising from an old grave. His procreative faculty makes him a symbol of fecundity associated with the moon and its fecundating power. So its image can be used during your ritual or Sabbath of feconditer as in Ostara.

Naturally fearful, the hare is associated with fear. The expression running away like a hare (or a rabbit) evokes this fear, but being crazy like a rabbit alludes to the animal's lustfulness. The rabbit's foot is known to be a powerful good-luck charm.

In cultures and religions :

In Egypt, Osiris is, in his animal form, represented by a hare.

In Islam, Ali, the descendant of the Prophet, appears as a hare symbolizing the sacrificed son. The idea of the divine sacrifice symbolized by the death of the hare is also present in Buddhism. The Boddhisattva takes the appearance of a hare to throw himself into the flames. Likewise, a hare burns himself to death to feed the starving Buddha.

Östara in Germanic countries, Easter in Anglo-Saxon countries, is a goddess of fecundity who is celebrated at the spring equinox, a moment when day and night are of equal length, and who announces germination - in other words, resurrection. Her symbolic animal is the hare. Östara and Easter are to be compared with Astarte / Ishtar / Aphrodite / Venus.

As an image linked to the Goddess, the hare has long symbolized paganism in Christianity. Its capture by a hunter was once a metaphor for defeated paganism. But because it is lunar and therefore of a changing and ambivalent nature, it also represents the divine Son, Christ, sacrificed [10] and risen. Moreover, in Christian iconography, three hares in a circle and united by their ears is a symbol of the Trinity. 11] They can also recall the three phases of the moon (rising, full, falling). A white hare lying at the feet of Mary (Our Lady) embodies victory over the "temptation of the flesh".

In Native American myths, the hare is a cultural hero, cunning, clever, capable of defeating stronger than himself (bears, buffaloes), a product of Robin Hood, Peter Pan and the Trickster. This divine rascal, whose universality was demonstrated by C. G. Jung, symbolically resembles Mercury, the god of thieves and cheaters, the mischievous rascals, himself a symbol of the first stage of the alchemists' Mercury. Just like the child Mercury who became Hermes, the messenger of the gods, the Amerindian lunar hare can transcend itself into a "big rabbit" or "big hare", also an intercessor between men and the divine principle (the Great Manitou).

The hare is the fourth sign of the Chinese zodiac. In mythology, the moon is inhabited by a jade hare very busy preparing an elixir of Immortality. It is a symbol of long life. It represents the cyclical and perpetual renewal of life and nature. The Chinese lend the animal qualities of lucidity and clairvoyance. Indeed, the hare is born with its eyes open.

In dreams, rabbit and hare are distinguished. The rabbit, associated with lust because of its unbridled sexuality and its proliferation, can signify an overflow of libido but also any proliferation that has no apparent connection with sexuality. The hare, on the other hand, is associated with speed, running, rapidity. It can symbolize dynamism, agility, reflexes and the instinctive intelligence of the dreamer.

For this post I used the ''dictionnaire des symboles'' site. I translated it and put it back to my liking.

#witch #babywitch #witchcrafty #rabbit #hare #witchcraft #wicca #wiccan #pagan #paganism

[tisfan]

Ineffable Husbands Bingo

Title: Infernal Machines and Demonic Pigeons Written by: @tisfan & @27dragons Square: G5 - Lawn Mower Accident Rating: General Triggers/warnings: blood, accidental maiming of small garden animals, Crowley is disappointed with the lawn mower Tags: tadfield, post apocalypse, the Them, gardening Link https://archiveofourown.org/works/20338366 Created for: @ineffablehusbandsbingo Word count: 1,874

 God, it was said, did not play dice with the Universe. She did, rather more frequently than strictly necessary, give people exactly what they wanted in such a way that they didn’t want it any longer.

Crowley was just staring up at the ceiling of the little cottage in Tadfield that he and Aziraphale had moved into following the Apoca-could-ya-not. Just to keep a closer eye on Adam. And maybe to avoid some of their fellow angels and demons who stood out like sore thumbs in even larger cities and therefore would be quite easily spotted in a little village like Tadfield. He was staring at the ceiling, trying to decide if the crack in the plaster looked more like a duck or a cow, thinking he was blessedly bored and what he wouldn’t do for a little bit of action, when Aziraphale shrieked from out in the garden.

It was the sort of shriek that meant something was very, dreadfully wrong.

“Crowley! Crowley, I need you right now!” His voice was rather higher-pitched than usual, full of panic and distress.

(more below the cut)

“I see you up there, having a laugh at me,” Crowley said to God as he rolled off the sofa in an awkward lump of too many bones and not enough muscle before bolting out of the house.

The scene was--

Bloody awful, and he meant that in every literal meaning of the words bloody and awful.

The grass, fresh cut and quivering with the need to please, was coated with blood. And feathers.

White feathers.

“Angel!” Crowley practically exploded into panic, arriving at Aziraphale’s side in seconds, looking him over for some sort of celestial wound. Angels and demons weren’t entirely able to be killed, but they could be destroyed. And Aziraphale could certainly be discorporated. Who knew what would happen to him, if he ended up going back upstairs now.

“Oh, Crowley, it’s just dreadful!” Aziraphale wailed. “Do something!” His hands were flailing, waving helplessly in the direction of the lawn mower, which had spatters of blood all around its edges, and a few mangled feathers trapped under the front wheels.

“You!” Crowley turned on the mower fiercely. Unlike Aziraphale, he had not been issued a flaming sword, but he could make do with a pair of summoned garden hedge trimmers. He didn’t exactly borrow any hellfire to make the blades drip with infernal glee, but there were a few volcanoes in the south Pacific that wouldn’t miss a bit of lava. “You had one job! One! Cut the grass! And you manage to bollox it all up? I am very disappointed in you.”

One might think that something like a yard tool, like the Flymo Easi Glide 330 wouldn’t be able to be terrified of a demon. It’s as if one might expect a computer to be nervous, or a camera to want to take a better picture. But anyone who’s ever cursed or yelled at or pleaded with one of their electrical devices can tell you; machines think. And they’re rather diabolical, at that.

What this particular machine was thinking was that the grass was much greener. Somewhere else. Anywhere else.

The mower started itself with a rumble and fled, spewing feathers and blood and grass clippings as it went.

“Where does it hurt, Angel?” Crowley, having dealt with the bad machine, turned a tender hand on his Angel, looking for the wounds.

“What? No, no, I’m fine, but look at this poor thing!” He bent and scooped up a pile of feathers from the lawn, holding it tenderly in his hands, and extended it for Crowley’s examination.

Upon closer look, it wasn’t a pile of feathers at all, but a bird, rather severely mangled, cut nearly in half by the mower’s blades.

“It’s a pigeon,” Crowley said, both of his eyebrows going up so high that he could rather feel them arguing with his hair. “Rather a lot of them around these parts, aye? Seen ‘em at the park, the kiddies feed them. Blasted waste of bread if you ask me.”

“I don’t know what it was doing in the grass,” Aziraphale said. Crowley got the impression that if his hands weren’t full of dead bird, he’d be wringing them. “I was just going along and suddenly...” He tipped his head and gave Crowley a faint little smile. “Can’t you fix it? I never meant it any harm.”

“That’s more your thing than mine,” Crowley said, vaguely annoyed now that there was no need to panic about that fact that Aziraphale’s wing hadn’t been torn off by the lawn mower. Speaking of which, the Easi Glide was all the way down in Hogsback wood by now, and they’d like to never see it again. Pity that. On the other hand, Crowley had obtained rather a lot of enjoyment from the act of purchasing it, and now he’d get to do that again. “I’m not supposed to go around bringing things back to life. Could get in a load of trouble that way.” 

To be fair, Crowley didn’t really know what he was supposed to be doing any longer. He wasn’t, technically speaking, employed by Hell any longer. But on one had yet stopped by with a manual. Or a new job offer. He and Aziraphale were keeping an eye on the boy, a familiar occupation, for lack of something else, and concentrating very hard on being Left Alone by the Forces of both Light and Darkness.

Aziraphale pouted at him, petulant and maybe just a touch disappointed.

“Miracle it up, Angel,” Crowley scolded. “For Sata-- for Heav-- for someone’s sake, stop being a wimp about a little blood.”

“I’m not being a wimp about the blood,” Aziraphale said primly. “It was just so awful, darling. I’m never going to be able to get the image out of my mind. And if I can’t picture her whole, then you know I can’t make it work.” He turned up the intensity of the pout. “Won’t you? For me?”

“Very well,” Crowley said, because he never could resist that pout. Or, not even so much the pout, but the beaming smile that happened afterward, the one that said Crowley had done something right. When God spoke, and said Let there be Light, Crowley liked to imagine that that was the moment that Aziraphale came into existence. The embodiment of that very first sunrise. “But you know, she’s going to take after me,” he said. He cupped the dead thing in his hands, little broken bones and mangled feathers. He imagined this pigeon shitting on the mayor’s car, right after he washed it. Of stealing the candle off some poor child’s birthday cake and leaving bird tracks in the frosting. This particular pigeon would be the very worst sort of bird, annoyingly loud, waking up people who worked the night shift by singing joyfully outside their window at sunrise.

And she would have babies. Dozens of eggs in a nest, hundreds of terrible, wretched pigeons. Smart, too. The sort that would figure up a way to take down anti-pigeon devices and leave them in the yards of the people who voted such measures into place.

A demon bird.

Or, to be more succinct: A pigeon. 

It wiggled all over, flapped its wings and Crowley turned it loose. It shit on his jacket as he did so. “Ug! That’s gratitude for you!”

“Oh!” Aziraphale clapped his hands and smiled like the first dawn, and everything seemed just a little brighter and better, even the pigeon shit on his jacket. “Thank you, my dear.” He kissed Crowley’s cheek, blushing a little over it being such a public display. “Well. I think we’d best take a trip into town this afternoon, hadn’t we? I’ll need a new mower -- you didn’t need to frighten the poor thing so badly! -- and of course we’ll need a little roost for our new friend.”

“The mower upset you,” Crowley told him, trying to remember not to brush at the bird poo, since that would only smear it around more. The things you learned, living in Hell. Poo was sticky and smeary and the more you tried to clean it up, the worse it got. Crowley took the jacket off instead, folding it inside out and slung it over his shoulder. He could get a new jacket. “It obviously doesn’t belong here.”

Aziraphale gave him a look that was trying to be stern, but was far too fond and pleased to come anywhere near the mark. “Be that as it may,” he said, “try not to traumatize the next one so much, or folks will wonder why we need a new one every other week.”

“I’ll just tell them their mowers are rubbish,” Crowley said, taking Aziraphale’s arm and leading him back into the house where they could have tea and whatever little nibbly things Aziraphale had gotten to go with the tea. “And I’ll do it in that same sort of loud, complainish voice as if I were an upstanding member of the Tadfield Neighborhood Watch and they’ll jump to it.”

“Yes, dear, as much as you like,” Aziraphale said, patting Crowley’s hand before breaking off into the kitchen to put the kettle on and arrange a tray. “You’ll want to change before we go into town, I expect.”

Crowley didn’t much care for tea, or crackers, or little dainty chocolates. He liked fizzy drinks and terrible biscuits from corner petrol stations. He never needed to buy petrol, but he did like to stop at the stations. But Crowley did enjoy watching Aziraphale have his tea and his chocolate biscuits.

The doorbell rang, and Crowley sauntered off to answer it. It was tea-time and he was going to give the neighbor who rang the bell what for, because no one interrupted Aziraphale’s tea-time, and someone was going to have to learn the rules around here.

“Hi, Mr. Crowley!” The Them were clustered on the stoop, beaming up at him. Behind them, tied to what Crowley suspected was Dog’s lead, was the Easi Glide, motor sputtering somewhat resentfully.

“Your mower escaped into the woods,” Adam told him.

“My mower never does anything exciting like that,” Wensley added.

Pepper rolled her eyes, and Brian leaned to one side to peer past Crowley into the cottage. “I say, is that tea?”

“Indeed it is,” Crowley said. He glared at the mower, which promptly sprouted a petrol leak, soaking the sidewalk. “Mr. Fell might be willing to share some biscuits with you, if you all ask nicely.” He liked children, and the Them were top on his list of favorites. Of course, it wasn’t always a good thing to be the favored child of a demon.

On the other hand, they were also favorites of Aziraphale’s, and having a guardian angel sort of equaled things out.

“Tie the mower up outside, Adam,” Crowley said. “I’ll take care of it later.” That was a little more threatening. “Well, go on then, in you get, have some tea.” He stood in the doorway a moment longer, watching the mower shiver and shake. “Infernal machine. You get one more chance, and consider it a miracle. I’ve gone soft.”

That was all right, then. Aziraphale liked soft. 

