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#that there’s beauty in the temporary and fragile and broken

kavehnanginto · 1 year

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if you hold me without hurting me (you’ll be the first to ever did)

pairings: childe, diluc, kaeya, kaveh

synopsis: life was nothing but pain, from the past to the present, it all bleaks of lost dreams and broken records of what life should’ve been. and now that you’re here they wonder if you too is but a temporary moment of happiness that turns into a melancholic memory

tags: depressed boys, again, trust issues abt u, mentions of death, mommy kinda leave kaveh, thats so sad, their parents kinda died, daddy issues, HEAVY CAPITALIZATION ON DADDY ISSUES, lana del rey song mhm, there is some fluff, please trust me

CHILDE is, for you, the nicest man you have ever met. A gentleman who gave you flowers and showered you with love. But it didn’t matter that he loved you that much, because no matter he will always be in your heart. Maybe in some instances you fought, you apologized, just like any other couple.

But he was not like any other man.

You knew who he was, and the violent nature that he stands for. Although you never saw, you always hear his new target, his new schemes and… with that comes bursts of reassurance of your love, undying love, loyalty to him. The cycle repeats, and even the hundredth time, he will always hug you tight afraid you will go.

And with that you always hug him back.

Some say that such a man was so hard to love, but his lopsided grin, his cute gestures—they had no idea who he was on your view. Maybe it was just facade, or maybe this was the actual him they never saw. But it doesn’t matter. You were his first love, the one who showed him what true and unconditional love is.

And just like his family—he intends to keep your innocence over these matters, and he intends to love you forever.

“It’s okay to let me go… but please say the reason. I’ll give you all of me, all I want is for that to be enough.”

DILUC is a highly respected bachelor in Mondstadt. But to you, he is but a fragile dandelion drifting in the wind. The warmth, the silence and the breeze of the wind were most of the moments you spend with him. He sometimes wondered if this childlike domestic happiness is some fever dream, a sweet lullaby kissing him in the forehead.

Just like the sweet innocence of childhood, the nostalgia was coming back to him. You offered him something more, something deeper and something real than a nostalgic feeling, but never did the maids of Dawn Winery saw Master Diluc running once again at the lake with a smile on his face running to you. Being with you.

You.

With all the years alone, his house simply a tool to help with his daily necessities, you changed it all. You were something to believe in, that he was worth all this joy, that he was worth something. That even with the pain, the deaths, the heartaches he think he rightfully deserves, this one glimmer of happiness the Gods gave him, this beautiful soul that was cursed to love him and he was blessed to love as well.

Without hurt, without pain, someone went into his life and willing to stay.

“The sound of the fire never gives me warmth in winters, perhaps having one more person is why I no longer feel so cold.”

KAEYA never really had a moment in his life that he believed that someone was going to stay. And he too believed that when he first saw you. Even with new memories, even when the years went and go he truly thought that you too will go away. Such preciousness of a pearl was no match for him, rusting and broken. Fixed only to be cut and sold. Used and mended.

Everyone had their own idea of what the Cavalry Captain is really like. A womanizer. An alcoholic. Manipulative. . But Kaeya never minded the roles that society wanted him to play, rather embracing the accusations of his characters. But one thing that seemed to be true in all the gossips around the town is that he hold his secrets pretty well. Too well.

Even too you. You never really wanted to know, there’s this nagging feeling in your mind that he still not trusts you. After all, life can always go backwards but even so your lips will be sealed. That’s a promise you are willing to keep forever.

His eye. His life. He trusts you with his life, he gives you everything you wanted but maybe it wasn’t worth it to answer all of your questions maybe? Maybe he too believed that you too will drift like the wind, just like his past, or maybe it’s him, like a ship sinking in the seas that even with all these things he wants to say, he didn’t want to break that trust and love you had. That love he wants to hold, the person he wants to cherish for a lifetime.

He’ll do anything for you, and his secrets will only harm you even if you know deep down inside that he was harming you too.

“The day you learn the truth, is maybe the day we’ll bid adieu.”

KAVEH was kind, perhaps too much. He treats you so good, even when he doesn’t have enough. That was simply his character, always asking if you’re okay, if you want this or do that. For you, he was simply an angel who fell on earth. A beautiful person who longed to play and create, art and festive.

And perhaps that too was a facade. You find him once crying over a box of toys, and there you cried with him too. It was not important as to why he cried but making him happy, for his joy was one that made the vines grow in the old trees and the one that even rain could never cover. He told you what happened, his past, his “sins” and there you never realized what he was going through.

But that doesn’t mean you can be here for him from now. Kaveh, who blamed everything on himself, could never really grasp how understanding you are. Listening to his words, crying his tears—like that of a little boy finding his peace. That he never found, now as a tall child searching for answers. But still apologizing when he answers. How can he deserve to be loved without hurt. To confess his crimes and be rewarded with a bouquet of flowers.

He longed to be loved, but now he believes that for someone to hold him tight this lonely night, his chest no longer felt so heavy. His heart no longer felt so tight. As now, it is whole for you.

“Sleep tight, and may you rest in a blooming new day, sweetheart.”

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ashhh-14 · 2 years

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▨When they see you cry for the first time▨

Character's origin- Genshin Impact

Characters- Ayato, Childe

Warning- crying, mention of death of someone in ayato's

Genre- ❃

Format- Imagine

Word count- 0.6K

Synopsis- Your partners' course of actions after seeing you cry for the first time

Masterlist

Ayato Kamisato

You were a strong person, whether mentally or physically speaking. There has not been a single time when Ayato has seen you waver. You always stood your ground, strong and invincible as your clan's daughter, even if an adopted one. But everything around you spoke calm in this moment. Too calm. There laid your up-bringer on the ground, having his funeral, you being able to do literally nothing. It wasn't long before everything was over, your body laying almost lifelessly in the dark corner of the yard, staring off into the thundering night. Footsteps were what broke your trance as you looked up, eyes landing on none other than your partner who just made it here, being on business in farther lands but rushing here as soon as he heard the news. Looking in the eyes of the man you love broke every resolve in your body as silent tears escaped your eyes for the first time that day. "Ayato.... " was the only whisper it took before your lover descended to his knees, gathering you in his arms as if a fragile piece of glass. Ayato's heart ached seeing your silent cries turn into sobs, his own eyes looking up to blink back the silent emotions engulfing him as his arms tightened themselves around you. It didn't take long for you to pass out in his arms due to exhaustion and pent up emotions, his form not moving an inch. His hand came up to wipe the stray tears, his head lowering to place a delicate kiss on top of your head. He doesn't mind staying like that a little longer.

Childe

People had reasons on why they wanted to obtain immense power and strength. Your partners' was to protect the ones he loved. Oh how you wish you could have shared the same sentiment but your sole purpose of joining the fatui was because you had nothing to protect. The shared ambition to become the strongest was what drew you and Childe together. It seemingly wasn't what you expected when you were faced with your harsh side of realities. Staring into the moonless night through the windows, each negative thought drawing in your mind, loudest of them speaking 'failed purposes'

The door opened and closed, your senses on high alert but you soon fumbled to find somewhere to hide.

"(Y/n)...? " Obviously failing to do so you stuck with hiding your face with your hands as Ajax crouched down in front of you, his hands gently holding your wrists. "Let me see you sweetheart.... " you just shook your head fearing your voice would give everything away but it didn't take long before your hands came down, uncovering your tear stained face to your lover. It had only been a few months since you started dating Ajax but seeing him made your body wrack with sobs all of a sudden. "Hey hey hey it's okay shh.. " His voice was soothing in your ears as his scent engulfed you, his hands running up and down your back. Although through a broken voice, you mumbled, "I-I'm not weak.... I've had m-much worse. "

His eyes softened, his embrace tightening just a little, "I know baby. Crying doesn't mean you're weak even in the slightest." His soothing voice and gentle rubs were enough to calm you down in a few moments, eyes finally lifting up to meet crystally blue ones, "There you are my beautiful lover. How are you feeling hm? Better?" Your light smile was enough to give him his answer as today made you realize one thing. This relation might not be as temporary as you thought after all. Maybe the exact opposite.

Likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!

Written by Yours truly

Ash

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gurokiitty · 2 months

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is it okay if i request Strade x Reader who age regresses headcanons?

{ strade x gn! reader }

warnings/tags: generally SFW, age regression, mentions of psychological and emotional abuse.

he would initially be very observant, noticing the changes in your behaviour and demeanour without fully understanding what's happening.

his curiosity might drive him to closely monitor these regressions, trying to discern triggers that cause these shifts. he'd start to recognize the emerging pattern, the way your eyes glaze slightly and your shoulders hunch as if bracing against an imminent force.

though he doesn't quite understand it, he senses it’s some kind of defence or coping strategy— a psychological retreat from the overwhelming pressures he imposes.

the thought of pushing you to that edge clearly feeds his ego; it swells within him, a prideful bloom, and he finds your heightened vulnerability oddly endearing, almost charming in its rawness.

he might even find a sort of dark entertainment in watching the crescendo of your emotions, the tremble in your voice, and the palpable increase in your fear.

he begins to anticipate these regressions, strategically nudging you over the brink time and again, until you're so battered, so utterly terrified, that you must revert to that pure, innocent state.

he may even begin manipulating the environment to trigger you... this could include altering the level of light, sound, or even the room's temperature, and observing how each change impacts your behaviour.

if he finds your regressed state easier to manage or somehow beneficial, he might subtly soften his approach, adopting a gentler, almost soothing tone and simpler language to maintain your delicate condition as long as possible, as though preserving the fragility of a rare, beautiful but broken artifact.

he'd likely exploit your vulnerability and emotionally manipulate you by creating scenarios that deepen your dependency or fear, thus reinforcing the dynamic in his favour.

if the regression interferes with his other motivations or desires, he may grow impatient or frustrated. this conflict could lead to unpredictable behaviour on his part, oscillating between indulgence and irritation.

yet, he always takes pleasure in unsettling you when you're regressed, watching each nuanced reaction—every flinch, every whimper— and cataloging them with keen interest.

he might use mocking or teasing as a way to assert control or provoke a reaction, especially if he finds your state intriguing or amusing in some way. this could involve using pet names or speaking in a patronizing tone to reinforce the regression.

if you tend to cry or scream when regressed, he’d playfully call you his "kleine heulsuse,", his voice laced with faux sweetness.

he'd also purposefully scare you to make you more reactive, delighting in each sign of your unravelling.

he’d set out each of his tools before you, introducing them as if you were seeing them for the first time (though their purpose was grimly familiar). he revels in explaining his favourites, detailing their uses with morbid enthusiasm and in vivid, graphic detail.

when you come back around, he'd go at you full force, relishing the slow deterioration of your psyche. it's as if your temporary escape into regression only serves to invigorate him.

and because he finds these physiological dynamics so fascinating, your coping mechanism—the desperate clutching at the straws of your old self—may end up buying you a little time.