#ineffablehusbands bingo #crowley x aziraphale #lawn mower accident

[momisablessing-blog]

7 Habits to Be a Good Mom for Your Little Ones

There might be affiliate hyperlinks on this web page, which means we get a small commission of something you purchase. As an amazon partner we earn from qualifying purchases. Please do your personal studies before making any on line buy. Check: https://mymothersday2020.com/ it is 4 am someplace inside the international…

maybe you're pacing the ground with a fussy toddler? Perhaps you're sitting in a rocking chair breast or bottle feeding? Or are you extensive wide awake because your little one has taken over the sacred sleep area that when belonged to you and your partner? We have all been there. We're mothers. The way to be a better mother. 7 crucial hints on a way to be a good mother... And nonetheless enjoy your personal lifestyles. You can discover ways to be a great mother, a better mom, a satisfied mother, without losing your thoughts. But are we exact moms? If you have to ask the question, you may have doubts. But right here’s the good information…

you can discover ways to be a very good mom. Everybody can. In this text, i am going to offer seven approaches to be an awesome mom… a higher mother… a glad mother. A few i've provide you with by myself. A few i have borrowed from different moms. A few i have researched. ​

what you'll learn [show]

life before being a mother you aren't alone. Whether or not you're modern day to motherhood or had been at it for a while now, one element is real… you have been a girl first. An unbiased, unmarried girl who had no person to answer to. No one's life become in your palms on a day by day basis. You went on dates. You took the time to do your hair and make-up. You went to the health club often. You had a terrific task. You had first-rate friends. You binge-watched tv dramas. You had a existence! But in some unspecified time in the future, you probably made a totally aware selection to turn out to be a mom. And with that, you took in this massive duty. You vowed to preserve your toddler secure. You vowed to love them. You vowed to cherish them. What could likely pass wrong? Take into account that time before you were a mother? Lots. And after nearly 8 years and 4 youngsters, i experience i have got a few correct advice to offer for dealing with this experience referred to as motherhood… and it starts now. I'm able to teach you a way to be an excellent mom… or at the least feel like one. Allow's get began. Habit #1: forget as a minimum half of what your mother taught you did i simply say that? Did i just inform you to push aside the recommendation your mother has undoubtedly tried to offer? Yes. Yes, i did. Now let me clarify. Your mother is a grandmother now. And this is a completely extraordinary ballgame. She's protected all of the bases, literally, when it comes to elevating a infant. You have been that child. However your infant is specific. And no person knows your child higher than you. Duration. Exclamation point! Instances exchange. Your grandmother raised your mom in a completely exclusive world than she raised you. The identical holds actual for elevating your toddler. The fifties brought us to the likes of donna reed. Lucille ball. Barbara billingsley from depart it to beaver. The mothers on those shows have been continually dressed to the nines. Constantly had their hair performed. Dinner changed into on the desk at the identical time each night. They continually smiled. No mom smiles that a good deal. It's kind of scary

there's no ebook on motherhood that could come up with all the answers. And it is good enough. It's ordinary. Consider me. When you have been a toddler, you possibly performed outdoor until dark and disappeared with community pals for hours on give up. Such things as attention deficit disorder and autism weren't mainstream troubles. Pediatricians weren't diagnosing lots of youngsters every 12 months with celiac disease, nut allergies, or lactose intolerance. These problems are very actual and very extreme … these days. How may want to our moms possibly relate? However here's the element… they'll try. Due to the fact they love us, our personal moms will:

upload their 2-cents on the problem. Try extremely hard to attract a correlation between your toddler and you. Key terms like, “you had been the identical manner” or “you probably did the identical aspect” will come up. Lots. Offer tales about a pal's grandchild this is going through the precise equal component. Argue with you to seek a second opinion on certain topics. Attempt to shed a few new light on the subject that perhaps even the professionals have not even figured out but. As i stated, they may strive. And you will be grateful. However being a great mom is essentially reliant on following your instincts. Observe your instincts! Concentrate to the alarms going off on your head pay attention what your child is pronouncing. Observe how your infant is behaving in numerous conditions. Train your self. Be worried. Stand your floor. By no means be afraid to say “thank you, but no thank you” for your mother for her opinion. However always keep an open thoughts. In the end, you turned out good enough. Right? Her advice may just spark some thing interior you that you unnoticed, which could often show up when you're too near a scenario. On the give up of the day, however, the task is yours. You have got this! Addiction #2: use social media as a form of remedy allow's be sincere…

except your process prohibits it, otherwise you live underneath a rock, chances are you've got at least one social media account. Why wouldn't you? Those social media presents top notch avenues for:

sharing news and photographs with own family and pals. Reconnecting with lengthy lost pals. Obtaining facts and pointers. Networking. Organizing occasions. Meeting new people. Stepping into a heated argument about politics or religion. Discussing the brand new traits. Therapy remedy? Yes, therapy. Hear me out. Learn how to be the first-rate mother by means of the usage of social media as a form of therapy. Make social media your ally in motherhood. Capture all the good, the bad, the unpleasant moments. If you're like maximum mothers, you publish limitless pictures of your children doing adorable things. And also you need to. But it is incredibly fake advertising and marketing. Isn't always it? No toddler is glad all the time. And you can't be a glad mother all the time. No matter what the images display, my kids are not:

continuously hugging their siblings. Always volunteering to proportion their toys without a combat. Waking up from their each day nap within the exceptional mood whenever. Waving and smiling at strangers. Sitting contently in a buying cart at the same time as i stroll through the grocery store at a leisurely pace. Laughing all day. Are yours? I'd guess money they're now not. So i'm laying down the gauntlet. Here and now. And a better option to social media is to participate in a single (or a few) of these 88 a laugh sports on your youngsters. These fun activities are a notable way to preserve your children entertained. Alert: motherhood mission! Anything type of day it is you are having, take images of all of it. Regardless of their temper or yours, snatch your telephone or digital camera and capture your toddler:

once they first awaken inside the morning. Ingesting breakfast. Lavatory training. Getting dressed for faculty. Heading out the door. Gambling with a pal. Food buying with you. Coming domestic. Naptime. Time for supper. Bath time. Bedtime. Now post them. The coolest, the horrific and the unsightly. Crying infant picture no toddler or mom is happy all of the time. However seize and treasure those moments. Not handiest will you deliver your followers a glimpse into your “each day”… but you'll examine these images and snicker, cry, smile. Take all of it in. Your children are this age as soon as. You'll not get at the moment again, for better or worse. Time flies. Cling on to those moments. They're the war-scars of motherhood. Embody them. Now breathe. The remarks you get hold of will in all likelihood be extra than simply smiley faces or thumbs up. You may see fewer little tears or mouth open emojis… and greater actual words. Mothers will unite. They'll remark. Lend guide. Percentage their personal tales and pictures. Be inspired! You are not alone. You may experience higher about yourself. A weight will be lifted. Here is what my photograph from the day past could have seemed like:

our three and 4-12 months-olds dozing in-among my husband and me, kicking my face and decrease returned almost continuously from 5-6 am. Our 3 year vintage throwing his water cup and pouring a bowl of yogurt on his head. Our three-yr vintage telling us he didn't should cross poop, then hiding behind a sofa to accomplish that in his diaper. Our 6-year-antique daughter screaming as i tried to sweep her hair before school. Reputedly i'm the worst ever at this. Our 7-12 months-old arguing over the blouse we picked for him to put on to highschool, ensuing in a brief trade earlier than running out the door. Our 3 12 months vintage hitting his sister within the head with a barbie due to the fact he desired to be the mermaid. The 3-yr vintage's tantrum within the grocery save over a cookie i wouldn't allow him have, observed with the aid of a comfort prize of gum to hold him quiet. Eyes have been on me. Said three-year-old falling asleep in the car while on a experience alongside the waterfront. He gave the look of a little angel, slept for 2 hours. Victory! One child wanted fowl for dinner. One desired handiest french fries. No takers on broccoli. Water cups were thrown. One 6-year-vintage yelling at me for in no way making what she likes. They play so pleasant together inside the bath. The laughter warms my heart. Betime bargaining begins. Just one greater show? One greater e-book? Will, you lay with me? The day ends with quiet cuddles with my 7-year-vintage…who's growing too rapid. I will miss these moments. Believe me…

if you made it thru the day, you possess the good traits it takes to be a higher mother. A happy mother. A terrific mom. You will be adequate. Dependancy #three: form a tribe i'm going to credit my expensive pal, kat, for this tip. It's based at the vintage adage of “it takes a village” to raise a infant… and it virtually does. Nowadays, that village is called a tribe. Only some people are willing to assist each other out every time they can. We have got your returned. Currently, i've 3 youngsters antique sufficient to participate in extracurricular sports. Things like taekwondo, soccer, dance, art, piano, scouts. Our calendar has some thing on it every single day of the week… however sometimes we bypass an afternoon or two. Don't choose me. If it weren't for my tribe… i would likely must bypass greater than that. What? Deprive my baby of some thing he or she may additionally excel at? Sorry, however sure. I'm able to simplest achieve this a lot. I'm now not perfect. The tribe gathers weekly to assist every different out – on the whole with carpooling and babysitting. Playdates are an advantage. One much less child to manipulate, even for just a little whilst, can make a mother sense like she's received the chore lottery. Ahh… i see a further load of laundry in your future. Or possibly a quiet shopping trip to buy new denims in peace. Fortunate you! Whilst thinking about forming your personal tribe… start with one easy query. Who do i trust with my children? My tribe consists of:

a handful of close buddies own family pals 1-3 “mothers helpers” or babysitters a small social community of like-minded mothers these humans may be known as upon, now and again on very short notice, that will help you out. Think of them as nine-1-1 responders for “momergencies”. See what i did there? You don't ought to do it all alone. With a bit of luck, you have a spouse or great other who's palms-on. That really takes a number of the burden off. Or maybe you're a unmarried mom… who i'm able to now forestall to applaud. Being a unmarried mother is one of the toughest matters all of us ever signed up for. You deserve all the reward inside the global! And you also deserve a tribe maybe extra than each person else. There is no shame in inquiring for help. Surround your self with the pleasant… and you'll be at your fine in your children. Habit #4: socialize like a child what if i were to inform you there has been a way on the way to be a terrific mom and nevertheless get your weekly exercising in, explore your inventive aspect, volunteer for a neighborhood charity, listen to live music, see a film, rock climb,  enjoy a cup of coffee and proper communication with grown-ups? And what if i were to inform you this could all be accomplished along with your kids in tow? Might you trust me? You must trust me. Proper mom creed. Preserve this in mind when times together with your kids get difficult precise mother creed one of the first-class methods to be a better mom is to have a few flexibility on your day. And one of the high-quality approaches to be an amazing mother is to incorporate a laugh sports for you and your infant into each and each day… even though only for an hour or . The household stuff can wait. Existence is short. Youth is fast! Pencil in time along with your child, just as you'll a purchaser assembly or cooking dinner. And if you actually need to make the maximum out of that hour, time table something you may each enjoy. Concentrate to your inner baby! There are such a lot of “mommy and me” sports at our disposal these days, it would be a shame not to attempt them out. Adventure is waiting! There's something for absolutely everyone and every age. You simply want to find them. Start through turning to the web. Here's a terrific listing of ideas put together by way of author, melina gerosa bellows, 21 approaches to revel in being a mother. Or maybe you need to study something new. Here are a number of my favored matters:

1. Go to a trampoline park or roller skating rink you'll burn lots of calories… and your children will tire themselves out! It's a win-win! Simply go away your inhibitions at the door. 2. Take a look at out a paint your own pottery or canvas region a number of these places have unique “mommy and me” or “infant time” every day, in which you would possibly meet other moms. Even though they don't offer this, all of them have open studio hours, where you could cross at your leisure and unleash your internal artist. Discover ways to be a good mom and a way to balance being a spouse and mother on this manual. Discover “mommy and me” activities for your vicinity and revel in the day! Three. Volunteer together with your baby visit dosomething. Org or  mommypoppins. Com and notice which kid-pleasant activities hobby you. If you have an older baby, speak your options, making them experience liable for their time. Instilling precise traits in our children at an early age will maximum in reality bring about them becoming altruistic and empathetic adults. Our international wishes more suitable humans. 4. Concentrate to tune inside the park as the weather receives hotter, many towns offer outdoor song. The nice element? It is normally unfastened. Those circle of relatives-friendly concert events are a super way to expose your child to tune other than kidz bop or the wiggles.

​now not that there is something incorrect with those… i surely quite like the wiggles. But variety is the spice of existence, and a well-rounded toddler is an thrilling one. Now not to mention, you may just get to relive your glory days as a unmarried woman belting out some 80s or 90s classics together with your girlfriends. 5. Find a pressure-in or out of doors movie venue hop within the automobile with the circle of relatives and cross. Whilst the power-ins may be a bit tough to return by way of nowadays, less expensive (now and again unfastened) out of doors films are popping up like daisies all over the us of a… particularly in the course of the summer time. Similarly to the plain attraction of looking a movie from the comfort of your very own automobile, or on a seashore, your kids are allowed to talk! In truth, it is expected. And bonus: you do not must worry approximately crouching down low when heading out for one among probably numerous lavatory breaks. 6. Locate an indoor rock climbing gym the benefits to be had from mountaineering have it rapid becoming a famous activity, for each adults and children alike. The power conditioning, especially for the top frame, is unprecedented for some thing so a laugh. And then you have the mental thing, pushing your self past your limits till you attain the top. It's a splendid lesson in in no way giving up… for each you and your youngsters. In case you do not have tons of time to investigate, or are not sure what you'd be into precisely, contemplate joining a neighborhood “mothers group”. They normally have new member conferences at least as soon as a month, which might be regularly just casual get-togethers over coffee, where they go over their listing of activities. Whether or not you join or not, you are bound to get a few fresh thoughts and maybe even make a chum or . Suppose tribe! An energetic and nicely-rounded mother makes a glad mother. A glad mother is a great mom. And happiness is contagious. Allow your youngsters see you satisfied. Dependancy #5: positioned a few personal time at the agenda humorous mother's day cool animated film mother mother exact mother proper mom #mom #motherhood #goodmother #habits #selfhelp #selfcare #parenting #figure #parents #quotes #funny this turned into always one in every of my favourite cartoons… because it's genuine. Motherhood is a 24/7 task. There aren't any ill days, no holiday days, no extra time pay, no lunch breaks. It's miles a exertions of love. And it can be thankless. As supportive as your partner or childless pals may try to be in relation to your daily habitual… they can by no means genuinely recognize till they enjoy it. And to be honest, the bond among a mom and her toddler does not examine to that of a father and baby. It simply would not. Ask yourself…

while my child is sick, who do they want? While my baby has a nightmare, who do they run to? When my child is hungry, who do they ask to lead them to something while my infant can't discover their preferred shirt, who knows where to appearance? Possibilities are, your answer to all of those questions is “mother”. Unless you aren't around, the answer is “mother”. It is the fact. As i grew older and became a mother for the primary time, it hit me… dads are type of like alternative teachers. While mom is not available (which is sort of never), they're a great alternative! They may be succesful and charming. They may be truely fun and lenient. They have got this… if they ought to. Till mom comes again. Now…

one in all two things goes via your head at this very moment. I've bowled over and offended you… so that you're going to forestall reading i have given you a terrific snort… and you feel just a wee bit responsible for it my money is on #2. Don't get me incorrect…

i like my husband. He's an brilliant father and really concerned with the kids. My children adore their father. He makes them sense safe and they appreciate him. Discover ways to be an excellent mother and how to be an excellent dad and mom. Dads are form of like alternative instructors. They may be certainly a laugh and lenient. They've got this… if they ought to. Till mother comes lower back. In truth, i'm regularly jealous that he gets to do more of the amusing matters with them. He receives to return home from work and roll round at the ground with our sons, play dolls with our daughters, instruct their soccer group…. He is achieved with work for the day and is all about them. It is exquisite. Virtually. The laughter in the house whilst my husband gets home is track to my ears… and makes doing my “task” a touch less difficult. Nonetheless, i wouldn't mind switching locations from time to time. Would you? In the end, being a great mother approach that you are by no means definitely “off the clock”. You still need to get dinner on the desk, pick up toys, do the dishes, fold one extra load of laundry… all earlier than putting them to mattress. It is laborious. You're exhausted. You deserve a break. And you shouldn't sense responsible for inquiring for one. Flip in your partner, your companion, your mother, a pal, a neighbor… your tribe. Ask them to watch the children for a couple of hours so you can try out a yoga class, have dinner with a chum, walk across the mall and window shop, move for a motorbike ride, take a sleep. Or simply sit down on a park bench and play sweet crush. It doesn't remember what you do, simply go. A part of getting to know the way to be an amazing mother is knowing that you want a smash. A brief break from your kids doesn't suggest you like them any much less. In truth, it is due to the fact you love them that you need a smash. Run! I'm critical. Perhaps you want to head for a run? You could laugh. That became funny. You want to recharge your batteries. Go into your head and close the whole lot off for just some time. Or as a minimum attempt to. Taking care of your thoughts and frame will make you a better mom. Mediation and relaxation are first rate ways to retain recognition and center your self. It enables placed matters into perspective. If you're uncertain of the way to do that, or simply leery, try any such great apps you could get to your smartphone. They may be positive to help you get into the proper kingdom of mind. Mental clarity ends in making better choices. It is as simple as that. And exercising is tested to raise your temper, fight infection, and improve sleep… among other matters. The endorphins will preserve you going for hours! In case you do not accept as true with me, take a look at this out… however come again! We are almost finished here. The advantages of mediation and workout will depart your feeling organized for anything motherhood throws your way that day. I assure it. Plus, you will be a happier mother whilst you go back domestic… and this is something your children (and partner) will admire. Habit #6: time table a “date night” before the youngsters… there has been courtship. Swooning. Past due night time conversations. Quiet food in fancy eating places. This was dating. You loved it. In truth, you cherished it so much that you met a person to have a infant with. And if you have been fortunate sufficient to really marry that man or woman, the children are a reminder of that love each and every day. But here's the twist. You need to sustain that love. Striking onto the reminiscence of love and a laugh times collectively is not enough. You want to certainly display your spouse, each day, which you love him. You loved him first. Every so often it is easy to get stuck up within the beautiful chaos this is raising children. But you can not wander away in it. You loved him first. You still love him. Research have shown that kids raised in a domestic with two loving parents advantage appreciably from this. A few of the many advantages of developing up in a two-figure family, your kids may have a better chance of forming successful relationships in their own at some point of their life… each for my part and professionally. Part of getting to know the way to be a terrific mother is showing your children that they have  loving mother and father. Sometimes it is easy to get caught up within the stunning chaos this is elevating kids. You need to clearly show your spouse, every day, that you love him. Moves communicate louder than words. Kids, specially younger ones, are more likely to bear in mind “snapshots” from their early adolescence than phrases. If they see you and your partner being affectionate and worrying towards one another, they may deliver that with them. They may feel safe and loved because of the way you have interaction with every different. Display them which you are excellent buddies. Now inform them that you're going on a playdate with each different. Kids can relate. Begin slow:

placed one “date night time” in keeping with month at the calendar, however do at least 3 months at a time so that you're not inclined to bypass it the next month (if you can pull off two times a month… you move, woman!). Relaxed a babysitter for all of those nights proper away

take turns making plans the date together with your spouse, leave a laugh recommendations or clues to make it a surprise

do no longer check your cellphone on the date, set it to do no longer disturb. Only the babysitter wishes to recognise in which you're in case of emergency and might name the actual venue if want be. Do one spontaneous issue on the date

do no longer communicate approximately the youngsters as soon as the date has commenced. If you feel the urge, speak them within the vehicle or uber earlier than you get to wherein you are going. Reminisce. The point of date night is to recall why it's miles you fell in love… and to test in with each other so that the affection does not wander off within the aggravating daily. The youngsters will nevertheless be there whilst you get domestic. Dependancy #7: it's ok to have a bad “mother” day you are the first teacher your baby has. Lead by using instance. You can not always succeed, but do your exceptional to:

in no way argue with a cherished one in the front of the youngsters. Communicate in your children like you'll an person (is reasonably). Be affectionate. Yell constructively. Never go to mattress disillusioned. Spend a few minutes unwinding every night. There are days while you may succeed in doing all of this stuff. There are days you will not. Similar to a terrible “hair” day, you will have bad “mom” days… and it is good enough. Do not beat your self up. Nobody is ideal. Mother overwhelm quote awful day does not  identical a awful mom sensible phrases to do not forget whilst motherhood receives difficult just like a awful “hair” day, you will have terrible “mom” days… and it's ok. However we will all aspire to be “flawlessly imperfect”. This essentially approach spotting while you're wrong and doing all of your best to accurate it. Positive, you could bicker together with your accomplice in the front of the kids. But, there's usually a manner to hold it friendly and productive. In our residence, if my husband and that i are caught having a silly argument, we make it a factor to give an explanation for to our kids why each of us is upset and draw a assessment to some thing they can relate to. Here's an instance…

me: “mommy is aggravated at daddy due to the fact he left me with one square of lavatory paper rather than converting the roll.”

husband: “daddy failed to need to waste the bathroom paper.”

me: “consider your brother drank a big glass of orange juice and handiest left sufficient so that it will have one sip. Might you be dissatisfied?”

toddler: “sure”. Me: “but you will forgive him due to the fact he didn't understand how an awful lot become left. He became simply filling his glass up due to the fact he was thirsty. He wasn't looking to be suggest.”

this easy speak, comparing what we have been dissatisfied about to some thing our toddler can recognize, is a good way to let them know that mommy and daddy will be high-quality. The whole lot is excellent. Regardless of how rough a day has been, you can in no way hug and kiss your baby too much. Real presentations of love lead to well-rounded youngsters with more shallowness. According to an editorial from figure co., affection can cross a whole lot in addition than yelling when seeking to get through in your child. Plus, it simply plain feels suitable. There may be a time and vicinity for the whole lot. And there will be instances you'll need to yell at your toddler… when hugs just may not do. Newsflash! Yelling does not make you a bad mother. The use of demeaning language does. A part of learning how to be a great mother is understanding that yelling does no longer make you a awful mom. There could be times you are going to should yell at your child. That does not make you a terrible mom. But the use of demeaning language does. Phrases can harm. They may be also harder to forget about, that's why you need to pick them carefully while scolding a infant. Glaringly, if your little one is about to run into the street, you must yell first! Then hug them. Once you've got all calmed down, provide an explanation for to them that there are very critical effects available from strolling into the street. What if a vehicle have been coming? In case your infant smacks any other child within the face, it is perfectly appropriate to raise your voice and say, “no!” then possibly put them in “time out” – whether or not that be a chair or a corner, their room, and so on…. However, if your toddler throws his food at the ground throughout dinner, this can not warrant yelling as a whole lot as a stern appearance and, “no greater food for you this night.”

risk! In case you threaten your child with a punishment… be organized to commit to that punishment if they don't heed your warning. Sticking through your words is a huge play in the motherhood game. You do not want your youngsters now not to take you severely whilst the time comes. Empty threats may want to actually backfire, mainly as they get older. You may lose credibility after which probably become frustrated. Frustration can cause pronouncing belongings you don't imply. Tread gently. Whether or not you're yelling, or just threatening punishment, there's a manner to be positive about it. Each time i've yelled at my youngsters, i made a factor to go returned as soon as i'm calm and give an explanation for to them why i used to be so upset and lost my mood. There may be technique in your madness. When scolding a infant, d​​​​o use phrases and terms like:

no! Forestall! Why did you do this? Do not do this! What are you doing? How ought to you? What had been you questioning? Don't use words and phrases like:

that became stupid! You are stupid! Are you an idiot? I cannot stand you! I'm so tired of you! You are the worst! You may be questioning that you'd by no means say these things to a baby, however rage can be a elaborate issue. Do not maintain your emotions bottled up! Think about the sound a tea kettle makes while the water is beginning to boil. Imagine that is you preserving in your anger, your blood stress rising. Feelings can sneak up on you. So make it a factor to talk your feelings constructively before it receives to the point where you are saying some thing you regret. Learn how to be a happy mom and a way to be an awesome mom. Do no longer maintain your emotions bottled up! Feelings can sneak up on you. By no means go to mattress angry! One of the maximum important matters you can do to turn a terrible day round is to make amends earlier than bed. Make their bedroom a “no negativity area”. Talk flippantly and undoubtedly together with your infant. Toughen one true component that came about to you, or something exceptional that they did, at some point of the day. Locate the silver lining in a difficult day. Smother them with hugs and kisses, wish them candy dreams. Inform them you adore them. Usually. Then take a stroll in your favourite room inside the residence, have a seat, and unwind. Perhaps which means beginning a book you have been trying to finish. Maybe it is having a tumbler of wine and a chunk of chocolate along with your husband. Maybe it is checking your fb web page. Maybe it's catching up on a display you've had dvr'd for weeks. Anything you want to do to relaxation, mirror and recharge. Tomorrow is some other day. Giving a proper good-bye to this one earlier than mattress will result in a higher night's sleep… and a higher night time's sleep will make you a better mom. A glad mother. A terrific mother. A mom who wakes up inside the morning with a smile on her face, confident she's prepared to tackle the day! You have got this! However earlier than i go away you…

mark my words: you already know the way to be a good mom! A massive part of it's miles following your instincts. And, of route, loving your infant unconditionally facilitates. However in case you keep those 7 habits tucked away on your brain, you may be armed with all which you need to stand something comes. Afterall… motherhood, like existence, is unpredictable. What works for you one day, may not the following. Routines exchange, people exchange, conditions trade. Just roll with it! Consider in yourself. Make use of the net sources available to you. Ask for assist. Make time for a touch a laugh. Make time for yourself. Reward your self. Make time for romance. Allow your self off the hook whilst matters don’t pass as deliberate. Motherhood is an experience in contrast to any other. And even as you chose this route… realize that it also selected you. The sooner you permit your self to accept the best with the bad, the sooner you may start to sense like a better mom. The minute you let pass of any negativity or guilt, you will become a satisfied mom. Realize your limitations. Permit your self to be human, fallible. Study from every day. This is the way to be a good mother. What do you believe you studied it takes to be a great mother? ​so what are your thoughts at the conduct had to be an excellent mother? Do you accept as true with this listing, or disagree? What are your favorite conduct of motherhood?

#mom

[thedistantstorm]

The Lion’s Heart 10

A shield, she realizes. The Traveler has gifted me a shield. I am a Defender: the last, lonely sentinel.

The tale of a different kind of Guardian: one who does not want the accolade of saving the world, who does not understand why she would be chosen to wield the Light remaining in the Shard. Once a reckless, dazzling Striker, the Traveler’s chosen is reborn a silent Sentinel. This is Kira’s story; About bringing people together, reclaiming their city, and overcoming the darkness despite it all.

Titans | Vanguard Mentors | Heavy Angst | PTSD | Descriptions of Light | Loss of Light | Canon-typical Violence | Heroes of Necessity | Canon Compliant | The Red War

Previous Parts: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09

-/

Cayde thinks he’s funny.

He always has.

Kira just isn't as good at following along anymore.

She tries to laugh, tries to react how he - how he expects everyone to react - but it’s hard. The one time she tries to force out the words, he cuts her off, exasperated that it takes her so long.

She doesn’t try after that.

He doesn't mean anything by it, she knows, he just operates to the tune of his own schemes: easy-going and free, the picturesque idea of a Hunter. It's easy to get lost in the lush, humid, Vex-twisted forests of Nessus; Easy to forget for a moment what's happening at home, until some Red Legion scum tries lining her up in her sights and she has to shake off the images of Towerfall, hiding behind a rock formation until she feels the restless hum of the void and bathes her enemy in violet-blue.

She wonders if that's why Cayde's come here. Wonders why he and Ikora didn't come when they heard Zavala's message.

They had to have heard Zavala's message.

Then, he tells her why he has the Vex Teleporter he's procured. So, maybe it's not, she thinks. Maybe he is helping, in his own way. Of course, he thinks it's the single item that's going to win them the war. Ghost tells her the teleporter is mid-range at best.

Kira doesn't really care about shady Vex tech. She really just wants to go home.

Right now that's a cot that isn't her own, and a place that smells like wet grass and campfire; Quiet voices that curl like smoke in gentle whispers to cut through her dreams.

Cayde, like he can read her thoughts, tells her he'll go to the Farm, but she'd better go get Ikora.

“Time's 'a wastin’,” His voice crackles, like a whip. “Once the three of us get together, with you in the mix, that ugly space rhino will be a breeze!”

Kira sighs, and tells Ghost not to bother when his optic narrows and his shell shivers in barely concealed rage. “You're not just some weapon,” He seethes privately. She shrugs. It's not worth arguing, she's never been able to pin down what Cayde thinks. Ghost doesn't comment that she's not trying to speak again, just hovers dutifully over her shoulder as she clomps tiredly back to their ship.

He patches her into Earthen comms once they're back in orbit. Cayde's in there already, barking over Hawthorne's voice - “Hey, heard you guys missed me,” And Zavala is already sighing heavily. Cayde's ship left not a minute before she did. Seems he didn't want to waste any time, she thinks. Even without solar flares and meteor showers, he's still hours away from even breaking Earth's atmosphere.

There's a blip on her comm, a private request. She does not miss how Zavala tells Cayde in a harsh bark that he may listen, but there are missions underway and he can fraternize when his boots are on terra firma.

“Kira, report,” Zavala's voice cuts, sounding leagues closer than the static-laiden radio droning in the cockpit. She missed where Ghost had patched the request in, so she jerks a little at the sound. His voice drops lower, as if he might have expected as much. “Did everything go alright?”

“Yes,” She answers, immediately.

There's nothing but quiet breathing on the other side. Long, slow, deep breaths. It's calming. A difference from the chaotic cry of distant Vex hydras and dragon-birds that squawk through humid red-brown forests. She sighs. He's waiting for the rest, wants her to tell him more, but everything really did go fine and she doesn't want to talk about it.

“Cayde has informed Hawthorne that he's sending you to Io.”

“He has,” She confirms.

“If the situation were not nearly as dire, I'd have you come back first, but… we cannot afford to waste time. I need Ikora with us.”

“Understood.” Quieter, she mumbles ruefully, “I can handle it.”

He chuckles, and the exchange almost feels routine. Normal. “Even so.”

When another silence spans between them, she takes a deep breath and asks: “Is everything alright there?”