#sorry if this is cringe #i dont know much about age regression #but i had fun writing this :)#tysm for the request anon!#btd #btd strade #strade x reader #btd x reader #headcanons #anon requests

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separatist-apologist · 2 years

Text

The Great War

I vowed I would always be yours

Summary: Feyre Archeron's kingdom has been warring with King Rhysand for longer than she can recall. When, on an unlucky stroke, he stumbles upon her and her sisters locked in a tower, Feyre will do whatever it takes to keep him from finding them.

Even marrying him.

Happy @feysandmonth (but really LB appreciation month!) My only multi-chaptered offering.

Read more on AO3

“Someone’s on the horizon.”

Feyre Archeron looked up from her chair at the far end of the tower she lived in. Her sister, Elain, sat on the open window ledge, head resting against the slate gray stone. Her lips were tinged blue from the cold, not that Elain seemed to care. She merely tugged the threadbare blanket tighter around her shoulders, brown eyes never leaving the horizon.

Nesta leaned up from the fire she was keeping alive, her eyes pinched at the corners. They had been out of everything for months and it showed. Feyre could see her eldest sister's collar bone jutting from beneath a dress that had once fit her like a glove—it now hung like a sack over her too-thin frame.

Endless war had convinced their father to hide them away, terrified his enemy to the east would one day try and steal one of his daughters. It was supposed to be temporary—he’d promised six months or less. Feyre’s eyes slid towards the wall where Nesta kept count. Eighteen months had passed without a word and their supplies had run out well before then.

“Who is it?” Nesta asked, running her tongue over chapped, broken lips. Elain shrugged fragile shoulders. She, too, was suffering from starvation. All three of them were. “Is it father?”

“I can’t tell,” Elain admitted, squinting against the glow of sunset. “Who else would know where we are?”

Feyre and Nesta’s eyes met. He hadn’t come in so long they’d just assumed he’d forgotten—or worse. Sometimes at night, Feyre wondered if he hadn’t left them here to die. It was no secret that General Graysen Nolan was his preferred heir and that one of them would be married to him eventually. It would only ever make Graysen king consort, which irked the male-centric court of the north. Men had ruled in an unbroken line for centuries.

And then Nesta had been born.

Followed by Elain.

And then Feyre.

There might have been more–more daughters for their father to ignore, to abandon in the too-small tower, had their mother not died. Even a new wife couldn’t usurp Nesta as heir to the throne, and so laws were squabbled over, abandoned when King Rhysand of Velaris attacked their border, drawing her father's attention to the military.

They’d all been spared political marriages, ones that would surely grind them all into dust. None more so than beautiful, docile Elain. Feyre suspected she’d be given to Graysen and Nesta wholly disinherited. She’d overheard her father's council of advisors suggesting Nesta be sent to a temple far in the mountains where she would remain unmarried, a devotee to the gods. And Elain, who was easier to control, who was sweet and lovely and uninterested in ruling, could take Nesta’s place and Graysen rule through her.

Until she birthed him a son.

After all, women died in childbirth all the time. It was such a strange thing, to hear these men hope that her sister might die bringing a male child into the world, so they wouldn’t be forced to serve beneath a lowly woman. Feyre knew Nesta would be far kinder to their people than Graysen ever would be—and Elain would do as she was told.

“Is it father?” Elain’s voice cut through Feyre’s guilty thoughts. She didn’t equate to any of his plans. His forgotten youngest child, she knew he’d offer her up to some noble in exchange for riches or military might.

All at once, the three of them scrambled upwards. They were supposed to be locked in, unable to get out. Once they’d realized he wasn’t coming back, the three had set to work. Elain, sitting at the highest point of that massive tower, had made nice with a local fisherman’s son. He sent up fishing line and hooks when she told him she needed it for mending, along with the occasional fish and bread.

That hook and string had helped them get the latch to the bottom door opened. Nesta collected firewood and Feyre hunted small game for them to eat. It was never enough, especially now that they were in the brutal season of winter. The fishermen were gone and so were most of the creatures Feyre meticulously hunted. They hadn’t eaten in days and Feyre was starting to get desperate.

Starting to think they should steal one of the boats left behind and take their chances in the frigid water.

They hid everything they shouldn’t have, rearranging the tower so it looked exactly as it had when they’d first been locked inside. Elain straightened the navy rug on the floor while Nesta remade the bed and Feyre hid her little weapons behind a stack of lumpy pillows.

Elain slammed the shutters of the tower closed and grabbed her knitting needles. Nesta picked up a book and Feyre…Feyre merely stood there. She’d run out of paint long ago, just as Elain had run out of yarn and Nesta had read the book many times over.

It didn’t matter. They heard the grunting of whatever soldiers were yanking open that heavy iron door, followed by the sound of clanking chainmail and heavy boots on the winding stairs. None of them dared to look at each other, jumping when a pounding fist banged against the trap door.

“Girls?”

It was their father, just as Elain had said. Feyre came forward, her body heavy with exhaustion. She pulled back the rug Nesta had just arranged, yanking the iron ring with her limited strength.

Their father's head, adorned with a heavy iron circlet, appeared next. Hatred burned in Feyre’s gut at the sight of his full cheeks, of his glowing health. He certainly hadn’t suffered that last year and half. He climbed the rest of the way up, drinking the sight of them.

“There you are,” he murmured with relief. As if there was any doubt that they’d still be here. He looked from her to Nesta before his eyes fell fully on Elain. Feyre’s stomach knotted, nervous though she couldn’t explain why.

“Have you come to bring us home?” Nesta asked hopefully. Feyre, too, wanted to leave. The tower was perpetually freezing and they were hungry and exhausted. The fortress they’d grown up in wasn’t much better and yet they were at least well fed and warm bottles were placed beneath their bedding to keep them warm at night.

“Soon,” he murmured, not looking at Nesta at all. His eyes were still fixed on Elain, a frown ghosting his features. They looked so similar, though, on their father, those rich, brown eyes seemed soulless whereas on Elain, they were filled with warmth. Starvation couldn’t dim Elain’s beauty, though her once bouncy curls hung limp down her back and her heart-shaped face was thin and drawn. Elain, too, could have used some sleep.

“I will return for the three of you in a week's time. We are so close to beating the east back into those empty mountains.”

As if any of them cared. Nesta’s eyes sharpened. “We are out of food.”

Their father didn’t flinch. “You have enough for one last week.”

“And then what?” Feyre asked, cutting Nesta off before she angered him.

“Nesta will go to the priestess's temple at Sangravah and Elain will marry Graysen—”

Elain rose to her feet. “What?”

“Feyre will stay with me for the time being,” he added, ignoring Elain entirely.

“A priestesses temple?” Nesta demanded. It was all as Feyre had once heard. He’d decided it, then. Decided to sideline Nesta and hope Elain would be the easier-controlled ruler. Or worse, that she would die before him, giving Ellesmere the son he’d denied them. Elain didn’t respond at all, though her face was so pale it might have been bone. Graysen was not known for being kind or gentle. He would use Elain until she was nothing but a corpse, and her sister knew it.

“It’s been decided,” their father snapped.

“By who?” Feyre dared to ask. She could have reached for her bone knife beneath the pillow and tried to bury it in his neck…but he was her father.

And he had a broad sword hanging from his hips.

“By me,” he told them. Nesta scoffed while Elain said nothing, her eyes glazed over as she imagined this new future. “And you will do as I tell you or you will suffer my wrath.”

“We are already suffering,” Nesta informed him, her hatred burning in her eyes. Of the three of them, she looked the most like mother. Perhaps that was why he disliked her the most—he couldn’t look at Nesta’s silvery blue eyes and her golden brown hair braided atop her head like a crown and not see his once beautiful wife staring back at him.

Banishing her to a temple was like exorcizing a ghost.

“What’s a little more, then?” he all but whispered. Daring her to disobey him. Nesta couldn’t pick this fight. Not when her skin all but clung to her bones and not when he could have driven his blade through her chest with no repercussions at all. Feyre dropped into a chair, more exhausted than she’d ever been and Nesta followed suit.

To their father, who didn’t imagine they had any thoughts he did not permit them to have, it was an act of submission.

“It was good to see the three of you in good health,” he said, walking to Elain and brushing his fingers over her cheeks. Elain closed her eyes, clearly trying to keep herself from bursting into tears.

Feyre scoffed but said nothing else.

“Just a week, and then it's over,” he told them. As if it would ever be over. A new hell was waiting just over the horizon and Feyre had no intention of meeting it. She wouldn’t be separated from her sisters, either. She wouldn’t leave Nesta to die in a temple and Elain to perish in a marriage bed.

They waited until their father descended back down the stairs and that iron door slammed shut so hard it rattled the stones around them. They held silent and still, listening to the gallop of hooves and the accompanying silence as the sun finally set.

Elain broke first, drawing her knees up to her face with a soft sob. Nesta rose to her feet, pacing the floor, her hands outstretched before the fire.

“We’ll take the boat,” Feyre whispered. “We’ll take the boat and go south. They say their king grants asylum to those that make it to his shore. We can hide there for a time and make our way across the ocean.”

“We won’t survive,” Nesta said, her voice devoid of its usual emotion.

“I can spend the next two days hunting,” Feyre insisted. “We can scavenge for anything the fishermen left behind.”

Nesta shook her head but Elain looked up, wiping her eyes on her sleeves. “What does it matter, Nesta? We either die at sea or we die at his hands. Either way…” her voice broke with a sob. “I don’t want to be married to him.”

“It would be a terrible way to die,” Nesta said, though Feyre wasn’t sure if she meant death by their father's design or death at sea. Feyre was willing to take her chances, though. They could bundle, they could take water and food, and any other supplies in the covered ship that had been left behind. They’d be as protected from the elements within it as they were in the tower, and could fish if they ran low on supplies.

“It’s better than doing nothing,” Feyre replied.

Elain and Feyre waited. Nesta was always allowed the final say, their deference out of respect for the sister they’d always hoped would one day be queen. Those dreams were dead—they would live in exile or they wouldn’t live at all.

Two days—that was all Feyre was willing to risk. While she hunted, Nesta and Elain gathered supplies for the boat. Elain cleaned it during the day and Nesta organized until the three fell into bed each night bone weary and exhausted. They barely ate, trying so hard to preserve their rations for when they were out at sea and would have no other recourse.

Feyre went to bed that night feeling the smallest flames of hope. Hope that they’d make it to the southern border before their father realized what they’d done. That Helion, the king of that realm, didn’t decide to ransom them back. And most importantly, they managed to make it over the sea where they might live free lives for the first time since they were born. Unshackled by the chains of their father, or the monarchy, of the unfair expectations placed on women. Elain could choose her own husband and Nesta and Feyre their own fates.