Zavala collects himself, speaking evenly, “Hawthorne is preparing her speech to put Cayde in his place. I'm sure you heard him already trying to override her.”

She hums, tipping her head back against the headrest. She'd slept for a week, but she already feels tired again. “Don't let him.”

“I won't. Not completely,” He assures his charge “You sound protective of her.”

“She's good people.”

“Yes,” Zavala agrees. “I believe she is.”

Kira smiles - a tiny, lopsided little thing - and closes her eyes.

“Cayde is rambling about the Vex,” Ghost comments idly, scoffing, “Pretty sure we did all the fighting.”

There's only static for a couple moments. Then, tentatively, “Did you... happen to,” Zavala ventures, “Shoulder charge any Minotaurs?”

Kira blinks open her eyes in soft surprise. “I did,” She replies softly.

“How many times to bring it down?”

“One,” She answers immediately, thinking back to another time and place.

“You should have seen it, Zavala!” Ghost wobbles and feints across the small cockpit. “It wasn't a small one either!”

“You've grown,” He tells her. She can hear the smile there, in his tone. It makes her feel warm inside. “I'm proud of you, Titan.” He clears his throat, trying not to be too sentimental but failing all the same. “More than words could say.”

-/

Ikora’s words blister her ears.

“What good is a resistance when you are the only one who would survive?”

Through the white noise, the static in her brain, and the clenching of her fists so tightly she thinks she’s going to rip apart her gauntlets, Kira realizes one powerful truth. The Warlock Vanguard is paralyzed by her fear of permanent death.

Kira resists the urge to tell the Warlock Vanguard that no small part of her wishes she had died back there.

Angry words burn at the back of her throat like bile, the replies for the Warlock's commentary kept at bay. Kira knows what fear and futility feel like. She can empathize with Ikora feeling like there was more she could have done.

She doesn't feel upset when Ghost tells the Warlock Vanguard that there's nothing she could have done, even if she thinks otherwise. Ikora should have come home, she thinks. At least Cayde had wanted to, but he'd gotten… stuck.

When they have Ikora reasonably convinced - her conviction to go home is encouraging - and the Taken under control, Asher Mir makes himself known. His near constant yelling and degradation makes her uncomfortable.

She isn't his assistant, damn it.

Asher's plain disdain for Titans makes her furious. Not so much for herself. She doesn't care what he thinks of her. No, not one bit.

Asher's ire is pointed squarely at her Commander. Her Vanguard. The man who embodies everything she aspires to be. The man who is willing to die to take back their home, to keep his people safe, while this coward hides and screams about everything and everyone and impatiently waits for the end. 

Kira stays silent while she listens to the two Warlocks spin theories and talk down to her - not her specifically, but she's a Titan too, damn it all - while she runs around thwarting the Taken and the Vex. All for a Warmind to tell them something they already know.

When the Cabal leave a system - win or lose - they leave nothing behind.

If they wanted to consult a Warmind so badly, she gripes silently to Ghost as she hops on her sparrow, They should have gone to the Cosmodrome.

Asher mocks Zavala again over the comms, as if he can hear her thinking unpleasantly about them. She bites her lip so hard that it bleeds.

Ghost cuts off the feed to her helm, and she slows her speed, projecting her concern that something's gone wrong. “Everything’s fine,” He's quick to clarify. “I'll keep tabs on the comms, at least until we get to the base. If they say something relevant, I’ll fill you in.”

When they return to Asher, and Ikora formally bids them farewell - she's going to rejoin her Fireteam on the premise that Zavala will do something stupid - Kira stands firm and silent before him. 

"Finally,' Asher says when they're alone, "I thought she'd never leave. Come now. There are several things I need you to do for me before you go back, assistant."

She regards him coolly and does not follow him back to the alcove of shell-like rock that serves as his operations base.

"I certainly hope you are not proving to be like the rest of your ilk," He growls, when she makes no indication of further interest, simply stares him down. Asher's voice carries like a thunderclap. "Assistant! Pay attention!"

Kira's eyes slide over to him, and her Ghost appears over her shoulder, looking at her in worry. His broken ceremonial shell twitches in concern.

"Kira," He warns.

But the Guardian does not stop. She stands toe to toe with the Vex-compromised Warlock. What she does not have in towering height, she has in broad shoulders. She is not a small woman. Her eyes narrow, almost maroon in the shady shadows of the inlet.

"I am not your assistant," Kira snarls are him. "I'm going home."

"Ah yes, typical Titan idiocy. Unable to complete a simple task without the order from your superior." He laughs. It's meant to be a dig at her. If he notices her anger, he does not care. "Well, go on then, back to your precious Commander. If the system implodes, I'll know it was you headbutting something you shouldn't have."

The Titan straightens. She does not have to speak loudly to demand his attention. "For all your demeaning conversation," Kira imparts in a volume barely above a whisper, "You've told me nothing I hadn't managed to infer before."

"The Great Vu-vu-zela knew the Cabal's Flagship would destroy the sun, did he?"

She remains quiet. They'd had theories, but nothing confirmed. “We-”

"That's what I thought. Now, if you'll excuse me, Titan, I have to find another assistant as mine has shown her true colors."

#commander zavala #asher mir #cayde 6 #ikora rey #destiny fanfiction #destiny stories #destiny 2 #nessus #io #the red war #tw: ptsd #zavala is tower dad #suraya hawthorne #collection: the lion's heart

[idolizerp]

LOADING INFORMATION ON NIGHTMARE’S MAIN DANCE CHAE HANI...

IDOL DETAILS

STAGENAME: N/A CURRENT AGE: 22 DEBUT AGE: 20 TRAINEE SINCE AGE: 13-15 (msg). 16 (koala.t) COMPANY: Koala.T SECONDARY SKILL: N/A

IDOL PROFILE

NICKNAME(S): - japchae ; because it’s her favourite korean dish. - nini ; often used by those she trained with at MSG and Koala.T. - chaenerys targaryen ; she’s a big fan of game of thrones and is often said to resemble daenerys thanks to their blonde hair. INSPIRATION: her mother. there is no one else hani idolizes more than her dear mother, ever the proper, respected lady. SPECIAL TALENTS:

can spin around and around without getting dizzy

does a pretty identical impersonation of sailor moon

solves math equations quickly

NOTABLE FACTS:

attended the paris opera ballet school from eight to twelve years old

has a baby sister, kim nari, she mentions whenever she can

is never seen without her necklace of a crescent moon she got from her friends in paris

IDOL GOALS

SHORT-TERM GOALS:

to put it simply, hani prioritizes the success of nightmare. she wants them to be recognized beyond the niche foundation they set up, although, she does thoroughly enjoy their sound and music. as for personal goals, she, too wants her name in lights by making a name for herself on variety shows and guestings.

LONG-TERM GOALS:

as much as she fought to be an idol, hani isn’t quite certain her future will remain in the industry. she wants the fame and glory, wants her name in neon lights, but it doesn’t have to be exclusive to being a celebrity. she has childish dreams of one day opening her own ballet company, hoping to train young hopefuls to maybe reach the status of principle dancer that she once dreamed of being.

IDOL IMAGE

( dream. ) once upon a time in a kingdom close to home lives a princess with hair crafted from the sun’s golden rays and a smile carved by the most cherubic of angels. and her name is chae hani. she has the soft, pretty face with a tender gaze and rosy cheeks that stun and captivate hearts when she isn’t dancing her way into souls—on camera, that is.

it’s an image on top of another image. layers upon layers. one moment, she’s exuding brightness and the next, when the melodies ricochet, hani is another person: a dark, twisted dancer that utilizes her group’s concept, makes the most of the lights, camera, action.

for hani, it’s almost too easy, acting sweet and generous on camera because she knows it works: fanservice. every word spoken is delicate and thoughtful, poetic and intimate. she charms viewers and fans with a sunny disposition, the girl-next-door that reacts in laughter. she’s easy to please and likeable, upbeat when she needs to be, when she’s hosting and interviewing, anything to satisfy the audience. she gazes at fans with all the attention and love, remembers their names and treats them like friends when they meet again. anything for the show.

when hani walks, she glides effortlessly beautiful, waving and making hearts out of fingers. acting cute, displaying aegyo whenever possible. anything to make fans happy. anything to make the public love her. and hani on-stage is ever the performer. ever the romantic dancer. she’s into the theatrics, a switch going off when the music starts and the fans screams. she’s intense and versatile, submerging herself in the dark, mystical concept nightmare is known for. and honing it with fixed glares, powerful twists and wicked lines.

she’s been trained by the finest to perfect the illusion. any illusion. her mother taught her how to master grace and elegance with a cunning smile at her disposal. her ballet instructors taught her how to embody any role given to her on-stage. how to be the white swan, pure and angelic one moment then the dark swan, moody and ferocious, the next.

( nightmare. ) is what she is. hani isn’t the dreamy princess rescued from a hundred year slumber, she’s the wicked sorceress who cursed and poisoned an apple. she’s does aegyo or heart fingers, but when she does in front of cameras, she bites back the bile.

everything caught in the public eye is a mere illusion. every loving smile, gander, flying kiss. it’s all a well-orchestrated ruse. a sham to get people to love her. hani cares about no happiness but her own, and she feeds off the attention, involuntary like breathing. and so very greedy. but no one thinks the radiant girl on television is anything of the sorts—perfect.

chae hani is the devil wears ballet slippers. she is calculating and manipulative, using others for her own personal gain and entertainment. it’s far cry different than what she embodies as nightmare’s hani, sugary sweet but packs a punch or a pirouette, in her case.

she is vindication in human form. anger in the shape of girl who once only knew how to love. but that girl is long gone now, destroyed by the one thing she trusted the most. and it shows when she dances with subtle rage, brooding intensity and passion, like nothing else matters. and she’s burning within; it shows in her eyes—they catch it with oohs and ahhs.

wildfire caged and destructive, hani is keen on leaving a trail of ashes in her wake until everyone knows nightmare—until everyone knows her name.

IDOL HISTORY

for as long as chae hani can remember, it has always been her and her mother. her father comes and goes then doesn’t return, barely weaving any memories to grow old with; maybe she’s too young to understand he has another family—too young to understand the complications of the relationship and the illegitimacy of her birth. her mother calls her father good for nothing under her breath, and hani starts believing he is. it’s she and her moher against the world.

young, foolish, hani believes in such a farce.

her mother is beauty and elegance personified. she carries herself with regality and grace. friendly smiles offered and returned with a shake of hands and kisses on cheeks. a business running. a floral boutique in paris, france. successful, formidable, intelligent, there is no one else hani wants to follow, to learn from, to idolize—no one else she wants to be. but her mother, susceptible to heartache, doesn’t want hani to experience the same path; hani must be better so no man will ever leave.

first, education. she learns addition, subtraction and multiplication before tying her shoes and looking both ways before crossing the street. then, dance. she learns grand jetes and pirouettes before pleases and thank yous, auditioning in a six month gruelling process at eight for the finest ballet academy in the world. hani aspires to make her mother proud until the ends of her ruby lips reach her sparkling eyes. hani prioritizes her mother’s happiness above her own. she’s tired of the tears she sheds. (but they don’t stop, and she becomes the shoulder she cries on.) the burden is too heavy for a child, but hani doesn’t mind the weight. strength lies in her mother (and it lies within her, too); hani sees it when she picks herself up and continues with her day, working twice as hard; they are all each other has.

yet every parent-teacher interview and recital, a stranger sits beside her mother. as hani grows older, she soon understands what a boyfriend is—what it means remains to be seen. they come with roses of sapphire but return her mother with tears streaming down her face and bruises on her arms and legs. it becomes harder to stand on her own two feet, so hani helps her, becomes her aid and support. the weight grows, but she’s stronger. with a kiss on her forehead and tissue to her eyes, she consoles her poor mother, giving her the strength she’s losing until she can smile peacefully in her sleep.

but as days ghost by, her mother becomes harder to please. she controls every facet of her life. she forces your nose in books, pointed toes in ballet slippers, filled any spares on the calendar with cram school, recitals, performances—away from doing music because she won’t be like that musician father of hers stuck crooning in bars—hani will be the epitome of a lady, prima ballerina. and it doesn’t stop there. what she wears, who she befriends or don’t, what she eats, how to spend time are decided by her. hani can only bend so much without breaking. and music becomes that escape.

when her mother wails, hani soothes the cacophony with sweet lullabies. she learns to hum and sing to herself while mastering développés late into midnight. it quiets the pain, dulls it enough so hani can smile because she can’t remember when she last time did. and she is on the verge of quitting ballet when trials are too difficult and cours leave her drained and battered, underweight and dehydrated. only fire remains but it’s fading. yet her mother wants her to continue and forget about her newfound dreams of melodies. she cites them as temporary and foolish, guilt tripping her to do her bidding. (“i thought you only want eomma to be happy. do you want me to hurt?”) of course she doesn’t; there’s nothing more she wants than her happiness, but what about hers?

life has stopped being fun when her mother snarls her disappointment in hani for not acing a test, landing the starring role in an important production with scouts from europe. (“you’re tired? don’t be so dramatic. you’re like your father. good for nothing.”) every fail hani is met with punishment. no food, no break, no rest until she’s perfect. all she has done for her mother is suddenly tossed out the window. forgotten. her entire life she wanted to be like her mother. now? she doesn’t know anymore. she prays for a diversion—something to distract her mother so she can focus on yourself, who she wants to be. it comes with a charming smile and phD.

the man is a highly respected plastic surgeon in korea with a boisterous laugh and plenty of crow’s feet. he loves her mother; hani can see it in the way he looks at her, like she’s the only one in the world. and she looks at him just the same. this is what hani wants, her mother’s attention off of her. yet her mother condemns by forfeiting her business to move back to seoul. (“i thought we don’t quit.” “ladies don’t talk back, hani-ah.”) and hani is tossed in a country she hasn’t been in since she was four. learning korean is like learning french because she speaks like a child at best, and that isn’t very lady-like.

but when she learns to bite down on syllables and decipher the strokes in hangul, the first thing hani does is audition for MSG for a sense of normalcy because she’s accustomed to the brutal trials of training, and not her mother ignoring her for her new husband. not like her mother appreciates her getting into music, though. hates it, reminds her too much of hani’s good for nothing father as she sings of catching shooting stars. it makes coming home unbearable. all hani does in her eyes is suddenly wrong, and she’s grossly disappointed in her.

trips home become scarce, and hani overworks herself day and night to prove her mother wrong—that she’s not good for nothing. nothing seems to work. her mother degrades her for settling to be an idol, ridicules the entire craft of it. there is no ounce of support. no sympathy when hani does return home exhausted.

training doesn’t break her. her mother does. she dismisses her, brushes her away when hani not once prioritized anything or anyone over her. when she needs her the most: her comfort, her love, her it’s okay even though meaningless. betrayal hits hard, and hani is angry, darkness in her eyes and uncontrollable heaves in her chest. the fire is back. not red but blue and blazing.

pushing herself to the limit is the only option. her coping mechanism. working to the grind until her sneakers are ripped at the soles and sweat drenches all her clothes. hani has to debut. in some unconventional way, it’s vengeance. (“look what i achieved.”) she won’t let anything or anyone tear her down; she’s not her mother—thankfully. but before cherry bomb’s debut is finalized, she collapses from exhaustion and awakens to her mother with a smug face. she pulled her out, cited her health as most important. if only that’s the case. while hani is devastated, her mother is happy. (“finally, you can quit the stupid dream of yours.”)

dropping out of MSG to heal only seems to shatter hani more. recovery is long days staring outside her bedroom window. her mother only visits to remind hani auditions for a ballet company are three months away. so much for her well-being. this is when her resolve thickens, this is when she realizes she only has herself, and she’ll do what it takes to make herself happy. the final argument with her mother is one for the ages, she grabs her belongings and talents, waltzing into koala.t’s arms after a series of tedious auditions. tempers clash at a record high, and they haven’t seen eye to eye since.

training at koala.t is more of the same blood, sweat and tears. is more of same competitive atmosphere, where only the strong survive and the weak get left behind. hani guarantees she won’t be abandoned again, guarantees she is in it to stay for the long run.

a waterfall ensues when she’s chosen for nightmare. the people hani step on scowls at her success. after years of hard work her time has come. congratulations come in tight embraces, touches of the head, kisses on the cheeks and nothing from her mother but a roll of her eyes, which is fine. being an idol is for hani, whether it’s what she truly wants or to simply spite her mother remains to be seen. nothing will stop hani from pushing herself to the limit, to succeed and rule. after all, her mother, as toxic and deranged as she is, taught hani all that she knows. it’s payback.

#id.bio #id.nightmare #id.koalat #id.jung jinsoul #id.snake pit

[spamzineglasgow]

(REVIEW) ‘Germ Songs’ by Will Burns and Jess White

In this review, Maria Sledmere explores the arboreal and rhizomatic understories of Will Burns and Jess White’s new pamphlet, Germ Songs (Rough Trade Books x William Morris Gallery, 2019), asking what lyric poetry can do in a time of dieback, scarcity and precarious land.

> ‘What are we aiming for anyway?’ Will Burns asks in opening poem, ‘Ash’. To aim is to point, direct, focus, train. ‘Anyway’ indicates something will probably happen, in spite of something else. Is a poem a kind of aiming? What about a song? Germ Songs, a pamphlet fresh as its lime-green cover and published by Rough Trade Books, is part of a quartet of slender volumes: The William Morris Gallery Series. With Jess White’s gorgeous, intricate illustrations set alongside Burns’ neat and curious lyrics, Germ Songs embodies William Morris’ association with etching, aesthetics and ornament alongside a Blakean dialectic of print and song. You will be struck by the lively neon cover, a kind of nu-rave ~ ~ nNature~ ~, but find something decorative, arboreal and Romantic in the typeface, the whorls and notches of line and lyric. This is a book that holds between thin pages a rhizomatic undersong of multiple times, while its canopy gleams for a modern reader.

> Although the decorative intensity of Germ Songs would normally invite a more reposed and formal register, there is a conversational lightness to some of the poems. A frank admission of vagueness, a hedging of the representational ‘real’. Trochaic and anapaestic beginnings feel like a shoot and release, seedlings spun from the branches of trees: ‘Somebody, somewhere’, ‘counsels all this’, ‘Delays at all points’, ‘Decay, and worse’. The spondaeic emphasis of ‘all this’ swells with the everything that haunts the book. I have been reading Germ Songs as a lighter companion text to Richard Powers’ arboreal epic The Overstory (2018), a novel of interwoven tales relating to trees: tales of activism, game design, human intimacy, science, rebirth, environmental justice, illness and injury, violence and song. In Powers’ novel, there is this sense of a self-rejuvenating Nature — ‘trees lap at the low, wet sky, the clouds they themselves have helped to seed’ — a kind of agential, four-dimensional thicket of enmeshed relations. Fiction being this ecomimetic device to conjure the high-definition sensory realm of the forest we are losing, the forest-as-such. In Germ Songs, there is a different kind of toggling between stories, scales, maps and voices.

> In these short poems, Burns navigates the thickening histories and frictive material realities of the anthropocene, gesturing towards something like a vernacular of endangered beauty. There are questions around the ethics of making beautiful work about something on the brink of loss. Are we celebrating or pre-emptively elegising the environment that previous generations could enjoy in varying naiveties of plenitude? Or is something else going on, a kind of pressing awareness that blows upon those who move through the forest of language, a stirring breeze, a heat? The book’s blurb reads:

These poems and drawings take their shape from the land, utilising both artists’ interest in the natural world and the questions that close observation ask of us as human beings living through the landscape and flora that surround us.

The blurb also notes the pamphlet’s thematising of questions around ‘access to these spaces, about property, ownership, boundaries and how these ideas have played out through history’. We read William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Experience (1789) within the context of land enclosures and human construction and domination of green spaces; equally we might read Germ Songs as a lyric conversation with the more-than-human world understood in the context of capital, growth and decay, loss, ‘domestic grief’, fires and the enflamed, complex affects of contemporary politics. Even the titles bear these slippages: ‘Heartwood’ for instance, a quick google reveals, is at once a Stirling-based tree surgeon, a Dulux colour shade, an investment management company and a herbal medicine education service. Such brand appropriations reveal the metaphoric density at work in a word which otherwise refers to the central, dead wood of trees. Also called duramen, heartwood is resistant to decay and ripe with aromatic tannins that darken and flavour its cells. Yet the poem ‘Heartwood’ reveals a complex, fraught resilience; what is starkly presented is ‘The empty, burned-out house / at the bottom of Hale Farm Lane’. An image of stability and pastoral timelessness, the farmhouse, becomes an extinguished symbol of upheaval, transposed into ‘A useless piece of property— / willed against heavy skies’. As though you could hedge a failed infrastructure against the coming storm. As though we could trade our increasing vulnerability for some inheritable protection: a will that somehow defies what is phenomenologically there in the poem, the ‘heavy skies’ that indicate the end, period, a possible violent return. Outbursts of fire and water; skies weighted with smoke or rain.

> There is something crying in the trees: ‘I laid me down upon a bank, Where Love lay sleeping; / I heard among the rushes dank / Weeping, weeping’ (Blake, ‘The Garden of Love’). Are not the trees supposed to sing? These ‘Germ Songs’ are billed as songs, and yet there is often an imagist simplicity to their presented scenes. What if Ezra Pound’s Imagist manifesto was a kind of anthropocene tract of material scarcity: ‘to employ the exact word, not the nearly-exact, nor the merely decorative word’. Defiantly, Germ Songs nevertheless flirts with the decorative. Whether her illustrated scenes are of rich mycelia, plates of specimen seeds, crying or pensive birds, undergrowth, varieties of mushroom, fronds of lichen and moss, branch and cell, Jess White situates the forest of Germ Songs as quietly teeming. These are the painted yet tangible scenes we must continue to long for, support and sustain. I learn from The Overstory: ‘Deforestation: a bigger changer of climate than all of transportation put together. Twice as much carbon in the falling forests than in all the atmosphere’. Forests thrive on ‘older, rotting trees’, which feed the beetles, the fungus, the chorus of those species that farm decay to further life. In writing about the thinning of forests under late-capitalism (‘everything just / cheap protein, cheap motive, cheap material’) alongside the ornamental closeups of ecological treasure, you might say Germ Songs enacts the poetry of this transformation. Composting language, lyric and story as necessary to survival, openness, living on as multitudes.

> There is a sense that we are starved by overfeeding, that our calories are abundant but empty. There is a violent history to this, as described in ‘Cheap’:

the frontier itself, built on the violence of sugar and grain-calories, the groundwork of horses, cattle, dogs, that made things cheap as we need them to be—cheap enough to travel.

As Robert Macfarlane and others have asked, does this play out in the increasing austerity of our diet of language? These are poems presented quite plainly, often with a plodding rhythm (though the verse is free), stripped of Latin names or excessive description; I think again of Pound’s insistence on ‘the language of common speech’. It is as though the poem dares you to burrow into that space between ‘the nearly-exact’ imminence of lyric utterance and the maximalist sprawl of illustration — drawings you quite simply want to enter into. That sometimes seem to hold a warmth, a depth; even as their adjoining lines are cooler, clipped and precise. This is not to say the poems are written in the style of timber: stripped, smoothed and felled from a monocrop generality. Rather, the holding back allows Burns to occasionally sweep us into a line of quiet devastation, ‘empty of birds / but for kite calls that grieve the great songs of sparrows’. I think of Robert Frost’s choice of metaphoric paths against the existential and material gravitas of the decisions we make now regarding our traversal and use of the land:

We have miles to cover to get back on the potholed road west. Which is how we will have to leave the town and feel its bearing forever, overgrown into dog days.

                                                                              (‘Mid-Point’)

There is a twist of New Weird Britain within these lines, an eerie kind of emptiness in plenitude — something not quite placed. I think of the fable-like evocation of ‘The dark village’ which ‘sits on the crooked hill’ in Rachael Allen’s recent collection Kingdomland (Faber and Faber, 2019). Panning out, I think more widely of a generalised ‘west’: a beckoning frontier, a lawless district, a California wildfire raging, a stark apocalypse sunset. There are places we might fall on the road, when we are forced ‘to leave the town’ with the heartwood of that perilous scene inside us. The poem as microcosm for grander dramas. Dog days can mean both the hottest period of the year and one of inactivity or decline. There is a burning pressure of something which blooms too hard and enters stasis; the excess in capital, production, growth becomes something torpid and awful: ‘Though all weather is fell weather / there is only one meaning to heat / that swells so late’ (‘Spruce’), ‘These corrupted seasons—months of rain / then a high summer of fire—’ (‘Ash’). We know this is because of our carbon, our cars and planes, our human decisions. There is bound to be another fall, or perhaps the falling is happening already.

> To name a poem for a tree, after a tree. Does the poem come before or after? ‘Exhausted and exhausting, under the ash / —selfhood as dieback’ (‘Ash’). As in the poems of Emily Dickinson, the em-dash functions as a kind of hinge — or better still, a connecting branch, a stretching stem, a tilting trunk — gesturing towards those interpretations which are not quite fixed in language, semantics or time. As Richard Stacey recently argued in a recent undergraduate lecture at the University of Glasgow, Dickinson’s dash performs an invitation to look inside the occluded openings or splits in a poem, while also providing a cover (we might say canopy) against ‘prurient speculation’. So the poems reveal and conceal, like bristling leaves letting in, shading or blocking the light. The ‘dieback’ of ‘selfhood’ follows, somehow, the push and pull process of the ‘Exhausted and exhausting’, the held noun and flicker between adjective and verb; but it also suggests some hidden space in the poem, the dash itself as dieback, which is itself a progressive dying from the tip backwards. The dashes seduce you deeper into the thicket of lines that are carefully sung or drawn between life and death, presence and absence. They are units of ecology itself as ‘a branch’ of science that deals in the relations of organisms and environments.  

> And what is meant by a germ? Germ: ‘An initial stage or state from which something may develop; a source, a beginning. Also: a small constituent or quantity’; ‘To produce new buds or shoots; to germinate’ (OED, 2019). The poems and drawings are germinations, surely, invitations to a budding consciousness about what’s going on in the understory of the land and trees. The fragments of narrative in these poems hold human distance and tensions (‘We were hundreds of miles apart’) alongside the detritus and trace of what we become: ‘The unit of violence in these hills / is no longer the disused MOD site / but the bloody mess of people—’ (‘Bastard Service’). Our plastic litter, our packaging, our ‘stuff’ of capitalism’s fallout. How to move through this. The precision of a sentence held enjambed across lines, every punctuation deliberate, aimed, held. In their short sentences, there’s a sense of every expression bearing a thicker weight, a whole trunk of meaning. Transient shortcuts tracing deeper histories. In the ‘bloody mess’ of what we have already left, what does it mean to write a poem?

> ‘Bastard Service’, the pamphlet’s final poem, ends with ‘the phrase—“leave no trace, leave no trace”’. To say it twice, as if to say, to yoke repetition to ritual, to evoke — and this being the ‘point’ of lyric. ‘What are we aiming for anyway?’: maybe this anyway, its conditions of possibility, its frustrated in spite of, indifferent production, is the actual stuff of Burns’ lyric. For the insistence against traces belies the actual work of lyric in forging musical phrases that beg to be ‘thought over and over’, leaving synaptic traces as much as physical marks on a page. A poem, Buddy Willard derisively claims in Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar (1963), ‘is a piece of dust’. But what if it were more like a germ? A trace of the living and dying and dead; something to mull over, let dwell inside us; spread to a blurry future as lyric persistence among an ‘air so thick it had killed birdsong’ (‘Wild Service’).

Germ Song is available now, via Rough Trade Books.

~

Text: Maria Sledmere

Published: 2/2/20

#poetry #poem #review #poetry review #reviews #SPAM #Will Burns #Jess White #Rough Trade #Maria Sledmere #William Morris #ecopoetics #Richard Powers #Rachael Allen

[mozillogames]

You'll Sacrifice Your Time to Hellblade: Senua’s Sacrifice

Because it’s really good.

Hellblade: Senua’a Sacrifice is a short, but intense, game that sees you travelling through beautiful landscapes, taking on Norse gods and even doing the odd puzzle all while dealing with the main character’s psychosis along the way. It’s an incredible experience that deals with some interesting subject matter and both expresses it tastefully and informatively, but also presents a gripping story and some intense gameplay.

Hellblade is a difficult game to try and describe without revealing too much of what makes it work. Even harder still given that it’s the sort of game that a lot of people will dislike, given the amount of walking and listening involved. At the same time, I’d say it shows some wonderful examples of design, going with the idea of say it, don’t plaster-your-game-with-UI it. There’s no UI at all, the closest thing you’ll ever get is the pause screen, and meanwhile everything else is in world and in the scenery, or within Senua’s own head.