The sound of someone pounding on the iron door of the tower dragged the three of them from a drowsy sleep. Their father had a key and the girls their own makeshift one—whoever was below was an interloper.

Elain flew from the bed, pushing open the shutters to blink into the dark.

“The east,” she whispered. “Rhysand.”

“How–”

“He followed father,” Nesta hissed. “He led them right to us.”

Feyre blinked as Elain wrapped a cloak around her shoulders and tossed the rope down the side. “We go now,” she hissed. “Before he makes it up here and slaughters us all.”

Feyre nodded, though in her heart, she knew she wasn’t going with them. Everyone was on their boat and ready to go. All Nesta and Elain had to do was pull the anchor and set out. Rhysand would follow them—would merely drag them back where they’d be imprisoned or worse. Someone had to slow him down.

Had to distract him.

“Go,” Feyre whispered, reaching for her own cloak and her bone knife. She pressed the knife into Nesta’s hand, pretending she was getting her quiver of arrows as Elain propelled down the side. “I’m right behind you.”

The door wrenched open just beneath.

“Hurry up,” Nesta hissed. Feyre knew if either of her sisters had any inclination of her split-second decision, they would have stayed, too. The point was to go together or not at all. Rhysand was cruel—evil and terrible. He’d lock them in a frigid dungeon, would ransom them back for land and coins and whatever soldiers their father had taken prisoner. There were rumors he stole women from the bordering villages and passed them out to his own men to use as they liked. Nesta and Elain didn’t deserve that.

She thought, perhaps foolishly, that she could withstand it.

Heavy boots on the stairs drew her attention to the trap door. Nesta was gone, halfway down the tower even as the trapdoor beneath the rug rattled. She wasn’t going to help him open it. Fingers clenched to fists, Feyre pressed her back against the wall and waited for what would happen next.

The wood trap door exploded violently, splintering over the once carefully kept room. Feyre pressed her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming. The man who appeared was nothing like Feyre imagined Rhysand to be. She’d always pictured someone her father's age, someone who would look like the nightmare she’d been made to be afraid of.

Rhysand was young—early thirties at best. His dark hair seemed to gobble up the little light emanating from the fireplace as his violet-blue eyes swept over the room. They landed on her, crinkling at the edges when he realized it was just her. He looked like a warrior in his dark leather, a massive sword strapped against his spine. She tried to make herself smaller as he took a step towards her.

“Where are the other two?”

“Dead,” she lied as another man appeared. They could have been brothers—they shared the same warm brown skin, the same inky black hair. This man was perhaps lovelier in a classical sort of way, and far colder, if the stone cut of his face was any indication.

“Cassian!” Rhysand, betrayed by the silver crown of stars around his head, bellowed down the stairs. His eyes were on the rope hanging from the window. “Bring me the other two!”

“RUN!” Feyre screamed out that window. Rhysand lunged for her, strong arms wrapping over her too-thin frame. She didn’t have the strength to fight him though the gods knew she tried. Feyre thrashed as his broad hand clapped over her mouth.

“So much for dead, huh?” Rhysand whispered against her neck. Feyre twisted, her foot kicking hard between his legs. He grunted but didn’t release her. “You look close to it already.”

He and the other man dragged her kicking and silently screaming down those stairs. Feyre endeavored to make it as difficult as possible, if only to buy Elain and Nesta more time.

It worked. By the time she was beneath that violet sky of stars, a third man was striding towards them. He was the biggest by far, tall and broad and terrifyingly imposing. A crisscross of swords over his shoulders made him seem more lethal than the other two men, though when he stepped into a beam of moonlight, she thought he had the friendliest face.

“They took a ship,” he said, amusement lacing his words.

Rhysand pushed Feyre into the colder man so he could bind her wrists.

“Track them down. I can’t risk Archeron finding them first.”

Feyre kept her mouth shut. Her sisters had escaped Rhysand—they’d escape their father, too. Cassian—that’s what Rhysand had called him—looked her over, offered a smile that didn’t seem too threatening, and then turned to vanish back into the gloom.

“Are you going to kill me?” she asked him, her wrists bound in front of her body. Rhysand turned back to her, eyes sliding up and down her body. It wasn’t predatory or appreciative. In fact, he seemed almost disturbed by what he saw.

“How long have you been here?”

silver-edgedFeyre lifted her chin defiantly. She didn’t have to answer that. He didn’t care, either. Rhysand dragged her over the barren, frozen ground towards a midnight black stallion and hoisted her into a silver edged saddle with ease. He swung up just behind her.

“Would you like me to help Cassian?” the other man asked softly, his voice as dark as the night around them.

“I’ll need you,” Rhysand disagreed. “Cassian can handle two unarmed women.”

He nodded. Absolute obedience, just like Graysen ordered their father. Rhysand lowered his head until she could feel his breath on the back of her neck again. “Cassian will find them.”

“And then what? You’ll kill us as a family?” she asked him, twisting back so he could see she wasn’t afraid of him. It was a lie, of course. Feyre was terrified.

He didn’t need to know that.

Rhysand’s smile was cold—cruel. “Your father has something of mine. Now I have something of his.”

“Good luck getting it back,” Feyre retorted.

Rhysand only laughed.

It was a miserable night of riding. Feyre, half-starved and exhausted well before she was ever put in that saddle. By the time dawn broke, Feyre was miserably sore and hungrier than she’d ever been in her life. Her ribs ached, her thighs burned, and her head pounded. She was too focused on keeping herself upright to even think of her sisters, out on the icy sea all alone while a terrifying warrior tracked them down.

All she could think about was the constant twisting of her gut. As snow-capped mountains loomed, Feyre felt her vision slipping sideways. She blinked, trying to right the world, but once her lids clamped shut, there was no opening them. She heard a soft swear and realized she had tipped out of the saddle and Rhysand had been forced to catch her or potentially let her die.

She almost wished he had. Surely death on a mountain road was better than whatever he had in store for her. Still, Feyre was too exhausted to fight him when his thighs tightened around her and his arm became a steel lock around her middle. She didn’t stop herself from leaning into his solid strength, nor did she care when her neck inclined at a near awkward angle, bouncing off his shoulder each time the horse jolted.

She slipped in and out of sleep, roused when he’d grab her with a surprising amount of gentleness just beneath her jaw and demand she take a drink. At some point, she thought a blanket was draped over her body, though when she managed to pry open an eye, she realized he’d merely covered them both in his cloak.

“Will you walk? Or am I going to have to carry you into my palace?” Rhysand asked her, pulling Feyre from a rather strange, brightly colored dream.

“Go to hell,” she whispered, forgetting almost immediately what he’d even asked. It seemed like an appropriate response to anything and everything he might ask.

“I think she’s half dead,” another man’s voice murmured and Feyre swore he said those words with pure amusement. “Archeron beat you to it.”

“Shut up,” Rhysand grumbled. Feyre didn’t stay awake to hear the rest. For an unknown period of time, Feyre was lost to pure nothingness. Just bliss—utter, dreamless bliss. She could have died happy and, if she was honest, almost wished she had.

Coming back was hell. Feyre twisted against the tethers that kept her trapped in darkness, desperate to resurface. She needed to know where she was—what had happened to her sisters. And when Feyre managed to pry an eye open, she expected to find herself lying on the hard, stone floor of a damp, cold dungeon.

She was in a bed. In a room at least twice as big as the one she had at home. Bigger than the whole tower. Feyre was propped against a mountain of pillows and tucked beneath a sea of black and silver blankets. Curtains were tied from tall, wooden bed posts which made her feel, strangely, like a princess.

“You are a princess,” she whispered to no one in particular. In name only. Her filthy hair hanging in strings around her face and itching scalp told a wholly different story. Feyre pushed from the bed, strangely embarrassed to be in it at all. Her bare feet touched a plush, cream carpet that stretched the length of the bed against dark wood floors.

A fire crackled merrily in a large hearth across the room, keeping Feyre warm even after she left her blankets. She padded for the jutting, rounded windows that were curtained in more glittering silver. Pulling them aside, Feyre clapped a hand over her mouth. An ocean of icy snow blanketed the world around her, broken only by the rising mountainside she was currently trapped in.

That would make escape trickery, though not impossible. Feyre was used to the cold, the dark. If he thought to disorient her with the nice, furnished room, he didn’t know her at all.

Ignoring the bathroom, with a tub big enough to be a pool and a wall of glass that let her stare out into the snowy expanse, Feyre marched the curved, double doors gilded in more silver. He clearly had a color scheme, if nothing else. He also hadn’t locked her in. Feyre stepped into an empty hall, painted a soft lavender and trimmed in cream. No servants, no guards. Like she was no threat to him at all.

That infuriated Feyre. She marched down the hall, forgetting she hadn’t eaten in days—months, even, given the sparseness of what was available to them. She hadn’t passed out from fear, but from exhaustion and hunger. Her anger quickly evaporated into fear as blinding white spots bloomed behind her vision. Feyre reached for the wall, holding herself steady while her knees trembled violently.

“No, no, no,” Feyre moaned, her legs giving way beneath her. She clutched for the wall, looking for any purchase to keep her steady, but there was none. Only the tilting world and the brief flash of pain when her head bounced off the floor.

And then darkness again.

She came back the second time fighting. Feyre shot upwards, the heavy blanket of her bed pooling in her lap as she gasped for air. A tray of food was set on her night table and Rhysand himself sat in a chair by the window. He seemed irritated if the set of his jaw was any indication. She supposed he had better things to do than babysit her.

When she woke, he turned his head until those violet eyes were firmly on her. He cocked his head, causing a lock of his inky black hair to flop against the middle of his forehead. He was the picture of casual elegance. Bored, yet graceful, nobility. They didn’t have his type in Ellesmere–slick, polished, and arrogant.

“Good evening,” he offered, his voice rough. Feyre didn’t respond, though she did pull her knees to her chest. He watched the whole thing, no hint of his thoughts betrayed in his expression.

“You should eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

He didn’t smile. “Sure. I suppose you like it when I carry you down the halls like an underfed corpse?”

Feyre felt embarrassment rise through her chest. “Who asked for your help?”

He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on powerful thighs. Feyre very much doubted he had ever missed a meal. She swallowed, hiding her hands beneath the blanket so he wouldn’t see how they trembled.

“Maybe you should ask it, darling. If this is how your own father treats you, maybe whatever I have in store would be a kinder fate.”

She all but spat at him. Hatred bloomed in her chest knowing whatever fate he had planned likely involved her eventual death. The deaths of her sisters, her home, and everything she’d ever cared about.

“How long do you plan to keep me captive?” she asked instead, pointedly ignoring what he’d told her.