If you hadn’t heard already, Senua, the game’s main character, suffers from psychosis. This manifests itself, at least most obviously to the player, as voices in her head. These voices are manifestations of people she may have dealt with in her life, such as the former slave, Druth, whom Senua found in the woods and who went on to teach her about the beliefs and culture of the Northmen, the Vikings who were raiding their lands. Others take the form of the Shadow which is an embodiment, of sorts, of the idea that Senua is cursed, tainted or worse, a thought you may see put upon her while growing up. There are also the Furies which are the general voices that will constantly plague Senua’s journey with their whispers and taunts “She’s going the wrong way” “She doesn’t know where she’s going” “Look at her, she’s scared” they’ll say as you pass through caves and forests.

These are the voices that act as the closest thing you’ll ever get to a UI or a tutorial while in the game. They whisper “Focus, you need to focus” as you approach some form of glyph or stone or perhaps they give a cursory warning about an attack from behind or even when an enemy is low on health and ready to be finished off. This is the main area of expert design that I so love in this game. The use of audio keeps you on your toes as you never fully know your surroundings or if what you’re doing is right, you can only see what’s in front of you. So the use of the voices as indicators of information means you have to always be listening out to them, even when they don’t help by creating fear within the player.

Hellblade does wonders to induce fear within the player and it’s rarely through any classical horror elements, or at least, classic video game horror elements. Basically nothing jumps at the screen and makes a loud gargling noise and in a lot of instances there isn’t actually any perceived threat. Instead the music builds up, the voices begin to flutter into a panic “They’re coming!” they’ll say with increased panic as the sky begins to turn black and the world distorts. You feel your heart begin to thump and your body become covered in a flop sweat that you thought only a snake could evoke (snakes are evil and scary), but you continue on, pressing onwards to save your beloved.

That’s ultimately the story though. Set during the Viking raids of northern Britain, Senua is a Pictish warrior who has set off to Helheim, the underworld of the Northmen, the Vikings, to save the soul of her beloved Dillion. Setting off from Orkney, after nearly all the Pictish folk were slaughtered during such a raid, Senua enters this fantasy land that reflects her understanding of the Northmen as well as their culture and gods. I say it’s a fantasy land, only because it’s nothing like what you’d find in the reality of you nor I, however to Senua it is very much real. There’s never the point in the game where they reveal that what Senua is actually fighting is a sheep in a field somewhere, instead it maintains that Senua’s reality is her reality whether it actually be real or not. While the areas you traverse reflect aspects of Senua’s life or those around her, an area of darkness where you’re pursued by a beast to reflect her childhood trapped indoors, or an area of mystic perception puzzles based around the god that the Viking raids were carried out in the name of, including their barbaric practices.

I can’t say that Hellblade is inherently fun, you can’t exactly smile your way through a beach covered in wrecked and abandoned ships or as you walk through a settlement that’s posted with flayed corpses left hung up to be feed for carrion. Everything is out to get Senua, including her own mind, so it’s very hard to ever feel safe and comforted during her quest, but this makes the whole thing ever more enthralling. The game remains fresh, for the most part, throughout the whole game both in setting and what it’ll have you do. The few constants within the game are the combat and the rune puzzles.

The latter involve trying to locate a Nordic rune within real life and this could be how some crossbeams line up to form a shape, maybe the flayed corpse lines up with another post to create another rune or even just the reflection of some driftwood to create another. These puzzles are simple, yes, but a lot of them are based around perspective and looking at objects in different angles, as well as acting as a wonderful way to get the player to actively look around this beautiful game and it is beautiful, there are lots of corpses everywhere but they look pretty, well, not pretty, but good. Well, not good, but you know, impressive? How do I word this without sounding like I’m attracted to flayed corpses? I guess there’s no way.

Combat! There’s combat in this game and it’s surprisingly satisfying for a lot of the game. Overall a simple system of heavy attack, light attack, block and dodge, and I guess there’s a kick as well, the spectacle of it comes from the nail biting manner of a lot of the combat. As you take on large groups of squid headed warriors the swapping between targets as you suddenly have to doge out of the way of an attack from behind can lead your heart to jump immediately to your mouth. When a voice in your head, almost literally so when using headphones, shouts “Look out!” or “Behind you!” the warning seems so much more real you feel the need to listen.

Combos may be simple, and the system is about as complex as being able to parry and riposte, but it works very well. It’s tight, whatever that means, and not overly complicated to muddy the whole system. The enemies are often just different enough that you can’t just walk around slamming the light attack button without a care in the world, as well as enemies willingly attacking you while your back is turned, which is something a lot of games seem to always struggle with. Sadly, where the combat often begins to fall down, you may have seen this is an issue, is that some combat sections tend to be very long and drawn out. With an adaptive difficulty that makes the game harder the better you play, if you want, you can find yourself fighting on a single bridge for well over thirty minutes as more and more angry shirtless men with shields, axes and even bigger axes just keep on coming.

It’s more a case of fatigue than anything. Having focused so harshly for so long it begins to wane and your reflexes drop making death an ever closer reality as you find yourself being knocked to the floor more and more. Then if you do find yourself finally falling in battle you might find that you’re back at the start of the bridge and stuck fighting the same dudes again, but maybe now with fewer enemies and they may not take a few hundred hits this time.

Death is possibly a permanent destiny in Hellblade. Within the opening area you’re given a haunting image of Senua falling to the floor, clasping to try and get away from the rot that crawls up her body, ultimately killing her for good, a chilling image of what may be. You’re informed that if you fall too many times, it may cause an absolute end to your journey. Whether this is true or not has yet to really be seen in a lot of circles that said the game is also very forgiving about death and whether or not it chooses to increase the rising rot. That said the sense of dread that comes with every near death encounter sets in that panic all the more.

Overall, Hellblade: Senua’s Sacrifice is a fantastic game. There’s a lot of enjoyment to be had in getting completely overwhelmed by emotion, anxiety and fear, sort of. A lot of the game reminded me of my time in a mental health ward, as well as was reminiscent of my own personal experiences with the stuff. It’s the sort of game that had me almost quivering and trembling with anxiety and other trembling sensations, making me have to put the game down. However, during these brief stops I thought of little else but playing more Hellblade, and I had to go to work, and sell Hellblade to people.

It’s a great contender for a Game of the Year™ spot and is a game I find myself thinking about a lot, late a night. All those dead bodies, just hanging up, flayed. Oh boy.

#Hellblade #Senua's Sacrifice #Ninja Theory #PS4 #Steam #PC #Video Review #Game Review #Written Review #Mozillo #Action game #Psychosis #Third Person #Very pretty

[jeonggukingdom]

Depiction of Love; 1. A monster like me

▽ Pairing: Yoongi x Reader 

▽ Genre:  Angst | drabble series (vampire!AU)

▽ Summary:  The very depiction of love, a kiss, can be given in a rush before leaving the house or with indubitably different intentions in the corner of a crowded room but it is always a silent secret held between the lips of the receivers, the lovers, the couple. It is always different, as different as the feelings buoying around it are for, its peculiarity, is the lack of voidness. 

▽ Prompt: "We can never be together” kiss. 

▽ Word Count: 1.627 words

▽ AN: basically I just fell in love with a drabble game about kisses (here) and I just couldn’t resist making a series out of it. To be honest I’m not sure if I’m going to do all the kisses but I have an idea for at least half of the list. This was started on a mere impulse so I’m not sure myself how the updates are going to go since I’m currently working on other (many) projects.

The first scent he detects is the one of Douglas fir – the ginger wood of which her house is made of and that smells so much like home to him, now – and he automatically speeds up, his whole being pushing him beyond his limits so he can hold her in his arms and chase all his demons away.

It’s their last night together, he knows that and he really shouldn’t be this eager to see her but, the only thought of touching her, even one last time, is enough to make his feet hit the concrete floor at a speed not deemed possible for any human being.

He inhales deeply, his whole body stirring when he catches the whiff of cinnamon tea, a scent that seems to embed into her so much so he can always taste it in her mouth.

He stops altogether because there she is, in all her mundane beauty: her long hair is tucked safely behind her ear, her eyes are focused on the book in her hands and her bottom lip is trapped under her teeth into an almost painful vise. She is, by far, the utmost beautiful creature he has ever laid eyes on and, undoubtedly, the only one that was capable of conquering his non-beating heart.

His steps are soundless as he approaches her, a small smile tugging on his lips as he curtails their distance, trying to imprint every detail of her face in his memory so he can remember her forever just the way she is now: healthy, beautiful, alive.

“You look lovely tonight”, his voice is soft as he says so, careful not to scare her and make her heart beat as fast as a hummingbird’s would, but that chariness is not enough because she jumps in her seat nonetheless, the little screech that escapes her mouth eliciting a grin to appear on his features.

“You scared the living shit out of me!”, she hoots in utter outrage, her small hand clasping her heart into a melodramatic gesture.

“I missed you”, he purposely ignores her words and lifts her from the chair ― her weight close to one of a feather in his supernatural hands ― just so he can wrap his arms around her and keep her so close to his own body until he can’t discern their boundaries anymore and he is free to breathe in the perfume lodged in the curve of her neck and between her hair.

A satisfied sigh escapes his lips once the scent of her surrounds him completely, numbing anything else around them and finally putting to a rest is overworked mind and overstimulated senses.

“I missed you too, Yoongi”, her voice is soft, almost like butter, and it’s so mild he can almost feel his skin warming up like it used to when he was still a living creature.

He doesn’t know for how long he holds her like this, time only an ephemeral constant for him since he holds the whole eternity in his hands, and it is only when he’s fully content that he lets go of her, his insides twitching as he does so because he has to say those dreaded words he avoided for far too long.

“We have to talk”, if they would have been even one foot further away she wouldn’t have been able to hear him but, unfortunately, she does.

“About?”, her voice is strangled, her body already shaking like a leaf in the winter wind, and he can’t stop himself from cupping her face, bringing back some comfort when she’s so obviously afraid of what he’s about to say.

“We have to end this”, the pain he feels spreads like poison from the center of his chest to the rest of his entire body numbing his limbs, constricting his throat, almost making him gag on the foul taste in his mouth.

The tears are quick to trace her features, the warmness of her pain getting caught between his fingers.

He wants more than anything in the world to erase that pain, to take it all away, all to himself, and leave her with nothing but happiness and content but, sadly, he cannot because he is the main reason behind all of it and he couldn’t hate himself more than he does in this very moment.

“No”, her voice trembles as a sob menaces to choke her, her hands gripping his shirt so tight her knuckles turn white.

“We can’t be together”, he chokes on his words, the pain burning him to his very core, “You know we can’t.”

They talked about this before and yet she always managed to persuade him into ignoring the unwritten laws of his own kind but he can’t do that any longer, he just can’t turn his head the other way around anymore.

Her bottom lip quivers, the pain twisting her features turning her into a portrayal of pure grief.

He keeps caressing her face in a vain attempt to soothe her because the sight of all the ache he is causing is pure torture and, even though he knows he deserves it, all he can do is close his eyes and try to erase the image of her in this moment: shattered, with tears on her cheeks and wrenching pain in her heart all because of him.

Her lips suddenly touch his own and against his better judgment he opens his mouth for her, allowing her tongue to slip in, his heighten senses immediately catching up on that cinnamon flavor she seems to be embodied with.

When they kiss, it feels like pure electricity running in his veins, filling up his entire being with sparks and fluttering butterflies. His skin gets covered in goosebumps as she desperately kisses him with all the love she’s capable of and it almost brings Yoongi to his knees because how is he supposed to turn his back on this? How is he supposed to believe that a love like this is not supposed to be possible, conceivable?

“Turn me”, she whispers against his swollen lips, her voice firm as she asks for the hundredth time what she has been denied for so long.

“No,” his answer is always the same and she will never understand why he’s not willing to make her into a monster. Because that’s what he is: a soulless monster that feeds on other people lives. A parasite. And she’s just too good and too pure to be turned into something so evil and cursed. He doesn’t want to tarnish her soul and make her rot for the whole eternity. He loves her too much to trap her into an everlasting inferno.

“Why not?!” She screams now, pushes him, punches him right in the chest and even if it hurts, there’s a part of him that rejoices in the fact that she may be able to hate him soon, after all, and leave the memory of him behind her for good.

“Don’t you love me?”, she cries and yells and begs until she has not an ounce of strength left in her body to keep fighting.

“I love you more than it should be possible”, he whispers, catching her before she falls to the hard ground, “Especially for a monster like me”.

Isn’t it a paradox for an evil creature to be able to love and care for someone? Shouldn’t he be excluded from all feelings mundane?

“Then why?” Her broken whisper makes his insides twitch painfully, the sound of her frantic heartbeat reaching his enhanced hearing.

“You deserve better than an eternity tinted with blood.”

If only the rules were different, if only they could be together just like this, for as long as her life would allow them to be, he would stay, oh, if he would.

But they are doomed to be just like the moon and the sun: he’s stuck in the realm of the night while she lives and strives under the sun; their interactions brief because mother nature doesn’t allow otherwise.

“Be happy, ____.” his lips touch her forehead one last time before he runs away, like the coward he is, not allowing her to even say her goodbye because he knows, if he stays a bit longer he may actually cave in and indulge in the hope of being able to be together with her a bit longer.

He hides in the darkness of the forest and watches her crumble before his eyes, the tears flooding from her beautiful eyes now that there is nothing to stop them, her sobs so wrenching they push him on the verge of running to her multiple times.

He doesn’t know for how long she cries, whispering his name, clutching her heart in pure pain, but he’s forced to leave when the first rays of sunshine start to hit the ground.

It’s not an easy task to get away from her, to finalize his decision, but he does it because, for once, he’s not being selfish. Yes, he did the right thing. For her. He did the right thing.

Copyright © 2017 by jeonggukingdom. All rights reserved. 

#noonanet #depiction of love #yoongi #yoongi x reader #drabble #bts #bangtan boys #bangtan sonyeondan #bts suga #suga #suga x reader #bts ff #bts fan fiction #yoongi ff #suga ff #yoongi angst #suga angst #vampire!au #vampire!yoongi #vampire!suga

[micaramel]

Artists: Evgeny Antufiev, Lucy Bull, Horia Damian, Louise Giovanelli, Rodrigo Hernández, Jill Mulleady, Lin May Saeed

Venue: Air de Paris

Exhibition Title: El oro de los tigres

Curated By: Ana Mendoza Aldana

Date: January 4 – March 14, 2020

Click here to view slideshow

Full gallery of images, press release and link available after the jump.