Rhysand leaned backward, shrugging his broad shoulders. Clad in a tunic of black and silver that cut just beneath his jaw, he seemed strangely casual to her. No cape, no rings, no crown. Not even a circlet graced his forehead.

“You’re hardly captive. More like my guest.”

“If I’m your guest, that means I can leave–”

“Feyre,” he interrupted patiently, “darling. You can barely walk down the hall. Where do you imagine you’re going?”

“Away from you,” she hissed, well aware she sounded like a petulant child. The curved smirk gracing his face told her he agreed with her silent assessment.

“Well,” he murmured, rising to his feet. She’d forgotten how imposing he was. Even without the leathered armor and the sword, he cut an imposing figure. “Maybe you should eat some dinner, first. It’s no fun to best you on a technicality.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” she demanded, certain he was making fun of her. Warily, Feyre waited for Rhysand to respond. To mock her, as the courtiers back home always had.

“Are you not the Huntress of the North?”

She hated him for his use of that nickname. It had only ever been sneered at her, her bow and arrows the endless source of amusement for the men in her father's palace. A princess who wielded a weapon was practically sacrilege. That she was any good? Well, they found ways to keep her in place.”

Feyre jutted her chin, determined he would not make her feel any smaller. “Yes. That is exactly what I am.”

There was no hint of mockery in his gaze. “Then eat.”

He strode from the room without looking back to see if she obeyed him. It was only after he left that she realized night had fallen, hidden as it was behind the semi-sheer curtains. How long had he sat there, waiting? It made her uneasy, to be so helpless in front of him.

And the thought of passing out, at being left at his mercy and hoping he’d be kind was enough to motivate Feyre into eating. She swallowed her guilt, hoping her sisters were safe and, if nothing else, not starving too terribly before she pulled apart a roll of bread. Steam curled around her face and Feyre nearly moaned at the sight. It had been a long time since she’d had anything hot. She tried so hard to go slow, so she wouldn’t be sick, but the vegetables were seasoned with spices she’d never tasted, and the meat and potatoes covered in a rich gravy that had her all but licking the plate.

She could have kept going. She was tempted, even, to climb out of bed, find the kitchen, and ask for more. Instead, Feyre climbed out of bed, legs still shaky, and made her way to the bathtub.

Bastard as he was, Rhysand was right about one thing.

She’d never escape him in her current condition.

Feyre very much intended to escape.

Just as soon as she killed him.

Feyre spent a whole week minding her own business. The decision had been more practical than anything–every time she stepped into the hall, a wave of dizziness sent her practically running back for the bedroom. She would be damned if Rhysand put his filthy hands on her again. Feyre’s pride wouldn’t let her be caught in a compromising position by her enemy, which in turn ensured she ate every meal that was brought to her. The first few days had seen her all but living in the bathroom while she adjusted, gulping water from the tap when she felt feverish. She slept, she ate, she bathed, and did little else.

She felt like a traitor. Her dreams were consumed by her sisters—were they safe?

Were they alive?

She had no doubt if Rhysand had managed to find them, he would have paraded them about like his trophies like he’d no doubt done with her. The thought offered the faintest amount of relief. Only she was here.

Whoever left the trays just outside her door didn’t seem to know who, exactly she was. Or maybe they didn’t view her as a threat. Either way, she’d been provided a steak knife each night, and Feyre had begun to collect them. The silver alone would be enough to fund part of her journey, and the sharpened point sliced easily over her pointer finger. It would do well enough against anyone who put the fleshy parts of their skin too close to her body.

Feyre woke to an actual servant the dawning of that second week.

“The king requests you dine with him,” an elderly, no nonsense woman declared. As if that were the end of things. Feyre knew, from growing up around her own father, that the king's word was law. She didn’t obey him, though. He wasn’t her master.

“And if I say no?” Feyre asked in her brattiest tone.

An arched brow was the only expression she got. “I hear a palette of straw is far less comfortable than a bed made of goose down.”

She hated that woman, with her severe gray bun and her unsmiling eyes. Still, Feyre begrudgingly got into the tub and submitted to her all the same. She allowed herself to be dressed in an, admittedly, a pretty amethyst gown made of gossamer silk. She said nothing while her hair was curled and pushed off her face with a pearl-lined headband, or when thin, silver earrings were looped into her ears so it looked as if delicate trails of starlight clung to her skin. Her eyes were coated and lined until they looked bigger—more pronounced. Her lips were made softer and painted the most delicate shade of pink.

It all irritated her. Like she was a doll for dress up, like her too-thin, sharp appearance was solely for his pleasure. “Is this what your king likes?”

“Hardly,” that servant snapped. Speaking to her like that in her own home would have gotten someone killed–not that Feyre would have tattled. Still, the sharpness took her aback.

“Then why–”

“You have a problem looking nice?”

Truthfully, Feyre had no problem looking nice. Her problem was the way she felt as if she were little more than a pretty object. She didn’t want to look nice in Rhysand’s kingdom, at a breakfast he almost certainly would also be attending. He’d see her and approve of her, which was the opposite of what she wanted.

Feyre marched down the halls, and for the first time since she’d arrived, there was no danger she’d fall flat on her face. The hall led into a larger atrium, with a winding staircase that led both upwards and back down into the palace. Feyre tried to memorize her path, but the steps leading down only directed her into another branching hall of the same cream and lavender and arching doors lined in silver pulled tightly shut.

She’d expected a large dining hall filled with people. That’s how Feyre had always eaten. A dozen eyes were always on her, listening for any morsel of gossip they could run to her father with. When the doors were opened for it, Feyre found an intimate scene. A table for five people, perhaps, but no more. Round, with only two chairs decently separated and covered in a selection of food she could directly spoon onto a silver plate herself.

Rhysand, too, waited with his usual boredom. He was framed by a line of windows frosted over from the cold. Same black tunic and pants, to the point Feyre wondered if he owned any variations to that outfit. He had taken no food, and stood when she entered. He nodded to the servant just behind, which apparently signaled to close the doors. Feyre was trapped in the chamber with him.

“Sit,” he said, gesturing towards her chair. Feyre hesitated, her slippered feet sliding against the wood just beneath. It was the wafting scent of chocolate that sent Feyre to her seat. She hadn’t had anything sweet in so long, a terrible curse for someone who liked sweets as much as she did.

“Eat,” he ordered once she was in her chair. Feyre tried her best to ignore him, scooping eggs and fruit, and cheese onto a plate. She took sausage and bread before she realized the scent of chocolate was coming from a silver pot. Hot chocolate.

His mouth twitched, watching her pour it into her porcelain cup. Feyre took a sip, trying to suppress the moan that rose in her chest. She didn't succeed and in response, his eyes widened ever so slightly.

“Are you always so adaptable?” he asked, only serving himself when she was finished. Feyre didn’t offer him a response, too busy shoveling food in her mouth. It was, as it always was, perfect. His manners were more refined, reminding her that the time she’d spent in that tower had made her wilder than before.

The silence stretched between them. It seemed unbearable for him, because Rhysand set his fork back to the table, eyes pinned on her. “Why were you in that tower?”

“Who were you expecting to find?” she sneered. Rhysand raised those dark, immaculately groomed brows and she realized belatedly he’d never meant to run into her. Who had he been looking for, then? Clearly, when the opportunity presented itself he hadn’t been able to resist and still…Feyre wanted to know.

“Answer my question.”

“We were there because of you,” she whispered, gripping the knife just beside her plate so tightly the whites of her knuckles were exposed.

If he felt guilt, he didn’t betray it. “How fortunate, then.”

She was going to stab him. If she stood, Feyre could bury the blade in his neck before he could react. “Fortunate? Did you find my sisters?”

Another casual shrug. “Cassian hasn’t returned.”

“Maybe he’s dead,” she hissed. Rhysand smiled.

“Maybe,” he agreed, his tone suggesting he did not agree. “Can I ask, darling, why I was the cause of such a slow, terrible death for you? Why not behead his daughters and be done with it?” Feyre’s heart pounded in her throat as she rose, her plate half untouched. He was fixated on her face, unaware she still had the handle of that knife fisted in her fingers.

“Our suffering amuses you?”

“Confuses me. If your father sent you to that tower to die–”

“To protect us!” Feyre interrupted, certain he couldn’t be that stupid. “To keep you from harming us!”

He reclined in his chair as she moved towards him, her knife hidden in the flouncy material of her skirt.

“You believe that?”

“Who were you looking for? What did he take of yours?” she asked sharply, halting just in front of him. Part of her was desperate for any information, even if it came from his lips. She had never once been granted any she hadn’t stolen, and even then Feyre couldn’t be certain it was true or not.

He assessed her. “Why would I tell someone hoping to kill me anything?”

“You’re stupid?” she guessed, inching closer.

“I’ll trade you, darling. I’ll answer any question you have if you give me the knife in your hand.”

Feyre hesitated. “Do you swear?”

Rhysand nodded, that lock of dark hair falling against his forehead again. Pressing a golden hand to his heart, he said, “I swear it.”

Quick as a viper, Feyre lunged. Rhysand shouted, unprepared to have the blade of her knife buried in the back of his hand. She’d stabbed with all her pent up fury, all but pinning him to the table by the point of the serrated blade.

His face was altogether too close when she turned to look at him, those violet eyes blazing with some unreadable emotion. “You never said how I had to return it.”

Blood dripped onto the wood as Rhysand used his other, unwounded hand to pull the knife out of his hand. She waited for him to go back on his promise, to call her names or punish her—all of which she deserved. Feyre straightened.

Bracing herself.

“I want Nolan,” Rhysand gritted out, unfolding a napkin to press against his hand. “Finding you was merely good luck. I can trade you for the General. As for what he has that belongs to me, well...” he raised his hand, as if to show her why he wouldn't be divulging that bit of information.

Feyre laughed. “You could trade Elain for Graysen. Maybe. But me? You might as well kill me right here, right now.”

“I won’t be doing that,” he hissed, holding the napkin against his wounded hand. He didn’t move from his chair, though she expected him to. He merely sat there, his napkin blooming the same red that was still puddled just beside his plate.

“Then what–”

“You will live here until you die,” he interrupted snappishly. Their gazes held and for a moment, Feyre felt as though his eyes had tied a string between them, immobilizing her entirely. She’d forgotten, for a moment, a bloodstained knife had punctured his hand and that she’d been the one who’d done it. Standing over him was wild–intoxicating.

He blinked and the spell was shattered.

“Let me go,” she breathed, swallowing hard. He crossed his ankle over his knee, one foot bouncing anxiously. “I’ll tell you anything–”

“You know nothing,” he dismissed, eyes cutting towards the door. “Another of your foolish bargains.”

“You can’t keep me here,” she insisted, turning her back to him. Feyre made a show of lifting her skirts, of stepping around the droplets of blood, all the while Rhysand watched.

“You would be surprised at what I could do. What I might do, if provoked.”

She looked over her shoulder to his wounded hand, bound in that napkin and held for her perusal. There was a darkness to his gaze that should have unsettled her. Feyre thought she could have counted the constellation of stars within it—a dangerous thought, given who he was. It struck her only then that he was handsome. Too handsome.

Beautiful. Certainly, the most beautiful man she’d ever seen in her entire life. She’d been so consumed with hating him, with survival, to pay him any attention before. Now, though, as her adrenaline ebbed into fear, she saw him for what he was. Just for a moment—lovely.

She stamped that thought deep, deep down.

“Hardly a punishment, keeping me in finery,” she taunted, swishing her pretty dress around her to emphasize her point. It was then that he stood, and Feyre so badly wished he hadn’t. She stopped her teasing, her body flooded with cold at the sight of him.

“No. You’re rather pretty, dressed in my things,” he began, holding his hand against his chest as he surveyed her. “I wonder how much prettier you’d be in my bed chamber–”

“You wouldn’t dare,” she hissed, her heart thudding in her throat.

“How even lovelier still, in my lap, on my throne—” “Stop it,” she half pleaded, half ordered. He raised a brow.

“Oh? Commanding me, are you? There’s only one person allowed to make such demands of me,” he said, stepping closer and closer until her back was pressed against the wall. Rhysand didn’t back down, his thigh sliding between her legs to pin her between them. Feyre couldn’t control her rapid breathing, hating how close he was.

How good he smelled.

“Ask me who,” he said. She shook her head no, unable to look away.

“I’ll tell you,” he continued, his tone far too heavy. “The only person who can give me a command is my wife–”

She slapped him, sending him stumbling back a step. He needed to learn what would happen if he invaded her space. “Under no circumstances would I marry you,” she hissed, slipping around him for the door. She’d just pulled it open, had all but begun running down the hall, when he called after her.

“Not to save your home? To end this war? To keep your sisters from being traded back to your father so I can hang one man?”

Feyre whipped back around, terrified of the intensity on his face. “I can’t trust you.” “I would shield them,” he all but whispered. He looked crazy, his shirt bloodied, his hand wounded. His face, was slightly ashen from how she’d hurt him and still decisive. “And you.” “How can you protect me when my greatest enemy stands four feet from me?!” she shrieked. He arched a brow, as if to call her statement into question.

“None of this would have happened had you not intervened!”

“There are things you don’t understand,” he protested, but Feyre took a step through the doorway, out into the hall.

“I won’t.”

“You will,” he replied, holding her again until his gaze tied a ribbon around her very soul. She shook her head, just to prove she could still move her body independent of him.

“I’ll kill you first.”

He laughed, then.

“You may do whatever you like to me, darling.”

Everything they’d ever said about him was true. Feyre thought that as she turned her back to him, her body far warmer than she’d ever admit. Feyre knew two things with absolute certainty.

One, if she didn’t manage to escape and soon, she’d never be free of him.

And two—Rhysand wasn’t going to let her go. Not to her father. Not to the world.

Maybe not ever.

#feysand #feysand fic #feysand fanfic #feyre archeron #rhysand #feyre x rhysand #is it enemies to lovers if hes ready to marry her the minute she stabs him?#you decide

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ikemen-trifecta · 2 years

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Xiao General and Dating Headcanons

(a post from my old blog, moved to this new one! Enjoy the fluff and angst!)

~First Interactions~

- Xiao found interactions with mortals uncomfortable and awkward. He’d always seen them as fragile beings, easily broken at the lightest touch. The Conqueror of Demons would never have expected to be brought to his knees by one.

- The traveler (or y/n) is truly an incomprehensible being to Xiao. “Why would you endanger yourself by pursuing my company? If you pity me, don’t. My burdens are mine to bear and you mortals shouldn’t pity the illuminated.” No matter how hard he tries, Traveler flashes that beautiful smile and continues to persist.

- Eventually, Xiao gives. He begrudgingly allows Traveler to remain by his side.

~Becoming Friends~

- Overtime, Xiao unknowingly begins to enjoy his little talks with Traveler, noticing how the sunset paints their eyes blood red and the wind plays with their silky hair. Xiao learns that hope can bloom even in the smallest of things. He still can’t understand why Traveler willingly chooses to speak with him, but that’s not so important now.

- Together, Traveler and Xiao combine their forces to exterminate evil. They are a deadly pair, swift and sound. The feeling of fighting alongside somebody reminds Xiao of his times with fellow Yakshas. It’s comforting, but a grave reminder of death as well.

- Something in Xiao shudders when he sees you get wounded for the first time. You gasp, holding your side as blood seeps out of the wound. Xiao is brought back into his cruel reality, having forgotten how fragile and temporary mortals are. “One day, just like the others, you’ll leave me too...”

~After you confess to Xiao~

- It took months of knowing Xiao for him to accept Traveler’s confession. To be completely honest, Xiao doesn’t understand what accepting a confession entails and what he’s gotten himself into. After fighting alongside Traveler for a while, he does trust them, but only as far as trust in mortals can go. He still knows that any day, you could die a horrible death and he would be alone. Because of this, Xiao shuts off his heart and refuses that Traveler get too close.

- Traveler is warm, compassionate, and truly beautiful inside and out. Xiao knows how good of a heart they have and their warmth is comforting. Only his memories of Rex Lapis can bring that same warmth inside. Interacting with Traveler would only taint and muddy their soul, and Xiao refuses to bring another being his karmic suffering. But even still, Traveler latches onto his arm and begs him not to go, to stay. Faced with those tear-filled eyes, Xiao has no choice.

- On a gloomy day at Wangshu Inn, Traveler arrives beaming. “Do you want to hold hands?” Xiao stares them down. “And why do you want to hold these hands?”

Traveler grins. “Since we’re closer now, we can do more intimate things!”

“No.”

“I know that you feel uncomfortable, but please give it a try. For me.”

“...Hn..”

“Please?”

“.....fine.”

Traveler gently intertwines their fingers with Xiao’s, holding his hand as if it’s made of glass. Xiao twitches slightly at their touch, flushing. Nobody has ever touched him so delicately before.

“See? That wasn’t so bad!”

“So I see.”

- Ever since then, Xiao slowly gave in to Traveler’s affectionate advances. He didn’t enjoy them, but they weren’t horrible either.

- “Dating” (he still doesn’t understand what it entails) Xiao is complicated. He’s silent and stoic, but surprisingly cute when flustered. However, Traveler has succeeded in opening up his heart, and will continue to do so through their adventure.

╰(*°▽°*)╯

-Mod Muff

#genshin #genshin x reader #xiao x reader #xiao headcanons #xiao #genshin impact #genshin impact headcanons #genshin fanfic #genshin headcanon #genshin xiao #adeptus xiao

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radical-revolution · 10 months

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Oh, there is such a beautiful truth to the teaching of ‘non-duality’, of course! We discover the absolute and unshakable Presence that we are, prior to the story of our lives. We touch That which never changes in the midst of all external change. Life itself. Our true nature. Prior to thought and feeling and perception and sensation. Deathless, eternal, still. Forever at rest.

We need nothing. We want nothing. We are nothing.

And in that nothing ‘we’ cannot even know ‘nothing’.

Yet the conceptual mind co-opts this beautiful and absolute truth. We lose ourselves in the silence and the silence becomes a new identity and we pretend that we are ‘beyond’ suffering, that we have ‘transcended’ thoughts and feelings, that we are ‘enlightened’ now. Our untouchability becomes a mask, a persona, a new place to hide.

Our new identity becomes ‘no identity at all’.

“Only non-duality is real. Duality is an illusion”.

We are no longer a person. We are “Pure Awareness”.

Yes, it’s true. And it’s totally untrue at the same time.

You are unlimited Awareness but you are also a fragile and vulnerable and delicate and passionate and limited human being. You feel deeply. You hurt, sometimes. You have wounds that are longing to be felt, seen, embraced, included in the bigger picture of You. Your wounds won’t go away just because you’ve discovered your true nature. They won’t go away just because you are ‘nobody’ now. They won’t go away just because you are a teacher, an author, a spiritual expert, an enlightened one, a non-person, a non-non-person, or whatever dream character you’ve dreamed yourself to be in this great and lucid play.

For many, many years I have been emphasizing the ‘other side’ of non-duality (yes that is a paradox and yes all words are temporary here). And the ‘other side’ is nothing less than a courageous embrace of duality, a deep YES to our humanness – our sorrow, our shame, our pain, our fears, our confusion, our loneliness, our doubts and our despair. A YES to our vulnerability, to being touched deeply and to touching life in return. To embracing our grief, our inner victim, our chaos and our sweet imperfection. To loving this fleshy mortal mess that we are.

If we bury our shame, our guilt, our wounds, if we suffocate the precious inner child and pretend to be free and perfect and enlightened and ‘done’, our wounds will only fester and poison and drain us from the inside. We will act out in unconscious, habitual and unkind ways, to ourselves and the ones we love.

What we resist persists, and what we try to numb ends up numbing us in return.

I truly don’t see our humanity as divided from our divinity. I don’t see ‘no self’ as the final truth, but a place to begin. We are nothing and we are also something! We are Awareness and we are human, the absolute as the relative, the sacred as the manifest, the ocean dancing as the wave. We bleed. We hurt. We need help. Sometimes we just want a brother or sister to hold us. Sometimes we tire of being ‘the spiritual one’, ‘the one who knows’, ‘the expert’. Sometimes we just need to fall to our knees in humility and ask the Universe for support and guidance.

We are gods and we are so very fragile. We live so close to life, so close to death. So close to joy, so close to sorrow. We are invulnerable and we can feel the world's pain as our own, in compassion.

I want to speak up for a non-duality that is nothing less than a full embrace of duality. A compassionate, heart-centered non-duality that loves the world, that infuses the Earth with empathy, that grounds itself in the struggles of daily life, that bows to form and celebrates form and un-shames form, that drenches every thought, sensation and feeling in love and understanding. That says ‘Hey, it’s okay to be human, it’s okay to hurt, and your sorrow is sacred, and your fear isn’t a sign that you’re broken but a sign that you are sensitive and open and awake, and these painful parts are only parts longing for acceptance…”

And in the end, remember, even these words must collapse under their own weight. There is no nonduality or duality. Even that mythology must crumble into the vast mystery of Now.

There is only this unspeakable feeling of the breath rising and falling, and the heart beating in the chest, and the mysterious and magical weight of the earth-bound body, and the sound of the bird singing, the traffic outside, and the tingly aliveness in the toes, the hands, the throat, the fluttering in the belly, and this wonderful sense of being alive, prior to words, prior to the search itself, prior to all things, and there are no experts here, and we are all beginning again, in every moment.