Images:

Images courtesy of Air de Paris, Paris. Photos by Marc Domage.

Press Release:

The yellow sun pursues its slow course behind the horizon.

The last amber leaves have carpeted the ground, retaining in their belly the echo of a warmish autumn, ahead of the imminent ashen snow.

Other hints of ochre are stirring, in the form of flowers, trees and yellow shrubs with yellow thorns. You could count the thousands of seeds and acid spores till you lose count, till you lose your mind.

When a fire burns out, still further away, the flames revive. The rumbling of the earth lights up the dusk. The sand in the hourglass has formed its pyramid.

In their cage Borges’s golden tigers retrace yet again the path ∞ times taken, obstinately fulfilling their repetitive destiny with frenzied determination.

Maybe their stripes are hiding the divine writing (1) .

Deep in the heart of the threads stretching from grandmother to father, from father to son, the cells multiply their degeneration. The emerald rims of the nebula are already impinging on the retina and the globe is covered with thick fog. Blindness sets in as the pages of the endless library are overlaid with a fine blue dust, and yet the yellow remains, in, scattered constellations.

* In the dark times Will there also be singing? Yes, there will also be singing. About the dark times (2). *

Jorge Luis Borges is famous for the density and brevity of his narratives, peopled with mirrors, labyrinths and his vast love of philology. For him time is a spatio-temporal continuum (3). Between June and August 1977 Borges (1899–1986) gave a series of talks at the Teatro Coliseo in Buenos Aires. La Ceguera (Blindness) was the seventh and last of these talks (4). La Ceguera begins on a personal note: Borges learned very young that he would go blind. In the talk, as in El oro de los tigres (1972)5, the poem written some years earlier, he pays tribute to this blindness, describing it not as a slow descent into darkness (as if someone were little by little putting out the lights), but rather as the gradual loss of colour.

Le Rouge et le Noir, as he says in his talk, are the colours he misses. He is never immersed in total darkness: the world seems to him swathed in a blue and a green that have lost their vividness, and a dirty grey has taken the place of white… Yellow alone has conceded nothing to blindness. Its brightness and sunny radiance remain intact. Thus it becomes a faithful companion, ready to resurface in the writer’s happiest memories: contemplation of wild beasts in the zoo, with the gold of their downy skin teasing his child’s eye.

Long after these talks, over a year ago, yellow suddenly started popping up everywhere for me too: in the demonstrations that shook France in November 2018, and since then in the equivalents that seemed to be rumbling in other parts of the world, like the aftershocks of a single earthquake. In Algeria, Bolivia, Hong Kong, Lebanon, Chile; in feminist writings of more than a century ago (1) ; in the fires consuming chunks of Amazonia, California, Australia; and at the very moment of this writing, in the dead leaves blanketing the footpaths of Paris.

A recurring yellow become embodied, physical hypertext: a revealer of the waves buffeting our reality.

The artists invited to take part in this exhibition have in common a relationship with time going beyond the immediate and the instantaneous. Their work has its roots in the literature and the fables of ancient civilisations, and the archetypal forms they have given rise to. An overlaying of a past and stories converging with our present.

Evgeny Antufiev (1986, Kyzyl, Russia) has an innate practice of art. The Russian artist is particularly interested in eternity and in etiological tales (his work is nourished for example by the legends of the nomads of the Touva region in Siberia where he was born) that he reinterprets in his own manner. Often embellished by semi-precious stones, bones or animal’s teeth that he collects, Antufiev’s sculptures retain the marks of their handmade craft.

Lucy Bull’s (1990, New York) virtuoso paintings call upon the history of painting and abstract art. The works she produces are hallucinated visions that seem to float between dreams and the digital images produced by artificial intelligence. In her paintings, although mainly abstract, we could almost see flowers blossoming, fish swimming, insects swarming, or tigers lurking ready to ambush us — we almost see them move, we almost hear their wings or fins agitating, we almost anticipate the tearing of their claws.

Romanian artist Horia Damian (1922, Bucharest – †2012, Paris) lived and worked most of his life in Paris. His work is mostly interested in simple forms and colors that reflected his interest in cosmic landscapes, stellar architectures and invisible geometries, and the connections between the macro and the microcosmos. The Hill or La Colline is one of his main projects as bear witness the quantity of preparatory sketches drawn. The Hill both a sculpture and a place, a yellow work of obvious spiritual elevation, was installed in front of the Guggenheim in New York in 1976.

Louise Giovanelli’s (1993, London) paintings draw inspiration as much from the cinematographic culture than from Renaissance paintings. From canvas to canvas, the same image might appear with some small variations: sometimes the surface of the painting has been scratched, the color altered, almost as if each painting was a different print of one single photograph or if each canvas was a projection of a movie whose film had been damaged by the passing of time. On a single painting can then coexist the snapshot of Elizabeth Taylor’s tracheotomy scar and a devotional image of a martyr’s beheading.

Rodrigo Hernández’s (1983, Mexico DF) sculptures, volumes and paintings function as a compendium of meaning. A same idea, a word (its definition, the way it is written) or an image, is explored simultaneously from different angles. The simplest forms can thus embody a plethora of of mental associations. Hernández’s pieces can be apprehended as a work-word-image-porte-manteau…

Times are dark in Jill Mulleady’s paintings (1980, Montevideo), where different time periods coexist (their architectures, their characters fashionably dressed, their food, their excesses, their domestic or wild fauna) always in a disturbing manner. In Fight-Or-Flight a giant rat rides a horse over a random city: maybe the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse have a different face than the one we were expecting.

Lin May Saeed (1973, Würzburg), addresses the human-animal relationship and the animal liberation movement. Her works often crafted in Styrofoam — a material that because of its very slow decay will persist longer than wood, iron, marble, and most noble materials generally used in classical sculpture — borrow their aesthetics and vocabulary from ancient civilizations and thousands of years old mythologies, imagining a future where animals and humans now coexist in peace.

  1  In The Writing of the God, a god of a pre-Columbian civilization has hidden a sacred phrase capable of staving off all the wrongs of the end of the world in the spots of a jaguar. Jorge Luis Borges, La escritura del dios, in El Aleph, ed. Emecé, 1949

2  Bertolt Brecht, Motto, in Svendborgdigte, section II, 1939

3  Time is a river which sweeps me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger which destroys me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire which consumes me, but I am the fire. The world, unfortunately, is real; I, unfortunately, am Borges.” Jorge Luis Borges, Obras completas, Emecé, Buenos Aires, 1996. 816 p

4  The conference can be watched in its entirety on Youtube : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LLjd2eo62II

5  El oro de los tigres, ed. Emecé, 1972, 168 p

Link: Group show at Air de Paris

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from Contemporary Art Daily http://bit.ly/2vXBgCM

#micaramel

[avaliveradio]

7.22 New Music Monday Release Radar Playlist with Jacqueline Jax

Explore some exciting new music from creators all over the world recently discovered by our host Jacqueline Jax as she searches the far corners of the globe for talented songwriters and music creators who are telling their truth to bring the listener a unique experience. This show offers everything for fans of New Music from Rock to HipHop and Acoustic Songwriter styles that speak volumes through great song writing. You’ll love the lyrics and unique music we have just discovered for this segment. 

Listen to the show across all broadcasts:

SHOW AIRS MONDAY 7.22 at 12 pm et across all broadcasts.

The Anchor Fm page : https://anchor.fm/ava-live-radio

iHeartRadio station page : https://www.iheart.com/podcast/269-AVA-Live-Radio-Musi-29336730/

The Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/2toX0f3dPmI8gmUSOKZicxi

Artist: Population U

New Release: If I bend

Genre: Alt Rock, rock

Located in: Anaheim, Ca USA

This song is about the harsh realization that things change, and being rigid about that change, can hold you back from moving forward.

The music we are creating is an embodiment of our eclectic influences. "If I Bend" highlights our musical versatility. It pulls from our country influences (Johnny Cash, Hank Williams. etc.). As a group, we've never attempted to draw from our country influences, but by stepping out of our comfort zone, we feel we created something heartfelt with raw emotion. We were very happy with the result. We hope you enjoy it!

Right now we are getting ready for an acoustic performance at Gallagher's in Huntington Beach, Ca on Saturday, July 20. On Sunday, July 21, we are having an open audition for dancers for our upcoming video shoot in August. That one is for our single "Now You See".

LINKS:  https://www.reverbnation.com/populationu https://open.spotify.com/artist/02vPDEV6Eqm4tbozbKDNHL https://twitter.com/populationu https://www.facebook.com/populationu instagram.com/populationumusic

Artist: Cabela and Schmitt

New Release: Who She's Gonna Be

Genre: Alt/country/folk/singer-songwriter

Located in: Nebraska and Colorado

We're watching our little one from the very beginning. What they see, learn and say. We can't help but wonder. This song speaks to the amazing gift of new life and the beautiful wonders we get to experience through it.

We are working on our 9th album release to be put out in October.

LINKS:  https://open.spotify.com/track/6QUluly2lmquz2KfnrdV7V?si=3WmXY4JqQ9iGozyTL7IPAg https://soundcloud.com/user-473833568/who-shes-gonna-be Twitter: @CabelaSchmitt https://www.facebook.com/cabelaschmittmusic https://www.instagram.com/cabelaandschmitt www.cabelaandschmitt.com

Artist: Eidolight

New Release: Chosen Words

Genre: Rock, Alternative Rock, Electro-rock

Located in: : Reno, NV USA

Coining the phrase "Electernative Rock", Eidolight is a unique blend of electronic sounds with alternative rock roots and coffeehouse songwriting.

If Red Hot Chili Peppers, Beck, and The Beatles had musical offspring, they would name her Eidolight. Three years in the making, their debut album, On This Day, will be released August 2019.

This song is the first single from our debut album and our first-ever publicly released music. We are excited to share our blended style of music, which we have dubbed Electernative Rock.

We just released our first single, Chosen Words. On August 16 we are releasing our debut album, On This Day.

LINKS:  https://open.spotify.com/track/0mDaIfHRfRm1vZmn6uSFJj https://www.facebook.com/eidolightmusic https://twitter.com/ediolightmusic www.eidolight.com https://www.instagram.com/eidolightmusic https://store.cdbaby.com/cd/eidolight

Artist: Heavy Kollider

New Release: No Fear

Genre: Pop Rock Elettronic

Located in: : Italy

Heavy Kollider is an Italian Pop-Rock Band, formed by Sergio Bigotta and Paolo Tentarelli in 2015.

The band’s name is inspired by the Heavy ion collider project, as a metaphor of a collision between Appearance and Reality. The logo shows a neural network and Braille coding together as symbols of Technology that help people to overcome barriers.

The sound: Heavy Kollider’s music is composed of many ingredients, such as Rock Pop, Dance, Electro and Cinematic, and by beautiful blend melodies, captivating lyrics, powerful rhythms and crushing guitar riffs. The main influences: Muse, Foo Fighters, Sia, Alice Cooper, Image Dragons, and Coldplay. No Fear is a pop hit song that shouts to people to be brave even when life is dark.

Our music is for giving hope to people to overcome life challenges. This new album release gives us the chance to explore musically new sounds and songwriting from Rock, Electronic to Jazz keeping always with our attitude. We have also a cinematic soul that you can feel in our arrangement. We are happy to have released our new Album.

LINKS:  https://open.spotify.com/track/6E6AEZnwwHEuZKN7Orrzrs?si=ah4e18u6TUKC712m0fGp0A https://twitter.com/heavykollider https://www.facebook.com/heavykollider https://www.instagram.com/heavykollider

Artist: Dijah

New Release: Check Cut ( Releasing Saturday July 20th, 2019)

Genre: HipHop

Located in:  Phoenix, Arizona

Dijah , aka Dijah Matik created her sound and label Signature Sound Entertainment in early 2019 where she has been unstoppable in making her way to the top.

She was born and raised on the island of Jamaica where she was first introduced to music by playing the drum set and then evolving into an amazing poet which then exposed her to writing music about topics she enjoys. This new single "Check Cut" exposes Dijah's Jamaican roots as you listen further blended with a Trap/Rap Flow. She is mostly influenced by old school HipHop from Lauryn Hill, EVE, Missy Elliot, The Fugees, Tupac, Nas, and The Notorious BIG.

This song is significant because to Dijah it stands out with her style and flow. The beat connected with her so much that she mixed her authentic Jamaican dialect with her old school trap flow.

The composition of the beat, as well as the creative mixing skills behind it from the Legion Beats Team, also made it one of her favorite projects ever.

The release of this project is big for me because of the level I have taken myself as an independent artist. I desire to reach people with my music who have an open mind and enjoy entertainment and music in a world filled with chaos.

In the past couple of years, I have grown as a musician, songwriter, and independent business owner. I have not yet sold out my first show and this initial step to launch my new single is the next step to get there to live my passion and to materialize my dream while constantly feeding musical sensations to my faithful supporters.

Right Now we are working on my 6th single called "Sexy" and also putting ideas together for a music video for "Moments Like This" It's an awesome Journey!

LINKS:  www.dijahuniverse.com  https://open.spotify.com/artist/0h0Hi8rei9apK56BNWr0RP (Spotify) https://twitter.com/dijahxdijah (Twitter) https://www.facebook.com/dijahmusic (Facebook) https://www.instagram.com/dijahxdijah (Instagram)

Artist: Suniil Bhatia (Artist)/ Sound Machine (Band)

New Release: Ummeedein (Acopu

Genre: Indie Acoustic Pop Rock

Located in: Mumbai

This is the acoustic version of a new song called 'Ummeedein' which means 'Hopes' from the album 'Yeh Din' meaning 'These Days.

This is an album with Hindi vocals. Songs would be in their original and acoustic versions. It's an extension of the Electronic Music being Produced by Sound Machine and the Acoustic sounds which have been there from the past.

I am working on more songs to complete the Album.

LINKS:  https://www.reverbnation.com/sunilbhatia/song/30979894-ummeedein-acoustic https://soundcloud.com/sunil-bhatia/ummeedein-acoustic https://twitter.com/sunilbhatia https://www.instagram.com/sonu.sunil.bhatia https://www.facebook.com/YoursMusically

Artist: Travis Heeter

New Release: Shallow Waters

Genre: Experimental (but geared towards rock, electronic, hybrid/cinematic music)

Located in: : Vienna, OH

Shallow Waters is part of the beginning of the next generation of the Travis Heeter brand. The song is about the struggles of everyday life that many can relate to.