- Jeff Foster

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feliciadraws · 5 months

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Sweet Silence

Some Waka/Mei night-time drabble because the brainworms have been working on overtime lately

Tagging @bamboorocket - YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE YOU DID THIS

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Quiet...just...the bliss, the serenity, of quiet...

With the veil of night having fallen upon the land, the surrounding room illuminated with little else except the delicate, milky glow of the moonlight streaming in through the just-open screen door and the warm, mellow glow of the lamp, the night air sang with a serene, near-silent melody of crickets and the gentle whispers of subtle breezes...

As Waka laid with his eyes glanicng heavenward, the only other sounds colouring the gentle silence being slow, intermingling breaths and the slow, steady beat of his heart, he was expecting the shallow peace to be shattered by the screaming that still yet rang in his head, the cruel blade of his torment severing whatever fragile little moments of temporary tranquility his mind would allow in its wandering as its footsteps took him into the dark forest of deep thought, but that was...before.

Waka's gaze left the ceiling as he turned his eyes to the gentle weight draped across his torso, to the raven-haired girl curled in beautiful, tranquil repose against his scarred chest, he looked upon his love with ardent eyes, his darling Mei...and smiled.

He smiled with a calmness, a genuine, silent joy, that he never thought he would know...

Mei lifted her gaze from his chest, her inky dark eyes, glinting like polished black laquear beneath her bangs, her sleepy little face coloured with a darling smile that set his heart aglow as he brushed back a lock of her black hair with a touch feather-soft in its gentleness.

Though but for a moment, a fragment of fallen time that he dare not let linger for fear of those screams returning to echo in his head, he pondered her...he wondered just how come, after all he had done, left with hands stained a horrid crimson with innocent blood shed by way of his own wretched foolishness, those same hands holding and caressing the fragile blossom of beauty...he wondered just how he had been deemed worthy of such a treasure, a treasure he knew he surely did not deserve, and yet he could not be more thankful to have her.

The screams, the piercing wails of the thousands of souls who moaned and wept to him as their bodies were broken by the claws of the Ark's foul demons, those same souls crying with desperate anguish as they sank below Laochi Lake's frozen armour, entombed among ice and metal, still yet crying out in his head, night after night after night...he was waiting for them, and yet, there lingered silence...

Aside from the flourish of the outside world and the gentle lull of heartbeats, silence...

A beautiful, beautiful silence...

"Mei...ma cherie..." Waka whispered, his voice a loving feather in Mei's ears as she looked so sweetly towards him, yet again curling herself into his slow heartbeat, her other ear drinking in the wisps of his breaths and the faint chirp of the crickets singing among the night, "do you hear that...?"

"Mmmmm, no, I can't...hear anything..." she replied with a soft mumble, her voice at once tender and somewhat puzzled as to his asking...no sound had rung through the air except the quiet songs of twilight, the night music of nature and the steady rhythm resting in the ear laid against his skin. Just...what sound? What could he have heard...or perhaps not heard...?

"No...I can't either..." he added as a heavy sigh loosened itself from his lungs, taking his anguish with it. He closed his eyes in tender, tranquil restfullness as a small smile crossed his face, his arms coiling around Mei's small, delicate body as he held her close and steadfast, drinking in her warmth...

"It's beautiful, non? The silence..."

For once...for once in two hundred years...he could hear only quiet, sweet, sweet quiet. No wailing, no weeping, no torment...just...quiet.

The screaming...the screaming had finally been silenced.

#okami #Okami waka #Waka #mei (okami oc)#okami oc #my ocs #Waka/mei #oc/canon #my writing #my drabbles

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lunarscaled · 11 months

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"I've received these two fragrances as a gift from Epel and Ortho. Won't you give it a try?" He's not even waiting for Lyric to respond much less offer their hand. He's taking Lyric's wrist, turning it over to put a spritz of one of the bottles on the lowest part of their palm. "Don't rub it. I don't know where people got the idea of rubbing a fragrance but it ruins the wear." He looks so pleased with the gifts those two got him - surely, you won't try to tell him those two boys made a poor choice? / hi lyric has been on the brain

-> When the Film Research Club had requested a consultation from the Scientific Research Club of suitable plants for their scene setting, Lyric had thought they would be able to slip under the radar by volunteering to move heavy pots from one room to another instead of having to do the talking; it didn't exactly make them feel thrilled at other students rifling through their cabinet of meticulously organized plant data and cultivation notes, but it was in the better interest of both clubs to streamline the decision making process that way. So, Lyric heaves a massive stone pot and palm tree by themselves in both arms down a long hallway to the storage room of the Film Club, nearly waddling the whole time under the weight, the thick muscle of their arms straining taunt the sleeves of their uniform. They are careful to set the pot down tilted first and then slowly shuffling it to lay flat and upright, as to not risk cracking the ceramic at the last moment; Lyric checks none of the palm fronds were bent or broken in the surrounding space, knowing the Film Club likely wouldn't accept irregular looking selections, and when they are satisfied they leave the door open behind them for other students ( it seemed the storage would be a temporary greenhouse-like space for the plants to be brought out of. ) They take their time walking back up the hall, giving slight bows of their head to other passing students and Science Club members, nearly each one bearing a potted plant or tray of sprouts as they sprinted down the hall. Outside of their own club room, a number of Pomfiore students crowd the door in rich royal purple and immaculate skin ( their stares barely even glance over them. they feel the sting on the back of their neck like they've done something offensive. existing, perhaps. ) Just inside the overflowing club room, they are caught by the arm from an upperclassman in red. Oh, Lyric, will you go inspect the stage space? We really need eyes on it for this.

"...Right. Leave it to me."

-> Night Raven has many overlapping, winding halls. Merely saying "the stage space" is not specific enough for them, but they doubt that member knew any more about where to go than they do, so they decide to head to the Film Club's room directly---a currently repurposed rehearsal studio. It made sense, for the nature of the club. In the middle of those nearly empty polished hardwoods ( were the rest of the members rehearsing on the set? was Vil handling the behind the scenes work this time? ) with papers and bottles in hand is none other than Vil Schoenheit; Queen of the campus, his stare could put any student in line without another thought, Lyric included. Their footsteps feel too loud when they walk and that consciousness only makes them move stiffly rather than lightly. Even at a distance they can see how his long pale lashes seem unreal against the vibrant color of his eyes, the living color in his cheeks. Vil was beautiful in a viscerally living way: he did not appear fragile or cold like a doll, but instead so beautiful and real he could make other people want to live to become closer to it. ( they walked closer without saying anything polite first, they realize. but even so, when he turns and notices them they see a fleeting assurance of what might have been a smile. ) Their muscles feel so tight their shoulders ache.

"Housewarden Schoenheit---"

-> I've received these two fragrances as a gift from Epel and Ortho. Won't you give it a try? The confidence of his voice easily overwhelms their tepid greeting of him, so strong they think they're caught in a riptide of that charisma before they can catch their balance. He is quick to take one of their limp hands at the wrist, turns it over to face him and sprays them with... something. They don't know what it is. Just as quickly he lets it go again, and the fingers of Lyric's opposing hand flex open and closed in a fidget to avoid wiping away the wet, though they know if they were patient it would dry on its own. If Vil said they shouldn't rub it, they won't ( if for no reason than that they had a small but profound experience in dealing with Vil's explicit self care instruction. )

"...what is it? "A fragrance?" Like... enchanted water or something?"

-> It might be a bad moment to let Vil in on the fact that Lyric did not know what a perfume was, and had never used any previously.

-> They stare at their own wrist, and then up at his satisfied, proud face. Epel and Ortho... the names were ones they had only heard in passing. Try as they might, there was no clear picture that came to their head. ( they lean forward a bit and sniff. the smell was soft and fresh, reminded them of a bright pastel pink or vibrant yellow, but they couldn't place it. reptiles had better eyesight than olfactory senses, but it didn't mean their nose was encyclopedic about things it has never seen before. ) Lyric's feet fidget in place, nervous when lined up with his pupils as he gauges their reaction. Would he not give them directions to the set if they didn't answer correctly?

"...It smells nice. A little sweet. What is it? I've never smelled something like that before."

#pomfiores #* questions and answers.#me: about to go to bed and then getting this ask #KICKING MY FEET AND GIGGLING WHENEVER SOMEONE TELLS ME THEYVE BEEN THINKING ABOUT LYRIC THO #i hope ur doing good and taking care of urself btw i know u said uve been feeling sick!!

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lenteur · 1 year

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random thoughts about run on, episodes fifteen & sixteen

(please do note that this post contains spoilers so read at your own risk. this post will also be lengthy because i’m going to share my thoughts about both episodes.)

just a little announcement: i will cut this post into sections. so if i talk about a topic/character, i’ll share my thoughts about what happened in both episodes instead of talking about the same thing in different points. am i making any sense? i don’t think so 💔 sorry about that

we’re starting this post with dan ah being torn about how to end things with yeong hwa :( like she said in previous episodes, everything she ever liked was temporary “everything i like ends up as regret”. it all ended too soon for her liking. so, in order to not be so heartbroken, she wants to end things with him before things get complicated. what spurred this reaction was her father’s health problems. it’s like she was finally starting to open up to yeong hwa before she heard the news. and, just like that, she went back to being more distant. she ended things because it reminded her of her own health problems. she knows she’s weak and she’s at risk. that’s why she always told yeong hwa to “live a long life” and called him “kid”. she didn’t want to even start a relationship because she knew things would end. no matter how hard she tried to not develop any sort of feelings, she was faced with a more powerful force than she knew: yeong hwa’s love. his love is so sincere and he has such a pure heart that, in the end, she couldn’t take it and succumbed to her heart’s desires.

talking about yeong hwa, he’s the character with the most interesting development to me. he went from being a”kid” discovering about love and experience his first love to being more emotionnally mature by the time things ended with dan ah. like seon gyeom said (not his words because i forgot to take notes when he said it sigh) “without dan ah, you wouldn’t have become as mature as you are” meaning that dan ah has taught him that things don’t always go his way and how to handle frustration and work around miscommunication. it’s also telling that during their first encounter after they broke up, he was the emotionnally stable one “i’m still the same. nothing you do makes me hate you. i just keep liking you” he said this with so much love and care that dan ah couldn’t help but cry. she must have been shaken by the fact he still decides to love her, even though things ended between them. he was the one to hug and comfort her. this might have been a first for dan ah because she’s always put that strong front in front of everyone around her. people must think she’s not fragile, when in fact, she might be one of the most fragile characters in this show. she’s just guarding her heart because she doesn’t want to be broken. and yeong hwa understands that. he chose to keep liking her because she was his first love 💗 the only thing he asks of her is to keep him in her heart for as long as she likes, and when she no longer needs it to just throw away their memories. it’s his way of saying she can still keep this relationship alive on her own, even though they broke up. you can also see that dan ah will be kept in his heart forever because she’s always in his paintings, even the one that was hung in the museum. i know i said yeong hwa was mature (and he is) but it was heartbreaking to see him cry after the breakup when he got home. he let it all out and it must have been difficult for him to handle both the breakup and seeing his first love cry in front of him for the first time

the jewelry box metaphor was such a great idea. i don’t know who came up with it but i’m impressed. it links back to what yeong hwa told her (keep me in your heart for as long as you can) “saving a precious moment you might never get to experience again” what a beautiful way to put their relationship.

i’ve seen many posts/videos talking about how the writers of the show decided to give the couple (dan ah and yeong hwa) an open ending because they wanted the viewers to form their own opinions/theories about them and i think this was the best decision for this relationship. you can see there’s no animosity between them and i’m sure a lot of people rooted for them and imagine they’re back to being a couple. others would think that dan ah would protect her heart forever and stay out of this relationship for her own sake. it might be frustrating to not know how their story ends but, in this case, i’m 100% behind this choice. it was the only good choice for this relationship

to end on a lighter note about this couple, i found it hilarious how dan ah couldn’t remember anyone’s name lol and everyone’s reactions to her not knowing added another layer of funny to the barbecue scene haha

not getting too far away from dan ah and yeong hwa, i’m glad the last two episodes focused a little on ye jun. looking back, the longing gazes and avoiding eye contact were subtle hints about ye jun’s preferences. i found his character very complex yet easy to read at the same time. he kept on hiding himself for the longest time and then boom everything unfolded quickly at the end of the show, just like how he came out to his mom. it’s also ‘funny’ (not in the literal sense of the word but my brain sometimes forgets words so i resort to using another word that’s similar to what i wanted to say) that the child named after jesus ended up being gay and viewed down by his religious mother. ms dong (ye jun’s mother) demands he goes back to church with her and blames him being homosexual on her focusing too much of her attention on her job instead of her children. it’s something that a lot of gay children must have faced. his mother wants him to change because she’s not ready to admit the truth, she thinks she’s a bad mother because one of her children is gay. ye jun’s response to her reaction to him coming out was “you can deny it all you want but this is who i am” reminding her that no matter how hard she tries to “bring him back on the right path” nothing will work because that’s who he is.

it was also nice to see ye jun interact with both dan ah and yeong hwa in the last episode. the first person he came out to (among dan ah and yeong hwa) was dan ah. and we got dan ah apologizing for the first time. after realizing ye jun liked men, she wanted to apolgize to him because she used the excuse of being gay to avoid getting married while ye jun (the actual gay) was living in fear. she realized what she did was wrong and she apologized to the right person. and then we see ye jun come out and admit his feelings to yeong hwa. ye jun admits yeong hwa was his first love but yeong hwa cries because in order to be first love feelings have to be reciprocated. i think he cried because he was handling the post-breakup and ye jun added his feelings on top of that. it was a lot for yeong hwa.

allow me to fangirl a little because this is my post and i can do whatever i want for this. i finally found my one and true otp: mayhyun (may x jeong ji hyun) 💖💖💖 this was such a wholesome moment when they unveiled their relationship to their friends/colleagues. i mean when i found out about this, i was immediately their #1 supporter. i mean how can you not? they’re both so cute and made for each other. it was nice to see mr. jeong outside of his work persona. jeong ji hyun falling in love with may during the fight scene with the slowmo shot on may’s face. and then him following her around asking if she’s taken. i hope they’re both in love with each other forever and ever (alexa play love4eva)

after that wholesome and sweet moment, let’s tackle the ki family situation. we left off with eun bi involved in an affair scandal with ki jeong do’s rival assemblyman noh (idk how i remember all their names). this has caused eun bi so much stress that she had the yips. i was suspecting ki jeong do to be behind all of that. and i was right! he used his daughter as a tool to look like a great man just so he could win the elections. so much for eun bi trusting her father to resolve the whole scandal... when he was the one behind it all along. to say eun bi was disappointed would be an understatement. she was going through all of this scandal and ryan running away from her on her own and the traitor was her own father. when seon gyeom told his sister he would defend her, he wasn’t joking. he did the one thing he never did before: tell his mother about the incident. it might seem like a childish thing to do but he made the right decision. with everything that was shown in previous episodes, you’d think yook ji woo (the mother) would choose her career over her children like she has done many times in the past. but the one time she chooses to prioritize her children is also the day of her biggest opportunity career-wise. it’s nice to see her finally wake up and choose to defend her children. “think of everything i achieved at the expense of neglecting them (eun bi and seon gyeom)” she can have another great opportunity in her career as long as she keeps working but her daughter needs her the most right now. so, she made her decision: her children are more important. when she stormed into ki jeong do’s office to slap him, i screamed YES because i think we’ve all been waiting for it to happen. “how dare you use our kids to show off your fake fatherly love?” “i wonder why my divorce wasn’t my decision to make?” and then she kept attacking him where it hurts: her family’s background. she thought ki jeong do at least married her out of love but it ends up he married her because of her family’s fortune and reputation. in the end, we see yook ji woo eun bi and seon gyeom thrive and ki jeong do losing everything: his career and family that he’s used so many times.

to end this post, i need to talk about the main couple. i’ve already developed the ins and outs of their relationship but i’d like to note a few more things before ending this post. i like that in the last episodes, every time we see them, they’re always together. they’re going through their routine as a couple: cooking/eating with each other for the first time, then running with each other, going to work/doing their things on their own, and then reuniting at the end of the day. i like that they’re getting more comfortable with each other. they’re finally “clicking together” like mi joo said compared to how they communicated in the first episodes. “we’ll probably never totally understand each other. but we could align our worlds next to each other, couldn’t we?” while it is true they’re still very different, i think it’s beautiful how they have met each other halfway. they’re a beautiful pair and it was refreshing to see them enjoy their time together and be affectionate with one another.

i’ve seen this quote in run on gif posts but i just want to share it here because it’s a beautiful one “delicate and sensitive people should live happy lives. those who are polite shouldn’t be looked down on”

it was probably an obvious choice but mi joo’s movie’s ending credits being run on’s ending credits was such a great idea. and the pictures were all cute :( i felt a pang in my heart when watching it because i realized the drama actually ended

#this is bittersweet because i didn't want to finish watching this drama but at the same time i had to #i'm a little sad this is the end of run on #but i now understand why it was a special drama for a lot of people #i got attached to a lot of the characters #the casting was amazing #the storylines were greatly developed #the scenery was beautiful #and i especially enjoyed the fact that i could relate to mi joo over translation #it took me more than an hour to write this post but i do not regret it one bit #i'm kind of proud of this post #beware there's a lot of words!#i'm sorry if there are any grammatical mistakes but i'm too tired to look them up #kdrama #run on #random(al) thoughts

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flyingspeedo · 3 months

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Response Piece

Edward Weston’s characteristic style of photography often uses a very small aperture in order to produce an image that is crisp on every plane. Although he photographed various kinds of subjects in his career, organic, naturally produced objects were often featured in his still lives. He often chose fruits or vegetables as the object, such as bananas, pineapples, peppers, mushrooms, and cauliflower. He carefully lit the subjects and positioned the camera in such a way that the objects’ natural form was, not only highlighted, but accentuated. At times this made the objects more difficult to recognise as the camera gave them almost a surreal appearance. In most of his work, Weston’s aim was to showcase the subject’s formal beauty in a way that human eyes do not perceive. He often made drew parallels between the beauty in these objects and the beauty in the world or in life.

In his famous photograph titled Cabbage Leaf (1931), a single leaf of cabbage fills the frame against a black background. A soft light gently falls upon the leaf, showcasing its many veins and detailed structure. Weston photographed this particular type of vegetable from 1927-1936, stating, “[the] cabbage has renewed my interest … in the cabbage I sense the entire secret of life’s force.” In response to this photograph, I chose to mimic his style of still life: high f-stop, slow shutter speed, and a dark background. Despite the photographic style being similar, Weston’s naturally produced cabbage leaf contrasts with my man-made crystal wine glass. I chose this subject because it allowed me to explore the unique properties of its material, namely how it bends and refracts light. Similarly to Weston’s photography, the lighting of my images enhances the form of the object, even creating reflections which give the illusion of a different form or of a separate object. The organic cabbages seem to communicate for Weston the beauty of nature’s creation, which also has an eternal quality because nature regenerates and sustains itself independently. The crystal glass being broken symbolizes the temporariness of human creation. Man-made objects, like humans themselves, may be fragile and easily broken. However, in their brokenness there is a beauty that, if left in tact, would not have been discovered.

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ecemersons · 6 months

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They Bleed Night

It was fifteen minutes to the end of the world, and April was smiling.

She wasn’t smiling because she was happy — she wasn’t – but because it seemed to her the right thing to do. In a quarter of an hour, a virus would be released into the air in London, Tokyo, St. Petersburg, Sydney, Cairo, and a dozen more cities all around the world. From where she stood, an apartment building in Manhattan, those around her would be witness to the first impacts of the disease before it wiped everything out. She supposed it was too much to call them lucky.

The disease didn’t have a name. Not yet. She knew how much the global media liked naming things and thought it might be a nice little treat for them. A sort of parting gift.

Idly, she wondered what they would settle on. It would start innocuous enough, she supposed. A new strain of influenza, maybe a murmur or two about a new variant of this or that. Then, when scientists started looking into it (too late by far at that point, she thought), it’d probably be called “mystery Illness” or “unknown disease”.

Then, maybe once people saw what it did, they would start calling it names after some of the symptoms.

Maybe they would see how it turns the blood to a black, tar-like substance.

“Black-Blood,” maybe.

Or they would notice how the limbs of the infected twitched and convulsed, while constricting the lungs, making the writhing rictus eerily silent as bones snapped and ligaments tore from the spasms.

“Spasms” could be a name. Short and to the point. Like smallpox, or Cher.

April climbed the stairs to her apartment building. Mrs. Havesh, the upstairs neighbor, was going down. The old woman commented on the thin sheen of sweat on April’s dark skin. Mrs. Havesh was concerned. Maybe April should lie down? Mrs. Havesh had just made soup, why not nip in for a bite? Where was little Jacob? It’d been an age since…

April’s smile tightened and drew outward, skin going taut around her gums and teeth. She didn’t know why.

Up, up, up, she went.

Mrs. Havesh let her go with something like a sigh.

It was ten minutes to the end of the world.

She reached the top of the stairs, the padlock with the broken tumblers falling away with a flat sound.

She had been up there just the night before with Jacob, looking over the city streets below. She explained, in a sad whisper, why they couldn’t see the stars.