In everyday life, there will be times where others will judge you, whether its race, religion, your goals in life, or why you are here in the first place.

There will also be times where you get pushed around to the point where you're not good enough for anyone or anything. It's during those times, you have to stick up for yourself and do what’s right for you.

My next album has a 5+ year plan. While documenting my next album, I also go to concerts and network with other acts and feature them on my show! As of right now, we are about to reach the end of the first season of Beta Access, which is a segment of my web series, Codename: Project Space! Beta Access showcases the demos/concepts on what my next album will sound like once I start working on the full-length album!

LINKS:  https://www.reverbnation.com/travisheeter/song/30973156-shallow-waters https://open.spotify.com/track/6GVnQYE30pKZ0iM2VFSxDb?si=yvnXobJvQBGRheUzKN3_pg http://www.twitter.com/_travisheeter_ http://www.facebook.com/OfficialTravisHeeter https://www.instagram.com/travisheetermusic

#Population U #Heavy Kollider #ediolight #Cabela and Schmitt #Dijah #Sound Machine #Travis Heeter

[samanthapagesof]

Issue #3- Carnival

What: Your Pages is an open-minded authentic platform for artistic expression.

Why: There is no talk of direct politics, all those who create content for Your Pages are free to their own preferences regardless of sex, religion, race, orientation or personal beliefs. There will be no tolerance of ignorance or persecution of personal beliefs and practices. This is not a place for any kind of toxic attitude. Rather a place for all those who enjoy the beauty in life and the random but original niches that create the world that we live in.

How: There is a new topic every month and on the first Tuesday of each month my team and I will introduce this topic by interpreting what the topic means to us with personal, and real-world examples. Then, every other following Tuesday (dependent on how many submissions) the issue will be filled with all of your work! As our audience, we want to see what you can do, and how you interpret each topic.

Welcome One and Welcome All To Our Interpretation of Carnival

“You loved ferris wheels more than roller coasters because life shouldn’t be lived at full speed, but in anticipation and appreciation.”

-Amy Harmon

Emili Holden-The Photographer

This theme was fun for me to create! It gave me reason to find inspiration, location, come up with a style, and find someone who would embody and portray that vision with me. I happily met up with Ashley, one of my lil basshed hunnis, and we headed out to an amazing location that just so happened to be closed that day…bummer. But Ashley encouraged me not to give up and she immediately pointed out a few other spots that we could utilize instead. Honestly, it was refreshing to have someone there with that much enthusiasm and to put forward that effort to make this work and to make me feel comfortable changing my vision a little.

Not only did we make some amazing images, we had a blast while shooting! Thank you, Ashley, for braving the cold, wet snow and frigid temperatures and for creating with me. I hope you all enjoy this series, it was a joy to create this and I am so happy with the results.

Emma Murphy-The Artist

Topsy Turvy

They dip and turn,

Coins jingling at their waist.

They open their arms,

To welcome the masses.

The lights dim, and

Smoke curls along the Floor.

Patrons young and old,

The small and the tall.

They wait with baited breath,

Suspense thick in the air.

Top hats and tutus bounce through

Starry nights and colored lights.

Organ music and staccato drums.

Figures glide through the air,

Weightless they float.

Masks and make-up,

Hide the reality of day.

Free spirits roam and

Magic runs wild.

Tightrope walkers dare and

Sword swallowers stun.

Misfits belong, and

Freaks are the norm.

Home to all and closed to none.

Ladies and gentleman, gather round...

What is this page all about?

-Essentially, I ,Anonymia, want to answer the questions that cloud your mind. I am in no way an absolute expert in any field but have endured many hardships in my life and feel that through my experiences I can share some wisdom. Now, don’t think this is solely for the heart-wrenching questions that make you contemplate many aspects of your life. But an option to ask questions without fear of repercussions. I can’t guarantee I will answer all questions but will do my best.

What inspires you?

-The passion of others inspires me to create. Seeing the emotion and raw elements that flow from art either in visual or written ways grips my soul. It’s as if their passion is feeding mine.

How to stay in touch with what you really desire?

-This question has a unique answer to each individual that reads it. But for me, I find myself using my hardships as a sense of motivation. It’s not that I am reliving each hardship but using each lesson or positive elements from the experience. A perfect example would be when in high school I was bullied to the point of severe depression. I stopped going to school for weeks at a time. The depression led to a very dark place and repressing that pain seemed like the easy route out of my continuous turmoil. The looks and whispers from peers burning into my self-esteem. I found it hard to summon up any kind of motivation. That was until I forced myself to sit down one day and asked myself a simple and straightforward question “why have I let the words of a bunch of kids corrupt my mind to the point I was believing what they were saying?”, yes talking to myself I responded, “I am worth something, and I was put on this earth for my own divine purpose.”  As an adult now I can attest to that divine purpose being fulfilled every single day through my passion for many things. To stay in touch with what you really desire you must remember the hardships in your life and use them as motivation rather than an anchor holding you back.

Ask your questions on Instagram or Twitter by either commenting on an Anonymia post by one of the teams profiles, using the #ASKSPYP or by submitting a question below questions can be anonymous!

Samscript

So, folks, we are changing things up a bit. Rather than poetry as my piece for Issue #3, I decided to share a memory that comes to my mind when I hear the word “Carnival”. In my hometown, Castle Rock Colorado, at the end of every summer, Douglas County holds a fair/rodeo. This event has been an annual tradition for my family since I was old enough to remember. The smell of popcorn and funnel cakes always brought a warm feeling my heart. Plus, every year I made it point to get a turkey leg. Would take maybe 4 bites and was always too full to finish it. So, my dad ended up always having two lunches every year we went to the fair. Besides that, there is a prominent memory that I go to when when looking back on my childhood in Castle Rock.

I was 7 years old and dressed head to toy in my Jessie costume, from Toy Story, with my bright red cowboy hat and with my matching rope I entered into the rodeos mutton busting event. For those of you who don’t know what mutton busting is, its when a kid aged 4-8, boy or girl, sits on the back of a sheep and holds on for as long as they can. Well, turned out I was the other girl who entered to ride that day. So, there I was the only girl in a group of 14 boys, who not only had a couple or so inches on me but most were a year older than me. Being the only girl who entered at all, they just threw me in with the boys so I could at least get a turn. Little did these boys know, I had been in every mutton busting event at the fair since I was tall enough to be entered. Teasingly they boys offered “ladies first”, I smirked and said, “No its okay boys, I’d rather go last”. With each turn the time got worse, the first boy started with 4 seconds. Then the following boys got between 2-3 seconds. Second to last up was the cockiest, most annoying boy of them all. Being only 8 years old, he had the attitude of a high school senior. As the adult in charge of the line of kinds told him “come on kid, it's your turn. Try to last the full eight”, he walked towards the gate and turned and blew me a kiss “watch how a real cowboy does it” he said. He lasted all of 6 seconds and walked away with a big head, the adult looks at me “alright sweetie, don’t let these boys run this event. You can last the full eight.” He picked me up and made sure I had a good grip on the sheep's fur, put the helmet snug on my head and said: “Show them who the real champion is”. The sound of a buzzer and the gate flew open, holding on with all of my 40 lbs I didn’t let go till I heard the announcer say “She did it! Samantha Grimwood lasted the full eight! We have our champion!”. I ran into the arms of my mom she picked me up, spun me around till we both almost fell over. My sister gave me a hug and said: “I’m proud of you Sam”. After they took my picture and gave me my ribbon I looked over at the group of boys who also rode, blew them a kiss then turned around and walked away.

While my idea of carnival is not the same as many, I think of the rodeo held in my hometown that also had some rides and some food carts that us townies called a “fair”.  A simple memory, but it will always be a happy memory I share of my family, childhood, and hometown.

“Happiness is simply a temporary condition that proceeds unhappiness. Fortunately for us, it works the other way around as well. But it's all a part of the carnival, isn't it?”

-Federico Fellini

Submit your work for Issue #4, show us what Carnival means to you!

#Free hand #Phototgraphy #Carnival #Modern #Art

[wedontbitewecut]

Monster #2 ~ The Countess

Jumping forward about 90 years from Nosferatu, I present another vampire (and the last one that’ll be in this list, although I could make whole gallery just of vampires), The Countess from American Horror Story Season 5, Hotel. In this gallery I wanted to cover the quintessential classic vampire, Nosferatu, and a very modern evolved vampire who represents classic vampire tropes as well as new ones and more current directions that vampire stories often go in, and Lady Gaga’s The Countess certainly makes for a very interesting conversation. Right off the bat, it is clear that The Countess of The Hotel Cortez is an inspired homage to Delphine Seyrig’s The Countess Bathory from Daughters of Darkness, what with her extremely elegant couture (often deep reds, black, and silver colors), platinum “epitome-of-beauty” blonde hair, refined and posh manor and behavior, bisexuality and sexual promiscuity, her cunning control, cunning, and deceit, but also her surprisingly human qualities that make her worthy of sympathy and oftentimes even admiration, not to mention that she lives in a hotel which she almost acts like she owns. Furthermore, Bonnie Zimmerman’s analysis of the lesbian vampire in “Daughters of Darkness: Lesbian Vampires” is strongly echoed in Hotel with The Countess, although in more modern and often ambiguous ways. 

Similar to The Countess Bathory, Lady Gaga’s Countess is somehow continually stunningly beautiful, always appearing in the finest couture with looks that are incredibly varied but share a common thread (as with Nosferatu, The Countess is of the highest class, as vampires most often are), she displays some sort of kind nature that evokes sympathy and admiration, all while she is simultaneously doing evil things with no consideration for anyone but herself and her own very specific motives, acts which she often revels in. Honestly, The Countess reminds me of Edgar Allan Poe’s words about a dead woman being the most beautiful image on earth: The Countess is in a way dead, as all vampires are, and she is so often seen in the show as being absolutely covered with blood (she is a messy eater), but she is undeniably beautiful, and arguably downright sexy, and she constantly marries beauty with death and blood throughout. Like The Countess Bathory, she too is very sexually active and shows a certain bisexuality, although I tend to think vampires consider sexuality in a way different from humans, so putting labels like bisexuality or lesbian on them seems insufficient. The Countess seems to lean more towards men but certainly plays all fields, and she has a very sexual relationship with feeding, as we frequently see her and either Tristan or Donovan seduce and eventually devour a couple. The Countess’ sexuality is one of her strongest powers, and it is so interesting how she uses it as a means to get the blood she needs, but also because she is very sexual and enjoys such acts, which then relates to Zimmerman’s theories on lesbian vampires. While The Countess is not technically lesbian, she is certainly not straight or hetero-normative, and her sexuality is something far outside the realm of how the male gaze has traditionally treated and portrayed female sexuality. The Countess has a long string of lovers, both male and female, who she has drawn in and made fall in love with her, and then literally completed rejected and cast out to the curb once she’s done with them. In Hotel, she is seemingly in control of everything, and even has a small group of abducted children that she has made her vampire children (The Countess Bathory’s young lesbian lover/vampire assistant in Daughters of Darkness is in ways embodied both in The Countess’ lovers and her children), until of course we find out later in the season that she is actually not truly in control of anything, and in fact living a life of grief, victim to the true monster of Hotel, the hotel founder and insane mass murderer who built the hotel for the purpose of using it as a means to carry out his murderous desires, James Patrick Marsh. 

Part of what makes Hotel so captivating and unique is how it melds together so many different horror tropes, as The Hotel Cortez is somehow a place where people who die there live on only in the hotel. We actually get a mixture of real-world horrors with culturally classic monsters, where the vampires are only part of the hotel’s monstrous inhabitants, and on Devil’s Night (Halloween) we see actual serial killers such as Jeffrey Dahmer and John Wayne Gacy come to the hotel to visit March, something which The Countess has nothing to do with. When we finally do learn about The Countess’ background, how she was an actress who fell in love with an extremely famous actor and his wife, and was their “Little Mouse”, the third in a three-way relationship, how she was turned vampire by them and how they then disappeared without a trace, and how she then has to live a life of grief, cloaked in luxury and beautiful excess, forever longing for her true love, forever taking in lovers and spitting them out in failed attempts to recreate what she originally had. It is this backstory, possibly more than anything, that humanizes The Countess and makes her worthy of sympathy, and despite all her atrocious acts, I find it hard to believe if the majority of viewers weren’t in some way rooting for The Countess, if only perhaps some of the time. 

Another thing I want to mention regarding The Countess, is the significance of her relationship with Liz Taylor, who is a trans woman portrayed by Daniel O’Hare who is a longtime employee of The Hotel Cortez. She is one of the very few beings there who is simply a human, but because of her trans-ness and femininity, she is seen is monstrous by normative society and thus is right at home among the monstrous things in the hotel. We find out eventually that Liz had first come to the hotel before she had come out as the woman she is, and was still living in her assigned-at-birth societal male role, visiting the hotel with male coworkers on business. Alone in her room, she dressed in women’s clothing which she had brought with her, and as she was enjoying expressing herself properly in solitude, The Countess suddenly appears in her room. Long story short, this scene is perhaps the most moving, most heartfelt scene in the season, and perhaps all of American Horror Story. The Countess sees Liz for the woman she is, and though makeup and feminine attention allows her to see herself as such more clearly, and eventually encourages Liz to live authentically and to stay and work for her at the hotel, but not before showing Liz her own power and truth by killing Liz’s 2 male coworkers after they saw Liz dressed up. As a trans woman myself and as someone with a rather undefined/queer sexuality, Liz Taylor and The Countess are monumental figures to appear in horror and interact the way they did. It is also the first time I haven’t been slightly upset that a cis-man is cast as a trans woman, because Daniel O’Hare and the writers did such a fantastic job at making her extremely authentic and relatable in very important ways, not to mention how her relationship with Tristan in the show brings up critical conversations about trans people, sexual labels, and the ambiguous grey areas of love and relationships. It is very common for LGBTQ+ people to relate to monsters and especially vampires because the way vampires typically are thought to exist in society (hiding in plain sight, restricted to the night, unable to safely be visible during the day, sexually different and non-normative, etc...), and the relationship between Liz and The Countess is a perfect example of how complicated and not limited to a single genre horror is becoming, and how monsters not only share an affinity with women, but also with all LGBTQ+ people and especially trans people.