Her son had hugged her then.

“But mama!” His eyes were big and imploring. “Look down there! We make our own stars!”

April nodded, smiling. She thought she should be crying.

He, at least, would be spared the sickness.

The wind buffeted her, grabbing at her hair and pushing her dress behind her. She smelled the stench of the city, of too many bodies living on top of each other. She felt the air, unseasonably warm. Of course it was.

She smiled at the wind, defiant.

It was five minutes to the end of the world.

Barefoot, she walked the very edge, the sun was just dipping below the horizon now and the man-made stars below began to twinkle. She wondered how long they would shine afterward, their amber glob piercing the sky and blotting out the great nothing beyond. All her life, she’d considered the pollution an afront – she still did – but now, knowing she was looking at the end, she couldn’t help but think how beautiful it was.

Temporary things always seemed beautiful in their fragility.

She did not regret what was about to happen, the sacrifice she was about to make. Not exactly.

She looked straight down, seeing the cement far below, and suddenly, she felt like she was looking into the sky. Orian’s Belt shone from a street two blocks down, and Betelgeuse played in the reflecting pools of a leaking hydrant.

Then, she was flying. Upward to that heretical sky, upward toward the face of the moon herself, her lunar expression twisted into a mask of horror as she screamed. April closed her eyes, and hoped she would find Jacob somewhere in the stormy void.

It was the end of the world, and a crowd was gathering slowly around the fallen form of a woman. No one spoke of her smile, broken and wet, or how utterly at peace she seemed to be. All eyes where on the halo slowly leaking around her head, seeping from her crushed skull and matting her hair. Black as oil, it glistened in the city lights like it contained galaxies.

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mafebarrosl · 6 months

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BROKEN RECORDS

The sculpture installation "Broken Records" aims to explore the theme of the temporary feel of time, memory, and the fragility of human endeavors. The artwork will consist of a series of suspended sheets made from plastered vinyl records, forming an immersive, otherworldly environment that encourages viewers to reflect upon the transient nature of life.

As viewers wander through the installation, they will discover smaller alcoves formed by suspended sheets. These spaces will encapsulate moments in time, showcasing broken plaster casted vinyl records. The juxtaposition of the shattered records and the solidifying plaster will serve as a poignant representation of the frozen memories that fade over time.

The sculpture installation "Broken Records" seeks to challenge our perceptions of permanence and explore the beauty that can be found even within the broken pieces of the past. By engaging multiple senses and inviting audience participation, it inspires contemplation on the passage of time, memory, and our collective experiences as shared through the medium of music.

#spacesfall2023

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kerriskatheotstudent · 8 months

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Watch a movie that has mental health as a theme or has a person with a mental health challenge or that presents district occupational barriers for those in the movie. Reflect on your learnings from this movie and that have influenced you as an OT student.

“If people want to breed winners, use horses, not children.” - Ram Nikumbh.

Stars on Earth - have you ever taken a minute to look up ? Have you ever noticed the dazzling twinkle of the stars above us ? From here, they look almost delicate, what agency could these little lustrous dots hold ? “They are the building blocks of galaxies”(Zuckerman, 2019). In the infinite tapestry of our universe, stars shine. Each clothed in glorious splendor, each dressed in its own unique magnificence. Together, they collude, putting on the most exquisite show for all to see - our beautiful night skies. Each star holds a distinctiveness about it - nobody has ever dared to compare the beauty of these stars amongst each other. Why ? “The danger of comparing ourselves to others is that our comparisons are never fair.”(The Dangers of Comparison, n.d.)

The movie, Taare Zameen Par, delves deep into the story of a young misunderstood boy who comes from a middle class family in India, confined by the expectation of perfection. Ishaan, seems a little off. He isn’t like the other kids. He sees dancing letters and flying numbers ! He wanders off into other worlds, fixated on his missions. Reading is hard. Talking is hard. Being with the other children is hard. Explaining to your family that you just can’t .. is hard. As a result of his poor academic performance, Ishaan is sent away to boarding school. His father deems him a disgrace, a stubborn boy who just won’t do anything besides play and paint.

It is one thing to have your own mind and capabilities betray you. But to have the only people you have ever known, leave when you need them the most ? Alone, afraid, incapable. The young boy is forced to fend for himself. Try as he might, Ishaan battled with this adjustment - slowly the overwhelming feelings of being abandoned and frustrated, began to fade. He barely ate and never spoke. His imagination too, had left him. ‘Idiot, duffer, loser - you will amount to nothing.’ He was simply existing, no longer living.

All this changes, when an unconventional temporary art teacher finds himself before Ishaan. Burdened by the appearance of this depressed little boy, Mr. Nikumbh sets out to change the course of this fragile soul. Mr. Nikumbh is able to identify that Ishaan is dyslexic - he’s not disobedient, he’s not dumb - he just doesn’t know how. Mr. Nikumbh begins to draw on Ishaan’s interests and strengths, facilitating the discovery of his hidden potential - painting. Each day, the student and teacher work on improving his reading and writing, through the most unconventional methods. Giggles began to return - this little boy just needed someone who was willing to accept him as he is, and help him become the best version of himself. Mr. Nikumbh had changed Ishaan’s life by appreciating his definitive variation that makes him exquisite.

As adults, we often battle to communicate our feelings or positions effectively. I see it everyday, between students, friends, lovers, parents, children, lecturers and even healthcare professionals. As highly functional beings we still find the difficulty in this necessary skill. Could you imagine this little boy, who cannot even express his happiness appropriately without chastisement, experiencing numbness acquainted with depression ? Could you imagine explaining to your parents and teachers that the letters and numbers dance before your eyes when you gaze upon them ? Could you imagine the difficulty in having to admit that you just cannot ?

Watching this movie as an occupational therapy student, I was moved. So often, we try to fix what is broken, to put it all back into its box. Maybe it doesn’t belong in a box. This movie has helped me identify that the most crucial attribute needed is to be human. No amount of fancy words, expensive textbooks and numerous courses could teach you that. Being able and willing to invest yourself in the life of another - what an honor and privilege. “Helping one person might not change the whole world, but it could change the world for one person.”

No two snowflakes are the same. (Is It True That No Two Snow Crystals Are Alike?, n.d.) Likewise, no two people are the same. Therefore, when approaching our patients’ - it is this attitude and approach that we are to adorn ourselves with. By comparing cases and people, we run the risk of bulldozing over the uniqueness of individuals and in turn, the journeys that have brought them forward. As a student, I am guilty of always attempting to do the thing that seems most professional, most correct and most sound. I have always battled to integrate compassion within my works optimally - I always feel that there is room for more, but how ? From this movie, I have learnt that there is no ‘right way’ - I have learnt of the identity that I wish to carry as a healthcare professional. I want to shift the dimensions of another’s life - restoring the child they once were. I want to advocate for the stars that are found on Earth.

References

Is it true that no two snow crystals are alike? (n.d.). Library of Congress, Washington, D.C. 20540 USA. https://www.loc.gov/everyday-mysteries/meteorology-climatology/item/is-it-true-that-no-two-snow-crystals-are-alike/#:~:text=Snow%20crystals%20are%20sensitive%20to

The Dangers of Comparison. (n.d.). Albert Ellis Institute. https://albertellis.org/2014/07/the-dangers-of-comparison/

What is the message left by the film Taare Zameen Par? (n.d.). Quora. Retrieved September 29, 2023, from https://www.quora.com/What-is-the-message-left-by-the-film-Taare-Zameen-ParZuckerman, C. (2019, March 20). Everything you wanted to know about stars. National Geographic. https://www.nationalgeographic.com/science/article/stars

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weacidblog-blog · 11 months

Text

There is no hope for people like us in this life..

“I woke up one morning, burdened by the weight of my existence. The haunting memories of an abusive family consumed every inch of my being, suffocating any glimmer of hope that dared to flicker within me. Despite my desperate attempt to escape the clutches of my tormentors by immersing myself in the university, the pain never ceased. It clung to me like a relentless shadow, gnawing at my soul with each passing day.

Years stretched into an endless void of desolation, and the tendrils of depression coiled tighter around my fragile spirit. I was nothing more than a hollow vessel, devoid of purpose or joy. The drugs I sought solace in became my only companion, a temporary escape from the suffocating darkness that plagued me. But even their seductive embrace betrayed me, pushing away the few people who had managed to look past my brokenness. I stood alone, isolated and abandoned.

My once-vibrant hobbies became a distant memory, discarded and forgotten. Their absence only served to amplify the void within me, a constant reminder of my inability to find solace or meaning. The world around me continued to move forward, while I remained trapped in a state of perpetual agony, trapped in the clutches of my own mind.

In the midst of my despair, there was one flicker of light that dared to pierce through the darkness—the girl I loved with all my shattered heart. She was a beacon of hope, a glimpse of happiness in the barren wasteland of my existence. But as fate would have it, even this sliver of solace was destined to be torn away.

We shared a connection that transcended the bounds of words. Her presence brought warmth to the coldest corners of my soul, and for a while, it felt as though the tides of despair were receding. She saw past the broken pieces of my being, and I believed, foolishly perhaps, that she could heal the wounds that ran so deep.

But love, it seemed, was not meant for me. In the cruel dance of life, my heart was shattered once again, the fragments of my fragile hope scattered across the desolate landscape of my existence. The pain of losing her seared through me like a thousand fiery arrows, leaving me even more bereft than before.

Days blended into nights, and I wandered through the monotony of my existence, a mere shell of a person. The world moved on, oblivious to my silent suffering. And in my solitude, the belief that I would ever find solace in the arms of another soul evaporated like smoke, leaving only a bitter taste of resignation.

Every interaction I had became a mere charade, a mask to hide the depths of my despair. I watched as others forged connections, as they laughed and loved, their lives intertwining with a beauty I could only observe from afar. My heart remained encased in ice, unyielding and untouched by the warmth of human connection.

There were no more dreams of healing or redemption. The world had become a cold and desolate place, mirroring the barren landscape within me. My heartache became the anthem of my existence, a mournful melody that echoed through the chambers of my soul.

Hope, once a glimmer in the darkest night, had been extinguished. I resigned myself to the belief that this life was destined to be a solitary journey, a never-ending path of isolation and despair. The walls grew higher, the darkness deeper, until I became a prisoner in my own desolation.

And so, I trudge forward, carrying the weight of my fractured heart, my spirit crushed beneath the burden of a life devoid of love. Forever locked within the confines of my own suffering, I tread the path of the wounded, a broken soul adrift in an unforgiving world.”

Last message from Albert - 18.07.2023

#depression #there is no god #hopeless

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ninetiesmusicsavedmylife · 11 months

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At odds

I remember that once

a beautiful stranger

estranged me

from my fragile, broken heart

how ever temporary it was

#unrequited love